POEMS By EDWARD ROWLAND SILL BOSTON 4ND NEW YORK Houghton, Mifflin and Company (is iibcrsie Irt;, Cbritbe M DCCC LXXXIX IX~ I I i Copyright, I887, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 4All rights reserved. The Riverside Press, Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. .pI 0 NOTE. IN presenting this volume of poems to the public it is proper to state briefly the circumstances under which it has been gathered. A year or two ago the publishers, who had noted with interest the poems which Mr. Sill had been contributing to the Atlantic and other periodicals, both under his own name and under pseudonyms, invited him to make a collection of his recent poems for publication in a volume. He was in no haste to do this. He was doubtless conscious that his power was a growing one, as indeed the quick succession of poems indicated. At any rate he had that fine sense of poetic art which forbade him to be complacent over his own productions, -s 0) and he preferred to send fresh poems out, month by month, waiting for the day when a volume should be inevitable. In the midst of his mental activity, when he was acquiring great flexibility in the use of a variety of literary forms, he died. After his death, so freely, even carelessly, had he let his verses go, that month by month new poems under his familiar signatures appeared in the magazines, as if he went out of the sight of men, singing on his way. It seemed then only just to his memory, and due to literature, which he loved with a generous mind, that the present volume should be gathered. In making choice of its contents it has been thought best to take but five pieces from The Hermitage and other Poems, the only volume published by him, and containing his poetic work previous to i868, the date of its appearance from the house of Leypoldt & Holt. When Mr. Sill bade good-by to his friends in Cali iv Note Note fornia in i883, he left with them a small, privately printed volume, bearing the title The Venizs of AMilo and other Poems. A large portion of its contents is included in the present work, which finally contains a selection from the uncollected poems of the last four or five years. It will be seen by this statement that no attempt has been made to publish the body of Mr. Sill's poetic work, nor even to indicate the quality of his poetry at different periods of his life. Regard has been had to what may properly be considered as his own judgment in such a case, and while a few illustrations are given of the spirit which pervaded his earlier verse and never essentially changed, the main contents are drawn from the poetry which represents his maturity and the period when his technical skill was most highly developed. His own deep respect for his art forbids that his friends should be governed by other considera v Note tions than a love and admiration for fine poetry. Since this volume therefore is addressed not primarily to the friends of Mr. Sill, who would eagerly preserve all that he wrote, but to the larger public that can know his personality only as it is hinted through his verse, a single word may be said regarding his career. He was born in Windsor, Connecticut, in 184I, and graduated at Yale College with the class of i86i. He went to California not long after graduation, and at first engaged in business, but in i867 returned east with the expectation of entering the ministry, and studied for a few months at the Divinity School of Harvard University. He gave up the purpose, however, married, and occupied himself with literary work, translating Rau's Mfozart, holding an editorial position on the New York Evening Mail, and bringing out his vol ume of poems. vi His peculiar power in stimulating the minds of others drew him into the work of teaching, and he became principal of an academy in Ohio. His California life, however, had given him a strong attachment to the Pacific coast and a sense that his health would be better there, and accordingly, on receiving an invitation to a position in the Oakland High School, he removed to California in i87I, remaining there till i883. In i874 he accepted the chair of English Literature in the University of California, and identified himself closely with the literary life which found its expression in magazines and social organization. Upon his return to the east with the intention of devoting himself more exclusively to literary work, he began that abundant production which has been hinted at, and which, anonymous for the most part, was rapidly giving him facility of execution and drawing attention to Note vii the versatility, the insight, the sympathetic power, the inspiring force which had always marked his teaching and bade fair to bring a large and appreciative audience about him. He lived remote from the press of active life, always close to the centre of current intellectual and spiritual movements, in the village of Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, where he died after a brief illness, February 27, I887. NOVEMBER, I887. viii Note CONTENTS. Page I I2 25 27 28 30 31 33 38 43 45 47 49 54 56 58 6I 62 65 66 68 The Venus of Milo.. Field Notes.... Morning...... , Life....... Faith....... Solitude...... Retrospect...... Christmas in California Among the Redwoods. Opportunity.... Home...... Reverie...... Five Lives..... Tranquillity.... Dare You?. The Invisible. Peace....... The Fool's Prayer.. The Deserter... The Reformer... Desire of Sleep... Contents Her Explanation........... 70 Eve's Daughter........... 72 Blindfold.................. 74 Recall................76 Strange.............. 78 Wiegenlied................... So An Ancient Error.......... 82 To a Face at a Concert........ 84 Two Views of it........... 86 The Links of Chance......... 88 " Words, Words, Words"....... go The Thrush............ 93 Carpe Diem............ 95 Service...................96 The Book of Hours.......... 98 The Wonderful Thought........ i oo Nature and her Child......... I104 The Foster-Mother..........io6 Truth at Last............ I07 "Quem Metui Moritura?"......... I09 A Morning Thought......... I II x POEMS BY EDWARD ROWLAND SILL THE VENUS OF MILO. HERE fell a vision to Praxiteles: Watching thro' drowsy lids the loitering seas That lay caressing with white arms of foam The sleeping marge of his Ionian home, He saw great Aphrodite standing near, Knew her, at last, the Beautiful he had sought With life-long passion, and in love and fear Into unsullied stone the vision wrought. Far other was the form that Cnidos gave To senile Rome, no longer free or brave, - 2 The Venus of Milo The Medicean, naked like a slave. The Cnidians built her shrine Of creamy ivory fine; Most costly was the floor Of scented cedar, and from door Was looped to carven door Rich stuff of Tyrian purple, in whose shade Her glistening shoulders and round limbs outshone, Milk-white as lilies in a summer moon. Here honey-hearted Greece to worship came, And on her altar leaped a turbid flame, The quickened blood ran dancing to its doom, And lip sought trembling lip in that rich gloom. But the island people of Cos, by the salt main From Persia's touch kept clean, Chose for their purer shrine amid the seas That grander vision of Praxiteles. The Venus of Milo Long ages after, sunken in the ground Of sea-girt Melos, wondering shepherds found The marred and dinted copy which men name Venus of Milo, saved to endless fame. Before the broken marble, on a day, There came a worshiper: a slanted ray Struck in across the dimness of her shrine And touched her face as to a smile divine; For it was like the worship of a Greek