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V(V :!fjS;i>!^y'i^-'^£^' A /> ^ 1^1^ The Poems of Archibald Lampman Edited with a Memoir by Duncan Campbell Scott t k to Toronto George N. Morang & Co., Limited 1900 ^ 47536 //^ )>l)>^; V^ /v^ Entered accordingr to Act of Parliament of Canada, by Emma Maud Lampman, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture, in the year 1900. ! I CONTENTS MEMOIR XI to XXV AMONG THE MILLET Among the Millet - April An October Sunset 5 The Frogs - An Impression lo Spring on the River 10 Why do ye call the Poet lonely? n Heat ....*'.. 12 Among the Timothy 13 Freedom j- Morning on the Lievre ig In October 21 Lament of the Winds . . 22 Ballade of Summer's Sleep 23 Winter 24 Winter Hues Recalled 27 Storm ^ Midnight ,4 Song of the Stream-Drops 35 Between the Rapids 36 New Year's Eve . . 39 Unrest .... 40 Song ^^ One Day ^i r I iv CONTENTS Page Sleep 42 Three Flower Petals 43 Passion 44 A Ballade of Waiting 45 Before Sleep 46 A Song 48 What do Poets want with Gold? 50 The King's Sabbath 51 The Little Handmaiden 52 Abu Midjan 54 The Weaver 57 The Three Pilgrims 59 The Coming of Winter 62 Easter Eve 63 The Organist 71 The Monk 75 The Child's Music Lesson 88 An Athenian Reverie . . . . 90 Love-Doubt 104 Perfect Love 105 Love- Wonder 106 Comfort 106 Despondency 107 Outlook 107 Gentleness 108 A Prayer log Music log Knowledge no Sight no An Old Lesson from the Fields in Winter-Thought 112 Deeds 112 Aspiration 113 The Poets 113 The Truth 114 The Martyrs 115 A Night of Storm 115 The Railway Station 116 Page 42 43 44 45 46 48 SO SI 52 54 57 59 62 63 71 75 88 90 104 105 106 106 107 107 108 109 log no no III 112 112 "3 "3 114 115 "5 116 CONTENTS V Page A Forecast ii6 I.v November ,. , 117 The City 118 Midsummer Night 118 The Loons iig March ng Solitude 120 Autumn Maples .... 120 The Dog . . . . . . 121 LYRICS OF EARTH The Sweetness of Life 125 Godspeed TO the Snow .. .. .. ., 126 April in the Hills 127 Forest Moods 129 The Return of the Year . . , . . . 129 Favorites of Pan .. ,. ., 131 The Meadow ., .. .. 134 In May 23-, Life and Nature . . , 138 With the Night , 139 June 140 Distance 143 The Bird and the Hour 143 AiTER Rain , . . 144 Cloud-Break 145 The Moon-Path . . . . 146 Comfort of the Fields 148 At THE Ferry 150 September 154 A Re-assurance 156 The Poet's Possession 157 An Autumn Landscape . . . . . . 157 In November 1^8 By an Autumn Stream 160 Snowbirds 152 Snow 162 Sunset 164 I ! Vi CONTENTS Pack Winter-Store 165 The Sun Cup 173 ALCYONE Alcyone 177 In March i7q The City of the End of Things 179 The Song Sparrow 182 Inter Vias 183 Refuge 184 April Night . . . • 185 Personality 185 To MY Daughter j8g Chione 187 To the Cricket 193 The Song of Pan 193 The Islet and the Palm 194 A Vision of Twilight 195 Evening ,. 198 The Clearer Self 199 To the Prophetic Soul 200 The Land of Pallas 201 Among the Orchards 210 The Poet's Song 210 A Thunderstorm 214 The City 215 Sapphics 217 Voices of Earth 218 Peccavi, Domine 219 An Ode to the Hills 221 Indian Summer 225 Good Speech 226 The Better Day 226 White Pansies 227 We too shall Sleep . . 228 The Autumn Waste 228 ViviA Perpetua 229 The Mystery of a Year 242 w CONTENTS vH Paob Winter Evening 243 War 243 The Woodcutter's Hut 247 Amor Vit^ 250 Winter-Break 252 SONNETS An Invocation 255 A Morning Summons 255 Nesting Time 256 The Spirit of the House 257 April Voices 257 Beauty 258 On the Companionship with Nature 258 In the City 259 Music 260 The Piano 260 May 261 EuPHRONE 261 Across the Pea- Fields 262 Night 263 Salvation 263 After the Shower 264 In Absence 264 To THE Warbling Vireo 265 The Passing of the Spirit 266 Xenophanes 266 In the Pine Groves 267 SiRIUS 268 At Dusk 269 Dead Cities 269 A Midnight Landscape 270 To Chaucer 271 By the Sea 272 A Niagara Landscape 272 The Pilot 273 Sunset at Les Eboulements 273 Thamyris 274 Viii CONTENTS Page The Death of Tennyson 275 Storm Voices 276 To A Millionaire 276 The Modern Politician '^11 Virtue '^71 Falling Asleep 278 Passion 279 The Ruin of the Year 279 The Cup of Life 280 The March of Winter 280 Sorrow 281 Love . . 282 To Death 282 The Vain Figkt 283 Earth— The Stoic 283 Stoic and Hedonist 284 Avarice 285 To an Ultra Protestant 285 A January Morning 286 A Forest Path in Winter 286 After Mist - 287 Death .. •- •• -. 288 In Beechwood Cemetery 288 Before the Robin . 289 A March Day ' 289 Uplifting 290 A Dawn on the Lievre 290 A Winter Dawn 291 goldenrod •• •• 292 Temagami 292 On Lake Temiscamingue 293 Night in the Wilderness 294 In the Wilds 294 Ambition 295 The Winter Stars 295 The Passing of Spring 296 To the Ottawa 297 To the Ottawa River 297 CONTENTS IX Page A Summer Evening 29S Wayagamack - 298 Winter Uplands 299 The Largest Life 300 POEMS AND BALLADS The Minstrel 30^ Yarrow 308 To A Flower 309 Sorrow 309 Paternity 310 Peace 310 Strife and Freedom 312 The Passing of Autumn 312 The Lake in the Forest 313 Drought 317 After Snow 318 The Wind's Word 320 Bird Voices 321 Hepaticas 321 The Old House ^ . . .... . . 321 King Oswald's Feast * . . . • . . 325 Sostratus 327 Phokaia , 328 The Vase of Ibn MoKBiL 336 Baki 340 A Spanish Taunt . . ..... . . 344 The Violinist 345 Ingvi and Alf 348 DAVID AND ABIGAIL 357 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 409 * * ^ 4 ■9 * ' MEMOIR More than a century ago in the American colonies of Great Britain, there were two families of German and Dutch descent, one surnamed Lampman the other Gesner. The Lampman family lived in Pennsylvania, and belonged to the community called Pennsylvania Dutch. At the outbreak of the American Revolution one of these Lamp- mans, a Tory with strong feelings in favour of British connec- tions, turned his face toward the North, and eventually taking land that the British government had provided for loyalists like himself, settled near Niagara in the present Province of Ontario. Colonel John H. Gesner, a contemporary of this loyal Lampman, was a resident of Long Island, the family to which he belonged being of Knickerbocker stock. But he also was a King's man, and when the Revolution was imminent, he crossed the stretch of sea to Nova Scotia and settled at Annapolis. Peter Lampman, the son of the original settler, struck firm root at Niagara, and the old homestead known as Mountain Point still remains in possession of the family. During the war of 1812, both the Lampmans and the Gesners fought for their land and had their due share in the events of those times. One of the Gesners was a colonel of militia and was therefore prominent in the conflict. While the Lampmans were clearing their land in the fruitful Niagara peninsula, the Gesners had been making homes for themselves in the Annapolis valley. David Henry Gesner, a son of the colonel who had migrated from Long Island, drifted to Upper Canada, a far journey from the sea in those days. One may find his name in the record as L-m, ■ — ■.<*■- li III!! Xll MEMOIR 1 i • 'i. Ii li ill Crown Land Agent in the County of Kent, and he is remembered as a strong man mentally and physically, with aptitudes for colonization. He settled on the Talbot Road in the County of Kent, about seven miles from the Village of Morpeth, where the homestead still stands. His wife was a Stewart, from the County of Tyrone, Ireland, whose mother was of Dutch descent, springing frori a Knicker- bocker family called Culver. The fifth child of this union was Susannah Charlotte, the mother of Archibald Lampman, the poet. The sons of Peter Lampman were brought up for differ- ent employments, and one, Archibald, studied divinity and took holy orders, and in 1858 was appointed Rector of Trinity Church, Morpeth. Here he married Susannah Ges- ner on the 29th of May, i860, and here was born Archibald Lampman, "the poet, on Sunday morning, the 17th of November, 1861. There had been poets and scientists on his mother's side of the house; the Gesners were an intellectual race and Dr. Abraham Gesner, Archibald's gr^at-uncle, is, in Nova Scotia at least, a well-remembered writer and scientist. The Lamp- mans were men of their hands, fighting King's battles and winning them too; a valiant, loyal race. So the young Archibald had men and women for forebears who were remarkable for their achievements and worthy of remem- brance and honour. It was seen as years went by that Archibald resembled his maternal grandmother Stewart in his disposition, which was gentle, unselfish and tender, and in the physical charac- teristics of dark auburn hair and clear brown eyes. His intellectual endowments came both from the Gesners and the Lampmans, and if liis temperament can be traced to a maternal source, his father gave him logical power, accuracy of observation and expression, and his rare gift of language. In Morpeth Mr. Lampman continued to live until Archi- bald had entered his sixth year, when a change of residence was made and for a short time the home was located at Perrytown, near Port Hope, in the County of Durham. MEMOIR Xlll In October, 1867, he moved to Gore's Landing, a small town on the shore of Rice Lake. Here the family remained for seven years. It is well that these impressionable years of Archibald Lampman's life were passed upon the shores of this beautiful lake. The scenery seemed enchanted, the society was congenial, and many forces united to strengthen his love of nature and his powers of observation, and much of his descriptive work is reminiscent of this region. Unfortunately the only house available for a rectory at Gore's Landing was damp, and in November, 1868, Archi- bald was stricken with rheumatic fever, and lay sufifering acutely for months. It was not until spring that he could walk, and for four years he was lame and during part of the time was compelled to uSe crutches. His physique was never powerful nor was his health robust, and it may be that the main cause of both lay in this severe illness. But despite his crutches he was active and interested in life, for his spirit was always great and courageous to triumph over any ills of body or estate which he had to bear. In March, 1870, Mr. Lampman purchased a house in the village and there he sojourned until he left Gore's Landing and the pleasant shores of Rice Lake. Previously to 1870 Archibald's studies had been conducted at home under his father's direction, but in September of that yeat he entered the school of Mr. F. W. Barron, M.A., of Cambridge, formerly Principal of Upper Canada College. The recollections of the four years he spent there were always vivid and pleasurable. Mr. Barron was a famous schoolmaster. He was thorough m his system, stern in his manner and a strict disciplinarian; but he had the respect of his boys. Many were sent to him who had conquered other masters, but he managed them by rod or by will, and made men of them, some great, and all self-reliant. Every school day, we are told, the master marched into the room with a cushion upon his outstretched hands, upon that lay the Bible, and upon the Book the rod. He had a liking for Archibald and his clear and ready wit. He laid a deep foundation for his scholarship, taught him how to XIV MEMOIR write beautifully, and grounded him in Latin and Greek. Archibald, during the first year at the school, could not join in the sports; but in January, 1872, his health was so far restored that he was able to run about freely with his companions. Gradually during the last four years of the residence at Gore's Landing Mr. Lampman's health had begun to fail. The home at Gore's Landing had to be given up, and to Cobourg, a larger town upon the shores of Lake Ontario, the family was next transplanted. Young Archibald, now thirteen, had to leave his beloved flower-beds, and the deep bass pools in which he had fished on Saturday afternoons, and the lovely lake wiih its sunny water and shimmering rice fields. Cobourg seemed grim and uncertain, merely an arena for struggle and possible failure, compared with this dear spot transfigured by the glamour of childhood. But when affairs wore their darkest aspect, it became clear that good fortune was with young Archibald in the protection of his mother. She at least would fight condi- tions, subdue them, would have for her children what she considered their right, cost what it would of her own strength and energy. Through many schemes in which she did not spare herself she succeeded in educating her son and daughters. In the dedication of "Lyrics of Earth" Archibald acknowledged in some part what he owed to the mother who had battled for him in those early days. In Cobourg, Archibald first attended the Collegiate Institute, and after a year went to Trinity College School at Port Hope. This is an institution of preparation for Trinity College, Toronto, modelled on the English Public Schools. Through the interest taken in him by Bishop Bethune and John Cartwright, Esq., scholarships were given nearly suffi- cient to cover his expenses at the school. This genuine interest was well repaid, for during his two years' stay at Port Hope he won many prizes and in his last year was Prefect of the school. At the commencement exercises of that year he was chaired by his companions and carried in triumph and with much cheering through the buildings and I Ml! MEMOIR XV school grounds. Although during these years his applica- tion was intense, he found time to be interested in others, and while he was Prefect many a disheartened lad at his gentle bidding and encouragement took up with awakened trust in himself tasks thrown by in despair. In September, 1879, he entered Trinity College, Toronto. There must have been some hard work scattered through the years at Trinity, for it was in the main by the help of the scholarships that he won that his course was completed. But at best he was a desultory student. His love of general reading was great and many an hour when he ought to have been labouring at some set task he was poring over the pages of a history or some narrative of travel, or enjoying a pot of beer, a pipe and a lively discussion in some friend's quarters. At Port Hope he was singular for an intense application which won him nearly all the prizes that were to be gained in each year, and his memory as a lad shy of the energies of the cricket crease and foot-ball green might have more speedily waned had not rumours come from Trinity that Lampman was not the man he was taken for, that he was a boon companion, and was to be found foremost in any innocent wildness that was afoot. And so Dame Rumour kept his fame aglow at Port Hope, and the boys who were next year or so to meet him at Trinity had their curiosity roused and their interest piqued by the discordance between his past record and his present fame. When they did come within his circle they found a man who had gained a unique position in his college by his temperament and character. He was probably the poorest man in a worldly sense in the school, and physically the least powerful, yet he had a greater influence than any of his fellows. He did not work as hard as many, nor did he play so successfully, but he was accepted without reserve. He had done nothing in particular, so far as his companions knew, he had never written anything that showed genius, but there was an opinion abroad that Lampman was in some way different from ordinary men, that he would do something famous some day. I III ill XVI MEMOIR ii ! I f f He was editor of the college paper "Rouge et Noir," so called from the college colours, and "Scribe" of the manu- script journal called "Episkopon." A fair half of his time was ?pent in writing for these papers both in prose and verse and in the work of editing them. The poets he had begun to read with care, and he com- menced to form poetic ambitions of his own. He laid epic plans, and in the endeavour to realize them he sat long and late with his heroes and demi-gods. These labours were useful, as they taught him the weight and colour of words, gave him exercise in rhythm, and fertility in rhyme. But he left them unfinished and passed on to other work and served his apprenticeship, joyously, full of happy dreams and ambi- tions. He laid the foundation of a few chapters of what was to be a long novel, which in after years he used to describe with a glow that would lead one to imagine a very paragon of a novel, full of tragic pathos and illuminating laughter, pervaded by deep knowledge of life. But the dis- sertation would end with his genuine laugh, and the per- ception by his auditors that the matter was a mere whim. He graduated in 1882 with second-class honours in clas- sics. This was hardly a matter of surprise to his class-mates or concern to himself. It was beyond question that he could have taken a first had he applied himself, but his final year had been spent in that general reading and social intercourse which he so greatly valued and which was a larger force in his development than many text-books devoured for exami- nation. There was some doubt as to what he should do in the world, now that he had received his equipment. The first employment that offered was uncongenial. He was appointed assistant master in the High School at Orangeville. He did not dislike the actual labour of tuition, for which he was well prepared, but it was quite impossible for him to enforce dis- cipline and to maintain order in his class. Chaos ruled in his form at the Orangeville High School; the pupils did as they pleased, and the assistant master wished fervently that he might do the same. II liiiill L^f MEMOIR XVlI But release came shortly from this bondage. One of his friends at college had been Archibald Campbell, son of Sir Alexander Campbell, and through the son's influence with the father, who was then Postmaster-Genoral, he was ofTered a clerkship in the Civil Service of Canada. He gave up his uncongenial task at OrangeviDe without regret, and was appointed temporary clerk in the Post Office Depart- ment on the i6th of January, 1883. On the 23rd of March fol- lowing, his position was made permanent, and he was fixed in an employment that was to continue with his life. If an artist be possessed of a private fortune, he is happy indeed; if not, some occupation not subject to the ordinary stress and change of business life is best for him. In the Canadian Civil Service at headquarters there is that element of security, and it is well that Archibald Lampman became a member of the permanent service when he did. He was appointed without reference to any literary achievement, for his name was at that time unknown, and he received the small increments of salary and the single promotion which came to him as the years went by, merely in the ordinary routine, not as a reward for the poetry which was gradually making his name well known. He became an excellent clerk, valuable in his office to those whom he assisted. The work he did not like, and the confinement he found irksome, but he recognized that the life had its compensations, in periods of leisure secure and serene, which he might devote to his one great passion, poetry. He was fortunate too in his removal to O tawa. He found in the strenuous climate of the growing city all that is characteristic of Canadian summers and winters. He was on the borders of the wild nature that he loved, and in the midst of a congenial society. To some extent, if not to the limit, he might now follow his inclination. The result was that he began to apply himself steadily to composition. His first contributions to the public journals were two poems, which may now be found in "Among the Millet" — "The Coming of Winter" and "Three Flower Petals." They XVIll MEMOIR " appeared in 1884 in "The Week," a literary periodical since discontinued, of which Mr. Chas. G. D. Roberts was at that time the editor. His first poem presented to a wider public was a quatrain called "Bird Voices" printed in the Century Magazine for May, 1885. The early encouragement of Scribner's Maga- zine gave him confidence, and the greater part of his con- tributions to the periodical press appeared in its pages. During the first year of his sojourn in Ottawa he lived at home, as his father had removed thither from Toronto, and resided in the cottage now No. 144 Nicholas Street. In September, 1887, he married Maud, the youngest daughter of Edward Playter, Esq., M.D., of Toronto. In 1892 a daughter was born to them, and in the early summer of 1894, a son. The loss of this child in the August following was a source of great grief to his father and its poignancy may be traced in the poems "White Pansies" and "We Too Shall Sleep." In 1895 the death of his father broke the family circle. Archibald was in faithful attendance upon him during his long and trying illness. In his early days his father had taught him the art of verse, as he says in the dedication to "Alcyone," and had sharpened his wits in disputations upon the poets. Pope was the idol of the older man and the model for his own verses, of which he wrote many. Pope was to be upheld before the youngster, and Keats, Tennyson and Coleridge were to be given their proper rank beside the giant. He was a man of strong opinions and scholarly attainments, and to the last he retained his eagerness for discussion on all topics, sacred and profane, and was a worthy antagonist. In 1895 the poet received the only honour that our country can offer a literary man: he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Canada. Gradually his poems written between 1884 and 1888 had increased, and in the latter year he decided to collect and publish them. Without taking the useless course of pre- senting the manuscript of his first book of poems to a pub- lisher, he determined himself to accept the risk. Fortunately at this 1 faithful! the Mil a local I accompl to mak< fame an afterwar his seco poems f The or actioi the dem: years we but they varied b; by an ab routine. recreatio the lowe ence, in Lampma often an coveted the heart nor lonel were peo tured as It WJ his heart never ral his broth Nipissing The trip and the Mr. Lam his chest illl MEMOIR XIX at this time his wife had received a small legacy, which was faithfully placed at her husband's disposal, and so "Among the Millet" came into being. It was printed and bound at a local establishment and everything was done that could be accomplished with limited skill, experience and equipment to make the book a success. It brought its author wider fame and surer standing in the world of letters. Five years afterwards Messrs. Copcland & Day of Boston, Mass., issued his second book entitled "Lyrics of Earth," a ccllection of poems following the sequence of the seasons. There is in the years between 1883 and 1899 no incident or action that the world would call stirring, that would meet the demands for a relation of adventure or peril. The sixteen years were full of high endeavour and of fine accomplishment, but they were outwardly placid and uneventful. They were varied by change of residence now and then, and every year by an absence of three or four weeks from the office and its routine. These weeks were spent in short journeys and recreation, sometimes in visits to Boston, t( Niagara, or to the lower St. Lawrence; but more frequently, and by prefer- ence, in camping expeditions. Nowhere was Archibald Lampman so content as in the great wi' ' ".ess, which he so often and so lovingly described. The only existence he coveted was that of a bushman, to be constantly hidden in the heart of the woods. There he would neither be solitary nor lonely, for the clear distance and the tangled undergrowth were peopled with companionships known to few men nur- tured as he was. It was probably upon one of these canoe journeys that his heart, naturally weak, received the injury from which it never rallied. In the autumn of 1896 accompanied by two of his brothers-in-law he went into Lake Temagami by Lake Nipissing down the Metabechawan River to the Ottawa. The trip is not an arduous one, but the party was small and the time limited. After his return from the journey Mr. Lampman developed a severe and constant pain across his chest, which increased and would not yield to any XX MEMOIR ordinary remedies. His physicians traced the trouble to his heart, and then were recalled by his companions the feats he had performed in the wilds of Temagami, his labours at the portage and the camping place, and their fruitless endeavours to restrain him from doing an undue share of the work. For heavy burdens and tasks requiring great endur- ance his physique was ill-fitted, yet there was in the man that robustness of will and tenacity of purpose that prompted him to lift as if he were a giant and paddle as if he were a trapper. His weakness, finally called by his physicians enlargement of the heart, with valvular incompetence, and an aneurism of the artery at the base, gradually developed, and it became evident that he could not survive a great while, that he must leave many of his plans unfinished, many of his dreams unrealized. During the winter of 1896-7 he produced several poems, but he laboured without his wonted spirit, and with perhaps a foreboding unexpressed that there were many that he would never write. He was constantly at his desk until September, 1897, when he enjoyed his last sojourn in the woods at Lake Achigan, east of Maniwaki. By this beauti- ful lake, amid dense forest, n ighbour of many wild shy things, he was once more restored at the heart of nature. After his return he continued his employment until it became clear that a long rest must be had if he were ever to be even conditionally well. Full of hope that many years of life might be left to him, bearing suffering and fatigue with absolute patience, he rested quietly during the first months of 1898. When the spring drew on he was sufificiently well to walk about slowly in the sunshine, observing the process of nature, in which he took the old delight, the advent of the warblers, and the triumph of the fruit blossoms. It was then that he heard for the first time that when he was ready he might gain whatever benefit was to be derived from change of scv:ne and air, that a few of his friends and admirers had removed the only material obstacle. In June a son was born to him and when he felt he MEMOIR XXI could leave home he travelled to Montreal and passed the summer and part of the fall in sojourning at Lake Wayaga- mac, Digby and Boston. He returned to his work on the iSth of October benefited by the change, and by the prolonged freedom from official labours. But as the winter drew on it became apparent that his strength was gradually declining. He spent these last weeks happily in the correction of the proofs of a new book "Alcyone," which he designed to issue in the spring. It gave him pleasure to look into the future, with this project, around which he had built many hopes. He had again assumed the risk himself, as he Iiad ten years before when "Among the Millet" was published. But on this occasion he had gone to one of the best presses in the world, and the Messrs. Constable & Company of Edinburgh had done the work. It was to be in form such a book as he loved to contemplate, and day by day he was expecting to hear of its completion. But he was never to hold it in his hands. On the evening of the 8th of February, 1899, he was stricken with a sharp pain in the lungs, and lingered with intermittent suf?ering until the loth; then in the first hour of the morning he passed away as if to sleep. He was no more in this world, in which he had worked so steadfastly, and which he understood and loved so well. On Saturday, the nth, his body was borne to Beechwood Cemetery sur- rounded by many of the men who had loved and respected him in life. Archibald Lampman was of middle height, and of a slight form. In the city he walked habitually with a downcast glance, with his eyes fixed upon the ground; in the fields and woods he was alert and observant. His manner was quiet and undemonstrative. His voice was mellow and distinct. The portrait preceding this memoir gives an idea of his features and is the best of several in existence. Before the camera the lines of his face hardened, and the lovely spirit in his eyes departed. It would explain the fascination of his personality if that deep, bright, lucid glance could be xxu MEMOIR I m preserved, if it could look out upon the old and new readers of his poems with the shadowed sweetness that chaimed and attracted in life. Ahhough his face and its expression were in harmony, the index of his character was written in his brow, candid and serene, and in his eyes sincere and affec- tionate. His brow was finely moulded and over it fell the masses of his brown hair, that glowed with a warm chestnut when the light touched it. His eyes were brown, clear and vivid. Perfect sincerity was the key-note of his character. He was true to his ideals, in !as work and in his life. Born without means and always living on a narrow income, his desire was for the greatest simplicity. A lodge in the forest and the primitive life would have fitted his contemplative mood. And when he built castles his imagination always placed them beside one of our northern lakes where every- thing was profoundly free and natural. His genial, tranquil temperament lent a quietness to his manner that gave not a hint of his virile spirit. There was no balance between the body of the man and his mind. That was radical and pierced to the sources of things. He was on the side of all good in the wider way. No convention frightened him or obscured his judgment. His writing proves his faith, his courage and the soundness of his morality. In the wider politics he was on the side of socialism and reasonable propaganda to that end, and announced his belief and argued it with courage whenever necessary. Caution might have been prophesied from his want of bodily vigour, but he had aii adventurous spirit, and believed in the independence of Canada, and many other things commonly esteemed wild and visionary. Behind all he said and wrote was felt a great reserve of wisdom and integrity. As a companion he had two manners, one absorbed, thoughtful, reticent; the other happily external, with brilliant conversation, an outpouring of genial criticism on current life or literature, with flashes of whimsical humour, and with a ready and ringing laugh. His talk was always uncommon MEMOIR XXlll in a manner natural to him, expressed in singular words and uttered in long flowing cadence. Solitude he loved, and society, and he was always warm towards any scheme for a union of men, or men and women of intelligence, where a free discussion of all topics could be had. His manner with his acquaintances and friends, old and new, had the charm that Isaac Walton reports of the behaviour of that admirable poet Dr. John Donne, that winning behaviour "which when it would entice had a strange kind of elegant, irresistible art.' His deep love of his own children was but a well-spring of love for all the children he knew. Again, what he was in his life and in his work came from sheer sincerity, from a temperament in har- mony with clear ideals, directed by a mind free from guile. His poems were principally composed as he walked either to and from his ordinary employment in the city, upon excursions into the country, or as he paced about his writing-room. Lines invented under these conditions would be transferred to manuscript books, and finally after they had been perfected, would be written out carefully in his clear, strong handwriting in volumes of a permanent kind. Although this was his favorite and natural method of composing, he frequently wrote his lines as they came to him, and in many of his note-books can be traced the development of poems thiough the constant working of his fine instinct for form ^:M expression: both were refined until the artist felt his limit. With Archibald Lampman, as with all true artists, this was short of his ideal; as he frequently confessed, there always remained some shade of meaning that he had not conveyed, some perfection of form that he had not compassed. He did not win his knowledge of nature from books, but from actual observation and from conversations with men who had studied the science of the special subjects. Without a thought of literature he would intently observe a landscape, a flower or a bird, until its true spirit was revealed to him. Afterwards, it may have been days, weeks or months, XXIV MEMOIR 11 i P 'HI! he called upon his knowledge, striving to revive his impres- sion and transcribe it. To write verses was the one great delight of his life. Everything in his world had reference to poetry. He was restless with a sense of burden when he was not composing, and deep with content when some stanza was taking form gradually in his mind. Although there were periods during which he added nothing to the volume of his work, the persistence of his efTort was remarkable. He did not over-estimate his own powers, and lie wrote with no theory and unconscious of any special mission. It amused him when .he was called a didactic poet, not as slighting the term, but all such poems as "Insight," "Truth" and "The Largest Life," having been written from fulness of conviction and experience and prompted only by the joy of production, the idea of didacticism had its humours for him. He was not a wide reader; books of history and travel were his favorites. During his last illness he read "The Ring and the Book," the novels of Jane Austen, and continued a constant reading of Greek by a reperusal of Pindar, the Odyssey, and the tragedies of Sophocles. Matthew Arnold was his favorite modern poet and he read his works oftener than those of any other; but Keats was the only poet whose method he carefully studied. Of his own sonnets he said: "Here after all is my best work." His last poem, written on the evenings of the 29th and 30th of January, 1899, was the winter sonnet beginning "The frost that stings like fire upon my cheek." When he had finished its last line his work was done, and his final words are lovingly directed to an asi)cct of nature, "To silence, frost and beauty everywhere." He rests in Beechwood Cemetery, part of the wild wood through which he was accustomed to wander speering about the chilly margin of snow-water pools for the first spring Mowers. He said it was a good spot in which to lie when all MEMOIR XXV was over with life. Even if there be no sense in these houses of shade, it is a pleasant foreknowledge to be aware that above one's unrealizing head the snow will sift, the small terns rise and the birds come back in nesting-time. And though he be forever rapt from such things, careless of them and unaware, the sternest wind from under the pole star will blow unconfined over his grave, about it the first hepaticas will gather in fragile companies, the vesper sparrow will return to nest in the grass, and from a branch of maple to sing in the cool dusk. DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT. _ ■lilll 1 li ,!ll|i. I Vi hr' III I AMONG THE MILLET TO MY WIFE Though fancy and the might of rhyme, That turneth like the tide, Have borne me many a musing time, Beloved, from thy side, Ah yet, I pray thee, deem not. Sweet, Those hours were given in vain ; Within these covers to thy feet I bring them back again. aiiiiii J l..,.„ ,„ Th r An Ye 1 Itl 1 Th( A The T m IHIIII!! ml"! Yot T In s A Wh( T] For Tl Ji in AMONG THE MILLET The dew is gleaming in the grass, The morning hours are seven, And I am fain to watch you i>ass, Ye soft white clouds of heaven. Ye stray and gather, part and fold ; The wind alone can tame you ; I think of what in time of old The poets loved to name you. They called you sheep, the sky your sward, A field without a reaper ; They called the shining sun your lord. The shepherd wind your keeper. Your sweetest poets I will ieem The men of old for moulding In simple beauty such a dream. And I could lie beholding, Where daisies in the meadow toss. The wind from morn till even. For ever shepherd you across The shining field of heaven, 4 AMONG THE MILLET APRIL Pale season, watcher in unvexed suspense, Still priestess of the patient middle day, Betwixt wild March's humored petulence And the warm wooing of green kirtled May, Maid month of sunny peace and sober gray, Weaver of flowers in sunward glades that ring With murmur of libation to the spring; As memory of pain, all past, is peace, And joy, dream-tasted, hath the deepest cheer, So art thou sweetest of all months that lease The twelve short spaces of die flying year. The bloomless days are dead, and frozen fear No more for many moons shall vex the earth. Dreaming of summer and fruit-laden mirth. The gray song-sparrows full of spring have sung Their clear thin silvery tunes in leafless trees ; The robin hops, and whistles, and among The silver-tasseled poplars the brown bees Murmur faint dreams of summer harvestries ; The creamy sun at even scatters down A gold-green mist across the murmuring town. By the slow streams the frogs all day and night Dream without thought of pain or heed of ill, Watching the long warm silent hours take flight,. And ever with soft throats that pulse and thrill, From the pale-weeded shallows trill and trill, Tremulous sweet voices, flute-like, answering One to another glorying in the spring. i. lilli APRIL 5 All day across the ever-cloven soil, Strong horses labour, steaming in the sun., Down the long furrows with slow straining toil. Turning the brown clean layers ; and one by one The crows gloom over them till daylight done Finds them asleep somewhere in dusked lines Beyond the wheatlands in the northern pines. The old year's cloaking of brown leaves, that bind The forest floor-ways, plated close and true — The last love's labour of the autumn wind — Is broken with curled flower buds white and blue In all the matted hollows, and speared through With thousand serpent-spotted blades up-sprung, Yet bloomless, of the slender adder-tongue. In the warm noon the south wind creeps and cools, Where the red-budded stems of maples throw Still tangled etchings on the amber pools. Quite silent now, forgetful of the slow Drip of the taps, the troughs, and trampled snow. The keen March mornings, and the silvering rime And mirthful labour of the sugar prime. Ah, I have wandered with unwearied feet, All the long sweetness of an April day. Lulled with cool murmurs and the drowsy beat Of partridge wings in secret thickets gray, The marriage hymns of all the birds at play. The faces of sweet flowers, and easeful dreams Beside slow reaches of frog-haunted streams ; AMONG THK MILLET H I Wan red with happy feet, and quite forgot The shallow toil, the strife against the grain, Near souls, that hear us call, but answer not, The loneliness, perplexity and pain. And high thoughts cankered with an earthly stain; And then, the long draught emptied to the lees, I turn me homeward in slow-pacing ease, Cleaving the cedar shadows and the thin Mist of gray gnats that cloud the river shore, Sweet even choruses, that dance and spin Soft tangles in the sunset ; and once more The city smites me with its dissonant roar. To its hot heart I pass, untroubled yet, Fed with calm hope, without desire or fret. So to the year's first altar step I bring Gifts of meek song, and make my spirit free With the blind working of unanxious spring, Careless with her, whether the days that flee Pale drouth or golden-fruited plenty see. So that we toil, brothers, without distress, In calm-eyed peace and godlike blamelessness. AN OCTOBER SUNSET One moment the slim cloudflakes seem to lean With their sad sunward faces aureoled, And longing lips set downward brightening To take the last sweet hand kiss of the king, Gone down beyond the closing west acold ; THE FROGS Paying no reverence to the slender queen, That like a curved olive leaf of gold Hangs low in heaven, rounded toward the sun, Or the small stars that one by one unfold Down the gray border of the nighi begun. THE FROGS Breathers of wisdom won without a quest, Quaint uncouth dreamers, voices high and strange; Flutists of lands where beauty hath no change, And wintry grief is a forgotten guest, Sweet murmurers of everlasting rest, For whom glad days have ever yet to run. And moments are as aeons, and the sun But ever sunken half-way toward the west. Often to me who heard you in your day, With close rapt ears, it could not choose but seem That earth, our mother, searching in what way Men's hearts might know her spirit's inmost dream; Ever at rest beneath life's change and stir, Made you her soul, and bade you pipe for her. II In those mute days when spring was in her glee. And hope was strong, we knew not why or how, 8 AMONG Tin<: MILLET ■il !■ tf 111 And eartli, the mother, dreamed with brooding brow, Musing on Hfe, and what the hours mig^ht be, When love should ripen to maternity. Then like high flutes in silvery interchange Ye piped with voices still and sweet and strange, And ever as ye piped, on every tree The great buds swelled ; among the pensive woods The spirits of first flowers awoke and flung From buried faces the close-fitting hoods, And listened to your piping till they fell. The frail spring-beauty with her perfumed bell. The wind-flower, and the spotted adder-tongue. Ill All the day long, wherever pools might be Among the golden meadows, where the air Stood in a dream, as it were moored there For ever in a noon-tide reverie. Or where the birds made riot of their glee In the still woods, and the hot sun shone down. Crossed with warm lucent shadows on the brown Leaf-paven pools, that bubbled dreamily, Or far away in whispering river meads And watery marshes where the brooding noon. Full with the wonder of its own sweet boon. Nestled and slept among the noiseless reeds. Ye sat and murmured, motionless as they, With eyes that dreamed beyond the night and day, W mm tiiiiimiiijii THE FKOGS IV And wlien day passed and over heaven's height, Thin with the many stars and cool with dew, The fingers of the deep hours slowly drew The wonder of the ever-healing night, No grief or loneliness or rapt delight Or weight of silence ever brought to you Slumber or rest ; only your voices grew More high and solemn; slowly with hushed flight Ye saw the echoing hours go by, long-drawn. Nor ever stirred, watching with fathomless eyes. And with your countless clear antiphonies Filling the earth and heaven, even till dawn. Last-risen, found you with its first pale gleam, Still with soft throats unaltered in your dream. And slowly as we heard you, day by day. The stillness of enchanted reveries Bound brain and spirit and half-closed eyes, In some divine sweet wonder-dream astray ; To us no sorrow or uprer ?d dismay Nor any discord came, but evermore The voices of mankind, the outer roar, Grew strange and murmurous, faint and far away. Morning and noon and midnight exquisitely. Rapt with your voices, this alone we knew, illll 10 AMONG THE MILLET i Cities might change and fall, and men might die, Secure were we, content to dream with you That change and pain are shadows famt and fleet, And dreams are real, and life is only sweet. AN IMPRESSION I heard the city time-bells call Far off in hollow towers, And one by one with measured fall Count out the old dead hours ; I felt the march, the silent press Of time, and held my breath ; I "aw the haggard dreadfulness Of dim old age and death. SPRING ON THE RIVER O Sun, shine hot on the river ; For the ice is turning an ashen hue. And the still bright water is looking through. And the myriad streams are greeting you With a ballad of life to the giver. From forest and field and sunny town. Meeting and running and tripping dov»^n, With laughter and song to the river. Oh ! the din on the boats by the river ; The barges are ringing while day avails. SPRING ON THE RIVER II With sound of hewing and hammering nails, Planing and painting and swinging pails, All day in their shrill endeavour; For the waters brim over their wintry cup. And the grinding ice is breaking up, And we must away down the river. Oh ! the hum and the toil of the river ; The ridge of the rapid sprays and skips ; Loud and low by the water's lips, Tearing the wet pines into strips, The saw-mill is moaning ever. The little gray sparrow skips and calls On the rocks in the rain of the waterfalls, And the logs are adrift in the river. Oh ! restlessly whirls the river ; The rivulets run and the cataract drones ; The spiders are fiitting over the stones ; Summer winds float and the cedar moans ; And the eddies gleam and quiver. O Sun, shine hot, shine long and abide In the glory and po\ver of thy summer tide On the swift longing face of the river. WHY DO YE CALL THE POET LONELY Why do ye call the poet lonely, Because he dreams in lonely places? He is not desolate, but only Sees, where ye cannot, hidden faces. I Www 12 AMONG THE MILLET I li'iili I HEAT From plains that reel to southward, dim, The road runs by nie white and bare ; Up the steep hill it seems ^o swim Beyond, and melt into the glare. Upward half-way, or it may be Nearer the summit, slowly steals A hay-cart, moving dustily With idly clacking wheels. By his cart's side the wagoner Is slouching slowly at his ease, Half-hidden in the windless blur Of white dust puffing to his knees. This wagon on the height above, From sky to sky on either hand. Is the sole thing that seems to move In all the heat-held land. Beyond me in the fields the sun Soaks in the grass and hath his will ; I count the marguerites one by one ; Even the buttercups are still. On the brook yonder not a breath Disturbs the spider or the midge. The water-bugs draw close beneath The cool gloom of the bridge. Where the far elm-tree shadows flood Dark patches in the burning grass, The cows, each with her peaceful cud, AMONG THE TIMOTHY Lie waiting for the heat to pa'is. From somewhere on the slope near by Into the pale depth of the noon A wandering thrush slides leisurely His thin revolving tune. In intervals of dreams I hear The cricket from the droughty ground; The grasshoppers spin into mine ear A small innumerable sound. I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze : The burning sky-line blinds my sight : The woods far off are blue with haze : The hills are drenched in light. And yet to me not this or that Is always sharp or always sweet ; In the sloped shadow of my hat I lean at rest, and drain the heat ; Nay more, I think some blessed power Hath brought me wandering idly here : In the full furnace of this hour My thoughts grow keen and clear. IJ AMONG THE TIMOTHY Long hours ago, while yet the morn was blithe, Nor sharp athirst had drunk the beaded dew, A mower came, and swung his gleaming scythe Around this stump, and, shearing slowly, drew Far round among the clover, ripe for hay, A circle clean and gray; i 14 AMC:,G THE MILLET And here among the scented cwathes that gleam, Mixed with dead daisies, it is sweet to lie And watch the grass and the few-clouded sky, Nor think but only dream. For when the noon was turning, and the heat Fell down most heavily on field and wood, I too came hither, borne on restless feet, Seeking some comfort for an aching mood. Ah ! I was weary of the drifting hours, The echoing city towers, The blind gray streets, the jingle of the throng, Weary of hope that like a shape of stone Sat near at hand without a smile or moan, And weary most of song. IH ti And those high moods of mine that sometime made My heart a heaven, opening like a flower A sweeter world where I in wonder strayed, Begirt with shapes of beauty and the power Of dreams that moved through that enchanted clime With changing breaths of rhyme, Were all gone lifeless now, like those white leaves That hang all winter, shivering dead and blind Among the sinewy beeches in the wind. That vainly calls and grieves. Ah ! I will set no more mine overtasked brain To barren search and toil that beareth nought, For ever following with sore-footed pain The crossing pathways of unbourned thought; AMONG THE TIA' JTHY But let it go, as one that hath no skill, To take what shape it will, An ant slow-burrowing in the earthy gloom, A spider bathing in the dew at morn, Or a brown bee in wayward fancy borne From hidden bloom to bloom. Hither and thither o'er the rocking grass The little breezes, blithe as they are blind. Teasing the slender blossoms pass and pass, Soft-footed children of the gipsy wind, To taste of every purple-fringed head Before the bloom is dead; And scarcely heed the daisies that, endowed With stems so short they cannot see, up-bear Their innocent sweet eyes distressed, and stare Like children in a crowd. 15 Not far to lieldward in the central heat, Shadowing the clover, a pale poplar stands With glimmering leaves that, when the wind comes, beat Together like innumerable small hands. And with the calm, as in vague dreams astray, Hang wan and silver-gray; Like sleepy maenads, who in pale surprise, Half-wakened by a prowling beast, have crept Out of the hidden covert, where they slept, At noon with languid eyes. The crickets creak, and through the noonday glow, That crazy fiddler of the hot mir-year, i6 AMONG THE MILLET The dry cicada plies his wiry bow In long-spun cadence, thin and dusty sere ; From the green grass the small grasshoppers' din Spreads soft and silvery thin ; And ever and anon a murmur steals Into mine ears of toil that moves alway, The crackling rustle of the pitch-forked hay And lazy jerk of wheels. As so I lie and feel the soft hours wane, To wind and sun and peaceful sound laid bare, That aching dim discomfort of the brain Fades off unseen, and shadowy-footed care Into some hidden corner creeps at last To slumber deep and fast ; And gliding on, quite fashioned to forget. From dream to dream I bid my spirit pass Out into the pale green ever-swaying grass To brood, but no more fret. And hour by hour among all shapes that grow Of purple mints and daisies gemmed with gold In sweet unrest my visions come and go ; I feel and hear and with quiet eyes behold ; And hour by hour, the ever-journeying sun, In gold and shadow spun. Into mine eyes and blood, and through the dim Green glimmering forest of the grass shines down, Till flower and blade, and every cranny brown. And I are soaked with him. FREEDOM 17 ers' din bare, 5 iW rold in, dim les down, own, FREEDOM Out of the heart of the city begotten Of the labour of men and their manifold hands, Whose souls, that were sprung from the earth in her morning, No longer regard or remember her warning, Whose hearts in the furnace of care have forgotten For ever the scent and the hue of her lands ; Out of the heat of the usurer's hold, From the horrible crash of the strong man's feet ; Out of the shadow where pity is dying ; Out of the clamour where beauty is lying, Dead in the depth of the struggle for gold ; Out of the din and the glare of the street ; Into the arms of our mother we come, Our broad strong mother, the innocent earth. Mother of all thing - beautiful, blameless. Mother of hopes that her strength makes tameless. Where the voices of grief and of battle are dumb, And the whole world laughs with the light of her mirth. Over the fields, where the cool winds sweep, Black with the mould and brown with the loam. Where the thin green spears of the wheat ^re appearing, And the high-ho shouts from the smoky clearing ; Over the widths where the cloud shadows creep : Over the fields and the fallows we come; P i8 AMONG THE MILLET ,; .:;! Ml OA'cr the swamps with their pensive noises, Where the burnished cup of the marigold gleams ; Skirting the reeds, where the quick winds shiver On the swelling breast of the dimpled river. And the blue of the kingfisher hangs and poises. Watching a spot by the edge of the streams ; By the miles of the fences warped and dyed With the white-hot noons and their withering fires. Where the rough bees trample the creamy bosoms Of the hanging tufts of the elder blossoms, And the spiders weave, and the gray snakes hide, In the crannied gloom of the stones and the briers ; Over the meadow lands sprouting with thistle, Where the humming wings of the blackbirds pass. Where the hollows are banked with the violets flowering. And the long-limbed pendulous elms are towering. Where the robins are loud with their voluble whistle^ AriKl the ground-sparrow scurries away through the grass, Where the restless bobolink loiters and woos Down, in the hollows and over the swells, Dropping in and out of the sliadows, Sprinkling his music about the meadows, Men, Only Full '!! i li MORNING ON THE LIEVRE 19 Whistles and little checks and coos, And the tinkle of glassy bells , Into the dim woods full of the tombs Of the dead trees soft in their sepulchres, Where the pensive throats of the shy birds hidden, Pipe to us strangely entering unbidden, And tenderly still in the tremulous glooms The trilliums scatter their white-winged stars; Up to the hills where our tired hearts rest, Loosen, and halt, and regather their dreams ; Up to the hills, where the winds restore us. Clearing our eyes to the beauty before us. Earth with the glory of life on her breast, Earth with the gleam of her cities and streams. Here we shall commune with her and no other ; Care and the battle of life shall cease ; ]\Ien, her degenerate children, behind us, Only the might of her beauty shall bind us. Full of rest, as we gaze on the face of our mother. Earth in the health and the strength of her peace. MORNING ON THE LIEVRE Far above us where a jay Screams his matins to the day. Capped with gold and amethyst. Like a vapour from the forge 20 AMONG THE MILLET Of a giant somewhere hid, Out of hearing of the clang Of his hammer, skirts of mist Slowly up the woody gorge Lift and hang. Softly as a cloud we go, Sky above and sky below, Down the river; and the dip Of the paddles scarcely breaks, With the little silvery drip Of the water as it shakes From the blades, the crystal deep Of the silence of the morn, Of the forest yet asleep ; And the river reaches borne In a mirror, purple gray, Sheer away To the misty line of light, Where the forest and the stream In the shadow meet and plight. Like a dream. From amid a stretch of reeds, Where the lazy river sucks All the water as it bleeds From a little curling creek, And the muskrats peer and sneak In around the sunken wrecks Of a tree that swept the skies Long ago. On a sudden seven ducks IN OCTOBER 21 With a splashy rustle rise, Stretching out their seven necks, One before, and two behind. And the others all arow, And as steady as the wind With a swivelling whistle go, Through the purple shadow led, Till we only hear their whir In behind a rocky spur, Just ahead. IN OCTOBER Along the waste, a great way oflf, the pines Like tall slim priests of storm, stand up and bar The low long strip of dolorous red that lines The under west, where wet winds moan afar. The cornfields all are brown, and brown the meadows With the blown leaves' wind-heaped traceries. And the brown thistle stems that cast no shadows, And bear no bloom for bees. As slowly earthward leaf by red leaf slips. The sad trees rustle in chill misery, A soft strange inner sound of pain-crazed lips, That move and murmur incoherently; As if all leaves, that yet have breath, were sighing, With pale hushed throats, for death is at the door. So many low soft masses for the dying Sweet leaves that live no more. 22 AMONG Tllli MILLET '! j! lllii Here I will sit upon this naked stone, Draw my coat closer with my numbed hands, And hear the ferns sigh, and the wet woods moan, And send my heart out to the ashen lands ; And I will ask myself what golden madness, What balmed breaths of dreamland spicery, What visions oft laughter and light sadness Were sweei .at month to me. The dry dead leaves flit by with thin weird tunes. Like failing murmurs of some conquered creed, Graven in mystic markings with strange runes. That none but stars and biting winds may read ; Here I will wait a little ; I am weary. Not torn with pain of any lurid hue, But only still and very gray and dreary. Sweet sombre lands, like you. LAiV^^NT OF THE WINDS We in sorrow coldly witting, In the bleak world sitting, sitting, By the forest, near the mould, Heard the summer calling, calling. Through the dead leaves falling, falling. That her life grew faint and old. And we took her up, and bore her, With the leaves that moaned before her. To the holy forest bowers. Where the trees were dense and serried, BALLADE OF SUMMER'S SLEEP And her corpse we buried, buried, In the graveyard of the flowers. Now the leaves, as death grows vaster, Yellowing deeper, dropping faster, All the grave wherein she lies With their bodies cover, cover, With their hearts that love her. love her, For they live not when she dies. 23 BALLADE OF SUMMER'S SLEEP Sweet summer is gone ; they have laid her away — The last sad hours that were touched with her grace — In the hush where the ghosts of the dead flov/ers play ; The sleep that is sweet of her slumbering space Let not a sight nor a sound erase Of the woe that hath fallen on all the lands : Gather ye. Dreams, to her sunny face. Shadow her head with your golden hands. The woods that are golden and red for a day Girdle the hills in a jewelled case. Like a girl's strange mirth, ere the quick death slay The beautiful life that he hath in chase. Darker and darker the shadows pace Out of the north to the southern sands. Ushers bearing the winter's mace : Keep them away with your woven hands. 24 AMONG THE MILLET The yellow light lies on the wide wastes gray, More bitter and cold than the winds that race From the skirts of the autumn, tearing away, This way and that way, the woodland lace. In the autumn's cheek is a hectic trace; Behind her the ghost of the winter stands ; Sweet summer will moan in her soft gray place ; Mantle her head with your glowing hands. Envoi. Till the slayer be slain and the spring displace The might of his arms with her rose-crowned bands, Let her heart not gather a dream that is base: Shadow her head with your golden hands. WINTER The long days came and went ; the riotous bees Tore the warm ipes in many a dusty vine. And men grew faint and thin with too much ease. And Winter gave no sign ; But all the while beyond the northmost woods He sat and smiled and watched his spirits play In elfish dance and eerie roundelay, Tripping in many moods With snowy curve and fairy crystal shine. Bt:t now the time is come : with southward speed The elfin spirits pass : a secret sting Hath fallen and smitten flower and fruit and weed, And every leafy thing. ^\™Sj^>^^ Z:.- h.w ■isa, nt^iBi WINTER 25 The wet woods moan : the dead leaves break and fall ; In still night-watches wakeful men have heard The muffled pipe of many a passing bird, High over hut and hall, Straining to southward with unresting wing. And then they come with colder feet, and fret The winds with snow, and tuck the streams to sleep With icy sheet and gleaming coverlet. And fill the valleys deep With curved drifts, and a strange music raves Among the pines, sometimes in wails, and then In whistled laughter, till affrighted men Draw close, and into caves And earthy holes the blind beasts curl and creep. And so all day above the toiling heads Of men's poor chimneys, full of impish freaks, Tearing and twisting in tight-curled shreds The vain unnumbered reeks, The Winter speeds his fairies forth and mocks Poor bitten men with laughter icy cold. Turning the brown of youth to white and old With hoary-woven locks. And gray men young with roses in their cheeks. And after thaws, when liberal water swells The bursting eaves, he biddcth drip and grow The curly horns of ribbed icicles In many a be, vi '-like row. 26 AMONG THE MILLET In secret moods of mercy and soft dole, Old warped wrecks and things of mouldering deatli That summer scorns and man abandoneth His careful hands console With lawny robes and draperies of snow. And when night comes, his spirits with chill feet, Winged with white mirth and noiseless mockery, Across men's pallid windows peer and fleet. And smiling silverly Draw with mute fingers on the frosted glass Quaint faiiy shapes of iced witcheries, Pale flowers and glinting ferns and frigid trees And meads of mystic grass. Graven in many an austere phantasy. But far away the Winter dreams alone. Rustling among his snow-drifts, and resigns Cold fondling ears to hear the cedars moan In dusky-skirted lines Strange answers of an incient runic call ; Oi somewhere watches with his antique eyes, Gray-chill with frosty-lidded reveries, The silvery moonshine fall In misty wedges through his girth of pines. Poor mortals haste and hide away: creep soon Into your icy beds : the embers die ; And on your frosted panes the pallid moon Is glimmering brokenly. Ii jiflimiiJii'iiiiiiii WINTER HUES RECALLED 27 Mutter faint prayers that spring will come e'erwhilc, Scarring with thaws and dripping days and nights The shining majesty of him that smites And slays you with a smile Upon his silvery lips, of glinting mockery. WINTER HUES RECALLED Life is not all for effort ; there are hours When fancy breaks from the exacting will, And rebel thought takes schoolboy's holiday, Rejoicing in its idle strength. 