THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 A nton V. Long
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 LANGDON ELWYN MITCHELL 
 
 "JOHN PHILIP VARLEY" 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIKFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 press, <JEambriDjje 
 1894
 
 Copyright, 1894, 
 BY LANGDON ELWYN MITCHELL. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company.
 
 /VJ ' 7/1/ ' ? 
 
 TO MY FATHER 
 
 91641 

 
 The present hour, 
 
 The winds that blow, the thoughts that rise, the flower 
 That blossoms, Love now warm and good, 
 This hour of the world's time, and nature's mood, 
 These be my strength, my stay !
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 MM 
 
 AT SEA 1 
 
 NEARING LAND 1 
 
 SUNRISE IN NEW YOKK HAKBOR 2 
 
 TRUE CAPTIVITY 5 
 
 MY COMRADE 5 
 
 IN MAY 7 
 
 THE HOLY HOUR 7 
 
 THE FALLEN LEAF 8 
 
 LEGEND 9 
 
 THE WEARY KINO 11 
 
 THE APPLE-TREE 13 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE TWILIGHT 14 
 
 NIGHTFALL IN WINTER 15 
 
 "WHO IS SHE THAT YOU LOVE?" . . . . . 17 
 
 THE LITTLE EASTERN PRINCESS 18 
 
 THE COMFORT OF THE GRASS 22 
 
 Loss 25 
 
 THE HIDDEN RIVER 29 
 
 THE MOMENT 31 
 
 FROM A CITY WINDOW . 34 
 
 BENEDICTION 34 
 
 AT CHILD'S PLAY IN THE WOODS 35 
 
 AN APRIL FLOWER 36 
 
 DESIRE 37 
 
 LIKENESSES 38 
 
 THE OLD TOWN BY THE SEA 41
 
 v i CONTENTS 
 
 MOTHER AND CHILD 42 
 
 A TALE 46 
 
 CHANGE 78 
 
 THOUGHTS 78 
 
 THE AMULET 79 
 
 IN FOREIGN LANDS 80 
 
 To AN ACTRESS . . 81 
 
 PROLOGUE TO AN AMERICAN PLAY 85 
 
 LOVE .87 
 
 FALSE LOVE 93 
 
 PEACE 94 
 
 DELIGHT 95 
 
 A SOUTHERN NIGHT .... 96 
 
 To A WRITER OF THE DAY 97 
 
 DAVID 107 
 
 THE JOURNEY. 
 
 UNREST 109 
 
 THE JOURNEY BEGUN 110 
 
 THE MILL HI 
 
 AUTUMN ... Ill 
 
 WINTER ... 112 
 
 THE KUINED HOUSE 112 
 
 SPRING 113 
 
 THE FINAL VOICE 114 
 
 THE JOURNEY ENDED 115
 
 POEMS. 
 
 AT SEA. 
 
 As the first beams of morning faintly wooed 
 The maiden East, our ship with steady motion 
 Plunged through the vast and heaving solitude ; 
 Around her was the black expanse of ocean, 
 Above her was the blue and fast she fled ; 
 A bright, perpetual fountain at her prow 
 Leaped from the brine ; like clouds her sails were 
 
 spread, 
 
 And bellied in the wind as white as snow. 
 Gunwale and deck were wet with morning dew ; 
 A smooth and oiled calm behind us flowed, 
 A stream of quiet stretching to the blue ; 
 And easy as delight our proud ship rode 
 A sea, that like a lover round her threw 
 His arms, and clipt her in a blissful mood. 
 
 NEARING LAND. 
 
 THUS as we sped, the bright sun, o'er the sea 
 Drawing his host of clouds, passed down the west,
 
 2 SUNRISE IN NEW YORK HARBOR 
 
 And sank with all his splendor silently ; 
 
 But ere he fell from heaven, he seemed to rest 
 
 His weakened majesty upon the flood 
 
 Of the sustaining water, and, all fair, 
 
 Looked back in light across the evening air, 
 
 Changing dark ocean to his golden mood. 
 
 He sank ; and his warm smile died fast away. 
 
 Eve, lightless, fell ; the rapid waters seethed 
 
 Ceaselessly by. Our good ship onward rushed ; 
 
 Soft blew the breeze ; stars rose ; on high there 
 
 flushed 
 
 Faint, roseate light, and airs from heaven breathed ; 
 And all night long we waited for the day. 
 
 SUNRISE IN NEW YORK HARBOR. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE sun rose softly through warm mists of spring, 
 
 And from the unseen shore a caroling 
 
 Of birds was borne ; it was the morning, fair 
 
 And windless ; a deep calm, a tranquil air. 
 
 And though the mist wrapt us from land and town, 
 
 The smell of the ploughed fields from furrows brown 
 
 And freshly turned, across the water blew 
 
 A pleasant greeting ; till the white mist drew 
 
 Aside, and, fleeting upward, passed away 
 
 In the clear heaven ; and we saw the day, 
 
 And earth, and that, behind us the dark sea, 
 
 We lay in harbor where we wished to be,
 
 SUNRISE IN NEW YORK HARBOR 3 
 
 II. 
 
 Then we, who had been absent from our Land 
 Too long, looked gratefully on the bare sand 
 And earth even of her shore ; and as our ship 
 Moved, eagerly we watched the green hills dip 
 And run behind us, till on the far right 
 Sloping they sank, and open to the sight 
 Left the broad bay ; and o'er the waters fair, 
 Breathing with mist, softly through the soft air, 
 Mysteriously shadowed in the dew, 
 The city swam all slowly into view. 
 But as we gazed, the sun from heaven wrought 
 Upon her beauty : tower by tower she caught 
 The morning, till at last the harbor wide, 
 Green hills, still water, and on every side, 
 Distant and near, white sails and whiter steam 
 Dissolving as it breathed, flushed in the beam 
 And splendor of the day : she seemed to be 
 A faery city on a faery sea ; 
 For every rosy wharf and rosier tower 
 Was imaged in the stream, and for that hour, 
 Throned on a shadow, she did seem to have 
 For her foundation neither earth nor wave, 
 But in the air to hang, on air to float, 
 Lying in calm, immortal and remote, 
 Light, tranquil and un vexed as it might seem 
 Earth, sleeping, dreamed of beauty : this the 
 Dream.
 
 4 SUNRISE IN NEW YORK HARBOR 
 
 III. 
 
 The world is full of pleasure, full of peace, 
 Full of delight : the clouds in their increase 
 Are joy, in their departure joy ; how good 
 Are all the motions of our human blood ! 
 The vernal influence, the flowers of May 
 And fruit of fall : all things that pass away 
 In birth, in being and in passing are 
 How dear to us I how infinitely fair 
 Love passing not away ! and man's deep faith 
 Unshakable, and the sweet thought of death : 
 That happy change, the rising of the dew 
 To heavens it knows not of, that once it knew. 
 These are the world's delights, and with these then 
 There is a rare but kindred one : 't is when 
 After long exile we return again 
 To our loved country, to our blessed Land, 
 The mother of our hearts, and as we stand 
 Hearing the speech that we have hungered for, 
 Know all is well, it is no foreign shore, 
 Passed are the endless fields of ocean's foam, 
 Passed the green, moving waste : we are at home. 
 
 And such a mighty bliss it seemed to me, 
 And such a stepping into liberty, 
 Then, when I saw those hills, those woods, all clear j 
 And every moment as our ship drew near 
 And nearer, saw how gracious and how free 
 The city from her towers looked toward the sea ; 
 And, straining o'er the waters to the strand, 
 Felt my heart leap toward my native Land !
 
 MY COMRADE 
 
 TRUE CAPTIVITY. 
 
 THE wild hawk, silent in his cage, 
 Sits in no sacred hermitage. 
 
 His use of life and only prayer 
 Is swiftness in the light and air. 
 
 His psalm of praise, the cry that 's flung 
 Far downward to his nestling young. 
 
 His busy joy, at even, late, 
 
 To scream and circle with his mate. 
 
 The captive lark will sing and throw 
 His voice where he may never go. 
 
 He hath the heaven that he sings ; 
 But my wild hawk hath only wings ! 
 
 MY COMRADE. 
 
 CHANCELLORS VILLE. 
 
 I HAD a comrade that have none ! 
 I buried him ere break of dawn ; 
 I scooped the earth up and I gave 
 His body to that shallow grave. 
 
 'T was yestermorn when we set forth, 
 As proud as if we were not earth ;
 
 MY COMRADE 
 
 We had no heed, we were as gay 
 As suns in heaven, or flowers in May. 
 
 We met the foe, we fiercely fought ; 
 But, oh, what blast of evil thought 
 Withered our Captain's heart ? 'T was he, 
 Our chief, was conquered, and not we ! 
 
 We must withdraw ! All sick and sad, 
 We turned our faces and obeyed ; 
 As sullenly we fought, 't was then 
 He fell and did not rise again. 
 
 But when the battle's roar was done, 
 As towards the morn the mists begun 
 To creep o'er all, I found my way 
 Back to the hollow where he lay. 
 
 He lay all stiff and stark and cold ; 
 His blood had damped the mossy mould ; 
 And as I touched my brother's clay, 
 The dews of heaven upon it lay. 
 
 I scooped a grave, if grave it were, 
 To hide him from the sun and air ; 
 And gave him one last kiss, and then 
 Shoved in the earth and leaves again. 
 
 I had a comrade that have none ! 
 Dear as my life was he to me ! 
 Would I were dead before the sun, 
 And would that I had died for thee I
 
 THE HOLY HOUR 
 
 IN MAY. 
 
 IT is the May, the winter 's gone, 
 The windflower 's in the forest blown, 
 And all the brooks are filled with rain ; 
 And April's Star is come and gone ; 
 And if thou do not come again, 
 And if thou do not come again, 
 My heart that did like earth repine, 
 Hath now put forth her green in vain ; 
 So come again, and come again] 
 
 THE HOLY HOUR 
 
 THIS hour to thee ! when as the sun 
 His course in the high heaven hath run, 
 And dew upon the earth doth fall, 
 And clouds their infant light recall, 
 
 May I in heart and spirit be 
 
 An hour with thee ! 
 
 This hour be thine ! As tender sweet 
 As to the heart returning feet 
 That timely come, and hands that bless, 
 And eyes that add their own caress, 
 
 So tender and so timely be 
 
 This hour to me !
 
 THE FALLEN LEAF 
 
 Then, make it thine, and as its light 
 Doth fade and vanish in the night, 
 Let day's forgetful labors be 
 Vanished and lost in love of thee. 
 
 For, lo, the heat and glare of day, 
 The want, the woe, have passed away ; 
 And malice mean, and treachery, 
 Have left me now this hour with thee. 
 
 All else forgot, let grief and pain, 
 And care, and misery, and disdain, 
 And falsehood flee away, be Thou 
 My only care and comrade now ! 
 
 This hour to thee ! 
 
 And if I weep, 
 
 Let Hope her watches o'er me keep, 
 And build a rainbow from my tears, 
 That 'neath this sullen cloud of years 
 Shall promise brightly I may be 
 More than an earthly hour with thee ! 
 
 THE FALLEN LEAF. 
 
 PALE leaf, so withered and so wan ! 
 What bade thee fall from off thy bough ? 
 Did other leaves then linger on, 
 Staying behind, as I do, now ?
 
 LEGEND 
 
 Did they thus linger on their tree, 
 To dance upon the winds in vain, 
 Seeking an April smile to see 
 Where never smile might be again ? 
 
 They fade upon forsaken boughs ; 
 They flicker in the frosty air 
 Like yellow light ; and the wind blows, 
 And the cold pierces everywhere. 
 
 Better to fall at once, like thee, 
 All-withered with the withering year, 
 Than, lingering into scorn, to be 
 A laughter, when no love is here. 
 
 LEGEND. 
 
 ONCE as Peter, James, and John 
 With their Master journeyed on, 
 They found themselves upon a road 
 That showed no sign of man's abode. 
 
 Then as upon their way they sped, 
 The dew upon his forehead laid 
 Made James upturn his face, and say : 
 " How peaceful is the close of day ! " 
 
 And John, whose eyes were fixed above 
 " It is ; for 't is the birth of love ;
 
 10 LEGEND 
 
 The heaven is gracious with the sun, 
 But glorified when day is done." 
 
 And Peter said : " The dew doth f aU 
 Upon the desert-ground as well 
 As on the fruitful field ; the light 
 Of sun and star through day and night, 
 Although our eyes should see no more, 
 Would shine as wondrous as before. 
 For loveliness is everywhere, 
 If we have eyes to see it there ! " 
 
 Then, as they went along the road 
 That like a winding water flowed, 
 And plodded on and on, there fell 
 Into their nostrils an ill smell. 
 And presently a horse was seen 
 That dead this many a day had been. 
 His legs were stiff, his carcass blown, 
 His hide was shrunken from the bone. 
 The vultures long had left the prey, 
 And flapped upon the wind away. 
 And maggots now their liking did, 
 And in the carcass housed and hid. 
 
 Said James : " He doth the air pollute ; 
 
 We must avoid the scurvy brute ; 
 
 See how his legs stick out awry ! 
 
 That staring socket was an eye." 
 " Behold the sum of life," said John, 
 " And all the same in horse or man ; 
 
 How his bones are gnawed and bare ! "
 
 THE WEARY KING 11 
 
 And, " Paugh ! " cried Peter, " all that 's fair 
 Loses itself in this ! see, how 
 His lips are stript as if to show 
 The inner vileness ! " 
 
 Thus the three 
 
 Turned themselves off ; but Jesus brooked 
 To stand awhile, and as he looked 
 Upon the carrion thing he said : 
 " Peter, although the brute is dead, 
 Yet, see ! how very pure and white 
 His teeth are ! " 
 
 " Lord ! they are most bright ! " 
 Then Jesus smiled ; and all began 
 To plod upon their way again. 
 
 THE WEARY KING. 
 
 THERE was a King in days of old, 
 Whose heart in his great breast grew cold ; 
 It could no longer weep or pray ; 
 The King was weary of the day. 
 
 Upon his city by the sea 
 
 Sleep and the night all quietly 
 
 Had stolen down, when the moon's glow 
 
 Fell on the King's face, full of woe ; 
 
 For from his noisy palace he 
 
 Stept forth ; the golden revelry 
 
 In distance slumbering, as he passed
 
 12 THE WEARY KINO 
 
 The gates, and gardens dim and vast, 
 And mounting up the stony way 
 Gained the green height. His city lay 
 Behind him now, before, the dawn 
 Glimmered and grayed : the king passed on. 
 
 A herdsman 'neath a mossy mound 
 
 Slept upon the sunny ground. 
 
 His cloak and crook beside -him lay ; 
 
 The King came by, all sad and gray. 
 
 He looked ; and, lo, a rosy smile 
 
 Came on the herdsman's face, the while 
 
 The great King gazed, and thought, how deep 
 
 His happiness who smiles in sleep ! 
 
 Long he mused. Then, at the last 
 He rose, and quietly he cast 
 His mantle from him, and his crown, 
 And laid them by the sleeper down. 
 His weary sceptre too, and all 
 That kingly was, he did let fall ; 
 And from the shepherd's side he took 
 The cloak, the wallet, and the crook. 
 And forth he fared a shepherd, he ! 
 Whose heart within his breast was free ; 
 For as he wandered or was still, 
 Beneath the rock, or by the rill, 
 And as he kept and called his sheep, 
 His kingly cares were laid to sleep. 
 His crook upon his aged knee, 
 He smiled in sunshine dreamily ; 
 And all day long his quiet face 
 Was like an evening in the place.
 
 THE APPLE-TREE 13 
 
 Thus, as all blissfully he went, 
 His old heart grew innocent ; 
 And his high face seemed to know, 
 Like clouds that into evening blow, 
 A long and lovely afterglow. 
 
 THE APPLE-TREE. 
 
 AN apple-tree, that grew beside a road, 
 Bore on a prosperous autumn such a load, 
 That an untender hand or blow would break 
 The laden boughs : " If with my fruit I make 
 A recompense to those who on their way 
 Trudge from the sun-up to the set of day, 
 I shall be glad : although each bough I bear 
 Should broken be." 
 
 In a few days the tree 
 Was stript of all its burden, and the air 
 And sun pierced where they would ; passers might 
 
 see 
 
 Only a few half leafless branches left : 
 Of fruit and leaf alike it was bereft. 
 And as I passed beneath I heard it speak, 
 A fluttering wind of words and accents weak. 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! I did not, could not guess 
 There was so keen an edge to the distress 
 That I must now endure : no leaves I bear, 
 But barrenness, no fruit now but despair.
 
 14 THE CHILD AND THE TWILIGHT 
 
 Had I but known how bitter 't is to be 
 Thus destitute and naked, not in me 
 Would travelers have found delight ; alas ! 
 I did not dream that there was wretchedness 
 That was not to be borne ; but now I see 
 And know and feel myself that there may be." 
 
 Next May I chanced that road ; by grief not 
 
 schooled, 
 
 Flattered by winds, or by the sunlight fooled, 
 The tree had blossomed. Thought I : Trees, like 
 
 men, 
 
 When they are robbed of gladness, scoff and swear 
 They will not err in doing good again ; 
 But gladness kisses them and then they err ! 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE TWILIGHT. 
 