At her old altar. Thus I heard him speak: Men call thee Love: is there no holier name Than hers, the foam-born, laughter-loving dame? Nay, for there is than love no holier name: All words that pass the lips of mortal men With inner and with outer meaning shine; An outer gleam that meets the common - ken, 3 The Ventits of Milo An inner light that but the few divine. Thou art the love celestial, seeking still The soul beneath the form; the serene will; The wisdom, of whose deeps the sages dream; The unseen beauty that doth faintly gleam In stars, and flowers, and waters where they roll; The unheard music whose faint echoes even Make whosoever hears a homesick soul Thereafter, till he follow it to heaven. Larger than m6rtal woman I see thee stand, With beautiful head bent forward steadily, As if those earnest eyes could see Some glorious thing far off, to which thy hand Invisibly stretched onward seems to be. From thy white forehead's breadth of calm, the hair 4 The Venus of Milo Sweeps lightly, as a cloud in windless air. Placid thy brows, as that still line at dawn Where the dim hills along the sky are drawn, When the last stars are drowned in deeps afar. Thy quiet mouth - I know not if it smile, Or if in some wise pity thou wilt weep, - Little as one may tell, some summer morn, Whether the dreamy brightness is most glad, Or wonderfully sad, So bright, so still thy lips serenely sleep; So fixedly thine earnest eyes the while, As clear and steady as the morning star, Their gaze upon that coming glory keep. Thy garment's fallen folds Leave beautiful the fair, round breast In sacred loveliness; the bosom deep Where happy babe might sleep; The ample waist no narrowing girdle holds, 5 The Venus of Milo WNhere daughters slim might come to cling and rest, Like tendriled vines against the plane-tree pressed. Around thy firm, large limbs and steady feet The robes slope downward, as the folded hills Slope round the mountain's knees, when shadow fills The hollow canons, and the wind is sweet From russet oat-fields and the ripening wheat. From our low world no gods have taken wing; Even now upon our hills the twain are wandering; The Medicean's sly and servile grace, And the immortal beauty of thy face. One is the spirit of all short-lived love And outward, earthly loveliness: The tremulous rosy morn is her mouth's smile, 6 The Venus of Milo The sky her laughing azure eyes above; And, waiting for caress, Lie bare the soft hill-slopes, the while Her thrilling voice is heard In song of wind and wave, and every flit ting bird. Not plainly, never quite herself she shows; Just a swift glance of her illumined smile Along the landscape goes; Just a soft hint of singing, to beguile A man from all his toil; Some vanished gleam of beckoning arm, to spoil A morning's task with longing wild and vain. Then if across the parching plain He seek her, she with passion burns His heart to fever, and he hears The west wind's mocking laughter when he turns, Shivering in mist of ocean's sullen tears. It is the Medicean: well I know The arts her ancient subtlety will show; 7 The Veiienis of Milo The stubble-field she turns to ruddy gold; The empty distance she will fold In purple gauze: the warm glow she has kissed Along the chilling mist: Cheating and cheated love that grows to hate And ever deeper loathing, soon or late. Thou, too, O fairer spirit, walkest here Upon the lifted hills: Wherever that still thought within the breast The inner beauty of the world hath moved; In starlight that the dome of evening fills; On endless waters rounding to the west: For them who thro' that beauty's veil have loved The soul of all things beautiful the best. For lying broad awake, long ere the dawn, Staring against the dark, the blank of space Opens immeasurably, and thy face 8 The Veiius of Milo Wavers and glimmers there and is with drawn. And many days, when all one's work is vain, And life goes stretching on, a waste gray plain, With even the short mirage of morning gone, No cool breath anywhere, no shadow nigh WVhere a weary man might lay him down and die, Lo! thou art there before me suddenly, \\With shade as if a summer cloud did pass, And spray of fountains whispering to the grass. Oh, save me from the haste and noise and heat That spoil life's music sweet: And from that lesser Aphrodite fhere Even now she stands Close as I turn, and, 0 my soul, how fair! Nay, I will heed not thy white beckoning hands, 9 10 o The Venius of Milo Nor thy soft lips like the curled inner leaf In a rosebud's breast, kissed languid by the sun, Nor eyes like liquid gleams where waters run. Yea, thou art beautiful as morn And even as I draw nigh To scoff, I own the loveliness I scorn. Farewell, for thou hast lost me: keep thy train Of worshipers; me thou dost lure in vain: The inner passion, pure as very fire, Burns to light ash the earthlier desire. O greater Aphrodite, unto thee Let me not say farewell. What would Earth be Without thy presence? Surely unto me A life-long weariness, a dull, bad dream. Abide with me, and let thy calm brows beam Fresh hope upon me every amber dawn, New peace when evening's violet veil is drawn. The Veltzs of Milo Then, tho' I see along the glooming plain The Medicean's waving hand again, And white feet glimmering in the harvest field, I shall not turn, nor yield; But as heaven deepens, and the Cross and Lyre Lift up their stars beneath the Northern Crown, Unto the yearning of the world's desire I shall be'ware of answer coming down; And something, when my heart the dark ness stills, Shall tell me, without sound or any sight, That other footsteps are upon the hills; Till the dim earth is luminous with the light Of the white dawn, from some far-hidden shore, That shines upon thy forehead evermore. I I FIELD NOTES.* I. With tall oats, and the buttercup, And the seeded grass, and blue flax-flower, I fling myself in a nest of green, WNalled about and all unseen, And lose myself in the quiet hour. Now and then from the orchard-tree To the sweet clover at my knee Hums the crescendo of a bee, Making the silence seem more still; Overhead on a maple prong The least of birds, a jeweled sprite, * Written for the graduating class of I882, at Smith College, Northampton, Mass. It is a pleasant custom at that college for each class to send abroad and invite some one to celebrate its entrance into the greater world. Field Notes With burnished throat and needle bill, Wags his head in the golden light, Till it flashes, and dulls, and flashes bright, Cheeping his microscopic song. II. Far up the hill-farm, where the breeze Dips its wing in the billowy grain, Waves go chasing from the plain On softly undulating seas; Now near my nest they swerve and turn, And now go wandering without aim; Or yonder, where the poppies burn, Race up the slope in harmless flame. Sometimes the bold wind sways my walls, My four green walls of the grass and oats, But never a slender column falls, And the blue sky-roof above them floats. Cool in the glowing sun I feel On wrist and cheek the sea-breeze steal From the wholesome ocean brine. The air is full of the whispering pine, Surf-sound of an aerial sea; 13 Field Notes And the light clashing, near and far, As of mimic shield and scimitar, Of the slim Australian tree. III. So all that azure day In the lap of the green world I lay; And drinking of the sunshine's flood, Like Sigurd when the dragon's blood Made the bird-songs understood, Inward or outward I could hear A murmuring of music near; And this is what it seemed to say: IV. Old earth, how beautiful thou art! Though restless fancy wander wide And sigh