'Tis then, And only at such moments, that we know The treasure of hours gone — scenes once beheld. Sweet voices and words bright and beautiful, Impetuous deeds that woke the God within us. The loveliness of forms and thoughts and colours, A moment marked and then as soon forgotten. These things are ever near us, laid away. Hidden and waiting the appropriate times, In the quiet garner-house of memory. There in the silent unaccounted depth. Beneath the heated strainage and the rush. That teem the noisy surface of the hours, All things that ever touched us are stored up. Growing more mellow like sealed wine with age ; We thought them dead, and they are but asleep. In moments when the heart is most at rest And least expectant, from the luminous doors, 28 AMONG THE MILLKT And sacred dwelling-place of things unfeared, They issue forth, and we who never knew Till then how potent and how real they were, Tak** them, and wonder, and so bless the hour. Such gifts are sweetest when unsought. To me, As I was loitering lately in my dreams, Passing from one remembrance to another, Like him who reads upon an outstretched map, Content and idly happy, there rose up, Out of that magic well-stored picture house. No dream, rather a thing most keenly real. The memory of a moment, when with feet Arrested and spell-bound, and captured eyes, Made wide with joy and wonder, I beheld The spaces of a white and wintry land Swept with the fire of sunset, all its width. Vale, forest, town and misty eminence, A miracle of colour and of beauty. I had walked out, as I remember now, With covered ears, for the bright air was keen, To southward up the gleaming snow-packed fields, With the snov/shoer's long rejoicing stride, Marching at ease. It was a radiant day In February, the month of the great struggle 'Twixt sun and frost, when with advancing spears, The glittering golden vanguard of the spring Holds the broad winter's yet unbroken rear In long-closed wavering contest. Thin pale threads Like streaks of ash across the far-off blue Were drawn, nor seemed to move. A brooding silence 1 5 ,'" I" WINTER HUES RECALLED 29 Kept all the land, a stillness as of sleep ; But in the east the gray and motionless woods, Watching the great sun's fiery slow decline, Grew deep with gold. To westward all was silver. An hour had passed above me ; I had reached The loftiest level of the snow-piled fields. Clear-eyed, but unobservant, noting not That all the plain beneath me and the hills Took on a change of colour splendid, gradual, Leaving no spot the same ; nor that the sun Now like a fiery torrent overflamed The great line of the west. Ere yet I turned With long stride homeward, being heated With the loose swinging motion, weary too. Nor uninclined to rest, a buried fence. Whose topmost log just shouldered from the snow. Made me a seat, and thence with heated cheeks. Grazed by the northwind's edge of stinging ice, I looked far out upon the snow-bound waste, The lifting hills and intersecting forests, The scarce marked courses of the buried streams,. And as I looked lost memory of the frost, Transfixed with wonder, overborne with joy. I saw them in their silence and their beauty, Swept by the sunset's rapid hand of fire. Sudden, mysterious, every moment deepening To some new majesty of rose or flame. The whole broad west was like a molten sea Of crimson. In the north the light-lined hills Were veiled far ofT as with a mist of rose Wondrous and soft. Along the darkening east 30 AMONG THE MILLET The gold of all the forests slowly changed To purple. In the valley far before me, Low sunk in sapphire shadows, from its hills, Softer and lovelier than an opening flower, Uprose a city with its sun-touched towers. A bunch of amethysts. Like one speil-bound Caught in the presence of some god, I stood, Nor felt the keen wind and the deadly air, But watched the sun go down, ;and watched the gold Fade from the town and the withdrawing hills, Their westward shapes athwart the dusky red Freeze into sapphire, saw the arc of rose Rise ever higher in the violet east, Above the frore front of the uprearing night Remorsefully soft and sweet. Then I awoke As from a dream, and from my shoulders shook The warning chill, till then unfelt, unfeared. STORM Out of the gray northwest, where many a day gone by Ye tugged and howled in your tempestuous grot, And evermore the huge frost giants lie. Your wizard guards in vigilance unforgot. Out of the gray northwest, for now the bonds are riven, On wide white wings your thongless flight is driven, That lulls but resteth not. STORM 31 And all the gray day long, and all the dense wild night, Ye wheel and hurry with the sheeted snow, By cedared waste and many a pine-dark height, Across white rivers frozen fast below; Over the lonely forests, where the flowers yet sleeping Turn in their narrow beds with dreams of weeping In some remembered woe; Across the unfenced wide marsh levels, where the dry Brown ferns sigh out, and last year's sedges scold In some drear language, rustling haggardly Their thin dead leaves and dusky hoods of gold ; Across gray beechwoods where the pallid leaves unfailing In the blind gusts like homeless ghosts are calling With voices cracked and old ; Across the solitary clearings, where the low Fierce gusts howl through the blinded woods, and round The buried shanties all day long the snow Sifts and piles up in many a spectral mound ; Across lone villages in eerie wildernesses Whose hidden life no living shape confesses Nor any human sound ; Across the serried masses of dim cities, blown Full of the snow that ever shifts and swells, While far above them all their towers of stone Stand and beat back your fierce and tyrannous spells, 32 AMONG THE MILLET And hour by hour send out, Hke voices torn and broken Of battling- giants that have grandly spoken, The veering sound of bells ; So day and night, O Wind, with hiss and moan you fleet. Where once long gone on many a green-leafed day Your gentler brethren wandered with light feet And sang, with voices soft and sweet as they, The same blind thought that you with wilder might are speaking, Seeking the same strange thing that you are seeking In this your stormier way. O Wind, wild-voiced brother, in your northern cave, My spirit also being so beset With pride and pain, I heard you beat and rave, Grinding your chains with furious howl and fret. Knowing full well that all earth's moving things inherit The same chained might and madness of the spirit. That none may quite forget. You in your cave of snows, we in our narrow girth Of need and sense, for ever chafe and pine; Only in moods of some demonic birth Our souls take fire, our flashing wings untwine ; Even like you, mad Wind, above our broken prison, With streaming hair and maddened eyes uprisen, We dream ourselves divine ; STORM 33 Mad moods that come and go in some mysterious way, That flash and fall, ncne knoweth how or why, Wind, our brother, they are yours to-day, The stormy joy, the sweeping mastery ; Deep in our narrow cells, we hear you, we awaken, With hands afret and bosoms strangely shaken, We answer to your cry. 1 most that love you, Wind, when you are fierce and free. In these dull fetters cannot long remain ; Lo, I will rise and break my thongs and flee Forth to your drift and beating, till my brain Even for an hour grow wild in your divine embraces. And then creep back into mine earthly traces, And bind me with my chain. Nay, Wind, I hear you, desperate brother, in your might Whistle and howl ; I shall not tarry long. And though the day be blind and fierce, the night Be dense and wild, I still am glad and strong To meet you face to face ; through all your gust and drifting With brow held high, my joyous hands uplifting, I cry you song for song. ■■ lytL^i.tti y 34 AMONG THE MILLET MIDNIGHT From where I sit, I see the stars, And down the chilly floor The moon between the frozen bars Is glimmering dim and hoar. Without in many a peaked mound The glinting snowdrifts lie; There is no voice or living sound ; The embers slowly die. Yet some wild thing is in mine ear; I hold my breath and hark ; Out of the depth I seem to hear A crying in the dark ; No sound of man or wife or child. No sound of beast that groans, Or of the wind that whistles wild, Or of the tree that moans : iiiiii||| I know not what it is I hear ; I bend my head and hark : I cannot drive it from mine ear. That crying in the dark. SONG OF THE STREAM-DROPS 35 SONG OF THE STREAM-DROPS By silent forest and field and mossy stone, We come from the wooded hill, and we go to the sea. We labour, and sing sweet songs, but we never moan. For our mother, the sea, is calling us cheerily. We have heard her calling us many and many a day From the cool gray stones and the white saivds far away. The way is long, and winding and slow is the track, The sharp rocks fret us, the eddies bring us delay. But we sing sweet songs to our mother, and answer her back; Gladly we answer our mother, sweetly repay. Oh, we hear, we hear her singing wherever we roam, Far, far away in the silence, calling us home. Poor mortal, your ears are dull, and you cannot hear ; But we, we hear it, the breast of our mother abeat ; Low, far away, sweet and solemn and clear, Under the hush of the night, under the noontide heat; And we sing sweet songs to our mother, for so we shall please her best. Songs of beauty and peace, freedom and infinite rest. >!!!i!i 36 AMONG THE MILLET We sing, and sing, through the grass and the stones and the reeds, And we never grow tired, though we journey ever and aye, Dre?"ning, and dreaming, wherever the long way leads, Of the far cool rocks and the rush of the wind and the spray. Under the sun and the stars we murmur and dance and are free. And we dream and dream of our mother, the width of the sheltering sea. BETWEEN THE RAPIDS The point is turned ; the twilight shadow fills The wheeling stream, the soft receding shore, And on our ears from deep among the hills Breaks now the rapid's sudden quickening roar. Ah, yet the same, or have they changed their face. The fair green fields, and can it still be seen, The white log cottage ne.r the mountain's base, So bright and quiet, so home-like and serene? Ah, well I question, for as five years go. How many blessings fall, and how much woe. Aye there they are, nor have they changed their cheer. The fields, the hut, the leafy mountain brows; Across the lonely dusk again I hear The loitering bells, the lowing of the cows, BETWEEN THE RAPIOS 37 The bleat of many sheep, the stilly rush Of the low whispering river, and through all, Soft human tongues that break the deepening hush With faint-heard song or desultory call : comrades hold, the longest reach is past; The stream runs swift, and we are flying fast. The shore, the fields, the cottage just the same, But how with those whose memory makes them sweet? Oh if I called them, hailing name by name, Would the same lips the same old shouts repeat? Have the rough years, so big with death and ill, Gone lightly by and left them smiling yet? Wild black-eyed Jeanne whose tongue was never still, Old wrinkled Picaud, Pierre and pale Lisette, The homely hearts that never cared to range. While life's wide fields were fU'ed with rush and change. And where is Jacques, and where is Virginie? I cannot tell ; the fields are all a blur. The lowing cows whose shapes I scarcely see, Oh do they wait and do they call for her? And is she changed, or is her heart still clear As wind or morning, light as river foam? Or have life's changes borne her far from here. And far from rest, and far from help and home? Ah comrades, soft, and let us rest awhile. For arms grow tired with paddling many a mile. 38 AMONG THE MILLET The woods grow wild, and from the rising shore The cool wind creeps, the faint wood odours steal ; Like ghosts adown the river's blackening floor The misty fumes begin to creep and reel. Once more I leave you, wandering toward the night, Sweet home, sweet heart, that would have held me in; Whither I go I know not, and the light Is faint before, and rest is hard to win. Ah sweet ye were and near to heaven's gate ; But youth is blind and wisdom comes too late. Blacker and loftier grow the woods, and hark ! The freshening roar! The chute is near us now, And dim the canyon grows, and inky dark The water whispering from the birchen prow. One long last look, and many a sad adieu. While eyes can see and heart can feel you yet, I leave sweet home and sweeter hearts to you, A prayer for Picaud, one for pale Lisette, A kiss for Pierre and little Jacques f )r thee, A sigh for Jeanne, a sob for Virginie. Oh, does she still remember? Is the dream Now dead, or has she found another mate? So near, so dear ; and ah, so swift the stream ; Even now perhaps it were not yet too late. But oh, what matter ; for before the night Has reached its middle, we have far to go : Bend to your paddles, comrades : see, the light Ebbs oflf apace ; we must not linger so. Aye thus it is ! Heaven gleams and then is gone : Once, twice, it smiles, and still we wander on. NEW year's eve 39 NEW YEAR'S EVE Once on the year's last eve in my mind's might Sitting in dreams, not sad, nor quite elysian, Balancing all 'twixt wonder and derision, Methought my body and all this world took flight, And vanished from me, as a dream, outright ; Leaning out thus in sudden strange decision, I saw as in the flashing of a vision. Far down between the tall towers of the night. Borne by great winds in a vful unison. The teeming masses of mankind sweep by, Even as a glittering river with deep sound And innumerable banners, rolling on, Over the starry border-glooms that bound The last gray space in dim eternity. And all that strange unearthly multitude Seemed twisted in vast seething companies, That evermore, with hoarse and terrible cries And desperate en'counter at mad feud. Plunged onward, each in its implacable mood Borne down over the trampled blazonries Of other faiths and other phantasies, Each following furiously, and each pursued; So sped they on with tumult vast and grim, But ever meseemed beyond them I could see White-haloed groups that sought perpetually The figure of one crowned and sacrificed ; And faint, far forward, floating tall and dim, The banner of our Lord and Master, Christ. 40 AMONG THE MILLET UNREST All day upon the garden bright The sun shines strong, But in my heart there is no light, Nor any song. Voices of merry life go by, Adown the street; But I am weary of the cry And drift of feet. With all dear things that ought to please The hours are blessed. And yet my soul is ill at ease. And cannot rest. Strange Spirit, leave me not too long, Nor stint to give, For if my soul have no sweet song, It cannot live. SONG Songs that could span the earth. When leaping thought had stirred them, In many an hour since birth. We heard or dreamed we heard them. Sometimes to all their sway We yield ourselves half fearing, Sometimes with hearts grown gray We curse ourselves for hearing. ONE DAY 41 We toil and but begin ; In vain our spirits fret them, We strive, and cannot win, Nor evermore forget them. A light that will not stand, That comes and goes in flashes, Fair fruits that in the hand Are turned to dust and ashes. Yet still the deep thoughts ring Around and through and through us. Sweet mights that make us sing, But bring no resting to us. ONE DAY The trees rustle ; the wind blows Merrily out of the town ; The shadows creep, the sun goes Steadily over and down. In a brown gloom the moats gleam ; Slender the sweet wife stands ; Her lips are red ; her eyes dream ; Kisses are warm on her hands. The child moans ; the hours slip Bitterly over her head ; In a gray dusk, the tears drip ; Mother is up there — dead. 42 AMONG THE MILLET The hermit hears the strange bright Murm r of life at play; In the waste day and the waste night Times to rebel and to pray. The labourer toils in gray wise, Godlike and patient and calm ; The beggar moans ; his bleared eyes Measure the dust in his palm. The wise man marks the flow and ebb Hidden and held aloof: (n his deep mind is laid the web, Shuttles are driving the woof. mwi SLEEP If any man, with sleepless care oppressed, On many a night had risen, and addressed His hand to make him out of joy and moan An image of sweet sleep in carven stone. Light touch by touch, in weary moments planned. He would have wrought her with a patient hand, Not like her brother death, with massive limb And dreamless brow, unstartled, changeless, dim. But very fair, though fitful and afraid, More sweet and slight than any mortal maid. Her hair he would have carved a mantle smooth Down to her tender feet to wrap and soothe All fevers in, yet barbed here and there With manv a hidden sting of restless care ; Her brow most quiet, thick with opiate rest, THREE FLOWER PETALS 43 Yet watchfully lined, as if some hovering guest Of noiseless doubt were there ; so too her eyes His light hand would have carved in cunning wise Broad with all languor of the drowsy South, Most beautiful, but held askance ; her mouth More soft and round than any rose half-spread, Yet ever twisted with some nervous dread. He would have made her with one marble foot, Frail as a snow-white feather, forward put. Bearing sweet medicine for all distress, Smooth languor and unstrung forgetfulness ; The other held a little back for dread ; One slender moon-pale hand held forth to shed Soft slumber dripping from its pearly tip Into wide eyes ; the other on her lip. So in the watches of his sleepless care The cunnning artist would have wrought her fair ; Shy goddess, at keen seeking most afraid, Yet often coming when we least have prayed. THREE FLOWER PETALS What saw I yesterday walking apart In a leafy place where the cattle wait? Something to keep for a charm in my heart- A little sweet girl in a garden gate. Laughing she lay in the gold sun's might, And held for a target to shelter her, In her little soft fingers, round and white, The gold-rimmed face of a sunflower. ^^^^^K'^ amm 44 AMONG THE MILLET Laughing she lay on the stone that stands For a rough-hewn step in that sunny place, And her yellow hair hung down to her hands, Shadowing over her dimpled face. Her eyes like the blue of the sky, made dim With the might of the sun that looked at her. Shone laughing over the serried rim, Golden set, of the sunflower. Laughing, for token she gave to me Three petals out of the sunflower. When the petals are withered and gone, shall be Three verses of mine for praise of her. That a tender dream of her face may rise. And lighten me yet in another hour. Of her sunny hair and her beautiful eyes. Laughing over the gold sunflower. PASSION As a weed beneath the ocean. As a pool beneath a tree Answers with each breath or motion An imperious mastery; So my spirit swift with passion Finds in every look a sign. Catching in some wondrous fashion Every mood that governs thine. A BALLADE OF WAITING In a moment it will borrow, Flashing in a gusty train, Laughter and desire and sorrow Anger and delight and pain. 4S A BALLADE OF WAITING No girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wrought So rich as the arms of my love can be ; No gems with a lovelier lustre fraught Than her eyes, when they answer me liquidly. Dear Lady of Love, be kind to me In days when the waters of hope abate, And doubt like a shimmer on sand shall be, In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait. Sweet mouth, that the wear of the world hath taught No glitter of wile or traitorie, More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught, Or the heart of a crimson peony ; O turn not its beauty away from me; To kiss it and cling to it early and late Shall make sweet minutes of days that flee. In the year yet. Lady, to dream and wait. Rich hair, that a painter of old had sought For the weaving of some soft phantasy, Most fair when the streams of it run distraught On the firm sweet shoulders yellowly ; 46 AMONG THE MILLET Dear Lady, gather it close to me, Weaving a nest for the double freight Of cheeks and lips that are one and free, For the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait. Etwoi So time shall be swift till thou mate with me, For love. is mightiest next to fate, And none shall be happier, Love, than we, In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait. BEFORE SLEEP Now the creeping nets of sleep Stretch about and gather nigh, And the midnight dim and deep Like a spirit passes by. Trailing from her crystal dress Dreams and silent frostiness. Yet a moment, ere I be Tangled in the snares of night, All the dreamy heart of me To my Lady takes its fliglii, To her chamber where she lies. Wrapt in midnight phantasies. Over many a glinting street And the snow-capped roofs of men, Towers that tremble with the beat Of the midnight bells, and then. ^tfWkiau BEFORE SLEEP 47 Where my body may not be, Stands my spirit holily. Wake not, Lady, wake not soon : Through the frosty windows fall Broken glimmers of the moon Dimly on the floor and wall; Wake not, Lady, never care, 'Tis my spirit kneeling there. Let him kneel a moment now, For the minutes fly apace ; Let him see the sleeping brow, And the sweetly rounded face : He shall tell me soon aright How my Lady looks to-night. How her tresses out and in Fold in many a curly freak, Round about the snowy chin And the softly tinted cheek, Where no sorrows now can weep. And the dimples lie asleep. How her eyelids meet and match. Gathered in two dusky seams, Each the little creamy thatch Of an azure house of dreams, Or two flowers that love the light Folded softly up at night. How her bosom, breathing low, Stirs the wav3' coverlet .M 48 AMONG THE MILLET With a motion soft and slow: O, my Lady, wake not yet; There without a thought of guile Let my spirit dream a while. Yet my spirit back to me, Hurry soon and have a care; Love will turn to agony, If you rashly linger there ; Bending low as spirits may, Touch her lips and come away. So, fond spirit, beauty-fed, Turning when your watch is o'er, Weave a cross above the bed And a sleep-rune on the floor, That no evil enter there, Ugly shapes and dreams beware. Then, ye looming nets of sleep. Ye may have me all your own, For the night is wearing deep And the ice-winds whisk and moan ; Come with all your drowsy stress. Dreams and silent frostiness. A SONG O night and sleep, Ye are so soft and deep, I am so weary, come ye soon to me. O hours that creep. A SONG With so much time to weep, I am so tired, can ye no swifter be? Come, night, anear; I'll whisper in thine ear What makes me so unhappy, full of care ; Dear night, I die For love, that all men buy With tears, and know not it is dark despair. 49 Dear night, I pray, How is it that men say- That love is sweet? It is not sweet to me. For one boy's sake A poor girl's heart must break ; So sweet, so true, and yet it could not be ! II Oh, I loved well, Such love as none can tell : It was so true, it could not make him know : For he was blind. All light and all unkind : Oh, had he known, would he have hurt me so? O night and sleep, Ye are so soft and deep, I am so weary, come ye soon to me. O hours that creep, With so much time to w^eep, I am so tired, can ye no swifter be? 4 s I 50 AMONG THE MILLKT WHAT DO POETS WAN V WITH GOLD? What do poets want with gold, Cringing slaves and cushioned ease; Are not crusts and garments old Better for their souls than these? Gold is but the juggling rod Of a false usurping god, Graven long ago in hell With a sombre stony spell, Working in the world for ever. Hate is not so strong to sever Beating human heart from heart. Soul from soul we shrink and part. And no longer hail each other With the ancient name of brother. Give the simple poet gold, And his song will die of cold. He must walk with men that reel On the rugged path, and feel Every sacred soul that is Beating very near to his. Simple, human, careless, free. As God made him, he must be : For the sv^^eetest song of bird Is the hidden tenor heard In the dusk, at even-flush, From the forest's inner hush, Of the simple hermit thrush. "tSlK TIIK KINGS SABBATH What do poets want with love? Flowers that shiver out of hand, And the fervid fruits that prove Only bitter broken sand? Poets speak of passion best, When their dreams are undistressed. And the sweetest songs are sung. E'er the inner heart is stung. Let them dream ; 'tis better so ; Ever dream, but never know. If their spirits once have drained All that goblet crimson-stained, Finding what they dreamed divine, Only earthly sluggish wine. Sooner will the warm lips pale. And the flawless voices fail. Sooner come the drooping wing, And the afterdays that bring No such songs as did the spring. 51 THE KING'S SABBATH Once idly in his hall King Olave sat Pondering, and with his dagger whittled chips ; And one drew near to him with austere lips, Saying, "To-morrow is Monday," and at that The king said nothing, but held forth his flat Broad palm, and bending on his mighty hips. Took up and mutely laid thereon the slips Of scattered wood, as on a hearth, and gat 52 AMONG THK MILLET From off the embers near, a burning brand. Kindling the, pile with this, the dreaming Dane Sat silent with his eyes set and his bland Proud mouth, tight-woven, smiling, drawn with pain, Watching the fierce fire flare, and wax, and wane, Hiss and burn down upon his shrivelled hand. THE LITTLE HANDMAIDEN The King's son walks in the garden fair — Oh, the maiden's heart is merry ! He little knows iOr his toil and care, That the bride is gone and the bower is bare. Put on garments of white, my mii>lens ! The sun shines briglit through the casement high- Oh, the maiden's heart is merry! The little handmaid, with a laughmg eye. Looks down on the King's son strolHng by. Put on garments of white, my maidens ! " He little knows tliat the bride is gone. And the Earl knows little as he ; She is fled with her lover afar last night, And the King's son is left to me." And back to her chamber with velvety step Tht little hand?:iaid did glide, And a gold key took from her bosom sweet. And Cj <;ned the great chests wide. She boi An And pu She clac Wi The glar As 1 And rou A n( On one ) Ash Tiien do\ She As an air; Migl- And mtci The Her beau Intl The King And Through Like Tile Kinsj '•Ar( " For, No A lov THE LITTLE HANDMAIDEN She bound her hair with a band of blue, And a garland of lilies 3weet ; And put on her delicate silken shoes, With roses on both her feet. She clad her body in spotless white, With a gfirdle as red as blood. The glad white raiment her beauty bound, As the sepals bind the bud. And round and round her white neck she flung A necklace of sapphires blue ; On one white finger of either hand A shining ring she drew. Then down the stairway and out the door She glided, as soft and light, As an airy tuft of a thistle seed Might glide through the grasses bright. And into the garden sweet she stole — The little birds carolled loud — Her beauty shone as a star might shine In the rift of a morning cloud. The King's son walked in the garden fair. And the little handmaiden came, Through the midst of a shimmer of roses red, Like a sunbeam through a flame. The King's son marvelled, his heart leaped up, " And art thou my bride?" said he, " For, North or South, I have never beheld A lovelier maid than thee." 53 It^ ^imimgSSr'SBSmBSBBSSrr, 54 AMONG THE MILLET " And dost thou love me?" the little maid cried, " A fine King's son, I wis !" The King's son took her with both his hands, And her ruddy lips did kiss. The little maid laughed till the beaded tears Ran down in a silver rain. " O foolish King's son!" and she clapped her hand?, Till the gold rings rang again. "O King's son foolish and fooled art thou. For a goodly game is played ; Thy bride is away with her lover last night, And I am her little handmaid." And the King's son sware a great oath : said he - Oh, the maiden's heart is merry ! " If the Earl's fair daughter a traitress be, The little handmaid is enough for me." Put on garments of white, my maidens ! The King's son walks in the garden fair — Oh, ti.e maiden's heart is merry! And the little handm.aiden walketh there. But the old Earl pulleth his beard for care. Put on garments of white, my maidens ! ABU MIDJAN Underneath a tree at noontide Abu Midjan sits distressed, Fetters on his wrists and ankles. And his chin upon his breast ; 1 ABU MIDJAN 55 For the Emir's guard had taken, As they passed from line to Hne, Reeling in the camp at midnight, Abu Midjan drunk with wine. Now he sits and rolls uneasy, Very fretful, for he hears. Near at hand, the shout of battle. And the din of driving spears. Both his heels in wrath are digging Trenches in the grassy soil, And his fingers clutch and loosen, Dreaming of the Persian spoil. To the garden, over-weary Of the sound of hoof and sword, Came the Emir's gentle lady, Anxious for her fighting lord. Very sadly, Abu Midjan, Hanging down his head for shame. Spake in words of soft appealing To the tender-hearted dame. " Lady, while the doubtful battle Ebbs and flo'vs upon the plains, Here in sorrow, meek and idle, Abu Midjan sits in chains. " Surel}'' Saad would be safer For the strength of even me ; Give me then his armour. Lady, And his horse, and set me free. mm 1 1 , i< ill 56 AMONG THE MILLET " When the day of fight is over, With the spoil that he may earn, To his chains, if he is Hving, Abu Midjan will return." She, in wonder and compassion, Had not heart to say him nay ; So, with Saad's horse and armour, Abu Midjan rode away. Happy from the fight at even, Saad told his wife at meat, How the army had been succoured In the fiercest battle-heat, By a stranger horseman, coming When their hands were most in need, And he bore the arms of Saad, And was mounted on his steed ; How the faithful battled forward. Mighty where the stranger trod. Till they deemed him more than mortal, And an angel sent from God. Then the lady told her master How she gave the horse and mail To the drunkard, and had taken /\C)u Midjan's word for bail. To the garden went the Emir, Running to the tree, and found Torn with many wounds and bleeding, Abu Midjan meek and bound. ^^ THE WEAVER And the Emir loosed him, saying, As he gave his hand for sign, " Never more shall Saad's fetters Chafe thee for a draught of wine." Three times to the ground in silence Abu Midjan bent his head ; Then with glowing eyes uplifted. To the Emir spake and said : 57 " While an earthly lord controlled me, All things for the wine I bore ; Now since God alone doth judere me, Abu Midjan drinks no more." THE WEAVER All day. all day, round the clacking net The weaver's fingers Hy ; Gray dreams like frozen mists are set In the hush of the weaver's eye ; A voice from the dusk is calling yet, "O, come awav, or we die!" Without is a horror of hosts that fight, That rest not, and cease not to kill. The thunder of feet and the cry of flight, A slaughter weird and shrill ; Gray dreams are set in the weaver's sight, The weaver is weaving still. 58 AMONG THE MILLET " Come away, dear soul, come away, or we die ; Hear'st thou the rush ! Come away ; The people are slain at the gates, and they fly ; The kind God hath left them this day ; The battle-axe cleaves, and the foemen cry, And the red swords swing and slay." " Nay, wife, what boots it to fly from pain. When pain is wherever we fly? And death is a sweeter thing than a chain : 'Tis sweeter to sleep than to cry. The kind God giveth the days that wane ; If the kind God hath said it, I die." And the weaver wove, and the good wife fled, And the city was made a tomb, And a flame that shook from the rocks overhead Shone into that silent room, And touched like a wide red kiss on the dead Brown weaver slain at his loom. m Yet I think that in some dim shadowy land. Where no suns rise or set, Where the ghost of a whilom loom doth stand Round the dusk of its silken net. For ever flieth his slxadowy hand, And the weaver is weaving yet. THE THREE PILGRIMS THE THREE PILGRIMS 59 In days, when the fruit of men's labour was sparing, And hearts were weary and nigh to break, A sweet grave man with a beautiful bearing Came to us once in the fields and spake. He told us of Roma, the marvellous city. And of One that came from the living God, The Virgin's Son who, in heavenly pity, Bore for His people the rood and rod, And how at Roma the gods were broken, The new was strong, and the old nigh dead. And love was more than a bare word spoken, For the sick were healed and the poor were fed ; And we sat mute at his feet, and hearkened : The grave man came in an hour, and went, But a new light shone on a land long darkened. Where toil was weary, and hope was spent. So we came south, till we saw the city. Speeding three of us, hand in hand, Seeking peace and the bread of pity. Journeying out of the Umbrian land ; And we stood long in a dream and waited, Watching and praying and purified, A^nd came at last to the walls belated, Entering in at the e\ entide ; 6o AMONG THE MILLET And many met us with song and dancing, Mantled in skins and crowned with flowers, Waving goblets and torches glancing, Faces drunken, that grinned in ours; And one, that ran in the midst, came near us — " Crown yourselves for the feast/' he said; But we cried out, that the God might hear us, " Where is Jesus, the living bread?" And they took us each by the hand with laughter ; Their eyes v/ere haggard and red with wine : They haled us on, and we followed after, " We will show you the new god's shrine." Ah, woe to our tongues, that, for ever unsleeping. Must still uncover the old hot care, The soothing ash from the embers sweeping. Wherever the soles of our sad feet fare. Ah, we were simple of mind, not knowing How dreadful the heart of a man might be ; But the knowledge of evil is mighty of growing: Only the deaf and the blind are free. We came to a garden of beauty and pleasure — It was not the way that our own feet chose — Where a revel was whirling in many a measure, And the myriad roar of a great crowd rose ; And the midmost round of the garden was reddened With pillars of fire in a great high ring — THK THREE PILGRIMS 61 One look — and our souls for ever were deadened, Though our feet yet move, and our dreams yet sting ; For we saw that each was a live man flaming, Limbs that a human mother bore, And a thing of horror was done, past naming. And the crowd spun round, and we saw no more. And he that ran in the midst, descrying. Lifted his hand with a foul red sneer, And smote us each and the other, crying, " Thus we worship the new god here. '' The Ca?sar comes, and the people's pseans Hail his name for the new-made light. Pitch and the flesh of the Galileans, Torches fit for a Roman night." And we fell down to the earth, and sickened. Moaning, three of us, head by head, "Where is He whom the good God quickened? Where is Jesus, the living bread?" Yet ever we heard, in the foul mirth turning, Man and woman and child go by, And ever the yells of the charred men burning. Piercing heavenward, cry on cry ; And we lay there, till the frightful revel Died in the dawn with a few short moans Of some that knelt in the wan and level Shadows that fell from the blackened bones. 62 AMONG THK MILLET Numb with horror and sick with pity, The heart of each as an iron weight, We crept in the dawn from the awful city, Journeying out of the seaward gate. The great sun flamed on the sea before us ; A soft wind blew from the scented south ; But our eyes knew not of the steps that bore us Down to the ships at the Tiber's mouth ; Then we prayed, as we turned our faces Over the sea, to the living God, That our ways might be in the fierce bare places, Where never the foot of a live man trod. So we set sail in the noon, not caring Whither the prow of the dark ship came, No more over the old ways faring; For the sea was cold, but the land was flame : And the keen ship sped, and a deadly coma Blotted away from our eyes for ever. Tower on tower, the great city Roma, Palace and temple and winding river. THE COMING OF WINTER Out of the Northland sombre weirds are calling; A shadow falleth southward day by day; Sad summer's arms grow cold ; his fire is falling; His feet draw back to give the stern one way. EASTER EVE 63 It is the voice and shadow of the slayer, Slayer of loves, sweet world, slayer of dreams ; Make sad thy voice with sober plaint and prayer ; Make gray thy woods, and darken all thy streams. Black grows the river, blacker drifts the eddy ; The sky is gray ; the woods ar : cold below : O make thy bosom and thy sad lips ready For the cold kisses of the folding snow. EASTER EVE Hear me, brother, gently met, Just a little, turn not yet, Thou slialt laugh, and soon forget : Now the midnight draweth near. I have little more to tell ; Soon with hollow stroke and knell, "^hou shalt count the palace bell. Calling that the hour is here. Burdens black and strange to bear, I must tell, and thou must share. Listening with that stony stare, Even as many a man before. Yeais have lightly come and gone In their jocund unison, But the tides of life roll on They remember now no more Once upon a night of glee, In an hour of revelry. IotSS??^^ ^Py ^%. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /. .// w L<»^ :/ 5r /^^/^ 1.0 I.I 1.25 illlM 112.5 K 12.2 IlllM 14 6' 2.0 .8 U 111.6 % m e: cTA '^ -^i "7. ^ V V Photographic Sciences Corporation iV # •1>^ \ \ %^ .^ <K f. S % 6^ ^1^ I'^^.S^ '^^'■ 23 WEST .MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 L-?/ % 64 AMONG THE MILLET As I wandered restlessly, I beheld with burning eye How a pale procession rolled Through a quarter quaint and old, With its banners and its gold, And the crucifix went by. Well I knew that body brave That was pierced and hung to save, But my flesh was now a grave For the soul that gnashed within. He that they were bearing by. With their banners white and high, He was pure, and foul was I, And his whiteness mocked my sin. Ah, meseemed that even he. Would not wait to look on me, In my years and misery, Things that he alone could heal. In mine eyes I felt the flame Of a rage that nought could tame, And I cried and cursed his name, Till my brain began to reel. In a moment I was 'ware How that many watching there, Fearfully with blanch and stare, Crossed themselves, and shrank away ; Then upon my reelint,'^ mind, Like a sharp blow from bfthind. Fell the truth, and left me blind. Hopeless now, and all astrav. EASTER EVE 65 O'er the city wandering wide, Seeking but some place to hide. Where the sounds of mirth had died, Through the shaken night I stole ; From the ever-eddying stream Of the crowds that did but seem Like processions in a dream To my empty echoing soul. Till I came at last alone To a hidden street of stone, Where the city's monotone On the silence fell no more. Then I saw how one in white, With a footstep mute and light, Through the shadow of the night Like a spirit paced before. And a sudden stillness came Through my spirit and my frame, And a spell without a name Held me in his mystic track. Though his presence seemed so mild Yet he led me like a child. With a yearning strange and wild, That I dared not turn me back. Oh, I could not see his face, Nor b'?hold his utmost grace, Yet I might not change my pace, Fastened by a strange belief; -^ 66 AMONG THE MILLET For his steps were sad and slow, And his hands hung straight below, And his head was bowed, as though Pressei by some immortal grief. So I followed, yet not I Held alone that company : Every silent passer-by Paled and turned and joined with me ; So we followed still and fleet, While the city, street by street, Fell behind our rustling feet Like a deadened memory. Where the sound of sin and riot Broke upon the night's dim quiet. And the solemn bells hung nigh it Echoed from their looming towers; Where the mourners wept alway. Watching for the morning grry. Where the weary toiler lay. Husbanding the niggard hours; By the gates where all night long Guests in many a joyous throng, With the sound of dance and song. Dreamed in golden palaces; Still he passed, and door by door Opened with a pale outpour. And the revel rose no more Hushed in deeper phantasies. EASTER EVE 67 As we passed, the talk and stir Of the quiet wayfarer And the noisy banqueter Died upon the midnight dim. They that reeled in drunken glee Shrank upon the trembling knee, And their jests died suddenly. As they rose and followed him. From the street and from the hall, From the flare of festival None that saw him stayed, but all Followed where his wonder would; And our feet at first so few Gathered as those white feet drew, Till at last our number grew To a thronging multitude; And the hushed and awful beat Of our pale unnumbered feet Made a murmur strange and sweet, As we followed evermore. Now the night was almost passed, And the dawn was overcast. When the stranger stayed at last At a great cathedral door. Never word the stranger said, But he slowly raised his head. And the vast doors opened By an unseen hand withdrawn ; 6S AMONG THE MILLET And in silence wave on wave, Like an army from the grave, Up the aisles and up the nave, All that spectral crowd rolled on. As I followed close behind, Knowledge like an awful wind Seemed to blow my naked mind Into darkness black and bare ; Yet with longing wild and dim, And a terror vast and grim. Nearer still I pressed to him, Till I almost touched his hair. From the gloom so strange and eerie, From the organ low and dreary. Rose the wailing miserere. By mysterious voices sung; And a dim light shone, none knew How it came, or whence it grew — From the dusky roof and through All the solemn spaces flung. But the stranger still passed on, Till he reached the altar stone. And with body white and prone Sunk his forehead to the floor ; And I saw in my despair, Standing like a spirit there. How his head was bruised and bare, And his hands were clenched before, EASTER EVE 69 How his hair was fouled and knit With the blood that clotted it, Where the prickled thorns had bit In his crowned agony; In his hands so wan and blue, Leaning out, I saw the two Marks of where the nails pierced through, Once on gloomy Calvary. Then with trembling throat I owned All my dark sin unatoned, Telling it with lips that moaned ; And methought an echo came From the bended crowd below, Each one breathing faint and low, Sins that none but he might know : " Master I did curse thy name." And I saw him slowly rise With his sad unearthly eyes, Meeting mine with meek surprise. And a voice came solemnly : " Never more on mortal ground For thy soul shall rest be found, But when bells at midnight sound Thou must rise and come with me." Then my forehead smote the floor. Swooning, and I knew no more. Till I heard the chancel door Open for the choristers; 70 AMONG TIIK MII-LKT But the Stranger's form was gone, And the church was dim and lone; Through the silence, one by one Stole the early worshippers. I am aging now I know ; That was many years ago, Yet or I shall rest below In the grave where none intrude, Night by night I roam the street, And that awful form I meet. And I follow pale and fleet, With a ghostly multitude. Every night I see his face, With its sad and burdened grace, And the torn and bloody trace That in hands and feet he has. Once my life was dark and bad ; Now its days are strange and sad, And the people call me mad : See, they whisper as they pass! Even now the echoes roll From the swinging bells that toll ; It is midnight, now my soul Hasten, for he glideth by. Stranger, 'tis no phantasy : Look ! my master waits for me Mutely, but thou canst not see With thy mortal blinded eye. THE OUGANIST 71 THE ORGANIST In his dim chapel day by day The organist was wont to play, And please himself with fluted reveries ; And all the spirit's joy and strife, The longing of a tender life, Took sound and form upon the ivory keys ; And though he seldom spoke a word, The simple hearts that loved him heard His glowing soul in these. One day as he was rapt, a sound Of feet stole near ; he turned and found A little maid that stood beside him there. She started, and in shrinking wise Besought him with her liquid eyes And little features, very sweet and spare. " You love the music, child," he said, And laid his hand upon her head. And smoothed her matted hair. She answered, " At the door one day I sat and heard the organ play ; I did not dare to come inside for fear ; But yesterday, a little while, I crept half up the empty aisle And heard the music sounding sweet and clear; To-day I thought you would not mind, For, master dear, your face was kind. And so I came up here." r fi M ;: 72 AMONG THE MILLET " You love the music, then," he said, And still he stroked her golden head, And followed out some winding reverie ; " And you are poor?" said he at last; The maiden nodded, and he passed His hand across his forehead dreamingly; "And will you be my friend?" he spake, And on the organ learn to make Grand music here with me?" And all the little maiden's face Was kindled with a grateful grace ; " O, master, teach me ; I will slave for thee !" She cried ; and so the child grew dear To him, and slowly year by year He taught her all the organ's majesty ; And gave her from his slender store Bread and warm clothing, that no more Her cheeks were pinched to see. And year by year the maiden grew Taller and lovelier, and the hue Deepened upon her tender cheeks untried. Rounder, and queenlier, and more fair Her form grew, and her golden hair Fell yearly richer at the master's side. In speech and bearing, form and face, Sweeter and graver, grace by grace. Her beauties multiplied. And sometimes at his work a glow Would touch him, and he murmured low, THE ORGANIST 73 " How beautiful she is?" and bent his head; And sometimes when the day went by And brought no maiden he would sigh, And lean and listen for her velvet tread ; . And he would drop his hands and say, " My music cometh not to-day ; Pray God she be not dead !" So the sweet maiden filled his heart, And with her growing grew his art, For day by day more wondrously he played. Such heavenly things the master wrought, That in his happy dreams he thought The organ's self did love the gold-haired maid ; But she, the maiden, never guessed What prayers for her in hours of rest The sombre organ prayed. At last, one summer morning fair. The maiden came with braided hair And took his hands, and held them eagerly. " To-morrow is my wedding day ; Dear master, bless me that the way Of life be smooth, not bitter unto me." He stirred not ; but the light did go Out of his shrunken cheeks, and oh ! His head hung heavily. " You love him, then?" " I love him well," She answered, and a numbness fell Upon his eyes and all his heart that bled. A glory, half a smile, abode Within the maiden's eyes and glowed 4- ti 74 AMONG THK MILLET Upon her parted lips. The master said, " God bless and bless thee, little maid, With peace and long delight," and laid His hands upon her head. And she was gone ; and all that day The hours crept up and slipped away, And he sat still, as moveless as a stone. The night came down, with quiet stars, And darkened him : in coloured bars Along the shadowy aisle the moonlight shone. And then the master woke and passed His hands across the keys at last. And made the organ moan. The organ shook, the music wept; For sometimes like a wail it crept In broken moanings down the shadows drear; And otherwhiles the sound did swell, And like a sudden tempest fell Through all the windows wonderful and clear. The people gathered from the street. And filled the chapel seat by seat — Thev could not choose but hear. And there they sat till dawning light. Nor ever stirred for awe. " To-night, The master hath a noble mood," they said. But on a sudden ceased the sound : Like ghosts the people gathered round. THE MONK 75 And on the keys they found his fallen head. The silent organ had received The master's broken heart relieved, And he was white and dead. THE MONK In Nino's chamber not a sound intrudes Upon the midnight's tingling silentness, Where Nino sits before his book and broods, Thin and brow-burdened with some fine distress. Some gloom that hangs about his mournful moods His weary bearing and neglected dress : So sad he sits, nor ever turns a leaf — Sorrow's pale miser o'er his hoard of grief. Young Nino and Leonora, they had met Once at a revel by some lover's chance, And they were young with hearts already set To tender thoughts, attuned to romance ; Wherefore it seemed they never could forget That winning touch, that one bewildering glance : But found at last a shelter safe and sweet, Where trembling hearts and longing hands might meet. Ah, sweet their dreams, and sweet the life they led With that great love that was their bosoms' all. Yet ever shadowed by some circling dread It gloomed at moments deep and tragical. 76 AMONG THE MILLET And so for many a month they seemed to tread With fluttering hearts, whatever might befall, Half glad, half sad, their sweet and secret way To the soft tune of some old lover's lay. But she is gone, alas he knows not where, Or how his life that tender gift should lose : Indeed his love was ever full of care, The hasty joys and griefs of him who woos. Where sweet success is neighbour to despair, With stolen looks and dangerous interviews : But one long week she came not, nor the next, And so he wandered here and there perplext ; Nor evermore she came. Full many days He sought her at their trysts, devised deep schemes To lure her back, and fell on subtle ways To win .some word of her ; but all his dreams Vanished like smoke, and ^hen in sore amaze From town to town, as one that crazed seems, He wandered, following in unhappy quest Uncertain clues that ended like the rest. And now this midnight, as he sits forlorn, The printed page for him no meaning bears; With every word some torturing dream is born ; And every thought is like a step that scares Old memories up to make him weep and mourn. He cannot turn but from their latchless lairs, The weary shadows of his lost delight Rise up like dusk birds through the lonely night. ,( iMi THE MONK 77 And still with questions vain he probes his grief, Till thought is wearied out, and dreams grow dim. What bitter chance, what woe beyond belief Could keep his lady's heart so hid from him? Or v^as her love indeed but light and brief, A passing thought, a moment's dreamy whim? Aye there it stings, the vvoe that never sleeps : Poor Nino leans upon his book, and weeps. Until at length the sudden grief that shook His pierced bosom like a gust is past. And laid full weary on the wide-spread book, His eyes grow dim with slumber light and fast; But scarcely have his dreams had time to look On lands of kindlier promise, when aghast He starts up softly, and in wondering wise Listens atremble with wide open eyes. What sound was that? Who knocks like one in dread With such swift hands upon his outer door? Perhaps some beggar driven from his bed By gnawing hunger he can bear no more, Or 4uesting traveller with confused tread, Straying, bewildered in the midnight hoar. Nino uprises, scared, he knows not how, The dreams still pale about his burdened brow. The heavy bolt he draws, and unawares A stranger enters with slow steps, unsought, A long-robed monk, and in his hand he bears A jewelled goblet curiously wrought ; 78 AMONG THE MILLET But of his face beneath the cowl he wears For all his searching Nino seeth nought ; And slowly past him with long stride he hies, While Nino follows with bewildered eyes. Straight on he goes with dusky rustling gown. His steps are soft, his hands are white and fine; And still he bears the goblet on whose crown A hundred jewels in the lamplight shine; And ever from its edges dripping down Falls with dark stain the rich and lustrous wine, Wherefrom through all the chamber's shadowy deeps A deadly perfume like a vapour creeps. And now he sets it down with careful hands On the slim table's polished ebony ; And for a space as if in dreams he stands, Close hidden in his sombre drapery. " O lover, by thy lady's last commands, I bid thee hearken, for I bear with me A gift to give thee and a tale to tell From her who loved thee, while she lived, too well." i m The stranger's voice falls slow and solemnly. 'Tis soft, and rich, and wondrous deep of tone; And Nino's face grows white as ivory. Listening fast-rooted like a shape of stone. Ah, blessed saints, can such a dark thing be? And was it death, and is Leonora gone? Oh, love is harsh, and life is frail indeed. That gives men joy, and then so makes them bleed THE MONK 79 " There is the gift I bring " ; the stranger's head Turns to the cup that gUtters at his side : " And now my tongue draws back for very dread, Unhappy youth, from what it must not hide. The saddest tale that ever Hps have said ; Yet thou must know how sweet Leonora died, A broken martyr for love's weary sake, And left this gift for thee to leave or take." Poor Nino listens with that marble face, And eyes that move not, strangely wide and set. The monk continues with his mournful grace : " She told me, Nino, how you often met In secret, and your plighted loves kept pace Together, tangled in the self-same net; Your dream's dark danger and its dread you knew. And still you met, and still your passion grew. "And aye with that luxurious fire you fed Your dangerous longing daily, crumb by crumb ; Nor ever cared that still above your head The shadow grew ; for that your lips were dumb. You knew full keenly you could never wed : 'Twas all a dream : the end must surely come ; For not on thee her father's eyes were turned To find a son, when mighty lords were spurned. " Thou knowest that new-sprung prince, that proud upstart, Pisa's new tyrant with his armed thralls, Who bends of late to take the people's part, Yet plays the king among his marble halls. J ': " 1 8o AMONG THE MILLET Whose gloomy palace in our city's heart Frowns like a fortress with its loop-holed walls. 'Twas him he sought for fair Leonora's hand, That so his own declining house might stand. " The end came soon ; 'twas never known to thee ; But, when your love was scarce a six months old, She sat one day beside her father's knee, And in her ears the dreadful thing was told. Within one month her bridal hour should be With Messer Gianni for his power and gold; And as she sat with whitened lips the while, The old man kissed her, with his crafty smile. "Poor pallid lady, all the woe she felt Thou, vv^retched Nino, thou alone canst know. Down at his feet with many a moan she knelt. And prayed that he would never wound her so. Ah, tender saints ! it was a sight to melt The flintiest heart ; but his could never glow. He sat with clenched hands and straightened head. And frowned, and glared, and turned from white to red. "And still with cries about his knees she clung, Her tender bosom broken with her care. His words were brief, with bitter fury flung: 'The father's will the child must meekly bear; I am thy father, thou a girl and young.' Then to her feet she rose in her despair, And cried with tightened lips and eyes aglow, One daring word, a straight and simple, 'No I* THE MONK 8l "Her father left her with wild words, and sent Rough men who dragged her to a dungeon deep, Where many a weary soul in darkness pent For many a year had watched the slow days creep, And there he left her for his dark intent, Where madness breeds and sorrovvs ne\er sleep. Coarse robes he gave her, and her lips he fed With bitter water and a crust of bread. "And day by day still following out his plan, He came to her and with determined spite Strove with soft words and then with curse and ban To bend her heart so wearied to his might. And aye she bode his bitter pleasure's span, As one that hears, but hath not sense or sight. Ah, Nino, still her breaking heart held true : Poor lady sad, she had no thought but you. " The father tired at last and came no more. But in his settled anger bade prepare The marriage feast with all luxurious store. With pomps and shows and splendours rich and rare; And so in toil another fortnight wore, Nor knew she aught what things were in the air. Till came the old lord's message brief and coarse: Within three days she should be wed by force. "And all that noon and weary night she lay, Poor child, like death upon her prison stone. And none that came to her but crept away, Sickened at heart to see her lips so moan, 6 in: 82 AMONG THE MILLET Her eyes so dim within their sockets gray, Her tender cheeks so thin and ghastly grown; But when the next morn's Hght began to stir, She sent and prayed that I might be with her. " This boon he gave : perchance he deemed that I, The chaplain of his house, her childhood's friend, With patient tones and holy words, might try To soothe her purpose to his gainful end. I bowed full low before his crafty eye. But knew my heart had no base help to lend. That night with many a silent prayer I came To poor Leonora in her grief and shame. '* But she was strange to me : I could not speak For glad amazement, mixed with some dark fear; I saw her stand no longer pale and weak. But a proud maiden, queenly and most clear, With flashing eyes and vermeil in her cheek: And on the little table, set anear, I marked two goblets of rare workmanship With some strange liquor crowned to the lip. "And then she ran to me and caught my hand. Tightly imprisoned in her meagre twain. And like the ghost of sorrow she did stand. And eyed me softly with a liquid pain : 'O father, grant, I pray thee, I command, One boon to me, I'll never ask again, One boon to me and to my love, to both ; Dear father, grant, and bind it with an oath.* THE MONK 83 '■' This granted I, and then with many a wail She told me all the story of your woe, And when she finished, lightly but most pale. To those two brimming goblets she did go. And one she took within her fingers frail, And looked down smiling in its crimson glow : 'And now thine oath I'll tell ; God grant to thee No rest in grave, if thou be false to me. " 'Alas poor me ! whom cruel hearts would wed On the sad morrow to that wicked lord; But I'll not go; nay, rather I'll be dead. Safe from their frown and from their bitter word. Without my Nino life indeed were sped ; And sith we i.wo can never more accord In this drear world, so weary and perplext, We'll die, and win sweet pleasure in the next. " ' O father, God will never give thee rest. If thou be false to what thy lips have sworn, And false to love, and false to me distressed, A helpless maid, so broken and outworn. This cup — she put it softly to her breast — I pray thee carry, ere the morrow morn. To Nino's hand, and tell him all my pain; This other with mine own lips I will drain.* " Slowly she raised it to her lips, the while I darted forward, madly fain to seize Her dreadful hands, but with a sudden wile She twisted and sprang from me with bent knees. :( 84 AMONG THE MILLET And rising turned upon me with a smile, And drained her goblet to the very lees * O priest, remember, keep thine oath,' she cried, And the spent goblet fell against her side. "And then she moaned and murmured like a bell : * My Nino, my sweet Nino!' and no more She said, but fluttered like a bird and fell Lifeless as marble to the footworn floor; And there she lies even now in lonely cell. Poor lady, pale with all the grief she bore. She could not live and still be true to thee. And so she's gone where no rude hands can be." The monk's voice pauses like some mournful flute. Whose pondered closes for sheer sorrow fail. And then with hand that seems as it would suit A soft gW] best, it is so light and frail. He turns half round, and for a mom nt mute Points to the goblet, and so ends his tale : " Mine oath is kept, thy lady's last command ; 'Tis but a short hour since it left her hand." So ends the stranger : surely no man's tongue Was e'er so soft, or half so sweet as his. Oft as he listened, Nino's heart had sprung With sudden start as from a spectre's kiss ; For deep in many a word he deemed had rung The liquid fall of some loved emphasis; And so it pierced his sorrow to the core. The ghost of tones that he should hear no more. THE MONK 8$ But now the tale is ended, and still keeps The stranger hidden in his dusky weed ; And Nino stands, wide-eyed, as one that sleeps, And dimly wonders how his heart doth bleed. Anon he bends, yet neither moans nor weeps, But hangs atremble, like a broken reed ; "Ah ! bitter fate, that lured and sold us so. Poor lady mine ; alas for all our woe !" But even as he moans in such dark mood. His wandering eyes upon the goblet fall. 0, dreaming heart! O, strange ingratitude. So to forget his lady's lingering call, Her parting gift, so rich, so crimson-hued, The lover's draught, that shall be cure for all. He lifts the goblet lightly from its place, And smiles and rears it with his courtly grace. " O lady sweet, I shall not long delay : This gift of thine shall bring me to thine eyes. Sure God will send on no unpardoned way The faithful soul, that at uch bidding dies. When thou art gone, I cannot longer stay To brave this world with all its wrath and lies, Where hands of stone and tongues of dragon's breath Have bruised mine angel to her piteous death." And now the gleaming goblet hath scarce dyed His lips' thin pallor with its deathly red, \Mien Nino starts in wonder, fearful-eyed, For, lo ! the stranger with outstretched head HPI! 86 AMONG THE MILLET Springs at his face one soft and sudden stride, And from his hand the deadly cup hath sped, Dashed to the ground, and all its seeded store Runs out like blood upon the marble floor. " O Nino, my sweet Nino ! speak to me, Nor stand so strange, nor look so deathly pale. 'Twas all to prove thy heart's dear constancy I brought that cup and told that piteous tale. Ah I chains and cells and cruel treachery Are weak indeed when women's hearts assail. Art angry, Nino?" 'Tis no monk that cries. But sweet Leonora with her love-lit eyes. She dashes from her brow the pented hood ; The dusky robe falls rustling* to her feet; And there she stands, as aye in dreams she stood. Ah, Nino, see ! Sure man did never meet So warm a flower from such a sombre bud, So trembling fair, so wan, so pallid sweet. Aye, Nino, down like saint upon thy knee. And soothe her hands with kisses warm and free. ,1 And now with broken laughter on her lips, And now with moans remembering of her care, She weeps and smiles, and like a child she slips Her lily fingers through his curly hair. The while her head with all it's sweet she dips, Close to his ear, to soothe and murmur there ; " O Nino, I was hid so long from thee. That much I doubted what thy love might be. THE MONK 87 "And though 'twas cruel hard for me to try Thy faithful heart with such a fearful test, Yet now thou canst be happy, sweet, as I Am wondrous happy in thy truth confessed. To haggard death indeed thou needst not fly To find the softness of thy lady's breast ; For such a gift was never death's to give. But thou shah have me for thy love, and live. " Dost see these cheeks, my Nino? they're so thin, Not round and soft, as when thou touched them last: So long with bitter rage they pent me in. Like some poor thief in lonely dungeon cast; Only this night through every bolt and gin By cunning stealth 1 wrought my way at last. Straight to thine heart I fled, unfaltering, Like homeward pigeon with uncaged wing. " Nay, Nino, kneel not ; let me hear thee speak. We must not tarry long; the dawn is nigh." So rises he for very gladness weak ; But half in fear that yet the dream may fly. He touches mutely mouth and brow and cheek ; Till in his ear she 'gins to plead and sigh : " Dear love, forgive me for that cruel tale. That stung thine heart and made thy lips so pale." And so he folds her softly with quick sighs, And both with murmurs warm and musical Talk and retalk, with dim or smiling eyes, Of old delights and sweeter days to fall : 88 AMONG THE MILLET And yet not long, for, ere the starlit skies Grow pale above the city's eastern wall, They rise, with lips and happy hands withdrawn, And pass out softly into the dawn. For Nino knows the captain of a ship. The friend of many journeys, who maybe This very morn will let his cables slip For the warm coast of sunny Sicily. There in Palermo, at the harbour's lip, A brother lives, of tried fidelity : So to the quays by hidden ways they wend In the pale morn, nor do they miss their friend. And ere the shadow of another night Hath darkf^ned Pisa, many a foe shall stray Through Nino's home, with eyes malignly bright In wolfish quest, but shall not find his prey : The while those lovers in their white-winged flight Shall see far out upon the twilight gray. Behind, the glimmer of the sea, before The dusky outlines of a kindlier shore. THE CHILD'S MUSIC LESSON Why weep ye in your innocent toil at all? Sweet little hands, why halt and tremble so? Full many a wrong note falls, but let it fall ! Each note to me is like a golden glow; THE child's music LESSON 89 Fach broken cadence like a morning call ; Nay, clear and smooth I would not have you go, Soft little hands upon the curtained threshold set Of this long life of labour, and unrestful fret. Soft sunlight flickers on the checkered g^een : Warm winds are stirring round my dreaming seat : Among the yellow pumpkin blooms, that lean Their crumpled rims beneath the heavy heat, The striped bees in lazy labour glean From bell to bell with golden-feathered feet ; Yet even here the voices of hard life go by ; Outside, the city strains with its eternal cry. Here, as I sit — the sunlight on my face, And shadows of green leaves upon mine eyes — My heart, a garden in a hidden place. Is full of folded buds of memories. Stray hither then with all your old time grace, Child-voices, trembling from the uncertain key? ; Play on, ye little fingers, touch the settled gloom. And quickly, one by one, my waiting buds will bloom. Ah me, I may not set my feet again In any part of that old garden dear, Or pluck one widening blossom, for my pain ; But only at the wicket gaze I here : Old scents creep into mine inactive brain, Smooth scents of things I may^not come anear; I see, far off, old beaten pathways they adorn ; I cannot feel with hands the blossom or the thorn. 90 AMONG THE MILLET Toil on sweet hands ; once more I see the child ; The little child, that was myself, appears, And all the old time beauties, undefiled. Shine back to me across the opening years. Quick griefs, that made the tender bosom wild, Short blinding gusts, that died in passionate tears, Sweet life, with all its change, that now so happy seems. With all its child-heart glories, and untutored dreams. Play on into the golden sunshine so, Sweeter than all great artists' laboaring: I too was like you once, an age ago : God keep you, dimpled fingers, for you bring Quiet gliding ghosts to me of , joy and woe, No certain things at all that thrill or sting, But only sounds and scents and savours of things bright, No joy or aching pain ; but only dim delight. AN ATHENIAN REVERIE How the returning days, on? after one. Come ever in their rhythmic round, unchanged. Yet from each looped robe for every man Some new thing falls. Happy is he Who fronts them without fear, and like the gods Looks out unanxiously on each day's gift With calndy curious eye. How many things Even in a little space both good and ill, AN ATIIENIAM REVERIE 91 Have fallen on me, and yet in all of them The keen experience or the smooth remembrance Hath found some sweet. It scarcely seems a month Since we saw Crete ; so swiftly sped the days, Borne onward with how many changing scenes, Filled with how many crowding memories. Not soon shall I forget them, the stout ship, All the tense labour with the windy sea, The cloud-wrapped heights of Crete, beheld far oflf, And white Cytaeon with its stormy pier. The fruitful valleys, the wild mountain road. And those long days of ever-vigilant toil, Scarcely with sleepless craft and unmoved front Escaping robbers, that quiet restful eve At rich Gortyna, where we lay and watched The dripping foliage, and the darkening fields, And over all huge-browed above the night Ida's great summit with its fiery crown; And then once more the stormy treacherous sea, Th° noisy ship, the seamen's vehement cries, That battled with the whistling wind, the feet Reeling upon the swaying deck, and eyes Strained anxiously toward land ; ah, with what joy At last the busy pier at Nauplia, Rest and firm shelter for our racking brains : Most sweet of ail, most dear to memory That journey with Euktemon through the hills By fair Cleonae and the lofty pass ; Then Corinth with its riotous jollity. Remembered like a reeling dream ; and here Good Theron's wedding, and this festal day; And I chief helper in its various rites, 92 AMONG THE MILLET through these wakeful Not least, commissioned hours To dream before the quiet thalamos, Unsleeping, like some full-grown bearded Eros, The guardian of love's sweetest mysteries. To-morrow I shall hear again the din Of the loosed cables, and the rowers' chaunt, The rattled cordage and the plunging oars. Once more the bending sail shall bear us on Across the level of the laughing sea. Ere mid-day we shall see far off behind us, Faint as the summit of a sultry cloud, The white Acropolis. Past Sunium With rushing keel, the long Euboean strand, Hymettus and the pine-dark hills shall fade Into the dusk : at Andros we shall water. And ere another starlight hush the shores From seaward valleys catch upon the wind The fragrance of old Chian vintages. At Chios many things shall fall, but none Can trace the future ; rather let me dream Of what is now, and what hath been, for both Are fraught with life. Here the unbroken silence Awakens t^- ought and makes remembrance sweet. How solidly the brilliant moonlight shines Into the courts ; beneath the colonnades How dense the shadows. I can scarcely see Yon painted Dian on the darkened wall ; Yet how the gloom hath made her real. What sound, Piercing the leafy covert of her couch. AN ATHENIAN REVERIE 9S Hath startled her. Perchance some prowling wolf^ Or luckless footsteps of the stealthy Pan, Creeping at night among the noiseless steeps And hollows of the Erymanthian woods, Roused her from sleep. With listening head, Snatched bow, and quiver lightly slung, she stands^ And peers across that dim and motionless glade. Beckoning about htr heels the wakeful dogs ; Yet Dian, thus alert, is but a dream. Making more real this brooding quietness. How strong and wonderful is night! Mankind Has yielded all to one sweet helplessness: Thought, labour, strife and all activities Have ebbed like fever. The smooth tide of sleep. Rolling across the fields of Attica, Hath covered all the labouring villages. Even great Athens with her busy hands And busier tongues lies quiet beneath its waves. Only a steady murmur seenis to come Up from her silentness, as if the land Were breathing heavily in dreams. Abroad No creature stirs, not even the reveller, Stas^eering, unlanterned. from the cool Piraeus, With drunken shout. The remnants of the feast, The crumpled cushions and the broken wreathes, Lie scattered in yon shadowy court, whose stones Through the warm hours drink up the staining wine. The bridal oxen in their well-filled stalls Sleep, mindless of the happy weight they drew. The torch is charred ; the garlands at the door, So gay at morning with their bright festoons, hang limp and withered ; and the joyous flutes 94 AMONG THE MILLET Are empty of all sound. Only my brain Holds now in its remote .unsleeping depths The echo of the tender hymenseos And memory of the modest lips that sang it. Within the silent thalamos the queen, The sea-sprung radiant Cytherean reigns, And with her smiling lips and fathomless eyes Regards the lovers, knowing that this hour Is theirs once only. Earth and thought and time Lie far beyond them, a great gulf of joy. Absorbing fear, regret and every grief, A warm eternity : or now perchance Night and t e very weight of happiness. Unsought, have turned upon their tremulous eyes The mindless stream of sleep ; nor do they care If dawn should never come. How joyously These hours have .gone with all their pictured scenes, A string of golden beads for memory To finger over in her moods, or stay The hunger of some wakeful hour like this. The flowers, the myrtles, the gay bridal train, The flutes and pensive voices, the white robes, The shower of sweetmeats, and the jovial feast. The bride cakes, and the teeming merriment, Most beautiful of all, most sweet to name. The good Lysippe with her down-cast eyes. Touched with soft fear, half scared at all the noise, Whose tears were ready as her laughter, fresh, And modest as some pink anemone. How young she looked, and how her smiling lips AN ATHENIAN REVERIE 95 Betrayed her happiness. Ah, who can tell, How often, when no watchful eye was near, Her eager fingers, trembling and ashamed. Essayed the apple-pips, or strewed the floor With broken poppy petals. Next to her, Theron himself the gladdest goodliest figure, His honest face ruddy with health and joy, .And smiling like the .^gean, when the sun Hangs high in heaven, and the freshening wind Comes in from Melos, rippling all its floor : And there was Manto too, the good old crone, So dear to children with her store of tales, Warmed with new life: how to her old gray face And withered limbs the very dance of youth Seemed to return, and in her aged eyes The waning fire rekindled : little Mseon, That mischievous satyr with his tipsy wreath. Who kept us laughing at his pranks, and made Old Pyrrho angry. Him too sleep hath bound Upon his rough-hewn couch with subtle thong. Crowding his brain with odd fantastic shapes. Even in sleep iiis little limbs, I think, Twitch restlessly, and still his tongue gibes on With inarticulate murmur. Ah, quaint Maeon ! And Manto, poor old Manto, what dim dreams Of darkly-moving chaos and slow shapes Of things that creep encumbered with huge burdens Gloom and infest her through these dragging hours, Haunting the wavering soul, so near the grave? But all things journey to the same quiet end At last, life, joy and every form of motion. Nothing stands still. Not least inevitable. 