Lyra Yalensis Edward Bliss Reed YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS I LIBRARY^) UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA i SAN DIEGO J 85Wa9hVi3t.Boston LYRA YALENSIS LYRA YALENSIS BY EDWARD BLISS REED AUTHOK OF "ENGLISH LYRICAL POETRY" NEW HAVEN YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS BUT since I have found the beauty of joy I have done with proud dismay: For howsoe'er man hug his care The best of his art is gay. Robert Bridges. The purpose of this little book is to reflect, however inadequately, something of the humor, the sentiment, the idealism of the Yale campus. Its appeal is, therefore, a lim- ited one; yet if it can recall to graduates the days spent in New Haven, it may justify itself. Some of these verses have already appeared in Life, The Forum, the Oxford Magazine, the Yale Record, the Yale Literary Maga- zine, the Yale Alumni Weekly. I wish to thank the editors of these periodicals for permission to republish. CONTENTS To a Freshman 1 To Alumni Hall 3 Ode on the Intimations of an Unex- pected Cut 5 In Osborn Hall 9 The Solution 11 Lines on the Destruction of an Elm . . 14 A Letter of Advice 16 Heredity 19 Renunciation 20 Vacational Training 21 In Absentia 23 The Match 25 Prologues to the Bicentennial Scenes depicting the history of Yale: I. The Founding of the Colle- giate School .... 29 II. The Removal of the School Library 31 III. Washington at Yale ... 33 IV. The Execution of Nathan Hale 35 V. Initiation into the Freshman Societies 36 VI. The Burial of Euclid ... 38 VII. The Fence 39 viii CONTENTS VIII. A College Room .... 40 IX. The Yale College Chapel . 41 A Ballad of All Souls Day .... 42 Two Greek Portraits: Penelope 44 Ariadne 46 A Picture 49 L'Envoi 50 Romance 51 In Vacation: The Wreck 53 Frenchman's Bay 54 The Heritage 56 Adventure 58 TO A FRESHMAN THEY tell me that you start for Yale tonight ; I trust it may not dull anticipation To hear from me some homely maxims, quite Horatian. At college there are men who seek "great place" (So Bacon calls it) with much noise and riot. Remember shouting never won a race Keep quiet. Life is a crowded course, the track is long, The runner who would win is always ready ; Throw not away your strength in wine and song Keep steady. You'll hear much worldly-wisdom, simon-pure. Look calmly at Truth's sun-light without blinking ; Remember half the sure things are not sure Keep thinking. 2 LYRA YALENSIS The mind must move or else it turns to rust ; You blunt its edge when you descend to shirking. Test what you hear ; take little upon trust Keep working. It is no mark of greatness to complain, And wit is far removed from mere reviling. Remember laughter clears a clouded brain Keep smiling. When failure seems the end of bold desire, Sit not, like shivering Age, forever groping Over the whitening ashes of the fire Keep hoping. You may have watched a swimmer, far from shore, Sink 'neath a wave whose foaming crest is breaking. You hear his last cry in the ocean's roar, (Mistaking). The wave recedes, an arm gleams in the light, He plunges on; life's cup seems overbrim- ming, So when a breaker buries you from sight Keep swimming. TO ALUMNI HALL WHERE once we rushed, like cattle sent To slaughter, where the brave and good Flunked, 'neath the massive battlement Of painted wood. Where Banjo Clubs would jog a rhythm To make the very floors unstable; Where Richards taught the logarithm, From four place table. Where once the Junior danced the German, Or told the chaperone tales that shocked her, As she sat yawning in her ermine, Bored as a proctor. Where each Commencement grads assembled To hear the reverberate platitude, And at the stalest jests dissembled Great gratitude. Alas, it goes! though o'er it glory Floats with the flag ; and yet, I grant it, Better will be the dormitory That's to supplant it. 4 LYRA YALENSIS Where safely sheltered from the road or Gay York street, Freshmen at their will May snuff up sanctity's fine odor, From Dwight Hall grill. ODE ON THE INTIMATIONS OF AN UNEXPECTED CUT THERE was a time when campus, hall and tower The grass a most pathetic sight To me did seem Apparell'd in celestial light If the professor, lagging, missed the hour. Whither is fled the visionary gleam? For now, an item in the News will say : "Professor X. no lecture gives to-day." Or on a blackboard, read by all who pass: "Instructor Grindhard cannot meet his class." It is not now as it hath been of yore; List as I will, All is too still, The cheers which once I heard I hear no more. Ye happy students, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see In my mind's eye, your boist'rous jubilee; The fullness of your bliss, I feel I feel it all. A lecture's but a sleep and a forgetting When trailing clouds of pipe-smoke do ye come, 6 LYRA YALENSIS And too much learning works the mind's upsetting And leaves the spirit dumb. Whither has fled the shout that pierced the ear When, in life's daily rut Came the unhoped-for cut? Where (don't ask