in dreams for spheres more blest, Save for some trouble, half-confessed, Some least misgiving, all my heart With such a world were satisfied. Had every day such skies of blue, 14 Field Notes Were men all wise, and women true, Might youth as calm as manhood be, And might calm manhood keep its lore And still be young - and one thing more, Old earth were fair enough for me. Ah, sturdy world, old patient world! Thou hast seen many times and men; Heard jibes and curses at thee hurled From cynic lip and peevish pen. But give the mother once her due: Were women wise, and men all true - And one thing more that may not be, Old earth were fair enough for me. v. If only we were worthier found Of the stout ball that bears us round! New wants, new ways, pert plans of change, New answers to old questions strange; But to the older questions still No new replies have come, or will. 15 Field Notes New speed to buzz abroad and see Cities where one needs not to be; But no new way to dwell at home, Or there to make great friendships come; No novel way to seek or find True hearts and the heroic mind. Of atom force and chemic stew Nor Socrates nor Cesar knew, But the old ages knew a plan - The lost art - how to mold a man. VI. World, wise old world, What may man do for thee? Thou that art greater than all of us, What wilt thou do to me? This glossy curve of the tall grass-spearCan I make its lustrous green more clear? This tapering shaft of oat, that knows To grow erect as the great pine grows, And to sway in the wind as well as heCan I teach it to nod more graciously? The lark on the mossy rail so nigh, i6 Field Notes Wary, but pleased if I keep my place - Who could give a single grace To his flute-note sweet and high, Or help him find his nest hard by? Can I add to the poppy's gold one bit? Can I deepen the sky, or soften it? VII. ,Eons ago a rock crashed down From a mountain's crown, Where a tempest's tread Crumbled it from its hold. Ages dawn and in turn grow old: The rock lies still and dead. Flames come and floods come, Sea rolls this mountain crumb To a pebble, in its play; Till at the last man came to be, And a thousand generations passed away. Then from the bed of a brook one day A boy with the heart of a king Fitted the stone to his shepherd sling, And a giant fell, and a royal race was free. 17 Field Notes Not out of any cloud or sky Will thy good come to prayer or cry. Let the great forces, wise of old, Have their whole way with thee, Crumble thy heart from its hold, Drown thy life in the sea. And seons hence, some day, The love thou gavest a child, The dream in a midnight wild, The word thou wouldst not say Or in a whisper no one dared to hear, Shall gladden the earth and bring the golden year. VIII. Just now a spark of fire Flashed from a builder's saw On the ribs of a roof a mile away. His has been the better day, Gone not in dreams, nor even the subtle desire Not to desire; But work is the sober law 18 Field Notes He knows well to obey. It is a poem he fits and fashions well; And the five chambers are five acts of it: Hope in one shall dwell, In another fear will sit; In the chamber on the east Shall be the bridal feast; In the western one The dead shall lie alone. So the cycles of life shall fill The clean, pine-scented rooms where now he works his will. IX. Might one be healed from fevering thought, And only look, each night, On some plain work well wrought, Or if a man as right and true might be As a flower or tree! I would give up all the mind In the prim city's hoard can findHouse with its scrap-art bedight, 19 Field Notes Straitened manners of the street, Smooth-voiced society - If so the swiftness of the wind Might pass into my feet; If so the sweetness of the wheat Into my soul might pass, And the clear courage of the grass; If the lark caroled in my song; If one tithe of the faithfulness Of the bird-mother with her brood Into my selfish heart might press, And make me also instinct-good. x. Life is a game the soul can play With fewer pieces than men say. Only to grow as the grass grows, Prating not of joys or woes; To burn as the steady hearth-fire burns; To shine as the star can shine, Or only as the mote of dust that turns Darkling and twinkling in the beam of light divine; 20 Field Notes And for my wisdom - glad to know Where the sweetest beech-nuts grow, And to track out the spicy root, Or peel the musky core of the wild-berry shoot; And how the russet ground-bird bold With both slim feet at once will lightly rake the mold; And why moon-shadows from the swaying limb Here are sharp and there are dim; And how the ant his zigzag way can hold Through the grass that is a grove to him. 'T were good to live one's life alone, So to share life with many a one: To keep a thought seven years, and then Welcome it coming to you On the way from another's brain and pen, So to judge if it be true. Then would the world be fair, Beautiful as is the past, WNhose beauty we can see at last, Since self no more is there. 21 Field Notes XI. I will be glad to be and do, And glad of all good men that live, For they are woof of nature too; Glad of the poets every one, Pure Longfellow, great Emerson, And all that Shakspeare's world can give. When the road is dust, and the grass dries, Then will I gaze on the deep skies; And if Dame Nature frown in cloud, Well, mother- then my heart shall sayYou cannot so drive me away; I will still exult aloud, Companioned of the good hard ground, Whereon stout hearts of every clime, In the battles of all time, Foothold and couch have found. XII. Joy to the laughing troop That from the threshold starts, 22 Field Notes Led on by courage and immortal hope, And with the morning in their hearts. They to the disappointed earth shall give The lives we meant to live, Beautiful, free, and strong; The light we almost had Shall make them glad; The words we waited long Shall run in music from their voice and song. Unto our world hope's daily oracles From their lips shall be brought; And in our lives love's hourly miracles By them be wrought. Their merry task shall be To make the house all fine and sweet Its new inhabitants to greet, The wondrous dawning century. XIII. And now the close of this fair day was come; The bay grew duskier on its purple floor, 23 Field Notes And the long curve of foam Drew its white net along a dimmer shore. Through the fading saffron light, Through the deepening shade of even, The round earth rolled into the summer night, And watched the kindling of the stars in heaven. 24 MORNING. ENTERED once, at break of day, A chapel, lichen - stained and gray, Where a congregation dozed and heard An old monk read from a written Word. No light through the window-panes could pass, For shutters were closed on the rich stained-glass; And in a gloom like the nether night The monk read on by a taper's light. Ghostly with shadows, that shrank and grew As the dim light flared, were aisle and pew; And the congregation that dozed around, Listened without a stir or sound Morning Save one, who rose with wistful face, And shifted a shutter from its place. Then light flashed in like a flashing gem For dawn had come unknown to themAnd a slender beam, like a lance of gold, Shot to the crimson curtain-fold, Over the bended head of him Who pored and pored by the taper dim; And it kindled over his wrinkled brow Such words -"The law which was till now; And I wondered that, under that morning ray, When night and shadow were scattered away, The monk should bow his locks of white By a taper's feebly flickering lightShould pore, and pore, and never seem To notice the golden morning-beam. 26 LIFE. ORENOON and afternoon and night, - Forenoon, And afternoon, and night, Forenoon, and - what! The empty song repeats itself. No more? Yea, that is Life: make this forenoon sub lime, This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer, And Time is conquered, and thy crown is won. FAITH. HE tree-top, high above the bar ren field, Rising beyond the night's gray folds of mist, Rests stirless where the upper air is sealed To perfect silence, by the faint moon kiss'd. But the low branches, drooping to the ground, Sway to and fro, as sways funereal plume, While from their restless depths low whis pers sound "We fear, we fear the darkness and the gloom; Dim forms beneath us pass and re appear, And mournful tongues are menacing us here." Then from the topmost bough falls calm reply "Hush, hush! I see the coming of the morn; Swiftly the silent Night is passing by, And in her bosom rosy Dawn is borne. 