 I WALKED into a little wood, 
 
 And there upon my way, 
 I met a little, little man, 
 
 A little man in gray. 
 
 I spoke to him : " Good day ! good day ! " 
 
 He would not answer me ; 
 He wore a cloak of silver braid, 
 
 As gray as gray could be. 
 
 And on the ground his cloak he spread, 
 He hung it on the Tree ;
 
 NIGHTFALL IN WINTER 15 
 
 And here and there, till all the air 
 Was gray as gray could be. 
 
 " Where is the path in this dark wood? 
 
 I cannot find my way ! " 
 Never a word said the little man, 
 
 The little man in gray. 
 
 " A light, green wood ! lend me a light, 
 
 That I may look and see ! " 
 So quickly then a man in green 
 
 Stept from behind a tree. 
 
 A lantern in his hand he had, 
 
 And not a word said he ; 
 But he ran before to the green woods door, 
 
 And opened it wide for me. 
 
 Oh, little man, whoever you be 
 
 That wore the mantle gray 
 The man in green has come to me, 
 
 And I 'm out of your wood and away ! 
 
 NIGHTFALL IN WINTER. 
 
 COLD is the air, 
 The woods are bare 
 And brown ; the herd 
 Stand in the yard.
 
 16 NIGHTFALL IN WINTER 
 
 The frost doth fall ; 
 And round the hill 
 The hares move slow ; 
 The homeward crow, 
 Alone and high, 
 Crosses the sky 
 All silently. 
 
 The quick streams freeze ; 
 The moving trees 
 Are still ; for now 
 No breeze will blow : 
 The wind has gone 
 With the day, down, 
 And clouds are come 
 Bearing the gloom. 
 The yellow grass 
 In the clear glass 
 Of the bright pool 
 Grows soft and dull. 
 The water's eye 
 That held the sky 
 Now glazes quite ; 
 And now the light 
 On the cold hiU 
 Fadeth, until 
 The giant mass 
 Doth seem to pass 
 From near to far ; 
 The clouds obscure 
 The sky with gloom : 
 The night is come.
 
 " WHO IS SHE THAT YOU LOVE?" 17 
 
 "WHO IS SHE THAT YOU LOVE?" 
 
 WHO is she that you love ? 
 
 Oh, I adore her ! 
 How do you worship her ? 
 
 I bow before her. 
 What is she that you love ? 
 
 Her ways are honor. 
 Who worships her ? 
 
 Whoever looks upon her. 
 And is she fair, thy love ? 
 
 As skies a-clearing. 
 And stately is she ? 
 
 As the stars appearing. 
 And is she true, thy love ? 
 
 There is none truer. 
 And is she good, thy love ? 
 
 Go thou and view her ! 
 And did she tell her love ? 
 
 She did dissemble. 
 How knew you that she loved ? 
 
 I saw her tremble. 
 And when she trembled, then ? 
 
 I knelt beside her. 
 And then ? 
 
 Why, then, why then, sweet joy 
 
 betide her !
 
 THE LITTLE EASTERN PRINCESS. 
 
 A LITTLE Lady in a story old, 
 
 Fragrant with all the East from Samarcand 
 
 To Bagdad or bright Fez, when she was told 
 
 She must not bathe in the moonlight, " By this 
 
 hand," 
 
 She cried, " I will ! " Nor could a princess swear 
 By aught that under heaven was more fair, 
 Or sweeter kisses to her lover blew. 
 And this I think the little Lady knew. 
 
 I have forgotten now what blind or hid 
 
 Disaster was to follow if she did 
 
 According to her oath ; the point, however, 
 
 Was, if she bathed in any tranquil river, 
 
 She 'd see what the Vizier himself had been 
 
 At earnest pains should not by her be seen, 
 
 Namely, her own sweet face ; for from that one 
 
 Brief moment's vision Destiny had spun 
 
 The threads so ! all things grew ; and in the tale 
 
 Of destined harm there was a nightingale, 
 
 A jealous father, hareems, and a Fate 
 
 Ripening to fall, a soft and silken hate, 
 
 Rings of dark power, a latticed window high, 
 
 Whence roses rained, a lover, and a spy, 
 
 And sweets ungirdled in the secret night, 
 
 A blare of trumpets and a sudden flight ;
 
 THE LITTLE EASTERN PRINCESS 19 
 
 Then bloody payment; and sad eyes like stars ; 
 And half a hundred whirling scimitars, 
 With more but as I say, I have forgot 
 What followed, but what made it follow, not. 
 
 For that same night the Princess' little feet, 
 Her slippers in her naughty hand, all fleet, 
 Down the cool marble stairs, and o'er the lawn, 
 And through an ivory gate, were slipped and gone. 
 Thence 'neath green groves she walked, moon shad 
 owed all, 
 
 Till scarcely now she heard the fountain's fall 
 In the courtyard ; and, behold, the River's face, 
 Dreamy and glittering ! a broad, bright space, 
 Of balmy verge. The dark, cool waters drew 
 About an Isle, where purple flag-flowers grew ; 
 Each purple flag-flower bowing on its stem, 
 Whose purple images bowed back at them. 
 High in the air soared pomegranate and palm ; 
 And all was ripeness and repose and calm. 
 The princess gazed in soft, delicious mood, 
 Until the coolness of the water wooed 
 Her feet to venture daintily, the sin 
 Was pleasant and invited deeper in. 
 And being deeper gone, she perceived, for 
 The first time in her life, that rivers bore 
 Bright stars ; and were sky-deep, a sudden terror 
 Heaved in her bosom ! Had the dark, blue mirror 
 Of waters rippled not, she, frankly, even 
 Had feared to topple and fall into heaven ! 
 But seeing half a hundred stars below 
 Pass into streams of light, and flash, and flow
 
 20 THE LITTLE EASTERN PRINCESS 
 
 On the dark wave, she plucked up heart ; and soon 
 
 The fire-besprinkled motion calmed, the moon 
 
 Burnished the undulant and easy wave, 
 
 That ever smoother grew ; still not quite brave, 
 
 Until she saw the heaven, the stars, and all 
 
 The pomegranates, and palm majestical ; 
 
 And, presently, discerned the pebbly shelf 
 
 And bed of bottom sand ; when, "Oh," she saw 
 
 herself ! 
 
 Her face unknown to her ! all fair, and full. 
 Out leaped the thought ! " By Eblis ! beauti 
 ful! 
 
 Allah has given me beauty ; I must make 
 A proper use of it for Allah's sake. 
 Ah, what a Loveliness I am ! " 't was hence, 
 And from that hour she lost all innocence 
 Of her own power, whereon she bathed, and 
 
 dashed 
 Hither and thither, swam, and played and plashed. 
 
 She had great joy, indeed ! And so, as one 
 Who has the whole of a harsh duty done, 
 That is to say, with conscience quite at rest, 
 Head-beneath-wing, and sleeping in her breast, 
 Her homeward way she now began to measure, 
 Rich in deceit and full of stolen pleasure ; 
 Until she gained her palace, when the Tale 
 
 Further relateth that a nightingale 
 
 But that 's nor here, nor there ! 
 
 Only, when I 
 Behold the young Moon bathing in the sky,
 
 THE LITTLE EASTERN PRINCESS 21 
 
 A naked splendor, then I seem to be 
 Transported to that Tale : voluptuously 
 The Lady walketh in her garden fair, 
 'Neath citron groves, and orange, and the air 
 Is perfumed with a languor, as she goes, 
 Swaying from side to side ; the river flows 
 About her, and she sees her Image bright, 
 Soft-mirrored in the stream, and the warm depth of 
 
 night, 
 With all the pleasures of her loveliness 
 
 There is a languor comes with the excess 
 
 Of the moon's soft light ; and sometimes even a 
 
 saint, 
 Wand'ring 'mid Eastern fables, will grow faint.
 
 THE COMFORT OF THE GRASS. 
 
 MADISON SQUARE, NEW YORK, 1890. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE night hath passed upon me wearily, 
 A heavy night of darkness, and is gone ; 
 Oh, let me raise my eyes to heaven and see 
 The rosy deep of full refreshing dawn. 
 
 For grief hath been my bed-fellow, and slept 
 
 No hour of these so many : I have wept, 
 
 Till not alone my eyes are weary weeping, 
 
 But strong convulsion of unwilling grief 
 
 Hath numbed the very nerves of pain ; I feel 
 
 A languor in my veins, as if my blood 
 
 Had drunk of slumber and my grief were sleeping, 
 
 Never to wake again. 
 
 For now my mood 
 
 Is soft as summer air, ah, if it would 
 But linger to the noon, I murmur low, 
 This sweet and temperate interval of calm, 
 So blessed and so delicious with the balm 
 And softness of late vanished tears ! I know 
 Not now if I am he, who hung in grief, 
 And withered in despair as some pale leaf 
 Looks from below upon its former bough, 
 Where all night long it clung, but clings not now.
 
 THE COMFORT OF THE GRASS 23 
 
 II. 
 
 Here are no green hillsides, no path, to follow, 
 No flock of sheep that out of some deep hollow 
 Come bleating through the dew ; no river bright 
 That girds a mountain with far-flashing light. 
 But the great city with its mortal stir, 
 And dull, continuous thunder ; yet the air 
 Is filled with glamour of the misty morn, 
 And noises sweet, matutinal, are borne 
 Comminglingly from far ; young light doth rest 
 Yellow and winter-warm on grass and tree ; 
 And the wide Square is still at this hour free 
 Of all its loiterers ; soft is the sky, 
 Gentle the air ! Women and men pass by, 
 Hastiug to their day labor. Lo, the grass 
 Is quiet to the eye and ever new, 
 And sparkles like a meadow deep in dew. 
 
 in. 
 
 Green countenance of earth, forever fair ! 
 
 Thou lovely smile of the maternal earth, 
 
 When lying in the soft embrace of air 
 
 She feeleth the young Spring abound in her, 
 
 And laugheth in her bliss, and looketh forth 
 
 Amongst the clouds ! Bright crowner of the 
 
 height, 
 
 And dweller by the sea, strong Grass, where'er 
 Thou comest, earth is sweet, as she is here, 
 Made so by thee. Thou veil of happy light ! 
 Soft, sweet interposition 'twixt the dead 
 And those who call themselves the quick ! oh, 
 
 might
 
 24 THE COMFORT OF THE GRASS 
 
 The weary living, sick of life, be laid 
 
 Beneath thy dewiness, thy mist of green, 
 
 So sparkling and so pure and so serene ! 
 
 Then might'st thou the lost good of Life restore ; 
 
 For never touch of the Beloved could be 
 
 More gentle, more assuaging, softer more, 
 
 Or fraught with deeper bliss, than thine to me. 
 
 To all thou bringest Peace, but to such eyes 
 
 As weary are, thy touch is paradise ; 
 
 And to such hearts as restlessly, forever 
 
 Seek after Peace in vain, and find her never ! 
 
 Nor yet from that perturbed seeking cease, 
 
 Thou greenest light, thou art their whole of Peace.
 
 LOSS. 
 
 I WANDERED through the orchard and the wood, 
 And gathered flowers and blossoms, frail and fair, 
 Too-soon departing children of an hour 
 When April marries with a May-time mood. 
 Anemones that tremble in still air ; 
 And violets that Evening loves to brood 
 Dewily over ; hyacinths as fair 
 As heaven is ; and those pale flowers the rude 
 And surly winds will never leave for May ; 
 With many another brightness, dear to me, 
 And dwelled upon, because like this bright day, 
 Like all that 's born of earth, and most may be 
 Stainless and pure, yet quickly fade away, 
 They feed one all-engrossing memory. 
 
 n. 
 
 I dreamed I came to my old nurse again, 
 
 And fell upon her neck, and wept my fill ; 
 
 For I had wandered far, bearing a pain 
 
 Which not all earth-wide wanderings may still : 
 
 The weight of absence that 's endured in vain ; 
 
 " Dear nurse," I cried, and, sobbing, bowed my head, 
 
 " She will not ever, ever come again ! " 
 
 " My bairn, what gars ye greet sae ! Wha is dead ? 
 
 Ye 're in a waefu' dream ; " with that she led
 
 26 LOSS 
 
 Me to the very chamber that I feared ; 
 But at the instant as the door we neared, 
 My heart within me gave a cry, sleep fled , 
 And I awaked, and wept whatever sears 
 And wastes a life away; for, oh, they were not 
 tears! 
 
 m. 
 
 I would that I could do such things for you 
 
 As women gently use to those they love ; 
 
 I would my longing spirit like a dew 
 
 Could fall upon you and your cares remove. 
 
 Martha and Mary thus their Lord did woo ; 
 
 Nor should my cares be such thou couldst reprove ; 
 
 But, like a sleep, thy weariness pursue 
 
 And drop in benediction from above. 
 
 Alas ! the dove of my solicitude 
 
 Faints from her flight and must return to me ; 
 
 This earth to her a weary solitude, 
 
 A waste of waters without hope of thee. 
 
 But dawn must rise on darkness ; to the flood 
 
 Of Time, how deep soe'er, an end shall be. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I heard at dewy morn two upland plover 
 Grieving the air, a tremulous, wild crying ; 
 And watched them as all eagerly they hover 
 With quivering wings, and each to each replying. 
 It was their nest was robbed, and they were flying 
 Hither and thither sadly, to recover 
 What was forever lost ; and with them vying 
 How oft my thoughts, as tender as a lover, 
 Have wandered round that lonely house and place ;
 
 LOSS 27 
 
 And wild with grief have they not wasted there 
 The day and night in looking for one face, 
 And found it not ! while I sat weary here, 
 And dared not tell them that their search must be 
 Into the shadow of Eternity. 
 
 v. 
 
 I had a friend, but she is gone from me ; 
 
 I had a heart, but find it changed now ; 
 
 I had sweet thoughts, they could not sweeter be, 
 
 But looking on them since, they are not so. 
 
 A home was mine where I my heart could lay ; 
 
 It smiled upon me like a mother's face ; 
 
 But men have come and chased that smile away, 
 
 And were I there I should not know the place. 
 
 So sweetest shadows change. Yet there 's a thing 
 
 Fairer than shadows are ; and as the Spring 
 
 To this cold world comes sweetly, so to me 
 
 The love which constant is unto my friend ; 
 
 It is a May of heart, and heavenly, 
 
 And blossoms into heaven without end. 
 
 VI. 
 
 As nigh a little group of flowers I knelt, 
 
 That closely grew and clustered all so thickly, 
 
 They shed a single shadow down, I felt 
 
 A change in them, I saw them alter quickly : 
 
 They lost their hue, and from them fled their 
 
 shadow ! 
 
 And yet, 't was but the sun behind a cloud, 
 That wrought such sadness over all the meadow ; 
 And soon again he would his face unshroud.
 
 28 LOSS 
 
 The hue and odor from my thoughts is gone 
 Since thou art vanished, and they wither now, 
 And want their fragrant life, and are all wan, 
 And wish with thee they might transplanted blow. 
 But if Death be such cloud, no more ! oh, 
 
 then, 
 Let them blow here, hereafter blow again.
 
 THE HIDDEN RIVER. 
 
 SOMETIMES in a great wind a lull occurs, 
 
 And in the lull the voice of the dark firs, 
 
 And of the other trees whose limbs are bare, 
 
 Is scarcely heard ; yet, listen, and the air 
 
 Fills with a distant sound, distant and dull 
 
 And hoarse, and as the night grows yet more still, 
 
 It gathers volume : from behind the hill, 
 
 A voice, as if deep Nature and the Night 
 
 Conspired in murmurs 'gainst the kingly light. 
 
 Fed with the thaw and gush of mountain snow, 
 Behind yon hill a hundred rivers flow 
 In one ; swollen those waters ; swift their flight ; 
 And their deep roll it is, as through the night 
 They take their mighty course. I know not how, 
 But as those moon-lit, snow-fed currents flow 
 Into one power, it seems no more to be 
 A sound of rivers that confusedly 
 Murmur from many mouths, and by their verge 
 And bank, pine - shadowed, sweep with tranquil 
 surge. 
 
 Mournful, the murmur of the unseen wave 
 Is like a spirit, risen from the grave, 
 And crying to the heart : How fleet thy years 
 The past how deeply lost ! Beyond all tears
 
 30 THE HIDDEN RIVER 
 
 Buried in time, whose waves bear thee away 
 
 In their swift motion ; and thou bid'st them stay 
 
 In vain ! darkly they rush ! fleet, fleet ! in 
 
 vain ! 
 
 Their errand is to the eternal main, 
 Of which thou art a breath. 
 
 Not always thus 
 
 The voice of gathered, multitudinous, 
 Far-rushing waters ! Rather like delight 
 And mystery in the soft, summer night ; 
 The touch of music that is now no more ; 
 Like words soft-uttered from that other shore, 
 While we on this stand listening silently ; 
 Dark shadow flows between ; no form may be 
 Discerned ; and all is still. " Where art thou 
 
 now?" 
 We cry, " Is Death eternal ? Where art thou ? " 
 
 And from that unseen shore, a spirit saith, 
 " Be not beguiled ! behold, there is no death : 
 For the dead live and are." 
 