me), where are the elms of yester-year ? Him, haply slumbering o'er a ponderous tome In Whitney Avenue home, The clock arouses with its warning note. With pallid face he's out upon the street, Through lips, in anguish set, Mutt'ring "I'll fool them yet" And wishing that the hour would come with leaden feet. He waits with melancholy The fast approaching trolley But who his wild despair can ever guess When he beholds a Waterb'ry express! ' Now must he run, on past the tennis courts Where careless youth disports. Now scarce he sees Fair Hillhouse Avenue as on he flees; AN UNEXPECTED CUT 7 He notes not how the elm-beetled trees high over-arched embower, He looks but at the clock on Sheffield tower, And wishes that his legs, now wobbling, had more power. Yet on he rushes past the dining hall Whence odors fierce appall ; On through the street ycleped Grub And in his speed displaces The groups of boot-blacks with their shin- ing faces, (Ay, theirs the rub!) What recks he though his shine be three days old. Nor does he even stop To gaze in the Co-op To find if one more text-book has been sold. (Auri sacra fames, O get-rich-quick disease.) He does not stay to draw from his post-box Those circulars of fortune-bringing stocks; But faint, and scant of breath, O'er Elm Street, 'scaping death He leaps. Now from Durfee the way is clear. Sudden the chimes ring out, the students cheer He utters low a word unmeet for lady's ear! 8 LYRA YALENSIS Battell's chimes toll the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly off to tea, Professors homeward plod their weary way And leave Yale's world to Donnelly and me. Thanks to their thirty cuts, the students live Through tests and questionings with bluffs and fears. To me, an unexpected cut would bring Thoughts that do often lie too deep for jeers. IN OSBORN HALL TN old days they say that Plato *- Taught in quiet groves, where all Heard him question and debate. O, What a change from Osborn Hall. Hear the trolley wheels loud creaking, Listen to that deafening bell! (That's not the Professor speaking, Merely some young newsboy's yell.) (Men on the front row reclining Have not caught a word to-day, Yet his forehead's moist and shining. Sure he's working for his pay.) That's a regimental band or Minstrel show they drum too much. (He is lecturing on Landor, And his quiet, classic touch.) (Is that poetry he's reading?) Siren screams a sounding shriek! That's the fire-chief, and he's speeding. One more fire sale this week. 10 LYRA YALENSIS On the Taft Hotel they're banging; With a most infernal sound Ring the iron girders, clanging As they dump them on the ground. Whistles blowing, tires bursting, Pandemonium's begun Soothe the mind for culture thirsting. (What ? he's gone ? The lecture's done ! ) THE SOLUTION "The lack of proper and safe equipment for the priceless American fossil collections now stored much of it still un- studied for lack of room in Peabody Museum, has for nearly forty years been a cause of worry and lowered scholarly efficiency." ALUMNI WEEKLY, January 24, 1913. METHINKS I hear in chorus Each half-mounted Brontosaurus, Each Iguanodon, Pteranodon, and Spoon-Bill Dinosaur, Cry against their profanation: "O respect our age Cretacian Give us room to live our lives out! Can't you set us up once more?" I Is this the famed museum where great Huxley longed to be? (Consult his Life and Letters, chapter thirty- one.) Ah me! Shall we send out expeditions to explore unknown Peru, When the cellar of Peabody offers work enough to do? Who can tell what there lies hidden, who is rash enough to state What's concealed within this barrel, what is buried in that crate? 12 LYRA YALENSIS How it sets the pulses beating when we think what may be found In the basement of Peabody, just a few feet underground. In this room a saurian 's two legs rise proudly into space : Read its card "Left uncompleted; for the rest there is no place." Think in every walk of life how many fossils meet our glance; Is it only in Peabody that a fossil has no chance ? Have we no respect for family, have we no regard for birth? Just consider that these creatures were the biggest things on earth. II The solution is quite simple. Pious founders pass them by, But we cannot hear unmoved the pleading Dinosaur's loud cry. Start a Club ; that seems too easy, yet this plan is sure to win Make it quite select at once both men and money will come in. Six months gone, the affluent treasurer will say in his report: THE SOLUTION 13 "Shall we build a marble mansion, Grecian temple, bomb-proof fort, Tiger Inn, or Hasty Pudding?" No; one better we will see 'em And eclipse all clubs however famed by founding a Museum. Sands of time await our footprints, or we pass away unknown. Let us honor these old creatures who left footprints in the stone. Give each fossil space to breathe in, mount them on their favorite rocks; What's the use of having fore-legs if they're hidden in a box? Then when all is put in order, as a Huxley would have planned, Call