'T is but your own dim shadows that ye see, 'Tis but your own low moans that trouble ye." So Life stands, with a twilight world around; Faith turned serenely to the steadfast sky, Still answering the heart that sweeps the ground, Sobbing in fear, and tossing restlessly "Hush, hush! The Dawn breaks o'er the Eastern sea, 'T is but thine own dim shadow troub ling thee." Faitb 29 SOLITUDE. LL alone - alone, A Calm, as on a kingly throne, Take thy place in the crowded land, Self-centred in free self-command. Let thy manhood leave behind The narrow ways of the lesser mind: What to thee are its little cares, The feeble love or the spite it bears? Let the noisy crowd go by: In thy lonely watch on high, Far from the chattering tongues of men, Sitting above their call or ken, Free from links of manner and form Thou shalt learn of the wing;d storm God shall speak to thee out of the sky. RETROSPECT. Do we remain, Nor on the dial-hearts of men Do the years mark themselves in vain; But every cloud that in our sky hath passed, Some gloom or glory hath upon us cast; And there have fallen from us, as we traveled, Many a burden of an ancient painMany a tangled chord hath been unraveled, Never to bind our foolish heart again. Old loves have left us lingeringly and slow, As melts away the distant strain of low Sweet music -waking us from troubled dreams, Lulling to holier ones - that dies afar On the deep night, as if by silver beams 3-2 -Retrospect Claspt to the trembling breast of some charmed star. And we have stood and watched, all wist fully, While fluttering hopes have died out of our lives, As one who follows with a straining eye A bird that far, far-off fades in the sky, A little rocking speck- now lost; and still he strives A moment to recover it - in vain; Then slowly turns back to his work again. But loves and hopes have left us in their place, Thank God! a gentle grace, A patience, a belief in His good time, Worth more than all earth's joys to which we climb. CHRISTMAS IN CALIFORNIA. AN this be Christmas -sweet as :1May, With drowsy sun, and dreamy air, And new grass pointing out the way For flowers to follow, everywhere? Has Time grown sleepy at his post, And let the exiled Summer back, Or is it her regretful ghost, Or witchcraft of the almanac? While wandering breaths of mignonette In at the open window come, I send my thoughts afar, and let Them paint your Christmas Day at home. 34 Christmas in California Glitter of ice, and glint of frost, And sparkles in the crusted snow; And hark! the dancing sleigh-bells, tost The faster as they fainter grow. The creaking footsteps hurry past; The quick breath dims the frosty air; And down the crisp road slipping fast Their laughing loads the cutters bear. Penciled against the cold white sky, Above the curling eaves of snow, The thin blue smoke lifts lingeringly, As loth to leave the mirth below. For at the door a merry din Is heard, with stamp of feathery feet, And chattering girls come storming in, To toast them at the roaring grate. And then from muff and pocket peer, And many a warm and scented nook, Christmas in California Mysterious little bundles queer, That, rustling, tempt the curious look. Now broad upon the southern walls The mellowed sun's great smile appears, And tips the rough-ringed icicles With sparks, that grow to glittering tears. Then, as the darkening day goes by, The wind gets gustier without, And leaden streaks are on the sky, And whirls of snow are all about. Soon firelight shadows, merry crew, Along the darkling walls will leap And clap their hands, as if they knew A thousand things too good to keep. Sweet eyes with home's contentment filled, As inii the smouldering coals they peer, Haply some wondering pictures build Of how I keep my Christmas here. 35 36 Christmas in Calfornia Before me, on the wide, warm bay, A million azure ripples run; Round me the sprouting palm-shoots lay Their shining lances to the sun. With glossy leaves that poise or swing, The callas their white cups unfold, And faintest chimes of odor ring From silver bells with tongues of gold. A languor of deliciousness Fills all the sea-enchanted clime; And in the blue heavens meet, and kiss, The loitering clouds of summer-time. This fragrance of the mountain balm From spicy Lebanon might be; Beneath such sunshine's amber calm Slumbered the waves of Galilee. O wondrous gift, in goodness given, Each hour anew our eyes to greet, i I Christmas in Calhfornia An earth so fair -so close to Heaven, 'T was trodden by the Master's feet. And we - what bring we in return? Only these broken lives, and lift Them up to meet His pitying scorn, As some poor child its foolish gift: As some poor child on Christmas Day Its broken toy in love might bring; You could not break its heart and say You cared not for the worthless thing? Ah, word of trust, His child! That child Who brought to earth the life divine, Tells me the Father's pity mild Scorns not even such a gift as mine. I am His creature, and His air I breathe, where'er my feet may stand; i The angels' song rings everywhere, And all the earth is Holy Land. 37 AMONG THE REDWOODS. * AREWELL to such a world! Too long I press The crowded pavement with un willing feet. Pity makes pride, and hate breeds hate fulness, And both are poisons. In the forest, sweet The shade, the peace! Immensity, that seems To drown the human life of doubts and dreams. Far off the massive portals of the wood, Buttressed with shadow, misty-blue, se rene, Waited my coming. Speedily I stood Where the dun wall rose roofed in plumy green. Among the Redwoods Dare one go in? - Glance backward! Dusk as night Each column, fringed with sprays of am ber light. Let me, along this fallen bole, at rest, Turn to the cool, dim roof my glowing face. Delicious dark on weary eyelids prest! Enormous solitude of silent space, But for a low and thunderous ocean sound, Too far to hear, felt thrilling through the ground. No stir nor call the sacred hush profanes; Save when from some bare tree-top, far on high, Fierce disputations of the clamorous cranes Fall muffled, as from out the upper sky. So still, one dreads to wake the dreaming air, Breaks a twig softly, moves the foot with care. 39 40 Among the Redwoods The hollow dome is green with empty shade, Struck through with slanted shafts of afternoon; Aloft, a little rift of blue is made, Where slips a ghost that last night was the moon; Beside its pearl a sea-cloud stays its wing, Beneath a tilted hawk is balancing. The heart feels not in every time and mood What is around it. Dull as any stone I lay; then, like a darkening dream, the wood Grew Karnak's temple, where I breathed alone In the awed air strange incense, and