LIBRAW IAN APPLES OF ISTAKHAR BY William Lindsey BOSTON COPELAND AND DAY MDCCCXCV COPYRIGHT BY COPELAND AND DAY 189$ TO THE MEMORY OF MY FRIEND WILLIAM H. LAMBERT, PH.D. ROSEMARY MORE than mere wisdom of the book and pen You taught me, oh my master, in the days When Life's red sun shone on untrodden ways, More than an old-world tongue you taught me then, More than the truth a scholar's lip could tell, Though still your Chaucer only do I see, Your Goldsmith and your Wordsworth speak to me In tones and accents I remember well. You taught me that the beautiful, the best Is worth alone Life's struggle, that to fail, Seeking the vision of a holy grail, Were better than success in common quest. You taught not by dead precept, but the breath Of your rare spirit spoke in every tone, By what you were, not what you said alone, And still you speak, unhushed by silent Death. TABLE OF CONTENTS LYRICS Great Pan Is Dead The Hermit Thrush My Mother's Picture The Fly-by-Night We Thought Love Could Not Die Dame Fortune To Heedless Ears The Waves' Confessional The Flight of the Moth- An Unknown Poet En Garde, Messieurs A Legend of Breton Life's Underpay An Old- World Melody Sic Volvere Parcas The Golden Milestone LIGHT SONGS A Woman's Song Jack and the Boatswain Anchor and Topsail A Sad Story In the Library Thy Lip Is Silent One Day A Rhyme of a Cedar Shell The Hundred Yard Dash APPLES OF ISTAKHAR The Hammer Throw Page 36 A Chance Shot 37 THE MIRROR OF PERSITILES THE PHILTER SEVENTEENTH CENTURY AIRS I Tyed Kate's Shoe 61 At Phyllis' Syde 61 A Hearte Contente 62 A Clear-Eyed Cupid 63 Truth Sings Soe Feebly 64 Prudence 64 I Am Noe Judge 66 Aubado 66 Serenade 68 FRENCH FORMS RONDEAUS An Orchard Lane 7 1 To Her Sweet Eyes 72 Two Roses 73 When Love Grows Cold 74 Not Thee Alone 75 That Meddler, Death 76 RONDELS A Thornless Rose 77 I Do Not Know 78 BALLADES "A Woful Ballad to My Mistress' Eyebrow" 79 The Rectory Bowling Green 80 TRIOLETS A Champagne Cork 82 Solitaire 82 TABLE OF CONTENTS Misnamed Page 83 I Fenced with Kate 83 She Did Not Know 84 Bleak 84 SONNETS Immortals 87 The Ganges 88 Donna Perfecta 89 A Bas Relief of Mark Antony 90 A Breath 91 Laura 92 The Defense of Abbotsford 93 What's Done Is Done 94 The Cross 95 Like a Good Brahmin 96 Afterthought 97 Sleep 98 Dawn 99 Dusk 100 Y IFE, LIKE THE APPLES OF OLD ISTAKHAR, I >A FRUIT HALF SWEET, HALF BITTER-BANED DOTH BRING; SHADE-CURSED AND SUN-CARESSED BY TURNS THEY WERE; SHADE-CURSED AND SUN-CARESSED THE SONGS I SING. LYRICS GREAT PAN IS DEAD GREAT Pan is dead ; no longer stream or star Shall hear his rough voice sounding loud and far ; No longer startled Echo multiply The pipe's shrill notes he blew so long and high ; Voiceless is hill and hollow, Vacant the shore and shallow, Sadness and silence follow ; Great Pan is dead. The reeds upon the shelving river-banks Bend with the strong tide in unbroken ranks ; The fir, deserted, drops a fragrant tear For him who held her ragged figure dear ; Voiceless is hill and hollow, Vacant the shore and shallow, Sadness and silence follow ; Great Pan is dead. The mountain nymph no longer gaily mocks The dreamy shepherd, piping to his flocks ; Gone from the fountain is the naiad's grace ; No more through green leaves smiles the dryad's face; Voiceless is hill and hollow, Vacant the shore and shallow, 3 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR Sadness and silence follow ; Great Pan is dead. At noisy noon, and in the midnight hush We hear the brook's soft splash, the river's rush, The wind's clear whistle, and the breaker's fall, The rustling of the leaves ; but that is all ; Voiceless is hill and hollow, Vacant the shore and shallow, Sadness and silence follow ; Great Pan is dead. We see the light and shade on vale and hill, The foam-flecked brook, the lake serene and still, The waving branch, the blue wave's rainbow wall, The vapor's changing shape j but that is all ; Voiceless is hill and hollow, Vacant the shore and shallow, Sadness and silence follow j Great Pan is dead. THE HERMIT THRUSH DEEP in the tangled wild wood, where the curtain Of branch and brier shuts out all eyes profane, Where sunbeams sift, and soft winds stray uncertain There is a hermitage, a secret fane. 4 THE HERMIT THRUSH From it there lifts when each new day is dawning The sweetest matin song ear ever heard, Fit for an angel on an Easter morning, Passion of praise, too heartfelt for a bird. The first few minor notes are calm and tender " O spheral, spheral," wondrous soft and slow, " O holy, holy," rising as to render The homage of a heart with love aglow. " O clear away, clear away," melody whose rapture, Exalted, unrestrained, grows with each tone ; "O clear up, clear up," lifting notes to capture The listening ear of highest heaven alone. Then silence follows, dewdrops globe and glisten ; The sun mounts higher, and the earth grows dry ; The wind is weary, yet I wait and listen To hear again that bird song climb the sky. And oft I think the hermit thrush still singeth In tones too high for my dull ears to hear ; Only the lower notes my poor sense bringeth ; Only the prelude doth my heart hold dear. APPLES OF ISTAKHAR MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT of an oval frame there looks at me My mother's face ; a dawning womanhood Serves to enrich its girlish gaiety With earnest gaze, dream of God's greater good. The dark hair, primly parted, on each side Falls with an equal wave, and shows a brow On which is cast no cloud of care or pride ; Peace and Content with tranquil thoughts endow. It looks at me with clear and hopeful eyes, A question in them, but no slightest hint Of hurried wonder, or of quick surprise ; Blue are they, though the picture hath no tint. The eyes tell not of tears, but round the mouth, Half smiling though it be, there is the shade Of coming sorrow ; just as in the South, On August days, although no show is made Above the far horizon of the sky, We know that unseen clouds are clustering there. Then eighteen summers only had passed by, And Sorrow's wing had spread no shade of care. THE FLY-BY-NIGHT Oh, mother of my boyhood, though your glance And smile are memories of the " long ago ; " Though life's harsh college, and the world's mis chance Have taught me much I wish I did not know, Yet still I hold your lessons in my heart, A faith in God, in perfect womanhood, In mine own self, despite the baser part, In dawning truth, and a triumphant good. I look upon your tender face to-night Through tears that well, although they will not fall, Around your head there shines the sacred light, You are my saint, would I could tell you all. THE FLY-BY-NIGHT WHEN the night-capped world is dreaming, Deadly silent, save the screaming Of the hooded owl, Of the staring owl ; When naught stirs o'er moorland lonely But the bat's winged fingers only, I fly, a Fly-by-night. APPLES OF ISTAKHAR When beneath the rectory willow Snores the parson on his pillow, And the ivied church, And the frowning church Lifting high its cross topped spire, Threats my soul with warnings dire, I fly, a Fly-by-night. Then my red-eyed ingle leaving, Filled with joy too great for grieving, On my ragged broom, On my witch-elm broom, Muttering spells, and rising slowly Over churchyard, hoar and holy, I fly, a Fly-by-night. Through the mist and shadow rushing, Through the cloud's wet curtain brushing, Where the mistress moon, Where the maddening moon Shines undimmed, in perfect brightness, Filling all the air with whiteness, I fly, a Fly-by-night. Church, and cross, and cloud below me, Free at last, I wildly throw me On the cold night winds, On the moonlit winds, 8 THE FLY-BY-NIGHT Till the quick pulse-beats of gladness Fill my brain with welcome madness, I fly, a Fly-by-night. But at last, the envious morning Lifts its first faint beam of warning In the glaring East, In the hateful East ; Double speed my fear then lending, Through the cloud's dark folds descending, I fly, a Fly-by-night. Over wood, and moor, and meadow, Where there lurks the deepest shadow, Where the lone were-wolf, Where the mad were-wolf