a meeting of the Club, inspect the build- ing, then DISBAND! Methinks I hear a chorus, The Ajax Apatosaurus, Each Triceratops, each Saurian, each Spoon- Bill Dinosaur, Crying out in desperation: "O respect our age Cretacian, Give us room to live our lives out! Can't you set us up once more?" LINES ON THE DESTRUCTION OF AN ELM Lines written December 2, 1912, on the destruction of the elm long standing on the corner of College and Chapel Streets. THY rugged form, thy proud, substantial girth, Thy branches arms outstretched to greet the sky, Thy stubborn roots, entwisted deep in earth, Could not avail. The sentinel must die. In happier days, ere man defaced its realm, It heard from hall and fence the college glees ; And when the moon-light touched it, this old elm Shook, like a child, for joy, at every breeze. Ah! heavy change! the gloomy, great white way; The Taft, that hides, unshamed, the sun- set's glow; Osborn, where midst the din, Professors pray Their shrieks may carry far as the front row. DESTRUCTION OF AN ELM 15 Osborn, that weird, fantastic dream in stone, Perched like a squatting toad with open lip; Or like a ferry-boat banged, battered, blown, Bumping a blunted nose into the slip. The Taft, that strange, uncouth, smoke- clouded shape, Dwarfing the college towers in senseless pride ; Can brick and lime-stone set the crowd agape, When all must see there is another side? Hail and farewell, old friend: 'tis thy last Fall, Take thy last cut! Woodman! spare not this tree. Fated to watch the Taft and Osborn Hall, Death is release 'tis better not to be. o A LETTER OF ADVICE (After Praed) The Bachelors Club, New York NCE more we've come round to the season Of Prom time; New Haven is gay. You hate it, and that is the reason I'm sitting here writing to-day. I'm afraid you are growing pedantic With working too long on a book. Shut it up throw it in the Atlantic, And thirty years back let us look. That pest-house, that death trap, the sta- tion That even the elements spurn, (Once ablaze, in a just indignation The flames were unwilling to burn) We spoke of it then in derision, Yet it seemed all of gold of pure grain, A dream palace, seen in a vision, As she stepped from the Farmington train. 'Twas the day of mazurka and schottische, Quite removed from this Turkey trot thing, Where to music that's quite tommy-rottish You kick out like jacks on a string. A LETTER OF ADVICE 17 I brought up Yale's finest to show her, And I wrote one man's name in her book, Who, until that Prom night, did not know her, Well he was the man that she took. We coasted, we danced, and we skated; Life seemed at the crest of the wave, For I thought . . . why complain? It was fated. Who says we are free ? Each is slave Of a Fortune that drives men like cattle, Kills the king, gives the beggar the crown. Do I see her? She lives in Seattle, And they say that he owns half the town. Her son is now taking your courses. I saw the young hero last Fall. He'd the strength of a whole team of horses, And the speed of a deer, with the ball. I rose with the crowd when they cheered him, For it's better to cheer than to whine. I'd have given my all to have reared him, For a moment I dreamed he was mine! So don't be severe, my dear Herman, Remember we both are grown old; If they fall asleep after the German, Don't stop in your lecture to scold. 18 LYRA YALENSIS Don't answer this with a polemic On intellects going to rust; Yes, dancing is unacademic, But remember they're young and THEY MUST! HEREDITY WHEN Normans came in arms from France And each stout knight took sword and lance, Amid the bold invading throng Miss Dolly's ancestors belong. When George the King upheld wrong laws And patriots rose in Freedom's cause, To war Miss Dolly's grandsire went, The colonel of the regiment. And when 'twixt states arose dark strife Where brother sought a brother's life, With courage high in leaden fire Came from the South Miss Dolly's sire. Now to the Prom Miss Dolly comes; No sign of war, no beating drums, Yet brings destruction to the dance, Alas! she slays men with a glance. RENUNCIATION I MET you in the summer tide, A world-famed Senior then; On every side the doors flew wide To me, a king of men. I haunt no more the Newport shore, 'Tis Coney's isle I seek; Ah, Clementine, what fate is mine, On twenty-five a week! You saw me sweep Yale's football field, Spurred by the bleachers' roar. Now unobserved, without a word, I sweep an office floor. My voice was great in each debate, I'm queered now if I speak. Ah, Clementine, can genius shine, On twenty-five a week? In limousine you ride a queen In costly gown and wrap; It brings despair when you pass me there As I hang on a trolley strap. Could I but share with some millionaire, Some banker, fat and sleek Fate draws the line, you can't be mine, On twenty-five a week! VACATIONAL TRAINING I OUTSIDE a lecture room by chance I happened to be waiting; Two eager students caught my glance, Both earnestly debating. "What study," thought I, "thus can wake Their unrestrained emotion? 