up rose Dim, monstrous columns in their dread re pose. Amnong the Redwoods 41 The mind not always sees; but if there shine A bit of fern-lace bending over moss, A silky glint that rides a spider-line, On a trefoil two shadow- spears that cross, Three grasses that toss up their nodding heads, With spring and curve like clustered foun tain-threads, Suddenly, through side windows of the eye, Deep solitudes, where never souls have met; Vast spaces, forest corridors that lie In a mysterious world, unpeopled yet. Because the outward eye elsewhere was caught, The awfulness and wonder come unsought. If death be but resolving back again Into the world's deep soul, this is a kind 42 Among the Redwoods Of quiet, happy death, untouched by pain Or sharp reluctance. For I feel my mind Is interfused with all I hear and see; As much a part of All as cloud or tree. Listen! A deep and solemn wind on high; The shafts of shining dust shift to and fro; The columned trees sway imperceptibly, And creak as mighty masts when trade winds blow. The cloudy sails are set; the earth-ship swings Along the sea of space to grander things. OPPORTUNITY. HIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream: - There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel That blue blade that the king's son bears, -but this Blunt thing -!" he snapt and flung it from his hand, Opportunity And lowering crept away and left the field. Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it, and with battle shout Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day. -i 44 HOME. HERE lies a little city in the hills; White are its roofs, dim is each dwelling's door, And peace with perfect rest its bosom fills. There the pure mist, the pity of the sea, Comes as a white, soft hand, and reaches o'er And touches its still face most tenderly. Unstirred and calm, amid our shifting years, Lo! where it lies, far from the clash and roar, With quiet distance blurred, as if thro' tears. . 0 heart, that prayest so for God to send Some loving messenger to go before And lead the way to where thy longings end, Be sure, be very sure, that soon will come His kindest angel, and through that still door Into the Infinite love will lead thee home. .*.. 46 Home REVERIE. evening sky, So hollow where the few great stars were bright, Or something in the cricket's lonely cry, Or, farther off, where swelled upon the night The surf-beat of the symphony's delight, Then died in crumbling cadences away - A dream of Schubert's soul, too sweet to stay: Whether from these, or secret spell with in, - It seemed an empty waste of endless sea, Where the waves mourned for what had never been, Reverie Where the wind sought for what could never be: Then all was still, in vast expectancy Of powers that waited but some mystic sign To touch the dead world to a life divine. Me, too, it filled- that breathless, blind desire; And every motion of the oars of thought Thrilled all the deep in flashes - sparks of fire In meshes of the darkling ripples caught, Swiftly rekindled, and then quenched to naught; And the dark held me; wish and will were none: A soul unformed and void, silent, alone, And brooded over by the Infinite One. 48 FIVE LIVES. flIVE mites of monads dwelt in a round drop That twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun. To the naked eye they lived invisible; Specks, for a world of whom the empty shell Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky. One was a meditative monad, called a sage; And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought: "Tradition, handed down for hours and hours, Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world, Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence, Five Lives When I am very old, yon shimmering dome Come drawing down and down, till all things end?" Then with a weazen smirk he proudly felt No other mote of God had ever gained Such giant grasp of universal truth. One was a transcendental monad; thin And long and slim in the mind; and thus he mused: "Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-souls! Made in the image"-a hoarse frog croaks from the poolHark!'t was some god, voicing his glo rious thought In thunder music! Yea, we hear their voice, And we may guess their minds from ours, their work. Some taste they have like ours, some tens dency o Five Lives To wriggle about, and munch a trace of scum." He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone. One was a barren-minded monad, called A positivist; and he knew positively: "There is no world beyond this certain drop. Prove me another! Let the dreamers dream Of their faint gleams, and noises from without, And higher and lower; life is life enough." Then swaggering half a hair's breadth, hungrily He seized upon an atom of bug, and fed. One was a tattered monad, called a poet; And with shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang: 51 Five Lives "Oh, the little female monad's lips! Oh, the little female monad's eyes! Ah, the little, little, female, female mo nad!" The last was a strong-minded monadess, Who dashed amid the infusoria, Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove Till the dizzy others held their breath to see. But while they led their wondrous little lives ZEonian moments had gone wheeling by. The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed; A glistening film -'t was gone; the leaf was dry. The little ghost of an inaudible squeak Was lost to the frog that goggled from his stone; 52 Five Lives 53 Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thought ful ox Coming to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged, Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still. TRANQUILLITY. EARY, and marred with care and And bruising days, the human brain Draws wounded inward, - it might be Some delicate creature of the sea, That, shuddering, shrinks its lucent dome, And coils its azure tendrils home, And folds its filmy curtains tight At jarring contact, e'er so light; But let it float away all free, And feel the buoyant, supple sea Among its tinted streamers swell, Again it spreads its gauzy wings, And, waving its wan fringes, swings With rhythmic pulse its crystal bell. So let the mind, with care o'erwrought, Float down the tranquil tides of thought: Tranquillity Calm visions of unending years Beyond this little moment's fears; Of boundless regions far from where The girdle of the azure air Binds to the earth the prisoned mind. Set free the fancy, till it find Beyond our world a vaster place To thrill and vibrate out through space, As some auroral banner streams Up through the night in pulsing gleams, And floats and flashes o'er our dreams; There let the whirling planet fall Down- down, till but a glimmering ball, A misty star: and dwindled so, There is no room for care, or woe, Or wish, apart from that one WVill That doth the worlds with music fill. 55 DARE YOU? .OUBTING Thomas and loving Behind the others walking on: "Tell me now, John, dare you be One of the minority? To be lonely in your thought, Never visited nor sought, Shunned with secret shrug, to go Thro' the world esteemed its foe; To be singled out and hissed, Pointed at as one unblessed, Warred against in whispers faint, Lest the children catch a taint; To bear off your titles well,Heretic and infidel? If you dare, come now with me, Fearless, confident, and free." Dare You? "Thomas, do you dare to be Of the great majority? To be only, as the rest, With Heaven's common comforts blessed; To accept, in humble part, Truth that shines on every heart; Never to be set on high, Where the envious curses fly; Never name or fame to find, Still outstripped in soul and mind; To be hid, unless to God, As one grass-blade in the sod, Underfoot with millions trod? If you dare, come with us be Lost in love's great unity. 