 Far, far away, 
 
 The river rolls its waters to the day, 
 And to the ocean. From the dawn a breeze 
 Floats down, and mingles with the leafless trees, 
 Motion and sound ; and the same spirit stirs 
 And murmurs in the darkness of the firs.
 
 THE MOMENT. 
 
 'Tis autumn now ; the wood upon the hill 
 Is a rich yellow in the soft blue sky ; 
 The corn-fields glisten, the warm air is still ; 
 And the few clouds are feathery and high. 
 Far off a little breeze comes lingeringly 
 Along the woods-edge and spills lightly down 
 Leaf after leaf : they fall innumerably ; 
 And like some golden and ripe fruit they lie 
 On the green grass, and fill the furrow brown. 
 How silent 't is ! 'T is the serenest air, 
 The calmest day ! The current of the year 
 Flows scarcely now ; Nature herself bereaves 
 Gently of life ; from under fallen leaves 
 Peers the young grass. 
 
 And my deep heart within, 
 Like a calm lake reflects the golden scene 
 Distinct in all its glory, e'en to where 
 The distant hills loom up in the warm air, 
 Melting in silvery haze. 
 
 How sweet, how good 
 It is to be reborn into this mood 
 Of natural ending : to be satisfied 
 With the world's age, and ebb of its great tide.
 
 32 THE MOMENT 
 
 Too often do we fall from such content ; 
 Estranged from our own nature, wryed and bent, 
 As saplings in the forest by the snow, 
 Heavily fallen, and which never grow 
 Erect again ; Life falls on us e'en so ! 
 And wrenched at heart too rudely, we become 
 Like those whose spirits, feeding on the gloom 
 And bitterness of things, see naught to please 
 Where others find a blessedness or ease ; 
 Whom nothing satisfies : nor love, nor mirth ; 
 Not clouds, and not the sun's bright looking forth ; 
 Not Life ! forever sliding into change ; 
 Not death ! for death 's unnatural and strange. 
 Not with the stillness, and not with the stream 
 Are such content : they feed upon a Dream, 
 And waking from it hunger ceaselessly ; 
 Their heaven a desire, eternity 
 Of vain desire ! 
 
 So may it never be 
 
 Unto my soul and blood ! The present hour, 
 The winds that blow, the thoughts that rise, the 
 
 flower 
 
 That blossoms, Love now warm and good, 
 This hour of the world's time, and nature's mood, 
 These be my strength, my stay ! 
 
 Ah, blue and fair 
 
 Is yonder heaven, mild and sweet the air. 
 And tenderly the spirit dies away 
 In life from earth, in light from the blue day. 
 Nor was she holier that other earth,
 
 THE MOMENT 33 
 
 Our mother, bringing all things to their birth, 
 Than this sweet failing hour, the calm, the rest, 
 And earth retaking all things to her breast. 
 
 For holy though the influx, the green leaf ! 
 The full tide ! yet, holy the great relief ! 
 The vast security, blissful and strange, 
 The mighty throe, the universal change ; 
 Holy the swift departure ! 
 
 Even as now 
 
 The year departs, so Man, so all things flow 
 Into the gulf of change, and calmly cease 
 Upon the bosom of eternal Peace.
 
 FROM A CITY WINDOW. 
 
 I HEAR the feet 
 
 Below 
 
 In the dark street ; 
 
 They hurry and shuffle by, 
 
 And go, on errands bitter or sweet, 
 
 Whither I cannot know. 
 
 A bird troubles the night 
 From the green plane 
 And in my breast again 
 Vague memories of delight 
 Arise from the spirit's night, 
 And pass into it again. 
 
 And the hurrying, restless feet 
 
 Below, 
 
 On errands I cannot know, 
 
 Like a great tide ebb and flow. 
 
 BENEDICTION. 
 
 SLEEP, darling, sleep ! 
 Some eyes in slumber weep ; 
 I pray, not thine ! 
 Thy slumbers be more deep 
 Than mine !
 
 AT CHILD'S PLAY IN THE WOODS 35 
 
 Smile, then, thrice dear ! 
 For I shall have no fear, 
 If thy sleep smile : 
 Heaven then to earth draws near 
 Awhile. 
 
 Slumber and rest ! 
 If Love can bless, oh blessed 
 Thy slumbers be ! 
 And lead thee, dear, at last, 
 Tome. 
 
 AT CHILD'S PLAY IN THE WOODS. 
 
 WE sought a forest, 'neath whose pleasant shade, 
 
 We who are older, and grown up, and wiser 
 
 Than any mortal ever was ! we played 
 
 That we were children playing ; so much nicer 
 
 Than now we are ! You were an Indian maid, 
 
 My daughter, whom I loved in moderation ! 
 
 And you were gay, but I was dark and dread, 
 
 And wrapt in fur and sombre meditation. 
 
 You built a fire of twigs ; how grave I looked, 
 
 Smoking a green bough ! you fetched dew, for 
 
 water, 
 
 And smiled at me, so sweetly ! while I smoked ; 
 And when you smiled, I smiled and said : " My 
 
 daughter, 
 
 Your sweet face is most dear to me," and then, 
 You blew your fire, I puffed my pipe again.
 
 36 AN APRIL FLOWER 
 
 AN APRIL FLOWER. 
 
 How pale the shadows of the leafless trees ! 
 A branched, pale, blue light on the deep snow, 
 That wavers gently, as the winter breeze 
 Sways the light boughs above it to and fro. 
 
 "Tis true, the buds are yet unswelled with Spring, 
 In whose fresh shadows, soon, the birds will sing ; 
 Those birds, too true, are flown long time away ; 
 And the cold woods and meadows are all gray. 
 There seems in truth, no hope ; the brooks run by 
 And glitter coldly to a cold, blue sky. 
 
 Yet I assure myself, with softest words, 
 The forests will unfold their green ; the birds 
 Will from the South return : that these things, 
 
 though 
 
 They seem to be a legend, are not so ! 
 And thus I wait, patiently as I can, 
 A winter-weary, spring-desiring man, 
 Breathing expectancy. 
 
 Hard lot ! but, oh, 
 How soon this age and heaviness of snow 
 Will dance like Youth itself upon the hills, 
 Hashing and falling down the noisy rills, 
 When from the sun's warm bosom the young Spring 
 Steps smilingly, and shakes her glittering 
 And wreathed locks, that myriad leaves may dress 
 With modest green her warm, bright nakedness !
 
 DESIRE 37 
 
 Far harder lot it is to wait till Love 
 
 Return from whence she 's gone ; to know the 
 
 dove 
 
 Will be here, ere she may the swallows even ! 
 It was but yesterday when full of heaven, 
 Of thoughts of love, I mean, I found a place 
 Where was a new-born flower ; I bent my face 
 Down to it, and I swear to you, the thing 
 Had a warm breath, as 't were a tiny Spring ; 
 And when I lay beside it on the grass, 
 And kissed where was its breath, it came to pass 
 I seemed to be beside her, far removed ! 
 And kissed with closed eyes my one-beloved ! 
 
 DESIRE. 
 
 Now the Spring, like a green flood, 
 Flows again o'er field and wood, 
 O'er plain and forest, and the sea, 
 Wilt thou not, then, joyously, 
 My beloved, come to me ? 
 
 The wild swan seeks her watery nest ; 
 The happy clouds blow from the west ; 
 The sweet rain falls, and slumbrously 
 Earth lies in calm of cloud and sea, 
 And wilt thou, too, not come to me, 
 To rest and slumber joyously !
 
 LIKENESSES. 
 
 I LOVE you, dear, and since you ask, 
 
 And put me to the happy task 
 
 Of searching out similitudes, to say 
 
 Like this or that, as if it were a " play," 
 
 That children played, why, let 's be children, too, 
 
 Playing at this : And so I '11 say to you, 
 
 I love you like the day, for day is bright,. 
 
 And heaven is in the day, and 't is all light, 
 
 And in the light we live ! " Oh, but," you cry, 
 
 " My likenesses must be less large, less high ! 
 
 The game 's too loose if I throw down a day, 
 
 Or night, and bid that count! " Why, then, I'll 
 
 say, 
 
 Like the fresh brooks that in the forest flow, 
 Or vernal breezes that above them blow ; 
 Or like perchance the quick, light-leaping fawn, 
 Or the young flowers o'er which her feet have gone ; 
 Or like of all things, like the early Spring, 
 When she puts laughter into everything, 
 And to glad hearts the great world seems to be 
 Shook with a kind of leafy gayety. 
 For, truth! I love you like all things that are 
 Of the world's spirit born, in earth or air 
 Whatever 's lovely, fleetest cloud, or foam, 
 Or flower, or spring of flowers, or thought of home,
 
 LIKENESSES 39 
 
 Or welcome home, or laughter, or delight, 
 
 Or dawn, or liberty, or day, or night ! 
 
 Like sleep long absent ! like oh, like the hand 
 
 Of friendship after calumny ! 
 
 Command 
 
 You my thoughts further ? they shall find 
 New likenesses as easy as the wind 
 A space for its wide marches, for I love 
 Thee and this world ! But, see ! as children sail 
 The tiniest shells upon some river, fill 
 Their fancied sails with breath, and all the while 
 Speak of their "ventures," and without a smile 
 Direct this barque to Cadiz, and that one 
 To some rich Indian port, so have we done 
 With this most foolish game ! 
 
 And even as children run 
 
 Beside their current, and are caught and whirled 
 Down the swift stream, that Spirit of the World, 
 Love, with whom now I fondly thought to play 
 In words, has caught and whirled my heart away 
 To dangerous depths ! For there 's no thought 
 
 may give 
 
 The sense of how much in our love we live, 
 How much I live in thine, or with what soul 
 I cherish thee ! 
 
 " Ah, but I must control 
 My love, and play the game out ! " 
 
 Know, then, I 
 
 Love you as men may love a victory 
 Which they have nobly won ; of which they 're gay, 
 And proud most happily ! and, in such mood and 
 
 way,
 
 40 LIKENESSES 
 
 Like glory and like music and like war 
 
 I love you, oh, like all of these, and more 
 
 Than life I love thee, and with such a fire 
 
 As breathes the south-wind when she brings desire 
 
 To all the world ! 
 
 Into what foolishness 
 
 Have you betrayed my great love, to express 
 Itself in such poor likenesses ! 
 
 The springs 
 
 Of all my joy well up in thee ; 
 And all my journeyings 
 
 Are to or from thee ; and the thoughts I have 
 Forever circle round about thy love, 
 As bees in Spring about my lindens do, 
 When all day long they murmur. 
 
 And yet you, 
 
 I feel, think now my game is poorly played. 
 Similitudes are faint, nay more, they 're dead ; 
 And our slight play at these has such a base 
 Of earnest as shall make me rather say 
 These likenesses nothing so poor as they ! 
 Are but themselves as straws or feathers, cast 
 Lightly upon a wind : how strong the blast, 
 How mighty, and in what direction blown, 
 Their lightness tells you. 
 
 On my deep Love thrown, 
 
 How speedingly and swift they 're fled and gone ! 
 Upon that blessed stream they flee from me 
 Fast, fast ! and hasten, hasten, dear, to thee !
 
 THE OLD TOWN BY THE SEA. 
 
 THERE is an old town by the sea, 
 That lies alone and quietly. 
 Behind, the sand-dunes bleak and gray 
 Stretch to the low hills away ; 
 Before, the ripple laps and calls, 
 Running along the weedy walls ; 
 Like crescents pale, on either side, 
 The silver sands receive the tide ; 
 And from the winding streets you see 
 The great, green waters of the sea. 
 
 The wind blows coldly from the north, 
 On winter dawns, when in the gray, 
 Dim light the fisher-folk set forth, 
 And in their dories ride away. 
 All day a golden sunlight sleeps 
 On the gray town ; and hour by hour 
 The sea its calm reflection keeps, 
 All golden as a golden flower. 
 
 When coldly sets the sun, the town 
 Nestles in soft shadow down ; 
 And flocking in across the main, 
 The fishermen come home again. 
 
 And through the dusk, up to the town, 
 The bronzed, gray-bearded faces go ;
 
 42 MOTHER AND CHILD 
 
 The lights are lit ; and to and fro 
 Groups move along the street, and men 
 And women talk in twilight air ; 
 And the town is noisy, while, all fair, 
 And golden through the evening gray, 
 Far out, the great and unknown ships 
 Sail, and sail, and pass away. 
 
 The lights go out ; the town is still ; 
 And all night long the ocean's swell 
 Is soft and full ; and a gray mist 
 Falls slowly down, 
 And steals away the silent town 
 Out of the world ; and naught may tell 
 That the town lives, only the swell 
 Of the waters, the long, quiet swell. 
 
 MOTHER AND CHILD. 
 
 THE wind roars through the night ; 
 Gusts of the wind and sudden flaws 
 Shake the casement ; and hark I 
 Far from above 
 Forests contending in air 
 War, and the vale below, 
 Swollen in all its streams, 
 Murmurs, a voice of floods 
 Answering the voices of air.
 
 MOTHER AND CHILD 43 
 
 And still the great wind bandies the answers 
 
 Back and forth, and with loud, continuous roar 
 
 Rushes unseen through the wide darkness. 
 
 Still as a thought of quietness and love, 
 
 Still as a thought, this little candle burns. 
 
 Its constant spire with a rich, yellow light 
 
 Fills my chamber, and by its magic light 
 
 I read a wondrous story, from a book 
 
 Swarthy and dark, dark, swarthy as a face 
 
 Of Syrian shepherd on the desert hills 
 
 Feeding his flock at noon ; and the book wakens 
 
 From its dry sleep, and tells me a wondrous story : 
 
 How Mary the mother 
 
 Came to the inn, perchance on such a night ! 
 
 And how the inn was full ; and in a manger 
 
 She made her bed, sadly and fearfully ; 
 
 And from the windows of the inn the light 
 
 Looked insolently out. How none cared for them, 
 
 For her the humble, for him a carpenter, 
 
 None, save a little maid who came to them 
 
 Bearing them food from the inn, and a shepherd 
 
 lad 
 
 Who laid the soft and fleecy cloak he wore 
 Down in the manger ; and how the little group, 
 With but a single lantern, in the dark stable 
 Was gathered, where the hay was freshly mown, 
 This too I read, and rustled and smelled sweet. 
 And how her voice so gentle was, the while 
 She lay in pain, and the great oxen lowed, 
 And the sheep huddled in the dark ; and the rain 
 Even as now ! fell softly on the roof, 
 Innumerably plashing, soft and low,
 
 44 MOTHER AND CHILD 
 
 The while the watch-dog barked. 
 Then how she bore 
 
 Her little child, sore travailing in the night, 
 In darkness travailing while the night was long. 
 And how when He was born, and lapped about 
 By loving hands, the fragrant breath of the kine 
 Filled Mary's sense, and she woke to that cry, 
 The gentle plaining of a new-born thing, 
 Soft as the murmur of a hidden brook, 
 Hidden in grass, and scarcely murmuring. 
 
 Then, even as I read, 
 One of the herd in the winter-yard below 
 Lowed softly in a lull of the storm ; a dog 
 Bayed, and was still ; and from afar a cock 
 Crew lustily thrice. 
 
 And again I sought the volume, 
 And would have read, and could not, for a mist 
 That rose before me ; for the words of the volume, 
 All the printed words, became like clouds, 
 Mistily gathered, and they wreathed, and wreath 
 ing, 
 
 Rose in the air, and hung ; then, like a cloud 
 Through which the blue looks out, they opened, and 
 
 showed me 
 
 The picture of the story, and on that picture 
 Rested and fed my gaze : the stall and manger, 
 In the dim light ; the lantern in the hand 
 Of the lad who held it, painting the great rafters ; 
 The mother pale as the last cloud of even, 
 And the boy, rosy as the morning light, 
 Lying upon her bosom, as a bright star
 
 MOTHER AND CHILD 45 
 
 Hid or half-hidden in a summer cloud ; 
 
 His tiny hand 
 
 Touching, clasping her breast, and her young eyes 
 
 Down-looking. 
 
 And all the while, 
 
 Outside the sheeted rain, 
 
 The driving mists, gusts of the rain, and flaws, 
 
 And a mighty, uncontrollable spirit of wind 
 
 Rushing through the wide darkness, 
 
 With loud, continuous roar.
 
 A TALE. 
 
 " The fallen blood of martyrs is in vain, 
 If ours be not as free to fall again." 
 
 THERE lies a village on a northern hill : 
 Behind it the Green Mountains rise and fill 
 The air with their dark forests ; but before, 
 The meadowy hills, like waves without a shore, 
 In gentle undulations fall away 
 To the horizon ; they are sweet with hay 
 For many a mile in summer ; but 't was now 
 Chill March ; upon those hills the heavy snow, 
 Beneath the pine and o'er the river, lay, 
 All blue and cold under the cold, blue day. 
 
 It was the world of Winter, still and white. 
 
 The sun upon the snow struck dazzling light 
 
 Into the air, till the high mountains shore 
 
 His beams as he declined and day was slowly o'er. 
 