'Twere well next year this course to take That rouses such devotion." "There's no such luck!" I heard one shout, "Drop it! I know you're kidding; Or else this course has worn you out Until your brain is skidding!" "Thank Heaven, it's true!" replied with joy The first, his whole face grinning, "But eight more lectures, then, my boy, Vacation is beginning." Buoyed up, they passed into the room, (Whose room I shall not mention) I saw each one of them assume A look of rapt attention. 22 LYRA YALENSIS II Next day I passed their teacher, where Mid Whitney Avenue dust He walked to save his trolley fare, As all professors must. "I'm just all in," I heard him state, "My brain is getting seedy; It's no soft snap to stimulate The mental poor and needy. "But three weeks more? You're sure that's straight ? And then the term is ending! Well, watch me hike right out! That's great ! To Europe I'll be wending." Did he say "hike"? That very word. Much lower would you rate him Did I repeat each phrase I heard. I'm giving this verbatim. Sadly perplexed, I watched him pass. What curious aberration Made both the teacher and his class Long so for the vacation ? IN ABSENTIA T SAY to you I hold it true -* As axiom mathematical, That he is blest above the rest Who's off on his sabbatical. He can explore each foreign shore In manner autocratical; In Greece he dreams (and we read themes!) The man on his sabbatical. He sings a paean o'er Bodleian, In knowledge grows piratical. We wear our mind on bluff and grind, While he's on his sabbatical. We toil each night; he can delight In pleasures operatical, Sleep late next day and merely say: "Why, I'm on my sabbatical!" No telephone can make him groan By constant ring emphatical. Beyond the pale of dunning mail, The man on his sabbatical. 24 LYRA YALENSIS When longed-for Spring but comes to bring A laziness climatical, He need harass no sleepy class, The man on his sabbatical. Millennium would surely come, And life would grow ecstatical, Could we teach here the even year, The odd one, take sabbatical! THE MATCH (NOT AFTER SWINBURNE) "Matches shall not be brought to the Library. Bodleian Library Staff-Kalendar, 1912, p. 50. NE fatal day I wound my way Up Bodley's steep ascent; My shoulders showed the scholar's stoop, Even my mind was bent (On books) I was no undergrad I knew what study meant. As on I sped with decorous tread Rare manuscripts to scan, I drew a note from out my coat And a match fell down! What man Confronts me there with fearful glare? 'Tis the Librarian!!! My blood congealed, my senses reeled, For the stern rule I'd read; I thought that every hair must rise In terror on my head ; Then I recalled I was quite bald, So I had a chill instead. 26 LYRA YALENSIS There in the gloom I saw my doom Ejected by the staff! I'd read no more on the upper floor The German monograph; For me no home 'neath RadclifFs dome;- I laughed a ghastly laugh. "I swear 'tis true, I never knew I owned that match." He sighed. "Some knave, I wot, devised this plot To ruin me," I cried. "I never smoke" no more I spoke, For I saw he knew I lied. He bent him down beneath his gown ; Now my last hope was dead. My sight grew dim as I gazed on him, Thrilled with a nameless dread. I saw him snatch the accursed match 'Twas a match without a head! PROLOGUES TO THE SCENES DEPICTING THE HISTORY OF YALE PRESENTED ON THE CAMPUS BY THE STUDENTS AT THE TWO HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FOUNDING OF THE COLLEGE I THE FOUNDING OF THE COLLE- GIATE SCHOOL NO idle jests we offer you to-day, No antique mask, no solemn, classic play, But on this petty stage we would present The scenes our fathers saw, the ways they w r ent ; And for brief moments in your presence here, Recall the past and bid the dead appear. No dreamy fancies then we act for you, But all you shall behold is sure and true. First comes our simplest act, and here are shown The men who laid old Yale's firm corner- stone. The curtain rises upon the interior of the Reverend Samuel Russel's house at Branford. As this Puritan divine is examining his books, choosing which ones he will give for the foun- dation of a collegiate school, nine other minis- ters enter. One of them, the Reverend Abra- ham Pierson, having ascertained that all the 30 LYRA YALENSIS founders are present, places his own books on the table with the words, "I give these books for the founding of a college in the colony." The others repeat his action and his words. The Reverend Mr. Russel accepts the custody of the library; and in silence, by mutual con- sent, the ministers turn to the Reverend Mr. Noyes, who raises his hands and invokes the blessing of God as the curtain falls. II THE REMOVAL OF THE SCHOOL LIBRARY FROM SAYBROOK TO NEW HAVEN, 1718 YOU must suppose some twenty years have flown, And with the years the school so strong has grown That rival towns for deadly war prepare; Each claims the school to be its pride and care. And as the Greeks and