57 THE INVISIBLE. What is the wide world worth to me? But is there naught save what we see? A thousand things on every hand My sense is numb to understand: I know we eddy round the sun; When has it dizzied any one? I know the round worlds draw from far, Through hollow systems, star to star; But who has e'er upon a strand Of those great cables laid his hand? What reaches up from room to room Of chambered earth, through glare or gloom, Through molten flood and fiery blast, And binds our hurrying feet so fast? 'T is the earth-mother's love, that well The Invisible Will hold the motes that round her dwell: Through granite hills you feel it stir As lightly as through gossamer: Its grasp unseen by mortal eyes, Its grain no lens can analyze. If there is naught but what we see, The friend I loved is lost to me: He fell asleep; who dares to say His spirit is so far away? Who knows what wings are round about? These thoughts- who proves but from without They still are whispered? Who can think They rise from morning's food and drink! These thoughts that stream on like the sea, And darkly beat incessantly The feet of some great hope, and break, And only broken glimmers make, Nor ever climb the shore, to lie And calmly mirror the far sky, And image forth in tranquil deeps The secret that its silence keeps. 59 The Invisible Because he never comes, and stands And stretches out to me both hands, Because he never leans before The gate, when I set wide the door At morning, nor is ever found Just at my side when I turn round, Half thinking I shall meet his eyes, From watching the broad moon-globe rise, - For all this, shall I homage pay To Death, grow cold of heart, and say: "He perished, and has ceased to be; Another comes, but never he"? Nay, by our wondrous being, nay! Although his face I never see Through all the infinite To Be, I know he lives and cares for me. 6o PEACE. IS not in seeking, 'T is not in endless striving, Thy quest is found: Be still and listen; Be still and drink the quiet Of all around. Not for thy crying, Not for thy loud beseeching, Will peace draw near: Rest with palms folded; Rest with thine eyelids fallen - Lo! peace is here. THE FOOL'S PRAYER. HE royal feast was done; the King Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!" The jester doffed his cap and bells, And stood the mocking court before; They could not see the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore. He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the monarch's silken stool; His pleading voice arose: " O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool! "No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool; The Fool's Prayer The rod must heal the sin: but Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool! "'T is not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; 'T is by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away. "These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend. "The ill-timed truth we might have kept - Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say Who knows how grandly it had rung? "Our faults no tenderness should ask, The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders - oh, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall. 63 64 The Fool's Prayer "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!" The room was hushed; in silence rose The King, and sought his gardens cool, And walked apart, and murmured low, "Be merciful to me, a fool!" THE DESERTER. LINDEST and most frantic prayer, Clutching at a senseless boon, His that begs, in mad despair, Death to come; - he comes so soon! Like a reveler that strains Lip and throat to drink it up - The last ruby that remains, One red droplet in the cup. Like a child that, sullen, mute, Sulking spurns, with chin on breast, Of the Tree of Life a fruit, His gift of whom he is the guest. Outcast on the thither shore, Open scorn to him shall give Souls that heavier burdens bore: "See the wretch that dared not live!" THE REFORMER. EFORE the monstrous wrong he sets him down One man against a stone-walled city of sin. For centuries those walls have been a-building; Smooth porphyry, they slope and coldly glass The flying storm and wheeling sun. No chink, No crevice lets the thinnest arrow in. He fights alone, and from the cloudy ram parts A thousand evil faces gibe and jeer him. Let him lie down and die: what is the right, And where is justice, in a world like this? The Reformer But by and by, earth shakes herself, im patient; And down, in one great roar of ruin, crash Watch-tower and citadel and battlements. When the red dust has cleared, the lonely soldier Stands with strange thoughts beneath the friendly stars. 67 DESIRE OF SLEEP. T is not death I mean, Nor even forgetfulness, But healthful human sleep, Dreamless, and still, and deep, Where I would hide and glean Some heavenly balm to bless. I would not die; I long To live, to see my days Bud once again, and bloom, And make amidst them room For thoughts like birds of song, Out-winging happy ways. I would not even forget: Only, a little while - Just now - I cannot bear Remembrance with despair; Desire of Sleep The years are coming yet When I shall look, and smile. Not now -oh, not to-night! Too clear on midnight's deep Come voice and hand and touch; The heart aches overmuch Hush sounds! shut out the light I A little I must sleep. 69 HER EXPLANATION. O ~you have wondered at me, guessed in vain What the real woman is you know so well? I am a lost illusion. Some strange spell Once made your friend there, with his fine disdain Of fact, conceive me perfect. He would fain (But could not) see me always, as be fell His dream to see me, plucking aspho del, In saffron robes, on some celestial plain. All that I was he marred and flung away In quest of what I was not, could not be, - Lilith, or Helen, or Antigone. Her Explanation Still he may search; but I have had my day, And now the Past is all the part for me That this world's empty stage has left to play. 71 EVE'S DAUGHTER. WAITED in the little sunny room ~ The cool breeze waved the win dow-lace, at play, The white rose on the porch was all in bloom, And out upon the bay I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come. "Such an old friend, - she would not make me stay While she bound up her hair." I turned, and lo, Danae in her shower! and fit to slay All a man's hoarded prudence at a blow: Gold hair, that streamed away As round some nymph a sunlit foun tain's flow. Eve's Daughter 73 "She would not make me wait! " -but well I know She took a good half-hour to loose and lay Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so! BLINDFOLD. HAT do we know of the world, as we grow so old and wise? Do the years, that still the heart beats, quicken the drowsy eyes? At twenty we thought we knew it, - the world there, at our feet; We thought we had found its bitter, we knew we had found its sweet. Now at forty and fifty, what do we make of the world? There in her sand she crouches, the Sphinx with her gray wings furled. Soul of a man I know not; who knoweth, can foretell, And what can I read of fate, even of self I have learned so well? Heart of a woman I know not: how should I hope to know, Blindfold I that am foiled by a flower, or the stars of the silent snow; I that have never guessed the mind of the bright-eyed bird, Whom even the dull rocks