 As then his intercepted light forsook 
 
 The village roofs with their blue, quiet smoke, 
 
 It dwelled last on an elm, whose spreading boughs 
 
 Hung leaflessly above an old, gray house, 
 
 Low-roofed, and lawned about, that on the road, 
 
 Perhaps a stone's throw from the village, stood 
 
 Looking with all its windows to the east.
 
 A TALE 47 
 
 It seemed a silent place ; its walls had ceased 
 Long time to echo noisy laughter, for 
 Its happy children were gone forth ; the war, 
 Calling all men, the ploughman from his plough, 
 The shepherd from his flock, and those that sow 
 From the rolled field, thus calling without ruth 
 To noble hearts, bore them from their first youth, 
 And from that home beneath New England skies, 
 And from the calm light of their mother's eyes. 
 
 She sent them, saying, " Other women give 
 
 Alms to the poor ; I bid my sons to live, 
 
 Or die, if need be, for their land." And they, 
 
 As if the war's stern face were bright and gay, 
 
 Hopeful as sunrise, or as if, indeed, 
 
 The hand of lady waved them to her need 
 
 Of light and courteous kind, so, to that call, 
 
 Their country's, gallantly they hastened all ; 
 
 Leaving their mother in the home which seemed 
 
 To miss its voices ; and she missed them ; 
 
 dreamed 
 
 Hourly of them ; spoke of them hourly ; lived 
 But in their thought ; but yet not vainly grieved. 
 " Weak women chide at loss and absence, then 
 When 't is such absence makes their babies men." 
 She would not ; 't was indeed pleasure to bear 
 Male children, love them, teach them with such 
 
 care, 
 
 Infinity of care ! but to confer 
 Manhood upon the world, as seemed to her, 
 That was the nobler office ; and well worth 
 The toils of motherhood to send men forth,
 
 48 A TALE 
 
 And watch them on their way ; and thus at last 
 
 To be repaid with honor for the past. 
 
 In this first absent time her youngest son, 
 
 Still but a boy, was her companion. 
 
 For though his eager heart conceived no matter 
 
 Softer than cannons, balls, squadron, petard, and 
 
 clatter 
 
 Of bayonets, cavalry reveille, and all 
 The rest that makes war seem a musical 
 And gorgeous game, still was he judged too young 
 To front the hardships that his brothers flung 
 Their lives into, and so was chained at home ; 
 Angrily dreaming of the Rebel drum, 
 And chiding his youth's backward stay. 
 
 This lad 
 
 His mother loved above the rest ; she showed 
 Justly no favor to him, more than she 
 To all accorded ; but since in his free 
 And happy mind, and his quick, eager eyes, 
 She seemed to see his father in him rise, 
 Living again, he grew to be more dear ; 
 More hope she nursed for him, a tenderer fear 
 Suffered. 
 
 Her husband was long dead ; the loss 
 Of fortune treading on his death, her cross 
 Was heavy, and its shadow coldly lay 
 On her best years : in whose dark, easeless way, 
 The worst of woman's life, its widowhood, 
 Loneliness, labor, with long servitude, 
 And to a bitter master, poverty,
 
 A TALE 49 
 
 Became her lot. But whether sufferingly 
 
 Endured, or boldly faced, those painful days 
 
 Of man's neglect had rather seemed to raise 
 
 Her nature to its height than to depress 
 
 Her spirit, or abate, or make that less 
 
 In vigor and in pride. Perchance she brought 
 
 From such harsh teaching time a bolder thought, 
 
 A freer view of life, more love of good 
 
 As knowledge of it, and a rectitude 
 
 Of stricter aim. Perchance, too, those dark years, 
 
 Difficult poverty, and concealed tears 
 
 Of passionate chagrin, sowed in her will 
 
 And wish, ambition for her sons ; for still 
 
 Through all their nurture ran this thought, the 
 
 scope 
 
 Of all her actions, and her heaven of hope, 
 And fruit to come of labor : her sons must be 
 First of the first ; and most ambitiously 
 Her mother spirit dwelled on their advance. 
 But the grave beauty of her countenance 
 Took from the harshness of those years no trace. 
 It was a gentle and a lovely face. 
 Some look of conscious power and dignity 
 There was, but mixed with beauty ; for the glow 
 Of her proud youth and easy "motion, too, 
 With pleasure of a stately courtesy 
 Now mingled, she retained ; seeming to be 
 In all, a serene presence, to whom time, 
 Not grief, had brought a full and equal calm. 
 
 Cheerless and cold, the long-expected morn 
 Rose now, and smiled away her youngest born,
 
 50 A TALE 
 
 And with a proud farewell she bade him go. 
 Forth then he fared ; smiling, assured, aglow 
 With hope ; his easy spirits all as light 
 And eager in their motion as a flight 
 Of swallows o'er the home he left. 
 
 The strain 
 
 Of mighty struggles, marches made in vain, 
 Circuit, and countermarch, assault, and strife 
 Of bayonet to bayonet, all the life 
 Of tent and field he knew : from that remembered 
 
 hour 
 
 When first he gazed against the Rebel power, 
 Drawn in the mists that o'er the fatal steep 
 Of Fredericksburg hung softly ; and saw leap 
 For the first time the cannon's flash, and then 
 Heard the faint cheer afar ; and with his men 
 Marched through the cold and sweeping mist, all 
 
 With mantling cheek and throbbing heart, that gray 
 And slaughterous morn, wintry and white and chill, 
 Climbing in vain the thrice-embattled hill. 
 
 His was a fearless nature, light and free. 
 
 He lacked no ardor, and in buoyancy 
 
 Of hope he flung himself into grim fight, 
 
 As if it were relief to him, delight 
 
 That gave his senses ease ; and gallantly he 
 
 fought ! 
 
 Nor ever was by dangerous chance more sought 
 Than himself seeking that ; so rose in rank : the 
 
 game
 
 A TALE 51 
 
 Of war was dear : he looked to honor, fame, 
 And power at last. But the campaign at end, 
 And Winter fall'n, his rank was not his friend ; 
 Nor yet the life of camps, which wore away 
 His resolution ; and thus day by day 
 The duties of his office were ill done ; 
 And this or that put off, to be begun 
 Another, more propitious time : his men 
 Suffered in his neglect ; it was in vain 
 He chid himself ; till in the next year's course 
 It chanced, through his own negligence, his force 
 Was, one day, unprepared ; and as the smoke 
 And flame and fury of the fight awoke, 
 Involved, half -clad, surprised, they feebly broke, 
 And fled : the dusk of dawn covered their flight. 
 The angry day scarce reddened into night 
 Ere he received stern reprimand : he felt 
 His rosy expectations pale and melt, 
 Like evening clouds in twilight, fast away. 
 Night counseled him but ill ; the following day, 
 He rode at danger rashly, eager to win 
 Opinion lost ; but, by himself, hemmed in, 
 And overpowered, though fighting still with all 
 Of courage, he was captured ; and, the fall 
 Of fortune's dice being such, lay in the drouth 
 Of liberty, sealed up in the warm South, 
 A captive, wounded : unknown where ; no word 
 Came from him, till by chance his brothers heard 
 From escaped prisoners that he lived, though pent 
 With thousands, suffering every human want, 
 But no more heard, and so were free to take 
 The easy way of hope, for hope's sweet sake.
 
 52 A TALE 
 
 It was of springs that fourth and fatal last : 
 Rebellion like a cloud her shadow cast 
 On the cold North, and frowned still on advance; 
 And like a thunderous cloud her countenance 
 Grew dark and darker, on the horizon far 
 Seen gathering slow her majesties of war. 
 Courage with Youth was met, and all in vain 
 Hope with despair was mingled, to sustain 
 Her falling cause ; the framework of whose power 
 Trembled, as deep in time matured her final hour. 
 And though, in pride, she yet undauntedly 
 Beheld that force, her fall which was to be, 
 In wintry, still beleaguerment, all wide, 
 Hemming her angers now on every side, 
 Yet was her last hour near. 
 
 The vernal air 
 
 Is soft in far Virginia, the day fair 
 In early March, and 'neath such fair, soft day, 
 That army of so long endurance lay, 
 And waited till the southern breezes blew 
 The flowers about the hills. For, then, they knew 
 The husbandman would turn the glebe again, 
 And the rich labor of the year begin, 
 Timely and sweet to those in peace at home ; 
 And to their arms labor of war would come, 
 Ploughing in blood, for peace : such hope they 
 
 had 
 High hopes, that made a thousand bosoms 
 
 glad! 
 
 That he who held the plough in his strong hand 
 Would drive a furrow through th' unwilling soil,
 
 A TALE 53 
 
 Sharing to right and left whatever band 
 Opposed, and make an ending of their toil. 
 And, looking from their cordon and vast line 
 Of their redoubts, they saw the March sun shine 
 On bayonet and banner, as he rose 
 On fortressed Petersburg ; and, at day's close, 
 They heard the drum's long, distant roll, the call 
 Of the proud bugle wildly float and fall, 
 And rise again, all clear, where to and fro 
 They half might see the Rebel pickets go. 
 So front to front the opposed armies lay. 
 
 Now to the Northern camp there chanced one day 
 To come a train of prisoners, set free 
 After long sojourn in captivity, 
 And in exchange brought North ; a rumor blew 
 Before them to those brothers, one which drew 
 Their hearts after it, for they heard that he, 
 Their youngest fellow, was released and free, 
 And might be now with these : they seemed to see 
 At once their brother's face ! and hasting out, 
 With anxious eyes they peered into that rout 
 Of ragged, weak, and miserable men : 
 But among these for one pale face in vain 
 They sought ; slow vanished 'neath dark firs the 
 
 train, 
 
 Straggling away. They watched the last pass by, 
 The suffering last, beneath the low, gray sky. 
 
 After that day their eyes would often dim 
 When they looked down, for then they thought of 
 him,
 
 54 A TALE 
 
 And that he lay in earth ; since, now, indeed, 
 So long his prison-time, they durst not feed 
 Their hopes of his release. His mother lived 
 Still in such thought ; saw him alive, conceived 
 No picture of his death ; but they looked not 
 To see his face or learn his burial spot. 
 
 Yet even as hope failed in them, the lad 
 
 Himself was free. He, with three others, had 
 
 Escaped, and found, after a weary while, 
 
 The Federal lines, had seen their banners smile 
 
 Protection on them, as all unconfined 
 
 They rippled proudly in the Northern wind. 
 
 Once safe within this camp, he gave a name 
 
 Not his ; for to the men who with him came 
 
 He was unknown. The post that he had made 
 
 Was a remote one ; thus the plan he laid 
 
 Was easy to mature. At twilight hour 
 
 Of a March day, and after a warm shower 
 
 Of rain had fallen, and the mists arose 
 
 Among the gray woods, at such misty close 
 
 Of day, there chanced a skirmish of videttes, and he, 
 
 Being at hand, resolved, was suddenly, 
 
 Amid the dusk, the shouts, the mist, the smoke 
 
 And the confusion, lost : when morning broke, 
 
 They looked to find him ; when they found him not, 
 
 Supposed him prisoner, deemed it a hard lot 
 
 Indeed ! and so dismissed him from their thought. 
 
 He had deserted. In the woods he lay 
 During the light, but at each dusk of day 
 Set out, and northward pressed, until he found
 
 A TALE 55 
 
 Himself in safety, on such Northern ground 
 
 As could not know him ; thence toward that one 
 
 place, 
 Where he would be, his home, he turned his face. 
 
 In that far home it was decline of day, 
 Rosy, remote ; the vale in shadow lay ; 
 It was the calm of eve ; afar the flocks 
 Went, bleatingly, among the rills and rocks 
 Of the new-melting fields ; men's voices fell 
 Pleasantly on the ear, and all seemed safe and well. 
 'T was even at this hour their mother went 
 To pray ; and standing in her window, bent 
 Incertain thoughts to that firm prayer, that she 
 Breathed morn and eve for her land's liberty, 
 And her sons' honor, and their safe return ; 
 And for his special guard whose death to mourn 
 Rather she feared ; for so long had he passed 
 Into the shadow of captivity, 
 He seemed in that obscureness sunk and lost, 
 As seamen are engulfed in some dark sea. 
 
 In the still thought that follows prayer, a breeze 
 
 From day-warmed meadows passed among the trees, 
 
 And bore to her the sound of those far floods, 
 
 Like voices, talking in the vernal woods. 
 
 The sound and the soft air together brought 
 
 Into her heart a full and happy thought : 
 
 Of Winter ending, of the Spring begun, 
 
 Of the fresh brooks, and the all-fathering sun, 
 
 And earth maternal ; of the quick release 
 
 Of nature ; of war ended, and firm peace.
 
 56 A TALE 
 
 The dream was fair, but like a bubble broke, 
 Passing away ; and sadly, so, she spoke : 
 " The bluebird soon will brood, the willow bud, 
 Hanging in tassel ; this old earth will be 
 Pregnant once more ; but I, that have no bud, 
 No brood, save absent, and no pregnancy 
 Save of sad fear, a fear that suddenly 
 Leaps in my bosom like a living thing ! 
 Oh, I that am long past my bearing time, 
 And that impatiently await my sons, 
 Can take no pleasure in such interval, 
 And reck not if it be the Winter now, 
 Or Fall, or Spring, or of what time it be, 
 Save that it still is absent from my sons ! 
 
 But absent most from him, my best of sons, 
 And the least happy, the least fortunate, 
 The most distressed, most pitiable one ! 
 
 Thou Rock and Refuge, refuge, shelter him, 
 Who, lying on the still-cold earth, must sleep 
 Betwixt the stony ground and Thee, uncovered, 
 Thy frost his covering ! oh, softly fall, 
 
 On his great weariness, a gentle, rain 
 Of rest and slumber ! and Thy patience bring, 
 Then, Lord, to me, who am impatient still, 
 That I may wait Thy blessed tunes and Thee." 
 
 A star rose in the south, and, shining clear, 
 Trembled and glittered through earth's atmosphere ; 
 And gazing toward that fire she guessed that 
 
 where 
 
 Its noon of glory hung, the risen star 
 Looked on her son, imprisoned, hid away
 
 A TALE 57 
 
 Among the Southern hills ; and, perhaps, there 
 
 the day 
 Sets with a softer light : 
 
 " Whence April comes, 
 
 Thither do my thoughts go, and there they stay ; 
 And my eyes follow them, for all the day 
 They seek that low horizon of the south ; 
 And every bird that from the south doth come, 
 And every little breeze that blows from thence, 
 Should be a messenger, to bear me news 
 Of whom I long to hear, and bears me none." 
 
 Leaning upon the broad and open sill, 
 
 And gazing t'ward the light of the hid sun, 
 
 As thus she breathed her longings, twilight fell. 
 
 The gathering darkness and the quiet hour 
 
 Had hushed day-noises, and their work was done 
 
 Who labored in the day ; the laborer 
 
 Was gone unto his home ; the fields were still, 
 
 And empty ; all was quietness, until 
 
 A step upon the snow outside was heard, 
 
 A coming step ; and presently a word 
 
 In question from the lawn below ; a man 
 
 Stood darkly there, and motioned silence ; then 
 
 Entered the house ; and who or what was he, 
 
 This shadow, motioning silence ? what might be 
 
 His errand ? As she wondered, thus, her door 
 
 Opened and shut behind this figure, more 
 
 Than whose dark outline she saw not ; nor could 
 
 She guess it was her dearest son who stood 
 
 Before her.
 
 58 A TALE 
 
 He was stained and stale with blood; 
 Both frozen feet ill-shod ; a wounded hand 
 Tied up, and slipt into a yellow band ; 
 A rag about his throat ; his unkempt hair 
 Tangled, and his whole mien and outward air 
 A suffering one. He spoke first, telling her 
 Who stood there was her son. As brokenly 
 The words fell from him, she arose, and drew 
 Near to him quickly, seeing whose face, she 
 
 knew, 
 Though changed, it was her son's ; and her heart 
 
 gave 
 
 A cry within her, even as if the grave 
 Had to her arms surrendered him. 
 
 The room 
 
 Was long and low, and being thick with gloom, 
 Though close to him, holding him in embrace, 
 She saw but as in twilight that his face 
 Was haggard, pale, and pinched ; still, half in fear, 
 At what she yet but half-perceived, the air 
 Broke into light : the fire on the broad hearth 
 Lived ; and his features from the dark sprang forth, 
 And horrified her : for she saw distress 
 Of nature, and a cloud, a bitterness 
 Shadowing his youthful beauty and fresh look. 
 And a light, restless, angered spirit broke 
 Upon her from his eyes : in paleness set 
 These were too brilliant ; and, as the flame lit 
 And warmed the air, there was in the whole man 
 A robbed and hungry, restless, eager, wan, 
 Accusing look, with somewhat still, indeed,
 
 A TALE 59 
 
 Of broken beauty, fallen light. She read 
 The troublous writing of his countenance 
 Clearly ; but what its meaning ? what the sense 
 Of that confusion ? 
 