Howls with glee, his leering laughter On the black winds following after, I fly, a Fly-by-night. But, when shivering by my fire, Frights me most the tall church spire, And the pointing cross, And the warning cross Haunts me with its sacred story, When no more in moon-mad glory, I fly, a Fly-by-night. APPLES OF ISTAKHAR WE THOUGHT LOVE COULD NOT DIE LOVE lay adying at the eventide ; The Western oriel shed a waning light, Love's tender flush was paling into night, And dim and wandering was his fading sight, We thought Love could not die. Love lay adying at the eventide ; The flame burnt low, and deeper grew the chill, The flying Wind was calling, loud and shrill ; But Love's torn wings were lying, weak and still, We thought Love could not die. Love lay adying at the eventide ; We watched the drifting shadows fill the room, We waited, white-faced, in the gathering gloom ; One April day, beneath the orchard bloom, We thought Love could not die. DAME FORTUNE IF you wish to win Fortuna's warmest smile, If you wish the fickle goddess to beguile, Do not kneel, and sigh, and languish ! IO DAME FORTUNE Though your longing grow to anguish, Yet her golden smile you '11 lose, And her favor she '11 refuse : She were no woman, else. Do not beg the jade to listen to your prayer With a downcast eye, and with a doubtful air. She will promise you, "To-morrow," But with empty hands you '11 sorrow, And her golden smile you '11 lose, And her favor she '11 refuse : She were no woman, else. Do not stand before her like a witless mute, Do not wear a drooping plume, a somber suit ; She loves not the modest fellow, Nor a face demure and yellow ; And her golden smile you '11 lose, And her favor she '11 refuse : She were no woman, else. If you wish to win Fortuna's warmest smile If you wish the fickle goddess to beguile, Pass her by, serenely careless, With a laughing face and fearless ; You can have whate'er you choose, She can naught to you refuse : She were no woman, else. ii APPLES OF ISTAKHAR Ask her nothing, have no wish, no strong desire ; Let no earnest purpose show its eager fire ; Hid 'neath jest, and joke, and folly, Hid 'neath jovial face and jolly ; You can have whate'er you choose, She can naught to you refuse : She were no woman, else. She will cast her globe and whirling wheel away, Doff her shoes, and ever with you stay ; Warm with smiles, and load with kindness, If you take it all in blindness ; You can have whate'er you choose, She can naught to you refuse : She were no woman, else. TO HEEDLESS EARS HE speaks of " Death," An idle breath : With laughing heart, the round-cheeked lad Looks at the preacher, no whit sad ; Throbbing with life, in rainbow streams The sunlight through the window gleams ; The boy, with brown fist clutching tight, Plays with a ray of purple light ; 12 TO HEEDLESS EARS He sees the green elm branch, outside, Lift with the fresh wind's rising tide ; Its whispers join the locust's hum To make the fervent preacher dumb ; Life's thousand voices interfere, " Life " echoes in his careless ear : Why waste good breath To talk of Death " ? He speaks of " Life," A foolish strife : For weary are the old man's eyes, Weary the wrinkled hand that lies Nerveless upon his shrunken knee ; He cares not for such words, not he ; Dead leaves join with the winter rain To lash the frosty window pane ; The elm tree, with its vacant nest, Waves o'er the village dead, at rest ; O'er empty vale, and bald, gray hill The wind is sweeping, cold and shrill ; The wind lifts up its mournful breath, And murmurs to the old man, " Death Why talk of " Life," A foolish strife ? APPLES OF ISTAKHAR THE WAVES' CONFESSIONAL THE billows up the broad bay crawl and creep, With white locks o'er bowed shoulders stream ing far, And faltering, confess in whispers deep Their sins of passion and their deeds of war ; While hermit pines, in somber mantles clad, Bend from the cliffs with ceaseless sob and sigh, And shrive the penitents, with arms outspread, Ere on the saffron shore they fall and die. THE FLIGHT OF THE MOTH T^LITTING, one night, through the branches, -T Spying a bright light afar, A moth on his feeble wings launches, Bound on a voyage to a star, A voyage to a glimmering star : Under the mist and the cloud The silk-worm is spinning his shroud. Softly the night wind is breathing, Only a sob and a sigh ; THE FLIGHT OF THE MOTH Bravely the white moth is wreathing His tremulous flight toward the sky, His flight toward the pitiless sky : Under the mist and the cloud The silk-worm is spinning his shroud. Struggling till morning is breaking, Fast fades the moth's feeble sight ; Strength, but not courage forsaking, He dies, far away from the light, Far from his star's fading light : Under the mist and the cloud The silk-worm is spinning his shroud. Grant, oh ye gods, but the flying Up from the shadows afar j The struggle, the failure, the dying For love of a far-distant star, A perfectly beautiful star, And, under the mist and the cloud The siik-worm may spin at his shroud. APPLES OF ISTAKHAR AN UNKNOWN POET HIS name or title we shall never know, All he has left us are the words we see ; The few rare words, his spirit's overflow, Tender, and sweet, and quaint to fantasy ; Fresh from a soul of mellow kindliness, We love, although we have no name to bless. Mid green fields, yellow sands, with oar or plough, In inland town, or village by the sea, We know not where he dwelt, we know not how His soul grew large with poesy's ecstasy ; He sang, unfevered by Ambition's breath, Along a hidden pathway down to death. He lived, loved, labored ; saw suns rise and set ; Drank in the morning breeze ; he heard the lark, And breathed the fragrance of the violet ; He sinned and suffered ; groping in the dark, He strove, with changing purpose, to fulfil Some fancied destiny of good, or ill. 16 EN GARDE, MESSIEURS EN GARDE, MESSIEURS EN garde, Messieurs, too long have I endured, Too long with patience borne the world's rebuff; Now he who shoulders me shall find me rough ; The weakness of an easy soul is cured. I 've shouted, leathern-lunged, when fame or gold Were won by others, turned to aid my friend ; Dull pated ever, but such follies end; Only a fool 's content, and in the cold. My doublet is in tatters, and my purse Waves in the wind, light as my lady's fan ; Only my sword is bright ; with it I plan To win success, or put my sword to nurse. I wait no longer for the primal blow, Henceforth my stroke is first, I give offense ; I claim no more an over-dainty sense, I brook no blocking where I plan to go. En garde, Messieurs, and if my hand is hard, Remember I 've been buffeted at will ; I am a whit impatient, and 't is ill To cross a hungry dog, Messieurs, en garde. APPLES OF ISTAKHAR A LEGEND OF BRETON THERE is a cliff upon the Breton coast, From which Tradition says a fisher lass, Left by her noble lover, sprang to death Among the white waves at its hollow base ; That her sad spirit, unconfessed, unshriven, Forever floats upon the troubled wave ; Her guilty soul in vain forgiveness begs, Though countless tides have washed her shift ing grave. And maidens, watching from the lofty cliff On moonlight nights can see a pale, sweet face Lift on the breakers as they thunder in, And hear the hopeless prayers for rest and peace. Can hear her call, " Noel, Noel, Noel," In accents soft with love's unchanging grace ; Can see white arms uplifted from the waves, As if to clasp him in their cold embrace. Then backward borne upon the ebbing wave, A piercing cry rings clear upon the air ; The hopeless face is hidden by the spray, And naught is heard save meanings of despair. 