cheat, and the whirlwind's awful word? Let me loosen the fillet of clay from the shut and darkened lid, For life is a blindfold game, and the Voice from view is hid. I face him as best I can, still groping, here and there, For the hand that has touched me lightly, the lips that have said, "Declare!" Well, I declare him my friend, -the friend of the whole sad race; And oh, that the game were over, and I might see his face! But't is much, though I grope in blind ness, the Voice that is hid from view May be heard, may be even loved, in a dream that may come true. 75 RECALL. OVE me, or I am slain!" I cried, and meant Bitterly true each word. Nights, morns, slipped by, Moons, circling suns, yet still alive am I; But shame to me, if my best time be spent On this perverse, blind passion! Are we sent Upon a planet just to mate and die, A man no more than some pale butterfly That yields his day to nature's sole intent? Or is my life but Marguerite's ox-eyed flower, That I should stand and pluck and fling away, One after one, the petal of each hour, Recall Like a love-dreamy girl, and only say, "Loves me," and "loves me not," and "loves me"? Nay! Let the man's mind awake to manhood's power. 77 STRANGE. E died at night. Next day they came To weep and praise him: sudden fame These suddenly warm comrades gave. They called him pure, they called him brave; One praised his heart, and one his brain; All said, You'd seek his like in vain, Gentle, and strong, and good: none saw In all his character a flaw. At noon he wakened from his trance, Mended, was well! They looked askance; Took his hand coldly; loved him not, Though they had wept him; quite forgot His virtues; lent an easy ear To slanderous tongues; professed a fear Strange He was not what he seemed to be; Thanked God they were not such as he; Gave to his hunger stones for bread; And made him, living, wish him dead. 79 WIEGENLIED. E still and sleep, my soul! Now gentle-footed Night In softly shadowed stole, Holds all the day from sight. Why shouldst thou lie and stare Against the dark, and toss, And live again thy care, Thine agony and loss? 'T was given thee to live, And thou hast lived it all; Let that suffice, nor give One thought what may befall. Thou hast no need to wake, Thou art no sentinel; Love all the care will take, And Wisdom watcheth well. Wiegenlied Weep not, think not, but rest! The stars in silence roll; On the world's mother-breast, Be still and sleep, my soul I 8i AN ANCIENT ERROR. He that has, and a little tiny wit,With a heigh, ho, the wind and the rain. LEAR. HE "sobbing wind," the "weep ing rain,"'T is time to give the lie To these old superstitions twain, That poets sing and sigh. Taste the sweet drops, - no tang of brine; Feel them, - they do not burn; The daisy-buds, whereon they shine, Laugh, and to blossoms turn. There is no natural grief or sin; 'T is we have flung the pall, And brought the sound of sorrow in. Pan is not dead at all. An Ancient Error The merry Pan! his blithesome look Twinkles through sun and rain; By ivied rock and rippled brook He pipes his jocund strain. If winds have wailed and skies wept tears, To poet's vision dim, 'T was that his own sobs filled his ears, His weeping blinded him. 'T is laughing breeze and singing shower, As ever heart could need; And who with "heigh" and "ho" must lower Hath "tiny wit " indeed. 83 TO A FACE AT A CONCERT. of sound ~ HEN the low music makes a dusk About us, and the viol or far-off horn Swells out above it like a wind forlorn, That wanders seeking something never found, What phantom in your brain, on what dim ground, Traces its shadowy lines? What vision, born Of unfulfillment, fades in mere self scorn, Or grows, from that still twilight stealing round? When the lids droop and the hands lie unstrung, To a Face at a Concert 85 Dare one divine your dream, while the chords weave Their cloudy woof from key to key, and die,Is it one fate that, since the world was young, Has followed man, and makes him half believe The voice of instruments a human cry? TWO VIEWS OF IT. X WORLD, 0 glorious world, good-by!" Time but to think it - one wild cry Unuttered, a heart-wrung farewell To sky and wood and flashing stream, All gathered in a last swift gleam, As the crag crumbled, and he fell. But lo! the thing was wonderful! After the echoing crash, a lull: The great fir on the slope below Had spread its mighty mother-arm, And caught him, springing like a bow Of steel, and lowered him safe from harm. 'T was but an instant's dark and daze: Then, as he felt each limb was sound, Two Views of it And slowly from the swooning haze The dizzy trees stood still that whirled, And the familiar sky and ground, There grew with them across his brain A dull regret: "So, world, dark world, You are come back again!" 87 THE LINKS OF CHANCE. OLDING apoise in air My twice-dipped pen,- for some tense thread of thought Had snapped, -mine ears were half aware Of passing wheels; eyes saw, but mind saw not, My sun-shot linden. Suddenly, as I stare, Two shifting visions grow and fade un sought: - Noon-blaze: the broken shade Of ruins strown. Two Tartar lovers sit: She gazing on the ground, face turned, afraid; The Links of Chance And he, at her. Silence is all his wit. She stoops, picks up a pebble of green jade To toss: they watch its flight, unheeding it. Ages have rolled away; And round the stone, by chance, if chance there be, Sparse toil has caught; a seed, wind lodged one day, Grown grass; shrubs sprung; at last a tufted tree: Lo! over its snake root yon conquering Bey Trips backward, fighting -and half Asia free! 89 "WORDS, WORDS, WORDS." (TO ONE WHO FLOUTED THEM AS VAIN.) I. heart -~ IM I not weary of them as your Or ever Hamlet's was?- the empty ones, Mere breath of passing air, mere hollow tones That idle winds to broken reeds impart. Have they not cursed my life? - sounds I mistook For sacred verities,- love, faith, delight, And the sweet tales that women tell at night, When darkness hides the falsehood of the look. " Words, Words, Words" 91 I was the one of all Ulysses' crew (What time he stopped their ears) that leaped and fled Unto the sirens, for the honey-dew Of their dear songs. The poets me have fed WVith the same poisoned fruit. And even you, - Did you not pluck them for me in days dead? II. Nay, they do bear a blessing and a pow er,Great words and true, that bridge from soul to soul The awful cloud-depths that betwixt us roll. I will not have them so blasphemed. This hour, 92' Words, Words, Words" This little hour of life, this lean to-day, - What were it worth but for those mighty dreams That sweep from down the past on sound ing streams Of such high-thoughted words as poets say? What, but for Shakespeare's and for Ho mer's lay, And bards whose sacred names all lips repeat? Words, - only words; yet, save for tongue and pen Of those great givers of them unto men, And burdens they still bear of grave or sweet, This world were but for beasts, a darkling den. THE THRUSH. m HE thrush sings high on the top most bough, Low, louder, low again; and now He has changed his tree,- you know not how, For you saw no flitting wing. All the notes of the forest-throng, Flute, reed, and string, are in his song; Never a fear knows he, nor wrong, Nor a doubt of anything. Small room for care in that soft breast; All weather that comes is to him the best, While he sees his mate close on her nest, And the woods are full of spring. The Thrush He has lost his last year's love, I know,He, too,- but't is little he keeps of woe; For a bird forgets in a year, and so No wonder the thrush can sing. 94 CARPE DIEM. dumb, B~OW the dull thought smites me "It will come! " and "It will come!" But to-day I am not dead; Life in hand and foot and head Leads me on its wondrous ways. 