 Questioning him, he 
 
 Told her of his escape, and northward way ; 
 The stubborn hardship, hunger ; sleep by day, 
 And weary stumblings through the fearful night, 
 Until the goal was reached, and the releasing light 
 Of day was his : then, suddenly, as though 
 'T were an expected part of this : To know 
 Further she must not seek ; let him be not denied 
 In such request ; the world was safe and wide 
 For others, not for him ! a hiding-place 
 Was what he sought, a refuge for a space 
 Of days, with secrecy, till time should show 
 A fairer face for him ; 't was wisdom so to do ! 
 As for his paleness and the rest, she knew 
 War was a suffering game. 
 
 His secrecy, 
 
 His haggard looks, and seeming scarce to be 
 Himself, filled her with dread. She hastily 
 Demanded to know all : Why fear the light 
 Of open words ? Was knowledge not her right ? 
 And what had he to hide away ? or why 
 Fear her ? what danger ? and what secrecy ? 
 Secrecy ! Let him speak ! 
 
 So the lad told her then 
 His secret : he had deserted ; ay, 't was done !
 
 60 A TALE 
 
 And 't was well done ; nothing be said ! A crime 
 It was ? So let it be ! Chance of the time 
 Had made it so, no more ! His duty was to go 
 Back to his brothers, to the army ? So 
 He would not do ! None knew him free, or that 
 He was not buried ; he had for his part 
 Determined he would not again be one 
 To suffer as the rest did : he was done 
 With service, though death chanced from it. 
 
 She heard, 
 
 As one hears through a dream a waking word, 
 All that he said ; and so this boy, this man, 
 This voice, this shadow, this pale face, so wan 
 In the warmth even, was her son ! 'T was he 
 Whom she had nursed, brought up to treachery ! 
 She heard him now asking her to forgive, 
 And slowly she began again to live, 
 And to come back to life. A gentleman 
 And do this thing ! Had he no honor, then ? 
 Back to her heart the blood began to pour, 
 And it beat quick and high, as he replied 
 That he was done with honor, with false pride ; 
 A crust of bread was what he asked her for, 
 A roof to sleep under ! and asked no more ! 
 She bade him then to tell her all ; that she 
 Might tread the path he had ; that she might see 
 As with his eyes : holding herself in check, 
 She spoke so, for her thoughts began to break 
 Stormily in her ; but the lad, as one 
 Who 's weary of his life beneath the sun, 
 Answered, " I 've told you all. What shall I say
 
 A TALE 61 
 
 More than I have ? " And so 't was rubbed away, 
 His love of country, like a surface gloss, 
 By touch of opposition ; and it was 
 Thus with ambition, honor, duty ! all 
 The worth of life had he let die, let fall ; 
 Where had he buried these ? for where they lay 
 Himself was buried, and her heart would stay. 
 The words leaped from him, even as if his heart 
 Had been plucked by her words in its most wounded 
 part. 
 
 " Ambition, duty, my desire of honor, 
 Lie where my health does ; and my hopes, I left them 
 In that bright, sunny hell, that prison-pen, 
 That field of desperate patience, bloody spot ! 
 Where my friends languish now, where my thoughts 
 
 are, 
 
 Of which, whether I will or no, I think, 
 By day, by night, and being free of it, 
 Horrible dreams imprison me again, 
 And free, I am not free ! " 
 
 " I rather woidd 
 
 That you were in that prisoning place again 
 Than free, having deserted ! " 
 
 Hearing her 
 
 Labor in breath, and in the lighter air, 
 Seeing her face of horror, as she spoke, 
 He answered gently, with a gentler look : 
 " Say what you will, mother, of my desertion ; 
 If it be crime or not, yet this thing 's sure :
 
 62 A TALE 
 
 If I go hence, and I can go no further, 
 
 And will not, as the times are turned more 
 
 strict, 
 
 So in this stricter time who dares to err 
 As I have, errs against his chance of life." 
 
 And so should he set out, and meet his fate ? 
 He would if so she bade him, for the weight 
 Of life was heavy ; yet if she would give 
 Shelter and bread, he asked no more ; to live ! 
 
 She gazed at him : what was it that had pulled 
 His soul so down ? What heavy blow had dulled 
 The edge of his high spirit ? soiled him so, 
 So dragged, so beaten down? what heavy blow? 
 Desertion ! shelter and bread ! 'T was come to 
 
 that! 
 
 Her anger burst from her, and she cried out 
 To him: 
 
 " My lad, I sent you forth, and bade you 
 To do and be what might become your nature, 
 
 Not ruin it ! and what might grace your name, 
 
 Not blacken it ! but not to be a coward, 
 I did not bid you that ! " 
 
 " I well remember 
 
 The day you sent me, what you bade me be : 
 Ambitious, first, and brave, then dutiful ; 
 I was such ; oh, put by all woman's fear ! 
 I have not been a coward ; I have been 
 As most men are, nor ever have I found
 
 A TALE 63 
 
 It hard to be as brave as other men. 
 
 For to make light of death, 
 
 To run the chance of death, to laugh at it, 
 
 When the blood 's hot is easy ; 
 
 Courage is common, and the worst men fight 
 
 As women love : it is their native thing." 
 
 " If you 've embraced the dangers of your duty, 
 And met them, rather than were met by them ; 
 If you 've so borne yourself against your foe, 
 If you have fought 
 
 As women love, which is most passionately ! 
 Proudly ! without recall ! why, then, my boy, 
 You cannot have deserted, as you say." 
 
 The lad smiled bitterly, threw out his hand, 
 And fluttered it all lightly, even as if 
 He stood upon some sea-opposing cliff, 
 Looking below, and saw upon the sand 
 And beach of ocean a great army flow 
 With music by ; and with his hand would show 
 How gorgeously and wide they swept the plain 
 below. 
 
 " Ah, cannons' thunder, pennons, and bright lances 
 And bayonets that catch the morning on them, 
 And look like the sun's children, this is war 
 To women, bugle and drum, the naked sword ! 
 And, o'er the sweat and darkness of their toil 
 Who labor in these bloody fields of war, 
 Honor, forever rising like a sun, 
 Gilding the best "
 
 64 A TALE 
 
 His voice broke sharply, as 
 He raised his glance to where, so might it seem, 
 This sun of honor rose, and with proud beam 
 Gilded those happier ! 
 
 " Were war but this, 
 And did advancement shine upon desert, 
 Not erringly, like heaven's equal beams, 
 That blind and seeing eyes receive alike, 
 Then war might be as you imagine it, 
 And then my tale had had a different ending ! 
 
 " No, mother, war is dull ; war 't is to wait, 
 
 And still to wait, impatiently to wait, 
 
 And to be kept 
 
 Forever to the post of duty tied, 
 
 Locked in the prison of a dull routine, 
 
 And married to delay, to long delay! 
 
 War is a stillness, a dull stream of quiet, 
 
 A stagnant hell ; and when the heart is hot, 
 
 And full of motion and fire, then then to have 
 
 A thousand thousand little routine acts, 
 
 A hundred thousand punctual things to do, 
 
 Impudent, teasing, little flies of things, 
 
 To brush away by doing ; and to be wounded 
 
 In some close, sudden skirmish of the night, 
 
 Where no reprisal 's possible, that 's war ! 
 
 And war it is to be a prisoner 
 
 For eight, long, savage months as I, that, too, 
 
 Was war ; and I was sick in prison, that, 
 
 That, too, was war ; and all my sufferings, 
 
 Famine, disaster, insult, wounds, disease, 
 
 And that heartsickness that defers its hope
 
 A TALE 65 
 
 Even beyond the grave, all these were war ! 
 And war is glorious or so you say ; 
 Glory almost a God or 't is to you ! " 
 
 " If what you say is so, and these things are 
 
 The very nature, the true fact of war 
 
 And face of duty, always thus, why, then, 
 
 A woman's life is made up of such things ; 
 
 Is even such a struggle, such a war ; 
 
 As full of petty hardship ; and not less 
 
 It is the stream of a perpetual quiet ; 
 
 And with a thousand punctual things to do, 
 
 Impudent, teasing, petty flies of things ! 
 
 And when its crown of motherhood is come, 
 
 It is a kind of patient suffering ; 
 
 Unhonored, unpref erred ; inglorious, 
 
 Save for the glory that our sons reflect 
 
 By their bright deeds ! and since we too are 
 
 soldiers, 
 
 Our life is often an imprisonment ; 
 The prison, idleness ; and when 't is busy, 
 It is with babyhood, a little thing, 
 Even as you were ! and for hope deferred, 
 Heaven knows, I hoped ! you have deferred my 
 
 hope, 
 Oh, even beyond the grave ! 
 
 " Say, you have not, 
 
 Or will not ; that you lied ! say what you will ! 
 Rather than what you have ! 
 Why are you silent ? Speak to me and tell me, 
 You have some other reason, cogent more
 
 66 A TALE 
 
 Than those you give me, which persuaded you 
 To this dishonor ? What, no reason ? none ? 
 Let me not think you've none! Oh, you have 
 
 made me 
 
 The mother of more shame than I will bear ! 
 Where was your pride ? or pride or patience out, 
 Where was your love ? for you owe love to me ! 
 If that held not, the love I had to you, 
 Which was the very pressure of my heart, 
 Its natural motion. Oh, could that great love, 
 That strength of all my heart, not buoy you up ? 
 Not hold you to yourself ? not bind you round ? 
 So that you could not err, wildly, as now, 
 Tossed by a wind, rent from your honor, blown 
 Hither and thither by a fickle wind, 
 And made a wreck of ? Oh, indeed I think 
 My love was little to you, yours to me 
 Nothing, or else such loves had held you firm ! " 
 
 He answered, gently : "As for love, and love, 
 My love to you has no more suffered change 
 Than yours to me. When, often, on the ground 
 I lay, and looked upon the stars of heaven, 
 And thought that they were high, but yet more 
 
 high, 
 
 More out of my low reach, more distant far, 
 Preferment, like a very planet, shone, 
 Near to my hope, but very far from me ! 
 A golden glory that I could not pluck, 
 Though I should reach forever, then, why, then 
 Almost I could have wept to be with you ; 
 Cried like a little child, because the fruit
 
 A TALE 67 
 
 Of all my hopes and fears was hung too high ; 
 And wished to be with you for comfort's sake. 
 Nor only then have wanted you, but oft 
 Upon my prison-bed, the hot, bare sand ! 
 Sick, I have counted o'er my thoughts of you, 
 Wanting yourself, and wished that I might see you, 
 Might look upon your face that was the sun 
 Of all my hopes ! " 
 
 " That sun is clouded from you, 
 And your dishonor is the cloud through which 
 It cannot pierce to you ! You speak, my son, 
 Of love, and constancy in filial love. 
 I do not know if you are constant in it, 
 Or constant to yourself in anything ; 
 But to desert, with whatsoever cause, 
 Or with whatever color of excuse, 
 Is to desert your country, and yourself 
 And manhood, and your honor, and your race, 
 And my opinion and my love of you. 
 I do not know how you have dared so far ! 
 Or thought that I could favor you so much 
 As to forget my country's other sons ! 
 Seek not your help from me ! May your salvation 
 Drop from some other hand ! 
 For not so much of water or of bread 
 Will I give to you as a sparrow might 
 Feed to her little young, her innocent young ! 
 Ah, happy mother, she ! and Heaven, hearing, 
 If I were brave indeed, as I am not, 
 And did I cling to justice, as I do not, 
 I would not shelter you, not look on you !
 
 68 A TALE 
 
 But since the God that gives us to be just 
 
 Is merciful, I will be that soft thing ; 
 
 Though I grieve Valor by it, I will say 
 
 To none that you are here to none ! oh, may 
 
 None ask me if you are ! Merciful Heaven ! 
 
 Your father ! should I die, and meet your father, 
 
 As I have hoped to do, ay, face to face, 
 
 What shall I say to him ? Alas ! your crime 
 
 Has made me fear my death, which I desired ! " 
 
 " The Heaven that you hope for may forgive you ; 
 
 Pray, mother, that it do ! for I will not. 
 
 Farewell ! A happy meeting with my father ! 
 
 And tell him of your mercy to his son. 
 
 As for desire of death, desire of it 
 
 Greater than mine you cannot have : short pain, 
 
 And ending of great weariness ! " 
 
 He turned 
 And left her. 
 
 It was now full night, 
 And he was weary, and his head was light 
 And giddy with grief and hunger ; his heart spent 
 Of all its force : if death was imminent, 
 And capture close, so be it ! He must have 
 Sleep first, without delay ! sleep, though the 
 
 grave 
 
 Gaped for his hour of waking ! In a shed, 
 Stuffed with oat-straw, and like a thing half dead, 
 His body threw itself, and slept away 
 The night, and morning, till the noon of day. 
 Waked from this happy death, he could scarce see 
 If it were day or night ; he could scarce hear
 
 A TALE 69 
 
 A sound, save the straw rustling treacherously ; 
 
 Till, as he listened, in suspense, all near 
 
 In the warm dark he heard the oxen low, 
 
 And regular breathing of the quiet herd, 
 
 And guessed that it was past the morning's glow ; 
 
 For, far away, there was a little bird 
 
 Singing, on some high tree, he knew not where ; 
 
 Save that it sung in the sweet, open air, 
 
 At liberty, and for the gentle sake 
 
 Of love, as if its little heart would break ! 
 
 So, in obscurity and pain, he lay, 
 
 Suspicious, and in fear, while through the day 
 
 His thoughts came to him : " Ah, his mother's 
 
 heart 
 
 Played in such justice but a little part ! 
 How without mercy ! Could a woman be 
 So harsh to her own son ? 'T was strange that she 
 Who held him in especial love should yet 
 So far her nature and that love forget 
 As thus to be his death, for 't was no less ! " 
 And so he communed still with his own bitterness : 
 " I asked for honor once, and then received 
 No jot of what I asked ; I asked for justice : 
 It was not given me ; for mercy now, 
 And am denied even that ! Say I have erred, 
 And should have practiced patience, should have 
 
 been 
 
 The thing I will not, shall my mother judge me ? 
 Is man my judge ? He must be then my peer, 
 Fellow in grief, a sufferer in kind, 
 And in degree of kind, which cannot be ! 
 Or may not easily. Justice is lies !
 
 70 A TALE 
 
 Alas, our life is bitterness, and we 
 Resent the gall of it, as if we were 
 Children of milk and honey ! 
 
 " We ourselves 
 
 Are to ourselves justice and mercy both ; 
 And if we thirst for these, as well we may 
 In this dry world, this world of bitter thirsts, 
 This unjust, sad, depriving world, if we 
 Thirst here for heaven or for heavenly justice, 
 Or any good of earth, our soul 's the cup, 
 The fountain and the source that these flow from ; 
 Else they flow not at all ! Or if they do, 
 Are riled, and muddy ; ay, even as the cup 
 To which I set my lips is full of grief, 
 And hath a bitter taste, and bitterly 
 I drink, perforce, by need, not wishing it. 
 Oh, I have now drunk up 
 So much of anguish it hath made me heavy ! 
 And if I have done well, or ill, or what 
 Or how have done, I know not, and care little. 
 I am too miserably suffering 
 To know more of it than a drunkard may 
 Of the wide heaven, when, waked from his dull 
 
 stupor, 
 
 He rubs his eyes, and looks on heaven's vault, 
 Thick-sown with stars, and wonders at their light, 
 And knows not what they are ; and looks again, 
 And wonders at himself ! Even so am I ! I reel 
 Drunkenly forth, and look on life, and know 
 I know not what it is ! know not, nor care."
 
 A TALE 71 
 
 So darkly passed his day. He durst not seek 
 
 For sustenance till night ; though he was weak 
 
 And plagued with hunger. 
 
 Since the hour he crept 
 
 To his poor rest, his mother had not slept, 
 
 Or her heart ceased from torture ; till, about 
 
 The sunset hour of calm, she walked without, 
 
 Not guessing that her son was lying near. 
 
 The heaven, still luminous, cast down its clear, 
 
 Blue light ; and as she walked toward the wood, 
 
 She noticed on the snow large drops of blood, 
 
 One here, one there, another of them yon ; 
 
 They flecked those footprints, that went, waver 
 ing, on 
 
 To a little shed, there ceasing. She stood still, 
 
 And on them looked : the bright drops worked 
 their will 
 
 On her ; for she guessed from whose heart they 
 fled. 
 
 Those precious drops, that seemed so gay and red, 
 
 Commanded her : she heard. 
 
 The selfsame night 
 
 She bore her son both food and drink ; ere light 
 
 Of the next day the same. 
 
 There was a small 
 
 Square niche, where pigeons nested, in the wall ; 
 
 Therein she placed that which she brought to 
 him; 
 
 But always with veiled face, and in the dim 
 
 Light, late or early, came and went, 
 
 All stolenly, and quiet, as one bent 
 
 On theft. But he well knew whose kindness laid
 
 72 A TALE 
 
 That meal for him each day ; which while she did, 
 It seemed to her impiety, and crime 
 'Gainst valor she most loved. 
 