18 A LEGEND OF BRETON Beneath a richly sculptured tomb A noble lord doth rest ; His faithless soul, well shriven, is clean And quiet in his breast. From his snug grave in holy ground No restless spirit stalks ; Along the broad cathedral aisles No anxious shadow walks. No sound disturbs the holy calm ; Naught stirs the heavy air But mellow voices chanting low, And solemn words of prayer. While through the windows, saint bedecked, The loving sunbeams shine, Shedding upon the sculptured tomb A halo most divine ; And from the spotless marble gleams, In letters deep and bright, " Here lies Noel, who li/ed and died A brave and stainless knight." APPLES OF ISTAKHAR LIFE'S UNDERPAY IF life be but getting, and keeping ; The having, the holding, the creeping O'er dusty ways, To gain the red gold, and to measure By cost, comfort, friendship, and pleasure To do what pays, Then life will I lose for the asking, Its guerdon pays not for its tasking, Pain, and distress. I '11 leave the sharp stones of the highway, And avoid, in some grass-covered byway, Life's weariness. AN OLD-WORLD MELODY FROM the whistling reed of a shepherd lad Flew some random notes, one day ; They were fresh as the meadow flowers, and glad As a meadow brook in May. They were sweet with the breath of the Southern breeze, They were warm with the glowing sun, 2O AN OLD-WORLD MELODY And the shepherd lay in the shade, at ease, And played them till day was done. 'T was a farmer's lass learned the self-same air, Though from whom she would not tell, And she found some words, though I know not where, Which the music mated well. But alas, as she through her garden ran, Singing, one day in June, By the hawthorne hedge rode a serving-man, And he stole both words and tune. So from lip to listener, the sweet notes flew On the wind's inconstant tide, The blue seas over, the broad lands through, They were scattered far and wide. By the cradle sung, at the village dance ; 'Neath the lover's soft moonlight ; With the heaving plough, at the loom perchance, By the watchman crooned at night. So the song lived on, and the silent years Its accents could not still, And at last it reached a musician's ears, A master of magic skill. 21 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR And he penned the notes on the parchment page, And he took them as the theme Of a symphony, in his golden age, As the motive of his dream. And the great world heard, and the world grew glad, And its praise was quick and grand, Yet it found no trace of the shepherd lad, Or the pipe in the shepherd's hand. But I catch the sound of the hollow reed, As it whistles, clear and free ; And the orchestra I no longer heed, And, despite the crowd I see A shepherd lad, on a green hill side, As he pipes the simple air, And a maid who sings with honest pride From a throat untouched by care. SIC VOLVERE PARCAS TROJAN ./Eneas, checked by gods and men, 'Gainst thwarting winds, upon a hostile sea, Still labors on, his promised Rome to gain, Serene, for thus the changeless fates decree. 22 SIC VOLVERE PARCAS But I know not my fate ; no Sybil tells That my frail bark shall e'er reach Latium shores ; And when the ocean round me fiercely swells, And in my ears the tempest hoarsely roars, When I discern brave vessels on the rocks, Their oak ribs bleaching 'neath an alien sun, And sturdy barks, o'ercome by tempest shocks, Sink by my side, their distant ports unwon, Into my heart there creeps the chilling fear That Death's black wave may close above my deck; And though Italian shores rise fair and near, My life may end in failure and in wreck. But steadfastly I trim my ragged sail, And ceaselessly I labor at the oar ; Dim stars revealing through the blinding gale The nearness of that golden sanded shore Whose winds are soft, whose skies are warm and kind ; To that fair land I hope at last to come ; Among its laurel groves I hope to find My gods a temple, and myself a home. APPLES OF ISTAKHAR THE GOLDEN MILESTONE HAPLESS the foot beyond whose best endeavor No golden milestone lifteth, far ahead ; Hapless the eye before whose sight forever No misty vision in the West is spread. Hapless the heart which no desire swelleth Beyond its utmost power to fulfil; Hapless the soul in which no purpose dwelleth, Unfinished, when the empty breast is still. LIGHT SONGS A WOMAN'S SONG A PAGE marched down the street, Singing the song of a warrior bold ; He squared his shoulders, and loudly told Of war, and knightly feat ; This little page, with his mistress' note Tucked safe away in his velvet coat. He met a steel-clad knight, Facing the sun, with his visor high, And he was crooning a lullaby That mothers sing at night ; And all the time clashed his dinted shield, And sword, fresh-notched on an angry field. The page, he pondered long, And oft looked back, with a wondering eye ; " P faith," said he, " but I wonder why He sings a woman's song." The knight rode on to his fair, sweet dame, And the little laddie who lisped his name. APPLES OF ISTAKHAR JACK AND THE BOATSWAIN THE wind blows freshly from the land, The ship swings in the bay ; Adown the shrouds a sunbeam slides ; The waves flash back the day ; The boatswain pipes a merry tune, With " Heave-ho, lads, yeo heave ! " But Jack looks, with a heavy heart At the tear-drops on his sleeve. The whirling windlass clearly rings, A chime of silver bells ; And strong, and free, the favoring tide To open ocean swells ; The boatswain turns his brawny back On the good land we leave : But Jack looks, with a tender heart At the tear-drops on his sleeve. ANCHOR AND TOPSAIL WHEN snug in the harbor the anchor I love, The anchor, fast fluked in the sand ; I look not to seaward, I look not aloft, But I watch precious close at the land ; 28 A SAD STORY For there lives in a cottage, far up on the hill, Little Katie, a sweet sailor's bride ; Though she swears when I 'm absent she 's true to me still, I feel safe only when by her side. The anchor I love, and the topsail I hate, When snug in the harbor, in sight of sweet Kate. But when " homeward bound," 't is the topsail 1 love, The topsail, way up in the blue ; It pulls " like a horse " at each puff of the wind, As if every thread of it knew How mad was my longing, how harried my heart By the terrors of distance and doubt. Each tug bears me nearer the port of my soul, The window where Katie looks out. The topsail I love, and the anchor I hate, When bound for the harbor that shelters sweet Kate. A SAD STORY OVER my knee, to her place on my arm, Clambers my little maid, calm and content. Sure is she now there 's no power can harm, Sure that the last wave of trouble is spent. Pushing her brown tresses back from her brow, 29 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR She says, " Dear Papa, please to tell me now A sad story." I tell her my tales of the long, long ago, Wonderful stories of fairy and gnome ; Big grow her eyes, and her cheeks all aglow, Following the sailor boy over the foam, Following the red sun out into the West ; Yet she sighs and she says, " But you know I like best A sad story." Why must her story be touched with the tears ? Why must its troubles ensadden her heart ? Sorrow unfeigned will be brought by the years, Joy and content with the years must depart. God grant her ever the same cloudless eye. God grant that her life tale may not supply A sad story. IN THE LIBRARY I HAD a volume of Spanish verse, She was intrenched behind Bristling bastions of ponderous books, Reading with earnest mind. 3 THY LIP IS SILENT Only the table between us stretched ; Was it the verse I read ? Surely 't was strange how, in that dull place Fancies fumed in my head. She was a maiden of old Castile, Held in a castle tall ; I was a knight, who across the plain Rode to the castle wall. Over the table my charger flew, Riding a league or more, I stormed the castle, and far away Donna Inez I bore. Little Miss Cabot, with calm blue eyes, Still read her dust-dry theme, Safe her intrenchment of books behind, When I awoke from mv dream. THY LIP IS SILENT THY lip is silent, for its speech is lent To make thy dark eye doubly eloquent. I would not wonder at so warm a glance From Cadiz lattice, and in sunny France I 've seen its sister at a vineyard dance. 