Trojans, unsubdued, Long waged on Ilium's plains the deadly feud, So in old Saybrook rose the warrior's cry, And women's wailings smote the distant sky. A war for books our mimic stage will fill, Behold the conflict, tremble and keep still! The people of Saybrook, angry because the school is to find its home in New Haven, have gathered to prevent by force the removal of the library. From the left, enter Governor Saltonstall, the sheriff, and a crowd of citi- zens and students eager for the fray. The Governor speaks: "For the good of the colony 32 LYRA YALENSIS this school must be moved to New Haven, no matter what these people say. Sheriff, here is your warrant. Do your duty!" In the riot that follows, many heads are broken and many books are destroyed. In the end, the students prevail and carry off the library in a cart amid shouts of triumph. Ill WASHINGTON AT YALE, JUNE 28, 1775 for a little space I bid you see The men who gained our country's liberty. Here in this deep, secluded college hall They heard from distant fields the trumpet- call. And with a shout they answered it again; Boys that they were, they played the part of men! Their cheer was heard above the musket sound, They left their dead on many a battle ground. So came to Yale as her most honoured guest, Of all our race, the bravest and the best. Several students are discussing the newly formed Yale company with its captain, George Welles, when a messenger announces that General Washington is coming to inspect it. At once, assembly is sounded and the men fall in line. As General Washington enters with President Daggett, Captain Welles is putting 34 LYRA YALENSIS his soldiers through the manual of arms. Washington reviews the company and con- gratulates the captain on its appearance. The students request that they may escort Wash- ington through the town on his way to Cam- bridge. He accepts their offer ; they form and march off, with Noah Webster as drummer. IV THE EXECUTION OF NATHAN HALE, SEPTEMBER 22, 1776 WE meet to praise and honor her to-night Who freely gives to all her truth and light. No one in this vast throng but gladly sees Her ivied walls, her towers, her arching trees : Yet most we cheer her when her flag's un- furled, For sending out strong men into the world. And of her strongest band, foremost is he Who played her saddest, grandest tragedy. No braver, nobler son had mother Yale: Honor her spy, her martyr Nathan Hale! The sound of a muffled drum is heard and the tramp of marching men. The curtain rises upon a British officer and a squad of soldiers surrounding Nathan Hale. He stands beneath an apple tree, his hands bound, a rope about his neck. In the distance are a few spectators, overcome by helpless rage and sorrow. As the curtain falls, Hale says, calmly yet clearly: "I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country." INITIATION INTO THE FRESH- MAN SOCIETIES, 1850-1860 HISTORIANS tell us 'twas a gruesome sight To watch the Druids at their mystic rite; In Greece, though it was somewhat hard to see, They had the Eleusinian mystery; But Celt and Greek, outdone, would bow the head Before Yale's Freshman orders, now long dead. Therefore we offer to the public view Those secret rites that turned the Freshman blue. We now recall them though their day is done: Bring on the candidates and watch the fun ! On a darkened stage gleam a few ghostly lights showing stocks, a guillotine and a huge caldron. About it stand Sophomores in black robes and masks, uttering weird cries as some cowering Freshmen are led in. They are THE FRESHMAN SOCIETIES 37 made to kneel. It thunders and shooting flames issue from the caldron. The Sopho- mores throw off their cowls and stand attired in hideous forms. The Freshmen are driven about, tossed in blankets, stocked, guillotined, and finally caught by a huge devil and pitch- forked into the seething caldron. VI THE BURIAL OF EUCLID, 1857 OUR studious fathers, in the good old days, Would burn the midnight oil 'tis to their praise. Yet once a year a different course they took: They saved the oil and burned instead the book. Some say that this was done in simple spite; Others, to prove that knowledge is a light. So here you see, poor victim to their ire, Old Euclid flaming on his funeral pyre. In this commercial age such customs stop: We save our books to sell to the "Co-op." A crowd of students enter in solemn proces- sion to the music of a dirge. They perform various mystic rites, but gradually relax into a more hilarious mood. Euclid is laid upon the funeral pyre; a Latin oration is pro- nounced; and the book is burned amid demonstrations of profound grief. VII THE FENCE, 1870-1890 MANY will think on vanished days to- night, And search in vain for some familiar sight. They knew the smaller Yale of long ago, The simpler outline of the Old Brick Row. Still through all change, 'tis Yale they see again : Yale lives not in her walls, but in her men ! And yet in all her glory they still miss What ne'er can be recalled again 