 But now, as time 
 
 Melted to sweeter Spring, over that house 
 The elm wove deeper umbrage with his boughs ; 
 The clouds above grew fairer and more fair, 
 And old men sunned their age in the warm air; 
 While children down the village laughed and ran, 
 And chattered like sweet starlings in the sun. 
 And touched with softness of the coming May 
 There fell from heaven above a vernal day ; 
 One of those days when it is easier 
 To live, and when more heavenly thoughts occur, 
 Like births of the sweet sunshine ; as the flowers 
 Are born, who are first children of those hours. 
 Even thus the day to her a new hope brought, 
 A mercy, and a hope : it was a thought, 
 Or image of desire ; her heart grew great 
 With it ; she could not pray, or drink, or eat, 
 Till wished-for evening came. 
 
 Anxiously then 
 
 He heard his mother call ; she called again 
 That he should answer. Through a knotty flaw 
 In the unplaned board he looked, and dimly saw 
 His mother, as she stood there. A breeze blew 
 Out of the twilight ; the chaff rose and flew, 
 Whirlingly, round her feet ; swallows o'erhead 
 Soft-nestling in the night, together, made 
 Questioning little noises ; the new-milked herd
 
 A TALE 73 
 
 Lowed softly in the darkness of their yard ; 
 And water plashed, and fell. 
 
 " 'T is I, my son. 
 
 I come to bid you leave this shameful place ; 
 And this dark life of hiding, and return 
 To where your brothers wait to welcome you. 
 They know not your escape ; return to them, 
 To war, to service, to my love of you, 
 And more than all of these, to your high self ! 
 This is my message ; and I think you hear, 
 And that you will, refreshed as now you are, 
 And being yourself again, obey : if thus, 
 Delay not, go ; linger not, go at once ! 
 And Heaven and fortune look on you and bless you 
 With half the fervor that your mother does." 
 
 Ere morning light she stood in the same place, 
 And called again : the days of her distress 
 Were over, for no answer came ; her son 
 Was gone. He had, as she had wished him, done. 
 And following soon on that she heard from him, 
 That he was well ; his life was in the stream 
 Of new events ; that he had joined his men ; 
 The army was to march, 't was war again. 
 
 So the first days of April passed, until 
 
 One blessed evening, when all was still, 
 
 The church-bells rang a sudden sweetness out 
 
 Upon the twilight air ; the hills about 
 
 Echoed that happiness : great news had come ; 
 
 And in the village men and women, dumb
 
 74 A TALE 
 
 With joy, or violently weeping, broke 
 
 The glad news to each other ; strangers spoke 
 
 To strangers, hands clasped hands ; for it was 
 
 done : 
 
 Lee had surrendered, and the mighty sun 
 Of fierce Rebellion set ; dismay was o'er ; 
 It was the happy ending of long war ; 
 Heaven was returned : to prisoned men, release ; 
 To the slave, freedom ; and to all men, peace. 
 
 Although a voice of triumph seemed to fill 
 The world, yet calm fell not on her, until 
 There came a message from her eldest son, 
 Telling her of his brother : He had done 
 His whole of duty, gallantly, too ; the end 
 Was such as she, his mother, must commend : 
 It was a soldier's death, who could not yield 
 His soul with better grace than on the field 
 Of final victory ; 't was as he led 
 The way, with needless valor, that he paid 
 The last, great price ; let not his mother weep : 
 He had a soldier's grave, a soldier's sleep. 
 
 She wept not when she heard that he was dead ; 
 But when she heard that his young spirit fled 
 Amidst the cannon's roar, and in the glance 
 Of arms, in gallant and sustained advance 
 'Gainst well-replenished lines, and that he slept 
 In honor where he fell, 't was then she wept. 
 
 The day that followed that most bitter eve 
 
 Was Easter morning, when men must not grieve.
 
 A TALE 75 
 
 And as her loss in slumber seemed to weep, 
 Her spirit communed with itself in sleep, 
 And she beheld the light of dreams ; and knew 
 Not where she was. What space was this, or 
 
 who 
 
 Those shining ones ? So pure and so serene ! 
 What was yon city fair ? yon mountain green ? 
 These women that were with her ? the dark air ? 
 The agony, the open sepulchre ? 
 And whence the smell of aloes and of myrrh ? 
 Or napkin, lying by itself ? and bright 
 And fair, again, as morn, those men of light ? 
 What was it that she sought so eagerly ? 
 And horror-stricken feared that it might be 
 Stolen away from her and buried ? 
 
 Now 
 
 Lapt in a lighter sleep she seemed to know 
 Herself, and all her grief. And as she lay 
 In twilight of such slumber, the new day 
 Dawned slowly, and a fair and distant breeze 
 Bore to her sleeping heart the happiness 
 Of Easter bells ; the jubilant, glad noise 
 Seemed to her in her sleep to be an angel's voice, 
 Who stood before her, and spake to her there, 
 To chase away her darkness, her despair : 
 
 " The night is done ; it is the pallid dawn ; 
 And resurrected light doth spring again ; 
 The darkness like a stone is rolled away, 
 And from his Eastern charnel damp with dew, 
 Scattering our fears before him, comes the day.
 
 76 A TALE 
 
 " Awaken thou ! awaken ! and thy sleep 
 
 Be turned to joy ; there is no cause to weep. 
 
 Arise ! the sun hath risen in his might ; 
 
 Arise ! the earth ariseth in delight : 
 
 A glory is gone o'er the Eastern plain, 
 
 Sleep is no more : both sleep and death are vain. 
 
 The Winter is no more, the Spring is blown ; 
 
 It is the song of birds, the Winter 's gone. 
 
 The dove hath come, it is the time of mirth, 
 
 The resurrection of eternal earth. 
 
 There is no weeping more ; soft is the air ; 
 
 No prayer be said : the universe is prayer ! 
 
 " Arise ! the world's salvation and thine own 
 Hath risen ; He hath pushed aside the stone ; 
 The place is open, and the cerements lie 
 Like the white snows under a sunny sky. 
 The Sun of Life hath shone on death abhorred, 
 And 't is the Resurrection 'tis the Lord ! " 
 
 Mother of the fresh dead, she rose and went 
 Unto her eastern window, whence she sent 
 Her soul in praise upon the morning air 
 To Him from whom, in whom, all mornings are. 
 
 And as she cast her thoughts to heaven and looked 
 
 Upon the glory of new day, she brooked 
 
 Vain grief no more ; to her it seemed the dead, 
 
 That on those bitter fields their blood had shed, 
 
 Innumerably rose, and 'neath the day 
 
 Passed, like a mighty wind, that blows away 
 
 The cloud and vapor of the night ; and fair
 
 A TALE 77 
 
 And sinless morning followed on the air ; 
 
 They breathed upon the earth, and it was green, 
 
 And on the soul of man, it grew serene ; 
 
 They breathed upon the world, and strong and new 
 
 A nation rose, and shook the bloody dew, 
 
 The shadows from her locks, and looked abroad, 
 
 Bathed in the happy mercy of her God. 
 
 And as this thought of sacrifice upraised 
 
 Her spirit, and calmed, she knelt and duly praised : 
 
 " Lord of our life, Giver of Life and Death, 
 
 I, that have lent my dear son unto Thee, 
 
 Weep for him not : I have no sorrow more : 
 
 My sorrow is with him, he is with Thee."
 
 CHANGE. 
 
 " First Love, first youth, those tender things 
 Not had, but e'en themselves were wings ! " 
 
 YE loves that visit me, I know not how 
 
 I can go back to where I was a child ; 
 
 The forest that I loved is leveled now, 
 
 The water that I drank from is defiled : 
 
 For men have come, and all wild things are fled ; 
 
 Far, far away the eagle and the fawn ; 
 
 The stealthy panther from his thickest shade 
 
 And the green snake have slipt away and gone. 
 
 And those who with me slept beneath the boughs, 
 
 And in the forests green and pillared house 
 
 Loitered, and loved ; who 'neath the pleasant dew 
 
 Of eventide held converse sweet and gay, 
 
 Where are they gone ? Frailty of life ! they, too, 
 
 Are vanished into change and slipt away. 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 LET me not long be absent from my thoughts, 
 For they are sweeter than the flowers of May, 
 And more at peace than in green orchard spots 
 The voice of doves, soft-heard, from far away. 
 And fresher are they than the morning looks 
 When the rich forests yellow to their fall ;
 
 THE AMULET 79 
 
 And brighter are they than the leafless brooks, 
 In Autumn sunshine, and as magical. 
 But they from me have long divided been : 
 As woods that in the Winter want their green, 
 So have I stood, in e'en such barren trance ! 
 'Neath newer suns those woods will green and 
 
 glance ; 
 
 But my dear thoughts will not return to me, 
 Till thou return'st, who art their sun and day : 
 For all my happy thoughts are sprung from thee, 
 And without thee they wither fast away. 
 
 THE AMULET. 
 
 INDIFFERENCE ; at last 
 
 I learn to smile away 
 The sights and sounds of earth, 
 
 The night, the day. 
 
 Life needs a charm : 
 
 Since I am with her yet 
 
 I wile away her harm 
 With this sad amulet. 
 
 For it is sad this side the grave 
 
 To walk, as one astray, 
 Who yet doth neither care to have, 
 
 Nor to seek out a way.
 
 80 IN FOREIGN LANDS 
 
 But I can charm thy worst of things, 
 O restless Life ! regret, 
 
 False hope and hate and fear, 
 With this sad amulet. 
 
 IN FOREIGN LANDS. 
 
 THREE things I lack in absence : first, to be 
 Where nature is, sleeping beneath the pine. 
 The second one, to have my friend with me, 
 To feel him near and know that he is mine. 
 For it is long since I my friend have seen, 
 And longer still since those first morning days 
 When we together lived, since happy when, 
 My soul and his have trodden diverse ways. 
 And last strange absence, my own heart is gone 
 Courting the favor of the world, and I 
 Must wait her late return, when wearily 
 She will come back and we again be one. 
 When thou return'st, my heart, let it be so, 
 So sweet ! I shall forget that thou didst go !
 
 TO AN ACTEESS, 
 
 ON HKB IMPERSONATION OF MRS. ELVSTED, IN IBSEN'S PLAY, 
 HEDDA GABLER, LONDON, 1891. 
 
 THE play is over now, and of your pains 
 
 And pleasure in the part, say what remains ? 
 
 The sense of something done, something well done ; 
 
 The memory of happy work, begun 
 
 And ended happily. No more than this ? 
 
 Why, can there be a more ? Achievement is 
 
 The height of happiness, and memory 
 
 Of noble things, nobly achieved, should be 
 
 A kind of strength and state in which we move, 
 
 A flattery which 't is our right to love. 
 
 And you who have done much should know that 
 
 power, 
 
 Which is support and guard in the worst hour ; 
 For our own acts desert us not, but give 
 Perpetual benedictions, work and live 
 In us forever, as these should in you, 
 These many hours that now seem all so few ! 
 
 But whatsoe'er your memory should be 
 
 Of much well done, and with that much this free 
 
 And noble portrait, what remains for me ? 
 
 Time is the actor's canvas ; like a dawn 
 Your gentle hour is set in time, quite gone,
 
 82 TO AN ACTRESS 
 
 'T would seem ! For you 't is gone ; for me, not 
 
 so! 
 
 I know a person whom I did not know ; 
 I see her still, to me now more than you 
 A being and a life, I know of few 
 Living that so much live ! What, then, was she, 
 Or who, who hath the right to almost more than be ? 
 
 Large eyes and yellow hair, a hesitation 
 And trembling wish to please, a frank elation 
 At pleasure given ; the pathetic smile, 
 Embarrassed with itself, and those eyes full 
 Of tears that will not stay where they are bid ; 
 And sorrow patent most where it is hid : 
 My gentle Thea ! With her childish looks, 
 Her innocence of life, her uncut books, 
 I 'm sure they were uncut ! excepting those 
 Grave essays that she cut for Lovborg's use, 
 And read to him ; Thea, affectionate, 
 And filled with pity, but too weak for fate, 
 Too circumscribed in folly, and too slight 
 To wrestle with her lot ; but loving much, 
 This always and this most ! 
 
 She showed as such, 
 
 When, as he told her, it was over now, 
 Their work was ruined, that which he had writ 
 Inspired by her was lost ; no shred of it 
 Remained, 't was gone ! what of it ? let it go ! 
 And they must part, and she to fate must bow, 
 Be silent, break her heart in to that yoke 
 Of unaccustomed solitude, she spoke :
 
 TO AN ACTRESS 83 
 
 " 'T will seem to me forever now as you 
 Had killed a child : was it not my child, too ? 
 A little child that drew its breath through me ; 
 And now ! I care not now where I may be ! 
 1 go ; the way is darkness. Should I stay, 
 'T would in the end be the same darkened way. 
 Oh, you have broken all my life ! I see 
 Before my eyes the years a vacancy ! 
 Yes, you have killed our child ; Lbvborg, I go, 
 Because you bid me I I loved you so ! " 
 
 These were the words she said : the audience 
 
 heard, 
 
 Just as I write, the sentence, word for word ; 
 But 't was not in the book, not in the part, 
 But from the purer volume of your art. 
 
 In this dark picture, can I call it less ? 
 Where half to folly, half to viciousness 
 Incline, composing the sad human day, 
 In this dark atmosphere, this sordid gray, 
 Thea alone shed some faint beam of light, 
 By which our moral eye might judge the night 
 And shadow of the rest ; true, faint enough ! 
 But with the grace that comes of human love 
 And suffering unmerited. Adieu, 
 Adieu, to Thea and to Hedda too ! 
 
 And when the next time you would breathe your 
 
 power 
 
 In some imagined form, and for an hour 
 Image the same, oh, let it be some soul
 
 84 TO AN ACTRESS 
 
 Of dignity and worth, or good or ill, 
 A spirit, human ! but a spirit still : 
 Sinful or erring ! but a soul that glows 
 With natural life ! I tire of these and those, 
 The fools of virtue and that other clan, 
 The knowing vicious ; are these all of man ?
 
 PROLOGUE TO AN AMERICAN PLAY. 
 PRODUCED BEFOKE AN ENGLISH AUDIENCE, LONDON, 1892. 
 
 WHEN travelers to their homes return, their kin 
 Gather about them : " Where then did you earn 
 This cut, that scar ? " Then gravely they '11 begin : 
 
 " It was beneath the line of Capricorn, 
 
 Where on a green oasis as I slept, 
 
 A savage like a serpent on me crept ; 
 
 But chance proved my salvation in the nick 
 
 Of the last moment, chance most wonderful ! " 
 
 Then comes his tale, something too wonderful ! 
 
 And on his audience' faces grows the while, 
 
 As the tale grows, a disbelieving smile. 
 
 Our traveler notes it " Ah, indeed, 't was so ! " 
 
 And with a never-doubt-me face cries, " Oh, 
 
 You must remember that across the sea, 
 
 In foreign lands and far from this dear shore, 
 
 Men, women, nay, the very breath of heaven, 
 
 Is of another nature." 
 
 And may I 
 
 With some such words unlock for you the way 
 That leads, I hope, to pleasure in our play.
 
 86 PROLOGUE TO AN AMERICAN PLAY 
 
 For in this land, far south, beneath the sun, 
 
 Nature is quick and violent, and man 
 
 Lives in his impulse more than here he can, 
 
 And less reflectingly. " Love ripens slow," 
 
 You say, " and anger has its word, the blow 
 
 Comes after ; " but with them the blow comes first. 
 
 Love rushes to completion, as a flower 
 
 That buds and bursts and blossoms in one hour. 
 
 And man, though now it seem a fireside tale, 
 
 Was there a slave, fed with the crumbs of mercy ; 
 
 Naught lay between the wrath of cruelty 
 
 And its poor object ; and the lightest breath 
 
 Uttered 'gainst slavery was almost death 
 
 To him who breathed it ; for where men's houses 
 
 Are built upon the avalanche, they live 
 
 In whispers, and a fear lest some loud voice 
 
 Shock their unfounded stillness into ruin. 
 
 But all this must seem, 
 
 To you in England, here, a strange, dark dream ; 
 A cloud far off, not threatening to your peace, 
 Islanded here among your blessed seas. 
 
 Yet if you doubt my discourse, and betray 
 
 Your doubt in smiles, I '11 smooth those smiles away, 
 
 Telling you that " indeed, across the sea, 
 
 In foreign lands and far from this dear shore, 
 
 Men, women, nay, the very breath of heaven, 
 
 Is of another nature." 
 
 And 't is even 
 
 This which you now shall see with your own eyes, 
 If I may bow, and bid the curtain rise.
 
 LOVE. 
 
 I. 
 
 A LITTLE rivulet flows down a dell, 
 
 A woody hollow where dark violets blow ; 
 
 And as it goes it tells a faery tale 
 
 To vernal grasses that above it grow. 
 
 And once, with parted lips and cheek aglow, 
 
 A girlish shadow on its waters fell ; 
 
 Its fleeting waters did not cease to flow, 
 
 But on the mirror of my mind a spell 
 
 Was wrought by Love, and Time forever stayed 
 
 In his swift course : the motion of his years 
 
 Eddies about that image quietly ; 
 
 And like a colored shadow 't is inlaid 
 
 In the clear spirit, ageless, with no tears, 
 
 No care, and beauteous as a cloud may be. 
 