96 AMONG THE MILLET The sad recession of this passionate love, Whose panting fires, so soon and with such grief, Burn down to ash. Ail Ai! 'tis a strange madness To give up thought, ambition, Hberty, And all the rooted custom of our days. Even life itself for one all pampering dream. That withers like those garlands at the door ; And yet I have seen many excellent men Besotted thus, and some that bore till death, In the crook'd vision and embittered tongue. The effect of this strange poison, like a scar. An ineradicable hurt; but Fate, Who deals more wondrously in this disease Even than in others, yet doth sometimes will To make the same thing unto different men Evil or good. Was not Demetrios happy, Who wore his fetters with such grace, and spent On Chione, the Naxian, that shrewd girl, His fortune and his youth, yet, while she lived, Enjoyed the rich reward? He seemed like one. That trod on wind, and I remember well. How when she died in that remorseless plague. And I alone stood with him at the pyre. He shook me with his helpless passionate grief. And honest Agathon, the married man, Whose boyish fondness for his pretty wife We smiled at, and yet envied ; at the close Of each day's labour how he posted home, And thence no bait, however plumed, could draw him. AN ATHENIAN REVERIE 97 We laughed, but envied him. How sweet she looked That morning at the Dionysia, With her rare eyes and modest girlish grace, Leading her two small children by the palm. I too might marry if the faithful gods Would promise me such joy as Agathon's. Perhaps some day — but no, I am not one To clip my wings, and wind about my feet A net whose self-made meshes are as stern As they are soft. To me is ever present The outer world with its untravelled paths, The wanderer's dream, the itch to see new things, A single tie could never bind me fast, For life, this joyous, busy, ever-changing life. Is only dear to me with liberty. With space of earth for feet to travel in And space of mind for thought. Not so for all ; To most men life is but a common thing, The hours a sort of coin to barter with. Whose worth is reckoned by the sum they buy In gold, c- power, or pleasure ; each short day That brings not these deemed fruitless as dry sand. Their lives are but a blind activity, And death to them is but the end of motion. Gray children who have madly eat and drunk, Won the high seats or filled their chests with gold, And yet for all their years have never seen The picture of their lives, or how life looks To him who hath the deep uneager eye, 98 AMONG THE MILLET How sweet and large and beautiful it was, How strange the part tiiey played. Like him who sits Beneath some mighty tree, with half-closed eyes, At ease rejoicing in its murmurous shade, Yet never once awakes from his dull dream To mark with curious joy the kingly trunk, The sweeping boughs and tower of leaves that gave it: Even so the most of men ; they take the gift. And care not for the giver. Strange indeed Are they, and pitiable beyond measure. Who, thus unmindful of their wretchedness, Crowd at life's bountiful gates, like fattening beggars. Greedy and blind. For see how rich a thing Life is to him who sees, to whom each hour Brings some fresh wonder to be brooded on, Adds some new group or studied history To that wrought sculpture, that our watchful dreams Cast up upon the broad expanse of time. As in a never-finished frieze, not less The little things that most men pass unmarked Than those that shake mankind, Happy is he, Who, as a watcher, stands apart from life, From all life and his own, and thus from all. Each thought, each deed, and each hour's brief event, Draws the full beauty, sucks its meaning dry. For him this life shall be a tranquil joy. He shall be quiet and free. To him shall come No gnawing hunger for the coarser touch. AN ATHENIAN REVERIE 99 No mad ambition with its fateful grasp ; Sorrow itself shall sway him like a dream. How full life is ; how many memories Flash, and shine out, when thought is sharply stirred ; How the mind works, when once the wheels are loosed, How nimbly, with what swift activity. I think, 'tis strange that men should ever sleep, There are so many things to think upon. So many deeds, so many thoughts to weigh, To pierce, and plumb them to the silent depth. Yet in that thought I do rebuke myself, Too little given to probe the inner heart. But rather wont, with the luxurious eye, To catch from life its outer loveliness, Such things as do but store the joyous memory With food for solace rather than for thought. Like light-lined figures on a painted jar. I wonder where Euktemon is to-night, Euktemon with his rough and fitful talk. His moody gesture and defiant stride; How strange, how bleak and unapproachable; And yet I liked him from the first. How soon We know our friends through all disguise of mood. Discerning by a subtle touch of spirit The honest heart within. Euktemon's glance Betrayed him with it's gusty friendliness. Flashing at moments from the clouded brow. Like brave warm sunshine, and his laughter too. So rare, so sudden, so contagious, How at some merry scene, some well-told tale, I"t ICX) AMONG THE MILLKT Or swift invention of the winged wit, It broke lilce thunrlcrons water, rolling out In shaken peals on the delighted ear. Yet no man would have dreamed, who saw us two That first gray morning on the pier at Crete, That friendship could have forged thus easily A bond so subtle and so sure between us ; He, gloomy and austere ; I, full of thought As he, yet in an adverse mood, at ease. Lifting with lighter hands the lids of life, Untortured by its riddles; he, whose smiles Were rare and sudden as the autumn sun ; I, to whom smiles are ever near the lip. And yet I think he loved me too ; my mood Was not unpleasant to him, though I know At times I teased him with my flickering talk. How self-immured he was ; for all our converse I gathered little, little, of his life, A bitter trial to me, who love to learn The changes of men's outer circumstance. The strokes that fate has shaped them with, and so. Fitting to these their present speech and favour. Discern the thought within. From him I gleaned Nothing. At the least word, however guarded. That sought to try the fastenings of his life, With prying hands, how mute and dark he grew, And like the cautious tortoise at a touch Drew in beneath his shell. But ah, how sweet The memory of that long untroubled day, To me so joyous, and so free from care, AN ATHENIAN REVERIE lOI Spent as I love on foot, our first together, When fate and the reluctant sea at last Had given us safely to dry land ; the tramp From gray Mycenae by the pass to Corinth, The smooth white road, the soft caressing air, Full of the scent of blossoms, the clear sky. Strewn lightly with the little tardy clouds, Old Helios' scattered flock, the low-branched oaks And fountained resting-places, the cool nooks. Where eyes less darkened with life's use than mine Perchance had caught the Naiads in their dreams, Or won white glimpses of their flying heels. How light our feet were : with what rhythmic strides We left the long blue gulf behind us, sown Far out with snowy sails ; and how our hearts Rose with the growth of morning, till we reached That moss-hung fountain on the hillside near Cleonse, where the dark anemones Cover the ground, and make it red like fire. Could ever grief, I wonder, or fixed care, Or even the lingering twilight of old age. Divest for me such memories of their sweet? Even Euktemon's obdurate mood broke down. The odorous stillness, the serene bright air. The leafy shadows, the warm blossoming earth, Drew near with their voluptuous eloquence, And melted him. Ah, what a talk we had! How eagerly our nimble tongues ran on, With linked wit in joyous sympathy. Such hours, I think, are better than long years Of brooding loneliness, mind touching mind To leaping life, and thought sustaining thought. 102 AMONG THE MILLET Till even the darkest chambers of gray time, His ancient seats, and bolted mysteries, Open their hoary doors, and at a look Lay all their treasures bare. How, when our thought Wheeling on ever bolder wings at last Grew as it seemed too large for utterance, We both fell silent, striving to recall And grasp such things as in our daring mood We had but glimpsed and leaped at ; yet how long We studied thus with absent eyes, I know not ; Our thought died slowly out ; the busy road, The voices of the passers-by, the change Of garb and feature, and the various tongues Absorbed us. Ah, how clearly I recall them 1 For in these silent wakeful hours the mind Is strangely swift. With what sharp lines The shapes of things that even years have buried Shine out upon the rapid memory. Moving and warm like life. I can see now The form of that tall peddler, whose strange wares. Outlandish dialect and impudent gait Awoke Euktemon's laughter. In mine ear Is echoing still the cracking string of gibes They flung at one another. I remember too The gray-haired merchant with his bold black eyes And brace of slaves, the old s'ip captain tanned With sweeping sea-winds and the pitiless sun, But best of all that dainty amorous pair. Whose youthful spirit neither heat nor toil Could conquer. What a charming group they made! The creaking litter and the long brown poles, The sinewy bearers with their cat-like stride. Dripping with sweat, that merry dark-eyed girl, AN ATHENIAN KliVEUIE «03 Whose siuklcn beauty shook us from our dreams, And chained our eyes. How beautiful she was! Half-hid among the gay Miletian cushions, The lovely laughing face, the gracious form, The fragrant, lightly-knotted hair, and eyes Full of the dancing fire of wanton Corinth. That happy stripling, whose delighted feet Swung at her side, whose tongue ran on so gaily, Is it for him alone she wreathes those smiles, And tunes so musically that flexile voice, Soft as the Lydian flute? Surely his gait Proclaimed the lover, and his well-filled girdle Not less the lover's strength. How joyously He strode, unmindful of his ruffled curls, Whose perfumes still went wide upon the wind, His dust-stained robe unheeded, and the stones Whose ragged edges frayed his delicate shoes. How radiant, how full of hope he was ! What pleasant memories, how many things Rose up again before me, as I lay Half-stretched among the crushed anemones. And watched them, till a far ofif jutting ledge Precluded sight, still listening till mine ears Caught the last vanishing murmur of their talk. Only a little longer ; then we rose With limbs refreshed, and kept a swinging pace Toward Corinth ; but our talk, I know not why, Fell for that day. I wonder what there was About those dainty lovers or their speech That changed Euktemon's mood; for all the way From high Cleonae to the city gates, 104 AMONG THK MILLliT Till sunset found us loitering without aim, Half lost among the dusky-moving crowds, I could get nothing from him but dark looks, Short answers and the old defiant stride. Some memory pricked him. It may be, perchance, A woman's treachery, some luckless passion, In former days endured, hath seared his blood. And dowered him with that cureless bitter humour. To him solitude and the wanderer's life Alone are sweet ; the tumults of this world A thing unworthy of the wise man's touch, Its joys and sorrows to be met alike With broad-browed scorn. One quality at least We have in common: we are idlers both, Shifters and wanderers through this sleepless world. Albeit in different moods. 'Tis that, I think. That knit us, and the universal need For near companionship. Howe'er it be, There is no hand that I would gladlier grasp, Either on earth or in the nether gloom. When the gray keel shall grind the Stygian strand, Than stern Euktemon's. LOVK-DOUHT Yearning upon the faint rose-curves that flit About her child-sweet mouth and innocent cheek, And in her eyes watching with eyes all meek The light and shadow of laughter, I would sit Mute, knowing our two souls might never knit; As if a pale proud lily-flower should seek PEKFPXT LOVE 105 The love of some red rose, but could not speak One word of her blithe tongue to tell of it. For oh, my Love was sunny-lipped and stirred With all swift light and sound and gloom not long Retained ; I, with dreams weighed, that ever heard Sad burdens echoing through the loudest throng; She, the wild song of some May-merry bird ; I, but the listening maker of a song. PERFECT LOVE Beloved, those who moan of love's brief day Shall find but little grace with me, I guess, Who know too well this passion's tenderness To deem that it shall lightly pass away, A moment's interlude in life's dull play ; Though many loves have lingered to distress, So shall not ours, sweet Lady, ne'ertheless, But deepen with us till both heads be gray. For perfect love is like a fair green plant, That fades not with its blossoms, but lives on, And gentle lovers shall not come to want, Though fancy with its first mad dream be gone ; Sweet is the flower, whose radiant glory flies, But sweeter still the green that never dies. I ', io6 AMONG THE MILLET LOVE-WONDER Or whether sad or joyous be her hours, Yet ever is she good and ever fair. If she be glad, 'tis like a child's wild air, Who claps her hands above a heap of flowers ; And if she's sad, it is no cloud that lowers, Rather a saint's pale grace, whose golden hair Gleams like a crown, whose eyes are like a prayer From some quiet window under minster towers. But ah. Beloved, how shall I be taught To tell this truth in any rhymed line? For words and woven phrases fall to naught. Lost in the silence of one dream divine. Wrapped in the beating wonder of this thought : Even thou, who art so precious, thou art mine! COMFORT Comfort the sorrowful with watchful eyes In silence, for the tongue cannot avail. Vex not his wounds with rhetoric, nor the stale Worn truths, that are but maddening mockeries To him whose grief outmasters all replies. Only watch near him gently ; do but bring The piteous help of silent ministering, Watchful and tender. This alone is wise. So shall thy presence and thine every motion, The grateful knowledge of thy sad devotion, OUTLOOK 107 Melt out the passionate hardness of his grief, And break the flood-gates of the pent-np soul. Kfc shall bow down beneath thy mute control, And take thine hands, and weep, .and find relief. DESPONDENCY Slow figures in some live remorseless frieze. The approaching days escapeless and unguessed, With mask and shroud impenetrably dressed ; Time, whose inexorable destinies Bear down upon us like impending seas ; And the huge presence of this world, at best A sightless giant wandering without rest, Aged and mad with many miseries. The weight and measure of these things who knows? Resting at times beside life's thought-swept stream, Sobered and stunned with unexpected blows. We scarcely hear the uproar; life doth seem, Save for the certain nearness of its woes. Vain and phantasmal as a sick man's dream. OUTLOOK Not to be conquered by these headlong days. But to stand free : to keep the mind at brood On life's deep meaning, nature's altitude Of loveliness, and time's mysterious ways ; io8 AMONG THE MILLET At every tnought and deed to clear the haze Out of our eyes, considering only this, What man, what life, what love, what beauty is, This is to live, and win the final praise. Though strife, ill fortune and harsh human need Beat down the soul, at moments blind and dumb With agony; yet, patience — there shall come Many great voices from life's outer sea. Hours of strange triumph, and, when few men heed, Murmurs and glimpses of eternity. GENTLENESS Blind multitudes that jar confusedly At strife, earth's children, will ye never rest From toils made hateful here, and dawns distressed With ravelling self-engendered misery? And will ye never know, till sleep shall see Your graves, how dreadful and how dark indeed Are pride, self-will, and blind-voiced anger, greed, And malice with its subtle cruelty? How beautiful is gentleness, whose face Like April sunshine, or the summer rain, Swells everywhere the buds of generous thought; So easy, and so sweet it is; its grace Smoothes out so soon the tangled knots of pain. Can ye not learn it? will ye not be taught? MUSIC 109 A PRAYER O Earth, O dewy mother, breathe on us Something of all thy beauty and thy might, Us that are part of day, but most of night, Not strong Hke thee, but ever burdened tiius With glooms and cares, things pale and dolorous Whose gladdest moments are not wholly bright ; Something of all thy freshness and thy light, Earth, O mighty mother, breathe on us. mother, who wast long before our day. And after us full many an age shalt be, Careworn and blind, we wander from thy way : Born of thy strength, yet weak and halt are we; Grant us O mother, therefore, us who pray. Some little of thy light and majesty. MUSIC Move on, light hands, so strongly tenderly, Now with dropped calm and yearning undersong,. Now swift and loud, tumultuously strong, And I in darkness, sitting near to thee. Shall only hear, and feel, but shall not see. One hour made passionately bright with dreams. Keen glimpses of life's splendour, dashing gleams- Of what we would, and what we cannot be. Surely not painful ever, yet not glad, Shall sr.rh hours be to me, but blindly sweet. no AMONG THE MILLET Sharp with all yearning and all fact at strife, Dreams that shine by vvitli unremembered feet, And tones that like far distance make this life Spectral and wonderful and strangely sad. KNOWLEDGE What is more large than knowledge and more sweet; Knowledge of thoughts and deeds, of rights and wrongs, Of passions and of beauties and of songs ; Knowledge of life ; to feel its great heart beat Through all the soul upon her crystal seat; To see, to feel, and evermore to know ; To till the old world's wisdom till it grow A garden for the wandering of our feet. Oh for a life of leisure and broad hours, To think and dream, to put away small things. This world's perpetual leagfuer of dull naughts; To wander like the bee among the flowers Till old age find us weary, feet and wings Grown heavy with the gold of many thoughts SIGHT The world is bright with beauty, and its days Are filled with music ; could we only know True ends from false, and lofty things from low ; Could we but tear away the walls that graze •I* AN OLD LESSON FROM THE FIELDS HI Our very elbows in life's frosty ways ; Behold the width beyond us with its flow, Its knowledge and its murmur and its glow, Where doubt itself is but a golden haze. Ah brothers, still upon our pathway lies The shadow of dim weariness and fear, Yet if we could but lift our earthward eyes To see, and open our dull ears to hear. Then should the wonder of this world draw near And life's innumerable harmonies. AN OLD LESSON FROM THE FIELDS Even as I watched the daylight how it sped From noon till eve, and saw the light wind pass In long pale waves across the flashing grass. And heard through all my dreams, wherever led, The thin cicada singing overhead, I felt what joyance all this nature has, And saw myself made clear as in a glass, How that my soul was for the most part dead. light, I cried, and heaven, with all your blue, O earth, with all your sunny fruitfulness, And ye, tall lilies, of the wind-vexed field. What power and beauty life indeed might yield. Could we but cast away its conscious stress. Simple of heart becoming even as you. 112 AMONG THE MILLET WINTER-THOUGHT The wind-swayed daisies, that on every side Throng the wide fields in whispering companies, Serene and gently smiling like the eyes Of tender children long beatified, The delicate thought-wrapped buttercups that glide Like sparks of fire above the wavering grass. And swing and toss with all the airs that pass, Yet seem so peaceful, so preoccupied ; These are the emblems of pure pleasures flown, I scarce can think of pleasure without these. Even to dream of them is to disown The cold forlorn midwinter reveries, Lulled with the perfume of old hopes new-blown. No longer dreams, but dear realities. DEEDS 'Tis well with words, O masters, ye have sought To turn men's yearning to the great and true. Yet first take heed to what your own hands do; By deeds not words the souls of men are taught ; Good lives alone are fruitful ; they are caught Into the fountain of all life (wherethrough Men's souls that drink are broken or made new) Like drops of heavenly elixir, fraught With the clear essence of eterral youth. Even one little deed of weak untruth Is like a drop of quenchless venom cast. THE POETS 113 A liquid thread into life's feeding stream, Woven for ever with its crystal gleam, Bearing the seed of death and woe at last. ASPIRATION deep-eyed brothers, was there ever here, Or is there now, or shall there sometime be Harbour or any rest for such as we, Lone thin-cheeked mariners, that aye must steer Our whispering barks with such keen hope and fear Toward misty bournes across that coastless sea, Whose winds are songs that ever gust and flee. Whose shores are dreams that tower but come not near. Yet we perchance, for all that flesh and mind Of many ills be marked with many a trace, Shall find this life more sweet more strangely kind Than they of that dim-hearted earthly race Who creep firm-nailed upon the earth's hard face. And hear nor see not, being deaf and blind. THE POETS Half god, half brute, within the self-same shell, Changers with every hour from dawn till even, Who dream with angels in the gate of heaven, And skirt with curious eyes the brinks of hell. 114 AMONG THE MILLET Children of Pan, whom some, the few, love well, But most draw back, and know not what to say, Poor shining angels, whom the hoofs betray. Whose pinions frighten with their goatish smell. Half brutish, half divine, but all of earth, Half-way 'twixt hell and heaven, near to man, The whole world's tangle gathered in one span, Full of t^iis human torture and this mirth : Life with its hope and error, toil and bliss, Earth-born, earth-reared, ye know it as it is. THE TRUTH Friend, though thy soul should burn thee, yet be still. Thoughts were not meant for strife, nor tongues for swords. He that sees clear is gentlest of his words. And that's not truth that hath the heart to kill. The whole world's thought shall not one truth fulfil. Dull in our age, and passionate in youth, No mind of man hath found the perfect truth. Nor shalt thou find it ; therefore, friend, be still. Watch and be still, nor hearken to the fool, The babbler of consistency and rule : Wisest is he, who, never quite secure, Changes his thoughts for better day by day: To-morrow some new light will shine, be sure. And thou shalt see thy thought another way. A NIGHT OV STORM "5 THE MARTYRS ye, who found in men's brief ways no sign Of strength or help, so cast them forth, and threw Your whole souls up to one ye deemed most true, Nor failed nor doubted but held fast your line, Seeing before you that divine face shine; Shall we not mourn, when yours are now so few, Those sterner days, when all men yearned to you. White souls whose beauty made their world divine : Yet still across life's tangled storms we see. Following the cross, your pale procession led. One hope, one end, all others sacrificed. Self-abnegation, love, humility, Your faces shining toward the bended head. The wounded hands and patient feet of Christ. A NIGHT OF STORM city, whom gray stormy hands have sown With restless drift, scarce broken now of any. Out of the dark thy windows dim and many Gleam red across the storm, Sound is there none. Save evermore the fierce wind's sweep and moan. From whose gray hands the keen white snow is shaken In desperate gusts, that fitfully lull and waken. Dense as night's darkness round thy towers of stone. Darkling and strange art thou thus vexed and chidden ; More dark and strange thy veiled agony, ii6 AMONG TIJE MILLKT City of storm, in whose gray heart are hidden What stormier woes, what Hves that groan and beat, Stern and thin-cheeked, against time's heavier sleet, Rude fates, hard hearts, and prisoning poverty. THE RAILWAY STATION The darkness brings no quiet here, the light No waking : ever on my blinded brain The flare of lights, the rush, and cry, and strain, The engines' scream, the hiss and thunder smite : I see the hurrying crowds, the clasp, the flight, Faces that touch, eyes that are dim with pain : I see the hoarse wheels turn, and the great train Move labouring out into the bourneless night. So many souls within its dim recesses, So many bright, so many mournful eyes : Mine eyes that watch grow fixed with dreams and guesses ; What threads of life, what hidden histories. What sweet or passionate dreams and dark distresses. What unknown thoughts, what various agonies! A FORECAST What days await this woman, whose strange feet Breathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine, IN NOVEMHEU 117 Tall, free and slender as the forest pine, Whose form is moulded music, through whose sweet Frank eyes I feel the very heart's least beat, Keen, passionate, full of dreams and fire : How in the end, and to what man's desire Shall all this yield, whose lips shall these lips meet? One thing I know : if he be great and pure, This love, this fire, this btauty shall endure; Triumph and hope shall 'ead him by the palm : But if not this, some differing thing he be, That dream shall break in terror ; he shall see The whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the calm. IN NOVEMBER The hills and leafless forests slowly yield To the thick-driving snow. A little while x'Vnd night shall darken down. In shoutmg file The woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled, Past the thin fading stubbles, half concealed, Now golden-gray, sowed softly through with snow, Where the last ploughman follows still his row. Turning black fuirows through the whitening field. Far ofif the village lamps begin to gleam, Fast drives the snow, and no man comes this way; The hills grow wintry white, and bleak winds moan About the naked uplands. I alone Am neither sad, nor shelterless, nor gray, \Vrapped round with thought, content to watch and dream. ii8 AMONG THE MILLET THE CJTY Beyond the dusky cornfields, towards the west, Dotted with farms, beyond the shallow stream, Through drifts of elm with quiet peep and gleam, Curved white and slender as a lady's wrist, • Faint and far off out of the autumn mist, Even as a pointed jewel softly set In clouds of colour warmer, deeper yet. Crimson and gold and rose and amethyst. Toward dayset, where the journeying sun grown old Hangs lowly westward darker now than gold, With the soft sun-touch of the yellowing hours Made lovelier, I see with dreaming eyes. Even as a dream out of a dream, arise The bell-tongued city with its glorious towers. MIDSUMMER NIGHT Mother of balms and soothings manifold. Quiet-breathed night whose brooding hours are seven, To whom the voices of all rest are given. And those few stars whose scattered names are told, Far off beyond the westward hills outrolled, Darker than thou, more still, more dreamy even, The golden moon leans in the dusky heaven, And under her one star — a point of gold : And all go slowly lingering toward the west. As we go down forgetfully to our rest. MARCH 119 Weary of daytime, tired of noise and light : Ah, it was time that thou should'st come; for we Were sore athirst, and had great need of thee, Thou sweet physician, balmy-bosomed night. THE LOONS Once ye were happy, once by many a shore. Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might stray, Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye lay Floating at rest; but that was long of yore. He was too good for earthly men ; he bore Their bitter deeds for many a patient day. And then at last he took his unseen way. He was your friend, and ye might rest no more : And now, though many hundred altering years Have passed, among the desolate northern meres Still must ye search and wander querulously. Crying for Glooscap, still bemoan the light With weird entreaties, and in agony With awful laughter pierce the lonely night. MARCH Over the dripping roofs and sunk snow-barrows. The bells are ringing loud and strangely near, The shout of children dins upon mine ear Shrilly, and like a flight of silvery arrows Showers the sweet gossip of the British sparrows, Gathered in noisy knots of one or two, 120 AMONG THE MILLET To joke and chatter just as mortals do Over the day's long tale of joys and sorrows ; Talk before bed-time of bold deeds together, Of theft and fights, of hard-iimes and the weather, Till sleep disarm them, to each little brain Bringing tucked wmgs and m.any a blissful dream. Visions of wind and sun, of field and stream, And busy barnyards with their scattered grain. SOLITUDE How still it is here in the woods. The trees Stand motionless, as if they did not dare To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze. Even this little brook, that runs at ease. Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed. Seems but to deepen, with its curling thread Of sound, the shadowy sun-pierced silences. Sometimes a hawk screams uv a woodpecker Startles the stillness from its fixed mood With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear The dreamy white-throat from some far ofif tree Pipe slowly on the listening solitude. His five pure notes succeeding pensively. AUTUMN MAPLES The thoughts of all the maples who shall name. When the sad landscape turns to cold and gray? THE DOG 121 Yet some for very ruth and sheer dismay, Hearing the northwind pipe the winter's name, Have fired the hills with beaconing clouds of flame; And some with softer woe that day by day, So sweet and brief, should go the westward way, Have yearned upon the sunset with such shame That all their cheeks have turned to tremulous rose; Others for wrath have turned a rusty red, And some that knew not either grief or dread. Ere the old year should find its iron close, Have gathered down the sun's last smiles acold, Deep, deep, into their lummous hearts of gold. THE DOG "Grotesque!" we said, the moment we espied him. For there he stood, supreme in his conceit. With short ears close together and queer feet Planted irregularly : first we tried him With jokes, but they were lost ; we then defied him With bantering questions and loose criticism : He did not like, I'm sure, our catechism. But whisked and snufifed a little as we eyed hi' . Then flung we balls, and out and clear away, Up the white slope, across the crusted snow, To where a broken fence stands in the way, Against the sky-line, a mere row of pegs. Quicker than thought we saw him flash and go, A straight mad scuttling of four crooked legs. LYRICS OF EARTH TO MY MOTHER Mother, to whose valiant will Battling long ago, What the heaping years fulfil, Light and song, I owe ; Send my little book afield, Fronting praise or blame With the shining flag and shield Of your name. n^- THE SWEETNESS OF LIFE It fell on a day I was happy, And the winds, the concave sky, The flowers and the beasts in the meadow Seemed happy even as I ; And I stretched my hands to the meadow^ To the bird, the beast, the tree : " Why are ye all so happy?" I cned, and they answered me. What sayst thou, O meadow, That stretch est so wide, so far, That none can say how many Thy misty marguerites are? And what say ye, red roses. That o'er the sun-blanched wall From your high black-shadowed trellis Like flame or blood-drops fall? " We are born, we are reared, and we linger A various space and die; We dream, and are bright and happy. But we cannot answer why." What sayest thou, O shadow. That from the dreaming hill 126 LYRICS OF EARTH All down the broadening valley Liest so sharp and still? And thou, O murmuring brooklet, Whereby in the noonday gleam The loosestrife burns like ruby. And the branched asters dream? " We are born, we are reared, and we linger A various space and die ; We dream and are very happy, But we cannot answer why." And then of myself I questioned, That like a ghost the while Stood from me and calmly answered. With slow and curious smile : " Thou art born as the flowers, and wilt linger Thine own short space and die ; Thou dream 'st and art strangely happy. But thou canst not answer why." GODSPEED TO THE SNOW March is slain ; the keen winds fly ; Nothing more is thine to do ; April kisses thee good-bye; Thou must haste and follow too ; Silent friend that guarded well Withered things to make us glad. Shyest friend that could not tell APRIL IN THE HILLS 12/ Half the kindly thought he had. Haste thee, speed thee, O kind snow ; Down the dripping- valleys go, From the fields and gleaming meadows, Where the slaying hours behold thee. From the forests whose slim shadows, Brown and leafless cannot fold thee. Through the cedar lands aflame With gold light that cleaves and quivers. Songs that winter may not tame, Drone of pines and laugh of rivers. May thy passing joyous be To thy father, the great sea, For the sun is getting stronger ; Earth hath need of thee no longer ; Go, kind snow, Godspeed to thee ! APRIL IN THE HILLS To-day the world is wide and fair With sunny fields of lucid air, And waters dancmg everywhere ; The snow is almost gone ; The noon is builded high with light, And over heaven's liquid height, In steady fleets serene and white, The happy clouds go on. The channels run, the bare earth steams. And every hollow rings and gleams With jetting falls and dashing streams; The rivers burst and fill ; 128 I-YKICS OF KAKTM The fields are full of little lakes, And when the romping wind awakes The water ruffles blue and shakes, And the pines roar on the hill. The crows go by, a noisy throng ; About the meadows all day long The shore-lark drops his brittle song; And up the leafless tree The nut-hatch runs, and nods, and clings ; The bluebird dips with flashing, wings. The robin flutes, the sparrow sings. And the swallows float and flee. I break the spirit's cloudy bands, A wanderer in enchanted lands, I feel the sun upon my hands ; And far from care and strife The broad earth bids me forth. I rise With lifted brow and upward eyes. I bathe my spirit in blue skies, And taste the springs of life. I feel the tumult of new birth ; I waken with the wakening earth ; I match the bluebird in her mirth ; And wild with wind and sun, A treasurer of immortal days, I roam the glorious world with praise, The hillsides and the woodland ways, Till earth and I are one. TlIK RETUKN UF THE YEAR 129 FOREST MOODS There is singing of birds in the deep wet woods, In the heart of the listening sohtudes, Peewees, and thrushes, and sparrows, not few, And all the notes of their throats are true. The thrush from the innermost ash takes on A tender dream of the treasured and gone ; But the sparrow singeth with pride and cheer Of the might and light of the present and here. There is shining of flowers in the deep wet woods, In the heart of the sensitive solitudes, The roseate bell and the lily are there, And every leaf of their sheaf is fair. Careless and bold, with am dream of woe, The trilliums scatter their flags of snow ; But the pale wood-daffodil covers her face, Agloom with the doom of a sorrowful race. THE RETURN OF THE YEAR Again the warm bare earth, the noon That hangs upon her healing scars. The midnight round, the great red moon, The mother with her brood of stars. The mist-rack and the wakening rain Blown soft in many a forest way, T 130 LYRICS OF EARTH The yellowing elm-trees, and again The blood-root in its sheath of gray. The vesper-sparrow's song, the stress Of yearning notes that gush and stream, The lyric joy, the tenderness, And once again the dream ! the dream ! A touch of far-oflf joy and power, A something it is life to learn. Comes back to earth, and one short hour The glamours of the gods return. This life's old mood and cult of care Falls smitten by an older truth. And the gray world wins back to her The rapture of her vanished youth. Dead thoughts revive, and he that heeds Shall hear, as by a spirit led, A song among the golden reeds : " The gods are vanished but not dead 1" For one short hour, unseen yet near, They haunt us, a forgotten mood, A glory upon mead and mere, A magic in the leafless wood. At morning we shall catch the glow Of Dian's quiver on the hill. And somewhere in the glades I know That Pan is at his piping still. 01 FAVORITES OF PAN 131 FAVORITES OF PAN Once, long ago, before the gods Had left this earth, by stream and forest glade, Where the first plough upturned the clinging sods, Or the lost shepherd strayed. Often to the tired listener's ear There came at noonday or beneath the stars A cound, he knew not whence, so sweet and clear, That all his aches and scars And every brooded bitterness. Fallen asunder from his soul, took flight. Like mist or darkness yielding to the press Of an unnamed delight, — A sudden brightness of the heart, A magic fire drawn down from Paradise, That rent the cloud with golden gleam apart, — And far before his eyes The loveliness and calm of earth Lay like a limitless dream remote and strange. The joy, the strife, the triumph and the mirth, And the enchanted change ; And so he followed the sweet sound. Till faith had traversed her appointed span. And murmured as he pressed the sacred ground : " It is the note of Pan !" 132 LYRICS OF EARTH as, Now though no more by marsh or stream Or dewy forest sounds the secret reed — For Pan is gone — ah yet, the infinite dream Still Hves for them that heed. In April, when the turning year Regains its pensive youth, and a soft breath And amorous influence over marsh and mere Dissolves the grasp of death, To them that are in love with life. Wandering like children with untroubled eyes^ Far from the noise of cities and the strife, Strange flute-like voices rise At noon and in the quiet of the night From every watery waste ; and in that hour The same strange spell, the same unnamed delight. Enfolds them in its power. An old-world joyousness supreme, The warmih and glow of an immortal balm, The mood-touch of the gods, the endless dream. The high lethean calm. They see, wide on the eternal way. The services of earth, the life of man ; And, listening to the magic cry they say : " It is the note of Pan !" For, long ago, when the new strains Of hostile hymns and conquering faiths grew keen, FAVOKirKS OF PAN And the old gods from their deserted fanes, Fled silent and unseen, 133 So, too, the goat- foot Pan, not less Sadly obedient to the mightier hand, Cut him new reeds, and in a sore distress Passed out from land to land ; And lingering by each haunt he knew, Of fount or sinuous stream or grassy marge, He s t the syrinx to his lips, and blew A note divinely large; And all around him on the wet Cool earth the frogs came up, and with a smile He took them in his hairy hands, and set His mouth to theirs awhile. m. And blew into their velvet throats ; And ever from that hour the frogs repeat The murmur of Plan's pipes, the notes. And answers strange and sweet ; And they that hear them are renewed By knowledge in some god-like touch conveyed. Entering again into the eternal mood Wherein the world was made. 134 LYRICS OF EARTH THE MEADOW Here when the cloudless April days begin, And the quaint crows flock thicker day by day, Filling the forests with a pleasant din, And the soiled snow creeps secretly away, Comes the small busy sparrow, primed with glee, First preacher in the naked wilderness, Piping an end to all the long distress From every fence and every leafless tree. Now with soft slight and viewless artifice Winter's iron work is wondrously undone; In all the little hollows cored with ice The clear brown pools stanu simmering in the sun, Frail lucid worlds, upon whose tremulous floors All day the wandering water-bugs at will, Shy mariners whose oars are never still, Voyage and dream about the heightening shores. The bluebird, peeping from the gnarled thorn, Prattles upon his frolic flute, or flings, In bounding flight across the golden morn, An azure gleam from oflf his splendid wings. Here the slim-pinioned swallows sweep and pass Down to the far-ofif river ; the black crow With wise and wary visage to and fro Settles and stalks about the withered grass. THE MEADOW 135 Here, when the murmurous May-day is half gone. The watchful lark before my feet takes flight, And wheeling to some lonelier field far on, Drops with obstreperous cry; and here at night, When the first star precedes the great red moon. The shore-lark tinkles from the darkening field, Somewhere, we know not, in the dusk concealed. His little creakling and continuous tune. Here, too, the robins, lusty as of old, Hunt the waste grass for forage, or prolong From every quarter of these fields the bold Blithe phrases of their never-finished song, The white-throat's distant descant with slow stress Note after note upon the noonday falls, Filling the leisured air at intervals With his own mood of piercing pensiveness. How often from this windy upland perch. Mine eyes have seen the forest break in bloom. The rose-red maple and the golden birch, The dusty yellow of the elms, the gloom Of the tall poplar hung with tasseled black ; Ah, I have watched till eye and ear and brain Grew full of dreams as they, the moated plain, The sun-steeped wood, the marsh-land at its back, The valley where the river wheels and fills, Yon city glimmering in its smoky shroud, 136 LYRICS OF EARTH And out at the last misty rim the hills Blue and far off and mounded like a cloud, And here the noisy rutted road that goes Down the slope yonder, flanked on either side With the smooth-furrowed fields flung- black and wide, Patched with pale water sleeping in the rows. So as I watched the crowded leaves expand, The bloom break sheath, the summer's strength uprear. In earth's great mother heart already planned The heaped and burgeoned plenty of the year, Even as she from out her wintry cell My spirit also sprang to life anew, And day by day as the spring's bounty grew. Its conquering joy possessed me like a spell. In reverie by day and midnight dream I sought these upland fields and walked apart, Musing on Nature, till my thought did seem To read the very secrets of her heart ; In mooded moments earnest and sublime I stored the themes of many a future song. Whose substance should be Nature's, clear and strong, Bound in a casket of majestic rhyme. Brave bud-like plans that never reached the fruit. Like hers our mother's who with every hour, Easily replenished from the sleepless root, Covers her bosom with fresh bud and flower ; Mi IN MAV 137 Yet I was happy as young lovers be, Who in the season of their passion's birth Deem that they have their utmost worship's worthj If love be near them, just to hear and see. IN MAY Grief was my master yesternight ; To-morrow I may grieve again; But now along the windy plain The clouds have taken flight. The sowers in the furrows go ; The lusty river brimmeth on ; The curtains from the hills are gone ; The leaves are out; and lo. The silvery distance of the day, The light horizons, and between The glory of the perfect green. The tumult of the May. The bob-o-links at noonday sing More softly than the softest flute, And lightlier than the lightest lute Their fairy tambours ring. The roads far ofif are towered with dust ; The cherry-blooms are swept and thinned; In yonder swaying elms the wind Is charging gust on gust. 138 LYRICS OF EARTH But here there is no stir at all ; The ministers of sun and shadow Hoard all the perfumes of the meadow Behind a grassy wall. An infant rivulet wind-free Adown the guarded hollow sets, Over whose brink the violets Are nodding peacefully. From pool to pool it prattles by ; The flashing swallows dip and pass, Above the tufted marish grass, And here at rest am I. I care not for the old distress. Nor if to-morrow bid me moan; To-day is mine, and I have known An hour of blessedness. LIFE AND NATURE I passed through the gates of the city, The streets were strange and still, Through the doors of the open churches The organs were moaning shrill. Through the doors and the great high windows I heard the murmur of prayer. And the sound of their solemn singing Streamed out on the sunlit air ; WITH THE NIGHT 139 A sound of some great burden That lay on the world's dark breast, Of the old, and the sick, and the lonely, A.nd the weary that cried for rest. T strayed through the midst of the city Like one distracted or mad. "O Life! O Life!" I kept saying, And the very word seemed sad. I passed through the gates of the city. And I heard the small birds sing, I laid me down in the meadows Afar from the bell-ringing. In the depth and the bloom of the meadows I lay on the earth's quiet breast, The poplar fanned me with shadows, And the veery sang me to rest. Blue, blue was the heaven above me. And the earth green at my feet ; "O Life ! O Life !" I kept saying, And the very word seemed sweet. WITH THE NIGHT O doubts, dull passions, and base fears. That harassed and oppressed the day. Ye poor remorses and vain tears. That shook this house of clay ; m I40 LYRICS OF EARTH All heaven to the western bars Is glittering with the darker dawn ; Here, with the earth, the night, the stars, Ye have no place : begone ! JUNE Long, long ago, it seems, this summer morn That pale-browed April passed with pensive tread Through the frore woods, and from its frost- bound bed Woke the arbutus with her silver horn ; And now May, too, is fled. The flower-crowned month, the merry laughing May, With rosy feet and fingers dewy wet, Leaving the woods and all cool gardens gay With tulips and the scented violet. Gone are the wind-flower and the adder-tongue And the sad drooping bellwort, and no more The snowy trilliums crowd the forest's floor; The purpling grasses are no longer young. And summer's wide-set door O'er the thronged hills and the broad panting earth Lets in the torrent of the later bloom, Haytime, and harvest, and the after mirth. The slow soft rain, the rushing thunder plume. All day in garden alleys moist and dim, The humid air is burdened with the rose; JUNE 141 In moss-deep woods the creamy orchid blows ; And now the vesper-sparrows' pealing hymn From every orchard close At eve comes flooding rich and silvery; The daisies in great meadows swing and shine ; And with the wind a sound as of the sea Roars in the maples and the topmost pine. High in the hills the solitary thrush Tunes magically his music of fine dreams, In briary dells, by boulder-broken streams; And wide and far on nebulous fields aflush The mellow morning gleams. The orange cone-flowers purple-bossed are there^ The meadow's bold-eyed gypsies deep of hue, And slender hawkweed tall and softly fair, And rosy tops of fleabane veiled with dew. So with thronged voices and unhasting flight The fervid hours with long return go by ; The far-heard hylas piping shrill and high Tell the slow moments of the solemn night With unremitting cry ; Lustrous and large out of the gathering drouth The planets gleam ; the baleful Scorpion Trails his diin fires along the droused south; The silent worid-incrusted round moves on. And all the dim night long the moon's white beams Nestle deep down in every brooding tree, And sleeping birds, touched with a silly glee, Waken at midnight from their blissful dreams, And carol brokenlv. IWiWill 142 LYRICS OF EARTH Dim surp^ing motions and uneasy dreads Scare the light slumber from men's busy eyes, And parted lovers on their restless beds Toss and yearn out, and cannot sleep for sighs. Oft have I striven, sweet month, to figure thee, As dreamers of old time were wont to feign, In living form of flesh, and striven in vain; Yet when some sudden old-world mysiery Of passion fired my bram. Thy shape hath flashed upon me like no dream, Wandering with scented curls that heaped the breeze, Or by the hollow of some reeded stream Sitting waist-deep in white anemones ; And even as I glimpsed thee thou wert gone, A dream for mortal eyes too proudly coy, Yet in thy place for subtle thoughts' employ The golden magic clung, a light that shone And filled me with thy joy. Before me like a mist that streamed and fell All names and shapes of antique beauty passed In garlanded procession with the swell Of flutes between the beechen stems ; and last, I saw the Arcadian valley, the loved wood, Alpheus stream divine, the sighing shore. And through the cool green glades, awake once more, Psyche, the white-limbed goddess, still pursued. Fleet-footed as of yore. THE BIRD AND THE HOUR 143 The noonday ringing with her frighted peals, Down the bright sward and through the reeds she ran. Urged by the mountain echoes, at her heels The hot-blown cheeks and trampling feet of Pan. DISTANCE To the distance! ah, the distance! Blue and broad and dim ! Peace is not in burgh or meadow But beyond the rim. Aye, beyond it, far beyond it ; Follow still my soul. Till this earth is lost in heaven, And thou feel'st the whole. THE BIRD AND THE HOUR The sun looks over a little hill And floods the valley with gold — A torrent of gold ; And the hither field is green and still ; Beyond it a cloud outrolled. Is glowing molten and bright ; And soon the hill, and the valley and all. With a quiet fall. Shall be gathered into the night. And yet a moment more. ilpi I 144 LYRICS OK EARTH Out of the silent wood, As if from the closing > oor Of another world and another lovelier mood, Hear'st thou the hermit pour — So sweet ! so magical ! — His golden music, gh )stly beautiful. AFTER RAIN For three whole days across the sky, In sullen packs that loomed and broke. With flying fringes dim as smoke, Ihe colunms of the rain went by ; At every hour the wind awoke ; The darkness passed upon the plain ; The great drops rattled at the pane. Now piped '.he wind, or far aloof Fell to a sough remote and dull ; And all night long with rush a*^d lull The rain kept drumming on the roof: I heard till ear and sense were full The clash or silence of the leaves, The gurgle in the creaking eaves. But when the fourth day came — at noon. The darkness and the rain were by ; The sunward roofs were steaming dry; And all the world was flecked and strewn With shadows from a fleecy sky. The haymakers were forth and gone, And every rillet laughed and shone. CLOUD-BREAK Then, too, on me tha*^ loved so well The world, despairing in her blight, Uplifted with her least delight, Ori me, as on the earth, there fell New happiness of mirth and might ; I strode the valleys pied and still ; I climbed upon the breezy hill. I watched the gray hawk wheel and drop. Sole shadow on the shining world ; I saw the mountains clothed and curled, With forest ruffling to the top ; I saw the river's length unfurled, Pale silver down the fruited plain. Grown great and stately with the rain. Through miles of shadow and soft heat. Where field and fallow, fence and tree, Were all one world of greenery, I hear the robin ringing sweet. The sparrow piping silverly, The thrushes at the forest's hem ; And as I went I sang with them. 145 II ■Ml I Will > CLOUD-BREAK With a turn of his magical rod. That extended and suddenly shone, From the round of his glory some god Looks forth and is gone. 10 146 LYRICS OF EARTH To the summit of heaven the clouds Are rolling aloft like steam ; There's a break in their infinite shrouds, And below it l g^leam. O'er the drift of the river a whiflf Comes out from the blossoming shore ; And the meadows are greening, as if They never were green before. The islands are kindled with gold And russet and emerald dye ; And the interval waters outrolled Are more blue than the sky. From my feet to the heart of the hills The spirits of May intervene, And a vapour of azure distills Like a breath on the opaline green. Only a moment ! — and then The chill and the shadow decline On the eyes of rejuvenate men That were wide and divine. THE MOON-PATH The full, clear moon uprose and spread Her cold, pale splendour o'er the sea; A light-strewn path that seemed to lead Outward into eternity. THE MOON-PATH 147 Betweeen the darkness and the gleam An old-world spell encompassed me : Methought that in a godlike dream I trod upon the sea. And lo ! upon that glimmering road, l^n shining companies unfurled, The trains of many a primal god. The monsters of the elder world ; Strange creatures that, with silver wings, Scarce touched the ocean's thronging floor, The phantoms of old tales, and things Whose shapes are known no more. Giants and demi-gods who once Were dwellers of the earth and sea, And they who from Deucalion's stones. Rose men without an infancy ; Beings on whose majestic lids Time's solemn secrets seemed to dwell, Tritcns and palo-limbed Nereids. And forms of heaven and hell. \m .'lllj'lj'liltl Some who were heroes long of yore. When the great world was hale and young; And some whose marble lips yet pour The murnur of an antique tongue; Sad queens, whose names are like soft moans, Whose griefs v;ere written up in gold ; And some who on their silver thrones Were goddesses of old. 148 LYRICS OF EARTH As if I had been dead indeed, And come into some after-land, I saw them pass me, and take heed, And touch me with each mighty hand ; And evermore a murmurous stream. So beautiful they seemed to me. Not less than in a godlike dream I trod the shining sea. COMFORT OF THE FIELDS What would'st thou have for easement after grief, When the rude world hath used thee with despite, And care sits at thine elbow day and night, Filchi-:g thy pleasures like a subtle thief? To me, when life besets me in such wise, 'Tis sweetest to break forth, to drop the chain And grasp the freedom of this pleasant earth. To roam in idleness and sober mirth. Through summer airs and summer lands, and drain The comfort of wide fields unto tired eyes. By hills and waters, farms and solitudes. To wander by the day with wilful feet ; Through fielded valleys wide with yellowing wheat; Along gray roads that run between deep woods, Murmurous and cool ; through hallowed slopes of pine. Where the long daylight dreams, unpierced, unstirred, And only the rich-throated thrush is heard ; MS^M^^Biil. '• ,.,-l!ii.r«llftJt COMFORT OF THE FIELDS '49 By lonely forest brooks that froth and shine In bouldered crannies buried in the hills ; By broken beeches tangled with wild vine, And log-strewn rivers murmurous with mills. In upland pastures, sown with gold, and sweet With the keen perfume of the ripening grass. Where wings of birds and filmy shadows pass, Spread thick as stars with shining marguerite ; To haunt old fences overgrown with brier, Mufifled in vines, and hawthorns, and wild cherries, Rank poisonous ivies, red-bunched elder-berries. And pied blossoms to the heart's desire, Gray mullein towering into yellow bloom, Pink-tasseled milkweed, breathing dense perfume. And swarthy vervain, tipped with violet fire. To hear at eve the bleating of far flocks. The mud-hen's whistle from the marsh at morn ; To skirt with deafened ears and brain o'erborne Some foam-filled rapid charging down its rocks With iron roar of waters ; far away Across wide-reeded meres, pensive with noon, To hear the querulous outcry of the loon ; To lie among deep rocks, and watch all day On liquid heights the snowy clouds melt by ; Or hear from wood-capped niountain-brov.'S the jay Pierce the bright morning with his jibing cry. To feast on summer sounds ; the jolted wains, The thresher hunnning from the farm near by, The prattling cricket's intermittent cry. The locust's rattle from the sultry lanes ; ISO LYRICS OF EARTH Or in the shadow of some oaken spray, To watch, as through a mist of light and dreams, The far-off hayfields, where the dusty teams Drive round and round the lessening squares of hay, And hear upon the wind, now loud, now low, With drowsy cadence half a summer's day. The clatter of th*^ reapers come and go. Far violet hills, horizons filmed with showers. The murmur of cool streams, the forest's gloom. The voices of the breathing grass, the hum Of ancient gardens overbanked with flowers : Thus, with a smile as golden as the dawn, And cool fair fingers radiantly divine, The mighty mother brings us in her hand, For all tired eyes and foreheads pinched and wan, Her restful cup, her beaker of bright wine : Drink, and be filled, and ye shall understand ! AT THE FERRY On such a day the shrunken stream Spends its last water and runs dry ; Clouds like far turrets in a dream Stand baseless in the burning sky. On such a day at every rod The toilers in the hayfield halt, With dripping brows, and the parched sod Yields to the crushing foot like salt. iii AT THE FERRY 151 But here a little wind astir, Seen waterward in jetting lines, From yonder hillside topped with fir Comes pungent with the breath of pines ; And here when all the noon hangs still. White-hot upon the city tiles, A perfume and a wintry chill Breathe from the yellow lumber-piles. And all day long there falls a blur Of noises upon listless ears, The rumble of the trams, the stir Of barges at the clacking piers ; The champ of wheels, the crash of steam, And ever, without change or stay, The drone, as through a troubled dream. Of waters falling far away. A tug-boat up the farther shore Half pants, half whistles, in her draught ; The cadence of a creaking oar Falls drowsily ; a corded raft Creeps slowly in the noonday gleam, And wheresoe'er a shadow sleeps The men lie by, or half adream, Stand leaning at the idle sweeps. im i| And all day long in the quiet bay The eddying amber depths retard, And held, as in a ring, at play, The heavy saw-logs notched and scarred; 152 LYRICS OF EARTH And yonder between cape and shoal, Where the long currents swing and shift, An aged punt-man with his pole Is searching in the parted drift. At moments from the distant glare The murmur of a railway steals, Round yonder jutting point the air Is beaten with the puff of wheels ; And here at hand an open mill, Strong clamour at perpetual drive. With changing chant, now hoarse, now shrill Keeps dinning like a mighty hive. A furnace over field and mead. The rounding noon hangs hard and white ; Into the gathering heats recede The hollows of the Chelsea height ; But under all to one quiet tune, A spirit in cool depths withdrawn, With logs, and dust, and wrack bestrewn, The stately river journeys on. I watch the swinging currents go Far down to where, enclosed and piled, The logs crowd, and the Gatineau Comes rushing from the northern wild. I see the long low point, where close The shore-lines, and the waters end, I watch the barges pass in rows That vanish at the tapering bend. AT THE FERRY 153 I see as at the noon's pale core — A shadow that lifts clear and floats — The cabin'd village round the shore, The landing and the fringe of boats ; Faint films of smoke that curl and wreathe; And upward with the like desire The vast gray church that seems to breathe In heaven with its dreaming spire. And there the last blue boundaries rise, That guard within their compass furled This plot of earth : beyond them lies The mystery of the echoing world ; And still my thought goes on, and yields New vision and new joy to me, Far peopled hills, and ancient fields, And cities by the crested sea. m I see no more the barges pass. Nor mark the ripple round the pier, And all the uproar, mass on mass, Falls dead upon a vacant ear. Beyond the tumult of the mills. And all the city's sound and strife, Beyond the waste, beyond the hills, I look far out and dream of life. 154 LYRICS OF EARTH SEPTEMBER Now hath the summer reached her golden close, And lost, amid her cornfields, bright of soul, Scarcely perceives from her divine repose How near, how swift, the inevitable goal : Still, still, she smiles, though from her careless feet The bounty and the fruitful strength are gone, And through the soft long wondering days goes on The silent sere decadence sad and sweet. The kingbird and the pensive thrush are fled, Children of light, too fearful of the gloom ; The sun falls low, the secret word is said. The mouldering woods grow silent as the tomb ; Even the fields have lost their sovereign grace. The cone-flower and the marguerite ; and no more. Across the river's shadow-haunted floor, The paths of skimming swallows interlace. Already in the outland wilderness The forests echo with unwonted dins ; In clamorous gangs the gathering woodmen press Northward, and the stern winter's toil begins. Around the long low shanties, whose rough lines Break the sealed dreams of many an unnamed lake. Already in the frost-clear morns awake The crash and thunder of the falling pines. Where the tilled earth, with all its fields set free, Naked and yellow from the harvest lies, By many a loft and busy granary. The hum and tumult of the threshers rise ; SEPTEMBER 155 There the tanned farmers labour without slack, Till twilight deepens round the spouting mill, Feeding the loosened sheaves, or with fierce will, Pitching waist-deep upon the dusty stack. Still a brief while, ere the old year quite pass. Our wandering steps and wistful eyes shall greet The leaf, the w^ater, the beloved grass; S'dll from these haunts and this accustomed seat I see the wood-wrapt city, swept with light, The blue long-shadowed distance, and, between. The dotted farm-lands with tneir parcelled green. The dark pine forest and the watchful height. I see the broad rough meadow stretched away Into the crystal sunshine, wastes of sod, Acres of withered vervain, purple-gray. Branches of aster, groves of goldenrod ; And yonder, toward the sunlit summit, strewn With sHadowy boulders, crowned and swathed with weed. Stand ranks of silken thistles, blown to seed, Long silver fleeces shining like the noon. In far-ofif russet cornfields, where the dry Gray shocks stand peaked and withering, half concealed In the rough earth, the orange pumpkins lie. Full-ribbed ; and in the windless pasture-field The sleek red horses o'er the sun-warmed ground Stand pensively about in companies. mm 156 LYRICS OF EARTH While all around them from the motionless trees THe long clean shadows sleep without a sound. Under cool elm-trees floats the distant stream, Moveless as air ; and o'er the vast warm earth The fathomless daylig-ht seems to stand and dream, A liquid cool elixir — all its girth Bound with faint haze, a frail transparency, Whose lucid purple barely veils and fills The utmost valleys and the thin last hills, Nor mars one whit their perfect clarity. Thus without grief the golden days go by. So soft we scarcely notice how they wend, And like a smile half happy, or a sigh. The summer passes to her quiet end ; And soon, too soon, around the cumbered eaves Sly frosts shall take the creepers by surprise, And through the wind-touched reddening woods shall rise October with the rain of ruined leaves. A RE-ASSURANCE With what doubting eyes, O sparrow, Thou regardest me, Underneath yon spray of yarrow, Dipping cautiously. Fear me not, O little sparrow, Bathe and never fear, For to me both pool and yarrow And thyself are dear. AN AUTUMN LANDSCAPE THE POET'S POSSESSION 157 Think not, O master of the well-tilled field, This earth is only thine ; for after thee, When all is sown and gathered and put by, Comes the grave poet with creative eye, And from these silent acres and clean plots, Bids with his wand the fancied after-yield A second tilth and second harvest be. The crop of images and curious thoughts. AN AUTUMN LANDSCAPE No wind there is that either pipes or moans ; The fields are cold and still ; the sky Is covered with a blue-gray sheet Of motionless cloud ; and at my feet The river, curling softly by. Whispers and dimples round its quiet gray stones. Along the chill green slope that dips and heaves The road runs rough and silent, lined With plum-trees, misty and blue-gray, And poplars pallid as the day, In masses spectral, undefined, Pale greenish stems half hid in dry gray leaves. And on beside the river's sober edge A long fresh field lies black. Beyond, Low thickets gray and reddish stand, Stroked white with birch ; and near at hand, iiiiiiiijlj ^iiiit^AHlaMAliiiii iiiii K ■,%.. .%. Q^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 IIM Hi 2.5 := 1^ IM I.I 1.6 12.2 2.0 1.8 1.25 1.1 1.6 6" ► m <^ /}. e. <3 W.^ ^2 %^> *^<?>* . '» "-^ r O 7 Photographic Sciences Corpordtion W.