'tis this, This simple structure, plain, without pretense, The bond of friendships; 'tis the old Yale Fence. The Fence, as it stood before the erection of Osborn Hall, with the Brick Row in the background. Students are lounging about. Customs of the time are shown in quick suc- cession: the effects of a fire alarm, of the passing of stylishly dressed or handsome pedes- trians, of the news of an athletic victory, of the arrival of a victorious team. After a short intermission, the Fence is seen at night. A few students, gathered in the moonlight, sing their college songs. VIII A COLLEGE ROOM, OCTOBER 21, 1901 A JOURNEY far we've made into the ** past ; Now to the present we return at last. How once our fathers lived at Yale, we've shown ; Now see our life the life we all have known ; Of thought, of strength, of hope untouched by care, When songs and laughter ring out through the air. No castle towering proudly to the sky, No princely palaces can ever vie With these Yale homes, so friendly, free from gloom, What brighter spot than our old college room? A room crowded with students. While one is attempting to study, others are playing a piano, mandolins, guitars, and singing at the top of their lungs. Visitors of every descrip- tion enter: boot-blacks, old clothes men, news- heelers, book agents, collectors. The noise at length disturbs a proctor, who suddenly enters and quells an incipient riot. IX THE YALE COLLEGE CHAPEL you we have done our best to-night, For you we succeed or fail ; Have we done ill, have we done aright, We have worked for the honour of Yale. For she gives us strength, she gives us hope, She gives us a courage free; Her call of cheer all the land shall hear, And the isles of the distant sea. Her truth is fair as a jewel rare, Her light shall the stars surpass; May fame and honor be ever her share, Lux et Veritas! The rising of the curtain discloses the stu- dents in the pews in chapel, their backs turned to the audience. In the pulpit, at the back of the stage, facing down the middle aisle to the front, stands Elihu Yale. The students rise .and sing the Doxology. At its close, Elihu Yale walks down the aisle, the students bowing low as he passes. As he reaches the footlights, the audience rises with one accord and joins in a second singing of the Doxol- ogy. A BALLAD OF ALL SOULS DAY "IX/TY little page," the lady said, * * * "In dreams I saw last night Thy master standing by my bed With visage worn and white. "I saw the red cross on his breast, From sword-hilt flashed a gem; He said, 'At last I've earned my rest, I've won H Jerusalem.' "I thought for joy my heart would break, But swift he turned away; I cried to him I was awake! And this is All Souls day. "In the gray chapel 'neath the wall I've prayed before the shrine Until the saints have heard my call And saved this love of mine. "I know the holy city's ta'en, The long crusade is o'er, This morn thy master comes again Home from far Eastern shore." Upon the walls the lady went, For very joy wept she, And all the morn her gaze she bent For tidings from the sea. BALLAD OF ALL SOULS DAY 43 All morn she looked but looked in vain, Yet still her watch would keep; She saw nought but some peasant's wain, Or flock of straggling sheep. In the gray chapel 'neath her feet There gleams the candle's ray, And clear-voiced choristers repeat The prayers for All Souls day. The sun sank low, the wind blew chill, She looked far out to sea, When suddenly across the hill A knight rode hastily. "Run down, run down, my little page, Yon rider spurs so fast; He brings me news of pilgrimage, Thy master comes at last." To the moat bridge the horseman rode; It fell, with creaking chain. He crossed, and sadly, without word, He threw the page his rein. "Now welcome back, good Delarolle; And is my lord quite near?" He bowed his head. "God rest his soul! He fell 'neath paynim spear." TWO GREEK PORTRAITS PENELOPE PENELOPE, Penelope, She sat in silence by the sea. Far out she gazed with eager eye, Naught but the gulls could she descry; And her Odysseus, where was he? Penelope, Penelope. Penelope, Penelope. Is this the end of constancy Such as the world had never known, Here by the sea to watch alone? And her Odysseus, where was he? Penelope, Penelope. "Ye gulls, as o'er the waves ye flew, Saw ye Odysseus and his crew? O clouds, O winds, O dancing foam, Tell if his prow is pointed home!" No answer came, alas, to thee, Penelope, Penelope. Penelope, Penelope. She sank into a reverie : Odysseus seemed to tread the shore, PENELOPE 45 She heard his thrilling voice once more Who calls ? who speaks ? Can that be Death ? Nay, 'tis her maid all out of breath. "Please, Ma'am, will you come home with me? There's fifty suitors come to tea. The cook has left, there ain't no meat, There's nothing in the house to eat. I'm overworked and underpaid, You've got to get another maid !" ***** One long, last look out o'er the sea, Then home she skipped, Penelope. ARIADNE ON the sand stood Ariadne, o'er the water