 II. 
 
 I LOVED a fountain once, within a wood. 
 Around it stretched the forest dark and dim, 
 A pathless and perpetual solitude ; 
 Its silent waters glittered at the rim 
 They rippled out of, and went singing downward 
 Among the giant pines that arched them over, 
 While I pursued them on and ever onward, 
 For they forsook me like a fickle lover. 
 But with the Winter and the frost there fell
 
 88 LOVE 
 
 A sluggishness upon them, and they slept ; 
 And with the Spring they would not wake, but dull 
 And heavy as a dreamer's feet they crept 
 From stone to stone, and slumbering would run 
 And green and thicken 'neath the Summer sun. 
 
 in. 
 
 I SAW it not again till after-years 
 
 Had wrought their will on me ; and sought it then, 
 
 But with no more of pleasure than inheres 
 
 In looking with new eyes on an old scene. 
 
 It was quite clear again, and ran as sweetly 
 
 About my feet as any stream might run ; 
 
 And like a fawn fled through the forest fleetly, 
 
 And leaped in silence like a fleeing fawn. 
 
 But I went pacing onward through the wood, 
 
 A feeble shadow, wandering alone, 
 
 And brooding o'er an inward solitude. 
 
 I could not hear, or heard untouched its tone 
 
 Of greeting, till I vanished like a cloud 
 
 Above the darkness of my spirit bowed. 
 
 IV. 
 
 WHEN, lying in false warmth of sleep, we seem 
 Leafless no more, but hopeful, a green bough, 
 And flattered with the frailty of such dream, 
 We blossom into hope, and sweetly blow ; 
 What misery 't were, as that light slumber nears 
 Its bursting into air, while we 're with bliss 
 Laden as heavily as age with years, 
 To start, to tremble, to awake from this ! 
 Or, standing where we stood upon a hill,
 
 LOVE 89 
 
 And looking on the home that once we loved, 
 
 To hear an alien voice of laughter fill 
 
 Its halls, and echo wildly, unreproved ! 
 
 This but than these more wounding ! 't is to be 
 
 In this changed world of time again with thee ! 
 
 V. 
 
 You bid me show a gladness, to appear 
 That thing I am not now, nor cannot be. 
 Once, with the tardy opening of the year, 
 I sought and found a frail anemone ; 
 Unsheltered on a bank of moss it grew 
 And sunned itself, until a bitter dawn 
 Unkindly kissed its cheek with Winter dew, 
 And ere the day it withered and was gone. 
 The April warmth that wooed it from the earth 
 Had flattered with delight its life away : 
 And in my heart like frailty had its birth, 
 As pining beauty, and as swift decay ; 
 For love is such a Winter-guiled flower, 
 To blow ere tune, and wither in an hour. 
 
 VI. 
 
 MY mood is like a frosty, backward Spring, 
 
 That fain would see the snowdrop, and fain hear 
 
 The Winter-silent larks' sweet caroling, 
 
 And the loud cuckoo usher in the year. 
 
 My days still brook the Winter, and the frost 
 
 Of so long absence doth depart with pain ; 
 
 And warm delights, like early sunshine lost, 
 
 Upon my frosty surface fall in vain. 
 
 More aged than this earth I sometimes feel,
 
 90 LOVE 
 
 And more in prison than a prisoner bound ; 
 More withered and more fallen than the pale 
 And sodden leaves that lie on last year's ground ; 
 And though I seek on every bough in grief, 
 I find no token but a fallen leaf. 
 
 VII. 
 
 AN exile from a mountain's barren top 
 
 Looks in the cloud below : upon this hand 
 
 He sees his safety, here he can command 
 
 His life ; but under yon dark, other slope, 
 
 There lies his heart, there would he be ! Through 
 
 rain 
 
 His weary glance he throws, and in the gloom 
 And motion of thick mist he seeks in vain 
 A faint and distant token of his home. 
 Clouds move in clouds, and hang dividingly, 
 And on his forehead weep a mournful dew ; 
 He watcheth, and in still anxiety 
 His hopes and fears their rival course pursue, 
 Lest what he first have loved be fallen prone, 
 And roof and rafter lie with grass o'ergrown. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Bur as he makes his eager inquest there, 
 The vapors rise, and scatter, and are broken ; 
 And from the vale below the breezes bear 
 A sound as if a distant word were spoken ; 
 The plain of the green earth doth sparkle fair, 
 And at his feet he sees his home, how small ! 
 How like a picture in the glittering air ! 
 The grove, the grass, the slender waterfall.
 
 LOVE 91 
 
 Heaven smiles upon him there ; his wish is won ! 
 
 And I, when I behold thy face, forget 
 
 The sea of danger and the Winter sun, 
 
 The wasting years and all the clouds that yet 
 
 Exile me from my hope, and only see 
 
 The paradise I forfeited in thee. 
 
 IX. 
 
 WHEN from his height the stricken eagle falls, 
 Beating the air with one vain, mighty wing, 
 And vexing the wide heaven with his calls, 
 Until at last the far-sunk forest spring 
 Upward to meet him in his fall ! so swift 
 That body in its circling, sad descent ! 
 Then doth upon the wind a bright rain drift, 
 Heavy and hot, and stains the innocent 
 And tender blade of grass ; while, like a bolt, 
 Helpless and hurtling through the branched roof, 
 He sinks forever in a vain revolt 
 Against his weakness ; faint and far aloof 
 Runs the wild roe ; and as the thunder blast 
 The monarch of the winds to earth is cast. 
 
 x. 
 
 THEN, with one outstretched pinion trailing prone, 
 Debased beneath the laurel he doth lie, 
 Silent and still ; returning roe and fawn 
 Startle when they behold that watchful eye. 
 He lies in grief : his power is from him gone, 
 And Nature, healing all things, heals not him. 
 Vain patience ! for the splendor of the dawn 
 Shall gild his flight no more with pallid beam.
 
 92 LOVE 
 
 And what he there may suffer well I know, 
 
 Who from the heaven of heavens have been cast 
 
 down 
 
 To grovel on the earth, a fatal blow ! 
 Whence with an upward glance I gaze upon 
 The sun and sky, and know that now I must 
 Cower on the earth and crawl about the dust. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I HAVE no heart, now more, but sick to death 
 
 Of this disgustful life am I so grown, 
 
 I hate what I should love, my own sad breath ; 
 
 My heart within me seemeth scarce my own, 
 
 So heavy 't is oh, heavy as a stone ! 
 
 Heavy as sleep ! or as yon pendent bough 
 
 Of the pine, thick - weighted with the Winter's 
 
 snow ; 
 
 But that if winds are rudely 'gainst it blown, 
 Will shatter, and fall to earth ! 
 
 Where hope is none, 
 
 Patience is there a god : Time that doth bring 
 Help to the helpless ; to the broken wing 
 Healing ; to all who suffer 'neath the sun, 
 At last, howe'er delayed, the great release, 
 The final balm, the everlasting peace.
 
 FALSE LOVE 
 
 FALSE LOVE. 
 
 As leaves in Autumn withered are, 
 And strew themselves upon the air, 
 And by the winds are borne afar, 
 
 As if they flattered were 
 To sail so high, and not to be 
 Bound fast on any bough or tree : 
 
 So were my loves when first I could 
 
 Forget how only unto thee 
 
 They grew and sweetly flourished, 
 
 And less were part of me 
 Than blossoms of thy gentle mind, 
 That now are borne on every wind. 
 
 They scatter here and wander there, 
 And waste their freshness far away ; 
 They fill a cold and icy air, 
 
 And with the Winter play ; 
 They yellow earth and yet, and yet 
 Cannot their bared bough forget.
 
 94 PEACE 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 WHEN lovers meet again, 
 Then obscure ways grow plain ; 
 Then crooked paths are straight 
 And the rough places smooth ; 
 Then weariness and weight 
 Have wings as wide as love. 
 For the night is as the day ; 
 Love smiles love's tears away ; 
 And all hard paths are plain 
 When lovers meet again. 
 
 When lovers kiss again, 
 The dry bough blossoms then ; 
 Then rolls away the stone ; 
 Earth's bitterness is balm ; 
 Light through the night is blown ; 
 Peace rocks the world in calm ; 
 And the ebbing tide is full ; 
 For two souls are one soul, 
 And obscure ways grow plain, 
 When lovers meet again.
 
 DELIGHT 95 
 
 DELIGHT. 
 
 DEEP in my heart there lay- 
 Delight, asleep all day ; 
 Sweet, silent thoughts of thee. 
 But the night that awakeneth 
 The lily with her breath 
 Hath awakened those thoughts in me. 
 
 The eternal stars now wreathe 
 Their dance of light beneath 
 The night, and breathe their balm. 
 My deep heart is the skies 
 Whence holy thoughts arise, 
 Making a holy calm. 
 
 Ah, 'neath my quiet soul, 
 
 As 'neath heaven's moon at full, 
 
 Swell the deep tides of love ; 
 
 The unseen currents flow 
 
 To magic shores, winds blow, 
 
 The waters breathe and move. 
 
 Sleep to the night and me ! 
 Divinest thoughts of thee 
 Throw on my soul from far 
 The spirit of their light, 
 As pure stars in the night 
 Look where still waters are.
 
 96 A SOUTHERN NIGHT 
 
 Sleep to the night and me ! 
 The stars look on the sea, 
 And the wave is filled with fire ; 
 And my soul is filled with thee, 
 My heart is faint in me, 
 And my breath is a desire. 
 
 A SOUTHERN NIGHT. 
 
 THE day, like one beloved, hath gently said 
 Farewell, and veils with dusk her cheeks' rich glow ; 
 Her rosy kisses from the clouds are fled, 
 And golden stars bathe in the lake below. 
 The waters breathe ; the mists arise and sweep 
 The world with wonder, and star-lit they move 
 Even like my thoughts to yon faint shore, where 
 
 sleep 
 
 The lily and rose, where sleeps my restful love. 
 Sleep thou ! I wake : and all the world is well ! 
 From hour to hour the ripple laps the stone 
 Of stately marble steps beneath the moon, 
 And her most mighty orb in heaven doth dwell. 
 The night is wide and warm, and my heart free ; 
 My eyes light and my breath quick with thoughts 
 
 of thee.
 
 TO A WRITER OF THE DAY, 
 
 ON HIS ALLOWING HIMSELF TO DISAPPOINT THE HOPES RAISED 
 BY HIS EARLIER WORK. 
 
 WHERE are you gone, my friend ? I had a look, 
 No brief one, through the pages of your book, 
 But scarcely found you there ; or found you not 
 As I should wish : where are you in your thought ? 
 We who have lived together know each other, 
 Once and for all as brother does a brother ; 
 But the years flow : man with them ; and " we fare 
 To different ports," you say, " and each must dare 
 His different course." Yet are we men, are friends, 
 Lovers of good, and servers of high ends 
 Accounted as we serve ; where are you gone, 
 Therefore, in life and verse ? The rosy sun 
 Of your first morning thought, the dewy hour 
 Of youth, hath risen and passed into the power 
 And light of day ; what is that day, then ? Will 
 The height and glory of its noon fulfill 
 Our liberal expectations ? 
 
 Reading over 
 
 Your verses, (and I read them like a lover, 
 Prepared to worship without rhyme or reason,) 
 Yet, reading to adore, and at this season, 
 Too, when blossoms are abroad, and Poetry 
 Is in the air and to the mind all free,
 
 98 TO A WRITER OF THE DAY 
 
 And pleasant thoughts are welcomest, for May 
 Has smiled ungenerous and cold things away, 
 And sweet ideas come dancing, as the blood 
 Within us leaps and laughs for the world's good ; 
 Yet, though it be both May and youth, I found 
 Somehow I was not satisfied. The sound 
 Was musical, of course : your current flows 
 Easily down ; your harshest poem goes 
 Unhindered on its course ; but somehow, still, 
 I had not touched you, had not got my fill, 
 And, to be plain, felt cheated, and was cross. 
 
 And now, as I begin to pitch and toss 
 The thing about my mind, I think I see 
 How matters are with you : 
 
 You are not free : 
 
 Not free enough. I feel that you respect 
 Some certain criticasters, and reject 
 Them not with scorn ; who, having told you how 
 Your business is with " words," have made it now, 
 Perhaps, too late : like others you are caught 
 And tangled in their web, their mist of thought. 
 And looser thinking, more at second-hand, 
 With less of body, more like ropes of sand, 
 More incoherent, dead and without hope, 
 Has never yet been plausibly made up 
 Into the likeness of true thing ! For I 
 Have read these fellows, too, and candidly 
 I will assure you that a dock, a thistle, 
 Has more of nutriment ! 'T were better whistle 
 In sunshine half a day, enjoying it,
 
 " 
 
 TO A WRITER OF THE DAY 99 
 
 Than to benight one's brains with reading what is 
 
 writ 
 
 By all that barren tribe, who blindly dwell 
 In desert places hopeless ! and no well 
 Of life in all whose dry and withered nation, 
 Save one apt spring, their fountain of quota 
 tion. 
 
 For, as you Ve heard, great critics are as rare 
 As those they most indebt, great poets, are. 
 And though 't would seem a harmless trade to suit 
 The time's demands to your just needs, and put 
 A dollar in your pocket, all by clatter 
 About a good thing, yet 't is no such matter, 
 Unless what 's said, is so ; for those, no doubt, 
 Who have no better thing to be about, 
 It is a harmless calling ; but it goes 
 Deeper than that, how deep no wisdom knows ! 
 For these men deal with living things, with art, 
 With hope and youth, with energy of heart, 
 And with high aims, with truth and liberty ; 
 And there 's the spot they rub : they take away 
 Men's freedom ; they create an atmosphere 
 Jaded and difficult, and far and near 
 There settles down a dust of pedant kind 
 Where their words fall, an influence to bind 
 And lock up every generous power, to do, 
 As now, in fact, I think they 've done to you. 
 
 For have you not perused these wise, and then 
 
 Thought of alliteration ; or how " rain " 
 
 Should rhyme with this, not that ; or how an " L,"
 
 100 TO A WRITER OF THE DAY 
 
 A dextrously placed dissyllable, 
 
 Or a rich " mood " of " M's," or what not more, 
 
 Contains the secret of " poetic lore ; " 
 
 How poets use their consonants, and all 
 
 The rest that makes this life seem flat and dull, 
 
 The green world gray, and verse a horrid grief 
 
 Even to read, to write it, past belief ? 
 
 Have you not added then, " At least I '11 be 
 
 Perfect in ' Form ' and ripe in ' Melody ; ' 
 
 Whate'er my limbs of thought, the outside dress 
 
 Shall be a splendor ; I '11 be covetous 
 
 Of * rich ' and ' perfumed ' words ; when sweet 
 
 thoughts fail, 
 
 I '11 weave a glittering, a melodious veil 
 Of phrases that shall seem like thought, but be, 
 Instead, pure beauty, pure delight " ? Dear me ! 
 How well I know all that ! And how I hate 
 The burden of the folly of that state 
 Of imbecile, blank mind ! You should not think 
 In these men's bastard terms ; you should not drink 
 The cup of their damnation ; much less be 
 Seduced and drawn away from liberty, 
 From all good sense cut off, by doctrine such 
 As will not bear the light : folly, that touch 
 Of clearer thinking kills ! Could I but scour 
 Your mind of such loose shadows ! You 've the 
 
 power, 
 
 The imagination, and the heart to do 
 What these men falsely talk of ; and yet you 
 Are sterilized by them, enfeebled, made 
 Into a kind of eunuch, or a shade 
 Of what 's poetic.
 
 TO A WRITER OF THE DAY 101 
 
 Could but this be brought 
 Into your ken, that the technique is thought. 
 Escape from " Style," the notion men can use 
 Words without thoughts ; so wrench and so abuse 
 The innocent language to their ends that they 
 Will seem to be respectful, honest, gay, 
 Grave, or what else ; and all the glorious while 
 The authors 'selves sit with the wise and smile : 
 " 'T is but a trick ; 't is words ; it is a style ! " 
 
 Your technique, then, is thought, just as I say. 
 And if you '11 write a poem, there 's no way 
 But first to think it clearly ; pin your mind 
 Upon your thought ; fasten it there, and bind 
 The thought into your heart : when your veins burn 
 
 and flow 
 
 With love or hate, the thoughts to music go, 
 Melt into music, and pour fully out 
 In a rich flood ; but to take thought about 
 The " music " of your words, 't is matter quite 
 Beyond your conscious power ! For rhymes, they're 
 
 right 
 
 Or wrong according as they hear, not look 
 When printed by a printer in a book ! 
 And their " correctness " may be measured best, 
 And indeed only, by a certain test, 
 That, namely, for rebellions : which are so 
 Until they have succeeded, when they go 
 By quite another name. Forget not, too, 
 That every English poet known to you, 
 That is to say all of them, rhymed just as 
 The spirit took them and their pleasure was,
 
 102 TO A WRITER OF THE DAY 
 
 And masters that they were, rhymed " falsely," so 
 As now no poetaster dares to do ! 
 
 But I 've more serious things to say, and am 
 
 But half concluded : whence is come your calm ? 
 