^ <V '"A V ^ <v ^?v> ^1? \\ 6^ ^<fe ^^ 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 Q'., 158 LYRICS OF EARTH Over a little steel-smooth pond, Hang multitudes of thin and withering sedge. Across a waste and solitary rise A ploughman urges his dull team, A stooped gray figure with prone brow That plunges bending to the plough With strong, uneven steps. The stream Rings and re-echoes with his furious cries. Sometimes the lowing of a cow, long-drawn, Comes from far off ; and crows in strings Pass on the upper silences. A flock of small gray goldfinches, Flown down with silvery twitterings. Rustle among the birch-cones and are gone. This day the season seems like one that heeds. With fixed ear and lifted hand. All moods that yet are known on earth. All motions that have faintest birth, If haply she may understand The utmost inward sense of all her deeds. IN NOVEMBER With loitering step and quiet eye, Beneath the low November sky, I wandered in the woods, and found A clearing, where the broken ground IN NOVEMBER 159 14 Was scattered with black stumps and briers, And the old wreck of forest fires. It was a bleak and sandy spot, And, all about, the vacant plot, Was peopled and inhabited By scores of mulleins long since dead. A silent and forsaken brood In that mute opening of the wood. So shrivelled and so thin they were, So gray, so haggard, and austere, Not plants at all they seemed to me, But rather some spare company Of hermit folk, who long ago. Wandering in bodies to and fro. Had chanced upon this lonely Wc^y, And rested thus, ti'l death one day Surprised them at their compline prayer. And left them standing lifeless there. There was no sound about the wood Save the wind's secret stir. I stood Among the mullein-stalks as still As if myself had grown to be One of their sombre company, A body without wish or will. And as I stood, quite suddenly, Down from a furrow in the sky The sun shone out a little space Across tha*. silent sober place. Over the sand heaps and brown sod. The mulleins and dead goldenrod, y\.nd passed beyond the thickets gray, i6o LYRICS OF EARTH And lit the fallen leaves that lay. Level and deep within the wood, A rustling yellow multitude. And all around me the thin light, So sere, so melancholy bright. Fell like the half-reflected gleam Or shadow of some former dream; A moment's golden reverie Poured out on every plant and tree A semblance of weird joy, or less, A sort of spectral happiness; And I, too, standing idly there, With muffled hands in the chill air, Felt the warm glow about my feet, And shuddering betwixt cold and heat. Drew my thoughts closer, like a cloak, While something in my blood awoke, A nameless and unnatural cheer, A pleasure secret and austere. BY AN AUTUMN STREAM Now overhead, Where the rivulet loiters and stops, The bittersweet hangs from the tops Of the alders and cherries Its bunches of beautiful berries, Orange and red. And the snowbirds flee, Tossing up on the far brown field. BY AN AUTUMN STREAM Now flashing and now concealed, Like fringes of spray That vanish and gleam on the gray Field of the sea. i6i Flickering light, Come the last of the leaves down borne. And patches of pale white corn In the wind complain, Like the slow rustle of rain Noticed by night. Withered and thinned, The sentinel mullein looms. With the pale gray shadowy plumes Of the goldenrod ; And the milkweed opens its pod. Tempting the wind. Aloft on the hill, A cloudrift opens and shines Through a break in its gorget of pines, And it dreams at my feet In a sad, silvery sheet. Utterly still. All things that be Seem plunged into silence, distraught, By some stern, some necessitous thought: It wraps and enthralls Marsh, meadow, and forest ; and falls Also on me. 11 l62 LYRICS OF EARTH SNOWBIRDS Along the narrow sandy height I watch them swiftly come and go,, Or round the leafless wood, Like flurries of wind-driven snow, Revolving in perpetual flight, A changing multitude. Nearer and nearer still they sway, And, scattering in a circled sweep, Rush down without a sound; And now I see them peer and peep. Across yon level bleak and gray, Searching the frozen ground, — Until a little wind upheaves, And makes a sudden rustling there, And then they drop their play. Flash up into the sunless air, And like a flight of silver leaves Swirl round and sweep away. SNOW White are the far-off plains, and white The fading forests grow ; The wind dies out along the height, And denser still the snow, A gathering weight on roof and tree. Falls down scarce audibly. SNOW The road l^efore me smoothes and fills Apace, and all about The fences dwindle, and the hills Are blotted slowly out ; The naked trees loom spectrally Into the dim white sky. The meadows and far-sheeted streams Lie still without a sound ; Like some soft minister of dreams The snow-fall hoods me round ; In wood and water, earth and air, A silence everywhere. Save when at lonely intervals Some farmer's sleigh urged on, With rustling runners and sharp bells, Swings by me and is gone ; Or from the empty waste I hear A sound remote and clear ; The barking of a dog, or call To cattle, sharply pealed. Borne echoing from some wayside stall Or barnyard far afield ; Then all is silent, and the snow Falls, settling soft and slow. The evening deepens, and the gray Folds closer earth and sky ; 163 164 LYRICS OF EARTH The world seems shrouded far away ; Its noises sleep, and I, As secret as yon buried stream, Plod dumbly on, and dream. SUNSET P'rom this windy bridge at rest, In some former curious hour, We have watched the city's hue. All along the orange west, Cupola and pointed tower, Darken into solid blue. Tho' the biting north wind breaks Full across this drifted hold, Let us stand with iced cheeks Watching westward as of old ; Past the violet mountain-head To the fartnest fringe of pine, Where far off the purple-red Narrows to a dusky line, And the last pale splendours die Slowly from the olive sky ; Till the thin clouds wear away Into threads of purple-gray. And the sudden stars between Brighten in the pallid green ; WINTER-STORE Till above the spacious east, Slow returned one by one, Like pale prisoners released From the dungeons of the sun, Capella and her train appear In the glittering Charioteer ; Till the rounded moon shall grow Great above the eastern snow, Shining into burnished gold ; And the silver earth outroUed, In the misty yellow light. Shall take on the width of night. 165 WINTER-STORE Subtly conscious, all awake. Let us clear our eyes, and break Through the cloudy chrysalis. See the wonder as it is. Down a narrow alley, blind, Touch and vision, heart and mind. Turned sharply inward, still we plod, Till the calmly smiling god Leaves us, and our spirits grow More thin, more acrid, as we go. Creeping by the sullen wall, We forego the power to see The threads that bind us to the All, God or the Immensity ; l66 LYRICS OF EARTH Whereof on the eternal road Man is but a passing mode. Too blind we are, too little see Of the magic pageantry, Every minute, every hour, From the cloudflake to the flower, For ever old, for ever strange. Issuing in perpetual change From the rainbow gates of Time. But he who through this common air Surely knows the great and fair, What is lovely, what sublime, Becomes, in an increasing span. One with earth and one with man. One, despite these mortal scars. With the planets and the stars ; And Nature from her holy place. Bending with unveiled face, Fills him in her divine employ With her own majestic joy. Up the fiehled slopes at morn. Where light wefts of shadow pass, Films upon the bending corn, I shall sweep the purple grass. Sun-crowned heights and mossy woods. And the outer solitudes. Mountain-valleys, dim with pine, Shall be home and haunt of mine. I shall search in crannied hollows. Where the sunlight scarcely follows, WINTER-STORE 167 And the secret forest brook Murmurs, and from nook to nook For ever downward curls and cools, Frothing in the bouldered pools. Many a noon shall find me laid In the pungent balsam shade, Where sharp breezes spring and shiver On some deep rough-coasted river, And the plangent waters come, Amber-hued and streaked with foam ; Where beneath the sunburnt hills All day long the crowded mills With remorseless champ and scream Overlord the sluicing stream, And the rapids' iron roar Hammers at the forest's core ; Where corded rafts creep slowly on. Glittering in the noonday sun. And the tawny river-dogs. Shepherding the branded logs. Bind and heave with cadenced cry ; Where the blackened tugs go by, Panting hard and straining slow, Labouring at the weighty tow. Flat-nosed barges all in trim. Creeping in long cumbrous line, Loaded to the water's brim With the clean, cool-scented pine. Perhaps in some low meadow land, Stretching wide on either hand, l68 LYRICS OF EARTH I shall see the belted bees Rocking with the tricksy breeze In the spired meadow-sweet, Or with eager trampling feet Burrowing in the boneset blooms, Treading out the dry perfumes. Where sun-hot hayfields newly mown Climb the hillside ruddy brown, I shall see the haymakers, While the noonday scarcely stirs, Brown of neck and booted gray, Tossing up the rustling hay. While the hay-racks bend and rock. As they take each scented cock, Jolting over dip and rise ; And the wavering butterflies O'er the spaces brown and bare Light and wander here and there, I shall stray by many a stream. Where the half-shut lilies* gleam, Napping out the sultry days In the quiet secluded bays ; Where the tasseled rushes tower O'er the purple pickerel-flower, And the floating dragon-fly — Azure glint and crystal gleam — Watches o'er the burnished stream With his eye of ebony; Where the bull-frog lolls at rest On his float of lily-leaves, That the swaying water weaves. WINTER-STORE And distends his yellow breast, Lowing out from shore to shore With a hollow vibrant roar ; Where the softest wind that blows, As it lightly comes and goes, O'er the jungled river meads, Stirs a whisper in the reeds. And wakes the crowded bull-rushes From their stately reveries, Flashing through their long-leaved hordes Like a brandishing of swords ; There, too, the frost-like arrow flowers Tremble to the golden core, Children of enchanted hours. Whom the rustling river bore In the night's bewildered noon. Woven of water and the moon. I shall hear the grasshoppers From the parched grass rehearse, And with drowsy note prolong Evermore the saiae thin song. I shall hear the crickets tell Stories by the humming well, And mark the locust, with quaint eyes, Caper in his cloak of gray Like a jester in disguise Rattling by the dusty way. I shall dream by upland fences. Where the season's wcalii. condenses Over a many weedy week, 169 170 LYRICS OF EARTH Wild, uncared-for, desert places, That sovereign Beauty loves to deck With her softest, dearest graces, There the long year dreams in quiet. And the summer's strength runs riot. Shall I not remember these, Deep in winter reveries? Berried brier and thistle-bloom, And milk-weed with its dense perfume Slender vervain towering up In a many-branched cup, Like a candlestick each spire Kindled with a violet fire ; Matted creepers and wild cherries, Purple-bunched elderberries, And on scanty plots of sod Groves of branchy goldenrod. What though autumn mornings now,. Winterward with glittering brow.. Stiffen in the silver grass ; And what though robins flock and pass, W^ith subdued and sober call. To the old year's funeral ; Though October's crimson leaves Rustle at the gusty door. And the tempest round the eaves Alternates with pipe and roar; I sit, as erst, unharmed, secure. Conscious that my store is sure, Whatsoe'er the fenced fields, Or the untilled forest yields m WINTER-STORE 171 Of unhurt remembrances, Of thoughts, far-gHmpsed, half-followed, these I have reaped and laid away, A treasure of unwinnowed grain, To the garner packed and gray Gathered without toil or strain. And when the darker days shall come. And the fields are white and dumb ; When our fires are half in vain. And the crystal starlight weaves Mockeries of summer leaves, Pictured on the icy pane ; When the high Aurora gleams Far above the Arctic streams Like a line of shifting spears. And the broad pine-circled meres, Glimmering in that spectral light. Thunder through the northern night ; Then within the bolted door I shall con my summer store ; Though the fences scarcely show Black above the drifted snow. Though the icy sweeping wind Whistle in the empty tree, Safe within the sheltered mind, I shall feed on memory. Yet across the windy night Comes upon its wings a cry ; Fashioned forms and modes take flight. And a vision sad and high It', I 172 LYRICS OF EARTH Of the labouring world clown there, Where the ights burn red and warm, Pricks my soul with sudden stare, Glowing through the veils of storm. In the city yonder sleep Those who smile and those who weep, Those whose lips are set with care. Those whose brows are smooth and fair ; Mourners whom i.ie dawning light Shall grapple with an old distress ; Lovers folded at midnight In their bridal happiness ; Pale watchers by beloved beds, Fallen adrowse with nodding heads, Whom sleep captured by surprise, With the circles round their eyes ; Maidens with quiet-taken breath. Dreaming of enchanted bowers ; Old men with the mask of death ; Little children soft as flowers ; Those who wake wild-eyed and start In some madness of the heart ; Those whose lips and brows of stone Ev'l thoughts have graven upon, Shade by shade and line by line, Refashioning what was once divine. All these sleep, and through the night. Comes a passion and a cry, With a blind sorrow and a might, I know not whence, I know not why, A something cannot control, '^HHifll THE SUN CUP A nameless hunger of the soul. It holds me fast. In vain, in vain, I remember how of old I saw the ruddy race of men, Through the glittering world outroUed, A gay-smiling multitude, All immortal, all divine. Treading in a wreathed line By a pathway through a wood. THE SUN CUP The earth is the cup of the sun, That he filleth at morning with wine, With the warm, strong wine of his might From the vintage of gold and of light. Fills it, and makes it divine. And at night when his journey is done. At the gate of his radiant hall, He setteth his lips to the brim, With a long last look of his eye. And lifts it and draineth it dry, Drains till he leaveth it all Empty and hollow and dim. And then as he passes to sleep, Still full of the feats that he did Long ago in Olympian wars, He closes it down with the sweep i74 LYKICS OF EARTH Of its slow-turning luminous lid, Its cover of darkness and stars, Wrought once by Hephaestus of old With violet and vastness and srold. ALCYONE TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER HIMSELF A POET WHO FIRST INSTRUCTED ME IN THE ART OF VERSE til 1 1-1 ni 11 ■ 1 1 1.1 r'h 'ill I ALCYONE In the silent depth of space, Immeasurably old, immeasurably far, Glittering with a silver flame Through eternity. Rolls a great and burning star, With a noble name, Alcyone ! In the glorious chart of heaven It is marked the first of seven; 'Tis a Pleiad : And a hundred years of earth With their long-forgotten deeds have come and gone. Since that tiny point of light, Once a splendour fierce and bright, Had its birth In the star we gaze upon. It has travelled all that time — Thought has not a swifter flight — Through a region where no faintest gust Of life comes ever, but the power of night Dwells stupendous and sublime. Limitless and void and lonely, 178 ALCYONE A region mute with age, and peopled only With the dead and ruined dust Of w ^rlds that Hved eternities ago. Man ! vvhen thou dost think of this, And what our earth and its existence is, The half-bHnd toils since life began. The little aims, the little span. With what passion and what pride. And what hunger fierce and wide. Thou dost break beyond it all, Seeking for the spirit unconfined In the clear abyss of mind A shelter and a peace majestical. For what is life to thee, Turning toward the primal light, With that stern and silent face, If thou canst not be Something radiant and august as night. Something wide as space? Therefore with a love and gratitude divine Thou shalt cherish in thine heart for sign A vision of the great and burning star, Immeasurably old, immeasurably far, Surging forth its silver flame Through eternity; And thine inner heart shall ring and cry With the music strange and high, The grandeur of its name Alcyone ! THE CITY OF THE END OF THINGS 179 IN MARCH The sun falls warm : the southern winds awake : The air seethes upwards with a steamy shiver : Each dip of the road is now a crystal lake, And every rut a little dancing river. Through great soft clouds that sunder overhead The deep sky breaks as pearly blue as summer : Out of a cleft beside the river's bed Flaps the black crow, the first demure newcomer. The last seared drifts are eating fast away With glassy tinkle into glittering laces : Dogs lie asleep, and little children play With tops and marbles in the sun-bare places ; And I that stroll with many a thoughtful pause Almost forget that winter ever was. THE CITY OF THE END OF THINGS Beside the pounding cataracts Of midnight streams unknown to us 'Tis builded in the leafless tracts And valleys huge of Tartarus. Lurid and lofty and vast it seems ; It hath no rounded name that rings, But I have heard it called in dreams The City of the End of Things. Its roofs and iron towers have grown None knoweth how high within the night, i8o ALCYONE But in its murky streets far down A flaming terrible and bright Shakes all the stalking shadows there. Across the walls, across the floors, And shifts upon the upper air From out a thousand furnace doors; And all the while an awful sound Keeps roaring on continually, And crashes in the ceaseless round Of a gigantic harmony. Through its grim depths re-echoing And all its weary height of walls. With measured roar and iron ring, The inhuman music lifts and falls. Where no thing rests and no man is. And only fire and night hold sway ; The beat, the thunder and the hiss Cease not, and change not, night nor day. And moving at unheard commands. The abysses and vast fires between. Flit figures that with clanking hands Obey a hideous routine ; They are not flesh, they are not bone, They see not with the human eye, And from their iron lips is blown A dreadful and monotonous crv ; And whoso of our mortal race Should find that city unaware. Lean Death would smite him face to face. And blanch him with its venomed air : Or caught by the terrific spell. Each thread of memory snapt and cut. THE CITY OF THE END OF THINGS l8l His soul would shrivel and its shell Go rattling like an empty nut. It was not always so, but once, In days that no man thinks upon, Fair voices echoed from its stones, The light above it leaped and shone : Once there were multitudes of men, That built that city in their pride. Until its might was made, and then They withered age by age and died. But now of that prodigious race, Three only in an iron tovv^er, Set like carved idols face to face. Remain the masters of its power ; And at the city gate a fourth, Gigantic and with dreadful eyes, Sits looking toward the lightless north, Beyond the reach of memories ; Fast rooted to the lurid floor, A bulk that never moves a jot, In his pale body dwells no more. Or mind or soul, — an idiot ! But sometime in the end those three Shall perish and their hands be still. And with the master's touch shall flee Their incommunicable skill. A stillness absolute as death Along the slacking wheels shall lie, And, flagging at a single breath, The fires that moulder out and die. The roar shall vanish at its height, l82 ALCYONE And over that tremendous town The silence of eternal night Shall gather close and settle down. All its grim grandeur, tower and hall, Shall be abandoned utterly, And into rust and dust shall fall From century to century ; Nor ever living thing shall grow, Nor trunk of tree, nor blade of grass ; No drop shall fall, no wind shall blow, Nor sound of any foot shall pass : Alone of its accursed state, One thing the hand of Time shall spare, For the grim Idiot at the gate Is deathless and eternal there. THE SONG SPARROW Fair little scout, that when the iron year Changes, and the first fleecy clouds deploy, Comest with such a sudden burst of joy, Lifting on winter's doomed and broken rear That song of silvery triumph blithe and clear ; Not yet quite conscious of the happy glow. We hungered for some surer touch, and lo ! One morning we awake and thou art here. And thousand^' of frail-stemmed hepaticas, With their cri=p leaves and pure and perfect hues, Light sleepers, ready for the golden news, Spring at thy note beside the forest ways — Next to thy song, the first to deck the hour — The classic lyrist and the classic flower. INTER VIAS 183 INTER VIAS *Tis a land where no hurrican«> falls, But the infinite azure regards Its waters for ever, its walls Of granite, its limitless swards ; Where the fens to their innermost pool With the chorus of May are aring, And the glades are wind-winnowed and cool With perpetual spring. Where folded and half-withdrawn The delicate wind-flowers blow, And the blood-root kindles at dawn Her spiritual taper of snow ; Where the limits are met and spanned By a waste that no husl^andman tills. And the earth-old pine forests stand In the hollows of hills. 'Tis the land that our babies behold, Deep gazing when none are aware ; And the great-hearted seers of old And the poets have known it, and there Made halt by the well-heads of truth On their difficult pilgrimage From the rose-ruddy gardens of youth To the summits of age. II Now too, as of old, it is sweet With a presence remote and serene; 1 84 ALCYONE Still its byways are pressed by the feet Of the mother immortal, its queen : The huntress whose tresses flung free, And her fillets of gold, upon earth, They only have honour to see Who are dreamers from birth. In her calm and her beauty supreme, They have found her at dawn or at eve, By the marge of some motionless stream, Or where shadows rebuild or unweave In a murmurous alley of pine. Looking upward in silent surprise, A figure, slow-moving, divine, With inscrutable eyes. REFUGE Where swallows and wheatfields are, O hamlet brown and 3till, O river that shineth far, By meadow, pier, and mill: endless sunsteeped plain, With forests in dim blue shrouds, And little wisps of rain, Falling from far-off clouds: 1 come from the choking air Of passion, doubt, and strife, if APRIL NIGHT 185 I With a spirit and mind laid bare To your healing breadth of life: O fruitful and sacred ground, O sunlight and summer sky, Absorb me and fold me round, For broken and tired am I. APRIL NIGHT How deep the \pril night is in its noon, The hopeful, solemn, many-murmured night! The earth lies hushed with expectation; bright Above the world's dark border burns the moon, Yellow and large ; from forest floorways, strewn With flowers, and fields that tingle with new birth, The moist smell of the unimprisoned earth Comes up, a sigh, a haunting promise. Soon, Ah, soon, the teeming triumph ! At my feet The river with its stately sweep and wheel Moves on slow-motioned, luminous, gray like steel. From fields far off whose watery hollows gleam, Aye with blown throats that make the long hours sweet. The sleepless toads are murmuring in their dreams. PERSONALITY O differing human heart. Why is it that I tremble when thine eyes, Thy human eyes and beautiful human speech, Draw me, and stir within my soul ijl ■ 1 86 ALCYONE That subtle ineradicable longing For tender comradeship? It is because I cannot all at once, Through the half-lights anr' phantom-haunted mists That separate and enshroud us life from life, Discern the nearness or the strangeness of thy paths, Nor plumb thy depths. I am like one that comes alone at night To a strange stream, and by an unknown ford Stands, and for a moment yearns and shrinks, Being ignorant of the v/ater, though so quiet it is, So softly murmurous. So silvered by the familiar moon. TO M\ DAUGHTER O little one, daiighter, my dearest. With your smiles and your beautiful curls, And your laughter, the brightest and clearest, gravest and gayest of girls ; With your hands that are softer than roses, And your lips that are lighter than flowers. And that innocent brow that discloses A wisdom more lovely than ours ; With your locks that encumber, or scatter In a thousand mercurial gleams, And those feet whose impetuous patter 1 hear and remember in dreams ; CIIIONE 187 With your manner of motherly duty, When you play with your dolls and are wise; With your wonders of speech, and the beauty In your little imperious eyes; When I hear you so silverly ringing Your welcome from chamber or stair, When you run to me kissing and clinging, So radiant, so rosily fair; 1 bend like an ogre above you • I bury my face in youi curls; I fold you, I clasp you, I love you, O baby, queen-blossom of girls! CHIONE Scarcely a breath about the rocky stair Moved, but the growing tide from verge to verge. Heaving salt fragrance on the midnight air, Climbed with a murmurous and fitful surge. A hoary mist rose up and slowly sheathed The dripping walls and portal granite-stepped. And sank into the inner court, and crept From column unto column thickly wreathed. In that dead hour of darkness before dawn, When hearts beat fainter and the hands of death Are strengthened, with lips white and drawn And feverish lids and scarcely moving breath 1 88 ALCYONE The hapless mother, tender Chione, Beside the earth-cold figure of her child, After long bursts of weeping sharp and wild Lay broken, silent in her agony. At first in waking horror racked and bound She lay, and then a gradual stupor grew About her soul and wrapped her round and round Like death, and then she sprang to life anew Out of a darkness clammy as the tomb ; And, touched by memory or some spirit hand. She seemed to keep a pathway down a land Of monstrous shadow and Cimmerian gloom. A waste of cloudy and perpetual night — And yet there seemed a teeming presence there Of life that gathered onward in thick flight. Unseen, but multitudinous. Aware Of something also on her path she was That drew her heart forth with a tender cry. She hurried with drooped ear and eager eye, And called on the foul shapes to let her pass. For down the sloping darkness far ahead She saw a little figure slight and small, With yearning arms and shadowy curls outspread, Running at frightened speed; and it would fall And rise, sobbing ; and through the ghostly sleet The cry came: 'Mother! Mother!' and she wist The tender eyes were blinded by the mist, And the rough stones were bruising the small feet. CHIONE 189 And when she lifted a keen cry and clave Forthright the gathering horror of the place, Mad with her love and pity, a dark wave Of clapping shadows swept about her face, And beat her back, and when she gained her breath. Athwart an awful vale a grizzled steam Was rising from a mute and murky stream. As cold and cavernous as the eye of death. And near the ripple stood the little shade, And many hovering ghosts drew near him, some That seemed to peer out of the mist and fade With eyes of soft and shadowing pity, dumb ; But others closed him round with eager sighs And sweet insistence, striving to caress And comfort him : but grieving none the less, He reached her heartstrings with his tender cries. And silently across the horrid flow, The shapeless bark and pallid chalklike arms Of him that oared it, dumbly to and fro, Went gliding, and the struggling ghosts in swarms Leaped in and passed, but myriads more behind Crowded the dismal beaches. One might hear A tumult of entreaty thin and clear Rise like the whistle of a winter wind. And still the little figure stood beside The hideous stream, and toward the whispering prow Held forth his tender tremulous hands, and cried, Now to the awful ferryman, and now iiiili 190 ALCYONE To her that battled with the shades in vain. Sometimes impending over all her sight The spongy dark and the phantasmal flight Of things half-shapen passed and hid the plain. And sometimes in a gust a sort of wind Drove by, and where its power was hurled, She saw across the twilight, jarred and thinned, Those gloomy meadows of the under world, Where never sunlight was, nor grass, nor trees, And the dim pathways from the Stygian shore. Sombre and swart and barren, wandered o'er By countless melancholy companies. And farther still upon the utmost rim Of the drear waste, whereto the roadways led. She saw in piling outline, huge and dim. The walled and towered dwellings of the dead And the grim house of Hades. Then she broke Once more fierce-footed through the noisome press; But ere she reached the goal of her distress. Her pierced heart seemed to shatter, and she woke. It seemed as she had been entombed for years, And came again to living with a start. There was an awful echoing in her cars And a great deadness pressing at her heart. She shuddered and with terror seemed to freeze, Lip-shrunken and wide-eyed a moment's space. And then she touched the little lifeless face. And kissed it and rose up upon her krees. CHIONE 191 And round her still the silence seemed to teem With the foul shadows of her dream beguiled — No dream, she thought ; it could not be a dream, But her child called for her; her child, her child! — She clasped her quivering fingers white and spare, And knelt low down, and bending her fair head Unto the lower gods who rule the dead. Touched them with tender homage and this prayer: O gloomy masters of the dark demesne. Hades, and thou whom the dread deity Bore once from earthly Enna for his queen, Beloved of Demeter, pale Persephone, Grant me one boon ; 'Tis not for life I pray. Not life, but quiet death ; and that soon, soon ! Loose from my soul this heavy weight of clay, This net of useless woe. mournful mother, sad Persephone, Be mindful, let me go ! How shall he journey to the dismal beach. Or win the ear of Charon, without one To keep him and stand by him, sure of speech? He is so little, and has just begun To use his feet And speak a few small words, And all his daily usage has been sweet As the soft nesting ways of tender birds. How shall he fare at all Across that grim inhospitable land, 192 ALCYONE If I too be not by to hold his hand, And help him if he fall? And then before the gloomy judges set, How shall he answer? Oh, I cannot bear To see his tender cheeks with weeping wet, Or hear the sobbing cry of his despair ! I could not rest. Nor live with patient mind. Though knowing what is fated must be best; But surely thou art more than mortal kind, And thou canst feel my woe. All-pitying, all-observant, all-divine; He is so little, mother Proserpine, He needs me, let me go ! Thus far she prayed, and then she lost her way. And left the half of all her heart unsaid. And a great languor seized her, and she lay, Soft fallen, by the little silent head. Her numbed lips had passed beyond control, Her mind could neither plan nor reason more. She saw dark waters and an unknown shore. And the gray shadows crept about her soul. Again through darkness on an evil land She seemed to enter but without distress. A little spirit led her by the hand And her wide heart was warm with tenderness. Her lips, still moving, conscious of one care, Murmured a moment in soft mother tones, And so fell silent. From their sombre thrones Already the grim gods had heard her prayer. THE SONG OF PAN 193 TO THE CRICKET Didst thou not tease and fret me to and fro, Sweet spirit of this summer-circled field, With that quiet voice of thine that would not yield Its meaning, though I mused and sought it so? But now I am content to let it go, To lie at length and watch the swallows pass, As blithe and restful as this quiet grass, Content only to listen and to know That years shall turn, and summers yet shall shine. And I shall lie beneath these swaying trees. Still listening thus ; haply at last to seize, And render in some happier verse divine That friendly, homely, haunting speech of thine, That perfect utterance of content and ease. THE SONG OF PAN Mad with love and laden With immortal pain. Pan pursued a maiden — Pan, the god — in vain. For when Pan had nearly Touched her, wild to plead, She was gone — and clearly In her place a reed ! 13 194 ALCYONE I n Long the god, unwitting, Through the valley strayed; Then at last submitting, Cut the reed, and made, Deftly fashioned, seven Pipes, and poured his pain Unto earth and heaven In a piercing strain. So with god and poet ; Beauty lures them on, Flies, and ere they know it Like a wraith is gone. Then they seek to borrow Pleasure still from wrong, And with smiling sorrow Turn it to a song. THE ISLET AND THE PALM gentle sister spirit, when you smile My soul is like a gentle coral isle, An islet shadowed by a single palm, Ringed round with reef and foam, but inly calm. And all day long I listen to the speech Of wind and \vater on my charmed beach : 1 see far ofif beyond mine outer shore The ocean flash, and hear his harmless roar. A VISION OF TWILIGHT And in the night-time when the glorious sun, With all his life and all his light, is done. The wind still murmurs in my slender tree, And shakes the moonlight on the silver sea. 195 A VISION OF TWILIGHT By a void and soundless river On the outer edge of space. Where the body comes not ever, But the absent dream hath place. Stands a city tall and quiet, And its air is sweet and dim; Never sound of grief or riot Makes it mad, or makes it grim. And the tender skies thereover Neither sun, nor star, behold — Only dusk it hath for cover,- — But a glamour soft with gold. Through a mist of dreamier essence Than the dew of twilight, smiles On strange shafts and domes and crescents. Lifting into eerie piles. In its courts and hallowed places Dreams of distant worlds arise. Shadows of transfigured faces. Glimpses of immortal eyes. 196 ALCYONE i Echoes of serenest pleasure, Notes o{ perfect speech that fall. Through an air of endless leisure. Marvellously musical. And I wander there at even, Sometimes when my heart is clear. When a wider round of heaven And a vaster world are near, When from many a shadow steeple Sounds of dreamy bells begin, And I love the gentle people That my spirit finds therein. Men of a diviner making Than the sons of pride and strife. Quick with love and pity, breaking From a knowledge old as life; Women of a spiritual rareness, Whom old passion and old woe Moulded to a slenderer fairness Than the dearest shapes we know. In its domed and towered centre Lies a garden wide and fair, Open for the soul to enter, And the watchful townsmen there Greet the stranger gloomed and fretting From this world of stormy hands. With a look that deals forgetting And a touch that understands. A VISION OF TWILIGHT 197 For they see with power, not borrowed From a record taught or told, But they loved and laughed and sorrowed In a thousand worlds of old; Now they rest and dream for ever, And with hearts serene and whole See the struggle, the old fever. Clear as on a painted scroll. Wandering by that gray and solemn Water, with its ghostly quays — Vistas of vast arch and column. Shadowed by unearthly trees — Biddings of sweet power compel me, And I go with bated breath, Listening to the tales they tell me, Parables of Life and Death. In a tongue that once was spoken. Ere the world was cooled by Time When the spirit flowed unbroken Through the flesh, and the Sublime Mnde the eyes of men far-seeing, ..\nd their souls as pure as rain. They declare the ends of being. And the sacred need of pain. For they know the sweetest reasons For the products most malign — They can tell the paths and seasons Of the farthest suns that shine. 198 ALCYONE I How the moth-wing's iridescence By an inward plan was wrought. And they read me curious lessons In the secret ways of thought. When day turns, and over heaven To the balmy western verge Sail the victor fleets of even, And the pilot stars emerge, Then my city rounds and rises, Like a vapour formed afar, And its sudden girth surprises. And its shadowy gates unbar. Dreamy crowds are moving yonder In a faint and phantom blue; Through the dusk I lean, and wonder If their winsome shapes are true ; But in veiling indecision Comes my question back again — Which is real? The fleeting vision? Or the fleeting world of men? EVENING From upland slopes I see the cows file by. Lowing, great-chested, down the homeward trail, By dusking fields and meadows shining pale With moon-tipped dandelions. Flickering high, A peevish night-hawk in the western sky Beats up into the lucent solitudes, THE CLEARER SELF 199 Or drops with griding wing. The stilly woods Grow dark and deep and gloom mysteriously. Cool night winds creep, and whisper in mine ear. The homely cricket gossips at my feet. From far-off pools and wastes of reeds I hear, Clear and soft-piped, the chanting frogs break sweet In full Pandean chorus. One by one Shine out the stars, and the great night comes on. THE CLEARER SELF Before me grew the human soul, And after I am dead and gone. Through grades of effort and control The marvellous work shall still go on. Each mortal in his little span Hath only lived, if he have shown What greatness there can be in man Above the measured and the known; :f"--F How through the ancient layers of night, In gradual victory secure, Grows ever with increasing light The Energy serene and pure : The Soul that from a monstrous past. From age to age, from hour to hour, Feels upward to some height at last Of unimagined grace and power. 200 ALCYONE Though yet the sacred fire be dull, In folds of thwarting matter furled, Ere death be nigh, while life is full, O Master Spirit of the world, Grant me to know, to seek, to find, In some small measure though it be. Emerging from the waste and blind, The clearer self, the grander me 1 TO THE PROPHETIC SOUL What are these bustlers at the gate Of now or yesterday. These playthings in the hand of Fate, That pass, and point no way; These clinging bubbles whose mock fires For ever dance and gleam. Vain foam that gathers and expires Upon the world's dark stream; These gropers betwixt right and wrong. That seek an unknown goal. Most ignorant when they seem most strong; What are they, then, O Soul, That thou shouldst covet overmuch A tenderer range of heart. And yet at every drcamed-of touch So tremulously start? THE LAND OF PALLAS 20 1 Thou with that hatred ever new Of the world's base control, That vision of the large and true, That quickness of the soul; Nay, for they are not of thy kind, But in a rarer clay God dowered thee with an alien mind ; Thou canst not be as they. Be strong, therefore ; resume thy load, And forward stone by stone Go singing, though the glorious road Thou travellest alone. THE LAND OF PALLAS Methought I journeyed along ways that led for ever Throughout a happy land where strife and care were dead. And life went flowing by me like a placid river Past sandy eyots where the shifting shoals make head. A land where beauty dwelt supreme, and right, the donor Of peaceful days; a land of equal gifts and deeds. Of limitless fair fields and plenty had with honour ; A land of kindly tillage and untroubled meads, ^ 202 ALCYONE Of gardens, and great fields, and dreaming rose- wreathed alleys, Wherein at dawn and dusk the vesper sparrows sang; Of cities set far off on hills down vista'd valleys, And floods so vast and old, men wist not whence they sprang. Of groves, and forest depths, and fountains softly welling, And roads that ran soft-shadowed past the open doors, Of mighty palaces and many a lofty dwelling, Where all men entered and no master trod their floors. A land of lovely speech, where every tone was fashioned By generations of emotion high and sweet. Of thought and deed and bearing lofty and impas- sioned ; A land of golden calm, grave forms, and fretless feet. And every mode and saying of that land gave token Of limits where no death or evil fortune fell. And men lived out long lives in proud content unbroke: For there no man was rich, none poor, but all were well. I i THE LAND OF PALLAS 205 And all the earth was common, and no base con- triving Of money of coined gold was needed there or known. But all men wrought together without greed or striving, And all the store of all to each man was his own. From all that busy land, gray town, and peaceful village, Where never jar was heard, nor wail nor cry of strife. From every laden stream and all the fields of tillage. Arose the murmur and the kindly hum of life. At morning to the fields came forth the men, each neighbour Hand-linked to other, crowned, with wreaths upon their hair. And all day long with joy they gave their hands to labour. Moving at will, unhastened, each man to his share. At noon the women came, the tall fair women, bearing Baskets of wicker in their ample hands for each, And learned the day's brief tale, and how the fields were faring. And blessed them with their lofty beauty and blithe speech. And when the great day's toil was over, and the shadows Ifflililiilll! 204 ALCYONE i^nw 1 H 'i^^^H I «^^H 1 m Grew with the flocking stars, the sound of festival Rose in each city square, and all the country meadows. Palace, and paven court, and every rustic hall. Beside smooth streams, where alleys and green gar- dens meeting Ran downward to the flood with marble steps, a throng Came forth of all the folk, at even, gaily greeting. With echo of sweet converse, jest, and stately song. In all their great fair cities there was neither seeking For power of gold, nor greed of lust, nor desperate pain Of multitudes that starve, or in hoarse anger breaking, Beat at the doors of princes, break and fall in vain. But all the children of that peaceful land, like brothers, Lofty of spirit, wise, and ever set to learn The chart of neighbouring souls, the bent and need of others, Thought only of good deeds, sweet speech, and just return. And there there was no prison, power of arms, nor palace, Where prince or judge held sway, for none was needed there; ^. THE LAND OF PALLAS 205 Long ages since the very names of fraud and malice Had vanished from men's tongues, and died from all men's care. And there there were no bonds of contract, deed or marriage. No oath, nor any form, to make the word more sure, For no man dreamed of hurt, dishonour, or mis- carriage, Where every thought was truth, and every heart was pure. There were no castes of rich or poor, of slave or master, Where all were brothers, and the curse of gold was dead, But all that wise fair race to kindlier ends and vaster Moved on together with the same majestic tread. And all the men and women of that land were fairer Than even the mightiest of our meaner race can be; The men like gentle children, great of limb, yet rarer For wisdom and high thought, like kings for majesty. And all the women through great ages of bright living, Grown goodlier of stature, strong, and subtly wise, 206 ALCYONE 1 Stood equal with the men, calm counsellors, ever giving The fire and succour of proud faith and dauntless eyes. And as I journeyed in that land I reached a ruin, A gateway of a lonely and secluded waste, A phantom of forgotten time and ancient doing, Eaten by age and violence, crumbled and defaced. On its grim outer walls the ancient world's sad glories Were recorded in fire; upon its inner stone, Drawn by dead hands, I saw, in tales and tragic stories. The woe and sickness of an age of fear made known. And lo, in that gray storehouse, fallen to dust and rotten, Lay piled the traps and engines of forgotten greed, The tomes of codes and canons, long disused, for- gotten, The robes and sacred books of many a vanished creed. An old grave man I found, white-haired and gently spoken, Who, as I questioned, answered with a smile benign, *Long years have come and gone since these poor gauds were broken. Broken and banished from a life made more divine. THE LAND OF PALLAS 207 'But still we keep them stored as once our sires deemed fitting, The symbol of dark days and lives remote and strange, Lest o'er tlie minds of any there should come unwitting The thought of some new order and the lust of change. 'If any grow disturbed, we bring them gently hither, To read the world's grim record and the sombre lore Massed in these pitiless vaults, and they returning thither, Bear with them quieter thoughts, and make for change no more.' And thence I journeyed on by one broad way that bore me Out of that waste, and as I passed by tower and town I saw amid the limitless plain far out before me A long low mountain, blue as beryl, and its crown Was capped by marble roofs that shone like snow for whiteness, Its foot was deep in gardens, and that blossoming plain Seemed in the radiant shower of its majestic brightness A land for gods to dwell in, free from care and pain. 208 ALCYONE And to and forth from that fair mountain like a river Ran many a diin gray road, and on them I could see A multitude of stately forms that seemed for ever Going and coming in bright bands ; and near to me Was one that in his journey seemed to dream and linger, Walking at whiles with kingly step, then standing still. And him I met and asked him, pointing with my finger. The meaning of the palace and the lofty hill. Whereto .he dreamer: 'Art thou of this land, my broth er. And knowest not the mountain and its crest of walls. Where dwells the priestless worship of the all-wise mother? That is the hill of Pallas ; those her marble halls ! 'There dwell the lords of knowledge and of thought increasing. And they whom insight and the gleams of song uplift ; And thence as by a hundred conduits flows unceasing The spring of power and beauty, an eternal gift. Still I passed on until I reached at length, not knowing Vv'hither the tangled and diverging paths might lead, THE LAND OF PALLAS 209 A land of baser men, whose coming and whose going Were urged by fear, and liungcr, and tlic curse of greed. I saw the proud and fortunate go by me, faring In fatness and fine robes, the poor oppressed and slow, The faces of bowed men, and piteous women bearing The burden of perpetual sorrow and the stamp of woe. And tides of deep solicitude and wondering pity Possessed me, and with eager and uplifted hands I drew the crowd about me in a mighty city, And taught the message of those other kindlier lands. I preached the rule of Faith and brotherly Com- munion, The law of Peace and Beauty and the death of Strife, And painted in great words the horror of disunion. The vainness of self-worship, and the waste of life. I preached but fruitlessly ; the powerful from their stations Rebuked me as an anarch, envious and bad, And they that served them with lean hands and bitter patience Smiled only out of hollow orbs, and deemed me mad. 14 2IO ALCYONE And still I preached, and wrought, and still I bore my message. For well I knew that on and upward without cease The spirit works for ever, and by Faith and Presage That somehow yet the end of human life is Peace. AMONG THE ORCHARDS Already in the dew-wrapped vineyards dry Dense weights of heat press down. The large bright drops Shrink in the leaves. From dark acacia tops The nut-hatch flinp;^s his short reiterate cry ; And ever as the sun mounts hot and high Thin voices crowd the grass. In soft long strokes The wind goes murmuring through the mountain oaks. Faint wefts creep out along the blue ar I hear far in among the motionless trees — Shadows that sleep upon the shaven sod — The thud of dropping apples. Reach on reach Stretch plots of perfumed orchard, where the bees Murmur among the full-fringed goldenrod Or cling half-drunken to the rotting peach. THE POET'S SONG There came no change from week to week On all the land, but all one way, Like ghosts that cannot touch or speak, Day followed day. THE poet's song 211 Within the palace court the rounds Of glare and shadow, day and night, Went ever with the same dull sounds. The same dull flight: The motion of slow forms of state, The far-oflf murmur of the street, The din of couriers at the gate, Half-mad with heat: Sometimes a distant shout of boys At play upon the terrace walk. The shutting of great doors, and noise Of muttered talk. In one red corner of the wall. That fronted with its granite stain The town, the palms, and beyond all. The burning plain. As listless as the hour, alone. The poet by his broken lute Sat like a figure in the stone, Dark-browed and mute. He saw the heat on the thin grass Fall till it withered joint by joint, The shadow on the dial pass From point to point. He saw the midnight bright and bare Fill with its quietude of stars 212 ALCYONE The silence that no human prayer Attains or mars. He heard the hours divide, and still The sentry on the outer wall Make the night wearier with his shrill Monotonous call. He watched the lizard where it lay, Impassive as the watcher's face ; And only once in the long day It changed its place. Sometimes with clank of hoofs and cries The noon through all its trance was stirred The poet sat with half-shut eyes, Nor saw, nor heard. And once across the heated close Light laughter in a silver shower Fell from fair lips : the poet rose And cursed the hour. Men paled and sickened ; half in fear, There came to him at dusk of eve One who but murmured in his ear And plucked his sleeve : 'The king is filled with irks, distressed, And bids thee hasten to his side ; For thou alone canst give him rest.' The poet cried : THE poet's song 213 'Go show the king this broken kite ! Even as it is, so am I ! The tree is perished to its root, The fountain dry. 'What seeks he of the leafless tree. The broken lute, the empty spring? Yea, tho' he gave his crown to me, I cannot sing!' II That night there came from either hand A sense of change upon the land ; A brooding stillness rustled through With creeping winds that hardly blew ; A shadow from the looming west, A stir of leaves, a dim unrest ; It seemed as if a spell had broke. And then the poet turned and woke As from the darkness of a dream. And with a smile divine supreme Drew up his mantle fold on fold, And strung his lute with strings of gold, And bound the sandals to his feet, And strode into the darkling street. Through crowds of murmuring m-^n he hied, With working lips and swinging s.' Ic, And gleaming eyes and brow bent down; Out of the great gate of the town 214 ALCYONE He hastened ever and passed on, And ere the darkness came, was gone, A mote beyond the western swell. And then the storm arose and fell From wheeling shadows black with rain That drowned the hills and F.rode the plain; Round the grim mountain-heads it passed, Down whistling valleys blast on blast. Surged in UDon the snapping trees. And swept Il^c shuddering villages. That night, when the fierce hours grew long. Once more the monarch, old and gray, Called for the poet and his song, And called in vain. But far away, By the wild mountain-gorges, stirred, The shepherds in their watches heard. Above the torrent's charge and clang. The cleaving chant of one that sang. A THUNDERSTORM A moment the wild swallows like a flight Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high, Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky. The leaves hang still. Above the weird twilight. The hurrying centres of the storm unite And spreading with huge trunk and rolling fringe, Each wheeled upon its own tremendous hinge. THE CITY 215 Tower darkening on. And now from heaven's height, With the long roar of elm-trees swept and swayed, And pelted waters, on the vanished plain Plunges the blast. Behind the wild white flash That splits abroad the pealing thunder-crash, Over bleared fields and gardens disarrayed. Column on column comes the drenching rain. THE CITY Canst thou not rest, O city. That Hest so wide and fair; Shall never an hour bring pity. Nor end be found for care? Thy walls are high in heaven. Thy streets are gay and wide, Beneath thy towers at even The dreamy waters glide. Thou art fair as the hills at morning, And the sunshine loveth thee. But its light is a gloom of warning On a soul no longer free. The curses of gold are about thee, And thy sorrow deepeneth still ; One madness within and without thee. One battle blind and shrill. 2l6 ALCYONE I see the crowds for ever Go by with hurrying feet; Through doors that darlcen never I hear the engines beat. Through days and nights that follow The hidden mill-wheel strains ; In the midnight's windy hollow I hear the roar of trains. And still the day fulfilleth, And still the night goes round, And the guest-hall boometh and shrilleth, With the dance's mocking sound. In chambers of gold elysian, The cymbals clash and clang, But the days are gone like a vision When the people wrought and sang. And toil hath fear for neighbour. Where singing lips are dumb, And life is one long labour, Till death or freedom come. Ah 1 the crowds that for ever are flowing— They neither laugh nor weep — I see them coming and going, Like things that move in sleep : Gray sires and burdened brothers. The old. the young, the fair, SAPPHICS Wan cheeks of pallid mothers, And the girls with golden hair. Care sits in many a fashion, Grown gray on many a head, And lips are turned to ashen Whose years have right to red. Canst thou not rest, O city, That liest so wide, so fair; Shall never an hour bring pity, Nor end be found for care? 217 SAPPHICS Clothed in splendour, beautifully sad and silent. Comes the autumn over the woods and highlands, Golden, rose-red, full of divine remembrance, Full of foreboding. Soon the maples, soon will the glowing birches, Stripped of all that summer and love had dowered them. Dream, sad-limbed, beholding their pomp and treasure Ruthlessly scattered : Yet they quail not : Winter with wind and iron Comes and finds them silent and uncomplaining, Finds them tameless, beautiful still and gracious.. Gravely enduring. 2l8 ALCYONE Me too changes, bitter and full of evil, Dream by dream have plundered and left me naked, Gray with sorrow. Even the days before me Fade into twilight, Mute and barren. Yet will I keep my spirit Clear and valiant, brother to these my noble Elms and maples, utterly grave and fearless, Grandly ungrieving. Brief the span is, counting the years of mortals, Strange and sad ; it passes, and then the bright earth, Careless mother, gleaming with gold and azure, Lovely with blossoms — Shining white anemones, mixed with roses, Daisies mild-eyed, grasses and honeyed clover — You and me, and all of us, met and equal. Softly shall cover. VOICES OF EARTH We have not heard the music of the spheres, The ^ong of star to star, but there are sounds More deep than human joy and human tears. That Nature uses in her common rounds ; The fall of streams, the cry of winds tiiat strain The oak, the roaring of the sea's surge, might Of thunder breaking afar off, or rain That falls by minutes in the summer night. These are the voices of earth's secret soul, Uttering the mystery from which she came. PECCAVI, DOMINE 219 To him who hears them grief beyond control. Or joy inscrutable without a name, Wakes in his heart thoughts bedded there, impearled, Before the birth and making of the world. PECCAVI, DOMINE O Power to whom this earthly clime Is but an atom in the whole, O Poet-heart of Space and Time, O Maker and immortal Soul, Within whose glowing rings are bound, Out of whose sleepless heart had birth The cloudy blue, the starry round, And this small miracle of earth : [ Who liv'st in every living thmg, And all things are thy script and chart, Who rid'st upon the eagle's wing. And yearnest in the human heart ; O Riddle with a single clue. Love, deathless, protean, secure. The ever old the ever new, O Energy, serene and pure. Thou, who art also part of me, Whose glory I have sometime seen, O Vision of the Ought-to-be, O Memory of the Might-have-been, f- ^: \ 220 ALCYONE I have had glimpses of thy way, And moved with winds and walked with stars, But, weary, I have fallen astray, And, wounded, who shall count my scars? Master, all my strength is gone; Unto the very earth I bow ; 1 have no light to lead me on ; With aching heart and burning brow, I lie as one that travaileth In sorrow more than he can bear; I sit in darkness as of death, And scatter dust upon my hair. The God within my soul hath slept, And I have shamed the nobler rule ; Master, I have whined and crept ; O Spirit, I have played the fool. Like him of old upon whose head His follies hung in dark arrears, 1 groan and travail in my bed. And water it with bitter tears. I stand upon thy mountain-heads. And gaze until mine eyes are dim ; The golden morning glows and spreads ; The hoary vapours break and swim. I see thy blossoming fields, divine. Thy shining clouds, thy blessed trees — And then that broken soul of mine — How much less beautiful than these! AN ODK TO THE HILLS 221 O Spirit, passionless, but kind, Is there in all the world, I cry. Another one so base and blind. Another one so weak as I? Power, unchangeable, but just, Impute this one good thing to me, 1 sink my spirit to the dust In utter dumb humility. AN ODE TO THE HILLS " I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help." Psalm cxxi. iEons ago ye were, Before the struggling changeful race of men Wrought into being, ere the tragic stir Of human toil and deep desire began : So shall ye still remain, Lords of an elder and immutable race. When many a broad metropolis of the plain, Or thronging port by some renowned shore, Is sunk in nameless ruin, and its place Recalled no more. ■ Empires have come and gone, And glorious cities fallen in their prime ; Divine, far-echoing, names once writ in stone Have vanished in the dust and void of time ; But ye, firm-set, secure, Like Treasure in the hardness of God's palm, \ ffi m 222 ALCYONE Are yet the same for ever ; ye endure By virtue of an old slow-ripening word, In your gray majesty and sovereign calm, Untouched, unstirred. Tempest and thunderstroke, With whirlwinds dipped in midnight at t^^e core, Have torn strange furrows through your forest cloak, And made your hollow gorges clash and roar, And scarred your brows in vain. Around your barren heads and granite steeps Tempestuous gray battalions of the rain Charge and recharge, across the plateaued floors, Drenching the serried pines; and the hail sweeps Your pitiless scaurs. The long midsummer heat Chars the thin leafage of your rocks in fire : Autumn with windy robe and ruinous feet On your wide forests wreaks his fell desire. Heaping in barbarous wreck The treasure of your sweet and prosperous days ; And lastly the grim tyrant, at whose beck Channels are turned to stone and tempests wheel, On brow and breast and shining shoulder lays His hand of steel. And yet not harsh alone. Nor wild, nor bitter, are your destinies, O fair and sweet, for all your heart of stone, Who gather beauty round your Titan knees. As the lens gathers light. AN ODE TO THE HILLS 223 The dawn gleams rosy on your splendid brows, The sun at noonday folds you in his niiglit, And swathes your forehead at his going down, Last leaving, where he first in pride bestows, His golden crown. I e, loak, ■s, DS In unregarded glooms, Where hardly shall a human footstep pass, Myriads of ferns and soft maianthemums. Or lily-breathing slender pyrolas Distil their hearts for you. Far in your pine-clad fastnesses ye keep Coverts the lonely thrush shall wander through. With echoes that seem ever to recede, Touching from pine to pine, from steep to steep, His ghostly reed. The fierce things of the wild Find food and shelter in your tenantless rocks. The eagle on whose wings the dawn hath smiled, The loon, the wild-cat, and the bright-eyed fox; For far away indeed Are all the ominous noises of mankind. The slaughterer's malice and the trader's greed : Your rugged haunts endure no slavery : No treacherous hand is there to crush or bind, But all are free. Therefore out of the stir Of cities and the ever-thickening press The poet and the worn philosopher To your bare peaks and radiant loneliness 224 ALCYONE Escape, and breathe once more The wind of the Eternal • that clear mood, Which Nature and the elder ages bore, Lends them new coura^t^e and a second prime, At rest upon the cool infinitude Of Space and Time. I The mists of troublous days, The horror of fierce hands and fraudful lips. The blindness gathered in Life's aimless ways Fade from them, and the kind Earth-spirit strips The bandage from their eyes. Touches their hearts and bids them feel and see; Beauty and Knowledge with that rare apprise Pour over them from some divine abode, Falling as in a flood of memory, The bliss of God. I too perchance some day, When Love and Life have fallen far apart, Shall slip the yoke and seek your upward way And make my dwelling in your changeless heart ; And there in some quiet glade, Some virgin plot of turf, some innermost dell. Pure with cool water and inviolate shade, ril build a blameless altar to the dear And kindly gods who guard your haunts so well From hurt or fear. There I will dream day-long. And honour them in many sacred ways. INDIAN SUMMER 225 With hushed melody and uttered song, And golden meditation and with praise. I'll touch them with a prayer, To clothe my spirit as your might is clad With all things bountiful, divine, and fair, Yet inwardly to make me hard and true, Wide-seeing, passionless, immutably glad, And strong like you. INDIAN SUMMER The old gray year is near his term in sooth. And now with backward eye and soft-laid palm Awakens to a golden dream of youth, A second childhood lovely and most calm. And the smooth hour about his misty head An awning of enchanted splendour weaves, Of maples, amber, purple, and rose-red, And droop-limbed elms down-dropping golden leaves. With still half-fallen lids he sits and dreams Far in a hollow of the sunlit wood. Lulled by the murmur of thin-threading streams. Nor sees the polar armies overflood The darkening barriers of the hills, nor hears The north-wind ringing with a thousand spears. 15 226 ALCYONK GOOD SPEECH Tliink not, because thine inmost heart means well, Thou hast the freedom of rude speech : sweet words Are like the voices of returning birds Filling the soul with summer, or a bell That calls the weary and the sick to prayer. Even as thy thought, so let thy speech be fair. THE BETTER DAY Harsh thoughts, blind angers, and fierce hands. That keep this restless world at strife. Mean passions that like choking sands. Perplex the stream of life. Pride and hot envy and cold greed. The cankers of the loftier will. What if ye triumph, and yet bleed? Ah, can ye not be still? Oh, shall there be no space, no time, No century of weal in store, No freedom in a nobler clime, Where men shall strive no more? Where every motion of the heart Shall serve the spirit's master-call. Where self shall be the unseen part. And human kindness all? WHITE PANSIKS 227 Or shall we but by fits and gleams Sink satisfied, and cease to rave, Find love but in the rest of dreams, And peace but in the grave? WHITE PANSIES Day and night pass over, rounding, Star and cloud and sun. Things of drift and sliadow, empty Of my dearest one. Soft as slumber was my baby. Beaming bright and sweet ; Daintier than bloom or jewel Were his hands and feet. He was mine, mine all, mine only, Mine and his the debt; Earth and Life and Time are changers ; I shall not forget. Pansies for my dear one — heartsease — Set them gently so ; For his stainless lips and forehead, Pansies v/hite as snow. Would that in the flower-grown little Grave they dug so deep, I might rest beside him, dreamles;*. Smile no more, nor weep. P I H s^^^^^fsiix^ . iiWj^i&sMf ill iil 228 ALCYONE WE TOO SHALL SLEEP Not, not for thee, Beloved child, the burning grasp of life Shall bruise the tender soul. The noise, and strife. And clamour of midday thou shalt not see ; But wrapped for ever in thy quiet grave. Too little to have known the earthly lot, Time's dashing hosts above thine innocent head, Wave upon wave, Shall break, or pass as with an army's tread. And harm thee not. A few short years We of the living flesh and restless brain Shall plumb the deeps of life and know the strain, The fleeting gleams of joy, the fruitless tears ; And then at last when all is touched and tried, Our own immutable night shall fall, and deep In the same silent plot, O little friend, Side by thy side, In peace that changeth not, nor knoweth end, We too shall sleep. THE AUTUMN WASTE There is no break in all the wide gray sky. Nor light on any field, and the wind grieves And talks of death. Where cold gray waters lie Ror-^d grayer stones, and the new-fallen leaves VIVIA PERPETUA 229 Heap the chill hollows of the naked woods, A lisping moan, an inarticulate cry, Creeps far among the charnel solitudes, Numbing the waste with mindless misery. In these bare paths, these melancholy lands, What dream, or flesh, could ever have been young? What lovers have gone forth with linked hands? What flowers could ever have bloomed, what birds have sung? Life, hopes, and liuman things seem wrapped away, With shrouds and spectres, in one long decay. VIVIA PERPETUA Now being on the eve of death discharged From every mortal hope and earthly care, I questioned how my soul might best employ This hand, and this still wakeful flame of mind In the brief hours yet left me for their use ; Wherefore have I bethought me of my friend. Of you Philarchus, and your company. Yet wavering in the faith and unconfirmed; Perchance that I may break into thine heart Some sorrowful channel for the love divine, I make this simple record of our proof In divers sufferings for the name of Christ, Whereof the end already for the most Is death this dav with steadfast faith endured. We were in prison many days, close-pent In the black lower dungeon, housed with thieves 230 ALCYONE I'M 'm And murderers and divers evil men; So foul a pressure, we had almost died, Even there, in struggle for the breath of life Amid the stench and unendurable heat; Nor could we find each other save by voice Or touch, to know that we were yet alive, So terrible was the darkness. Yea, 'twas hard To keep the sacred courage in our hearts, When all was blind with that unchanging night. And foul with death, and on our ears the taunts And ribald curses of the soldiery Fell mingled with the prisoners' cries, a load Sharper to bear, more bitter than their blows. At first what with that dread of our abode, Our sudden apprehension, and the threats Ringing perpetually in our ears, we lost The living fire of faith, and like poor hinds Would have denied our Lord and fallen away. Even Perpetua, whose joyous faith Was in the later holier days to be The stay and comfort of our weaker ones, Was silent for long whiles. Perchance she shrank In the mere sickness of the flesh, confused And shaken by our new and horrible plight — The tender flesh, untempercd and untried. Not quickened yet nor mastered by the soul ; For she was of a fair and delicate make, Most gently nurtured, to whom stripes and threats And our foul prison-house were things undreamed. But little by little as our spirits grew Inurec 'o suffering, with clasped hands, and tongues That cheered each other to incess. it prayer. VIVIA PEKPETUA 231 We rose and faced our trouble : we recalled Our Master's sacred agony and death, Setting before our eyes the high reward Of steadfast faith, the martyr's deathless crown. So passed some days whose length and count we lost, Our bitterest trial. Then a respite came. One who had interest with the governor Wrought our removal daily for some hours Into an upper chamber, where we sat And held each other's hands in childish joy, Receiving the sweet gift of light and air With wonder and exceeding thankfulness. And then began that life of daily growth In mutual exaltation and sweet help That bore us as a gently widening stream Unto the ocean of our martyrdom. Uniting all our feebler souls in one — A mightier — we reached forth with this to God. Perpetua had been troubled for her babe, Robbed of the breast and now these many days Wasting for want of food ; but when that change Whereof I spake, of light and liberty Relieved the horror of our prison gloom, They brought it to her, and she sat apart, And nursed and tended it, and soon the child Would not be parted from her arms, but throve And fattened, and she kept it night and day. And always at her side with sleepless care Hovered the young Felicitas — a slight And spiritual figure — every touch and tone \ I ft ; II 232 ALCYONE Charged with premonitory tenderness, Herself so near to her own motherhood. Thus hghtened and reheved, Perpetua Recovered from her silent fit. Her eyes Regained their former deep serenity, Her tongue its gentle daring; for she knew Her life should not be taken till her babe Had strengthened and outgrown the need of her. Daily we were amazed at her soft strength. Her pliant and untroubled constancy, Her smiling, soldierly contempt of death, Her beauty and the sweetness of her voice. Her father, when our first few bitterest days Were over like a gust of grief and rage. Came to her in the prison with wild eyes, And cried : 'How mean you, daughter, when you say You are a Christian? How can any one Of honoured blood, the child of such as me, Be Christian? 'Tis an odious name, the badge Only of outcasts and rebellious slaves !' And she, grief-touched, but with unyielding gaze. Showing the fulness of her slender height : 'This vessel, father, being what it is. An earthen pitcher, would you call it thus? Or would you name it by some other name?' 