3 1 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR But here, sweet Ruth, beneath New England skies, It is exotic, and a rare surprise, Thy Quaker bonnet, with its sheltering brim, Serves as an ambush, dangerous and dim ; I thought thine only glance was cold and prim. You ope your lips, and gravely say me nay ; But when your dark eyes flash a certain yea, ^ In language current all the wide world o'er, I were a fool indeed to set much store By what your lips, the traitors, said before. I swear they shall do penance for their sin ; I wonder if a bold assault would win ; I like not lengthened siege ; say, shall I try ? Thy lip says " nay," but in thy truer eye, I read the kiss is mine which you deny. ONE DAY OH there 's many a March, and many a May, And many a chill December ; But there 's but one June, it hath one day, And that I well remember. Oh there 's many a road without a crook, There 's many a royal river ; 3 2 A RHYME OF A CEDAR SHELL But there 's but one path, and but one brook O'er which the aspens quiver. Oh there 's many a dame with rounded throat, And many a maid that 's merry ; But there 's but one girl on whom I dote, *T is Katie of old Kerry. A RHYME OF A CEDAR SHELL THE full moon shines and shimmers ; The bay, as smooth as glass, Spreads like a silver mirror Before a comely lass ; Unbroken, save where swiftly Our sharp shell cuts its way ; And four broad blades grasp firmly, And sweep its calm away. The wide bay nears and narrows ; Among the shadows deep Which 'neath the long bridge cluster, We quickly slide and sweep To where the winding river Shines clear before our sight, With one bank glooming darkly, And one serene and bright. 33 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR Against the tide we struggle ; We feel its sullen strength, And glory as we part it And win each hard boat-length ; Until, warned by the moonbeams, Which cast a lengthened shade, We turn our sharp bow homeward, Borne swift by tide and blade. Upon our fevered temples The wind's cool fingers rest, Among our bare locks tremble , And on each laboring breast; While, fast and faster gliding, Once more we reach the bay, Whose rippling waters gladly The rising wind obey. At last we reach the boat-house, And from the level float Upon our heaving shoulders We bear our dripping boat ; In her white wraps we fold her, And stack each well-tried oar, The huge doors close on darkness, Our swift night row is o'er. 34 THE HUNDRED YARD DASH THE HUNDRED YARD DASH GIVE me a race that is run in a breath, Straight from the start to the " tape " ; Distance hath charms, but a " Ding Dong " means death, Death without flowers and crape, " On your mark," " Set," for a moment we strain, Held by a leash all unseen ; " P'ff," we are off, from the pistol we gain Yards, if the starter 's not keen. Off like lean greyhounds, the cinders scarce stir Under the touch of our feet ; Flashes of sunlight, the crowd's muffled purr, The rush of the wind, warm and sweet. One last fierce effort, the red worsted breaks, Struggle and strain are all past ; Only ten ticks of the watch, but it makes First, second, third, and the last. 35 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR THE HAMMER THROW WE are the children of the strong god, Thor ; We hurl his hammer through the hollow sky, No task is this for feeble hands to try ; This is the sport that men and gods adore. A giant race are we, who each in turn, Step in the magic circle's narrow ring, Around our heads the old god's hammer swing, And send it whirling where the sunbeams burn. Our fingers twine the handle tightly round ; Firm as a mountain oak we plant our feet ; With one long breath, filling each cell complete, We lift and swing the dead weight from the ground. Around our heads we swing with quickening speed, The hot blood pressing in each swollen vein, Each muscle corded with its mighty strain, The handle bending like a river-reed. A step, a turn, and staggering, we hurl The heavy hammer, whistling through the air ; We watch it in the sunbeams fly and flare j We see it settle, with a thud and whirl. A CHANCE SHOT All cannot win ; our giant game is o'er ; 'T is better to be last in such a test, Then in a little sport to rank the best ; We are the children of the strong god, Thor. A CHANCE SHOT I SHOT an hundred arrows carefully, And hit not once the disk of yellow gold ; I pierced it after, shooting fast and free, With hurried aim an arrow bent and old. In vain I labored with an earnest pen To tell the truth a sunlit second found; Long after came a careless mood, and then A few fit words the prisoned truth unbound. 37 .- THE MIRROR OF PERSITILES THE MIRROR OF PERSITILES CLOSE drawn before my hearthstone's cheer ful flame, (A boon companion, and a loving dame To one whom Fortune, and the " Sisters Three " An unblessed, solitary life decree,) I sat, in calm content, one dreamy night, Watching the ceaseless play of ruddy light Upon an antique mirror in my hand, Its silver disk framed in a silver band, While on the graceful handle, richly wrought In all the beauty of unhurried art, Cupid, entangled, struggled to unwind A net of rose vines round his soft limbs twined. I blessed the foolish knave I had cajoled To change his treasure for its weight in gold, And then, in pensive mood, my thoughts ran back Along the dim trail on Time's grass-grown track To the Epirus mine, from whose deep core The patient slave had torn the virgin ore ; To old Persitiles, who, wondering, scanned The silver surface, brightening in his hand, APPLES OF ISTAKHAR And with skilled fingers, in untiring care Wrought, cautiously, the carving, quaint and rare, Beneath the warm light of Italian skies, When Art was young, and saw with undimmed eyes. And then I questioned, in a dreamy mood, How many myriad faces had been viewed Within the mirror since it left his hand Who wrought it, long ago, in that old land, Child, maiden, matron, sad and dim-eyed age, How many, from the mirror's truthful page, With joy or sorrow, tears or smiles, had read Of growing charms, and youthful beauty fled. My thoughts were with the firelight growing dim, Yet, now and then, bright with a transient gleam, And I was wondering if the face were fair Which, first of all, was mirrored there. When, suddenly, as if an alchemist Had o'er the mirror breathed, a golden mist Obscured the silver luster, and there grew, First dim and vague, then clearer to my view, A face, a wondrous face, sun-kissed, yet fair, Rich from the friendship of the light and air, 42 THE MIRROR OF PERSITILES And with great gladness in the glorious eyes That freely met mine own, without surprise. Among her dusky tresses, jewels gleamed In added luster, and her broad brow seemed, Unfurrowed by the touch of Care or Shame, Yet fairer, in the tresses' ebon frame. And I, scarce breathing, sans all sense but sight, Looked in her eyes, and felt their tender light ; Watched, breathless, when her smile awoke and crept Out of her rounded cheek, where it had slept. Her lips grew tremulous, as if to speak, The waves of color rose to brow and cheek ; Her very glance was love, no word could tell Her love and longing to me half so well. She was my very own, at once the whole Unquestioned truth was radiant in my soul ; Threading the years, out of the misty past She had come down to meet my soul at last. I tried to speak, when suddenly the face Went floating from me into cloudy space, The eyes were lusterless, the smile grew dim, Then lost in distance, and a sudden gleam 43 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR Shot from the hearthstone by a falling brand, Revealed the antique mirror in my hand, Reflecting nothing in its silver disk, But my own face, fixed like a basilisk. Oft have I prayed the gods would give me grace To gaze once more, but once, upon her face, That once again, but once, the mist might rise, And I might look again into her eyes. That once again her lips might slowly part To smile away the longing in my heart. Within the mirror's disk I long, in vain, Have searched to see her face again. But, in my heart, I know that I shall see My old-world love, that she will come to me, Somewhere, sometime ; it may be soon or late ; To one who dreams it is not long to wait. 44 THE PHILTER THE PHILTER I AN arrant witch, with an evil eye, Dwelt 'neath the lid of a Yorkshire sky ; Wild, rough, and windy, the purple moor That rolled its waves 'round her cottage door ; Gloomy and grewsome the tangled braid Of brush and brier, that cast its shade Around her thatch, and upon the air Streamed like long locks of her elfish hair. No woodman rested his heavy load When she was watching the moorland road, Or priest or preacher, in saintly black, They looked not up, and they looked not back Till rolling hill, or the gathering night, The witch's cottage concealed from sight ; Many an Ave^ and hurried prayer Sought heaven at sight of her evil stare. Sometimes, made bold by the tavern cheer, O'er steaming Hollands, or foaming beer, When tales were told, and when songs were sung, A boasting blade, with a loosened tongue 47 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR Might breathe a threat 'gainst " that arrant witch,' And talk of the " ducking-stool," and switch ; But when, home bound on the lonely moor, He 'd spur his horse by the witch's door. II Anthony Holt was a stalwart lout, Bashful, and silent, who hung about The tavern door, when the nights were warm, The tavern fire in cold or storm. Furtively watching the barmaid pass From bar to settle ; no comelier lass E'er lifted pewter ; not fair and pale A tavern Hebe, who served good ale. A Hebe, aproned in spotless lawn, A dream in dimity, fresh as dawn, Dark-eyed, round-ankled, and neatly shod, No goddess ever more lightly trod. When Margery crossed the sanded floor, And with round, white arms uplifted, bore A tall, cool bottle, or mug of beer, She won a smile from the most austere. 48 THE PHILTER But Anthony neither smiled nor spoke, He watched her longingly through the smoke, Like a hungry lad, a ripe, red peach, A sway on a branch beyond his reach. He 'd tried to woo in a clumsy way, Halting, and stammering in dismay, Whene'er she faced him, in calm surprise, And met his own with her questioning eyes. Until, quite conquered, he smoked and drank From morn till midnight, in silence blank ; Hoping some turn of the wheel of Chance Might bless an eternal vigilance. He vowed none other the prize should win With uncracked head, or unbroken skin ; He met all comers, no knight of old Laid lance in rest with a heart more bold. Ill At last, led on by a black despair, As midnight rang on the murky air, He boldly knocked at the witch's door, Fearing no fate but the one he bore, 49 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR Willing his hope of heaven to sell For magic philter, for charm or spell, He cared not what, if its power could win The love of Margery of the inn. He heard a rustle, a creak, a groan, The witch's blear eyes met his own ; She pulled the latch-string, and from the gloom He stumbled into the reeking room. A smoking caldron, an ebon cat, An hazel broom, and a pointed hat, Strong smelling herbs, in grotesque festoon, He saw all dimly, as in a swoon. But still undaunted, his tale he told, And crossed the crook of her hand with gold, He begged a charm, when he 'd told his tale, Some hell-hatched philter, which could avail Against sweet Margery's stubborn breast ; He vowed such payment as pleased her best, His house, his cattle, his gold, his farm, Or e'en his soul, he must have the charm. She, leering, listened, and in his hand She pressed a vial, with this command, THE PHILTER u Give her this potion, when in the sky The moon is full, and the wind is high ; " Then go not near her, until once more The full moon shines as it shone before ; The charm is worthless, if sight or sound She has of thee till the moon is round.'* And as he paused at the open door, She shook her finger, and said once more, " Remember, out of her sight to stay, And go not near for a month and day." When from her threshold he stumbled forth, And faced the breath of the frozen North, His sheep-skin wallet was lank and thin, But free his soul of the mortal sin. IV The next night rose up a full, red moon, The wind it blew over wave and dune, O'er wood and meadow it swept like sin, And shook the sign of the " White Crow Inn." Silent as ever, Anthony sat Beside the fire, only the cat 51 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR Was closer, and in her eyes to-night There seemed to shine an unholy light. On stool and settle there perched and sprawled The tavern loungers, they puffed and drawled, They told strange tales, and old songs they sang, Rough with the " burr " of the Yorkshire twang. The Solons prated, in accents wise, The simple listened with wondering eyes, And incidentally, all the while The pewters passed in a steady file. So well did Margery know what best Suited the palate of every guest, She filled each tankard without a word, Reading its emptiness e'er it stirred. Now here, now there, through the haloing smoke She walked, a goddess that seldom spoke ; A queen was she, with her regal brow, Who ruled her subjects, they knew not how. But when the clock by the chimney side Struck twelve, it signalled an ebbing tide ; Over the threshold, subsiding fast, Till only Anthony stayed at last. THE PHILTER Silent he sat, and his face was pale ; He drank his tankard of nut brown ale, Ordered a bottle of rare old port That paid no tribute to king or court, And asked of Margery that she would take A farewell glass, for old friendship's sake ; A farewell glass to a love unblessed, Wearied, at last, in a hopeless quest. 'Twas half a challenge, she took the wine, Filled with a dread she could not define, Yet met his eyes with a steady glance, As free from fear as a levelled lance. And he looked long at the wilful face, Sating his sense with its wondrous grace ; Each well-loved feature he lingered o'er As gloats a miser over his store. Her wine he 'd mixed with the witch's draught, But, as he gazed, he deplored his craft ; It seemed a crime to attempt to win Unwilling love by a charm of sin. His face grew red as the embers flame, He dropped his eyes with a sense of shame ; 53 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR And when he looked not, to please her ire, She spilled the wine on the dying fire. He only saw that she held, alas, With steady fingers an empty glass, And showed no feeling but calm surprise Meeting his gaze with disdainful eyes. But when he 'd left her, had said, " Good-night, Good-night, and farewell," when by the light Of dying embers she lingered still, Her face was pale, and her heart was chill. Night after night, through the tavern door The tide it flowed as it flowed before ; The gray-beards came again and again To gravely talk of the price of grain, The backward harvest, or how to keep On five poor acres an hundred sheep ; Their songs they sang, and their tales they told, Smoking and drinking, just as of old. Margery parted the shrouding haze, Sure of the homage of every gaze, 54 THE PHILTER Paler perhaps, but lovelier still, Not quite so fond of her own sweet will, Not quite so confident, and her brow Was less serene and less regal now ; Often her glance would wander o'er To the vacant seat, and the swinging door. She struggled bravely, and fiercely fought To drive the rebel from out her thought ; But could not, for ever in her breast There grew a longing that would not rest. A ceaseless longing, that grew so fast She brought brown sherry for beer, at last And ere the unhappy month passed by, She drank despair, and she prayed to die. VI So when again shone the full red moon, And swept the wind over wave and dune ; When once again to the "White Crow Inn," Anthony came for the fruit of sin, He saw, no longer a ripe red peach Hung on a branch far beyond his reach, 55 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR But swinging low, at the first demand Ready to drop in his waiting hand. He took no chances, and e'er once more The full moon shone as it shone before, The witch's words were true to a line, The " White Crow Inn " was an empty shrine ; It had no goddess, its wine was flat ; Its ale was bitter, and warm at that, Its fire lacked cheer, and the tide no more Flowed strong and free through the swinging door. Though Margery sat by his chimney side, A most surprisingly docile bride, Yet Anthony found that some base alloy Still dimmed the gold of his perfect joy. The thought of his devil-purchased art Hung like an incubus on his heart, He questioned ever if without sin He could have brought her his home within. So much he grieved at the evil spell, His secret sin he resolved to tell, Winning her promise, mid much distress She 'd surely shrive what he 'd confess. 