gazing sadly, For she saw across the lonely waves no gray sail drawing near. Then she stooped down gently, lightly, and her eyes shone clearly, brightly, As she lifted up a fragile shell and pressed it to her ear. And she said, "O whispering shell, have you heard the swift winds tell, Have the dipping gulls called to you where my Theseus sails the sea? I have waited long despairing, all alone my sorrow bearing, Tell me when the wind and waves shall bring him back again to me." Then she heard the shell's soft murmur, like the bees in early summer, Or like distant music stealing o'er a lake in dim twilight, When each voice is hushed to listen, and the calming moon-beams glisten, While the floating sounds scarce strike the ear, then fade into the night. ARIADNE 47 And the shell's low, ceaseless murmur whis- pered, "Never, never, never, Ne'er again, O Ariadne, shall your Theseus tread this shore. He is false and he is faithless, all his vows of love were worthless, He has fled from you and left you you shall never see him more." Ariadne, Ariadne, not one moment did she tarry, But with all her little strength into the sea she threw the shell, And the water seemed to greet it for a wave rose up to meet it, And the sparkling ripples seemed to laugh as with a splash it fell. But far out a wave came dancing, like a war horse, leaping, prancing, And it proudly bowed its foam-capped head and broke with echoing roar; Then the water rushed and scurried, quickly to the sea it hurried, And again, at Ariadne's feet, the shell lay on the shore. 48 LYRA YALENSIS Ariadne, Ariadne, grasped the shell then, eager, gladly, For she said, "The sea has sent you back this time to tell me true; When shall I, my lone watch keeping, see his prow come slowly creeping, Till his gray sails and his tall mast gleam against the heaven's blue ?" Then she listened, listened ever, but the shell said, "Never, never." Still she listened, hoping, fearing, saying, "Ah, it cannot be," Till the day gave place to even and the pale stars wept in heaven, While, far off, her faithless Theseus fled across the trackless sea. A PICTURE ON harpsichord, Clarissa plays The melodies of by-gone days. Forgotten fugue, a solemn tune, The bars of stately rigadoon. With head bent down to scan each note, A crimson ribbon round her throat, The very birds to sing forget As some old-fashioned minuet Clarissa plays. King George long since has passed away, And minuets have lived their day. Within some hidden attic nook Lies in the dust her music book. Gone are those keys her ringers pressed, Gone with the roses at her breast. Yet still unmindful of Time's flight With face demure, with fingers light, Clarissa plays. L'ENVOI GO, lovely Rose, and to her tell All I would say, could I but see That slender form I know so well, Those roguish eyes that laughed at me. And when your fragrance fills the room, Tell her of all I hope and fear: With every breath of your perfume, Whisper my greetings in her ear. But, Roses, stay; there is one thing You need not mention. Don't forget! (It might prove quite embarrassing) And that is you're not paid for yet! ROMANCE "But little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company ; and faces are but a gallery of pictures ; and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love." BACON, Of Friendship. r 'M caught in this corner, no moving at all, *- With this miserable cup that I'm bound to let fall; I must take my part, too, in this game they all play Of just talking along when you've nothing to say. "Do you know what I've heard?" "They don't dream of divorce?" "Her pearls . . . hm ! . . . just good imita- tions, of course." "Do watch Mrs. Bond, with her kittenish air; "Every Spring she comes out in a new shade of hair." "Just look at Miss Folly's ridiculous hat!" "My dear, aren't you glad you've no daughter like that?" "And they say Mrs. Rich" "No, that cannot be true." "Well, you never can tell what a woman won't do." Is a man made for this? What worse place could there be Than a chattering, gossiping afternoon-tea! 52 LYRA YALENSIS Perhaps you've not noticed that girl over there With the deep, dreamy eyes and the dark, wavy hair. She stands by that window, apart from the rest, Looking down on the violets worn at her breast. That man who is with her is simply a cad; His family, manners and jokes all are bad. But to-day all such obstacles one may sur- mount Provided he's blest with a fat bank account. And I, well I've something quite earnest to say If she only would glance for a moment my way, But she never will turn "Mr. Brown, is that you?" "Thanks; another small cup." "Is it one lump or two?" Yes, of course I'm a fool that is easy to see But still I stay on at this DAMNABLE tea!!! IN VACATION I THE WRECK LONE on the beach the old wreck stands Half hidden by the drifting sands. Fiercely the waves against it beat Yet still it braves the summer heat And the winter blast, when the waves roll fast, An old, old wreck and the sky's o'ercast. The