'Nay, surely,' said the old man, catching breath, And pausing, and she answered : 'Nor can I Call myself aught but what I surely am — A Christian !' and her father, flashing back In silent anger, left her for tliat time. VIVIA PERPETUA 2i^ A special favour to Perpetua Seemed daily to be given, and her soul Was made the frequent vessel of God's grace, Wherefrom we all, less gifted, sore athirst. Drank courage and fresh joy ; for glowing dreams Were sent her, full of forms august, and fraught With signs and symbols of the glorious end Whereto God's love hath aimed us for Christ's sake. Once — at what hour I know not, for we lay In that foul dungeon where all hours were lost, And day and night were indistinguishable — We had been sitting a long silent while. Some lightly sleeping, others bowed in prayer, When on a sudden, like a voice from God, Perpetua spake to us and all were roused. Her voice was rapt and solemn: 'Friends,' she said, 'Some word hath come to me in a dream. I saw A ladder leading to heaven, all of gold, Hung up with lances, swords, and hooks. A land Of darkness and exceeding peril lay Around it, and a dragon fierce as hell Guarded its foot. We doubted who should first Essay it, but you, Saturus, at last — So God hath marked ycu for especial grace — Advancing and against the cruel beast Aiming the potent weapon of Christ's name — Mounted, and took me by the hand, and I The next one following, and so the rest In order, and we entered with great joy Into a spacious garden filled with light And balmy presences of love and rest ; 234 ALCYONE And there an old man sat, smooth-browed, white- haired, Surrounded by unnumbered myriads Of spiritual shapes and faces angel-eyed, Milking his sheep; and lifting up his eyes He welcomed us in strange and beautiful speech, Unknown yet comprehended, for it flowed Not through the ears, but forth-right to the soul, God's language of pure love. Between the lips Of each he placed a morsel of sweet curd. And while the curd was yet within my mouth, T woke, and still the taste of it remains, Through all my body flowing like white flame, Sweet as of some inmiaculate spiritual thing.' And when Perpetua had spoken, all Were silent in the darkness, pondering. But Saturus spake gently for the rest : 'How perfect and acceptable must be Your soul to God, Perpetua, that thus He bends to you, and through you speaks his will. We know now that our martyrdom is fixed, Nor need we vex us further for this life.' While yet these thoughts were bright upon our souls. There came the rumour that a day was set To hear us. IMany of our former friends, Some with entreaties, some with taunts and threats. Came to us to pervert us ; with the rest Again Perpetua's father, worn with care, Nor could we choose but pity his distress, So miserably, with abject cries and tears, He fondled her and called her 'Domina,* souls, threats. VIVIA PERPETUA 23S \ ■'!"'- nil And bowed his aged body at her feet, Beseeching her by all the names she loved To think of him, his fostering care, his years, And also of her babe, whose life, he said. Would fail without her; but Perpetua, Sustaining by a gift of strength divine The fulness of her noble fortitude. Answered him tenderly: 'Both you and I, And all of us, my father, at this hour Are equally in God's hands, and what he wills Must be' ; but when the poor old man was gone She wept and knelt for many hours in prayer, Sore tried and troubled by her tender heart. One day while we were at our midday meal, Our cell was entered by the soldiery, And we were seized and borne away for trial, A surging crowd had gathered, and we passed From street to street, hemmed in by tossing heads And faces cold or cruel ; yet we caught At moments from masked lips and furtive eyes Of friends — some known to us aud some unknown — Many veiled messages of love and praise. The floorways of the long basilica Fronted us with an angry multitude ; And scornful eyes and threatening foreheads frowned In hundreds from the columned galleries. We were placed all together at the bar. And though at first unsteadied and confused By the imperial presence of the law, The pomp of judgment and the staring crowd. None failed or faltered; with unshaken tongue m 'Ml 236 ALCYONE Each met the stern Proconsul's brief demand In clear profession. Rapt as in a dream, Scarce conscious of my turn, nor how I spake, I watched with wondering eyes the delicate face And figure of Perpetua ; for her We that were younjjjest of our company Loved with a sacred and absorbing love, A passion that our martyr's brotherly vow Had purified and made divine. She stood In dreamy contemplation, slightly bowed, A glowing stillness that was near a smile Upon her soft closed lips. Her turn had come, When, like a puppet struggling up the steps, Her father from the pierced and swaying crowd Appeared, unveiling in his aged arms The smiling visage of her babe. He grasped Her robe and strove to draw her down. All eyes Were bent upon her. With a softening glance. And voice less cold and heavy with death's doom, The old Proconsul turned to her and said : 'Lady, have pity on your father's age ; Be mindful of your tender babe ; this grain Of harmless incense oflfer for the peace And welfare of the Emperor' ; but she, Lifting far forth her large and noteless eyes. As one that saw a vision only said : 'I cannot sacrifice' ; and he, harsh-tongued. Bending a brow upon her rough as rock, With eyes that struck like steel, seeking to break Or snare her with a sudden stroke of fear : 'Art thou a Christian?' and she answered, 'Yea, I am a Christian!' In brow-blackening wrath VIVIA PERPETUA 237 He motioned a contemptuous hand and bade The lictors scourge the old man down and forth With rods, and as the cruel deed was done, Perpetua stood white with quivering lips, And her eyes filled with tears. While yet his cries Were mingling with the curses of the crowd, Hilarianus, calling name by name, Gave sentence, and in cold and formal phrase Condemned us to the beasts, and we returned Rejoicing to our prison. Then we wished Our martyrdom could soon have followed, not As doubting for our constancy, but some Grew sick under the anxious long suspense. Perpetua again was weighed upon By grief and trouble for her babe, whom now Her father, seeking to depress her will. Withheld and would not send it ; but at length Word being brought her that the child indeed No longer suffered, nor desired the breast. Her peace returned and, giving thanks to God, All were united in new bonds of hope. Now being fixed in certitude of death. We stripped our souls of all their earthly gear, The useless raiment of this world ; and thus. Striving together with a single will. In daily increment of faith and power. We were much comforted by heavenly dreams, And waking visitations of God's grace. Visions of light and glory infinite Were frequent with us, and by day or night Woke at the very name of Christ the Lord, Taken at any moment on our lips ; II 238 ALCYONE So that we had no longer thought or care Of Hfe or of the Hving, but became As spirits from this earth already freed, Scarce conscious of the dwindling weight of flesh. To Saturus appeared in dreams the space And splendour of the heavenly house of God, The glowing gardens of eternal joy, The halls and chambers of the cherubim, In wreaths of endless myriads involved The blinding glory of the angel choir, Rolling through deeps of wheeling cloud and light The thunder of their vast antiphonies. The visions of Perpetua not less Possessed us with their homely tenderness As one, wherein she saw a rock-set pool And weeping o'er its rim a little child. Her brother, long since dead, Dinocrates : Though sore athirst he could not reach the stream. Being so small, and her heart grieved thereat. She looked again, and lo ! the pool had risen, And the child filled his goblet, and drank deep. And prattling in a tender childish joy Ran gaily ofif, as infants do, to play. By this she knew his soul had found release From torment and had entered into bliss. Quickly as by a merciful gift of God, Our vigil passed unbroken. Yesternight They moved us to the amphitheatre. Our final lodging-place on earth, and there We sat together at our agape Por the last time. In silence, rapt and pale, VIVIA PERPKTUA 239 We liearkened to the aped Saturus, Whose spc 'h, touched with a p^hostly eloquence, Canvassed the fraud and Httleness of life, God's goodness and the solemn joy of death. Perpetua was silent, but her eyes ]'"ell gently upon each of us, suffused With inward and cradiant light ; a smile Played often upon her lips. While yet we sat, A tribune with a band of soldiery Entered our cell, and would have had us bound In harsher durance, fearing our escape By fraud or witchcraft ; but Perpetua, Facing him gently with a noble note Of wonder in her voice, and on her lips A lingering smile of mournful irony : 'Sir, are ye not unwise to harass us, And rob us of our natural food and rest? Should not ve rather tend us with soft care. And so provide a comely spectacle? We shall not honour Caesar's birthday well. If we be waste and weak, a piteous crew, Poor playthings for your proud and pampered beasts.' The noisy tribune, whether touched indeed. Or by her grave and tender grace abashed. Muttered and stormed a while, and then withdrew. The short night passed in wakeful prayer for some. For others in brief sleep, broken by dreams And spiritual visitations. Earliest dawn Found us arisen, and Perpetua. Moving about with smiling lips, soft-tongued. Besought us to take food ; lest so, she said, b 240 ALCYOiNE For all the strength and courage of our hearts Our bodies should fall faint. We heard without. Already ere the morning light was full, The din of preparation, and the hurn Of voices gathering in the upper tiers ; Yet had we seen so often in our thoughts The picture of this strange and cruel death, Its festal horror, and its bloody pomp, The nearness scarcely moved us, and our hands Met in a steadfast and unshaken clasp. The day is over. Ah, my friend, how long With its wiM sounds and bloody sights it seemed ! Night comes, and I am still alive — even I, The least and last — with other two, reserved To grace t-*^- morrow's second day. The rest Have suffered and with holy rapture passed Into their glory. Saturi s and the men Were given to bears and leopards, but the crowd Feasted their eyes upon no cowering shape, Nor hue of fear, nor painful cry. They died Like armed men, face foremost to the beasts. With prayers and sacred songs upon their lips. Perpetua and the frail Felicitas Were seized before our eyes and roughly stripped. And shrinking and entreating, not for fear, Nor hurt, but bitter shame, were borne away Into the vast arena, and hung up In nets, naked before the multitude, For a herce bull, maddened by goads, to toss. Some sudd'^n tumult of compassion seized The crowd, and a great murmur like a wave VIVIA PERPETUA 241 out. Is Rose at the sight, and grew, and thundered up From tier to tier, deep and imperious : So white, so innocent they were, so pure: Their tender limbs so eloquent of shame , \nd so our loved ones were brought back, all iaint, And covered with light raiment, and again Led forth, and now with smiling lips they passed Pale, but unbowed, into the awful ring. Holding each other proudly by the hand. .f\ tucd ! owd )S. led, Perpetua first was tossed, and her robe rent, But, conscious only of the glaring eyes. She strove to hide herself as best she could In the torn remnants of her flimsy robe. And putting up her hands clasped back her hair, So tliat she might not die as one in grief. Unseemly and dishevelled. Then she turned, And in her loving arms caressed and raised The dying, bruised Felicitas. Once more Gored by the cruel beast, they both were borne Swooning and mortally stricken from the field. Perpetua, pale and beautiful, her lips Parted as in a lingering ecstasy. Could not believe the end had come, but asked When they were to be given to the beasts. The keepers gathered round her — even they — In wondering pity — while with fearless hand. Bidding us all be faithful and stand firm. She bared her breast, and guided to its goal The gladiator s sword that pierced her heart. IG 242 ALCYONE The night is pa'^iing. In a few short hours I too shall suffer for the name of Christ. A boundless exaltation lifts my soul ! 1 know that they who left us, Saturus, Perpetua, and the other blessed ones. Await me at the opening gates of heaven. ii THE MYSTERY OF A YEAR A little while, a year agone, I knew her for a romping child, A dimple and a glance that shone With idle mischief when she smiled. To-day she passed me in the press, And turning with a quick surprise I wondered at her stateliness, I wondered at her altered eyes. To me the street was just the same, The people and the city's stir; But life had kindled into flame, And all the world was changed for her. I watched her in che crovvded ways, A noble form, a queenly head, With all the woman in her gaze, The conscious woman in her tread. 'sn*!;:it:*g,f^<ti'^< ». k'AM.Mll!^ll^^^^^^^t^^^^^^^^ WAR WINTER EVENING 243 Tu-night the very horses springing by Toss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dream The streets that narrow to the westward gleam Like rows of golden palaces ; and high From all the crowded chimneys tower and die A thousand aureoles. Down in the west The brimming plains beneath the sunset rest, One burning sea of gold. Soon, soon shall fly The glorious vision, arid the hours shall feel A mightier master; soon from height to height, With silence and the sharp unpitying stars, Stern creeping frosts, and winds that touch like steel, Out of the depth beyond the eastern bars, Glittering and still shall come the awful night. 4P m ii il WAR By the Nile, the sacred river, I can see the captive hordes Strain beneath the lash and quiver At the long papyrus cords. While in granite rapt and solemn, Rising over roof and column, Amen-hotep dreams, or Ramses, Lord of Lords. I can hear the trumpets waken For a victory old and far — 244 ALCYONE Carchemish or Kadesh taken — I can see the conquerer's car Bearing down some Hittite valley, Where the bowmen break and sally, Sargina or Esarhaddon, Grim with war ! From the mountain streams that sweeten Indus, to the Spanish foam, I can feel the broad earth beaten By the serried tramp of Rome; Through whatever foes environ Onward with the might of iron — Veni, vidi; veni, vici — Crashing home! '''!!f II I can see the kings grow pallid With astonished fear and hate. As the hosts of Amr or Khaled On their cities fall like fate; Like the heat-wind from its prison In the desert burst and risen — La ilaha illah 'llahu — God is great ! I can hear the iron rattle, I can see the arrows sting In some far-ofT northern battle. Where the long swords sweep and swing; I can hear the scalds declaiming, I can see their eyeballs flaming, WAR Gathered in a frenzied circle Round the king. I can hear the horn of Uri Roaring in the hills enorm ; Kindled at its brazen fury, I can see the clansmen form ; In the dawn in misty masses, Pouring from the silent passes Over Granson or Morgarten Like the storm. On the lurid anvil ringing To some slow fantastic plan, I can hear the sword-smith singing In the heart of old Japan — Till the cunning blade grows tragic With his malice and his magic — Tenka tairan ! Tenka tairan ! War to man ! Where a northern river charges By a wild and moonlit glade. From the murky forest marges, Round a broken palisade, I can see the red men leaping. See the sword of Daulac sweeping, And the ghostly forms of heroes Fall and fade. I can feel the modern thunder Of the cannon beat and blaze, 245 ill IP 246 ALCYONE When the Hues of men go under On your proudest battle-days; Through the roar I hear the lifting Of the bloody chorus drifting Round the burning mill at Valmy — Marseillaise 1 I can see the ocean rippled With the driving shot like rain, While the hulls are crushed and crippled. And the guns are piled with slain ; O'er the blackened broad sea-meadow Drifts a tall and titan shadow, And the cannon of Trafalgar Startle Spain. El§ Still the tides of fight are booming. And the barren blood is spilt ; Still the banners are up-looming. And the hands are on the hilt; But the old world waxes wiser. From behind the bolted visor It descries at last the horror And the guilt. Yet the eyes are dim, nor wholly Open to the golden gleam, And the brute surrenders slowly To the godhead and the dream. From his cage of bar and girder, Still at moments mad with murder. THE WOODCUTIER S HUP 247 Leaps the tiger, and his demon Rules supreme. One more war with fire and famine Gathers — I can hear its cries — And the years of might and Mammon Perish in a world's demise ; When the strength of man is shattered, And the powers of earth are scattered, From beneath the ghastly ruin Peace shall rise ! '>' li THE WOODCUTTER'S HUT Far up in the wild and wintry hills in the heart of the clifif-broken woods, Where the mounded drifts lie soft and deep in the noiseless solitudes, The hut of the lonely woodcutter stands, a few rough beams that show A blunted peak and a low black line, from the glitter- ing waste of snow. In the frost-still dawn from his roof goes up in the windless, motionless air. The thin, pink cuil of leisurely smoke; through the forest white and bare The woodcutter follows his narrow trail, and the morning rings and cracks With the rhythmic jet of his sharp-blown breath and the echoing shout of his axe. 1 I 5.',>^^^;«^5£*«v,-- 248 ALCYONE Only the watt of the wind besides, or the stir of some hardy bird — The call of the friendly chickadee, or the pat of the nut-hatch — is heard ; Or a rustle comes from a dusky clump, where the busy siskins feed, And scatter the dimpled sheet of the snow with the shells of the cedar-seed. Day after day the woodcutter toils untiring- with axe and wedge, Till the jingling teams come up from the road that runs by the valley's edge, With plunging of horses, and hurling of snow, and many a shouted word, And carry away the keen-scented fruit of his cutting, cord upon cord. Not the sound of a living foot comes else, not a moving visitant there. Save the delicate step of some halting doe, or the sniff of a prowling bear. And only the stars are above him at night, and the trees that creak and groan, And the frozen, hard-swept mountain-crests with their silent fronts of stone. As he watches the sinking glow of his fire and the wavering flames upcaught, Cleaning his rifle or mending his moccasins, sleepy and slow of thought. Or when the fierce snow comes, with the rising wind, from the gray north-east, He lies through the leaguering hours in his bunk like a winter-hidden beast, THE WOODCUTTERS KUT 249 Or sits on the hard-packed earth, and smokes by his draught-blown guttering fire, Without thou'jht or remembrance, hardly awake, and waits for the storm to tire. Scarcely he hears from the rock-rimmed heights to the wild ravines below, Near and far oflf, the limitless wings of the tempest hurl and g"o In roaring gusts that plunge through the cracking forest, and lull, and lift, An day without stint and all night long with the sweep of the hissing drift. But winter shall pass ere long with its hills of snow and its fettered dreams, And the forest shall glimmer with living gold, and chime with the gushing of streams ; I.'Iillions of little points of plants shall prick through its matted floor. And the wind-flower lift and uncurl her silken buds by the woodman's door ; The sparrow shall see and exult ; but lo ! as the spring draws gaily <.n. The woodcutter's hut is empty and bare, and the master that made it is gone. He is gone where the gathering of valley men another labour yields. To handle the plough and the harrow, and scythe, in the heat of the summer fields. He is gone with his corded arms, and his ruddy face, and his moccasined feet. The animal man in his warmth and vigour, sound, and hard, and complete. 'iM^.f *^=&iiA*B^<,>'.'.\i.'<':- :<t£^MK£f;^>^j S««il'tt8M3UNII»^U V I 250 ALCYONE And all summer long, round the lonely hut, the black earth burgeons and breeds, Till the spaces are filled with the tall-plumed ferns and the triumphing forest-weeds ; The thick wild raspberries hem its walls, and stretch- ing on either hand, The red-ribbed stems and the giant-leaves of the sovereign spikenard stand. So lonely and silent it is, so withered and warped with the sun and snow, You would think it the fruit of some dead man's toil a hundred years ago; And he who finds it suddenly there, as he wanders far and alone, Is touched with a sweet and beautiful sense of some- thing tender and gone. The sense of a struggling life in the waste, and the mark of a soul's command, The going and coming of vanished feet, the touch of a human hand. AMOR VIT^ I love the warm bare earth and all That works and dreams thereon : I love the seasons yet to fall : I love the ages gone. The valleys with the sheeted grain, The river's smiling might, AMOR VIT^E 251 The merry wind, the rustling rain, The vastness of the nip^ht. I love the morning's flame, the steep Where down the vapour clings : I love the clouds that float and sleep, And every bird that sings. I love the purple shower that pours On far-off fields at even : I love the pine-wood dusk whose floors Are like the courts of heaven. I love the heaven's azure span, The grass beneath my feet: I love the face of every man Whose thought is swift and sweet. I let the wrangling world go by, And like an idle breath Its echoes and its phantoms fly : I care no jot for death. Time like a Titan bright and strong Spreads one enchanted gleam : Each hour is but a fluted song, And life a lofty dream. ^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) t i.O I.I 1.25 IIIM 112.5 itt 111112.2 IIU ii:4 1.4 IIIM 1.6 ^^^/ A 'el :w ^% *> ^-z // o 7 /A Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 ^ A^ -^ iV \ \ "V"'^ "' ^ ^ c^ W^KS^ ^^ ?^ 'I 252 ALCYONE WINTER-BREAK All day between high-curded clouds the sun Shone down like summer on the steaming planks. The long bright icicles in dwindling ranks Dripped from the murmuring eaves till one by one They fell. As if the spring had now begun, The quilted snow, sun-softened to the core. Loosened and shunted with a sadden roar From downward roofs. Not even with day done Had ceased the sound of waters, but all night I heard 't. In my dreams forgetfully bright Methought I wandered in the April woods, Where many a silver-piping sparrow was, By gurgling brooks and sprouting solitude?, And stooped, and laughed, and plucked hepaticas. SONNETS mm P m Jh AN INVOCATION Spirit of joy and that enchanted air That feeds the poet's parted lips Hke wine, I dreamed and wandered hand in hand of thine, How many a blissful day ; but doubt and care, The ghostly masters of this world, did come With torturous malady and hid the day, A gnawing flame that robbed my songs away, And bound mine ears, and made me blind and dumb. Master of mine, and Lord of light and ease. Return, return, and take me by the hand; Lead me again into that pleasant land. Whose charmed eyes and griefless lips adore No lord but beauty; let me see once more The light upon her golden palaces. A MORNING SUMMONS Upon the outer verge of sleep I heard A little sparrow piping in the morn ; Unto my very heart the sound was borne; It seemed to me a something more than bird. ') 256 SONNETS Even Nature's self that touched me with a word : — "While thou sleep'st on, I have not done my duty. Awake, O man ! Of all this gift of beauty Lose not one grain. The forest deeps are stirred With morning, and the brooks are loud aflow." Perhaps it was a dream, but this I know, Behind me, as I passed into the sun, Whether to me or each one to his mate, I heard the little sparrows one by one Piping in triumph at my garden gate. NESTING TIME The bees are busy i'n their murmurous search. The birds are putting up their woven frames, And all the twigs and branches of the birch Are shooting into tiny emerald flames : The maple leaves are spreading slowly out Like small red hats, or pointed parasols. The high-ho flings abroad his merry shout, The veery from the inner brushwood calls : The gold-green poplar, jocund as may be. The sunshine in its laughing heart receives. And shimmers in the wind innumerably Through all its host of little lacquered leaves. And lo ! the bob-o-link — he soars and sings. With all the heart of summer in his wings. APRIL VOICKS 257 THE SPIRIT OF THE HOUSE These four gray walls are but the bodily shell, Whereof my lady of the brave blue eyes Is the immortal soul. All sweet replies And viewless records of a touch known well That like the tone within a golden bell Pervade them with a gentle atmosphere, These things are just herself — she being here — The breath that makes the rose-tree sweet to smell. Through sunshine, and gray shadow, and through gloom, With mirth and gracious courage for her ways, And goodness ever forth, but never spent. She passes with light hands from room to room, An! beauty grows before her, and the days Arc full, and quietly rounded, and content. APRIL VOICES To-day all throats are touched with life's full treasure ; Even the blackbirds in yon leafless tree, Wheezing and squeaking in discordant glee. Make shift to sing, and full of pensive pleasure Here the bold robin sits and at his leisure Whistles and warbles disconnectedly, As if he were too happy and too free To trim his notes and sing a perfect measure. Across the steaming meadows all day long, I hear the murmur of the frogs. In schools 17 258 SONNETS Shy harping lizards pipe about the pools. From hedge and roof and many a garden gate, The cheery sparrow still repeats his song, So clear, so silver sweet, and delicate. BEAUTY Only the things of Beauty shall endure. While man goes woeful, wasting his brief day, From Truth and Love and Nature far astray, Lo! Beauty, the lost goal, the unsought cure; For how can he whom Beauty hath made sure. Who hath her law and sovereign creed by heart, Be proud, or pitiless, play the tyrant's part. Be false, or envious, greedy or impure. Nay ! she will gift him with a golden key To unlock every virtue. Name not ye. As once, "the good, the beautiful, the true," For these are but three names for one sole thing; Or rather Beauty is the perfect ring That circles and includes the other two. ON THE COMPANIONSHIP WITH NATURE Let us be much with Nature ; not as they That labour without seeing, that employ Her unloved forces, blindly without joy; Nor those whose hands and crude delights obey I -■'■■' ■■■ IN THE CITY 259 The old brute passion to hunt down and slay ; But rather as children of one common birth, Discerning in each natural fruit of earth Kinship and bond with this diviner clay. Let us be with her wholly at all hours, With the fond lover's zest, who is content If his ear hears, and if his eye but sees ; So shall we grow like her in mould and bent. Our bodies stately as her blessed trees, Our thoughts as sweet and sumptuous as her flowers. IN THE CITY I wandered in a city great and old, At morn, at noon, and when the evening fell, And round my spirit gathered like a spell Its splendour and its tumult and its gold. The mysteries and the memories of its years. Its victors and fair women, all the life, The joy, the power, the passion, and the strife, Its sighs of hand-locked lovers, and its tears. And whereso in that mighty city, free And with clear eyes and eager heart I trod, My thought became a passion high and strong. And all the spirit of humanity, Soft as a child and potent as a god. Drew near to me, and rapt me like a song. lila 26o SONNETS MUSIC O, take the lute this brooding hour for mc — The golden lute, the hollow crying lute — Nor call me even with thine eyes ; be mute, And touch the strings; yea, touch them tenderly; Touch them and dream, till all thine heart in thee Grow great and passionate and sad and wild. Then on me, too, as on thine heart, O child. The marvellous light, the stress divine shall be, And I shall see, as with enchanted eyes, The unveiled vision of this world flame by. Battles and griefs, and storms and phantasies, The gleaming joy, the ever-seething fire, The hero's triumph and the martyr's cry, The pain, the madness, the unsearched desire. THE PIANO Low brooding cadences that dream and cry Life's stress and passion echoing straight and clear ; Wild flights of notes that clamour and beat high Into the storm and battle, or drop sheer; Strange majesties of sound beyond all words Ringing on clouds and thunderous heights sublime ; Sad detonance of golden tones and chords That tremble with the secret of all time ; O wrap me round ; for one exulting hour Possess my soul, and I indeed shall know EUPHRONE 261 The wealth of Uving, the desire, the power, The tragic sweep, the Apollonian g-low ; All life shall stream before me ; I shall see, With eyes unblanched, Time and Eternity. MAY The broad earth smiles in open benison, An emerald sea, whose waves of leaf and shade On far-oflf shores of misty turquoise fade; And all the host of life steers blithely on, With joy for captain, fancy at the helm : The woodpecker taps roundly at his tree, The vaulting high-ho flings abroad his glee In fluty laughter from Vc towering elm. Here at my feet are violets, and below — A gracile spirit tremulously alive — Spring water fills a little greenish pool. Paved all with mottled leaves and crystal cool. Beyond it stands a plum-tree in full blow, Creamy with bk- .ii, and humming like a hive. I EUPHRONE O soft-cheeked mother, O beloved night, Dispeller of black thoughts and mortal dreads, Drowner of sorrows. In how many beds. Betwixt the evening and the dawning light. Thy tenderness, thy pity infinite, Hath it not poured nepenthe, soft as rain, liii mm T?! 262 SONNETS On thankful lids that have forgotten pain, Forgotten grief, forgotten care and spite 1 How many lovers also side by side, After long waiting such a weary while, Now with arms locked, cheeks touching, satisfied, Sleep, and their one great hour returns to thee, On these too dost thou not incline thy smile, Tender with welcome. Mother Euphrone? ACROSS THE PEA-FIELDS Field upon field to westward hum and shine The gray-green sun-drenched mists of blossom- ing peas ; Beyond them are great elms and poplar trees That guard the noon-stilled farm-yards, groves of pine, And long dark fences muffled thick with vine ; Then the high city, murmurous with mills ; And last upon the sultry west blue hills. Misty, far-lifted, a mere filmy line. Across these blackening rails into the light I lean and listen, lolling drowsily ; On the fence corner, yonder to the right, A red squirrel whisks and chatters ; nearer by A little old brown womian on her knees Searches the deep hot grass for strawberries. >ii«i SALVATION 263 in, :! touching, to thee, ;mile, le? ine blossom- ir trees groves of NIGHT Come with thine unveiled worlds, O truth of night, Come with thy calm. Adown the shallow day, Whose splendours hid the vaster world away, I wandered on this little plot of light, A dreamer among dreamers. Veiled or bright. Whether the gold shower roofed me or the gray, I strove and fretted at life's feverish play. And dreamed until the dream seemed inlinite. But now the gateway of the All unbars ; The passions and the cares that beat so shrill, The giants of this petty world, disband ; On the great threshold of the night I stand. Once more a soul self-cognizant and still. Among the wheeling multitude of stars. vme; lills ; ht rer by lees wherries. SALVATION Nature hath fixed in each man's life for dower One root-like gift, one primal energy, Wherefrom the soul takes growth, as grows a tree, With sap and fibre, branch and leaf and flower; But if this seed in its creative hour Be crushed and titifled, only then the shell Lifts like a phantom falsely visible, Wherein is neither growth, nor joy, nor power. Find thou this germ, and find thou thus thyself. This one clear meaning of the deathless I, 264 SONNETS This bent, this work, this duty — for thereby God numbers thee, and marks t.iee for His own Careless of hurt, or threat, or praise, or pelf, Find it and follow it, this, and this alone I AFTER THE SHOWER The shower is past, ere it hath well begun. The enormous clouds are rolling up like steam Into the illimitable blue. They gleam In summits of banked snow against the sun. The old dry beds begin to laugh and run. As if 'twere spring. The trees in the wind's stir Shower down great drops, and every gossamer Glitters a net of diamonds fresh-spun. The happy flowers put on a spritelier grace, Star-flower and smilacina creamy-hued. With little spires of honey-scent and light, And that small, dainty violet, pure and white, That holds by magic in its twisted face The heart of all the perfumes of the wood. IN ABSENCE My love is far away from me to-night, O spirits of sweet peace, kind destinies, W^atch over her, and breathe upon her eyes ; Keep near to her in every hurt's despite, TO THE WARBLING VIREO 265 7 own: It, in. steam That no rude care or noisome dream affright. So let her rest, so let her sink to sleep, As little clouds that breast the sunset steep Merge and melt out into the golden light. My love is far away and I am grown A very child, oppressed with formless glooms, Some shadowy sadness with a name unknown Haunts the chill twilight, and these silent rooms Seem with vague fears and dim regrets astir. Lonesome and strange and empty without her. I 5un. nd's stir )ssamer •ace, ht, /hite. Id. TO THE WARBLING VIREO Sweet little prattler, whom the morning sun Found singing, and this livelong summer day Keeps warbling still : here have I dreamed away Two bright and happy hours, that passed like one, Lulled by thy silvery converse, just begun And never ended. Thou dost preach to me Sweet patience and her guest, reality. The sense of days, and weeks, and months that run Scarce altering in their round of happiness, And quiet thoughts, and toils that do not kill. And homely pastimes. Though the old distress Loom gray above us both at times, ah, still, Be constant to thy woodland note, sweet bird ; By me at least thou shalt be loved and heard. :es 266 SONNETS THE PASSING OF THE SPIRIT The wind — the world-old rhapsodist — goes by, And the great pines in changeless vesture gloomed, And all the towering elm-trees thatched and plumed With green, take up, one after one, the cry, And as their choral voices swell and die. Catching the infinite note from tree to tree, Others far ofif in long antistrophe With swaying arms and surging tops reply. So to men's souls, at sacred intervals, Out of the dust of life takes wing and calls A spirit that we know not, nor can trace, And heait to heart makes answer with strange thrill. It passes, and a moment face to face We dream ourselves immortal, and are still. XENOPHANES While knowledge and high wisdom yet were young. Through Sicily of old, from tryst to tryst, Wandered with sad-set brow and eloquent tongue. The melancholy, austere rhapsodist : 'All my life long,' he cried, 'by many ways I follow truth where devious footmarks fall ; Now I am old, and still my spirit strays, Mocked and eluded, lost amid the All.' That was Mind's youth, and ages long ago, And still thine hunger, O Xenophanes, 'li 1 IN THE PINE GROVES 267 by, loomed, plumed I strange till. young, tongue, Preys on the hearts of men ; and to and fro, They probe the same implacable mysteries : The same vast toils oppress them, and they bear The same unquenchable hope, the same despair. IN THE PINE GROVES Here is a quiet place where one may dream The hours away and be content. It shines With many a shadow spot and golden gleam Under the murmur of these priestly pines. About the level russet-matted floor, E^ch like a star in his appointed station. The sole-flowered scented pyrolas by the score Stand with heads drooped in fragrant meditation. The pensive thrush, the hermit of the wood, Dreams far within, and piping at his leisure, Tells to the hills the forest's inmost mood Of memory and its solitary pleasure. Earth only and sun are here, and shadow and trees And thoughts that are eternal even as these. II Almost till noon I kept the weary road. Amid the dust and din of passing teams. With a soul shaped to its accustomed load Of silly cares and microscopic dreams : 268 SONNETS But here a nobler influence is unfurled ; It is no more the present petty hour, But Time, and all the pine-groves of the world Enfold my spirit in their pensive power. Behold this little speedwell : Time shall flow. Customs and commonwealths and faiths shall pass, And be as they had never been ; not so The little pale blue speedwell in the grass. Whatever change shall fall of good or ill, Grave eyes shall mark the little speedwell still. SIRIUS The old night waned, and all the purple dawn Grew pale with green and opal. The wide earth Lay darkling- and strange and silent as at birth, Save for a single far-off brightness drawn Of water gray as steel. The silver bow Of broad Orion still pursued the night, And farther down, amid the gathering light, A great star leaped and smouldered. Standing so, I dreamed myself in Denderah by the Nile ; Beyond the hall of columns and the crowd And the vast pylons, I beheld afar The goddess gleam, and saw the morning smile, And lifting both my hands, I cried aloud In joy to Hathor, smitten by her star ! Id il pass, ;ill. earth )irth, DEAD CITIES AT DUSK 269 Already o'er the west the first star shines, And day and dark are imperceptibly linked; The fences and pied fields grow indistinct, Deep beyond deep the living light declines. Still lingering o'er the westward mountain lines, Pallid and clear; and on its silent breast A symbol of eternal quiet rest, Far and black-plumed, the imperturbable pines. A few thin threads of purple clouds still float In the serene ether, and the night wind. Wandering in pufifs from ofif the darkening hill, Breathes warm or cool ; and now the whip- poor-will, Beyond the river margins glassed and thinned, Whips the cool hollows with his liquid note. ii f 1 .!>! ;';! ;: ''$ \'i, 1 i ; ling so, Ismile, DEAD CITIES I Phantoms of many a dead idolatry, Dream-rescued from oblivion, in mine ear Your very names are strange and great to hear, A scund of ancientness and majesty, Mcmpliis and Shiishaii, Cartilage, Meroe, And crowned, before these ages rose, with fame, Troja, long vanished in Achjean flame, On and Cyrene, perished utterly. m M 270 SONNETS Things old and strange and dim to dream upon, Cumae and Sardis, cities waste and gone; And that pale river by whose ghostly strand Thebes' monstrous tombs and desolate altars stand, Baalbec, and Tyre, and buried Babylon, And ruined Tadmor in the desert sand. II Of Ur and Erech and Accad who shall tell And Calneh in the land of Shinar. Time Hath made them but the substance of a rhyme. And where are Ninus and the towers that fell, When Jahveh's anger was made visible? Where now are Sepharvaim and its dead? Hammath and Arpad? In their ruined stead The wild ass and the maneless lion dwell. In Poestum now the roses bloom no more, But the wind wails about the barren shore. An echo in its gloomed and ghostly reeds. And many a city of an elder age, Now nameless, fallen in some antique rage, Lies worn to dust, and none shall know its deeds. A MIDNIGHT LANDSCAPE A great black cloud from heaven's midmost height Hangs all to eastward roofing half the world, Whereunder in vast shadow stretches furled A waste, meseems, where never leaf nor light TO CHAUCER 271 Might be, but only darkness infinite, Where the lost heroes of old dreams oppressed Might still be wandering on some dolorous quest, A land of witchcraft and accursea blight. Lapping the border of that huge distress, A pallid stream from valleys gnarled and dim Comes creeping with a Stygian silentness ; While yonder southward at the cloud's lasi rim Antares from the Scorpion burns afar, With surge and baleful gleam, the fierce red star ! TO CHAUCER 'Twas high mid-spring, when thou wert here on earth, Chaucer, and the new world was just begun ; For thee 'twas pastime and immortal mirth To work and dream beneath the pleasant sun. Full glorious were the hearty ways of man. And God above was great and wise and good, Thy soul sufficient for its earthly span. Thy body brave and full of dancing blood. Such was thy faith, O master ! We believe Neither in God, humanity, nor self; Even the votaries of place and pelf Pass by firm-footed, while we build and weave With doubt and restless care. Too well we see The drop of life lost in eternity. 272 SONNETS BY THE SEA At morn beside the ocean's foamy roar I walked soft-shadowed through the luminous mist. And saw not clearly, sea or land, nor wist Where the tide stayed, nor where began the shore. A gentle seaward wind came down, and bore The scent of roses and of bay-berry ; And through the great gray veil that hid the sea Broke the pale sun — a silvery warmth — not more. So through the fogs that cover all this life I walk as in a dream 'twixt sea and land — The meadows of wise thought, the sea of strife — And sounds and happy scents from either hand Come with vast gleams that spread and softly shine. The joy of life, the energy divine. A NIAGARA LANDSCAPE Heavy with haze that merges and melts free Into the measureless depth on either hand, The full day rests upon the luminous land In one long noon of golden reverie. Now hath the harvest come and gone with glee. The shaven fields stretch smooth and clean away, Purple and green, and yellow, and soft gray. Chequered with orchards. Farther still I see Towns and dim villages, whose roof-tops fill The distant mist, yet scarcely catch the view. \7 ..■■M*^ A SUNSET AT LES EBOULEMENTS 273 Thorolcl set sultry on its plateau'd hill, And far to westward, where yon pointed towers Rise faint and ruddy from the vaporous blue, Saint Catharines, city of the host of fiowers. THE PILOT The skilful pilot from the windy prow Watches far off the markings of the sea. And knows, long-studied in its charactery. What rocks, what shoals, what currents hide below. This can the skilful pilot do, with brow Serene and certain ; but not so to me That mouth, those eyes, a subtler mystery. Yield up the secrets of the heart. I know. Poring upon the soul-chart of your face, That all my searching, all my skill are vain. I do but follow on some broken trace, And please myself with guessing. Joy concurs With grief, but neither can the script explain, So veiled and various are the characters. ^^ m A SUNSET AT LES EBOULEMENTS Broad shadows fall. On all the mountain side The scythe-swept fields are silent. Slowly home By the long beach the high-piled hay-carts come. Splashing the pale salt shallows. Over wide 18 ( ' I 274 SONNETS Fawn-coloured wastes of mud the slipping tide, Round the dun rocks and wattled fisheries, Creeps murmuring in. And now by twos and threes, O'er the slow spreading pools with clamorous chide, Belated crows from strip to strip take flight. Soon will the first star shine ; yet ere the night Reach onward to the pale-green distances. The sun's last shaft beyond the gray sea-floor Still dreams upon the Kamouraska shore, And the long line of golden villages. THAMYRIS CEchalian Eurytus in his hall Held feast ; and, charged with triumph and with wine, Wrought to a glowing madness half divine, The Thracian Thamyris sang, and held in thrall The kings and leaning heroes, each and all ; And there he challenged, standing with raised head, The Zeus-born Muses, offering, void of dread, To meet and match them in the song, nor fall In aught behind, nor yield the mastery; But him, when his great spirit seemed most strong. Leading at cool of dawn their sacred round, The vengeful daughters of Mnemosyne In the gray gorges near Eurotas found, And made him blind, and took away his song. TIIK DEATH OF TENNYSON 275 Now by the gate at Argos, where the way Brings all the traffic in from Argolis, Gray-haired and full of grief, sits Thamyris, Blind ; and his numbed and witless fingers stray Among the broken harp-strings — so men say — And ever, when feet pass, he lifts his eyes. Sightless and robbed of all their fire, and cries With a great warning twenty times a day : 'The proud and boastful man who grasps a crown For his own greatness, him the gods strike down. Heroes and Bards know that it is not ye That make yourselves, but a god gave it you ; Therefore walk heedfully, holding as is due Your sacred gift with thankful mind in fee.' THE DEATH OF TENNYSON They tell that when his final hour drew near, He whose fair praise the ages shall rehearse, Whom now the living and the dead hold dear ; Our gray-haired master of immortal verse, Called for his Shakespeare, and with touch of rue Turned to that page in stormy Cymbeline That bears the dirge. Whether he read none knew, But on the book he laid his hand serene. And kept it there unshaken, till there fell The last gray change, and from before his eyes, This glorious world that Shakespeare loved so well, Slowly, as at a beck, without surprise — Its woe, its pride, its passion, and its play — Like mists and melting shadows passed away. 276 SONNKTS STORM VOICES The night grows old ; again and yet again The tempest wakens round the whistling height, And ail the winds like loosened hounds take flight With bay and halloo, and the wintry rain Sweeps the drenched roof, and blears the narrow pane. There is a surging horror in the night ; The woods far cut are roaring in their might ; The curtains sway ; the rafters creak and strain : And as I dream, o'er all my spirit swims A passion sad and holy as the tomb ; Strange human voices cry into mine ear; Out of the vexed dark I seem to hear Vast organ thunders, and a burst of hymns That swell and soar in some cathedral gloom. TO A MILLIONAIRE The world in gloom and splendour passes by, And thou in the midst of it with brows that gleam, A creature of that old distorted dream That makes the sound of life an evil cry. Good men perform just deeds, and brave men die, And win not honour such as gold can give. While the vain multitudes plod on, and live, And serve the curse that pins them down : But I Think only of the unnumbered broken hearts, The hunger and the mortal strife for bread. VIRTUE 277 Old age and youth alike niistaught, misfed, By want and rags and lioniclessncss made vile, The griefs and hates, and all the meaner parts That balance thy one grim misgotten pile. THE MODERN POLITICIAN What manner of soul is his to whom high truth Is but the plaything of a feverish hour, A dangling ladder to the ghost of power ! Gone are the grandeurs of the world's iron youth, When kings were mighty, being made by swords. Now comes the transit age, the age of brass, When clowns into the vacant empires pass. Blinding the multitude with specious words. To them faith, kinship, truth and verity, Man's sacred rights and very holiest thing, Are but the counters at a desperate play. Flippant and reckless what the end may be, So that they glitter, each his little day. The little mimic of a vanished king. VIRTUE I deem that virtue but a thing of straw That is not self-subsistent, ri;^eds the press Of sharp-eyed custom, or the point of law To teach it honour, justice, gentleness. / 278 SONNETS His soul is but a shadow who does well Through lure of gifts or terror of the rod. Some painted paradise or pictured hell, Not for the love but for the fear of God. Him only do I honour in whom right, Not the sour product of some grudged control, Flows from a Godlike habit, whose clear soul, Bathed in the noontide of an inward light, In its own strength and beauty is secure. Too proud to lie, too proud to be impure. FALLING ASLEEP Slowly my thoughts lost hold on consciousness Like waves that urge but cannot reach the shore : Once and again I wakened and once more The v/ind sighed in, and with a lingering stress Brushed the loose blinds. Out of some far recess There came the stealthy creaking of a door The mice ran scuffling underneath the floor ; And then when all the house stood motionless, Something dropped sharply overhead; a deep Dead silence followed ; only half aware, I groped and strove to waken and fell flat ; A moment after, step by step, a cat Came plumping softly down the attic stair; And then I turned and then I fell asleep. THE KUIN OF THE YEAR PASSION 279 As slowly on a mountain slope toward spring The soft snows gather wf.ek by week, and charge The pealrs and slanted ridges smooth and large With drifts that bang light-poised and glistening: Then sharply on the hidden key by chance An echo strikes^ and like a storm unpinned, Down from a hundred ledges light as wind, Loosens and shoots the thundering avalanclie. So in the soul our passions year by year By the cool winds of custom banked and rolled, Gather and deftly balance, and hang clear ; Then on the inner master-chord one day Seme fateful shock intrudes, and all gives way In wild descent and ruin manifold. THE RUIN OF THE YEAR Along the hills and by the sleeping stream A warning falls, and all the glorious trees — Vestures of gold and grand embroideries — Stand mute, as in a sad and beautiful dream, Brooding on death and Nature's vast undoing, And spring that came an age ago and fled. And summer's splendour long since drawn to head, And now the fall and all the slow soft ruin : And soon some day comes by the pillaging wind. The winter's wild outrider, with harsh roar, m ;i'' 280 SONNETS And leaves the meadows sacked and waste and thinned, And strips the forest of its golden store; Till the grim tyrant comes, and then they sow The silent wreckage, rot with salt, but snow. THE CUP OF LIFE One after one the high emotions fade ; Time's wheeling measure empties and refills Year after year; we seek no more the hills That lured our youth divine and unafraid, But swarming on some common highway, made Beaten and smooth, plod onward with blind feet. And only where the crowded crossways meet We halt and question, anxious and dismayed. Yet can we not escape it ; some we know Have angered and grown mad, some scornfully laughed ; Yet surely to each lip — to mine to thine — Comes with strange scent and pallid poisonous glow The cup of Life, that dull Circean draught. That taints us all, and turns the half to swine. THE MARCH OF WINTER They that have gone by forest paths shall hear The outcry of worn reeds and lea' cs long shed, SORROW 281 The rise and sound of waters. Overhead, Out of the wide northwest, wind-stripped and clear, Like some great army dense with battle gear. All day the columned clouds come marching on. Long hastening lines in sombre unison, Vanguard, and centre, and still deepening rear; While fron^ the waste beyond the barren verge Drives the great wind with hoof and thong set free. And buffets and wields high its whistling scourge Around the roofs, or in tempestuous glee. Over the far-off woods with tramp and surge, Huge and deep-tongued, ^oes roaring like the sea. SORROW At last I fell asleep, and a sweet dream. For respite and for peace, was given to me ; But in the dawn I wakened suddenly. And like a fiery swift and stinging stream Returned, with fear and horror, the supreme Remembrance of my sorrow. All my mind Grew hot within me. As one sick and blind, Round and still round an old and fruitless theme, I toiled, nor saw the golden morning light, Nor heard the sparrows singing, but the sweat Beaded my brow and made my pillow wet. So seared and withered as a plant with blight, Eaten by passion, stripped of all my pride. I wished that somehow then I might have died. !•! 282 SONNETS LOVE How much of wasteful grief, and fruitless sighs, O Passion, whom men justly name the blind, How many crimes, how many miseries, Scored in the tragic story of mankind Accuse your power! With what strange care you bind And part for ever with your charmed lies, Unmated bosoms and unknowing eyes ! How rarely in your barren search you find The two who in some fair and fortunate hour Know at a glance each other's absolute power — A single touch, a single tone, betraying The truth adorned in ancient song and fable. And rush into each other's arms, obeying An impulse perfect and inevitable. TO DEATH Methought in dreams I saw my little son — My little son that in his cradle died ; No more a babe, but all his childhood done, A full-grown man. Deep-browed and tender-eyed, I knew him by tne subtle touch of me, And by his mother's look, and by the eyes We hold in such remembrance piteously. And the bright smile so quick for sweet replies. O Death, I would that from thy front of stone My grief could wring one word, or my tears draw EARTH — THE STOIC 283 On the strange night of life, one single gleam ! Was he whom by the gift of sleep I saw The living shape of my beloved gone, My very son, or but a fleeting dream. THE VAIN FIGHT Such a grim light we fought for thee with death As never hero in the ancient gloom, With swollen brows, strained cords, and labouring breath, Fought for Alcestis by the rocky tomb. In vain. Thou wert too beautiful, too pure, Too tender and too frail for earthly life. Thou wert in love with Death, nor could'st endure Even the dawnris' of this day of strife. Ah ! thou art gone, who scarcely saw the day, Fair little comrade of one fleeting whik, And we must travel our appointed space, Nor ever for the brightening of our way Behold again on any living face That matchless kindred look, that touching smile. EARTH— THE STOIC Earth, like a goblet empty of delight, Empty of summer and balm-breathing hours, Empty of music, empty of all flowers. Now with that other draught of death and night ill 284 SONNETS And loss, and iron bitterness refills. The upland rifts are gleaming white with snow The north wind pipes, the forest groans below, The clouds are heaping grandly on the hills. Yet thou complainest not, O steadfast Earth, Beautiful mother with thy stoic fields ; In all the ages since thy fiery birth Deep in thine own wide heart thou findest still "Whatever comforts and whatever shields. And plannest also for us the same sheer will. STOIC AND HEDONIST The cup of knowledge emptied to its lees, Soft dreamers in a perfumed atmosphere, Ye turn, and from your luminous reveries Follow with curious eyes and biting sneer Yon grave-eyed men, to whom alone are sweet Strength and self-rule, who move with stately tread. And reck not if the earth beneath your feet With bitter herb or blossoming rose be spread. Ye smile and frown, and yet for all your art, Supple and shining as the ringed snake, And all your knowledge, all your grace of heart, Is there not one thing missing from your make — The thing that is life's acme, and its key — The stoic's grander portion — Dignity. O AwC^vU^ LiXj^J^ f-i-y^r^ K>H ^ (Muuu^ LfU2^ iJurAjUb M.>-tM <ffu^ CsKx '^^{i'f-oK uyxA^jJh /^«-^ , ^ "Un-Q^Lf jr(hju^ ^^^L-6ka5 J ^^^- TO AN ULTUA PROTESTANT 285 AVARICE Beware of avarice! It is the sin That hath no pardon either in death or here, For it means cruelty. Hatred and fear Enter the soul, and are the lords therein. The gold that gathers at the rich man's knees Is stored with curses and with dead men's bones. And women's cries and little children's moans, The harvest of ten thousand miseries. What needs it to be rich — only a soul, Deaf to the shaken tongue and blind to tears, The sordid patience of the sightless mole! Would'st thou thus waste the sacred span of years? Lock up the doors of life and break the key. The simple heart-touch with humanity? TO AN ULTRA PROTESTANT Why rage and fret thee ; only let them be : The monkish rod, the sacerdotal pall. Council and convent, Pope and Cardinal, Thp black priest and his holy wizardry. Nay dread them not, for thought and liberty Spread ever faster than the foe can smite, And these shall vanish as the starless night Before a morning mightier than the sea. But what of thee and thine? That battle cry? Those forms and dogmas that thou rear'st so high? -'in 286 SONNETS Those blasts of doctrine and those vials of wrath? Thy hell for most and heaven for the few? That narrow, joyless and ungenerous path? What then of these? Ah, they shall vanish too! A JANUARY MORNING The glittering roofs are still with frost ; each worn Black chimney builds into the quiet sky Its curling pile to crumble silently. Far out to westward on the edge of morn, The slender misty city towers up-borne Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue; And yonder on those northern hills, the hue Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn. And here behind me com.e the woodmen's sleighs With shouts and clamorous squeakings ; might and main Up the steep slope the horses stamp and strain, Urged on by hoarse-tongued drivers — cheeks ablaze. Iced beards and frozen eyelids — team by team. With frost-fringed flanks, and nostrils jetting steam. A FOREST PATH IN WINTER Along this secret and forgotten road All depths and forest forms, above, below, AFTER MIST 287 E wrath? h? 1 too! ch worn n, Are plumed and draped and hillocked with the snow. A branch cracks now and then, and its soft load Drifts by me in a thin prismatic shower; Else not a sound, but vistas bound and crossed With sheeted gleams and sharp blue shadows, frost, And utter silence. In his glittering power The master of mid-winter reveries Holds all things buried soft and strong and deep. The busy squirrel has his hidden lair ; And even the spirits of the stalwart trees Have crept into their utmost roots, and there, Upcoiled in the close earth, lie fast asleep. e; hue I's sleighs pight and strain, cheeks team, etting R AFTER MIST Last night there was a mist. Pallid and chill The yellow moon-blue clove the thickening sky, And all night long a gradual wind crept by, And froze the fog, and with minutest skill Fringed it and forked it, adding bead to bead. In spears, and feathery tufts, and delicate hems Round windward trunks, and all the topmost stems, And every bush, and every golden weed ; And now upon the meadows silvered through And forests frosted to their farthest pines — A last faint gleam upon the misty blue — The magic of the morning falls and shines, A creamy splendour on a dim white world, Broidered with violet, crystalled and impearled. ill! ■ ii 288 SONNETS DEATH I like to stretch full-length upon my bed, Sometimes, when I am weary body and mind, And think that I shall some day lie thus, blind And cold, and motionless, my last word said. How grim it were, how piteous to be dead ! And yet how sweet, to hear no more, nor see, Sleeping, past care, through all eternity, With clay for pillow to the clay-cold head. And I should seem so absent, so serene; They who should see me in that hour would ask What spirit, or what fire, could ever have been Within that yellow and discoloured mask ; For there seem.s life in lead, or in a stone. But in a soul's deserted dwelling none. IN BEECHWOOD CEMETERY Here the dead sleep — the quiet dead. No sound Disturbs them ever, and no storm dismays. Winter mid snow caresses the tired ground, And the wind roars about the woodland ways. Springtime and summer and red autumn pass. With leaf and bloom and pipe of wind and bird, And the old earth puts forth her tender grass. By them unfelt, unheeded and unheard. Our centuries to them are but as strokes In the dim gamut of some far-oflf chime. A MARCH DAY 289 mind, I, blind aid. I Dr see, y. i. ould ask ; been ,sk; sound ys. nd, ways, pass, id bird, ass, Unaltering rest their perfect being cloaks — A thing too vast to hear or feel or see — Children of Silence and Eternity, They know no season but the end of time. BEFORE THE ROBIN The noon hangs warm and still. Only the crow Banters and chides with his importunate call The world-wide silence resting over all. Down by the hollow yonder, where the slow Frail sheets of tremulous pools collect and grow, A few bronzed cedars in their fading dress, Almost asleep for happy weariness, Lean their blue shadows on the puckered snow. And as I listen, all my sense concealed In the very core of silence, mirthfully still, Where the first grass above the gleeting field Lies bare and yellow on a tiny hill, I hear the shore lark in his search prolong The little lonely welcome of his song. A MARCH DAY The wind went by in buffeting gusts that grew And lulled and gathered. In the town below It piled the drifts and drove the powdered snow In sheets from the roof-edges. Dim clouds flew All day across the silvery mist-veiled blue. And far away between the dark pine-patches 19 ini[ i 290 SONNETS The sun shone out and dimmed again by snatches, And swept the foothills with long gleams, and threw A blind white glare upon the buried plain. Toward night there came a rush of clouds with rain And sleet driving, and then all passed, and now Clouds, wind and sunshine, all have sunk to rest. Slowly athwart the midnight's eastern brow. The Herdsman mounts : Orion spans the west. UPLIFTING We passed heart-weary from the troubled house, Where much of care and much of strife had been, A jar of tongues upon a petty scene ; And now as from a long and tortured drouse, The dark returned us to our purer vows : The open darkness, like a friendly palm, And the great night was round us with her calm: We felt the large free wind upon our brows, Aiid suddenly above us saw revealed The holy round of heaven — all its rime Of suns and planets and its nebulous rust — Sable and glittering like a mythic shield. Sown with the gold of giants and of time. The worlds and all their systems but as dust. A DAWN ON THE LIEVRE Up the dnrk-valleyed river stroke by stroke We drove the water from the rustling blade; A WINTEU-DAWN 291 And when the night was ahuost gone we made The Oxbow bend; and there the dawn awoke; Full on the shrouded night-charged river broke The sun, down the long mountain valley rolled, A sudden swinging avalanche of gold. Through mists that sprang and reeled aside like smoke. And lo ! before us, toward the east upborne. Packed with curled forest, bunched and topped with pine. Brow beyond brow, drawn deep with shade and shine, The mount; upon whose golden sunward side, Still threaded with the melting mist, the morn Sat like some glowing conqueror satisfied. A WINTER-DAWN Thin clouds are vanishing slowly. Overhead The stars melt in the wakening sky ; and, lo, Far on the blue band of the eastern snow Sober and still the morning breaks, dull red. Innumerable smoke wreaths curl and spread Up from the snow-capped roofs. From the gray north A little wind that bites like fire creeps forth. The purple mists along the south hang dead. Out of the distance eastward, frosty, still. Where soon the gold-shower of the sun shall be, 292 SONNETS A file of straggling snowshoers winds aslant, Across the dull blue river, up the hill, Toward the dusk city plodding silently, — The jaded enders of some midnight jaunt. GOLDENROD Ere the stout year be waxed shrewd and old, And while the grain upon the well-piled stack Waits yet unthreshed, by every woodland track, Low stream, and meadow, and wide waste out- rolled, By every fence that skirts the forest mould. Sudden and thick, as at the reaper's hail, They come, companions of the harvest, frail Green forests yellowing upward into gold. Lo, where yon shaft of level sunshine gleams Full on those pendent wreathes, those bounteous plumes So gracious and so golden ! Mark them well. The last and best from summer's empty looms. Her benedicite, and dream of dreams, The fulness of her soul made visible. TEMAGAMI Far in the grim Northwest beyond the lines That turn the rivers eastward to the sea. Set with a thousand islands, crowned with pines, Lies the deep water, wild Temagami : ON LAKE TEMISCAMINGUE 293 Wild for the hunter's roving, and the use Of trappers in its dark and trackless vales, Wild with the trampling of the giant moose, And the weird magic of old Indian tales. All day with steady paddles toward the west Our heavy-laden long canoe we pressed : All day we saw the thunder-travelled sky Purpled with storm in many a trailing tress. And saw at eve the broken sunset die In crimson on the silent wilderness. I ON LAKE TEMISCAMINGUE A single dreamy elm, that stands between The sombre forest and the wan-lit lake, Halves with its slim gray stem and pendent green The shadowed point. Beyond it without break Bold brows of pine-topped granite bend away, Far to the southward, fading off m grand Soft folds of looming purple. Cool and gray, The point runs out, a blade of thinnest sand. Two rivers meet beyond it: wild and clear, Their deepening thunder breaks upon the ear — The one descending from its forest home By many an eddied pool and murmuring fall— The other cloven through the mountain wall, A race of tumbled rocks, a roar of foam. 294 SONNKTS ; NIGHT IN THE WILDERNESS The good fire-ranger is our friend to-night; We sit before his tent, and watch his fire Send up its fount of sailing sparks that light The ruddy pine-stems. Hands that never tire Our friend's are, as he spreads his frugal store, And cooks his bouillon with a hunter's pride, Till, warm with woodland fare and forest lore We sink at last to sleep. On every side, A grim mysterious presence, vast and old. The forest stretches 'eagues on leagues away, With lonely rivers running dark and cold, And many a gloomy lake and haunted bay. The stars above the pines are sharp and still. The wind scarce moves. An owl hoots from the hill IN THE WILDS We run with rushing streams that toss and spume ; We speed or dream upon the open meres ; The pine-woods fold us in their pungent gloom ; The thunder of wild water fills our ears ; The rain we take, we take the beating sun ; The stars are cold above our heads at night; On the rough earth we lie when day is done. And slumber even in the storm's despite. The savage vigour of the forest creeps Into our veins, and laughs upon our lips ; THE WINTER STARS 295 The warm blood kindles from forgotten deeps, And surges tingling to the finger tips. The deep-pent life awakes and bursts its bands ; We feel the strength and goodness of our hands. AMBITION I see the world in pride and tumult pass Too bright with flame, too dark with phantasy, Its forces meet and mingle mass in mass, A tangle of Desire and Memory. I see the labours of untiring hands Closing at last upon a shadowy prize, And Glory bear abroad through many lands Great names — I watching with unenvious eyes From other lips let stormy numbers flow : By others let great epics be compiled ; For me, the dreamer, 'tis enough to know The lyric stress, the fervour sweet and wild : I sit me in the windy grass and grow As wise as age, as joyous as a child. V THE WINTER STARS Across the iron-bound silence of the night A keen wind fitfully creeps, and far away The northern ridges glimmer faintly bright, Lile hills on some dead planet hard and gray. Divinely from the icy sky look down The deathless stars that sparkle overhead, , 296 SONNETS The Wain, the Herdsman, and the Northern Crown, And yonder, westward, large and balefully red, Arcturus, brooding over fierce resolves : Like mystic dancers in the Arctic air The troops of the Aurora shift and spin : The Dragon strews his bale-fires, and within His trailing and prodigious loop involves The lonely Pole Star and the Lesser Bear. THE PASSING OF SPRING No longer in the meadow coigns shall blow The creamy blood-root in her suit of gray. But all the first strange flowers have passed away, Gone with the childlike dreams that touched us so ; April is spent, and summer soon shall go, Swift as a shadow o'er the heads of men, And autumn with the painted leaves ; and then. When fires are set, and windows blind with snow, We shall remember, with a yearning pang, How in the poplars the first robins sang. The wind-flowers risen from their leafy cots. When life was gay and spring was at the helm, The maple full of little crimson knots, And all that delicate blossoming of the elm. '" 11 TO THE OTTAWA RIVER 297 TO THE OTTAWA Dear dark-brown waters full of all the stain Of sombre spruce-woods and the forest fens, Laden with sound from far-off northern glens Where winds and craggy cataracts complain, Voices of streams and mountain pines astrain. The pines that brood above the roaring foam Of La Montagne or Des Erables ; thine home Is distant yet, a shelter far to gain. Aye still to eastward, past the shadowy lake And the long slopes of Rigaud toward the sun. The mightier stream, thy comrade, waits for thee, The beryl waters that espouse and take Thine in their deep embrace, and bear thee on In that great bridal journey to the sea. TO THE OTTAWA RIVER O slave, whom many a cunning master drills To lift, or carry, bind, or crush, or churn. Whose dammed and parcelled waters drive or turn The saws and hammers of a hundred mills. Yet hath thy strength for our rebellious ills A counsel brave, a message sweet and stern. Uttered for them that have the heart to learn : Yea to the dwellers in the rocky hills. The folk of cities, and the farthest tracts, There comes above the human cry for gold P' IP "I 298 SONNETS The thunder of thy chutes and cataracts : And lo ! contemptuous of the driver's hold, Thou movest under all thy servile pacts Full-flowing, fair, and stately as of old. A SUMMER EVE G The clouds grow clear, the pine-wood glooms and stills With brown reflections in the silent bay, And far beyond the pale blue-misted hills The rose and purple evening dreams away. The thrush, the veery, from mysterious dales Rings his la^t round ; and outward like a sea The shining, shadowy heart of heaven unveils — The starry legend of eternity. The day's long troubles lose their r'-mg and pass. Peaceful the world, and peaceful { s my heart. The gossip cricket from the frienui^^ ass Talks of old joys and takes the dreamer's part. Then night, the healer, with unnoticed breath, And sleep, dark sleep, so near, so like to death. WAYAGAMACK Beautiful are thy hills, Wayagamack, Thy depths of lonely rock, thine endless piles Of grim birch forest and thy spruce-dark isles. Thy waters fathomless and pure ana black. WINTER UPLANDS 299 But golden where the gravel meets the sun, And beautiful thy twilight solitude, The gloom that gathers over lake an^! wood A weirder silence when the day is done. For ever wild, too savage for the plough, Thine austere beauty thou canst never lose. Change shall not mar thy loneliness, nor tide Of human trespass trouble thy repose, The Indian's paddle and the hunter's stride Shall jar thy dream, and break thy peace enow. WINTER UPLANDS The frost that stings like fire upon my cheek, The loneliness of this forsaken ground. The long white drift upon whose powdered peak I sit in the great silence as one bound ; The rippled sheet of snow where the wind blew Across the open fields for miles ahead ; The far-off city towered and roofed in blue A tender line upon the western red ; The stars that singly, then in flocks appear, Like jets of silver from the violet dome, So wonderful, so many and so near, And then the golden moon to light me home — The crunching snowshoes and the stinging air, And silence, frost and beauty everywhere. 