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 The Poems ^^^ 
 
 Archibald Lamprnan 
 
 Edited with a Memoir by 
 
 Duncan Campbell Scott 
 
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 The Poems of 
 
 Archibald Lampman 
 
 Edited with a Memoir by 
 
 Duncan Campbell Scott 
 
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 k 
 
 to 
 
 Toronto 
 George N. Morang & Co., Limited 
 
 1900 
 
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 47536 
 
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 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. 
 
 
 
 
 _ 
 
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 1 li 
 
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 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. 
 
 
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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??^^ 
 
 
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 23 WEST .MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
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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, 
 
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 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 

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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 
 
 ■ 
 
 
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 1 
 
 
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 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. 
 

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 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. 
 
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 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. 
 
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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 
 
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 \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 
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 King ; 
 1 
 
 lope, 
 . blessed. 
 
 lands 
 
 the corn, 
 
 lelds, 
 
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 the true. 
 
 at Uttle, 
 
 i regret. 
 
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 veil 
 
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 bitter cause 
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 ds 
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 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. 
 
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 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 
 
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 youth : 
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 gentle deeds 
 
 )pressors' necks, 
 
 IV way : 
 
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 1 as of old. 
 
 ul and speech, 
 sight, 
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 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, 
 
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 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 
 
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 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 
 
 
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 ll'iiiii 
 
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 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. 
 
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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, 
 
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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!" 
 
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 1 
 
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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 
 
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 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.