shells and weeds have o'er it grown; It hears the distant sand-bar moan, The snipe's shrill call, the gull's harsh cry, And the breezes singing a lullaby. The shadows fall and the sand grows brown, An old, old wreck and the sun's gone down. The sky is black and the air is cold, The wild waves crash on the timbers old: They leap and roar like some beast of prey, Till the wreck is white with the tossing spray. It creaks and groans as the waves dash by, An old, old wreck and the tide is high. 54 LYRA YALENSIS The sea is still as a child asleep, Far down the heaven the bright stars creep; The moon caresses the earth below, And the waters rise with a gentle flow. The bare dunes now are in beauty drest, An old, old wreck and the world's at rest. II FRENCHMAN'S BAY OUDDEN and swift the mountains rise K - J Smiting the heavens free; Close o'er their heads are the sun-swept skies, And close at their feet the sea! For the fleet waves race past the mountains' base To the calm of the pine fringed bay; They come from the deeps where the tempest sweeps Round dim isles far away. Now the waves are black with the storm- wind's track, They are green as a mermaid's eyes, When faint stars shine they are crimson wine, They are wan when the daylight dies. FRENCHMAN'S BAY 55 On the rocks they moan in a sullen tone, Like wolves on the beach they leap, They ripple and sigh in a lullaby Charming a child to sleep. In the loveless day when the skies are gray, The sea is a widow old ; Beneath the moon, she's a bride of June, Glowing in cloth of gold. But the peaks are unmoved by the plundering storm, Unthrilled by the moonlight's lure. What change can they know, what passion's glow, Those mountains strong and sure? Safe on the hill ye may rest who will, But the waves weave a spell o'er me ; Where the tide runs high, where the shrill gulls cry, I follow the restless sea. THE HERITAGE TT^ROM the drear North, a cold and cheer- *- less land, Our fathers sprang. They drove no flocks to crop the tender grass, They gazed on lonely moor, on deep morass, And wintry skies whence, to their viking band, The raven sang. O'er flowerless lands the storm-tossed forests threw A gloomy pall. On treacherous seas they raised their plunder- ing sail, Fought with the waves, outrode the Northern gale, High overhead the startled sea gulls flew With clamoring call. They heard the breakers smite the quivering shore With thunder roll. No songs they sang to greet the Harvest wain In happy fields rich with the ripened grain; Stern was their world, a sorrow stern they bore Deep in the soul. THE HERITAGE 57 Through countless years, faint memories of their times Will oft awake. From waves and shifting sands, their resting place, The Norsemen send us, offspring of their race, Dimly remembered dreams, like minster chimes Heard o'er a lake. So come dark moments, when in this green land Norsemen are we; And crave the sorrow of the leafless wood, Or seek some barren dune's gray solitude To hear bleak winds go moaning down the sand, By the wild sea. ADVENTURE I I LOVED my garden; in its cloistered plot Blossomed the earliest daffodils of Spring. Hiding gray walls the roses climbed ; each spot Breathed blessing; tender violets languish- ing Scattered faint incense. Honeysuckle sweet, And fragrant grass soft rest for weary feet Enticed the care-worn soul. All that birds sing I knew, and with each note my heart would reach A tranquil joy beyond our mortal speech. One morn, across the distant, sheltering hill, Swift from the sea the eastern wind blew strong. The blackbird's note was hushed ; as all grew still I heard far off that ancient, charmed song The ocean's call. The flowers I loved so well Trembled and died. Half freed from drowsy spell Of garden glamourie, I lingered long, ADVENTURE 59 Then opened wide the gate and out did pass The red rose strewed its petals down the grass. Through the rich meadows, past the moors I went. (The song of birds came faintly down the hill) Sweeter than roses was the waves' keen scent, I heard the wheeling sea gulls calling shrill. With bruised hands I clambered down a ledge And reached no resting place the ocean's edge. Dim dreams came to my heart, brave thoughts that thrill. There lay a boat, for this day was I made, Push out! and o'er the hill the roses fade. II T CANNOT tell where lies my land, * I have no guiding star, no chart, Clutching the tiller, firm I stand And fight the waves with unmoved heart. 60 LYRA YALENSIS Tossed by the stealthy waves, alone On trackless tides where strange stars shine, I seek far regions, vast, unknown. ( Hark ! how the gale sweeps o'er the brine ! ) Rest 'twas the empty gift of Death. The Gods themselves that man deride Who waits their word with trembling breath, His path untrod and life untried. 'Tis cold. Far off in cloistered plot The roses bloom, the violets wait. Breakers! I would not change my lot, Nor turn dismayed from unknown Fate. FINIS. ,.i^f REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 000 672 501 4