300 SONNETS THE LARGEST LIFE I lie upon my bed and hear and see. The moon is rising through the ghstening trees; And momently a great and sombre breeze, With a vast voice returning fitfully, Comes like a deep-toned grief, and stirs in me, Somehow, by some inexplicable art, A sense of my soul's strangeness, and its part In the dark march of human destiny. What am I, then, and what are they that pass Yonder, and love and laugh, and mourn and weep? What shall they know of me, or I, alas ! Of them? Little. At times, as if from sleep, We waken to this yearning passionate mood. And tremble at our spiritual solitude. II Nay, never once to feel we are alone. While the great human heart around us lies : To make the smile on other lips our own, To live upon the light in others' eyes : To breathe without a doubt the limpid air Of that most perfect love that knows no pain : To say — I love you — only, and not care Whether the love come back to us again, Divinest sclf-forgetfulness, at first A task, and then a tonic, then a need ; THE LARGEST LIFE 301 To greet with open hands the best and worst. And only for another's wound to bleed : This is to see the beauty that God meant, Wrapped round with Hfe, ineffably content. Ill There is a beauty at the goal of life, A beauty growing since the world began, Through every age and race, through lapse and, strife Till the great human soul complete her span. Beneath the waves of storm that lash and burn, The currents of blind passion that appall, To listen and keep watch till we discern The tide of sovereign truth that guides it all ; So to address our spirits to the height, And so attune them to the valiant whole, That the great light be clearer for our light. And the great soul the stronger for our soul : To have done this is to have lived, though fame Remember us with no familiar name. ii wm SjfeeJI POEMS AND BALLADS I kept the pure and glassy floors Swept clean between the sounding doors : Through ivied port and window blew, With gentle voices never done, A njellow wind that brought the sun : And always more divinely than I knew The vistas deepened ; and the years Brought dreams, and only ghosts of tears More bright than dew. 3 THE MINSTREL Through the wide-set gates of the city, bright-eyed, Came the minstrel ; many a song behind him, Many still before him, re-echoing strangely. Ringing and kindling. First he stood, bold-browed, in the hall of warriors, Stood, and struck, and flung from his strings the roar And sweep of battle, praising the might of foemen, Met in the death-grip : Bugle-voiced, wild-eyed, till the old men, rising, Gathered all the youth in a ring, and drinking Deep, acclaimed him, making the walls and roof-tree Jar as with thunder. Then of horse and hound, and the train of huntsmen Sprang his song, and into the souls of all men Passed the cheer and heat of the chase, the fiery Rush of the falcon. Singing next of love, in the silken chambers Sat the minstrel, eloquent, urged by lovely Eyes of women, sang till the girls, white-handed, Gathered, and round him CO 3o6 POEMS AND BALLADS Leaned, and listened, eager, and flushed, and dreaming Now of things remembered, and now the dearer Wishes yet unfilled; and they praised and crowned him, They, the beloved ones. Gentlest songs he made for the mothers, weaving Over cradles tissues of softest vision, Tender cheeks, and exquisite hands, and little Feet of their dearest. Into cloisters also he came, and cells, and Dwellings, sad and heavy with shadow, making All his lute-strings bear for the hour their bitter Burden of sorrow. Children gathered, many and bright, around him, Sweet-eyed, eager, beautiful, fairy-footed. While with jocund hand upon string and mad notes, Full of the frolic, He rejoicing, followed and led their pastime. Wilder yet and wilder, till weary, over All their hearts he murmured a spell, and gently Sleep overcame them. So the minstrel sang with a hundred voices All day long, and now in the dusk of even Once again the gates of the city opened. Wide for his passing THE MINSTREL 307 , and dearer ,nd crowned weaving I little 1 making ir bitter mnd him, mad notes, time, A gently ces m Forth to dreaming meadows, and fields, and wooded Hillsides, solemn under the dew and the starlight There the singer far from the pathways straying, Silent and lonely, Plucked and pressed the fruit of his day's devotion. Making now a song for the spirit only. Deeper-toned, more pure, than his soul had fashioned Ever aforetime. Sorrow touched it, travail of spirit, broken Hopes, and faiths uprooted, and aspirations Dimmed and soiled, and out of the depth of being Limitless hunger. First his own strange destiny, darkly guided ; Next, the tragic ways of the world and all men. Caught and foiled for ever among perplexing, Endlessly ravelled, Nets of truth and falsehood, and good, and evil, Wild of heart, beholding the hands of Beauty Decking all, he sang with a voice and fingers Trembling and shaken. Then of earth and time, and the pure and painless Night, serene with numberless worlds inwoven Scripts and golden traceries, hourly naming God, the Eternal, Sang the minstrel, full of the light and splendour, Full of power and infinite gift, once only — ■H i 3o8 POEMS AND BALLADS Only once — for just as the solemn glory. Flung by the moonshine, Over folds of hurrying clouds at midnight, Gleams and passes, so was his song — the noblest — Once outpoured, and then in the strain and tumult Gone and forgotten. YARROW The yarrow's beauty : fools may laugh. And yet the fields without it Were shorne of half their comfort, half Their magic — who can doubt it? Yon patches of a milky stain In verdure bright or pallid Are something like the deep refrain That tunes a perfect ballad. The meadows by its sober white — Though few would bend to pick it — Are tempered as the sounds of night Are tempered by the cricket. It blooms as in the fields of life Those spirits bloom for ever, Unnamed, unnoted in the strife. Among the great and clever. Who spread from an unconscious soul An aura pure and tender, SORROW 309 A kindlier background for the whole, Between the gloom and splendour. Let others captivate the mass With power and brilliant seeming: The lily and the rose I pass, The yarrow holds me dreaming. TO A FLOWER Thou hast no human soul, O flower! Thou heedest not if I am near; But I may come at any hour And take thy beauty without fear. Thou hast no human smile to bless, And not with tears thine eyes are wet ; But I may love thee and caress, Without reproach, without regret. SORROW In the morning early I became aware Of the sunlight pouring clearly On a world so fair, That from every part Breathed a single bright good morrow : And I heard the sparrow sing — I awakening II I'lii ■ I if "li iilliilliiiiiiMi • 310 POEMS AND BALLADS With my fiery robe of sorrow. And my heavy heart. Then amid the glitter, Pure on flower and leaf, Seemed a hundredfold more bitter Than before my grief: For the bright and scornful morrow Pierced me like a dart : All the singing brilliance and the stir Made me lonelier, With my fiery robe of sorrow And my heavy heart. PATERNITY Child, for thy love and for thy beauty's sake, My heart hath opened warmlier to the day ; Springs of new joy and deeper tears awake, Whose wells were buried in the baser clay. For thy sake nobler visions are unfurled. Vistas of tenderer humanity, And all the little children of this world Are dearer now to me. PEACE Him only shall peace find Who plans no more and long hath ceased to sue ■-^_ PEACE 3" Existent only in the flawless mind, Accounting nothing as his due : Whose soul hath set aside Desire and hope ; who lives no more in fee, But looks far forth and casts his spirit wide On Nature and Eternity: Who sees this glorious earth — An open radiance, a script sublime — Regarding in her elemental mirth Not now, nor yesterday, but time : To whom the marvellous sun, The daedal spectacle of earth and sky. In endless forms and beauty never done, The night's slow-moving majesty : Life's never-flagging tale. An infinite pursuit, a vast employ. In lonely brightness far removed from bale, Bring wonder and sufficient joy. This is to live in truth. To plant against the passions' dark control The spirit's birth-right of immortal youth. The simple standard of the soul. iscd to sue 312 POEMS AND BALLADS STRIFE AND FREEDOM The fool impatient of control, Must prove himself in every strife; Age finds him with a withered soul, Exhausted in the nets of life. Not Nature only he defies. The forces from of old obeyed, But ever lifts the bitterest cries Against the bonds himself hath made. The wise man sees in every let The purpose of the soul made plain, A warning and a signal set To point it to its own domain. The wise man storms not nor complains, But lets his quiet spirit shine, And knows himself beyond his chains A boundless mood of the divine. THE PASSING OF AUTUMN The wizard has woven his ancient scheme ; A day and a starlit night ; And the world is a shadowy-pencilled dream Of colour, haze, and light. Like something an angel wrought, maybe, To answer a fairy's whim, THE LAKE IN THE FOREST 3^3 ade. A fold of an ancient tapestry, A phantom rare and dim. Silent and smooth as the crystal stone The river lies serene, And the fading hills are a jewelled throne For the Fall and the Mist, his Queen. Slim as out of aerial seas, The elms and poplars fair Float like the dainty spirits of trees In the mellow dreamlike air. n, ams. Silvery-soft by the forest side — Wine-red, yellow, rose — The wizard of Autumn, faint, blue-eyed — Swinging his censer, goes. is N heme; d dream aaybe, THE LAKE IN THE FOREST O Manitou, O Spirit of the earth. Maker and monarch of this silent mere, These ridges and this lonely atmosphere. Savage and bright and pure, to whom the dearth And sickness of the world and men's distress Appeal, and thou art kind, Spirit of the virgin wilderness, O Worker unconfined. Here in thy fastness and thy dreaming-place, 1 feel thy living presence, face to face. 3H POEMS AND BALLADS Thy soul is in the splendour of the night, When silent shadows darken from the shores, And all thy swaying fairies over floors Of luminous water lying strange and bright. Are spinning mists of silver in the moon ; When out of magic bays The yells and demon laughter of the loon Startle the hills and raise The solitary echoes far away ; Then art thou present, Spirit, wild as they. O Monarch of the morning, Manitou ; The sun, thy first-born, from the gleaming hills Uptilts the handles of his jar, and fills This moss-embroidered bowl of rock and dew With torrent-light and ether. From his eye, Divine and wide with day, Belated broods of spectres break and fly. And cringe, and curl away — Thin mists — the ferns of midnight, and her bines — That vanish tangled in the topmost pines. O Master of the noon ; the dusky bass Lurk in the chambers of the rocks — the deep Cool crypts of amber brown and dark — and sleep. Dim-shadowed, waiting for the day to pass. The shy red deer come down by crooked paths, Whom countless flies assail. And splash and wallow in the sandy baths. And cry to thee to veil Thine eye's exceeding brightness and strike dead The hot cicada singing overhead. THE LAKE IN THE FOREST 3IS shores, ght, n -y- ling hills d dew eye, ler bines — 16 deep —and sleep, lass, paths, IS, ike dead O Spirit of the sunset ; in thine hand This hollow of the forest brims with fire, And piling high to westward builds a pyre Of sombre spruces and black pines that stand, Ragged, and grim, and eaten through with gold. The arched east grows sweet With rose and orange, and the night acold Looms, and beneath her feet Still waters green and purple in strange schemes. Till twilight wakes the hoot-owl from his dreams. O Manitou, O Spirit of the spring. That hast the wind-flower in thy fertile care; Thy footstep falls, and all the forest air Grows gentle at the whisper of thy wing; And always with the fifing of the frogs The rivers swell, and soon The shouting woodmen drive the herded logs ; And ever, night or noon, Soft violet or unfathomable blue, The cup is poured, the censer smokes anew. O Spirit of the Autumn ; ah ! the trees, Thy maskers, that make revel for an hour, In gold and ruby, till the blighting power Strips them, and all their rustling braveries In urns and earthen caskets lays away ; But thou, O Spirit, still Armest thy children for the bitter day ; The plants observe thy skill, Whose secret buds in woolly folds abide. And the fur thickens on the fox's hide. 3i6 POEMS AND BALLADS O Manitou, O Spirit of the snow, That buries, each and all, the moose's track, The woodman's shanty, and the hunter's shack, Lord of the hissing winds that plunge and blow, Till pines and powdered birches are embossed With loaded white and gray; O Manitou, O Master of the frost. The frost that hath its way, The waters are forsaken by the loon, And the ice roars beneath the winter moon. n Thy soul is in the silence, Manitou, The silence of the winter, which is sleep ; The silence of the midnight made more deep By the deer's footstep and the loon's halloo, The lashing wings and laughter of the wild ; The silence of the Fall, Windless at even when the logs are piled. When every stroke or call Awakes the fairies from their caves, and thrills In taunting echoes up the cloven hills. O Maker of the light and sinewy frame. The hunter's iron hands and tireless feet ; O Breath, whose kindling ether, keen and sweet. Thickens the thews and fills the blood with flame; O Manitou, before the mists are drawn. The dewy webs unspun. While yet the smiling pines are soft witli dawn. My forehead greets the sun ; With lifted heart and hands I take my place. And feel thy living presence face to face. DROUGHT 317 rack, s shack, 1 blow, )ssed DROUGHT From week to week there came no rain, The very birds took flight, The river shrank within its bed, The borders of the world grew red With woods that flamed by night. 3n. : deep 00, d; tirills :et; ^nd sweet, ith flame; dawn. ace. No rest beneath the fearful sun, No shelter brought the moon; Lean cattle on the reeded fen Searched every hole for drink, and men Dropped dead beneath the noon. And ever as each sun went down Beyond the reeling plain, lr<"0 the mocking sky uprist, Like phantoms from the burning west, Dim clouds that brought no rain. Each root and leaf and living thing Fell sicklier day by day. And I that still must live and see The agony of plant and tree, Grew weary even as they. But oh, at last the joy, the change ; With sudden sigh and start I woke upon the middle night, And thought that something strange and bright Had burst upon my heart. 1 3l8 POEMS AND BALLADS With surging of great winds, a lull And hush upon the plain, A hollow murmur far aloof And then a roar upon the roof, Down came the rushing rain. AFTER SNOW High to westward lies the city, Soft upon the pallid blue, With the storms of half a winter Packed and sifted through and through. Spire and tower against the azure, Deepening as the morning grows, From the distance faint and slender Rising each a shaft of rose. Icy fringes, violet shadows, Every roof a creamy sheet, Ridges of gray broken silver Up and down the misty street. O'er the roofs the smoke in torrents Billows like a glimmering sea. From the city's thousand chimneys Rolling out tumultuously. Down the frozen street to market Com.e the woodmen team by team. AFTER SNOW 319 Squeaking runners, jolting cordwood, Frost-fringed horses jetting steam. Some upon the load, some walking, Down the misty street they come, With their cheeks as red as flannel, And their beards as white as foam. And they swing their arms to warm them- Ah, the wind is keen we know — Beating crosswise round the shoulders Till their fingers sting and glow. Brothers, let us serve the morning With a worship glad as meet. Roll the tuque about our foreheads, Bind the snowshoes to our feet. All along the north the mountains, Hoary with the sifted snow. Gleaming front and powdered forest, Overlook the sweep below. Where the frosted creamy splendour Of the morning slants and shines On smooth fields and sheeted rivers. Stretching to the western pines. Past the bridge and past the river. Comrades, striding, let us wind. Over marsh and meadow, leaving Miles of braided track behind. 320 POEMS AND BALLADS Praising with deep tongue the season, Master in whose caustic ken, We become this winter morning Equal with the lords of men. iii THE WIND'S WORD The wind charged every way and fled Across the meadows and the wheat; It whirled the swallows overhead, And swung the daisies at my feet. As if in mockery of me. And all the deadness of my thought, It mounted to the largest glee. And, like a lord that laughed and fought, Took all the maples by surprise. And made the poplars clash and shiver, And flung my hair about my eyes, And sprang and blackened on the river. And through the elm-tree tops, and round The city steeples wild and high. It floundered with a mighty sound, A buoyant voice that seemed to cry : Behold how grand I am, how free! And all the forest bends my way ! I roam the earth, I stalk the sea, And make my labour but a play. THE OLD HOUSE 321 BIRD VOICES The robin and the sparrow awing in silver-throated accord ; The low soft breath of a flute, and the deep short pick of a chord, A golden chord and a tlute, where the throat of the oriole swells Fieldward, and out of the blue the passing of bob-o- link bells. HEPATICAS The trees to their innermost marrow Are touched by the sun ; The robin is here and the sparrow : Spring is begun ! The sleep and the silence are over : These petals that rise Are the eyelids of earth that uncover Her numberless eyes. THE OLD HOUSE All men love the old house, roofed with brown, Rising grayly from its woodland ring. Over all the valley, ford and town. Facing westward like an aged king: 21 ^^riSi^^^E^^^ ii'!«^lH\n h ■-■•<•■<.'. wirti?>-i^;v^:-"*«;•ts:--■;^ 322 POEMS AND BALLADS And along the level west are lines Of pencilled hills and slender pines. Bright its gardens are with pipe and carol, All its chambers fair with woven dies, Lovely forms and beautiful apparel, Gentle faces and the kindliest eyes. To its ways Love belongs ; All its days Are but songs : And the customs of the house are fair to see, The master and his noble company. !HI| illil!; When the angel of the springtime broods O'er the dead leaves and the vanished snow, Fraught with sunbeams and the scent of woods. And the dove-like wind begins to blow ; When the yearning city towers have seen The willows spreading golden-green ; Then about the arbours and the eaves Sparrows busy with their nesting, meet ; O'er the gray grass and the matted leaves Golden-headed, silver-tongued, children fleet. Shout and song Over all, Pierce and throng Yard and hall ; And with softer brilliance down the ancient walls The glory of the sunset smiles and falls. Summer comes ; and when the fancied hour Fills its gardens and its lawns with light; : THE OLD HOUSE 323 When the too great sun forgets his power, And the fainting leaves desire the night ; When the few round ringing notes are heard That clearly name the oriole bird ; Into silent glades and leafy places Footsteps follow where the quiet fiies — Sunlight scattered upon restful faces Shadows fallen upon pensive eyes. Tongues that keep Court and bower Murmur deep Every hour Gravely, and the sound of joyous music pours Flooding at even from the princely doors. All the golden long October days On the gray and orange-stained walls Dripping lengths of scarlet creepers blaze, And the warm and misty sunlight falls. Nestling in the swart and silent cedar screen That keeps the lingering lilacs green. Far within the mute and dreaming garden. Paved all with red and russet leaves. Ere the winds of winter lock and harden, Nothing jibes and nothing grieves. Voices sweet Ebb and flow: Quiet feet Come and go And among the faded stalks and ruined roses The easy master of the house reposes. 324 POEMS AND BALLADS I L Often in the winter nights I see ) One or two great stars, that seem to pry Just above the roof-edge, wonderfully Hard and sparkling in the bitter sky. In the tranquil moonlight droop and curl Long icicles that beam like pearl, Round the gable-ends and steep roof-edges Slant the shadows, curve the folds of snow; Down the crystal paths in crimson wedges Firelight flickers from the panes bolow. Onward slips [ Night awhile; ■ Kindly lips / Bend and smile Yonder, and the magic of the dance illumes The dreamy faces in the festal rooms. Open-doored upon its sunny steep 'Tis a home of friendly pilgrimage: Softly round it, light of hand like sleep. Beauty grows upon its stones with age: Love, its only master, keeps the hall, The surest-sceptered lord of all. So the old house for its day shall flourish. Till the twilight and the dark descend, And the heart within shall cease to nourish. Ending as all mortal things must end ; Till at last, Some dark day, All be past, Work and play; And forsaken, deaf to every wind that blows. The rooms fall silent and the shutters close. KING OSWALD'S FKAST 325 KING OSWALD'S FEAST The kinj? had laboured all an autumn day For his folk's good and welfare of the kirk. And now when eventide was well away, And deepest mirk Lay heavy on York town, he sat at meat, With his great councillors round him and his kin, And a blithe face was sat in every seat, And far within The hall was jubilant with banqueting. The tankards foaming high as they could hold With mead, the plates well-heaped, and everything Was served with gold. Then came to the king's side the doorkeeper. And said : "The folk are thronging at the gate. And flaunt their rags and many plaints prefer, And through the grate *T see that many are ill-clad and lean. For fields are poor this year, and food hard-won." And the good king made answer, " 'Twere ill seen And foully done, "Were I to feast, while many starve without ;" And he bade bear the most and best of all To give the folk ; and lo, they raised a shout That shook the hall. I '* ,1 fllff !!! If 326 rOEMS AND HALLADS And now lean fare for tliose at board was set. But came again the doorkeeper and cried The folk still hail thee, sir, nor will they yet Be satisfied ; "They say they have no surety for their lives, When winters bring hard nights and heatless suns, Nor bread, nor raiment have they for their wives And little ones." Then said the king: "It is not well that I Should eat from gold, when many are so poor. For he that guards his greatness guards a lie ; Of that be sure." And so he bade collect the golden plate, And all the tankards, and break up, and bear. And give them to the folk that thronged the gate. To each his share. And the great councillors in cold surprise Looked on and murmured ; but unmindfully The king sat dreaming with far-fixed eyes, And it may be He saw some vision of that Holy One Who knew no rest or shelter for His head, When self was scorned and brotherhood begun. " 'Tis just," he said : "Henceforward wood shall serve me for my plate. And earthen cups suflfice me for my mead ; With them that joy or travail at my gate I laugh or bleed." SOSTKATUS 327 iet. /es, ess suns, ir wives poor. I lie; ear, the gate, illy jegun. y plate. SOSTRATUS Sostraius, son of Laoclamas, Prince of ^gina, Named in the book of Herodotus still shall you find him, He who was first of the Hellenes in trade, and out- sailing All to the westward, returned with the goodliest cargo, Now in the dusk of the twilight meseemeth I see him, Straight on the deck of his ship within sight of ^gina. Borne by the evening wind, with the hold of his vessel Heavy with amber and pitch and hides from the Spanish Forests, and copper hewed out from the hills of Tartessus. Westward the shores of Kalauria gloom, but the golden Crests of the islands are luminous still with the sunset ; Taut are the sails, and the cordage groans, and the plunging Oars keep time with the tremulous chant of the sailors. Full of the triumph of life is his strenuous figure ; Bronzed are his cheeks, and toughened his hands, and his shining Eyes are alive with memories, full of the stories Gathered from wonderful folk on the strands of the ocean, Soon to be rolled from his lips on the listening market There in ^gina. Full is his heart too of visions, Plans for far-venturing trade in the opulent future. Gone are his figure and face now ; gone are his people, Sostratus, son of Laodamas, Prince of ^gina ; 328 POEMS AND BALLADS Yet like a gleam out of primitive shadow revealing Worlds of old joy and wonder of living and effort Named in the bov^k of Herodotus still shall you find him. PHOKAIA I will tell you a tale of an ancient city of men, Of men that were men in truth : The world grows wide now; 'twas smaller and goodlier then, And the busy shores of the little islanded sea Were filled with a beautiful folk, A people of children and sages, untouched by the yoke, Eager, far-venturing, fearless and free. In the pride and glory of youth. Phokaia the city was named, built on a northern strand Of the old bright-watered, sunny, Ionian land. For many an age its marts had flourished : the city had grown Famous and rich : and far from the East to the West The sounds of the sea and the opening waters were sown With their long swift ships. The hands of its sailors had pressed, ^Vith venturesome gains and many a toilful escape, Dreaded Pachynus long since : and its glistening oars, Farther and farther each year, past the Sicilian cape, -.AliZ,' _ '.4iAhJl< ■J'.n,^ PIIOKAIA 329 Out from the gates of the ocean, past Tartessus, had found Havens of trade with wonderful men, and the sound Of unknown waves on unknown measureless shores. And fair was the city now with an eager and mingled throng Of people and princes, with festival, art, and song; And busy its workshops were : the fruit of their myriad hands Drew traffic, and praise, and gold out of many lands. a northern But life is like the uncertain sea, And some day, somewhere, surely falls The fierce inevitable storm : Thrice-happy in that hour shall be The ship whose decks are clear, whose walls Of timber are still sound, whose prow Is captained by no cowering form, But a bright mind and an unflinching brow. The long fair peace was over. An ominous star Dawned on the land of the Hellenes, livid with war. For far away in the East a conquering tyrant rose. And the lords of t^e earth were smitten, and laid their crowns At the Great King's feet. Like a pitiless storm-black cloud, Out of the Lydian valleys, sudden and loud, The foemen gathered with sword and fire and began to close Round the sweet sea-fields and the soft Ionian towns. Some held to their own, and fell, 330 POEMS AND BALLADS And mrxiy fought and surrendered, and left no tale to And one that was richly fee'd [tell ; Purchased a shameful pact by a bloody and impious deed. At last they came to Phokaia, and harried the plain, And leaguered its walls, and battered its gates in vain, For the citizens stood to their posts like heroes, and fought, Till the Persian dead were many and no good wrought. And then, for their strength was needed in other lands, The foe drew off, and sent a herald, and cried : "O men of Phokaia, the Persians seek at your hands Nor service, nor tribute, but only this ; tear down. For a sign of homage and faith to our master's crown, A single turret of all your walls, and set aside One roof for the Great King's use in your ample town, And ye shall possess your city untouched, your gods and your laws." And well the Phokaians knew what the end must be, For their foes were many as wav-cs on the island sea ; They were alone, alone with a ruined cause. And so they demanded a day for counsel and choice. And the people met and cried with a single voice: "Dear are the seats of our gods, and dear is the name Of our beautiful land, but we will not hold them with shame. Let us take to the ships, for the shores of the sea are wide, And its waves are free, and wherever our keels shall ride, There are sites for a hundred Phokaias." PHOKAIA 331 Swift as the thought, They turned like a torrent out of the market, and rolled Down to the docks, and manned them, a multitude, young and old ; And ran the long ships into the sea, and brought Their wives and little ones down to the shining shore, And gathered the best of their goods, and the things of gold, And the sacred altars and vessels, a priceless store; And, moving ever in pride and sorrow silently. They put them into the ships, and embarked, and smote the sea. Each ship with its fifty glimmering oars, and far behind, In the cooling heart of the dusk and the soft night wind. Left the beloved docks and the city, proud and fair, A lonely prey to the Persians empty and bare. And first they halted at Chios, a people, they thought, of friends. And sought a home at their hands, but the island men, Looking with crafty eyes to their selfish ends. And dreading the mighty traders, whose ships in the bay Lay like a glimmering cloud beyond count or ken, Gave them faint cheer and bade them coldly away. The grim Phokaians lay for an hour or two on their path. Heavy with grief and heavier still with wrath, Till the pride of the people sprang forth in a single word, E' II llilllill 1 332 POEMS AND BALLADS And they turned them back to Phokaia, and fell with the sword On the startled Persian garrison, smitten with dread, And hewed them down to a man, and left them dead ; And they laid a curse on the city, and sank a weight Of red-hot hissing iron at the harbour gate, With a vow to return no more till the time should be, When the iron, so sunk, should appear red-hot from the sea. And then once more from the desolate harbour mouth They turned the tall prows round, and headed to west and south. Through many an islanded strait, where the bright sea shone. With bellying sails and plunging oars, and ran straight on. Past Melos and Malea, past the Laconian bay, Into the open main. On the windy decks all day The little children played, and the mothers with wistful eyes Looked forth on the crests of the wild and widening sea, Full of regrets and misgivings and tender memories : But the men stood keen and unanxious, whatever might be, For the heads of the people had gathered and issued command : "We will build us another Phokaia far hence in a land That is ringed all round with the surf-beaten guardian strand ^^ nd fell with PHOKAIA 333 Of the ocean : in Kyrnos, an isle once peopled, for there the prince, Our sire lolaus, made halt, and settled long since With the Thespian children of Herakles, founding a home, Crowned with impregnable hills and circled with foam." id widening 1 and issued For stormy times and ruined plans Make keener the determined will, And Fate with all its gloomy bans Is but the spirit's vassal still : And that deep force, that made aspire Man from dull matter and the beast, ' ' Burns sleeplessly a spreading fire, By every thrust and wind increased. And so the Phokaians sailed on. Through seas rough-laughing 'n stormy play, Till many a watchful day. And many a toil-broken anxious night were gone ; And the ridges of Kyrnos appeared, and they stranded the ships. And set up the shrines of the gods, and with eloquent lips And giftful hands besought them for prosperous days ; But the land was rough and uncleared, And a hostile people dwelt in its bays, And the old blithe kin, no longer counted or feared, Were few and their glorious seed Was mixed with a barbarous breed. Even the sea was scanned 334 POEMS AND BALLADS By the jealous eye of an ancient sea-faring foe, And so the Phokaians were thwarted, and trouble continued to grow, And failure was ever at hand. i!!i| For five dark years they fought with their fate, and then A famine lay hard on the folk, and their desperate men Put forth in the open day In their long swift ships, and harried the sea for prey : And a great fleet came from Carthage out of the west, And fell on the Phokaians, and when the battle was done, The sons of Phokaia stood firm, and the day was won ; But a host of their ships were shattered or sunk, and the rest Lay on the sea, half-manned, like birds with broken wings : And the remnant took counsel again and said : "The gods are ill-pleased, and their bountiful care has ceased ; But ever good at the last our Father Poseidon brings. Let us choose anew, by a holier guidance led." And again were the half-built roofs and the luckless springs Forsaken and cursed; and forth in their ships once more. With their wistful wives and their young and their dwindled store, The grim Phokaians sailed : and now they turned to the east, PHOKAIA 335 ? foe, and trouble eir fate, and asperate men 5ea for prey : : of the west, e battle was ay was won ; or sunk, and with broken said : :iful care has ;idon brings, led." the luckless ships once g and their ly turned to Recalling some ancient oracle ; and favoured at last, With omens and fortunate winds they sped on their way, Till the giant forges, the islands of fire, were passed, And they came on a day To a little port on a sunny rock-built shore. And a beckoning blessing came down, an odorous air, From hills, far ofif, that were bright with olive and vine ; And a god-given spirit of peace, a pleasure divine, Rcsp in their hearts, long-troubled and seared with care, When they looked on the land and saw that the haven was fair. And the word of the god was true ; The days of their evil plight Were broken and ended at last ; on a fair new site. Afar from tlie track of their foes, A little city upgrew. With the bloom and the flushing strength of an open- Hyele named. [ing rose, And their sea-faring vigour of trade Returned to the sons of Phokaia, honoured and famed For daring and skill and endurance: but noblest and best In all the old world towns from the east to the west. The gathering schools of their strenuous city were made Famous for knowledge and wisdom, famous for song: And humanly sweet and strong, Over all the world the seed of their teaching was spread 336 POEMS AND BALLADS lu S>: ' . Vi'i I By the Delphic lips of poets, endless in youth ; ' For insight and splendour of mind Not they that are yielding and lovers of ease shall find, But only of strength comes wisdom, only of faith comes truth. THE VASE OF IBN MOKBIL In the house of Ibn Mokbil Stands a vase; Masters if you ask us What within its heart is dreaming, Heart of gold and crystal gleaming, We shall answer: All the riches of Damascus, Cairo or Shiraz. No man — even Ibn Mokbil — Ever guessed Whence it came — who brought it But it stood there one fair morning, All the simple place adorning With its beauty — People said the Jinn had wrought it — Faith is best. In the house of Ibn Mokbil, Till it came, There was nothing. Only His few books and herbs for healing •assssasH*::?! THE VASE OF IBN MOKBIL And his prayer-mat worn with kneeling, And the old man, With his sleepless eyes and lonely Heart of flame. Full of woe was Ibn Mokbil To behold Brothers overtaken By misfortune — sitting restless In his house forlorn and guestless, With a larder Empty, and a purse forsaken Of its gold. For the spirit of the Faquir Loved the light And the burden weighing. Deeper still with every morrow, 0)i the people's want and sorrow Bent and aged him And his knees were sore with praying, Day and night. Then somehow to Ibn Mokbil Came the vase, And the tale would task us, Half to tell what meal; and treasure, Things of help and things of pleasure, Overbrimmed it — All the riches of Damascus, Cairo or Shiraz. 22 337 rl II !i i Sffifiil 1 jil 338 POEMS AND BALLADS Now the door of Ibn Mokbil Open wide — Moan is heard no longer — Now the gifts are overflowing; Coming round the vase and going, Crowd the people : None that ail, and none that hunger Are denied. For the vase, a magic fountain, By unseen Hands at midnight charging — Jinn, they say — its store reneweth Ready for the lip that sueth, First at morning. Heaped about the flashing margin, Gold and green. Yet one law for Ibn Mokbil, If he break, Spoils and ends the treasure : Round the vase it runs in letters, Woven like a wreath of fetters, Not one tittle Must the Faquir for his pleasure Touch or take. Never murmurs Ibn Mokbil, Nor complains. Though the fierce and greedy Enter at his gate for plunder .Uf-n H9K iv/.f: ^i^^^ifiBflia THE VASE OF IBN MOKBIL 339 Scattered by no bolt of thunder, Yet untroubled, He a Faquir, poor and needy, Still remains. In the house of Ibn Mokbil Nothing stays, Of the gifts returning : All is empty ; it is lonely ; Save the books and prayer-mat only, And the Faquir With his gleaming eyes and burning Heart of praise. For the vase beyond the crystal To his eyes — Now when day is sinking — Opens like a ritt of heaven, And the things of Allah given — Dreams and visions — Pour upon his spirit drinking Paradise. To the ears of Ibn Mokbil Angels tell Tales of how the bringer Of the faith of old still careth For the foot that strictly fareth. As he listens, Falls a voice divine, the singer, Israfel. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET {MT-3) / 4lo 'V <• O w- E^. 'me 1.0 I.I 1.25 ,5. 1^ M 11^ 2.2 12.0 1.8 1.4 IIIIII.6 V] (^ /] /a e. 'W e}. VI '^ '^i o 7 Photographic Sciences Corporation ^ .♦.> U 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. MS80 (716) 872-4503 ^ %'"'" '\7 I *,, ] > ' , ^"A g<? %> ^' // h^ id. ■> 1- f^.. i!l;l(!!l I 340 POEMS AND BALLADS BAKI One day at his door sat Baki, With a rapt and absent look, Poring over old traditions, In a dim and ancient book. Like a shadow came a woman, With her eyelids weeping, red ; Breaking from a dream, looked Baki, And the woman spake and said : "Full of care and trouble, Baki, Is thy servant ; ah, so deep Is my spirit plunged in sorrow That I cannot rest nor sleep. "For my sonj my life, my rosebud, He who held me by the hand. Toils beneath the lash, a captive, Fettered in the Christian land. "How to salve my wound I know not, In my weakness and my lack. How to break the foreign fetters, How to win my angel back. "Hungry for a surer wisdom, For a knowledge that can see, When the ways are dark, O FaquT, I have come at last to thee. Niill BAKI 341 "Give me but a moment, Master : If I mar thy reading, know. All things in this world are nothing To a mother's sleepless woe." Brimming with the light of pity, Were the eyes of Baki then. He that had the heart of wisdom. He, the holiest of men. "Woman, leave me for a season ; I will think, and if I may, I will help thee ;" and the woman, Full of comfort, went away. Long and lean with thinking, B.-.ki, To his chamber slowly trod, And in silence prayed and struggled. Lifting up his heart to God. Weeks had passed : one day at even, When the dew had just begun. Came the woman back, and smiling. At her side she brought her son. "Better than a mint of treasure, Baki, was thy potent care ; Here beside me stands my rosebud In his beauty tall and fair. "Better than a sheaf of lances. Better than a coat of mail ; Loosen now thy lips, my rosebud, Let the Faquir hear the tale." T 11':! 342 POEMS AND BALLADS "Master, I was bound, a captive, Portioned to the Christian king. Every day I journeyed field ward, Hurried by the lash's sting. "Not alone, for we were many. Toiling in the cold and heat. With the guards and keepers near us. And the fetters round our feet. "O ! the very sun at noontide Seemed a shadow cold and gray, Till the chosen friend of Allah Sent his succour ; and one day "Unto me, thy slave O Faquir, Came the sense that all was well ; Something touched me as by magic, And my fetters split and fell. "Round me there v/ere hands and voices. Rough with anger, and forthwith I was seized anew and fa' iened, Fettered by their wisest smith. "But the strength of man is weakness ; He is nothing ; God is great ; Scarcely were the hammers silent, And the rivets fast as fate, "When my body leaped and lightened. And I felt my sinews swell. Quickened by a power I know not, And again the fetters fell. \ BAKI 343 "O they crocked themselves, our keepers, I'^alf in rage and half in fear. Till the wondering crowd was parted, And a white-haired priest drew near. "Like a voice from God the old man Took me gently by the hand : 'Hast thou father, lad, or mother. Living in thy Moslem land.' "Father have I none, I answered. But a mother. 'Blessed is she,' Cried the priest, 'her prayers are granted ;' And he bade them set me free." Long as in a dream sat Baki, With a rapt and absent look, As he rolled the leaves together Of his dim and ancient book. "Woman, thou art blest and happy In that thou hast got thy son, And for me the token telleth That my sands are nearly run. "I have thought, and prayed, and fasted. Cleaving to the choicer part ; Once I dreamed, but now I know it, I am counted pure of heart." 344 POEMS AND BALLADS A SPANISH TAUNT "Now who will carry the gate with me?" Fernando del Pulgar cried : "Carry and hold it safe, while I To the church of Mahomet ride?" Fifteen stalwarts of old Castile At the side of the hero strode. They carried the gate, and in at the gap Fernando del Pulgar rode. 4 V :. He clove and shattered a helm or twain, And gathered his reins and sprang, And far and away in the silent night The hoofs of his courser rang. Fernando del Pulgar, sword and shield, Helmet and hauberk too — Through the startled streets of Mahomet's town The sparks from the pavement flew. On like the hurricane wind he rode, With thunder of saddle and steel : At the front of the proudest mosque drew up With a crashing sweep and wheel : And, "Ave Maria," high aloft To the moonlit door, writ plain, He pinned with his poniard point, and spurred, And rode for the gate again. I II raiimiiii li llili/ y THE VIOLINIST 345 Back with the thunder of saddle and steel. The heart of the hero sprang : Loud and sharp in the silent night The hoofs of his courser rang. Fernando del Pulgar, sword and shield, Helmet and hauberk too; Back, like the hurricane wind he rode, And the sparks from the pavement flew. With a singing sweep and dint of his sword, The blood of the Paynim flowed. Hurled this way and that, and out of the gate Fernando del Pulgar rode. '*I have ridden," he shouted, "Mahomet's town, As free as light or wind, And high to the door of Mahomet's mosque The name of the Virgin pinned." THE VIOLINIST In Dresden in the square one day. His face of parchment, seamed and gray. With wheezy bow and proffered hat, An old blind violinist sat. Like one from whose worn heart the heat Of life had long ago retired. He played to the unheeding street Until the thin old hands were tired. II li.'IVillU'^ilii iil IBPI liip' 346 roEMs AND Ballads Few marked the player how he played, Or how the child beside his knee Besought the passers-by for aid So softly and so wistfully. A stranger passed. The little hand Went forth, so often checked and spurned. The stranger wavered, came to stand. Looked round with absent eyes and turned. He saw the sightless withered face. The tired old hands, the whitened hair, The child with such a mournful grace, The little features pinched and spare. "I have no money, but," said he, "Give me the violin and bow. I'll play a little, we shall see. Whether the gold will come or no." With lifted brow and flashing eyes He faced the noisy street and played. The people turned in quick surprise, And every foot drew near and stayed. First from the shouting bow he sent A summons, an impetuous call ; Then some old store of grief long pent Broke from his heart and mastered all. The tumult sank at his command, The passing wheels were hushed and stilled ; The burning soul, the sweeping hand A sacred ecstasy fulfilled. ': THE VIOLINIST 347 The darkness of the outer strife, The weariness and want within, The giant wrongfulness of life, Leaped storming from the violin. The jingling round of pleasure broke, Gay carriages were drawn anear. And all the proud and haughty folk Leaned from their cushioned seats to hear. And then the player changed his tone, And wrought another miracle Of music, half a prayer, half moan, A cry exceeding sorrowful. A strain of pity for the weak. The poor that fall without a cry, The common hearts that never speak. But break beneath the press and die. Throughout the great and silent crowd The music fell on human ears, And many kindly heads were bowed, And many eyes were warm with tears. "And now your gold," the player cried, "While love is master of your mood ;" He bowed, and turned, and slipped aside. And vanished in the multitude. And all the people flocked at that. The money like a torrent rolled, Until the gray old battered hat Was bursting to the brim with gold. f M 348 POEMS AND BALLADS ::< I'l !!!j.!jiii: And loudly as the giving grew, The question rose on every part, If any named or any knew The stranger with so great a heart, Or what the moving wonder meant, Such playing never heard before ; A lady from her carriage leant, And murmured softly, " It was Spohr." INGVI AND ALF Ingvi and Alf, the sons of Alrek, reigned In Upsala together, kings ; and each Was diverse from the other both in mood And habit of his hands. Ingvi was bold. And great of stature, fair of limb and face, A man of bountiful ways and winsome speech, Fond of his sword-play, fierce and fell in fight; But Alf was dark and dour, a silent man. Fond of the tillage of his acres, fond Of thrift and plenty and well ordered rule, Fond too of song-craft, and of cunning read, The lore and wisdom of experienced men : But he was grave and moody as men be That love much thinking but are slow of heart. Now Ingvi had been gone three summers long With all his proud sea-dragons and his earls, And all his berserks, to the Westland borne By joy of fight and plunder, when King Alf ii INGVI AND ALF 349 One shrewd mid-autumn day to Upsala, Brought home a bride, Queen Bera named of men ; And a great feast was made, and in the hall Was goodly cheer and revel without stint. And night-long drinking of the foam-topped mead, With tale-telling and endless minstrelsy, And the dark face of Alf was brimmed with joy. Such love had Alf for Bera, such desire And passionate worship, that the mood of him Was changed at that time ; his forbidding ways Were softened in her presence, and his heart, For some short while forgetful of its gloom, Gave forth unwonted joyance ; yet men's minds Misgave them, and they deemed the end not well Of such a mating: "Not for Alf," they said : "This living light, this summer gladsomeness, "This mirth was made ; not for the night-owl Alf, "But Ingvi should have had her:" this they said, And capped it with dark tales of ancient wrongs, And broken troths and bloody strifes of kin. For Bera was the comeliest, and thereto The blithest of all women then on earth. The fairest shaped, the eagerest of heart ; A spirit fashioned like the running brook With curve and shadow, fairy-foam, and light ; A face of mirth and morning, and a tongue So sweet with laughter and so eloquent In all the bubbling womanly ways of talk That none had converse with her but his heart, Though grieved and grimly wrought, forgot its cares. IP i I If' 350 POEMS AND BALLADS Long days and busy months were eaten away. And Alf went to and fro about the stead A strong and silent figure, with a mind That settled slowly, to its former hue, And brooded doubtfully on its happiness. But the slow months were like a wintry dawn, An endless wintry twilight, to the queen. The manor hummed with labour, but its rule, Prim set, and changeless, and of little mirth, Hung like a damp upon her soul ; for Alf Had laid his mood upon the place, its men, Rugged and fettered to their ceaseless tasks, And its bleak laughterless women. Among these Bera was like a summer wild-bird caught And clipped and prisoned out of wind and sun. Too strange to give her buoyant heart the wing : And yet she was a dutiful wife, and Alf, Whose love was rooted large, though scant of leaf. Observed her gravely, seeming well content : But sometimes, when she was alone, she fell Even to weeping, not for any grief, But a sheer aching emptiness of heart. The winter passed ; another summer shone With tilth and bloom ; and in the midst thereof Came Ingvi with his bruised and sea-worn ships Home-faring, rich in booty and full-fed With battle for that tide ; and in the hall The bronzed sea-rover and his restless carles Made endless feasting, and sat long anights Over the mead-cups, listening to old tales. And Alf and Bera feasted with the king On the first night of Ingvi's home-coming. INGVI AND ALF 351 Amid the flare of torches and the din Of wassailers merry with the meat and mead. In the hip^h seat they sat and Ing^i told The story of his battles and the run Of the long ship through unknown stormy seas, The taking of fenced towns, the deadly grip Of open fields fiercc-foughten foot to foot, And how they captured a great stead at night Once in the Frankland by a lonely firth, And held it all a winter long, and fought With many hosts, and harried near and far. And so as Ingvi told his tale, the queen, Who was the comeliest and far the best And blithest of all women then on earth, Leaned toward him, ever with flushed face and orbs Shining and smiling lips intent ; and Alf, Silent and watchful, marked how Ingvi's eyes Delighted with her beauty flashed and shone. And how his voice, as the wild tale ran on, Grew deeper for her ardent listening. And Alf grew dark of face, and ill at ease. And in a while he rose, and made excuse, And left them, for it was his wont indeed To rise by dawnlight and be soon abed ; And he bade Bera follow, but she heard Or heeded not, and Alf lay long awake. And anger and foreboding filled his soul. Nor of the nights that followed was the tale Other than this, for Alf abode not long His brother's questings, but went soon to bed ; jiiipillllll 352 POEMS AND BALLADS ii 1 lilii llllliM!'lli!i''!lii, llPililill'P ' ll I'l llii mw But Bera sat with Ingvi in the hall ; And they had kindly talk together, oft Till the night waned and lightened, for the king, Ing^i, was a wise man, and his stout heart Was stored with thoughts, and he was quick of speech, Nor ever in his lifetime had he chanced On such a listener, so fair of face. So witting, so intent ; and Bera too Loved well the talk of Ingvi and his saws.. His tales of wild sea-faring, and his lore Of other lands and other ways of men, And thereto was she weary of her life. And the dull manor and the mirthless folk. But always in his bed lay Alf, awake, Eaten with thought, and ever before his mind, A hateful picture. He saw tne two, Ingvi and Bera, set In talk together; Ingvi's noble form And comel\ face and sea-blue sparkling eyes. And his blithe bearing, such as women love ; Bera he saw, balefully beautiful. Alive and glowing with a terrible grace, The cheek rose-lit, that ever at his side Was pale and downcast, and the flashing eyes That never flashed for him. He seemed to hear Their voices mingled in forbidden speech, Or cruel laughter, and his doubting mind Grew hot within him. Like a fiery root The fierce grief gathered at his heart and grew Till it became a tree that veiled the world In poisoned shadows. Through the busy day, INGVI AND ALF 353 r the king, heart I quick of speech, ed saws.. :n, ■t ss folk. his mind, ing eyes, ti love ; ce, de ing eyes ned to hear 2ech, mind oot and grew ^rld busy day. In the long night time, wakeful, without rest, Bera and Ingvi hung about his thoughts, A ceaseless torment. He became at last So mad with brooding and so black with wrath That life grew fearsome to him, and his will A thing of terror. Yet he held his peace, And crushed his spirit under ; for he thought : "Perhaps her heart is guileless, and she does "Only the promptings of a thoughtless mind, "But in the inmost of it all she keeps "Some fixed and dutiful care for me." He feared Lest he might lose even this cold regard. Slain ea:iily by a fierce or scornful word. Were he not heedful. He had clung so close To Bera as his sole delight, so long Had pored upon his jewel with dark pride He could not bear that she should turn at last lb hate and loathe him. Therefore in a mask Of busy cares and blindness roughly feigned He cloaked his anger ; but the ardent queen Marked well her husband's grim and growing gloom. His presence chilled her. Her quick spirit sank Before him, and she met him helplessly With ci'ill constraint ; and ever the more she clave To Ingvi, not once thinking in her mind A thought of evil, but because the gods Had made her sunny-hearted like the flower That gives its perfume only to the light. That loveth the day, but closes to the dark. One night, when Alf a weary while had lain Alone and wakeful, Bera with light step Entered, and in the flood of moonlight stood, 23 ■aiH //! 354 POEMS AND BALLADS iiiii liiihi iii;i,:!k iji!i| i|iill|i!i!| And loosed her robes, and as they fell, the sheen Lay soft upon her curved cheek and side Like marble ; and her husband, grim with rage And maddened by her beauty, cried aloud : "A shameless woman art thou thus to scorn "Thy duty and thy wedded husband's bed, "To sit with strange and drunken men in hall. "Art thou besotted? Dost thou never care "For me, or for mine honour, or thine own?" The moonlight shifted on the comely form. Revealing in the tender check and neck A haughtier curve ; and, touched with angry pride, Bera made answer : "Hast thou done thy part "As husband then? or have I ever had "Joy of thy presence? Nay, I think at times "I am a stranger at thy board. Thy speech "Is blither to the housecarles than to me. "Men whose spirits are as dour as thine, "As sullen and mistrustful, are not fit "To wed with women, for their eager hearts "Desire not duty and forbidding rule, "But joy and fondness and free speech. See now "How bountiful a man thy brother is, "Frank and high-hearted. Happy were the wife "Whose wedded mate were Ingvi rather than thou." And Alf in silence turned him to the wall, And his blood curdled, and his heart stood still, But Bera slept, and haply it were well There were no weapon at Alf's hand that hour, For all his mind was full of murderous thoughts. INGVI AND ALF 355 And Alf rose early with the dawn, and called His wife, and set her wide awake, and said : "Think of me even as thou wilt, and name "Thy husband by the evilest of names, but this "Remember, woman, thou art still my wife. "Now mark ! I bid thee sit no more anights "With Ingvi in the hall apart from me "Obey me, for I speak not twice nor thrice." And Alf had passed the door, but suddenly He turned. His flesh was trembling, and his eyes Were filled with tears ; and he came back and cried. Grasping her head between his hardy hands: "I love thee, I do love thee!" But the deed Was sudden and sharp, and Bera shrank away. Not in disfavour, but too roughly touched And startled ; and her husband, quick with doubt, Mistook her ; in a jealous rage he turned And flung her liercely from him, and rushed out, A prey to madness ; and, so tells the tale, That was the end between them. All that day Much labour was amoving in the fields, P'or it was harvest time ; but Alf was spent. As one half blind that scarcely sees the sun, He wandered bootlessly about the stead, And the thralls toiled or trifled as they would. At nightfall, for his very flesh was sick With care, and passion, and conflicting thought, Alf laid him soon abed, and fell asleep. When midnight was far gone he woke, disturbed. Out of a bright and beautiful dream flung back 356 POEMS AND BALLADS l| 'I!' iiiiiiii; To hate and horror. On the silent floor The silvery moonlight shone, and from the yards The cocks were crowing. Alf sat up and stretched His trembling- hands abroad. He was alone. He rose and donned his cloak, and got his sword. And hid it in the ample woollen ""olds. A moment, as if doubtful of his mind, He tarried with head sunken. Then he turned And came beneath the roof-tree of the hall. And stood there in the glamour and the smoke, And watched unseen. Bera and Ingvi sat In the high seat, and Ingvi had a sword Across his knees ; and Bera, leaning forth, Was feeling with her fingers the smooth edge. Then was the stricken mind of Alf aware The end had come : and blackest deadliest rage Rose up out of his empty heart, and stood Behind his eyes, and like a demon glared Out of his wide white orbs. And up the hall He strode, soft footed, all unmarked, for men Were witless at that hour and blind with drink. On Bera and his brother, ere they knew, He came, and plucked the blade out from his cloak And made a fearful thrust, and drave it clear Through Ingvi's breast, but Ingvi with a cry Piercing and wild, reeled up, and heaved his sword And smote the head of Alf in twain, and both On the grim floorway of the startled hall Lay in their mingled blood together — dead. "1 DAVID AND ABIGAIL A POEM IN DIALOGUE f i PERSONS OF THE POEM DAVID— Son of Jesse. ABIMAEL— An old man of Judah. JOAB— Son of Zeruiah. NABAL— A sheep-owner of Carmel in Judah CALEB— A youth. ABIGAIL— Wife of Nabal. MIRIAM — Cousin and companion of Abigail. RACHEL— A handmaid. SCENES I. Near Nabal's place of sheep-shearing in Carmel. II. In the court-yard of Nabal's house. III. At the fountain near Carmel. "'I' v!i|''(l„" yiii'iiiiiiS Sim JliiUlli ll>!M| iniiiiiini lilliil; SCENE I ABIGAIL David appears in cotiversation with Abimael, his armed followers at his back. DAVID Abimael, thou art my father's friend, The friend of old and valiant men in Judah ; In many things I would receive thy counsel, Following its glory, fearful of my youth. But this last matter is beyond thy rule. Nabal hath used me like a very dog! I have borne much, but now my wrath is fixed, Goaded beyond all measure of restraint; No word of thine, nor any man's shall move me. ABIMAEL iMethinks the sword of David should be kept Sacred and stainless for the public foe ; This old man Nabal is an Israelite. ■Mi il \62 DAVID AND ABIGAIL DAVID So much the more my wrath ! It maddens me To find within, without, and everywhere Enemies open or concealed. ABIMAEL OKing; Thus shall I call thee ; for a king indeed Thou art — and Israel's last remaining hope. By Samuel's hand anointed, named, and blessed. Be patient with me, hear me to the end. The youthful reaper with unpracticed hands Gathers the tares and binds them with the corn, But he whose feet have trodden many fields, The many fields that are the years of life, More surely knows the false fruits from the true. Young blood is dangerous, takes fire at little. And one mad stroke hath made a life's regret. The Sons of Israel are one house together. Kin to us all, God's chosen, and know well That neither prayer, nor fire of sacrifice, Nor after deeds shall make his body clean Nor his soul white in God's unswerving eyes. Whose hands even for most black and bitter cause Are dyed irrevocably with a brother's blood. JOAB If I were David, I would waste few words In answer to the good Abimael. These days are for the lion, not the lamb DAVID AND ABIGAIL 363 Idens me e King ; 1 lope, . blessed. lands the corn, lelds, ife, the true. at Uttle, i regret. ler, veil -) :an .g eyes, bitter cause >lood. ds lib And every hurt must draw a sudden stroke. Let this old man but try to play the king, And learn what profit he shall have of mercy ! DAVID Abimacl, thou art an old man now. But still a man like me ; thou wert, 'tis said, A warrior prompt and valiant in thy youth, And when I tell thee how these matters fell, I think thou wilt not much reproach mine anger. One winter, while a passing gleam of peace Swept us like sunshine, ere the sons of Ziph Had drawn upon us like shrill cackling birds The restless rage of Saul, I and my men Dwelt here with Nabal's sl.epherds in the hills. And we were friends together, and my men Touched not nor harmed one head of all his flock. But rather were a guard and help to them. We rescued many from the hands of thieves. Aiding the shepherds often in their toils. Now but a few days since there came to me A word that Nabal's men were gathering here In Carmel for the shearing of his sheep. And I, being in a bitter strait, recalled Our friendly deeds and former services, And so chose out from all my strength of men The goodliest ten and sent them up to Nabal. I bade them kindle in the old man's mind The strong remembrance of pai^t courtesies, And pray him send me swiftly by their hands Some little help, some trifle easily spared. m i ili I i!i llilii!!.! , iiiii'll 1*1, ^ ! i H i i I'lii llilliliii 364 DAVID AND ABIGAIL Even whatever least accounted thing, Might pass beneath the lifting of his eyes ; Thus I besought him, knowing not the man. What answer had I, think ye? This, but this, "Who is this David, and this son of Jesse? That I should take my water and my bread, My meat prepared for the shearer's mouths, And give them to this upstart, this low dog, This leader of rebellious servants, men Houseless, unnamed, nor know ye whence they be." That was mine answer! Think'st thou I endure That such a man should make of me, of David, A jest and by-word to mine enemies ! As the Lord liveth, I will neither hear Nor spare, but I will make of Nabal's house A nouse of desolation and of silence. And neither man, nor beast, nor living thing Shall mine L^nd leave to call on Nabal's name ! ABIMAEL O Son of Jesse, think not I am blind To the sharp wrong that so inflames thy spirit, An insult, hateful, hard to be endured. Yet hath thy servant somewhat still to say. Nabal, for all his spite, hath slain no life And blood will weigh too heavy in the scales Against a few rude words. Think well, O King; Put by thy purpose even for a day. And tarry gently till thine even mind Hath clearly seen the measure of his guilt. Think well, O King, while yet the hour is thine, DAVID AND ABIGAIL That high of heart and noble shall he be, Fair in God's sij^ht and sweet in Israel's praise, And neither time nor any power of change Shall hide away his holy name for ever — Who first in days of awful growth like these Shall turn away his patient soul from wrath. And vield his footsteps to the way of peace. 365 JOAB Beyond the ridge yonder I hear a sound That makes the spear shaft burn within my hand. The innumerable bleatings and the shearers' cries. Here where the noonday sears us like a brand. And the earth cracks and breaks beneath our feet, This old man's words are like the sting of gnats Whetting my soul to uncontrollable fury. DAVID Old man, it is the privileged right of age To talk of patience and the grace of mercy With eloquent speech, but thou hast never known What is the grief and madness of his heart To whom the Lord hath said, "Take thou this people, This nest of hornets, blind and reasonless, Bring them to order, give them strength and peace. These many years my people are bowed down, A prey and scorn to every harrying hand, Nor know they in their darkness which to dread The most, their rulers or their enemies ; And I, whom God by Samuel's sacred hand Gave for their shelter and protecting strength. rr 1 z^^ DAVID AND ABIGAIL h I Am hunted like a fox from hill to hill, An outlaw from the tents of Israel, A butt and by-word to the high and proud. Think'st thou to find in me, Abimael, The quiet of age, the gladsomeness of youth : My soul is like a fierce and smouldering fire Even the harp within my hand hath grown A shrieking shrew, and all its quivering strength Can scarcely cry the anger of my soul. Think'st thou that gentle words and gentle deeds Shall break the proud and bow the oppressors' necks, Nay, for the Lord hath chosen a surer way : The strong right hand uplifted with the sword. The strong shall fall by strength, even as of old. And this old man, this son of Belial, This truculent wine-bibber, vile of soul and speech, Shall such as he find favour in God's sight. Or aught of grace, or aught of pity in mine? Nay, as the Lord liveth, he and all his house Shall feel my strength, and know me who I am. And his place be as a seared mark for ever Of the Lord's might and David's heavy wrath. ABIMAEL O David, I have seen a caravan, O'ertaken by the heat wind in the desert, And the long line of helpless travellers, Enveloped in the fierce and smouldering blast. Bow down, huddled together, beast and driver; So I, being old, and but a common man. Cannot withstand the tempest of thy wrath ; But here comes one in whose victorious hands DAVID AND ABIGAIL 367 roud. youth : [g fire jrown ig strength 1. gentle deeds )pressors' necks, IV way : he sword. 1 as of old. ul and speech, sight, ,n mine? "s house Arho I am, ever ivy wrath. sert, ring blast, 3.nd driver; nan, wrath ; Dus hands Are stronger arms and surer spells than mine. And I, the broken vanguard of the fight, Gladly draw back to let his succours through. 