56 THE PHILTER He, stammering, told her, with grave alarm, How he had wrought with the witch's charm ; How she had drank on that fateful night, And he had hidden a month from sight. " No stain of sin, as my soul 's the judge," Nor empty wallet do I begrudge, Yet 't was not I, but the witch drugged wine That won thy love, and that made thee mine." Prepared for fear, and some sad surprise, She laughed till the tears stood in her eyes, " I freely shrive thee," she said at last, " Into the fire the wine I cast. " No harm was wrought by the draught of sin, No whit it helped thee my love to win, The only charm of the wolf-eyed crone, Was this, she bade thee to leave me alone." And lovers all, if the truth were told, May use with profit this philter old ; If maids are cold, and they say thee nay, Try absence, bid farewell, and stay away. 57 SEVENTEENTH CENTURY AIRS I TYED KATE'S SHOE ITYED Kate's shoe; she paused a lyttle space, And shewed to me ye truant sylken lace, Lyfting a flounce of flowering brocade, And lawnie skirts, where fragrant odours played. " Wilt tye my shoe ? " she asked, and paused apace. I dyd not know how perylous a place Was at her feet, of danger saw no trace, When, kneeling 'neath the Lynden's chequered shade, I tyed Kate's shoe. Ye tyme I took was surelie no disgrace, Altho' Kate sayd so, with a flushing face ; And yet, alas, tho' lyttle I delayed, I tyed my heart within the knot I made, When, careless all of Love's slye interlace, I tyed Kate's shoe. AT PHYLLIS' SYDE AT Phyllis' syde, beneath ye shade I lyngered, tho' she, frownyng, bade Me saye a last farewelle and goe ; I kissed hir soft browne cheek, aglow 61 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR With love and ire, and disobeyed. Above us, on a blossome swayed A bee, with golden dust o'er laide, Who scarce coulde flye. I watched belowe, At Phyllis' syde. Sweete Phyllis, 't was thy fragrance made Me pause beside thee ; that I strayed No more is not my fault, you knowe ; My wings with sweetes are laden soe I cannot flye. And soe I stayed At Phyllis' syde. A HEARTE CONTENTE ILYKE to heare my master saye, " Jim, thou 'rt a handy lad " ; No lass doth ever smyle at me But I growe wondrous glad ; But if beneath mye ploughman's coat A somethinge me disownes, I longe still more for ye respect Of mine owne self, Jim Jones. I coulde endure ye king's rebuke, Coulde beare ye rector's frowne, 62 A CLEAR-EYED CUPID And e'en ye scorne of all goode folke From " Groates " to Lundone towne, If onlye I coulde heare within Ye haile and heartie tones, Ye " well done, lad " of mine owne hearte, Ye praises of Jim Jones. A CLEAR-EYED CUPID YONGE Love, aplaying in fair Celia's hair, Became entangled in a golden snare, And tearful, vowed, if she would set him free He 'd pay ye ransom, whatso'er it be. She loosed his lyght wings from ye twisted tress, And off he fluttered, free but weaponless ; For Celia tooke his quiver and swyft bow For ransome, ere she let ye rascal goe. More merciless than Cupid, Celia is, Clear-eyed, she shoots with surer aim than his ; And, if ye quiver fail not, as we pray, Noe man shall live, but beares a wounde away. APPLES OF ISTAKHAR TRUTH SINGS SOE FEEBLY FULL many a noble songe, and choice, Sung by a weak and piping voice, Hath wone but scorne and laughter; Whyle loude approval blessed ye songe, Sung with melodious voice and stronge, Though witless, followyng after. Truth sings soe feebly that we heare Not, lystenyng with attentive ear, Wisdome in whyspers preacheth ; But Falsehoode lyfts hir voice on high, And sweete words check us, passyng bye, To telle what Folly teacheth. PRUDENCE I WALKED with Mistress Prudence, In ye garden, sore oppressed With longeyng for ye pansy That was nestlyng at hir breast. I begged ye happy flower, But she frowned, and shooke hir head ; 64 PRUDENCE " I dare not, I distrust thee, I were witless else," she said. " Right well you know ye pansy 's Called ye c Kiss-me-at-ye-gate,' And I am Mistress Prudence, And a maiden most sedate." We lingered in ye garden Till ye staryng sun had fled ; Ye flowers closed their eyelids, And ye robyns gone to bed. Ye moon was not yet risen In ye purple evenyng skye, When I, with longeyng glances At ye pansy, said " Good-bye." She shylie gave it to me, And I kissed her at ye gate, Altho' my Mistress Prudence Was a maiden most sedate. APPLES OF ISTAKHAR I AM NOE JUDGE I AM noe judge, not I ; how can I telle If she be faire ? P faith, I care Not if she love me welle. I am noe judge, not I ; how can I knowe If she be true ? In truth I rue No falsehood fashioned soe. I am noe judge, not J ; for I am bought With brybes soe rare, I shoulde not dare Condemne hir, if I ought. AUBADO OH, faire is ye morning, Oh, bright is ye dawning, Ye rose on ye lattice has ope'd to ye sun. My hearte is a flower, Looke down from thy bower, And telle me ye day of my love hath begun. 66 AUBADO For dark were ye shadows Which hung o'er ye meadows; And black were ye mist wreaths that circled ye hill; My bosom was weighted With doubts that I hated, And clouded my hearte with forebodings of ill. But gone is ye madness Of doubting and sadness ; Blown off with ye night wind, and flown with ye dark; And here, in ye lightness Of morning's first brightness, I gaze at thy windowe, and sing with ye lark. Arise from thy pillow ; Ye branch of ye willow Is bright with ye dewdrops, asway in ye breeze ; All nests are forsaken, I pray thee, awaken, And smyle on thy singer and song if they please. Oh, faire is ye morning, Oh, bright is ye dawning, Ye rose on ye lattice has ope'd to ye sun. APPLES OF ISTAKHAR My hearte is a flower, Looke down from thy bower, And telle me ye day of my love hath begun. SERENADE INTO thy windowe ye yonge May moon Is smyling with delight ; Into thy windowe floats ye tune Ye cricket sings to-night ; Into thy windowe ye bold wynd creeps, Kissing her cheek, whyle my ladye sleeps ; I can but sing to thee. Into thy windowe ye garden sends Its perfume, and ye rose, Climbing ye bars of ye trellis, bends With every wynd that blows ; Into thy windowe ye red rose peeps, Gazing at will, whyle my ladye sleeps ; I can but sing to thee. 68 FRENCH FORMS AN ORCHARD LANE AN orchard lane, white branches overhead, Green turf beneath, yielding to every tread. On either side, gnarled trunks in reeling row, And fragrance everywhere from winds that blow Now here, now there. The world was dead, And we were walking down a path that led We knew not where. No single word we said, Walking beneath white branches, bending low, An orchard lane. Upon her head the apple blossoms shed A storm of petals, and I thought I read In her sweet face a budding thought, to grow Perchance, when Summer's ripening suns should glow, To perfect love. What barren dreams bespread An orchard lane ! APPLES OF ISTAKHAR TO HER SWEET EYES. " * % O her sweet eyes ! " I mutter as I drink, A Never aloud, I sip my wine and think. I listen to each loudly-spoken toast To mistress Meg and Margery, the boast Of favors granted, with a shrug or wink. Yet to proclaim her name I always shrink ; So, in the silence, when the glasses clink, I whisper then, unheard by guest or host : " To her sweet eyes ! " No monk am I, through Life's by-ways to slink ; 'Tween wine and song, Love is the golden link ; I 've known caresses warmer, but the ghost Of her last glance is with me, first and most. I pledge, in words that low with reverence sink : " To her sweet eyes ! " 72 TWO ROSES TWO ROSES A FAIR white rose sedately grows Within the garden wall. There blows No wind to ruff her petals white, No stain of earth, no touch of blight The pure face of my ladye shows. The queen of