 This hothouse stillness ? this so much of ease ? 
 
 Eternity of zephyr ? such fat peace ! 
 
 This dancing, quick, inconstant, frivolous, 
 
 Light mind and thought ? You polish and caress 
 
 A little set of words, plant one rare flower 
 
 And tend it every day and every hour 
 
 With needless, pretty care ; while that domain, 
 
 The full and fertile region of your brain, 
 
 Lies fallow, empty, dead ! Is it not so ? 
 
 Or wherein do I err ? I would that you 
 
 Would till that sleeping soil, not let it lie. 
 
 You think I ask for politics ? Not I ! 
 
 I ask for nothing critical ; no scheme, 
 
 No theory of the universe ; no dream 
 
 Of sensual millenniums ; you may be 
 
 Whatever thing you will, and yet please me, 
 
 So that you are yourself. I do not want 
 
 A poet to be modern, militant, 
 
 And moral ; conscious of himself, and filled 
 
 With sense of some grave message ; for what 's 
 
 willed 
 
 Too powerfully is weak, and he may tell 
 A simple story, so he do it well. 
 
 But what I ask of you is that you be 
 Wholly yourself ; you give me poetry 
 As if it were a little dew, which I
 
 TO A WRITER OF THE DAY 103 
 
 Could delicately sip, and satisfy 
 
 My soul's thirst with it ; if you gave me seas 
 
 Of such small talk in verse, they 'd not appease 
 
 The lust I have for something large and deep. 
 
 Why, what 's a nap when a man 's dead with sleep ? 
 
 A single pea, served to perfection, 's food, 
 
 But starving men want more : and I, a flood, 
 
 A storm of happy thoughts. Poets should be 
 
 At flood, in blossom, bearing, continually ! 
 
 Observe I do not ask you to be more 
 
 Than Nature made you ; I but bid you pour 
 
 Yourself out with a liberal hand, and I 
 
 Shall find enough in you to satisfy. 
 
 So then, at last, let me awake this sleep 
 And languor of yourself ; it is too deep ; 
 And 't is too long ! 
 
 Oh, I would have you look 
 With judgment on your life, and not to brook 
 The less in art, as not in truth ; forgive 
 Much in you now I can, never that you less live. 
 I may put by whatever choice of themes, 
 But not this air of being by rich dreams 
 Hoofed over, and floored under, and walled in. 
 As Eastern princes in a palanquin 
 Luxuriously ride, by eunuchs round 
 Held and supported, lifted from the ground, 
 And softly borne, so you, on the mild shoul 
 ders, 
 
 Effeminate, of dreams ! Your spirit moulders ; 
 The freshness of your soul withers away 
 As roses do that cannot find the day.
 
 104 TO A WRITER OF THE DAY 
 
 Oh, free yourself ! take up your life and share 
 
 The splendor of this day, the world's great air, 
 
 And this new land's delight : this land that we 
 
 Adore, this people, this great liberty 
 
 Of nations in new birth ; a happy shower 
 
 Of golden States, a many-blossomed flower ! 
 
 Now grown a Commonwealth, whose strength and 
 
 state 
 
 And health are dangerous to all that hate 
 Freedom ; and fatal to all those who 'd be 
 Sunk in the dark of Time's abysmal sea, 
 Safe anchored in the past safe dead ! that 
 
 none 
 Might longer make them fear a change beneath the 
 
 sun, 
 
 To fright them with new good. But oh, to those 
 Whose blood within them leaps and laughs and 
 
 flows; 
 
 To all who proudly hope ; to all who fain 
 With their right hands and with their heart and 
 
 brain 
 Would throne the right, and make the good to 
 
 reign; 
 
 To all who 'd lift man up, and who, heart-free, 
 Haste toward the light, this Land and State 
 
 should be 
 
 Dear as their life ! And to her sons should she 
 Be born again in love, since with her noblest blood 
 And her right hand of youth she smote the brood 
 Of her own loins, nested in servitude, 
 Shadowing the world's detraction with fair peace. 
 Dear mother of her sons, whose wealth is these,
 
 TO A WRITER OF THE DAY 105 
 
 Her more than gold, their valor, mercy, truth, 
 
 Her mighty age, immortal in their youth, 
 
 Dear light of hope, oh, needs she not to be 
 
 Forever saved into new liberty ? 
 
 The fallen blood of martyrs is in vain 
 
 If ours be not as free to fall again ! 
 
 But her salvation is a rigorous task, 
 
 Eternally accomplishing : I ask 
 
 You, therefore, as one owing more than most 
 
 To her, who is your happiness and boast, 
 
 That you cast from you all that will not wake 
 
 Men's hearts from sensual sleep : for her great 
 
 sake 
 
 Put by the velvet touch, the easy grace, 
 The fingers dreaming on the lyre, the face 
 Forgetful, listening to light melodies ; 
 Cease thou thy toying with the hours, and cease 
 This riot of thy youth, this wantoning 
 With all the sap and spirit of thy Spring. 
 Not twice that verdure 's given thee ; the Tree 
 Of Life not twice shall blossom ; and to be 
 Young, 't is to be in heaven, 't is to be 
 Full of ambition, filled with hot desire, 
 Pregnant with life, and steeped in such a fire 
 As sets a world in hope ! Oh, could I say 
 That which I would, you could not say me nay. 
 But let your country plead with you ; give heed 
 To her dumb call ; sow the eternal seed 
 Of Truth, and Righteousness, and Love ; though 
 
 you 
 
 Shall be, as poets should, known to but few, 
 Yet your reward is great : it is to be
 
 106 TO A WRITER OF THE DAY 
 
 Sown in the hearts of men, to make men free ; 
 And in your thoughts to be your land's firm stay, 
 And her salvation in a falling day, 
 More than dread cannon, than bright thousands 
 
 more: 
 For thoughts, like angels, wage eternal war.
 
 DAVID. 
 
 I WAS a pebble in the valley brook, 
 Until the shepherd left his fleecy flocks ; 
 
 When that Philistine boar from covert broke, 
 And 'neath the eye of Israel shook his locks. 
 
 The waters ran and rippled o'er the sand, 
 And with a fleeting motion fast they flowed ; 
 
 Cold was my dwelling-place until that hand 
 Chose me to be a witness to his God. 
 
 Fair was the youth, and ruddy was his face ! 
 Fair was the youth, his eyes like morning clear ; 
 
 And like a star his comely forehead was, 
 And comely was the darkness of his hair. 
 
 Dread was the form that 'gainst the chosen came ! 
 His cuirass glistered, terribly he trod ; 
 
 Dreadful his form, his countenance was flame, 
 And haughty and uplifted was his head. 
 
 Dark as a hurrying cloud his host before 
 Gath ran, behind him as the tempest they ;
 
 108 DA VID 
 
 And far across the plain their sullen roar 
 Sounded the hope and horror of the fray. 
 
 But while Philistia's jeerings thundered loud, 
 The beauty of the Lord upon him grew ; 
 
 A little he his stately forehead bowed, 
 A little flushed and vermeilled in his hue. 
 
 Then straight against that glittering, sensual thing 
 His arm he raised, and mightily he cast : 
 
 I sped unseen, I left the leathern sling, 
 
 I broke the bone, and to his brain I passed. 
 
 He sank as waters sink upon the sea, 
 A mighty body, downward as the wave ; 
 
 He clashed like brass, he fell all drunkenly, 
 And with his proud feet did he spurn the grave. 
 
 Then from the gorgeous trunk his hated head, 
 His bestial face, was sundered and did fall ; 
 
 But like the wind Philistia's warriors fled, 
 Nor loitered on their way till Ekron's wall. 
 
 Dropt from his stony temples I remain, 
 While Jew and Gentile pass to their decay : 
 
 What shepherd now shall cast me forth, again 
 To smite the impotence of sensual clay !
 
 THE JOURNEY. 
 
 " With joyful feet I journey on, 
 Singing the miles away." 
 
 I. 
 UNREST. 
 
 Two lived together in one place, 
 And lived as one ; a gentle home 
 Where either welcomed either come 
 Happily back with fervent face. 
 
 One sweet and pure and wise, and one 
 Unsteady in the strength of youth ; 
 But both the servants of the truth, 
 Life's perfect May in both begun. 
 
 This is the house : its roof above 
 The linden-loving, unseen bees 
 Murmur ; it is a house of peace ; 
 In the green orchard cooes the dove. 
 
 The apples ripen on the bough, 
 Unplucked; across the window-sill 
 Wild roses clamber where they will ; 
 The threshold is moss-covered now.
 
 110 THE JOURNEY 
 
 All seems to sleep : the shutters bowed, 
 The door made fast, the rooms within 
 All darkness, and outside the green, 
 Still lawn, and this deserted road. 
 
 All 's quiet, yes ; and quietly 
 I turn my steps away : for one 
 There is no rest beneath the sun ; 
 The other is at rest and free. 
 
 n. 
 
 THE JOURNEY BEGUN. 
 
 THE heavenly morn is calm and still, 
 
 The level waters gray ; 
 The sheep-bells tinkle on the hill 
 
 Faintly and far away. 
 
 The rising dew doth rosy glow 
 Through silent deeps of air ; 
 
 Night sleeps in yon dim vale below, 
 And man doth slumber there. 
 
 All, all is still : the earth, the air, 
 
 The sky as mute can be ; 
 The morning on the mountain side, 
 
 My quiet heart in me. 
 
 The sun looks up, and far away 
 The dark pines murmur low ; 
 
 And like the breathing of the day 
 A lightest breeze doth blow.
 
 THE JOURNEY 111 
 
 O happy earth ! O blissful dawn ! 
 
 Prosper to perfect day ! 
 With joyful feet I journey on, 
 
 Singing the miles away. 
 
 in. 
 
 THE MILL. 
 
 THERE is a little, lonesome mill, 
 About it runs a lonely race ; 
 Still and green is all the place, 
 The woods that hide it green and still. 
 
 And every eve above the mill 
 A little star comes out in the sky : 
 " Where is the miller and his boy ? " 
 The reeds in the long race bend and sigh : 
 
 " The miller long since hath gone to the war, 
 The miller and his rosy son ; 
 He left his mill to the evening star, 
 Till, with the morning, he return." 
 
 IV. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 THE hill is yellow, the sky is blue, 
 
 The Autumn woods wear all one hue, 
 
 A leafless gray, and the fields are bare ; 
 
 The great fresh fields all ploughed and brown, 
 
 How motherly they look, each one 
 
 Lying so rich and silent in the sun,
 
 112 THE JOURNEY 
 
 Exposed like sun-burnt bosoms to the air ! 
 And all about the Autumn swallows fly, 
 And chirp and twitter in the windy sky. 
 
 v. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 THE Winter mists are on the hill ; 
 The grass is withered, dry, and gray ; 
 And the air is still 
 In the morning of the day. 
 
 Overhead the clouds are white 
 And slow ; the frozen earth is dead ; 
 Chilly and light 
 The first flakes from above are shed. 
 
 Ere the twilight they will be 
 
 Thick in air ; to-morrow's light 
 
 Shall look forth and see 
 
 The round world glittering cold and white. 
 
 VI. 
 THE RUINED HOUSE. 
 
 THE sky is bleak ; a wintry breeze 
 Withers the grass down to its root ; 
 The wayward rivulet doth freeze ; 
 The river glances and is mute. 
 
 The moon is white as steel above ; 
 The crystal flakelets of the dew
 
 THE JOURNEY 113 
 
 Cling to the bare weeds ; the trees move 
 And glitter when the loud winds blow. 
 
 And yonder on the bare hilltop 
 
 A house doth stand, alone and white ; 
 
 A high and solitary shape, 
 
 That blazes in the cold moonlight. 
 
 A ruined house ; the woods below 
 Rock in the wind, and tree to tree 
 Roars ; but on high the cold winds blow 
 Through the keen brilliance silently. 
 
 At intervals a loud, rude cry 
 
 Lives, when the wind doth change his mood : 
 
 A shutter's flap with no reply 
 
 But noon of night and solitude. 
 
 VII. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 THE sky is clearing, the rain is gone, 
 
 In damp, dark nooks young flowers are blown ; 
 
 The brooks run noisily far away ; 
 
 From field and furrow, all brown and bare, 
 
 Earth breathes a spirit into the air ; 
 
 And in the green meadows the young lambs play. 
 
 The rain doth vanish o'er yonder hill ; 
 
 The forests glitter, the wind is still ; 
 
 The bright dew falls from the bared bough ;
 
 114 THE JOURNEY 
 
 The wild bees murmur, the air is sweet, 
 The soft, green leaves unfold in the heat, 
 My heart is in heaven now ! 
 
 VIII. 
 THE FINAL VOICE. 
 
 THROUGH this green vale 
 The waters ripple fleetly down ; 
 The light upon the pine grows pale 
 And high ; twilight falls soon. 
 
 How huge are grown 
 
 The hills, and darker each green side, 
 
 Now silent, save the tone 
 
 Of this all peaceful tide. 
 
 At the pine's feet 
 Dancingly the light ripple flees, 
 And sings, with voice as sweet 
 As love, its song of peace. 
 
 And from that height 
 
 A murmur falls, a voice that seems 
 
 The spirit of the night 
 
 When darkness sleeps and dreams ; 
 
 A voice that calls 
 
 The soul bidding it slight the grave 
 And time and weakness falls 
 And mingles with the wave.
 
 THE JOURNEY 115 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE JOURNEY ENDED. 
 
 THE sun sinks down the west ; 
 The swallow seeks her nest ; 
 The brook doth louder flow, 
 And I must homeward go. 
 
 Earth now to heaven draws nigh ; 
 The green and quiet sky 
 Is full of dew ; and hill, 
 Meadow, and wood are still. 
 
 The child is long at rest 
 Upon its mother's breast ; 
 The herd beneath the tree ; 
 My quiet heart in me. 
 
 I follow the green lane ; 
 I ope the gate again ; 
 I knock : a voice serene 
 Saith, Enter, enter in I
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A little Lady in a story old 18 
 
 A little rivulet flows down a dell 87 
 
 An apple-tree that grows beside a road 13 
 
 An exile from a mountain's barren top 90 
 
 As leaves in Autumn withered are 93 
 
 As nigh a little group of flowers I knelt 28 
 
 As the first beams of morning faintly wooed 1 
 
 But as he makes his eager inquest there 90 
 
 Cold is the air 15 
 
 Deep in my heart there lay 95 
 
 How pale the shadows of the leafless trees 36 
 
 I dreamed I came to my old nurse again 25 
 
 I had a comrade that have none 5 
 
 I had a friend, but she is gone from me 27 
 
 I have no heart, now more, but sick to death 92 
 
 I heard at dewy morn two upland plover 26 
 
 I hear the feet 34 
 
 I loved a fountain once within a wood 87 
 
 I love you, dear, and since you ask 38 
 
 Indifference ; at last 79 
 
 I saw it not again till after-years 88 
 
 It is the May, the Winter 's gone 7 
 
 I walked into a little wood 14 
 
 I wandered through the orchard and the wood 25 
 
 I was a pebble in the valley brook 107 
 
 I would that I could do such things for you 26 
 
 Let me not long be absent from my thoughts 78 
 
 My mood is like a frosty, backward Spring 89 
 
 Now the spring like a green flood 37
 
 118 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 Once as Peter, James, and John 9 
 
 Pale leaf, so withered and so wan 8 
 
 Sleep, darling, sleep 34 
 
 Sometimes in a great wind a lull occurs 29 
 
 The day, like one beloved, hath gently said 96 
 
 The heavenly morn is calm and still 110 
 
 The hill is yellow, the sky is blue Ill 
 
 The night hath passed upon me wearily 22 
 
 Then, with one outstretched pinion trailing prone .... 91 
 
 The play is over now, and of your pains 81 
 
 There is a little, lonesome mill Ill 
 
 There is an old town by the sea 41 
 
 There lies a village on a northern hill 46 
 
 There was a King in days of old 11 
 
 The sky is bleak, a wintry breeze 112 
 
 The sky is clearing, the rain is gone 113 
 
 The sun rose softly through warm mists of Spring .... 2 
 
 The sun sinks down the west 116 
 
 The wild hawk silent in his cage 5 
 
 The wind roars through the night 42 
 
 The Winter mists are on the hill 112 
 
 This hour to thee, whereas the sun 7 
 
 Three things I lack in absence : first, to be 80 
 
 Through this green vale 114 
 
 Thus as we sped, the bright sun o'er the sea 1 
 
 'T is Autumn now ; the wood upon the hill 31 
 
 Two lived together in one place 109 
 
 We sought a forest 'neath whose pleasant shade 35 
 
 When from his height the stricken eagle falls 91 
 
 When lovers meet again 94 
 
 When, lying in false warmth of sleep, we seem 88 
 
 When travelers to their homes return, their kin 85 
 
 Where are you gone, my friend ? I had a look 97 
 
 Who is she that you love ? 17 
 
 Ye loves that visit me, I know not how 78 
 
 You bid me show a gladness, to appear 89
 
 THE LittKAKI 
 UNIVERSITY OP CALIFORNIA
 
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