'Tis Abigail, the noble wife of Nabal, Famed for the power of her unusual beauty, Whom every shepherd on these busy hills Guards and reveres, and names with softened tongue. The young men say that in her voice and mien Are witcheries beyond the natural gift Of all the loveliest of earthly women ; The sun-baked by-ways and the sterile rocks Grow green beneath the treading of her feet. The very air is perfumed with her presence. Soft are her brows as roses, and her eyes Deeper than midnight with its wreath of stars. Her's is the gait of queens, and on her tongue Language hath music softer than the flutes. Yet is her beauty but the garb of truth, The symbol of the wisdom of her soul. The promise of the goodness of her hands The poor the sick, the blind, and they that suffer Fron. any hurt or any grief or madness Have found in her the cure for every ill. A storehouse of good deeds, whose generous doors Arc never shut, whose stalls are always full. David, I was afraid for thy youth ; Now I rejoice that thou art not grown old. For youth is iron to a man's advice. But soft as milk against a woman's beauty ; And I who gave my best of speech in vain May see thy violence melt like snow in Hermon Before the spring-tide charm of Abigail. 368 DAVID AND ABIGAIL DAVID Old man, my anger is but just, my cause God's cause against the base and hard of heart ; This woman shall not turn me from my will, And yet I think those honied words of thine Have dealt but lamely with her outward virtues, As she draws nearer with her m?iden train, And mute attendants following at her heels, Beyond thine utmost promise I perceive The potent beauty of a matchless woman. Surely 'tis strange that this old thorny bramble, This Nabal reared upon a plot of rocks. Should be the shelter of so rich a rose. But what is this to me? What are these thoughts? How have I steeled my mind that even thus soon This woman goes about to master me. And in the iron stronghold of my soul Purpose hangs melting like a thing of wax. Justice grows doubtful and the form of wrath Stands like a warning ghost apart from me? O ! shall I be another Samson, bond To every woman whose slieer beauty wears The power of spells to weaken and besot us? But no • what e'er she be, she shall not move me : I'll shut my heart up like a very stone, Press sharply on, and have no words with her. DAVID AND ABIGAIL 369 EnUr Abigail^ accovipanieci by her ivovieUy preceded by attendants, bringing asses laden zuitk gifts. ABIGAIL O Son of Jesse, I am Abigail, The wife of Nabal, who hath done thee hurt, And I am come with gifts to make amends For my lord's churlish and unnatural deed. There is a gentle rumour gone abroad That thou art kind and of a generous spirit, Wilt thou not take these gifts, and grant to me, To me, the present of this old man's life. DAVID Lady, I have already learned thine errand, Know well that it is vain ! I am not one With honied words to argue out his causes With everyone who meets him in the way. warriors, the hour is passing on ; The prey awaits us yonder at the ford : Now with arms ready, running at full speed, Let us pass round the shoulder of the hill, And, ere the dogs take thought to fight or fly. Fall on them with the sword ! ABIGAIL O David, hear me ; On the hard earth I kneel to bar thy way. Wilt thou not heed a woman, who with tears, Seeking the gift of a few hapless lives, 24 370 DAVID AND ABIGAIL Humbles her forehead at thy very feet. O, be not rash, and hken not thyself To yon fierce Edomites, whose pitiless hands Plunder our guarded flocks and slay our men, Cold murderers, whose hearts are like the hills Unknown to mercy. As for this old man, This son of Belial, whose p^raceless speech Thy violent anger would reward with death. Regard not him. He is too far below The thought or care of Israel's promised king. DAVID Thy husbard was not wise but falsely prompted When thus he sent to me his comely wife With her fair locks and flow of wily words. Laden with spurious hospitality. Too lately tuned, the fruit of deadly fear ! Does Xabal think by such a sleight as this To turn away the edge of David's wrath? ABIGAIL O David, surely that great heart of thine Did never speak in those cold cruel words, Or else my tongue indeed hath failed to utter The simple meaning of thine handmaid's heart. O hear me ; not for Nabal's sake alone Would I dissuade thee from unholy anger, But for God's people's sake, O king, and thine ! ABIMAEL O David, surely thou wilt not refuse I'l DAVID AND ABIGAIL 371 The touching prayer of this most noble woman ; For O, I think that even an old dead tree Would draw new sap out of the chary earth And, shooting life through all its mouldering limbs, Reclothe itself with leaves to shelter her. DAVID Women have ever laboured to unnerve The souls of men and turn their strength to weakness. Have we not cause, then, to restrain our ears From drinking of that smooth and pleasant poison That wells so deftly from a woman's lips, And shield our eyes, whose blindness cannot see The chain that hangs within her fragrant tresses. ABIGAIL Again in this my lord is not himself, But even as one that wills to hide his heart He utters things, part truth, and partly false ; Nor will I st' ve to answer, calling up The shapes of noble women from the past, For these are readier to thy thought than mine. Only one thing my heart would ask of thee : Son of Jesse, was there not one woman, To thee above all earth's remembered names Most dear; Micah, the lovely child of Saul, Who set her own sweet life at naught for thee, To save thine head out of her father's hand. As now I strive, if only God will aid. To save thy soul from blood? Wilt thou not hear? 372 DAVID AND ABIGAIL DAVID Were not my purpose fixed as adamant, And set beyond all breaking by an oath, Hardly could I, though strong in wrath, withstand thee; Even now thou hast so far prevailed with me That thou may'st speak and I will quietly hear thee; Yet hope not I will lightly cast away The purpose of my heart which is but justice. ABIGAIL David, on the earth are many lives, But each one deems that what his anger bids Is justice, till the world is full of hate. Men are become as beasts that hunt and kill. And there is none, not one, to stay their hands. Art thou not come by God's command to heal The sickness of these days and not to feed it? 1 know that thou hast suffered greater ills By far than this and yet wert merciful, At bare Engedi by the desolate sea. To one not weak, the stern a^id treacherous Saul. O David, though indeed I pity Nabal, The poor old man, yet most I pity thee, Whose goodness hath so suffered by this deed. Ah, would that thou hadst sent thy young men up To me for gifts, and not to Nabal's self So had they not gone humbled from the folds, Fraught with rude answers and with empty hands, And in their hearts the unendurable sting Of strange ingratitude. But what is done DAVID AND ABIGAIL 373 ath, withstand We cannot alter. What is planned we may ; Nor need my lord have any fear of me That I will lead his mind at all astray With any feint or cloaked treachery; Nor should his hand be slow to take these gifts, Nabal knows nothing of them nor thy coming, Nor am I here on any embassage, But of mine own will solely, for I thought That my lord's hot and impetuous spirit, Bending a softened ear to my quiet words Might stay to think, perchance might even learn Some gentle good from me who am a woman. Not light at all, nor foolish as some be, But having many dreams and many thoughts. David, are the elder truths grown false? Is life all changed, and pity but a word? For I have heard the lips of old men say That mercy even in the least of men Is a high grace, but most of all in kings. How shall a trembling people rest in peace Beneath the wrathful hand that knows not mercy? Son of Jesse, thus a king should be : Noble and valiant, to his country's foes A memoraliC dread, but to his own Patient and kind. And this I dreamed of thee ; For when I heard the rumours of that day, To Azzah and Goliah dark indeed, When Israel lifting up her voice in song Advanced thy glory ten-fold more than Saul's. 1 saw the coming of a man divine, Greater than Barak or than Gideon, Or Jephthah, whom the gates of Minneth saw. 374 DAVID AND ABIGAIL On whom the Lord for some majestic plan Had dowered the wonder of a two-fold gift, The prophet's dream, the valour of a king. Surely this gift of God, this sacred strength, Was made to thee for holier use than this ; That thou shouldst war upon a weak old man. Whose churlish spirit, like an angry bee, Hath chanced to brush thee with its random sting. O let my lord be patient, and think well ; Let not thine hand-maid come at last to know That the great David of her burning thought Is but a dream, and less than other men, A like successor to the son of Kish, Another Saul. DAVID Nay, pause not in thy speech, But let me hear thee to the very end. For though thou may'st not tempt nor break my will, Mine ears are greedy of thy voice ; my soul Drinketh the grace and music of thy words More gladly than the sun-baked earth absorbs The summer rain. ABIGAIL Full well I know, O King, That God hath put thee sharply to the test, And tried thy spirit with unwonted fires, And this he purposes not that thou should'st grow Testy and dangerous like a baited bear, Madly alive to every private hurt. ^iw!r- DAVID AND ABIGAIL 37S But that thine heart like Joseph's in his bondage Out of the springs of fiery grief should draw The nearer knowledge of this people's ill With might of soul and strength of hand to save. Yet though my Lord hath bent him to this fault, I shall not deem that David's soul shall fail, Nor in the end be wanting, fully weighed ; Lo ! even now, most surely, though we see not. The gradual winds of Time are bearing up, Even as a little cloud out of the sea, The promised day wherein delivered Judah Shall cast away the sack-cloth from his limbs And from the sadness of his hair shake out The mournful ashes, having dried for ever The fountain of his tears ; and thou shalt stand, The anointed of our God, a king indeed, Girt with the radiant thousands of thy people, The uprisen sons of mighty Israel ; And they shall be about thee for a guard. Great as the sea for strength and as the sands for number ; On every tongue a song, in every heart The light that shines between the cherubim, The power invincible ; and over all The Shekinah, the glory of the Lord, Shall find fit home on David's blessed brow. David, hath my simple woman's speech Touched thee indeed ; so that thy cloudy brow Lightens, and in the garden of thy heart, A natural soil, the roses of God's goodness Have overbloomed the poisonous weeds of wrath ; And now indeed I know that thou wilt take 11^ DAVID AND ABIGAIL These gifts, and spare me freely from thine heart This old man's life, to me a priceless present, To thee a fault o'ercome, a victory gained. DAVID My purpose melts away. In all my soul Only the magic of thy voice remains, O radiant queen and milk-white rose of women ; Justice and wrath and the most fixed wish. And every fact, and every uttered oath Gives way before thy beauty as the night Gives way to morn. Take thou the life of Nabal ; Let all his house and every living thing Whereon the splendour of thy glance shall fall. Be sacred from my touch and safe from fear, And may thy days be full of praise and honour. Encompassed with the valiant love of friends. Nor any grief, nor shade of injury, Approach thy soul, nor touch this plot of earth, Made sacred by the usage of thy feet. As for me, sooner shall mine eyes forget The noon-day sun than from my soul shall pass The vision and the voice of Abigail. ABIGAIL O David, wert thou come in peaceful times With other thoughts, and had I met thee here. So would I lead thee to my husband's house With all thy men, and ye should rest a day, And I would feast thee gladly like a king, And serve thee of the best with mine own hand ; DAVID AND ABIGAIL 377 But now this cannot be ; nay, it were well That thou sl.ould'st leave this place and draw away Yon dark-biowed multitude of dangerous men, In whom the 5iery lust of blood and prey Yet burns. I aread lest any horrid chance, The approach of Nabal, or a passing flock, Should prompt them to some sudden deed of pillage. DAVID The words of Abigail are wise and good. And like the rushing cloud, whose sudden gloom Hangs dark upon the valleys and is gone. Our host shall vanish swiftly as it came, I know not what the hidden hours shall bring : The labours of my hands are void and vain : My feet are compassed by the snares of foes : My days are riddles that I cannot read. Yes, when my soul is troubled most, my path Most broken, most perplext, I will remember Thy beauty and the goodness of thy words : Thy name shall be as honey to my lips. And like strong wine unto my fainting soul Thy voice recalled and thy remembered presence. And this much more, O beautiful, most wise ; Should'st thou be hurt by any evil change, And need befall thee of the succouring hand, Send thou to me, and whatsoever space Should lie between us, whatsoever toil Or want or sickness pin me to the earth. Be it death's hour or even the battle's height, I will arise and surely come to thee. Exit David zvith his host. 1 378 DAVID AND ABIGAIL ABIMAEL So are they gone, and with a joyous heart I see the gleam of their retreating spears And the long cloud of dust that from their feet Rises and hangs about the hillside yonder. Lady, thou hast wrought well, and thy fair presence And noble speech were potent as 1 hoped. ABIGAIL O now the word is spoken and the gift Is won : the shadow of death is turned away From witless Nabal and the peaceful folds ; O, I am happy, but withal undone ! My heart beats sharply ; I am faint and sick ; Come hither, maiden ; let me lean on thee ; There, thou art kind. Abimael, 'tis strange That we poor women oft in darkest hours Have such quiet wills to battle with our hearts. Even in the stormy face of manful passion. Such settled skill to aim our shafts aright ; Yet when the foe hath fallen and the field Rings with the cry of bloodless victory, No longer calm, no longer strong we stand, But helpless, thus, pale delicate conquerors. Smitten with our own efifortf nigh to death. But this one thing, Abimael, 1 say With joy : by no means hurtless or in vain My mother bore me woman, weaker-limbed And softer-thewed than men are, but more fair To k ok upon, and with the woman's heart By nature given to read the minds of men. i DAVID AND ABIGATL 379 More quick than wind or water to give motion With winged thoughts, and with the piercing skill Of lips true-noted turned to flute-lik^ use Make music of them sweet and magical : Nor more in vain was he that met rre so A true king's heart, the chosen of God's most high, A man of men, from Heaven's treasury, Coined in God's mint of kings, on the one side The human stamp of testy wrathful ness. But on the other the soft face of pity. Between the two, the mass and weight of all, Justice made lovely with the hue of gold, As he made comely with fair face and stature. O, blessed be Jehovah's hand that formed The son of Jesse more than common men, Rearing in him the quick and malleable heart ; And blessed be His hand that He hath given That gift of gifts, that woman's power, to me, Who never wished to use it save for good. MIRIAM Still follow thy good fortune Abigail ; Yon changeful lord and his tempestuous band Have left this place no whit too soon, for here, Down by the shady covert of the hill Cc les Nabal with uneven gait, nor knows How close he trod to death. Behold his eyes, With what a wicked and revengeful fire They dart from one to other of this group, Like an old ram's that rove about the field. Searching for some unguarded enemy ! How with his staff, as if it were a spear, I 38o DAVID AND ABIGAIL He thrusts and wounds the unoffending^ earth, And grinds the sand beneath his furious heels ! On whom now will the man direct his wrath? For well I see that both his hairy cheeks Are blown and crimson with distending passion. SCENE II NABAL In the courtyard of NabaVs house. RACHEL Last night's carousal was a merry one. The floors, the courtyard, and the very air Are soiled and bitter with the stale spilt wine My brows ache still with all the noise and riot. And thou art like a fresh-blown rose, my Miriam, Blithe as the day. Is Nabal yet astir? Nabal ! not he indeed ! not he ! He lies Heaped on his couch yonder, a shapeless load. Fast anchored with a gallon weight of wine. And moans and struggles in his bestial sleep. Listen ! Dost thou not hear him from within. Wheezing and snorting like an unstirred pudding? Oh pleasure of the thick and wallowing slough ! Oh bliss of swine ! Oh joy of drunkenness ! What things have women for their wedded mates ! I would there were some dream so huge and black, So monstrous and so loathing horrible. Might sit upon his heart and with its bulk DAVID AND ABIGAIL 381 Burst it in twain ! And he will awake anon, Saddled with aches, and lurching through the house Mad and thick-voiced like an uneasy bull. Throw off the stupor of last night's debauch In blows and curses. RACHEL Miriam ! Miriam ! MIRIAM Indeed I care not, I ; My tongue is like the wind that stays for no man. I will not live and have my tongue tied up Forbidden of its force and wholesome use. What pleasure have we? Half the joy of life Is in bold talk and pelting words about. My cousin knows and loves me as I am, Nor cares she for my tongue ; and as for Nabal — Nay listen then! I'll picture thee a scene. Once in this very place his wrath took fire — 'Tis true I had done nothing worth a blow — He raised his staff to strike me ; she stood forth ; And oh ! that look ; I never saw before That potent look in Abigail's soft eyes. It was the queen that with a gaze of steel Forbade the slave ! He dropped his staff and quailed, Bewildered as an ox whom the rough butcher Smites full upon the forehead with his mallet. 382 DAVID AND ABIGAIL RACHEL Most blessed Abigail ! These walls are dead, Or worse, denizened by an unclean spirit. When she is not within. What cause, I wonder, Draws her away thus early from her cares? MIRIAM I know not surely, but I thiuK some trouble Weighs sharply on her spirit, for at dawn She took that well-worn wary staff of hers, And walking with bent brow and hasty step Made for the mountain paths. No doubt she hoped In solitude and the keen upland air To master and reclaim her scattered thoughts, Seeking the source of their habitual calm- Last night she slept not, her excited thoughts Perchance brewed out of the day's adventure Visions and dreams that, like unwholesome airs. Menaced the health and safety of her soul. This Abigail, whose gentle rectitude Shines like a portent on our pettier lives, Is no mere block of precept and of plan. No shape of painted wood, but a real woman : Think not because her eyes are like the stars That ever look on men with equal gaze, There is no fire or passion in her blood. Because she is a true and steadfast wife. With her own hands she binds her heart in chains : But youth is quick and the o'ermasterino; blood Tides up at times against the coldest will. Oh, yesterday, I watched her as she stood DAVID AND ABIGAIL 383 Calm, glowing, with that sovereign port of hers. Before the royal David. Never yet Seemed she so beautiful, so warmly fair ; Ard as the warrior yielded and his eyes Grew tlxed upon her like two radiant stars, There came a subtle yearning in her voice ; A mantling red glowed up in both her cheeks ; A light, as of a soul that sees unveiled The distance of some unexplored joy. Broke from her lifted lids. I tell thee, Rachel, That David's strength hath touched her to the heart, And yonder on our well-loved mountain path She walks alone, and strives to crush the flame. Would that her lot were ordered otherwise — A wondrous pair — David and Abigail — And then to think of this old wine-skin, Nabal ! Ah ! there I hear her voice. She calls thee, Rachel, Run girl ! Enter Abigail. Good morrow, cousin ; what strange whim Takes thee abroad at this unwonted hour, When all the house is crying for thy presence. ABIGAIL Last night I could not sleep, my Miriam ; A multitude of strange and wayward thoughts Usurped my soul, and when I rose at dawn, The house oppressed me with its cold gray walls. My head ached and my hand had lost its skill, And so, that I might conquer back myself, • I sought the hillside and the mountain path. 384 DAVID AND ABIGAIL The fresh clear morning led me on and on, Until I reached that last and loftiest spur From which one looking from the windy north Sees afar ofif, tender and white as wool, The walls of Hebron and the tombs of Mamre ; And there I stayed, and there my peace returned. Because we live these quiet and regular lives. We think our soul firm poised, beyond the touch Of passion or the fever of an hour ; Yet are our thoughts most often like the snows That sleep upon the lofty mountain scaurs, Yet once upon the silent depth there comes A step, a shout, a sudden axe's stroke, And like the magic loosening of a world, Down from a hundred ledges light as wind. Thunders and shoots the storming avalanche ! MIRIAM My cousin is not wise to wander thus Choosing the solitary paths, or wear A countenance so grave and rapt in thought. Soon through the countryside from mouth to mouth The tale of David's coming will go forth, And then it will be said that Abigail, Who wanders in such sad and abstract moods, Is eaten secretly with hopeless love, And pines for David. But how now, my lady ; The blood takes flame upon thy cheek like flax : I almost think my words have hit the mark. li V DAVID AND ABIGAIL 385 ABIGAIL Ah ! Miriam, I would not have thee speak so. No! No! MIRIAM Forgive the word : I was but jesting. ABIGAIL Come hither, Miriam, give me thine hand. By the quick ear and by the kindling eye Intelligences flash from soul to soul ; But by the touch our very hearts are knit, Rushing together like charged water-drops. And I have often thought that if my mind Were ever touched by any earthly care Or common trouble, there were none but thee Unto whose honest friendship I could bring it Certain of comfort, sure of peaceful trust. There is a common saying in these hills : A sorrow poured into a faithful ear Is half dispelled : and I have known it true. friend and cousin, she who deemed herself The fair embodiment of lofty pride, Secure and passionless, beyond a fault. Is weak as air, unstable as the sand : And I, who in my splendid confidence Went forth to conquer an anointed king Come back — not vanquished, God be thanked for it- But touched, excited, sharply hurt at heart. 0, youth that is so dangerously quick So quick and subtle ! Must we bind and blind it? 25 386 DAVID AND ABIGAIL MIRIAM I saw the fiery contest of thine heart ; I saw it, and I loved thee dearlier for it. ABIGAIL Now it is gone, but I am happier, Because thou shar'st in thy reflecting heart The travail of my soul. For one short hour I struggled and cried out against my lot. But life is straight and simple to the wise ; And I have learned already in my youth An iron truth that most men never reach ; Our life is regular and bound by law. For God hath given to each his changeless word, Laid out his path and bade him walk therein. Our only happiness, our final joy, Is in persisting calmly to the goal. And he who struggles from his ordered way, How hard soe'er it be, even in thought, Reaps in the end but bitterness and shame. He only can be happy who is strong, Who bears above the crying tides of passion And movements of the blind and restless soul A forehead smooth with purpose, and a will Spacious and limpid as the cloudless morn. MIRIAM Here comes that — DAVID AND ABIGAIL 387 ABIGAIL We will speak no more of this. The thought is dead and must awake no more. Enter Nabal, rolling and Jieavy-eyed. NABAL Oh, what a noisome treacherous drug is wine — I think mine eyes are full of heated sand — And oh, my head is stufifed with wool, my tongue Lies sapless as a chip in my dry gums ; I burn with fever, give me water, water ! Give me a panful, ah ! the crystal stream ; I would I were a giant with my neck Over the margin of some limpid sea ; I'd drink and drain until the world grew dry! But yon great rocks, the hideous fearsome heights And the huge gullies, and the gaping holes ! — What is the matter with my head? You girl, Bring me a little wine to clear my wit — I have upon my mind that cut-throat dog, That David, who two mornings since, sent up All lean and hungry from his mountam lair, And at my very throat demanded alms. Ah, how I cursed them ! But I had a dream — Methought I was a sheep — a vast great sheep, All flounced and heavy with great clots of wool. And after me a wolf v,^ith a black face, Like unto the face of David, and I ran Up into a steep mountain. 'Twas a place Full of sharp rocks and thorns and horrible caves Ah me ! What fright I had 1 And as I ran, H il 388 DAVID AND ABIGAIL How I cried out with doleful shrieks and cursed him Even as I curse him now : may every blight — ABIGAIL Nabal, beware! That blind and senseless rage Hurries thee to the very brink of madness, And robs thee of the semblance of a man ; Beware! For when the hour of danger falls, Who that hath known thee in this wolfish mood Will have regard or pity for thine age ; And most of all this day, I counsel thee To speak no evil of the son of Jesse, For thou hast done him wrong, C blind insensate, Thou art but a reed in David's hand ! NABAL And dost thou take his part as against me? Dost speak for him? Dost thou? Oh where are words That I may tell how much I loathe and hate And scorn, and fiout, and spit upon his name. The dog ! the foul hysena ! the fanged viper ! — ABIGAIL Nabal, I will no longer keep the tale. For thou dost anger me beyond control ! From mine own tongue thou shalt be made aware How terrible the Son of Jesse is. How stern, yet merciful — and thou, how base! Whilst thou wert strutting in thy petty rage k. ! li DAVID AND ABIGAIL ;89 d insensate, Above thy gray unconscious head hath hung A hand that glittered with a sword, and mine Hath turned it from thee. Yesterday at noon Came David hither with four hundred men, Heated with wrath beyond all thought of rriercy. Swiftly and silently they marched, full armed, Designing with a two-fold sudden movement To take thee with the shearers at the ford And slay both man and beast. But I had learned Already from the lips of one who knew thee And knew also the fiery soul of David, The story of thy base ingratitude. I told thee nothing, for I pitied thee, But took such presents as mine haste could find. And laid them upon asses and went forth. Already, when I met them, they had reached With all their host the turning of the hill, Four hundred spears that flamed against the sun And from the neighbouring valley eastward rose The mingled cries of shearers and of sheep, Whetting their souls to yet more desperate wrath. And there I stood and stayed the son of Jesse, And stemmed his furious anger with my gifts. And wrought upon him with my prayerful speech, Yet only with great toil I turned at last That fiery and inflexible soul, and drew Out from between the very wings of death Thy rude and thankless life. Ah ! thou art pale ! Poor man ! I would that thou might'st learn from this— But what — Ah Nabal ! — Speak to me ! What ails thee? 390 DAVID AND ABIGAIL NABAL Oh, horrible! Be silent! Something strikes Sharp at my very heart ! Whither — O help me ! Falls. ABIGAIL O Nabal, husband ! Ah, be merciful ! Forgive me ! Oh, the cruel speech ! The mad Unthankful tongue ! Indeed I never dreamed My words had hurt thee so. Here ! Miriam ! MIRIAM His limbs are still and rigid I He is dead ! ABIGAIL Ah, who shall say so, surely? Some slight spark Like seed in the deep earth may yet be left, Which we with careful tillage may rear up Till the full stature of his life return. Call me the servants hither, the strong men ; Then swiftly, gently we will bear his body And lay him in the inner chamber yonder Between warm coverlets, and chafe his limbs With vigilant hands. Meanwhile between his lips Two drops of this strong cordial may bear God's respite to the sick and numbed soul. Exeunt Abigail and attendants, bearing NabaL DAVID AND ABIGAIL MIRIAM 391 Tis as my cousin said : the old man lives But fitfully like an expiring candle, The wick lies glittering in the blackened oil, And soon it will be still. Poor Abigail ! I cannot understand her passionate grief, Yet do I see her tears and pity her. So sweet and sacred is the bond of marriage, We cannot part from anyone whose blood Hath beat so near to us without some pang And tearful wringing of the sundered soul. For me 'tis but a ruffian brute the less To make this life a bugbear and a plague : And Miriam shall drop on Nabal's grave Such glittering tears as the warm hillside sheds When winter leaves his last rude breath and dies. But here comes one will suit me for an errand. Enter Calebs a youth. Hallo ! Boy ! What wise thought may bring thee hither? CALEB No more a boy, lady, but let that pass. I heard a cry and tumult through the house, And stayed to learn the cause, Is't true Miriam, That the old man is at the point of death? Aye ! Then he falls in a most droughty season, And weeping will be scanty even as rain. 'Twill be a merrier house when he is gone, A place of better rest and better cheer. 392 DAVID AND ABIGAIL MIRIAM I understand ye, lad. What things are men ! The body is your dear delight ; your God Is not a golden but a roasted calf ; And all your prayer is for your body's ease ; Long slumber and a belly roundly stufifed. Hark to me boy ! I think this lady's rule .V^ill be short-lived. These passionate tears of hers Will vanish southward like a gust of rain, And leave the zenith brighter than before. Husbands as many as midsummer leaves Will woo the choice of one so young and fair. And now the chancing of that word reminds me. Dost thou know, lad, the way to David's camp? CALEB If Miriam bids, I shall be swift to find it. MIRIAM There is at least one virtue in a youth : He's ever ready at a woman's bidding, So she be young and not unfair ; good lad. Put all the vigour of thy legs to test. And run to David wheresoe'er he be ; Tell him how God hath granted his revenge. Yet kept him guiltless of this old man's blood. Tell him that Nabal lies stone-still and speechless At point of death ; that Abigail now rules The fruitful valleys and this rich domain, And all the houses and all the flocks are hers. DAVID AND ABIGAIL 393 boy ! I would the gift of subtle speech Were thine, or that I were a man like thee. Nay, I am almost tempted in my mind To don men's clothes, and bear the news myself : For with a shrewd addition of bold words 1 would so fan within the soul of David The kindled longing, that mere speed of feet Would seem too tardy for his winged wishes. But tell me, Caleb, with what joyous speech Thou would'st present before the .v)n of Jesse The grace and goodness of our Abigail. CALEB Oh, I would say that, next to Miriam, Our lady is the fairest among women ; That when she walks, for grace and majesty She's like the slender daughter of a king ; And when she rests, there's not another living, Save Miriam, that hath a whiter brow. And eyes more dark, more melancholy sweet. Her voice is vibrant as the deep-toned harp, Though Miriam's is softer than the flute. And oh, her hand ! There's not another hand Whose touch goes swifter to the beating heart, Save only Miriam. MIRIAM 1 brave lad ! A fine ambassador indeed ! Go on ! Pray thee go on ! I am not surfeited ; For when I drink, 'tis ever my delight 394 DAVID AND ABIGAIL To drain the goblet to the very lees, Even though the draught be only ass's milk. CALEB And I will tell him that our lady's mouth Is like the gateway of some precious mint, Whence only gold and silver issue forth, A palace portal barred with ivory ; And yet those regal lips are not so fair Nor half so sweet to touch as Miriam's. MIRIAM How now ! Rash youth ! Thy tongue hath hurried thee Beyond the line of true experience. What knowest thou forsooth of Miriam's lips? CALEB I'd tell thee, Miriam, if I only dared — Ave! and I will sweet mistress, for I think borne devil rides upon my tongue to-day. One noon when thou wert fallen sound asleep Under a tree yonder — thou 'It fancy when — The half-wound distaff lying at thy feet, I, by the guidance of some happy chance, Taking the shadow of the golden wall, Looked in. Thou wert so near, so fair, so tempting. With fear and creeping caution I approached. And tonched thy lips — the wind was not more light. Once, twice, and thrice, and then I laughed and ran. I was half mad for thinking of the deed. T" DAVID AND ABIGAIL 395 There was a gentle fire upon my lips That made me light of head and full of fancies The shepherds jeered me as I passed, some saying That I was moor -struck, some that I had found A treasure hidden in the earth. Methought The very touch of food would soil my lips, And so for many days I scarcely ate. MIRIAM I see the cause of all this flood of words, The monstrous outgrowth of thy lips, sweet fool, I would that I had wakened at that moment ; So hadst thou had a swelling of the ears, And gone abroad among the shepherds, not All lips a lover, but an ass all ears. CALEB Poor ass ! And yet the torment of his ears. Had scarcely warmed the gladness of his lips. MIRIAM Nay, if thou be a very ass in sooth, Thou'lt never serve my purpose, lad ; but tell me, What shall I do to make thee fleet and strong, A runner surer than the mountain deer. All legs and feet. CALEB Ah, but another touch — ■T7- 396 DAVID AND ABIGAIL MIRIAM Nay, never, fool ; away with thee. Indeed, I prize too much the sweetness of thy dream To mar it with the flat reality ; A waking kiss upon thy waking lips Would break the body's balance utterly. Enough of jesting, boy, for I must go To Abigail, who needs my hands ; and thou Speed thee away to David like a bird. SCENE III m DAVID T/ie Fountain in Carmel. MIRIAM Here is the spot, our well-loved resting place, The fountain and its easeful roof of trees. The shrubs, the perfumes and the poppied grass. Methinks it should be changed ; so many things Have fallen upon us, strange and unforeseen Since last we rested in glad converse here. ABIGAIL And yet it changeth not. Though yesterday From dawn till eve and half the weary night The air blew thick, the heated Khamsin blew Full from the wide-mouthed furnace of the desert, I DAVID AND ABIGAIL 397 Yet is its heart not changed. The cooling water Comes giirgHng from the deep and shadowy trough A thinner stream, but sparkling as of old. MIRIAM So let it be with thee. Sorrow and death Have ruled thee like the Khamsin for a day, And numbed thy spirit with their sickening stroke, And now with glittering wand and golden key The keeper of the palace of thy life Shuts the grim doors of death and drives apart The portals of the future. Lo ! the hills Upon whose splintered crowns and sculptured sides The sunlight and the violet shadows sleep, Yon valley melted far in blue, and lo ! The spring, the morning, and this happy spot, Sweet with the memories of pleasant hours. This wind that bears upon its velvet wings The cool and murnuir of the middle sea And mingles with our mountain balms the breath Of Sharon's roses and her blossoming apricots. Like the mad drunkard at his vat I stand, And drain it with my nostrils and my lips, And gladlier than a fond enamoured girl Takes the first imprint of her lover's kiss. Receive it in my bosom and my hair. ABIGAIL How grateful, even at this early hour The solid shade of this huge terebinth, Whose bole and round of leafage like a cloud 398 DAVID AND ABIGAIL Seems moist and glistening with perpetual dew. Already the fierce summer sun strikes down, A white and pitiless edge. On either hand The arid ridges burn like slacking lime. Yonder already the spent winter stream Shrinks in its meagre bottom of cracked clay, And dwindles into little yellow pools Adown the valley, and the pasture grows An opiate lethargy, a drowsy calm, And sound and motion cease : while far and near From every cleft and hollow of these slopes The heat spreads out upon the creeping air The pungent scent of sage and lavender. MIRIAM I would I had the power of Joshua, Who stayed the hour and made the sun stand still, So would I lie here in the pleasant grass. And hold this morning freshness for an age ; And I would water with mine hands each hour Yon drooping fringe of yellow asphodels, The poppies and soft-cheeked chrysanthemums That spot the narrow sward with flame and gold. But lo ! the word of Miriam is weak. Her hand is powerless and the sun moves on ; Yet, while the morning lingers, there is joy. Beside thy Syrian fairness, I shall sit. And laugh, and fret thee with my madman's talk. And deck me with these poppies till I look As wild and wicked as a desert queen ; Thou hast no need of flowers, my Abigail, DAVID AND ABIGAIL 399 Who art more fair, more proudly beautiful Among the flowers, than ever wearing them. ABIMAEL What limit is there to the reckless dance Of thy mad tongue ! Wert ever in thy life Unhappy Miriam? MIRIAM Aye, when a child, But rather desperate than unhappy, mad Than sad ; for I was forced against the grain. And curbed, and driven in all things till I grew All fierce, and like a little wild thing fought And bit at every touch. Who shall forget The passion of our first momentous meeting. Surely not I — I think not Abigail — How, like a wild-cat in the snare, I shrank, Half fierce, half frightened, then a little while Stood sullen with my fixed forbidding gaze. Till I had weighed and pondered and compared Each note and shadow of thy speech and bearing, And pierced and read thee to the heart : How finally a sudden joy of faith Possessed me, and I came, and touched thy hem And grasped thy knees and sprang upon thy breast. Since then like the wild rose-tree I have grown And bloomed and climbed at will, and thou, my friend, How little hast thou ever pruned or curbed me, Too generous gardener, to whom I owe That now I am as wild in happiness m 400 DAVID AND ABIGAIL As erst I was in grief. Sorrow and tears In that mild measure that most women use For me were pointless or impossible. My joy is like a silver spouting stream That dances in the sunshine — to be free, To know no care, nor any doubting thoughts, To dwell within thy presence like the sun, And tread upon the natural earth at will, These things are joy. And grief, I have forgotten grief, But could I grieve — and life is wild with chances — 'Twould be no common touch of malady, Or mood of woeful weeping, but a passion. Frantic and terrible, a tempest stroke, A bursting sea, a stream of hissing fire, A storm that in the compass of a day Would wreck my flesh, and leave me dead or mad. ABIGAIL How divers are our natures, Miriam, And how distant, for I have seldom known That buoyant life, that free and natural joy ; To me 'tis matter to be brooded on Like something curious in a traveller's tale ; Nor have I been unhappy, but my joy Has been a serious ordered thing, The satisfaction bred of wifely thoughts And well-planned labours studiously fulfilled, To order thriftly my husband's house. To keep myself a blameless wife, unstained By evil thoughts, the nurse of evil deeds. Single of heart, one-minded, dreamless, pure ; DAVID AND ABIGAIL 401 To tend with heartening speech and helpful hand The dwellers on these waste laborious hills, Making their life more easy ; to be strong Where men were weak, and in the frequent fall Of times disastrous to be near to each With needful counsel, were it stern or gentle ; Such was my task ; to know it well fulfilled. At first with effort, then as time went on Its exercise became a lofty habit ; that My happiness. A life so shaped and poised To me was the supreme necessity, To whom the restless and impassioned spirit. Denied the choice and fancied lot of youth, Must needs be curbed, and to this common earth Fastened with wholesome and perpetual cares. And yet with all my rule, rebellion, discontent, The longing after things remote and large Beyond the settled sphere of these quiet toils, Have marred it, and in hours of lost command Perplexed and tortured me. Those lower wishes That lawlessly disturb and haunt the young, I scorned and easily cast from me ; these Were not my bane ; but there were other longings, Born of the very purpose of my heart, I could not, and, meseemed, I dare not crush. I thought of those great women praised of old Whose presence mightier than rage and fear Inured our fathers' hands to nobler deeds. I dreamed that in mine own swift-visioned soul Their spirit I discerned, a gift divine. Fear fell upon me, dark perplexity, Lest in my error I should waste unused 26 '^SRSSE^^fflBSIIBffKI 402 DAVID AND ABIGAIL Some power appointed for our people's keep Now most at need ; I thought of Miriam Who led her women in the dance of praise With timbrels at the passage of the sea ; I dreamed myself another Deborah, A spirit sharper than a two-edged sword Whose word awoke in sleeping Israel The might of Barak, when the northern plain And all the fields of Kishon to the hills Were darkened with the hosts of Sisera. Such were my dreams, but in the end, with fear And effort and the stroke of blind denial, I rose and put them from me. I attained Not joy indeed nor young heart-happiness, But quiet and the peace of proud content. But now the order of that day is gone. My system with its vanished sun dissolves. And duty, the sad governess, whose wand In former times to some undoubted path Bade me inexorably, now veils her face. And leaves me masterless, points me no way, And yet through all the sadness of my heart. The empty shadows that appal, perplex And mock my strength, the old high dreams return In fear and exultation. Daring thoughts That glow upon the future as with gold A buoyant madness that I cannot name. Possess my soul. At hours a kind of joy From the sheer dark flames out and dazzles me. I seem to tread on wind. Sorrow and death. And all the story of the mournful past, The shadows of remorseful memory, ■1^ DAVID AND ABIGAIL 405 Swirl back and leave me all alone Like some strong traveller in die moon-lit desert ; The wonderous light, the silence and the stars Absorb his thoughts and make within his soul A solemn and mysterious joy ; he stands With arms uplifted on the gleaming waste. MIRIAM There comes a day, and, as I think, full soon When Abigail shall find these thoughts and dreams The premonition of some urgent truth. Around us all at every hour unseen Ihe sleepless agencies that mould our lives Are weaving with dark hands and glittering wit From threads that have no end and no beginning The tracery of our lives inwoven with all, A shining web of unexpected things ; Even now methinks mine eyes behold a sign. What say'st thou to yonder armed shapes That come so swiftly up our hillside path? Could we, though many wild and busy years Kad crammed our memories, pass over or mistake them? That outer one, with the long threatening stafif. The sinewy shoulders and the leopard stride — Who knows not Joab? In that supple form The lean quick limbs, that dark and vigilant face, There dwells an influence hardly to be named The horrid magic of the circling snake. What secret is there in that lip, that eye That holds and pins you with its powerful gaze. As soft and perilous as a bed of down 404 DAVID AND ABIGAIL 1*1^0: 1 M Whereon a tiger sleeps? When he is near I cannot choose but watch him ; all my soul Goes straightway to his black mysterious heart, Striving to shape and picture forth its tale Of bloody schemes and unhatched treacheries — That one is Joab, cousin, and the other — Mark the bold gait, the lofty head — is David. ABIGAIL It is indeed the form and gait of David. What brings him hither? Doth he know? He cannot know I MIRIAM To those whom love hath touched And in the core of all their thoughts infixed The strong desire of some beloved woman Tidings fly fast. ABIGAIL Nay, Miriam, speak not so : My heart already is o'erwrought. Thy words Will shake me from my little last control. Talk to me rather of the birds and trees, The house, the flocks, and common work-day things ; Or if thou hast some miracle of speech To lay emotion and compose the soul, use it, Miriam, for now, now most 1 would preserve my wifely dignity, And arm me with the strength of two to meet This stranger with an honourable front. "TT- DAVID AND ABIGAIL 405 MIRIAM David, I think, will look for sighs and tears Rather than strength and austere majesty. Doth Abigail not know what brings him hither? ABIGAIL I know not, yet his coming seems a thing Familiar to me ; I have dreamed it often. MIRIAM I'll tell thee Abigail- — and in thine heart Thou art assured of it as I. He comes To crown his life with Judah's best of gifts. And rob these mountains of their priceless queen. The vision of the wise, fair woman, tall And glorious, of the potent flute-like speech, Who turned his anger from the quest of blood. Glows with a light unceasing, uneclip ,e.i. Set like a star within the heart of David. ABIGAIL David, thou art coming ; even now 1 almost see thy features ; were it so — MIRIAM And all that strange desire, that wild unrest. That swayed thy spirit from its narrow path Is but the force of David in thy soul. The half-unconscious passionate love of him- 4o6 DAVID AND ABIGAIL Aye let the rose mount up within thy cheek, And thine eye kindle with that solemn fire I Never hath man beheld thee yet so fair, So beautiful, so queenly, so inspired ! Let all the magic of thy being rise To make thee for the moment what it will, The proudest and the best of Abigail, That utmost grace shall not again return : This is thine hour, thy one great hour of life I Enter David. DAVID Changed is his heart, and changed are all his thoughts Who seeks again thy presence, Abigail, I came in anger with the sword and spear, Athirst for vengeance, eager to destroy. And found before my feet, a suppliant, Mercy herself in very form of flesh. 1 yielded, but I knew not even then How deep the spell had touched, nor how that hour Had bound me in the magic of thy beauty. I come again, this time a suppliant. Desiring pardon, if I jar thy grief, With my rude haste and unregardful presence. I come because the cold and prudent will Hath lost all cunning to restrain my feet. Thy vision and the music of thy voice Possessed me and drave me ; I could bear no more The empty dream, the unassured desire. Within my tent and on the barren hills, By night, by day, the longing mastered me. IF' DAVID AND ABIGAIL 407 all his thoughts Haunted my sleep and maddened my awaking; Till I became as a demented man, The victim of some burninp^ malady. The heart of David yearns to Abigail, And cannot rest but in her golden presence. Abigail, my ways are full of grief, Shadowed by doubt, oppressed by enemies, But I shall be a very king indeed, The master of ten thousand palaces. If thou canst give me of thy happy choice The one great gift, the gift of Abigail. 1 know not by what word to win thine heart ! ]>ut here the hands of David with his life Go forth outstretched to thee. Wilt thou not come? ABIGAIL One answer only have I for my lord : My heart, my strength, and all my life are his : And where he bids me, thither I will go. THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY ill THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY PART I Within the overlapping of two seas There lies a golden land of fruit and flowers, Stream barriered, and in that sunny tract I know a corner at a green hill's foot Where orchards cover up the spring-tide fields Whitened with blossoms; and nil summer long The wind about the leafy mountain ridge Purrs in the tops of forest hickories ; Where bees find richest hn'vest, and the peach Puft's up its yellow juices till it cracks. Splitting the stone ; where in September days The robins storm the vineyards, and the wasp Punctures the swollen grapes and drains and drains Till he goes heavily with freighted wings. On this broad inland terrace lay two farms Not far apart, and in the midst of them The white farmhouses on whose lichened roofs The towering pear-trees in October winds Dropped golden fruit and whirling, golden leaves. The one was Jacob Hawthorne's and the other Was tilled by William Stahlberg and his sons. The two were friends from boyhood, though unlike 412 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY In mood and aspect. The monotonous life Of those whose only care is with the earth Had knit them into close companionship Through daily habit. They were next at hand. Old Stahlberg had two sons, and Jacob Hawthorne An only daughter ; and the children played Together, joining as their sires had done Through all the mirthful years of early youth In growing friendship. This had end at last, When Hawthorne, who had pictured for his child, The lily-cheeked and dimpled Margaret, A larger future than the farm could give, Placed her at school ; and thus another life In the great city, other thoughts and ways, New friendships with their fruitful sympathies Absorbed the eager spirit of the girl ; And only at midsummer, when the terms Were over, she returned a month or two To join her old-time playmates ; but a change Fell with each year between them ; the two boys, Whoi^a ways grew over-manful for the girl, Heeded her visits less, till in the end She came and went, her presence all unmarked. Of William's sons the elder, as he grew From youth to manhood, both in mind and limb Fulfilled his father's utmost wish ; a firm Fair lad ; no hand in all the neighbouring farms Could turn so straight a furrow through the field ; Loving the tillage, grave and apt to learn. He toiled with honour at the old man's side A sinewy farmer, diligent and wise. THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 413 Not so the other, Wihiam's heart had dreamed A different hfe for Richard. He had hoped To find in him the scholar of his house Reared in some grave profession or skilled art ; . And Richard in his lisping boyhood gave Rare flashes of a strange intelligence ; But these with the full growth of years became Less frequent, till his darkening mind took on A sullen and impenetrable sloth. Year after year, while the child's mind stood still, Entangled in that strange infirmity, In strength and stature he throve wondrously. Vast shoulders with a broad and mighty head — The fairer for its shower of yellow curls — He towered above his fellows like a king, A king w^hom some slow magic had dethroned. Often there was a mood upon him, one That fell at intervals, seeming to mark A settled period in his cloudy life. His eyes, whose wont was to be darkly dull, Or bent in an unmeasuring fixedness, Now with some trouble seemed possessed, as if Disordered by an inly smouldering fire. There was a fitful and ungoverned force In his huge frame, a lawless energy That yielded to no guidance, but stormed out In passionate whim, and were it good or evil Wrought each in desperate and titanic measure. Sometimes a fiery eagerness of toil Possessed him, and with silent diligence He laboured wnth his brother in the fields, And whether through the sere November light 414 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY With guided handles and slow running shares, Keeping the glistening furrows all day long, The ploughmen rolled the dark earth layer on layer, Or whether in August in the fiercest heat The yellow barley fell in toppling rows Behind the clattering reapers, and the men Following with red arms and dripping brows Bound up the rustling sheaves ; in either hour Richard, a fitful giant, unperturbed, Bent the wild vigour of his limbs to toil, Labouring as no other three could labour In all the friendly farms. No man could turn Or check his course, for as he willed he worked. But sometimes when the toil was at its height, And every hand was straining to the end, He would cease suddenly, and straightening up. As if in wrath with dark and ominous brow, And eyes all strange with that disordered fire. Hurl forth whatever thing was in his hand, And stride away. The rest without surprise Glanced after him, but neither called nor dared To follow, for no touch, nor any word Had healing for his mood, or power to stem The blind and witless passion of his soul. Only his brother, whom perchance the toil Pressed sore, or the white-haired and troubled man, His father, with a sorrowful glance exchanged, Bent them the sadlier to their task. By day. And night, perchance for many days and nights He would be gone, wandering from farm to farm. From village unto village, at some hours Sullen and uncompanionable, at others, THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 415 Mingled with wayside groups at tavern doors, Or where the country lads with halted teams Gathered at eve about a blacksmith's forge, Loudest in laughter, and when games were set Supreme in his tremendous feats of strength. He would return at last, perhaps at dawn, Coming fresh-cheeked, or strolling in at dusk. When hungry mouths were busy round the board ; And all would gree^ him smiling ; but a voice. His father's, would call joyfully out and bid The women bring him of the daintiest fare ; And yet their talk would flag, and they would sit And watch him with mute kindness in their eyes, Marking the mighty frame whose sinewy bulk Seemed to have thriven in the soul's despite. And the fair clouded face. So time passed on, Till nineteen years were gone of Richard's life, And the white locks that heaped his father's head. Clustered like snow about his ruddy ears, VVere grown the whiter for that vanished hope. The nineteen summers dawned with leaf and bloom, With the light springing grain in many fields. And dewy evenings when the pale clear west Grew cool and distant round one lustrous star. From many a darkening garden plot, unseen. The vesper-sparrow, dreaming in the dusk, Trilled forth his heart of love, his earth-pure song Of passion and appealing tenderness ; And so the beautiful days at length brought on That tenderest, rosiest season of the year. 4i6 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY When roadsides whiten with anemones, And the long grass, cool and waist-deep at noon, .Still flings the dew about the trudger's feet, When corn-flowers gathering in neglected fields Make all the wind-swayed spaces a surprise With their bold gipsy splendour. Now it chanced One morning in that goodliest month of all That Richard with blank eyes and dawdling feet Passed on an errand to the neighbouring farm. To-day the mood was on him, and his mind, By feverous yearnings and blind powers distraught, Seemed conscious of the weight that pressed it down. He walked with sullen brow and earthward eyes. Nor marked the Hebe loveliness of leaf And flowers, the wind's soft touch, nor overhead The limpid and interminable blue. The meadow with its braid of marguerites, That ran like glittering water in the wind He passed unseen. The tireless bob-o-link. Poised on the topmost spray of some young elm, Or fluttering far above the flowered grass. Showered gaily on an unobservant ear His motley music of swift flutes and bells. Through an old vineyard full of trellised shoots And reaching tendrils and thick twisted stems, And tossing spaces, heaved with velvet leaves. Gray-gleaming in the sudden gusts upturned And past the bee-hives in the orchard plot, A place to mid-day slumber consecrate. He strode and came into a narrow lane, V THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 417 That ran far forward hemmed with brier and bloom Between the wheatfields and a towering wood. And now a sudden froHc wind-rush came, And smote the wood, and roared upon its tops. And down across the level like a sea Ran out in swift pale glimmering waves. The sound And moving majesty of wind and wood Broke even the dull clasp of Richard's heart And touched his spirit with a passionate thrill. He started and stood still and stared abroad A moment, like one suddenly awake, With spreading nostrils and uplifted head. And from his widening eyes there leaped and shone, Like the blue strip beyond the thunder-cloud, A single gleam of wild intelligence. He turned this way and that with grasping hands And moving lips, as if the astonished soul Sought to expand its momentary fire In the sheer strength of some tremendous word Or violent deed ; and as the gust died off. He bent low down and seized in both his hands The trunk of a young birch-tree, and with feet And knees firm planted, stretching to the full The corded muscles of his mighty back. Tore it, root, stem and branches from the earth And rising, hurled it, whirling, tar apart hito the centre of the wind-waved field. The deed relieved him and he turned and closed His hands on the black fence rails, with fixed gaze, And stood with straightened neck and head thrown back So standing he seemed rapt as if with thought 27 4i8 THE STOKY OF AN AFFINITY The crimson flush ebbed slowly from his cheek, And left a deadly pallor. In his eyes The remnant of that wild and startled flame Died gradually away as embers die, Shrouding with ash. A little while he dreamed, Then slowly turning down the sunny lane Resumed his stride, but with a gentler tread And brow less imminent and less disturbed. Through a sagged gate whose hinges rough with rust Yelled and cried out at every ruthless turn, He swung, and by a winding footway came Into an orchard old with gnarled trees. Now in the orchard's midst on the warm grass Under the goodliest of these fruitful trunks. Close bowered in wooing shadows, flitted o'er With multitudes of golden gleams, there stood An old and curious rustic bench, contrived Of boughs of cedar, interwoven and joined. Still with the rough soft-smelling bark upon them. Thither already ere the burning sun Had robbed the shadowy dock-leaves of their pearls. Old Hawthorne's daughter, pale-browed Margaret, Had come with happy, gravely-gliding feet, Swinging her wide-brimmed hat in one white hand, And clasping in the other a small book That pressed a slender finger shut between. Across the humming orchard lawn she came, Dappled with shadow and sharp light, a form Tall w^ith the slenderness of youth. Her calm gray eyes, now earthward bent, and now Fastened far off in unobservant gaze, Seemed like clear fountains of divine content, THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 419 Fed by a crystal and perpetual stream Of sunny meditation. With a smile Upon soft parted lips, a little pale, She reached the rustic bench, and nestling back Into its softest corner, [)ropped her head- That sunny head with hair thick-coiled, not curled, But tawny and soft-textured, smooth as silk — On one white hand ; and with the other turned The slender pages of her book, and read. Once and again she lifted her deep eyes, And gazed before her long and absently, Then pored on the white pages for a while. With drooping lids, till they forgot to see ; And soon the warmth and luxury of the place, And all the growing murmur of the noon, Possessed her with their drowsy spell. The book Slid from her loosened hand, and ere she knew Her cheek had sunk against the cedar rest, Soft-pillowed on her bended arm, and there, With all the myriad patterns interlaced Of sun and shadow floating on her breast And nestling in her lap, she lay asleep. Long years had gone since Margaret, as a child, Had stirred the homely quiet of the farm With her bright ways. Her seasons had been spent In schools and cities ; and in all that time She had seen much and studied more. Her mind A tireless gleaner in the field of books Had skirted the world's ways with curious eyes, And gathered knowledge with serene delight. Her father on some learned life at first 420 THE STOKV OF AN AFFINITY i Had set his plans for her, then as he grew Older, ;id changed, and drifting to a sheer Reversal of his former mind, resolved To have her henceforth near him ; for the dread Of her long absences, and the delight To feel her sun-like presence in the house, Daily increased upon his narrowing heart. This was the first great bitterness that fell On Margaret's life; for she had built a dream Of her own future, full of noble aims. Traced out in many an ardour of bright thought, A dream of onward and heroic toil, Of growth in mind, enlargement for herself. And generous labour for the common good. At first she wept in anguish and plead hard For her own way, but when the old man's Vvill Grew only firmer with the lapse of time, Her smooth and buoyant spirit, as it bent, Slowly inured to the inevitable, Rebuilded in another lowlier shape The ruined fabric of her hope. To tread The circuit of her home-kept days content — Its tasks and quiet duties interwoven With study and the loved companionship Of books — or in the easeful intervals Of labour with sweet ardour to cement A loving friendship with all plants and birds And creatures that inhabit earth or stream ; By gradual growth of knowledge and the gift To others freely of her precious store. By winsome bearing and persuasive speech, To make her bountiful presence day by day ■ iiiili^^^^ttSa •WP THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY A help, a sweet refreshment, and a grace To all about her : this was Margaret's dream, The old dream smiling in a lowlier guise. 421 Only a day had gone since her return When on the old warm-shadowed rustic seat Thus with her fair and delicate head, so full Of glowing dreams and golden purposes, Soft sunk upon her slender arm — she lay, Fixed in the rounded grace of innocent sleep, Unconscious of her spiritual loveliness. And now came Richard o'er the orchard lawn, With plodding gait and wasteful eyes, wherein The mindless grief and impotent hunger burned. Along the little beaten path he came. And reached the sweeping shade of Margaret's tree, And saw the seat and her whose beauty made The warmth and shadowy sweetness of the place Warmer and sweeter still. One wide swift look He flung upon the scene, as if a blow Had met him in the forehead from some hand Invisible, he stopped and stood stone-still, A statue of surprise with parted lips, And eyes that for a moment only stared. And then a wild light fluttered from them — joy With terror mingled and an eddying sense Of power unlocked ; for in a moment's space^ — No longer than that single rapturous glance — A vision rare and beautiful to him As any by the Saint in Patmos seen. Had slid beneath the cloud-bands of his soul. And, flooded all with one enchanted gleam. 422 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY i And as he stood, it seemed to him that all His life had lacked of insight and of power Came gathering in a great and welling tide. With ever deepening pierce he saw the world And his own life, and comprehended all. And yet this light so rapturous, so divine, Was like the terror of re * taling dawn To one who in the midnight wild had lost The narrow path and wandered far astray : For this fair creature, whose unconscious presence. By its strange beauty and resistless grace. Had burst the bolted prison of his soul. Betrayed in every subtlest tint and line Of form and feature, garb and attitude. The impression of a life remote from his — A life bred in a loftier air, and steeped In pleasures of a daintier sense, distilled From studious search and fine experience. Slowly, like gra spnig poison, the cold truth Spread over R chard's unresisting heart, And filled him witli a wild and helpless grief. And now f^r the first time his wandering glance Fell upon Margaret's little book. It lay Spread open in the grass, and almost touched Her foot. A sweet immeasurable desire Possessed him, and he made a daring step Forward, and took it softly up, and pored Upon its slender pages with moist eyes. With the sharp crackle of the fluttering leaves. As Richard turned them in unskilful hands, Margaret awoke, and started lightly up. THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 423 Wide-eyed, a little frightened and abashed. But, as she looked at Richard, in a while Returned the memory of him, and she rose. And hastened towards him with delighted speed. Smiling in welcome, and held forth her hand : "Ah Richa.d, i: is you; and you know me? Why it is Margaret. You don't forget The games we had together in old days. But you have grown so tall ;" and Margaret stood In all her subtle beauty and pale grace, Arrested by a sudden bright surprise A radiant wonder at his splendid height. And Richard looked in silence a long while Into her fair gray eyes — he was too full Of grief and hurrying thought to be abashed — But murmured inarticulately. He held Still in his hand the book. It was a work Printed in curious words and unknown type. And Richard turned and closed the little book With a despairing tenderness and said : "You read this book before you fell asleep. You, but a slight girl — so young — it seems Only a fortnight since we played together, And now you undei'=^and this print and thread The mysteries of other tongues, while I Whose idle body has grown great and tall, I cannot even read my own, beyond The simplest words. How miserable to be As mean and dull and ignorant as a clod I'" Then it was Margaret that with gentle stare And wondering eyes looked full in Richard's face. Discerning that the playmate, whom she knew 424 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY For his huge stature and unwritten mind, Was changed, and with a lovely smile she said : "Yes, it is bitter to look back and think How many years have passed us and we know So very little ; to be far behind When all the world is full of learned heads. You think me a great scholar, but I've seen Many whose knowledge is a thousand times More great than mine. I am more ignorant far Compared with these, than you compared with me. But, courage, Richard ! If you will to learn, You may, for every port is possible To him who stands unshaken at the helm. And steers straight on !" So speaking in a voice That deepened Avith a tender earnestness, A fleeting rose bloomed up in both her cheeks, Leaving her pallor lovelier than before. And Ric^'ard shrank a little as if bowed By too gieat joy of that delicious word ; And as his eyes returned upon her face, Enraptured to a passionate reverence, A sweet and simple dignity possessed This giant frame and fair large head upraised. And his great face, and almost with a cry : "I am resolved," he said, "to live my life anew And follow manfully where your .steps have gone, Margaret ; and this book shall be my guide — The thing I prize beyond all else on earth — If you will let me keep it for my own." Again in sudden wonder Margaret turned ITer fair pale brows and beautiful eyes, and fixed Their light on Richard's face, then let them fall, THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 425 As a bird veers before the wind, surprised At his great earnestness, and half abashed. Answering she told him he might have the book, And some day in a future year they two With wiser heads would read it through together. Xow at the farniliouse in a shadowy niche Cut deep above the whitewashed kitchen door Lay a great conche, a smooth and polished shell ; An echo at whose coiled heart still cooled Far oft the listener's wave-enamoured ear, That ancient inextinguishable sigh And murmuring surge of the eternal sea. The founder of the homestead, he who first Made his axe echo in these wilds, and hewed A circle in the frowning woods, and joined Trunk upon trunk to house his little ones, Had brought it from its pristine resting place. Some sand-nook of tlic sea ; and thrice each day Since then, across the close-tilled summer fields Its booming thunder launched by knowing lips Had warned the hungry farmer and his hands Of meal-time and the steaming board prepared. And now as Margaret ended and her speech Subsided in the sunlight of a smile, There came one running toward the garden gate A stout-armed girl, all ruddy from the fire, And lifted the great shell with both her hands And blew therein, till ihe slow roaring sound Clave to the farthest limit of the fields. And died in winding echoes on the hills. And ^Margaret prayed Richard to return \\"ith her and join them at the mid-day meal, I, 426 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY And he, whose brain was hke a turbid sea Of passion and fantastic purposes, Swept and iUumined with a reckless joy, Turned gladly and went with her. As they walked A silence fell between them. Richard's heart Too busy with its stream of rapturous thought, Encompassed with a wonder too divine, A joy too sacred to be touched by speech ; And Margaret as she glanced in Richard's face. Still studying with quick and curious eyes His altered bearing and absorbed mood. Kept silence too, knowing not what to say. So through the humming garden and between The shadowy ranks of vines they took their way. Now when the meal was finished and the men Gone to their labours, tramping leisurely Through the fresh fields, there woke in Richard's soul A passionate eagerness to grasp at once The clear beginnings of his altered life. The dream lay wrapt in luminous mist as yet, Confused, about his heart, but this he knew. The plan, whatever in the end its shape, Would bear him into long and distant toils Far from his home and far from Margaret's face ; And so he rose and with a few soft words Parted from all the kind and busy folk, And Margaret went with him to the gate. Then Richard turned and lifted his great eyes. Striving for manful utterance and said : "You do not know nor have I words to tell The good that you have done me, Margaret ; 4 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 427 But you have changed me, given me strength and will, For you are beautiful, and wise and good. And one may not be near you, and not learn To be a man. I leave you. I am going, Far off perhaps, to work and learn ; but now, While I am gone this one thing more I ask, That you will sometimes in your idle hours Give me the priceless blessing of your thoughts. They shall be borne to me, unseen, unheard, And nerve me with fresh courage, when I fail." But Richard spoke no more, for like a mist His own unworthiness rose up and filled At the last moment all his doubting heart With a great choking grief. He seized her hands And pressed them in !iis own, and turned away : And Margaret with down-dropped and troubled eyes, Shrinking in wonder from the sudden storm Of passion that she could not understand. Murmured she knew not what of gentle speech. Scared and surprised, yet fain to comfort him. But Richard, ere he reached the homeward path, Halted and turned aside into the fields. Wandering he cared not whitk.er, for a touch Of his old truant mood was on him, not The impulse of blind passion as of old But a great need to be alone for thought. The impulse of blind passion as of old A measureless kingdom of cc^ntent, shone down On the still meadows and heat-drowsed fields. All the dividing woods twixt farm and farm Stood motionless with pale and gleaming tops, And distant banks of shadow, brushed with bloom. m 428 THE STORY OF AN AFFRIITY By field and fallow Richard wandered on ; Now wading among timothy, waist high ; By fences in whose murmurous tangles shone That symbol of the blazing heart of June, The golden target of the corn-flowers, bossed With purple, and lean stems of succory Stretched, pale and slirunken, all their drooped rosettes Hungering for midnight and its wreath of stars ; By silent copses in whose fragrant gloom The quiet-eyfd cattle knelt on folded knees; And hay fields where the mowers wheeled and spun Their drowsy clatter through the windless glare. While the stooped labourers with dripping brows And dusty hands spread out the new-mown hay; Or halting by some deep and dreamy edge Of restful woods, he heard the oven-bird Assault the brooding fervour of the hour With his increasing and accentuate note. These things, although indeed he marked them not, Distinctly yet upon his spirit breathed A gentle influence, and the quieted will Shaped gradually the tumult of his thoughts Into an ordered counsel, bringing forth A single stream of purpose large and clear. And now the night had fallen and the moon Rose large and golden in the suhry east. When Richard to the tranquil farm returned. There was a murmurous noise about the yard Where the men stalled the cattle, and made fast The pens and silent stables for the night ; THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 429 one ised drooped [ stars; es; and spun is glare, ig brows .vn hay ; ?e d them not, ^hts ^ar. lOon •ned. yard ade fast But in the busy kitchen there was glow And clatter, for the board was cleared away, And Richard with a sudden tread appeared In the broad doorway ; and his mother heard And met him with her fixed inquiring eyes. So she was wont to do, when he returned After long absence. 