'T is in such poor, common days, Made of morning, noon, and night, Golden truth has leaped to light, Potent messages have sped, Torches flashed with running rays, World-runes started on their flight. Let it come, when come it must; But To-Day from out the dust Blooms and brightens like a flower, Fair with love, and faith, and power. Pluck it with unclouded will, From the great tree Igdrasil. SERVICE. RET not that the day is gone, And thy task is still undone. 'T was not thine, it seems, at all Near to thee it chanced to fall, Close enough to stir thy brain, And to vex thy heart in vain. Somewhere, in a nook forlorn, Yesterday a babe was born: He shall do thy waiting task; All thy questions he shall ask, And the answers will be given, Whispered lightly out of heaven. His shall be no stumbling feet, Falling where they should be fleet; He shall hold no broken clue; Friends shall unto him be true; Men shall love him; falsehood's aim Shall not shatter his good name. Service Day shall nerve his arm with light, Slumber soothe him all the night; Summer's peace and winter's storm Help him all his will perform. 'T is enough of joy for thee His high service to foresee. 97 THE BOOK OF HOURS. tongue 5iS one who reads a tale writ in a He only partly knows,- runs over it And follows but the story, losing wit And charm, and half the subtle links among The haps and harms that the book's folk beset, - So do we with our life. Night comes, and morn: I know that one has died and one is born; That this by love and that by hate is met. But all the grace and glory of it fail To touch me, and the meanings the)y enfold. The Book of Hours 99 The Spirit of the World hath told the tale, And tells it: and't is very wise and old. But o'er the page there is a mist and veil: I do not know the tongue in which't is told. ::..:::::. ..e* . THE WONDERFUL THOUGHT. I x T comes upon me in the woods, I~ Of all the days, this day in May: When wind and rain can never think Whose turn't is now to have its way. It finds me as I lie along, Blinking up through the swaying trees, Half wondering if a man who reads " Blue sky" in books that color sees, So fathomless and pure: as if All loveliest azure things have gone To heaven that way, - the flowers, the sea, - And left their color there alone. Hark! leaning on each other's arms, The pines are whispering in the breeze, .::: The Wondelftil Thought 10 o1 Whispering,- then hushing, half in awe Their legends of primeval seas. The wild things of the wood come out, And stir or hide, as wild things will, Like thoughts that may not be pursued, But come if one is calm and still. Deep hemlocks down the gorge shut in Their caves with hollow shadow filled, Where little feathered anchorites Behind a sunlit lattice build. And glimmering through that lace of boughs, Dancing, while they hang darker still, Along the restful river shines The restless light's incessant thrill: As in some sober, silent soul, Whose life appears a tranquil stream, Through some unguarded rift you catch The wildest wishes, all agleam. 102 The Wonderful Thought But to my thought - so wonderful! I know if once'twere told, all men Would feel it warm at heart, and life Be more than it had ever been. 'T would make these flowerless woods laugh out With every garden-color bright, Where only, now, the dogwood hangs Its scattered cloud of ghostly white. Those birds would hold no more aloof: How know they I am here, so well? 'Tis yon woodpecker's warning note; He is their seer and sentinel. They use him, but his faithfulness Perchance in human fashion pay,Laugh in their feathers at his voice, And ridicule his stumbling way. That far-off flute-note - hours in vain I've followed it, so shy and fleet; The Wonderful Thought But if I found him, well I know His song would seem not half so sweet. The swift, soft creatures,- how I wish They'd trust me, and come perch upon My shoulders! Do they guess that then Their charm would be forever gone? But still I prate of sight and sound; Ah, well,'t is always so in rhyme; The idle fancies find a voice, The wise thought waits - another time. 1o3 NATURE AND HER CHILD. windowless, Having not hearing, speech, nor sight, sits lone In her dark, silent life, till cometh one With a most patient heart, who tries to guess Some hidden way to help her helplessness, And, yearning for that spirit shut in stone, A crystal that has never seen the sun, Smooths now the hair, and now the hand will press, Or gives a key to touch, then letters raised, Its symbol; then an apple, or a ring, And again letters, - so, all blind and dumb, Nature and her Child We wait; the kindly smiles of summer come, And soft winds touch our cheek, and thrushes sing; The world-heart yearns, but we stand dull and dazed. 1o5 THE FOSTER-MOTHER. S some poor Indian woman A captive child receives, And warms it in her bosom, And o'er its weeping grieves; And comforts it with kisses, And strives to understand Its eager, lonely babble, Fondling the little hand, So Earth, our foster-mother, Yearns for us, with her great Wild heart, and croons in murmurs Low, inarticulate. She knows we are white captives, Her dusky race above, But the deep, childless bosom Throbs with its brooding love. TRUTH AT LAST. OES a man ever give up hope, I Face the grim fact, seeing it clear as day? When Bennen saw the snow slip, heard its thunder Low, louder, roaring round him, felt the speed Grow swifter as the avalanche hurled downward, Did he for just one heart-throb- did he indeed Know with all certainty, as they swept onward, There was the end, where the crag dropped away? Or did he think, even till they plunged and fell, Truth at Last Some miracle would stop them? Nay, they tell That he turned round, face forward, calm and pale, Stretching his arms out toward his native vale As if in mute, unspeakable farewell, And so went down.-'T is something, if at last, Though only for a flash, a man may see Clear-eyed the future as he sees the past, From doubt, or fear, or hope's illusion free. i o8 "QUEM METUI MORITURA?" AENEID, IV. 604. HAT need have I to fear -so soon to die? Let me work on, not watch and wait in dread: WVhat will it matter, when that I am dead, That they bore hate or love who near me lie? 'T is but a lifetime, and the end is nigh At best or worst. Let me lift up my head And firmly, as with inner courage, tread Mine own appointed way, on mandates high. Pain could but bring, from all its evil store, The close of pain: hate's venom could but kill; I l o " Quem Metui Moritura?" Repulse, defeat, desertion, could no more. Let me have lived my life, not cowered until The unhindered and unhastened hour was here. So soon -what is there in the world to fear? A MORNING THOUGHT. HAT if some morning, when the stars were paling, And the dawn whitened, and the East was clear, Strange peace and rest fell on me from the presence Of a benignant Spirit standing near: And I should tell him, as he stood beside me, "This is our Earth- most friendly Earth, and fair; Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air: "There is blest living here, loving and serving, And quest of truth, and serene friend ships dear; 112 A Morning Thought But stay not, Spirit! Earth has one destroyer - His name is Death: flee, lest he find thee here!" And what if then, while the still morning brightened, And freshened in the elm the Summer's breath, Should gravely smile on me the gentle angel And take my hand and say, "My name is Death."