all the walls enclose Might be mine own, an' if I chose ; But yet, but yet I cannot slight My wild red rose. Outside the garden wall she throws Her clinging tendrils, and she knows How strong the winds of Passion smite ; She 's fragrant, though not faultless quite ; Just as she is, none shall depose My wild red rose. 73 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR WHEN LOVE GROWS COLD WHEN Love grows cold, and dead the flame That once we strove in vain to tame ; When, from the embers fades the light, Until no gleam breaks on the night Out of the ashes of our shame, Then comes Regret, then to reclaim, E'en for a single hour, that same Dead Love we long. We start in fright, When Love grows cold. And with Fear-shaken hands, we aim Once more the flame to fire ; we blame Our past neglect, with lips contrite ; We seek in vain a cinder bright ; No god the ashes can inflame When Love grows cold. 74 NOT THEE ALONE NOT THEE ALONE NOT thee alone I love, though best I love thee, and I still protest I love thee well. The rose, my rose Is queen. Yet still the lily shows Her pale, sweet face ; the daisy's breast Is golden, and the violet blest With fragrance all the winds attest. Frown not, because my fondness knows Not thee alone. They swear to thee, " In East or West There is none other worth the quest, Thou art the only flower that blows." I' faith I love thee more than those, But love, the truth I have confessed, - Not thee alone. 75 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR THAT MEDDLER, DEATH THAT meddler, Death ! There is no plan, However wide or wise, he can Not, mocking, thwart. I 'd win success, Fame, riches, love, content ; I 'd press My brow with wreath empyrean, Were there none other barrier than Foul Fate. But, hopeless all, I scan That face so cold and pitiless ; That meddler, Death ! I have run well, yet every span He might have tripped me as I ran ; I still must run, the bitterness Of certain failure to possess ; Death spoils the schemes of every man. That meddler, Death ! A THORNLESS ROSE A THORNLESS ROSE A THORNLESS rose you gave to me Last night, and giving it, you sighed, And wished you were, " en verite," A thornless rose. You faced me, flushed, and stormy-eyed ; A penitent, yet I could see You half appealed, and half defied. Thorny and fragrant, it may be Something of fragrance were denied Thee, lacking thorns ; I '11 not wish thee A thornless rose. 77 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR I DO NOT KNOW I DO not know why you and I Are cast this part or that to play ; Why he is low and she is high I do not know. You ask me why some hearts are gay, While others grieve ; why all must die ; Why passions tempt and sins betray. Glad am I that the gods deny Omniscience, and that I can say, I could not answer, should I try ; I do not know. A WOFUL BALLAD "A WOFUL BALLAD TO MY MIS TRESS' EYEBROW" MY mistress dearly loves to hide Beneath concealing lashes, eyes That speak too plainly. Long she tried My wit and patience, to surprise Her humor, spite of the disguise ; But now her secret I waylay ; For, though her eye my search defies, My mistress' brows her thoughts betray. There was a time when, level-eyed She met my gaze. Like Summer skies, Cloudless, her blue orbs opened wide To question or to criticise. I could not say " A secret lies Hid in those depths." I could not say 41 Though answering glance her eye denies, My mistress' brows her thoughts betray." But now, when she will not confide, I watch her brows, I note their rise And fall, the frown of ire or pride, The arch of doubt, and can devise 79 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR To change them, (warned, and doubly wise,) To perfect curves, which plainly say " Love shines in all unclouded skies, My mistress* brows her thoughts betray." Princess, if Fortune my emprise Shall bless, will her red lips, some day Speak plainly ? Must I still surmise My mistress' brows her thoughts betray ? THE RECTORY BOWLING GREEN THE churchyard elms stand, thick and tall, Their branches swinging long and low; They brush the moss-grown rectory wall ; They bend to all the winds that blow ; Only a hint of sunset glow Breaks through their thickly woven screen, To shed the " light of long ago " Upon the rectory bowling green. Its velvet turf is level all ; No weed lifts head, no flowers grow ; The door swings open ; from the hall The players saunter, suave and slow ; They pace the long path to and fro ; 80 THE RECTORY BOWLING GREEN They doff their coats, for conquest keen ; Fine linen shone, white as the snow, Upon the rectory bowling green. Out rolls the " Jack," that wizard ball ; Over the green I see it go ; I see the black " bowles " creep and crawl, Crowding the " Jack " by ring and row ; Hindered or helped by friend or foe, Raptured with joy, and racked with spleen, A mimic game of life they throw Upon the rectory bowling green. Grant me, oh princess, still to show To all the world a face serene, Though Fate may many a flout bestow Upon the rectory bowling green. 81 A CHAMPAGNE CORK A CHAMPAGNE CORK THOU jailer of good wine, Rough, scarred, and surly, Thou shalt no more confine, Thou jailer of good wine, This prisoner of thine ; We '11 oust thee early, Thou jailer of good wine, Rough, scarred, and surly. SOLITAIRE I NOW play " Solitaire ; " I once played " Hearts " with Molly, It was a sad affair, I now play u Solitaire," A safer game, I swear I '11 not repeat my folly ; I now play " Solitaire," I once played " Hearts " with Molly. 82 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR MISNAMED MY Lily 's a rose, And my Rose is a lily ; No cynic but knows My Lily 's a rose ; Their names I 'd transpose, For they fit them but illy ; My Lily 's a rose, And my Rose is a lily. I FENCED WITH KATE I FENCED to-day with Kate ; Her foil had lost its button. It was unfortunate ; I fenced to-day with Kate ; I learned her skill too late, Of wounds I am no glutton ; I fenced to-day with Kate, Her foil had lost its button. SHE DID NOT KNOW SHE DID NOT KNOW SHE stood beneath the mistletoe, And yet I dared not kiss her; I 'm very sure she did not know She stood beneath the mistletoe; With parted lips and cheeks aglow, 'T was agony to miss her ; She stood beneath the mistletoe, And yet I dared not kiss her. BLEAK A SNOW-FLAKE fell upon her cheek, And melted not, so chill the greeting. The smile she granted me was bleak, A snow-flake fell upon her cheek, I vowed no more her love I 'd seek, From her benumbing spell retreating ; A snow-flake fell upon her cheek, And melted not, so chill the greeting. 84 SONNETS IMMORTALS WE wish, and strive for what we wish, a day, A year, sometimes until, with outstretched hand Almost atouch, we need but to demand The crown of our desire ; but in the play Of some new light we, witless, turn astray To some new prize, seeming more fair, and brand The first as worthless, changing ever, and At last Death comes, and turns to nameless clay. When into our inconstant souls, there creeps A lonely wish, that never tires or sleeps ; A single purpose, a supreme desire, Consuming lesser longings with its fire, Then only do the gods reach from above, And make immortal with their strength and love. APPLES OF ISTAKHAR THE GANGES FRESH from her divan of eternal snow, The Ganges leaps adown the mountain side. O'er pine-clad hills her waters swiftly glide, Through groves of palm and citron gaily flow ; But by Benares temples, sad and slow The movement of her flower-sprinkled tide, For countless stains of sin within it hide, Ashes of death the silent bosom strow. How many, weary, racked by sin and pain, Have felt thy gentle waters round them pour ; Freed from Life's burden, cleansed from every stain, Have melted into ashes on thy shore, Floating upon thy tender breast, to gain Oblivion's ocean, floating evermore. 