'Twas a lingering look, Half of regret and pity for the past, And half of expectation ; for she said Sometimes unto her husband in their talk Together: "I can never see the lad Without a haunting sense that I shall yet Look upon Richard's faco and see it changed." When she had kept him for a moment thus There came a wonder in her shrewd blue eyes. And a bright smile upon her gentle lips, And drawing near she laid her ruddy hands On his great shoulders and looked up, and cried : "What is it, Richard? You are not the same!" And Richard answered gravely, on her eyes Fixing his ow^n that now were deep with thought : "Yes, I am changed mother, for something strange And wonderful has happened to my soul. I think I am a man now, but before I was a brute ; and I have got my mind. And I can think and learn ; I'm going forth To make a new beginning of my life, Where men are many and I may prove myself." His mother, still regarding him with eyes Ks gladly tranquil as the pale broad brow Within its wavy arch of whitening hair. Divined his heart and saw that he spoke truth. 11 430 THE STOKV OF AN AFFINITY Now when the labour of the night was done In stall and kitchen, and the men came in, Tired-eyed and heavy-booted, nigh asleep With the day's weight of gathered weariness, And the quiet women took their seats about, Old Stahlberg, rising slowly from his chair. Took from a shelf beside the ticking clock The Bible and a slender book of prayer. Whose parted covers and leaves browned and frayed Spoke of the ancient custom of the house. All rose and knelt and then the old man read With a great voice that slowly rose and fell. In rugged cadence stumbling now and then. As daunted by sotne strange and difficult word. Or plagued by slumber that unhinged his tongue. Then prayers were said with many soft "Aniens," The "Lord's Prayer" last with murmurous consonance Of all the voices, and this duty done. They rose, and with a low "Good-night" each passed To his own bed, but Richard yet remained Beside his mother, while the old man sat, His forehead sinking heavier at each nod On his tired hands, forgetful now of rain. And withering drought, and everything but sleep. But Richard roused him, and with a slow start. He lifted up his snow-white head and stared. Astonished at the look in Richard's eyes ; And Richard said, "My father you wished once To make a scholar of me, and you found Your purpose vain. I could not do your will ; My brain was crushed and fettered ; but to-day A change has come upon me : I am free. THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 431 I know that I have power to think and learn. It is not yet too late, and I have planned To make a new beginning of my life ; To go to the great city, where the minds Of men are busiest, and most alive. There I will stay till I have proved my strength And found my bent, and made myself a man." Old Stahlberg gazed in silence on his son For a long while, the wonder at his heart Too great for any sign, too great for speech ; But slowly ?s he understood, the glow Of a great gratitude suffused his face, And he rose trembling to his feet, and cried : "My son, an hour ago I would have given My life and all I had to hear those words And see you as I see you now. Tis fit That we should thank Almighty God to-night For this great mercy He hath shown to us !" Then they began to talk of Richard's plan ; And the old man opposed it. He would fain Have kept him with him at the farm a while And sent him to the neighbouring country school. He feared the treacherous city and its snares, Its evils and temptations ; but to this Richard replied with softly kindling eyes : ''You need not fear for me, father ; my way Is watched and governed by a beautiful spirit, Whose word shall be a surer guide to me Than wisdom and the teaching of a life. This beautiful guide has bidden me gain knowledge And in the city where the great and wise Are drawn together, I shall best succeed." 432 TIIK STORY Ol' AN AFFINITY Only to hear the deep voice of his son, Wondrous and sweet with resolute utterance, Was joy to fill the old man's heart. With a shrewd look and a contented smile He gave consent. Then for a little space They sat communing with their own bright thoughts, Till finally some common movement touched All three together, and they rose ; and then His mother went apart with tender haste. And brought a lighted candle for her son, And as she held it high above his brows, Peered into his bright eyes and questioned thus : "Whom saw you Richard at the farm to-day? Did you see Margaret?" and Richard looked Back into his mother's kind and curious eyes. Flushed and tongue-tied with tenderness and fear: And so the loving woman read his heart, And murmuring "God bless you Richard!" touched His lips with hers, and when their eager hands Had locked a moment, the two happy ones, And Richard scarce less happy in that hour. Took up their several ways and passed to sleep. PART n P'or half a day the rushing train held on By meadow and quiet field and sleeping marsh. Through stretches of dim woods, by gorge and rilL Hammering the iron rails with rhythmic clang. Or over picred and buttressed viaducts THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 433 And hollow bridges drawing with vast roar; Halting at whiles with hiss and deafening scream By crowded platforms in the busy towns ; Then on and on, leaving the flying miles Behind, gloomed with its rolling wreath of smoke ; And Richard at a little window sat And watched the world spin by him like a thread Strung lightly as with darting beads of life ; He saw the dusty hoer rise and lean A moment on the handle of his hoe To watch the passing wonder with dazed eyes ; He saw the sleepy heron from the dreamy marsh Lift heavily and over tuft and pool Move off on cumbrous and deliberate wings. He saw the unyoked horses, fierce and free In lowland meadows wide with starry grass, Career and scamper in affrighted joy ; Or at the crossing of some country road He caught between the flashing of two fields Glimpse of an anxious farmer holding in His restive horses with tight-gathered reins. So the hours passed until the slackening train Stayed and began to move with mingling roars Through legions of grimed cars and ranks Of sooty walls, and past the reeking depths Of ringing foundries, and the flaring gleams Of smoke-veiled forges, piling din on din. And the great city with its deafening press Closed slowly round them. At the window still Sat Richard, stunned, bewildered at his heart. Feeling this loud great world, a mountain weight, 28 "'/a & ^>1 -c^ /a o^ ^l. 'S ■<•»*. O / w IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 m |2.8 III 2 5 ■;: ■" 2,2 I.I ■ IIM ^ 1.8 Photographic Sciences Corporation w. (/a 1.25 1.4 1.6 •« 6" — ► ^.^'^^i. % V 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (/16) 872-4503 w c^< 434 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY Rolled over him, and yet with silent g'*asp Preserving the mute purpose of his soul In titan courage, blindly resolute. The clanging station roof above them closed In smoke and darkness and redoubled roar, And Richard passed alone into the crowd. A blind and simple impulse led him forth Through crowded streets, where the dense multitude Like a checked river, eddying and flowing on In channels of vast fronts and glittering panes. Moved, as he dreamed, for ever. Forth and forth He strode, not tarrying till the eager press Grew thinner on the twilight walks, and now The broad and stately thoroughfares were lined With gardens and great stone-built palaces. Still he kept on, and when at last the streets Grew humbler with the little cottages Of artisans, he slacked and staved his feet And wandered, peering with regardful eyes. In vain ! He saw no welcoming eye, no hand Outstretched to help or guide him, and despair Rose like a black mist about his heart. Fed by that sickening damp of loneliness That no wild forest depth rould breed so well As this cold-eyed and unknown populace. Now when the dusk was gathering and his feet Were sore and weary, on a little lawn He saw two friendly people, married folk. The workman and his wife, who sat at res*: Before their open doorway after toil ; And hither ? nd thither Hke a ray of light THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 435 A little child that scarcely yet had won The safety of its feet, about them played, A tender golden-curled, bright-eyed thing, Now running with a headlong rash delight, Now tottering with its dimpled hands outspread ; And all the while upon those happy ears Pouring with laughing lips and busy tongue. Soft as the gurgle of a summer brook, The inarticulate silver of its talk. And when the workman h'fting up his eyes Saw Richard's towering form without the gate. And marked his earnest face and wistful gaze, He rose, and coming toward him with a voice Of honest salutation, round and bluflf. Asked if he could do him aught of service. And when our friend had told him what he could And how he sought some humble place to lodge. The other mused a moment, and then called His wife to him. She, catching up the child, And brushing swiftly back some wayward curls From off her happy cheeks, obeyed the call. The two communed together softly, now Glancing at Richard, as with settled eyes, And now as if some worrying doubt arose Deepening their speech. But while they still conferred The little child whose clear and tranquil orbs Had never moved from Richard's honest face. Stretched out her small round arms and pursed her lips And uttered forth a tender cry, and made As she would kiss him, and the workman laughed And turned upon his wife a merry look And cried : "The child decides, her will is law 1| 436 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY '3 * d And if it please you, you shall lodge with us.'* And so they struck a bargain, and the wife Went in, and spread the table, and brewed td- For Richard, who was hungry and footsore. Then when the hunger was allayed and rest Had loosed his limbs, and something of sweet talk Had passed between them, a more hopeful heart Came to our friend, as the spent mariner, Whom some long billow of the wreckful sea Hath fiung far up upon a sunny strand, Crawls out of reach, and basks and is content. So Richard rested, thankful ari'^l secure. And now the little child, because the hours Grew long, and it was hard to keep her feet For tottering weariness, when all were kissed, And the soft night-robe clothed her rosy limbs. Was carried with drooped head and sinking lids To sleep ; and Richard too not long delayed But sought his attic chamber and with thoughts That two long days' unwonted sights and sounds Had goaded to wide-eyed intensity. Lay patient in his bed and courted sleep ; And still the thunderous jar of passing wheels. The tramp upon the pavement, the slow sound Of bells that at monotonous intervals Intoned the midnight hours, and farther ofT The roar and shout of trains, possessed his ear. And made a lonely strangeness in his soul. But sleep defeated oft and baffled back By some strange sound or starting up of thought, Conquered at last, and not till morn was high And the wide city rattled at full din, ¥F THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 437 h us." ife ed tec- jore. rest { sweet talk eKtl heart ler, \\ sea I, Dntent, e. LOurs r feet - kissed, )sy limbs, inking lids elayed thoughts and sounds ep; wheels, D\v sound ler off 1 his ear, soul. of thought, Ivas high Richard awoke, and like a sudden blow Dealt by remembrance on his sinking heart, The newness of his altered life returned. That very day Richard began his work. The schools had closed ; but for our friend, whose soul Was fierce with hope and wild with eagerness, The seasons were but forms and empty names. He found a teacher, one whom strenuous ties Kept through the long midsummer months at watch Bound to the city, though rJ.uctantly. Wondering at Richard's kingly height and touched By the rough strength and sweetness of his speech, He took him to his heart, became his friend And guided his first steps for many weeks With love and patient care ; and when the schools Re-opened in the soft September days. Nerved and relieved him with continual help. All through the autumn in the busy school Richard among small children sat and wrought, A humble giant at their petty tasks. The mount of knowledge seemed a giant height With neither ledge nor path, attainable Only to patient and eternal toil, Cutting each foothold in the granite stone. But he, the milder titan, neither paused Nor quailed, but with a spirit sternly strung, Wrought onward, step by step; above, beyond, Perceiving on the summits proudly bright The gleam of his neglected heritage ; And so for many weary months, by day Among the children in the humming school, ;;lli!i' 438 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY Or in his attic chamber half the night He pored upon his books, or strove to store The crumbs that fell about him. Then at last By little and little the desired light Dawned and increased ; the slow reward began. 'Twas given gradually to his soul to know The joy of mastery. The clearing brain Grew nimbler in its movements, more secure In sight and thought and memory, Throve and expanded. With a grave delight He passed from grade to grade, from task to task. The heads grew taller round him ; step by step He rose among the scholars, pressing on Happy, and restless, and insatiable. Filling the compass of his days and nights With larger and more loved activities. In Richard's attic room a little shelf Stood high above the table where he read, And on the shelf as in a sacred niche There lay apart in honoured singleness — The guide and symbol of his hope — the book That Margaret's hand had given him. His eyes Falling upon it often in dark hours, When toil seemed fruitless, and the goal far oflf, Brightened anew, and his strong heart revived. Again he saw the orchard and the trees, The sunny shadows and the rustic seat, And her whose beauty and serene regard Half gloomed, half lit the abysses of his soul With passionate wonder and religious awe. And so the winter passed, and roaring March IfT THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 439 Thundered upon the city roofs, and drove The soft cloud-masses, over deepening heights Of laughter-glimmering and diaphanous blue ; And April came, and charged the ru ining drains With the last knots of the discoloured snow, From sunny street and tinkling alleys poured In dancing rivulets. With dawning; May The blossoms of the maples broke and fell, Reddening the pavements with their rosy wreck. The willows turned to golden greei. The birds Came flocking in full chorus with the flame Of crocuses in teeming garden beds. A golden oriole with midnight wings Dreamed in the city's topmost elm and sang Of endless summer and undying joy. Months came and went, and with the mid-most heat The schools broke up, but Richard still remained In the great city resolute at his casks ; For neither to his home, nor ]\fargaret's face Would he return till strength M^as in his hands. And the full purpose of his life fulfilled. And ever day by day, in his st'ong heart The thirst of knowledge grew — all knowledge, not The love of books alone ; he yearned to know And penetrate the meaning ?nd the ends Of all the interlinking toils of men. Often, when study had gro'Am wearisome Through too long service fit the printed page, He roamed the crowded streets, haunted the shops. Or lingered by the bridge?, or the wharves. Watching with rapt insatiable eyes The maze of life, a tireless questioner. 440 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY He loved the central roar, and made his way Into the workshops and all haunts of skill Where men were busy at their various crafts. His simple speech and friendly bearing pleased The workmen, and they fed his curious mind With endless learnings of the ways of trade, The wonders of their mightiest and subtlest arts And all the mysteries of machinery. Another year and yet another passed And Richard, restlessly persistent, saw His mind's clear volume like a river grow Supported by increasing tributaries. His labours waxed ?nd .. ultiplied ; he laid Fresh hold on every side, and wrought at all With love and mastery and perpetual gain. The subtleties of figures caught at first His mind with keenest fascination ; then The feats and beauties of geometry; The lore of language in the common speech ; The story of the races of mankind, In turn absorbed his brain. In the fourth year He mounted to a higher range, and there With ardour and renewed delight, began The study of the old and learned tongues, The Roman and the Greek ; and year by year, With the keen growth of easeful memory And opening of new springs of radiant thought, The masters of old beauty set apart Their charmed doors and inmost haunts for him The Mantuan with his firm and stately flow. Now tender-touched and sorrowfully sweet w THE STORY OF AN AFFINITV 441 With Dido's love and beautiful despair, Now ringing with the city's fall, and now Loud with the rush of armed men, the clash And tramp of battle on the Latian plain : He too, the smiling master of the lyre. Whose light and delicate hand so long ago, In that old, shadowy, half-forgotten world, Drew from its strings so many human chords. Whose days were filled with fancy and content, The wondrous tenant of the Sabine farm. The song of Homer rapt him. He beheld The leaguer of the Greeks, the ten years' toil Around the fated walls of Troy, and heard The stormy words of heroes ring and roll In thunder from the sweet and eloquent verse. He saw the wise Odysseus wandering far Through many outer lands of monstrous men, And shadowy tracts and many friendless seas, And then for all his subtle craft at last Led back, world-weary and companionless, An old man, to his home in Ithaca. He followed in the drama of the Greek The doom of CEdipus, the storied deed Of stern and beautiful Antigone, The blood-stained destinies of Pelop's line Old symbols of the linked fates of men. He mused on Plato's vast and golden dream, And drank the old-world histories of strife. Of golden deeds, and freedom lost or won. These things and many more he understood After long labour ; and a rich new life Grew up, and decked as with ^n artist's care ii 442 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY The erewhile formless chambers of his soul. Its floors and hidden depths became alive With moving figures, lovely or sublime. Its barren walls were hung by viewless hands With tapestries of magic workmanship, Fabric;: of beauty beyond human skill. Through all its cells and haunted corridors Went echoes of immortal music set To words dropped from forgotten lips and left Long since to the maturing care of age. And now with these enlarging studies rose In Richard's soul a new and curious sense Of the world's life about him, a desire To pierce the surface of its outer shows And read as by the light of things untaught The simpler heart within. Be^^ause his soul, Sprung suddenly into power, had not obeyed A custom-moulded youth, he learned at once To meditate the words and ways of men. Weighing their motives and the forms of life In the fine balance of impartial truth. He saw how fair and beautiful a thing The movement of the busy world might be, Were men but just and gentle, but how hard, How full of doubt and pitiless life is. Seeing that ceaseless warfare is man's rule , And all his laws and customs but thin lies To veil the pride and hatred of his heart. And utterances of spiritual beauty passed Between the babbling lips of men whose souls Remained as blind and impotent as before. THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 443 He sat in the great churches and amid The grandeur of their silken ceremonies Heard the vauhs thunder with the solemn chants And sacred hymns immeasurably sad, Wherein the universal human heart Had voiced the qtiietude of its vast despair, And all the awful weariness of life. He heard the pastor with impassioned tongue Preach the great love and brotherhood of man. While round him, silent in the velvet stalls, The rich and proud, the masters of this world. Sat moveless as the ever-living gods, While all that wordy thunder rolled and rang About their heads and pitiless ears in vain. He saw rude multitudes in wild despair Wear out their days in labour for small gain And sink care-weary into unknown graves, And how the strong, by chance and sleight made great. Fattened and throve upon the general need, Hiding their cruel and remorseless hands Behind a mist of custom and the law, Huge offspring of a boundless anarchy ! He saw the public leaders in whose charge Was given the chiefship and the common weal. Gulling men openly with fulsome lies ; And on the trustful ignorance of the just And the blind greed and hatred of the base Building the edifice of their own power. All this because his soul was like a child's Simple and keen ; he saw, while most men dreamed And passed it by, or seeing, did not care. mm- 444 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY Yet also because his soul was fresh and stout And of a natural birth, he lost not faith, Nor grew distempered, as the weaker may Amid this forceful fraudulent air of life ; For he found many that in heart and head Were of the better world and the securer path, Men, wholesome, tolerant, temperate and sincere, And women who are the safeguard and the hope Of human destiny, the pioneers Of man's advancement and the larger life, Generous and gentle as his utmost dream. Now, too, our friend had entered on fresh paths Of studious labour. Through her magic doors Science received him to intenser thought, And led him to her silent mountain heads Of vaster vision. He explored the round Of glittering space, the heavenly chart, and saw The giant order of immenser worlds. The wheeling planets and our galaxy ; And far beyond them in the outer void Cluster succeeding cluster of strange suns Through spaces awful and immeasurable, Dark systems and mysterious energies. And nebulous creations without end — The people of the hollow round of heaven In trackless myriads dwelling beyond search Or count of man — beneath his feet this earth A dust mote spinning round a little star, Not known, nor named in the immensity. He probed the secrets of the rocks, and learned THE STOKV OF AN AFFINITY 445 The texture of our planet's outer rind, And the strange tale of her tremendous youth. He touched the endless lore of living things, Of plant, of beast, of bird, and not alone In the mere greed of knowledge, but as one Whom beauty kindled with a poet's fire. The old desire of wandering, the delight In solitude, and hunger for the wilds Returned upon him, and at times impelled By such impetuous stress, he left his books, And far beyond the city's wearying roar Cooled his hot brain amid the blossoming fields Or salved his spirit in the peaceful woods. And many a day at noon, or fall of dusk, Found him half-hid in towering meadow grass Or seated by some gurgling forest brook In still communion with all forms of life. The sense of kinship filling his wide heart With dim mysterious joy ; and now he knew That the old wildness of his darkened youth Was not a meaningless power, but the same charm And sympathy of earth, the blind desire Of Beauty, more restrained, less desperate now, Because illumined by the conscious mind. One day in the first break of busy spring. As Richard leaned across a broken fence, Receiving with strange pleasure in his ears The murmurs of a shallow reedy pool, A voice rang at his elbow with r note Of gentle salutation. Turning round. He saw a young man, slight, and somewhat tall. illi i I" i itiii "^ 446 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY With thin clear cheeks, bright eyes and lofty brow, Whose presence like the grass and budding trees Seemed part of the still sweetness of the place. "Already" said the full sonorous voice, "Mine eyes have marked you often in these fields, I being an oaf and wanderer like yourself, And, if you be, as I surmise, a friend To Beauty and the wisdom drawn from earth, I pray your friendship and I long to hear Your speech." Richard had often seen this man In the dense city streets and reverenced him At awestruck, wondering distance, for he bore The poet's golden fame ; and now thus met, He answered, half-delighted, half-abashed, A few blunt words. The poet's swift reply Embarked them on a steady stream of talk, And, as they kept the long way homeward, far Into the April evening, with its crown Of pallid emerald and purple gloom, High wreathed with tremulous and eloquent stars, Made solemn with the full antiphonal cry Of sort Pandean voices, the two friends Drew into close communion, and reviewed Their several dreams of life, illumining each With many a glowing fancy and swift flight Of uttered vision ; and when Richard saw How the wise poet opened his full heart Spreading before him with unstinting hand His stores of joy and knowledge, he too rose To a new height and potency of mind. And, tremulous with delight, his tongue took on THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 447 A sureness and impetuous eloquence Unknown before. The poet as each thought Flashed up before them, capped it with some strain Or proverb from the famous lords of rhyme, Pouring the cadences 'a Richard's ear In strange and passionate chant. So ere the two Had plunged again into the city's roar Richard had seen fresh worlds, ard a new day Dawned on his eager and awakened soul. uent stars, He pored upon the pages of old rhyme, Until a music, hitherto half-heard, Or wholly undivined, possessed his ear. And made him in the day-break of its joy A winged and bodiless spirit loosed from Time, Floating in golden fire 'twixt earth and heaven. He lived in Shakespeare's venturous world and passed That eloquent multitude of living shapes. Lovely or terrible ; and Milton's line Bore him upon its volume vast and stern In august cadences to the sheer height Of earthly vision ; Wordsworth, Keats and Gray, The spell of Coleridge in his magic mood Opened his soul to every mystery And heavenly likeness of the things of earth. And now between the poet and our friend Meeting together often, there grew up, A strong and sacred friendship. Richard's mind Gained from the touch of a creative soul Guidance and clews to many novel paths ; The poet found in Richard a sound heart. An eager ear, an understanding brain. 448 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY Meanwhile through all the learning of the schools Richard had toiled his way from grade to grade, And filled his brain with manv sciences, The long-stored fruits of old philosophies, * And all the harvest of the modern light : And so, passing beyond the scholar's rank, Replete with honours, he became Hirr self a teacher, first in lowlier sort. And then ere many busy months had passed, A lecturer in a famous college hall. And all the while in his small upper room, He kept the little book within its niche. And in the deep seclusion of his heart One delicate image sacred and unchanged. Through all the toilsome channels of his life The beautiful guide had made his path secure Pointing him on in grave serenity, And Margaret was his strength, his hope, hir goal. Ten years had passed : the season's work was done; The long midsummer rest was near at hand ; And Richard rising from his table took The little volume in his dreaming hands : "Now I have reached the very end," he said "My task is done, and I shall see the face. And touch the very hand of her whose power Clings to thine every page, beloved book." rv THE STOKY OF AN AFFINITY 449 le schools o grade, es, nk, assecl, im, ;ed. s life secure 1)6, hif goal, rk was done ; land; said Lce, power bk." PART III So had our Richard, through triumphant toil And steadfast will, and prospering fortunes, grown To his soul's spreading stature, and fulfilled His being's purpose ; but for Margaret, Secluded in her country home, and far Removed from the magnetic touch of life, The years had brouglit a different destiny. Little by little the monotonous round Of duties and incessant petty cares Absorbed her, slowly deadening at the heart The joyous fervour of her early dreams. The neighbouring life — the life of struggling souls- Bound in its narrow range of earthly needs, A mist of melancholy industry, O'ertopped her spirit with its sober pall. At first she battled with it, throwing off The imprisoned force and passion of her soul In wayward and unusual deeds, and storms Of secret weeping. Often she surprised The quiet country folk with her strange moods. Of bitter scoflfing and her wild discourse, But not for long ; this passed and gradually The gentler will, the store of helpful love. That formed her spirit's mainstay in the end, Rose paramount, and daily broadening Enwrapt her in its sweet and luminous calm. In the third year, a bitter grief befell : She wept upon her mother's new-made grave. And though still heavier about her thoughts 29 fT: ll'iiiii ;iii:;:l ■^ 450 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY The bondage of the quiet household grew — For Margaret and her father were alone — She grieved not, nor complained ; her father's touch Was dear to her, and she had grown to love, Already, with a homely sympathy The silent house, the stolid country ways. The gentle service, the unruffled peace. The freshuL .s and the beauty of the fields. But ever as her motive-core of life. Deep-hidden, far within, there lingered still, Unquenchable, the sense of lost desire, Of cramped and fettered capability. The adventurous yearning for the freer sway : Nor did the outward habit of her days Lack heat or lustre from that inner fire : Through all their slow routine with watchful eye Finding in every smallest chance some food Or sport for the unconquerable mind, She kept a certain amplitude of thought. And sleepless movement of the nimble wit. Through all the countryside her name was known And honoured. By her keen and gracious ways. Her bright activity and speech so full Of kindling laughter, and of grave discourse, She drew the best about her, and, as time Went on, planted in many a genial soil The seeds of knowledge and divine desire. Among the neighbouring women she became. With her soft touch and ever ready ear, A priestess and a confidante to all THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 451 Who strove with any dark perplexity, Or grief, or any sickness of the soul. But most she loved to gather at her side The children en their sunny holidays, And tell them stories of the birds p.nd flowers, The grasses and the lofty forest trees, , Weaving a web of tender allegories. Wherein some core of spiritual beauty shone. Or she would read to them from books, or round The doorsteps on the murmurous summer nights Unveil to them in simple sweet replies, Fraught with such knowledge as their minds could take. The wonder and the mysteries of the stars. So with perpetual movement and the use Of all the simple functions of the soul Margaret maintained a sturdy happiness. Only at moments, rare and quickly healed. Of sharpened consciousness and lost repose, Perceiving underneath its cloak of ash That dim and secret smouldering at her heart Of formless yearning and unnamed regret. Long years passed on without event or change ; And then another gradual influence Began to shape the current of her life. One day — 'twas in the midmost noise and heat Of a fierce-fought electoral campaign- A lawyer from a busy neighbouring town, Searching the country here and there for votes Tied up his horse at Jacob Hawthorne's farm. An hour was spent in earnest talk at first I 452 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY With Hawthorne, then with Margaret, for in her He found a mind as quick as wind to catch The wider drift and purpose of his speech, A nobler and a juster listener. When all his end was gained, and from the shy Close farmer a plain promise had been won. For a long while the lawyer still talked on. Fastened by Margaret's bright and kindling grace, Her beauty, and the music of her voice. Parting reluctantly at last he bore, Through the long remnant of that busy day With all its chaff and chatter, a heart full Of mellow meditations mixed and pricked With strange uneasiness and soft regrets. Before a week was over, he had found Some pretext for another call, and still Another followed, till at length he grew A frequent figure at the lonely farm. This lawyer, John Vantassel, was a man Of mark and value in the neighbouring town. Honoured by most, and feared by some. Proud, generous, quick to think and do. Given to anger in tempestuous gusts. But easily placable, a man full-framed, And of a keen and ruddy countenance; And Margaret liked him, valuing at its worth The honest strength that gave him worth with all. On many a summer evening ere the dusk Had fallen, by a short and private path, Striding at will across the cooling fields, He came, with his light heart and merry tongue ; THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 453 Or far upon the lonely country roads, The two would stroll, filling the careless hours With endless and contented talk. So years Passed by, and Margaret grew to like The bright companion of her easiest hours. The goodness of his soul, his buoyant ways ; She liked him ; but her heart remained untouched. Even from the first Vantassel well divined His suit must be a long and difficult one ; And so, being a wise and resolute man, He laid his siege with slow and patient care. Until by gradual stages there grew up In Margaret's heart such friendship as not love Could have made truer, albeit passion-free; The friendship which in woman is more rare, More self-forgetful and of finer touch Than that of man for man. At times indeed She questioned of the future, knowing well That he who sought her friendship with such zeal Must needs be suitor to her in the end ; And once or twice when he had somehow dared To tremble on the edge of love-making. She warned and checked him w4th a sudden chill Or rapid altering of her mood that feigned A blindness to the meaning of his speech. As time went on, even this thought became Less strange, less fearful to her ; she would fain Have utterly forgot her former dreams. And banished from the woman's settled life The lingering aspirations of the girl. m 454 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY One night when Margaret and her friend had paced For a long while the dewy orchard path In talk, that somehow deepened to a note More sharply from the heart than ever before, Vantassel, lingering by the orchard bars, Forgot the long-kept passion and poured forth The fiery volume of his hoarded love : And Margaret standing with the silent night Above her, and around her feet, sharp-thrown The dark and motionless shadows of the trees. Stirred not, nor spoke for a long thoughtful while. Looking far out across the murmurous fields. And then she turned, and with a gaze of fear. And passionate trouble, and perplexity. Full on Vantassel's set and pallid face : "O do not ask me now," she cried, "not now ; Leave me a little while — a day, a week ; Give me a week, and I will answer you ;" And, when Vantassel, bending to her will, Had passed the meadows and the farthest fields. And v.inished by the looming mountain side In vasty shadows, Margaret still remained. Gazing far forth across the shadowy slopes. Surcharged with passionate thought. She scarcely knew The countless voices of primeval life. That round her in the deep and dewy dark Haunted the motionless trees and thronged the grass ; Nor saw the moon, the golden harvest moon, Rise from the woodland, shedding slowly down On all the silvery meadows of the world Her magic of old memories and dreams. d^ THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 455 With hands light-clasped upon the topmost bar She stood, and in her busy mind reviewed All the past course and movement of her life, That life so simple in its outward marks, But inwardly so complex and so full Of doubt and struggle. With the clearest eyes She saw the narrowed current of her days Flow forward in the groove the years had made. Her destiny was named and fixed, and now Rebellion seemed a vain and hopeless thing. Her life with John Vantassel would be still The same long round of plain activities, Performed upon a little larger field ; And he was dear to her as a close friend ; She knew him kindly, faithful and sincere ; And she could trust him. When she turned at last Into the homeward path between the trees. Walking with gently bended head, she gave The lawyer's longed-for answer in her heart, And sealed it solemnly with sacred vows. One morning to the Hawthorne folk there came The word that Richard Stahlberg had returned, And that h would be with them ere that day Had come to end. Margaret was well pleased At thought of Richard's visit, and her mind Kept running all day long upon it, touched With curious excitement ; Richard's fame Had rung so often in her ears, the talk Of every household in the neighbouring farms, A sort of mythic splendour wrapt it round. The story of these long and arduous years, I !i'i iiiilli!! 456 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY i i His patient labour and his rare success, Had grown familiar to her thoughts, retold Again and yet again with eloquent joy By Richard's mother, sometimes at ilie glow Of the red firelight in the winter nights, The rapid needles glistening in their hands ; Or sometimes on long summer afternoons When apples were selected, peeled and cored, And quartered, and with busy care spread out On boards to tan and shrivel in the sun. And Margaret had been flattered by the tale, Remembering with a subtle sense of power That curious meeting by the orchard tree. The boy's wild bearing and the violent change, And his strange burst of crude and passionate speech. And now the sense that she should face once more That powerful man, to whom perchance some touch Of her own soul had given the need to grow, Thrilled her with vague and indefinable thoughts. When Richard passed that evening through the knes, And up the well-remembered orchard path. He had the sense of one that went with power To claim a fortune given by destiny. He could not think that that mysterious spell — He deemed its source to be affinity — Whose touch had spurred his clouded soul to life. Would miss its fated goal and not demand Reaction on the heart from which it sprung. He trod the dim-lit gravelly path, and reached The grass plot and the garden beds that made An odorous round before the farmhouse door, THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 457 A many-hued ellipse of lawn and flowers, And just as he had pictured in his dreams, Margaret rose smiling from the gallery steps And came to meet him, bearint; in her eyes And gracious tread the welcome long desired. Margaret was less slender than of yore. Her figure firmlier set, her face less pale. To her gray eyes the kindling ardours sprang Less often, with a graver brilliancy : Yet was she in all more nobly beautiful Than when she talked with Richard years ago. Her gentle poise of head, her fearless grace Of mien and movement, and her candid look So full of sunny thought and sovereign strength, The music of her voice made mellower With deeper chords and tenderer cadences. Her smile that some rare knowledge seemed to haunt With glimmers of mysterious tenderness ; All this combined to heighten and endow The presence of her perfect womanhood With charm and influence gracious and supreme; To Richard, as he met her with rapt gaze, Her beauty, with its ardour manifest Of truth and gentleness, awoke at once The glorious vision of that earlier youth, And loosed the long-locked flood-gates of his heart. In passion, for a moment uncontrolled, He looked upon her with such fervid eyes As never vet had dared to meet her own, And, taking both her hands between his two. Murmured with lips, half trembling "Margaret!" lllill 1 t|:j| illiiil' 458 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY And Margaret's eyes fell, stricken and abcshed, And her cheeks reddened, but her helpless hands Remained in Richard's, having no power to move ; And a strange light broke in upon her soul, A rushing thought, so sudden, so enforced, It robbed her of control, and made her sense A trembling tumult, whereof joy and pain Were equal parts ; for at a single look She saw, not the pale student lured at last Back to old scenes and former friends, from books And charmed studies drawn reluctantly, But the strong lover, here at last to lay In hope and anxious triumph at her feet The fruit of giant toils for her sake borne, And claim the dreamed reward. This too she saw In his great stature, noble and erect. By the swift heart-stroke of intuitive sense That he had gone beyond her, and stood now Her spiritual master, large and armed with power. She felt rather than saw the beauty that abode In the large head still clustered with its curls, The broad brow, pale and open, and made full With study and the gathered weight of mind, The bright blue eye's with dreams and passion charged The mouth, not dull, nor frenzied as of old, But lightly set, supremely sensitive. She knew, as by a passionate gift of sight, That this man was her soul's repository Of strength and trust, her spirit's answering type. The man that she could dream of ; so it fell That for a moment like a girl she stood Flushed and tongue-tied, but Richard marking this THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 459 Released her hands, and turning to her side Went forward with her up the quiet walk ; And both regaining in a moment's space Command of thought and speech, their tongues were loosed In talk about the farm, the country life, The playmates of their childhood, of the times Gone by and of the present. Richard drew From Margaret in her full and mellow voice, Touched with soft flashes of all-loving wit, The scanty annals of her own quiet years ; And then led by her questioning sympathy, Sketched out his own more varied story, not as yet Daring to link the motive of his toil With thought of her, nor ever bearing back Her memory to that sacred turning point And magic moment of the past. His soul Filled with her presence, her delicious speech, The brightness of her eyes, rested content In dreamlike joy and glowing quietude ; And Margaret too, so captured, so surprised. All other thoughts forgotten and cast by. Gave herself wholly to the wondrous spell, The deep excitement that she dared not name. And so 'twas almost midnight, and above At the sheer purple zenith and beside The midmost ridge and milky wreath of heaven Shone Vega like a pulsing star of love When Richard to his triter sense recalled, Parted from Margaret by the garden beds, And strode, flame-footed, homeward throug!' the fields. ! 4^0 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY And Margaret, slowly gathering up her thoughts Out of the mist of blind emotion, sat In the broad porch, a dim and odorous bower, Framed and built up of honeysuckle bloom, And strove to read her heart. One thing she knew That Richard's presence like the stinging draught Of some unknown elixir, hot with youth, Had stripped her soul and robbed it utterly Of all its guarded vesture of content, Its gathered veils and careful barriers Of stoic, crystal-clear philosophy. Ten years had vanished like a midnight mist And all the old unrest, the spiritual strife, The nameless yearning, kindled and rerisen. Possessed her heart with ten-fold passionate power. Like a bright herald from the outer world. Whose pride and splendour always had for her A fascination, pregnant with revolt, Richard had come and with his radiant touch His earnest eyes, and voice of ardour filled With limitless suggestions to her soul. Laid open the old dreamed-of path, so lit And gladdened with emotion new and sweet. She dared not yet regard it with full gaze. And now upon her startled heart returned The memory of the recent days, the thought Of John Vantassel and his patient love, Of the strong, faithful and so generous man, Whose friendship she had valued and found sweet. She knew that by i^n inward vow, as clear As any outward, she had given herself To him, yet saw that the slow-ripened thought THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 461 Sprang from a life that was not hers at all, Nor was the offspring of her natural being. A storm of struggle rose within her soul. In marriage with Vantassel she beheld The certain failure of one-half her life, And yet their friendship had been close and sweet. To set aside his love, to break the troth So consciously heart-given, the cold thought Filled her with horror, and her spirit shrank In dread and agony. Hour after hour That night upon her racked and sleepless bed Margaret lay watching with wide eyes, .She saw Beyond her open window with its frame Of vines, the moving stars, the silver gleam Of branches hung with peach leaves in the moon, The glimmering hillside and the silent trees. Her thoughts rushed ever crowding back and forth Too full of questioning, too madly swift. For tears. The sleep that came at last with dreams Held her enchanted in a luminous land With vivid journeys and fantastic flights Of feverish joy. With the first streaming gold That crossed her window from the rising sun, She woke in anguish, weary and heart-sore. That evening, when the common tasks were done,. And all the tea-things washed and laid away, And everything made spotless for the night, Margaret grave-eyed amid the falling dusk Was busy with her flowers. Her troubled heart Had worn itself to rest, the sluggish rest \m > iiiil; I 462 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY Of very weariness, and when the clack Of the closed gate and jar of Richard's feet On the sharp gravel, broke upon her ear, She hushed her spirit with an inward word And rose to meet him, blindly purposing To keep her heart in check. She dared not now Look full in Richard's fixed eyes, too bright, Too dangerously potent with the sense Of worship and possession. Richard marked Her charier smile, her pallor, her tired eyes. He strove to read them, and a pang of doubt Startled his thoughts and made them less secure. Long in the lingering twilight up and down The dewy walks and by the orchard path They strolled and talked, and Richard gathered heart ; And Margaret, under the reviving spell. Yielding little by little to its power, Grew well nigh reckless. Richard told at length The story of his life, and sketched his plans For the great future, things that fired her thoughts And roused the old deep-hidden enthusiasm, And drew her to him with mysterious arms Of pride and yearning. They had come at last Down to the very spot, the rustic seat. The well-known tree, whose every feature fixed In Richard's memory, now again beheld, Under the silent sanction of the stars, Spurred him beyond control of doubt or fear. He had talked long, and Margaret had replied. With a wan touch of hunger in her voice : "You have toiled so bravely and so well. Have learned so much and gained so much from life. THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 463 ithered heart ; Must you not think me weak and slight indeed, Me who have lost what little light I had. Who have gone backward in the march of mind, And let the sacred fire decline and die, Grown over with neglect and petty cares?" And Richard turned upon her with grand eyes, His voice shaken with passion: "Margaret! 'Tis that that I have dreamed of all these years, That I, grown to the utmost of myself, Might someday thankfully bring back to you The life you gave to me. Do you not know That that which broke the fetters from my soul Was love, the love of you ; and that alone Has nerved my heart and made me what I am. This light, I know, could never have flashed forth With such quick charm, such fruitful potency, Unless our answering spirits had been charged With a like force, and fated sympathy. I dreamed it always, and these final hours Have made me sure of it. Henceforth as one Let us take up the way together, each Made stronger by the other's loving touch. Shall it not be so, Margaret, beloved?" uch from life, And Margaret looked full in Richard's face With eyes wherein a terrible brightness shone. And her hands clenched with effort and her face Grew whiter than white lilies to the lips ; For all was now so simple, could she waive The word of every teacher but the hour. Could she but let the golden moment rule. Forgetful of all else ; but through her heart :iir ! 464 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY Still reigned the guardian spirit of her life, Relentless with a stern and silent power, The queenly honour that she must not soil. And Richard, with outstretched and eager arms, Drew near her murmuring still her name ; but she Drew back, and striving with herself at last Found strength to speak : "Oh I have been unwise iMot to have warned you at the first, and yet I was not sure you loved me. You are true A nd know that faith and honour must be kept. You would not deem me worthy if I broke My solemn troth. What you would ask of me Another has already claimed and won." Thus Margaret, bravely with half-broken speech, And Richard answered, filled with fierce despair : "O Margaret, you love me ; in your heart You love me, and before this sacred love All other cold resolves are swept away. Remember what awaits us ; it is law, A law so deep and sacred that our hearts Must yield and follow its command, or break. How can you think of any bond, but this?" And all the woman rose in Margaret's breast. The yearning and the yielding tenderness ; And the wild power that tugged at both their hearts A moment kept her spell-bound. Richard's arms Had almost wound her in their reckless grasp, When she sprang from him, and, "No! No!" she cried, "I cannot ; you, if you are brave and kind, Go now, and leave me, think no more of me; I must be true!" and Margrret, very pale, THE STOUV OF AN AFFINITY 465 Turned from him, and with swift and steady steps Went up between the dark and silent trees, And through the garden and the dreaming porch. With her last strength she climbed the narrow stair. And found her room, and sank beside the bed. And laid her head between her hands and wept. For a long time, like one blinded and stunned, Richard stood moveless on the orchard path ; And then, little by little like a cloud That spreading brings the tempest, the mute maze Impending over all his soul, dissolved In madness and immeasurable grief. He sought the house and lingered at the porch, And roamed the garden, calling "Margaret!" And then he strode away and walked for hours About the midnight fields, and through the woods, Till once again, not knowing how it fell, He found himself beneath the silent walls Of the dark-eaved and dreaming house, and knew The porch and the beloved garden beds ; And a great fear possessed him, for he seemed To feel the gathering of a heavy mist About his soul, and with it came the thought That as the hope of Margaret from the first Had given him power, so now the dream destroyed, The former impotent cloud-life might reti rn. 30 ' < \»/'A». 466 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY The sleepless night passed over Margaret's head, And fanning forth in crimson from the east The summer morning brought the happy sun Golden and glowing ; but to Margaret's heart The anguish of the thing that she had done Rose in its naked horror palpable. She had beat down the true and perfect love, And dashed away the sparkling cup of life. Wounding the hand that held it. Not alone Of her own grief she thought, but Richard's face, With its wild stare of blight and agony. Stood fixed before her, an accusing ghost. To Richard with his years of toil and hope Ruin was written in the shattered dream. All day she wandered through the house and strove To gain the freedom of her wonted tasks ; In vain ; and all was blind before her, will And purpose shifting idly in the toss Of thought made weak and masterless by grief. That day across the fields, so often trod With easier heart, Vantassel came to seek His answer, wearing in his handsome face Care-furrows and unwonted wistfulness. Margaret had marshalled all her strength and tried To meet him brightly ; but he read her face ; He saw its weary pallor, and the lines Of strife and suffering, and he marked the change To effort in her once so gracious speech. The dull embarrassment that clogged her smile, And made it piteous. When the evening meal THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 467 Was over, and the two were now alone, Vantassel standing in the arboured porch With all his nerves in governance, tightly strung, Spoke softly, with a gentle hand on hers : "You know why I have come to-night, my friend ; My week is over, and it seemed a year — Each day so full of doubt, and clinging hope. Can you not give me now the one bright word Whose music shall ennoble all my life?" So Margaret with pale lips and fixed eyes Stood silent, face to face with destiny. The blind resolve discarded and remade To give the fateful answer and have done Struggled a moment at her heart, and then She could not say the words ; her lips refused To utter what she willed ; but other words. Reckless and wild, surged up upon her lips. And broke in utterance, she knew not how. "I cannot be your wife ; you do not know, You could not know, you could not understand The longing of r-y heart; my inmost soul Forbids ! I cannot, dare not !" Then she turned Smitten with wild compassion and bent down, And seized his hands and pressed them to her lips, And kissed them. "Do not grieve" she cried "at all ; Indeed I am not fit to be your wife. You do not know me ; no, for all these years You do not know me ! She whom you should wed Should be a leal and trusty woman, not Like me, faithless !" and with a wringing look 468 THE STORY OK AN AFFINITY Out of great eyes, woe-widened, charged with tears, She dashed into the house and left him there, Standing perplexed and dazed. A sudden voice, Half-friendly and half-mocking at his side, Woke him out of his ^reams. Twas Hawthorne's tone, The old man watching him with curious eyes : "You are too late," he said, "a month ago Your case was sure ; you have heard tell, I guess, Of Richard Stahlberg, our next neighbour's son. The college prodigy. He has returned, And brought a sort of magic in his tongue. A single day sufficed him to undo Your work with Margaret. He has turned her head. Bewitched her utterly !" The old man stopped. Marking the other's stricken face, and changed His note, and strove to comfort him ; and then The loosening current of Vantassel's grief Turned to a wrathful hunger to be told All that the old man knew of Richard's life, The make and inward fashion of the man He deemed his enemy. When night had fallen And he could hope no more for sight or sound Of Margaret, Vantassel took once more His bitter way across the moonlit fields. Now in the active spirit of the man, Loving the concrete, too thick-nerved and blullf For vague emotion, wrath and the desire Of vengeance almost swallowed up his grief. The form of Richard towered above his soul. THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 469 A thing that he could strike at. As he strode, Scarce marking how lie chose or kept the paths, His heart brewed out of the strong fierce blood A tempest blast with thunder and with fire. Beyond the fields there lay a scattered wood. And in the midst thereof a quiet glade, Tenanted only by the silver moon And the sharp shadows. As Vantassel came Into the open space, a giant form Loomed out before him from the dusky trunks, Brow-bent, bare-headed, and the brooding face, As of one startled by his sweeping step, Turned into the full moonlight, and grew clear. Vantassel knew the face, and knew the form, And his hands clenched and with a rushing stride He fronted Richard. In a terrible voice, Broken and hoarse and reasonless with rage: "You are the man who robbed me of my love ! Who came at the last hour when all was well. And ruined both our lives ! You are a thief ! A mean and treacherous thief ! There is a law To punish them that rob us of our goods. But how shall we be safe from such as you, Traitors who creep about us in the dark. And tempt and steal away our happiness !" Richard had scarcely time to ward the blow So sudden was the other's wild attack. But he gave ground, and in a gentle voice Cried out, "There is no need to strike, my friend ; 470 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY TSPJ ^ iik Put by your anger for a moment now, And let me speak, and I will tell you all. You do not know the matter as it is ; Be patient !" But the other neither heard Nor heeded, but bore in on Richard's guard With reckless fury. Then in Richard's soul The old berserker passion of his youth Rose for a trice, and putting forth at last The sudden volume of his mountainous strength. He seized Vantassel's body round the midst, Lifted him high in air and thrust him down, And pinned him like a feather to the earth : "See ! you shall hear me, whether you will or no !" He said, "Will you be governed now?" He drew His hands away ; and, humbled, and half-stunned, Vantassel sitting with averted eyes, Turned sullenly to listen. Richard stood, Looming above him like a tower, and told The story of his labour and his love. Dashing it forth in short and trenchant phrase, And as he spoke the lawyer locked his arms About his knees ; nor did he break at all The silence, when the eloquent tongue had ceased ; But Richard in a moment, not yet salved, Forth leaning with a deep and passionate cry. Continued : "Now you know how all my life Is linked with Margaret's, how I draw from her All that I am, and all I hope to be ! Do you think then, that I can give her up? There is a bond between us, sacred and inherent. She too has felt it now, and turns to ma THE STOKY OF AN AFFINITY 47 1 With the one love that cannot be gainsaid, For the first time discovering her own heart ; If you should break this bond you would not win The happiness you seek. Your life and hers Would find the fate of all unmated things, The incurable curse of blight and emptiness." And both were silent, in their stormy hearts Revolving things beyond the reach of words, Till in the end the lawyer slowly rose. And, "You have conquered, both by force of hands," He murmured, "and by force of soul. I yield ; Do as you will. I read her heart to-day, And know that I am hopeless. May the fates Be good to her, for I have been her friend. I will release her from all debt to me By word or letter." Then he turned away, And Richard would have touched him with his hand Or said some gentle word, but he was gone, Striding with heavy steps and bended head. The murmurous stillness of the summer night Was gathering round the silent orchard trees ; The shadowy grass was thick and cool with dew ; And Margaret, hungering much to be alone, Along the darkening pathway toward the fields Had come, and reached the bars and lingered there. The mountain, in the silvery radiance Of the full moon, stood large and sombre-flanked Above her with its glittering crest of leaves. Her heart, like weary water after storm, 472 THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY Lay spent with care and passion. It seemed now There was no room for her to think or do, But just to follow with obedient steps The beck of destiny. Upon her bed In the dark farmhouse yonder she had left The final sad memorial of her strife, A letter soiled and blotted with her tears. She laid her arms upon the silent rails And stood gazing- into the darkness, full Only of love and limitless regret. For a long time, until her limbs were tired. Thus rapt and unregardful, she remained In dreamland quietude ; and then at last, Without surprise, as if it were the next And final stroke of some impersonal fate, The form of Richard, coming with slow steps Out of the mountain shadows near at hand, As half irresolute, seized and absorbed Her sense, and gathered in one noiseless stream All the dim drifts and currents of her soul. Richard drew near, with blanched and fixed eyes. He saw the form, the beautiful pale face, Set like a shadowy statue in the dusk Of spiritual enchantment. He stood still, Half fepring: "Am I right to come?" he crieu, "I drea.ned that I might come to you to-night. That something might be changed, and I might dare :'* And Margaret did not answer, but her eyes. The signals of the mute and shining soul, Y THE STORY OF AN AFFINITY 473 emed now o, eft ed, d t, Gave themselves utterly to his — one look Of silent full surrenderment. Her lips, Melting: into a strange and speechless smile, Became a flower, whose poignant loveliness An age of dearth and hunger had made pale. Lingering the sweeter from its hidden root Of shame and agony. Witliout a word They took each other's hands, and turned and passed Up the cdol path between the orchard trees, Wrapt in srcli thoughts as only they can know Whose hearts throu<;h tears and effort have attained The portals of the perfect fields of life, And thence, half dazzled by the glow, perceive The endless road before them, clear and free. ^ steps ,nd, stream 111. ixed eyes. ill, le criea, -night, ; might dare :'* ;yes, 1, 4 The undersigned in completing this memorial edition of Archibald Lampman's poems desire to express their thanks to the anonymous donor of an amount sufficient to cover the whole cost of the book, to Messrs. Copeland & Day, 69 Cornhill, Boston, Mass., who courteously presented their copyright in "Lyrics of Earth," and to the Linotype Company of Montreal for having gratuitously set the type of the whole book. Thanks are also sincerely tendered to the many who, throughout Canada, the United States and England, ensured the success of the volume by their per- sonal interest and effort and to those who contributed by their subscriptions to the total amount realized for the family of the author. S. E. Dawson, W. D. LeSueur, Duncan C. Scott. ' emorial edition express their int sufficient to :s. Copeland & ously presented 3 the Linotype ly set the type ;ly tendered to ited States and : by their per- contributed by i for the family Dawson, LeSueur, N C. Scott.