88 DONNA PERFECTA DONNA PERFECTA I WOULD thy face were not so faultless fair, I would thine eyes were not so clear and bright, Thy cheek less blooming, and thy neck less white, Less sweet thy smile and kiss, less soft thy hair ; I would thy breast enshrined a heart less rare, Would that some shadow dimmed its perfect light ; I wish some glaring fault would try the might Of this, the love my lips so feebly swear. For, though the whirling world were searched to find Its most capricious heart, 't would constant be To one so wondrous fair, so true and kind ; And I can only whisper haltingly, The threadbare vow, " Not grace of heart or mind, Nor outward charms I love, but only thee." APPLES OF ISTAKHAR A BAS RELIEF OF MARK ANTONY CLEAR features, cast in Nature's choicest mold ; A noble head, its waving locks confined By wreath of laurel, carelessly entwined ; 'Neath arching brow, an eye supremely bold ; A mouth, whose sensuous lips too plainly told The regnant sovereign of heart and mind ; A forehead by Care's crayon faintly lined, Burnt in the flame of Passion uncontrolled. A grain of Virtue's salt thine only lack ; Offering a crown, yet easily enslaved By Egypt's slender hand ; led from the track To Fame's most lofty heights by soul depraved ; Upon thy name the blot is deep and black, Which History's sharp burin has engraved. 90 A BREATH A BREATH I CLIMBED a sheltered hillside, till the sea I faced, hot-browed and breathless. From the West A wind, new born upon the billow's crest, Greeted the rising sun with ecstasy. Up from the waves it hurried, eagerly ; Taintless as Truth, by naught of earth opprest Save the faint fragrance of the meadow's breast, Caught from the hillside ere it climbed to me. The first cool wave swept o'er me, and I drew A long, deep breath ; into each thirsty cell The cool stream flowed, as to a desert well, And through my veins the fresh blood sprang anew. If Life were circled in a single breath, 'T were good to live ; I still should shrink from Death. APPLES OF ISTAKHAR LAURA OH them, immortal through a poet's love, Whose snowy brow is glorified beneath " The Singer of Avignon's " laurel wreath, Thy memory hath still the power to move From Passion's fever breeding mists above. No lure of love, no praise of honied breath Could mar thy stainless life, and holy death. For two score years the constant Petrarch strove To praise thee rightly with inspired pen. He told thy countless charms more faithfully Than painter's truest canvas, and we see Thy slender form, as radiant as when He saw thee, violet robed, with golden hair Afloat, crossing the portal of Saint Claire. 92 THE DEFENSE OF ABBOTSFORD THE DEFENSE OF ABBOTSFORD FULL sweetly flows the gentle river Tweed, Still singing to itself in calm content ; And to its banks a triple charm is lent By rolling hill, steep cliff and level mead ; Within its call, a knight renowned indeed His castle built, his towers heavenward sent ; Within its well-loved walls the good knight meant To spend the golden days that were his meed. But Debt's dark host came thundering 'gainst the gate, Bidding him yield. He answered not a word, But 'gainst the dreadful arms of hostile Fate He fought his fight with never-resting sword, And dying, conquered when 't was all too late, But saved his castle, lovely Abbotsford. 93 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR WHAT'S DONE IS DONE WHAT 'S done is done. The record of the past Is writ indelibly. Full well I know, Whate'er I do, the record still will show What I have done, distinctly to the last. But, if no deed of mine can overcast The faintest line of its least letter, though The tears of sad Repentance ceaseless flow, Why should old Failure's mildewed kernels blast The budding grain of a deserved success ? The old Lie trip me, struggling toward the truth, The cast-ofF Folly of a foolish youth Shame me, at Wisdom's feet, with loathed caress ? And chains, no longer linked to Sin, exclude From aught but creeping toward the distant good 94 THE CROSS THE CROSS TWO rough-hewn timbers, crossed against the sky; An awful form outside the city gate ; A ghastly sign of vengeance and of hate, To fright the errant slave's averted eye ; The last harsh couch, whereon pale Crime doth , lic > Seeking in vain a glance compassionate ; Symbol of death most dreadful dealt by Fate, Until, one April day, they lift on high A thorn-crowned King, who dies upon a cross, Then bows a world before the sign of death, The curse is changed to blessing in a breath ; Its gleaming red lines knightly shields emboss ; On woman's breast it lies ; no day dawns bright, But gilds a cross-crowned temple with its light. 95 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR LIKE A GOOD BRAHMIN SOMETIMES like a good Brahmin could I pray, When life is weariest, and I strive in vain To separate existence from its pain, E'en in my thought of heaven's perfect day. I pray sometimes, when all of life is gray, (Careless of sinful thought, and lip profane,) Nirvana's sure retreat at last to gain, To draw the curtain that shall bar alway With its thick folds, pleasure and pain alike, (They both were pain if they should break my rest,) And on some somber couch, my forehead pressed To a cool pillow, where no light can strike, No sound can break, no breeze of morning creep, Sink in a dreamless, and an endless sleep. AFTERTHOUGHT AFTERTHOUGHT WE share our lives with Hope and vain Regret ; We dream of Fortune's favors, till the years Are gone when we can gain them, then with tears Of useless grief we labor to forget. But Memory still must tell us where we let The gale of Fortune 'scape us, through the fears That shake a feeble heart, the sloth that steers To windless shores, the foolish whims that set Broad sails on shallow streams, leading to naught. Stranded, at last fair Hope, to whom we clung, Fearless of failure, leaves us, holding fast The murky-mantled ghost of Afterthought, The pale-faced whisperer, with the bitter tongue; Upon her withered breast we lie at last. 97 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR SLEEP SOFT brood the shadows o'er the slumbering plain ; Sweet, through its fragrant glades, the night wind blows ; Slow, 'neath the willow shades, the dumb brook flows; Hushed, e'en to silence is the whispering grain. Beneath the long hedge-rows the flocks are lain ; In cot and churchyard weary souls repose ; In East or West no faintest day-dream shows, To jar the reign of Sleep with light profane. Yet, from this dreamless rest, this peaceful calm, The city's shadeless night hath power to lure ; In palace chambers, sleepless couches charm From the low cottage on the fragrant moor ; And glaring marble, with its sculptured palm, From the green grave, beneath the elms secure. 98 E DAWN DAWN RE Day has come, though Night is overpast, When from the death of Slumber we have sprung, New-born, to see the first red sunbeams flung Against the morning star, afading fast ; When facing hours we care not to forecast, Our tense nerves, like strong harp strings, newly strung, Give forth a clear, fresh note ; when Hope is young, And brain and body wake to life at last We breathe no prayer to heaven ; why should we pray Each is a god. No greater strength we need ; Equal are we to mightiest thought and deed ; Careless are we of aught that bars our way. When from the sun the curtained mists are drawn, Each is a god ; we need none else at dawn. 99 APPLES OF ISTAKHAR DUSK WHEN Day has overpast, ere Night has come, When toil is over, tired feet at rest, Hot hands are still, and to the fading West We look with shaded eyes, doubting and dumb ; When hearts beat, muffled as a funeral drum, And, like a tired bird, within the breast The weak-winged spirit broods upon its nest, Conscious of naught but peace, weary and numb We turn to God. We lift our hands to pray, We blow the altar embers, till the flame Mounts heavenward. No longer gods, the shame Of Failure haunts us from the wasted day. Stripped of our strength, we throw the cast-ofF husk Of pride aside, and turn to God at dusk. 100 THE FIRST EDITION OF THIS BOOK CONSISTS OF FIVE HUNDRED COPIES WITH FIFTY ADDITIONAL COPIES ON HAND-MADE PAPER PRINTED DURING NOVEMBER 1895 BY THE EVERETT PRESS BOSTON f?. /! T> O o ^ c- o IAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 000 672 371 2