3 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 HENKY ABBEY 
 
 FOURTH EDITION, ENLARGED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 MCMIV 
 
Copyright, 
 
 1872, 1879, 1883, 1885, 1894, 1900, and 1904, 
 BY HENRY ABBEY. 
 
PKEFACE. 
 
 ALL the poems of mine that I care to retain are collected 
 in this fourth edition, and are now reproduced as I wish 
 them to stand. Some of them should not be here, per- 
 haps ; but they have been copied and recited often and 
 are beyond recall. 
 
 In the third edition (1895) thirteen poems, beginning 
 with the verses " Delay," were added to what comprised 
 the first and second editions (1885). In the present vol- 
 ume, the nine titles following " The Long Regret " are 
 appended to the contents of the edition of 1895. 
 
 Lest the dominant meter might become monotonous, it 
 was varied in parts of "Karagwe," of "The City of De- 
 cay," and in a few other instances. 
 
 For knowledge of the fact on which is founded the bal- 
 lad " A Man-of-War Hawk," I am indebted to chapter vi. 
 of the " Memoirs of General William T. Sherman." 
 
 H. A. 
 
 626523 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FACIEBAT 1 
 
 ALONG THE NILE 1 
 
 THE STATUE 3 
 
 TRAILING ARBUTUS 5 
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 6 
 
 WHILE THE DAYS GO BY 7 
 
 MAY IN KINGSTON 8 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN 9 
 
 RECOMPENSE 11 
 
 DONALD v 12 
 
 IN THE VALLEY 13 
 
 Low TIDE 14 
 
 THE PATIENCE OF LIBERTY 15 
 
 MARY MAGDALENE 16 
 
 THE AGE OF GOOD 19 
 
 KARAGWE 20 
 
 THE TREE OF JULY 44 
 
 THE DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPER . . . . . . 45 
 
 THE EMIR'S CHARITY 47 
 
 THE BEDOUIN'S REBUKE 48 
 
 THE ROMAN SENTINEL 50 
 
 THE FRENCH MARSHAL 51 
 
 THE ARTIST'S PRAYER 52 
 
 THE SINGER'S ALMS 53 
 
 THE KING'S SACRIFICE 54 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 THE CALIPH'S MAGNANIMITY 55 
 
 RALPH 57 
 
 HYMN FOR DECORATION DAY 62 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN HUSSAR 63 
 
 THE KING AND THE NAIAD 65 
 
 AGNES HATOT 67 
 
 BALLAD OF CONSOLATION 69 
 
 GUYOT OF MARSEILLES 74 
 
 ONTIORA 76 
 
 LIBERTY 79 
 
 THE PATRIOT'S COURAGE 93 
 
 THE PREACHER'S DOLE 95 
 
 THE STOWAWAY BOY 97 
 
 THE GALLEY-SLAVE 98 
 
 THE CITY OF SUCCESS 100 
 
 A SUIT OF ARMOR 121 
 
 A GUARDIAN ANGEL 122 
 
 AUTUMN BALLAD 125 
 
 THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE 126 
 
 IRAK 129 
 
 FOREKNOWLEDGE 139 
 
 SCIENCE AND THE SOUL 142 
 
 THE CITY OF DECAY 145 
 
 BELLEROPHON 180 
 
 THE HERMIT 183 
 
 A MORNING PASTORAL ........ 185 
 
 STORM 187 
 
 VANDERLYN . 187 
 
 DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY 190 
 
 THE GIANT SPIDER .... . . . . . 213 
 
 POPLICOLA 223 
 
CONTENTS. vii 
 
 THE EMPEROR'S MERCY 229 
 
 LOW LIVES WE LED OF CARE AND SlN 231 
 
 THE HOST'S HUMILITY 233 
 
 To RICHARD GRANT WHITE 236 
 
 THE PICTURE 238 
 
 FLOS MORTI 239 
 
 THE JEW'S PIETY 241 
 
 WINTER DAYS 243 
 
 IN HANGING GARDENS 244 
 
 ON A GREAT WARRIOR 245 
 
 PHILIPPA 24T 
 
 THE FISHER-MAIDENS 250 
 
 BY HUDSON'S TIDE 251 
 
 INVOCATION TO THE SUN 254 
 
 DELAY 256 
 
 AZOAR 257 
 
 FAITH'S VISTA 259 
 
 A DREAM FROM SONG AND VAIN DESIRE . . . .259 
 
 GARNET-SHIRLS 261 
 
 WHAT DO WE PLANT ? 262 
 
 To BAFFLE TIME 263 
 
 A COLONIAL BALLAD 263 
 
 A SEA-FIGHT 266 
 
 GETTYSBURG . 271 
 
 ELEUSINIA 285 
 
 EMANUEL 288 
 
 THE LONG REGRET 289 
 
 HYMN 291 
 
 CLAY AND WEBSTER 291 
 
 VEERA 292 
 
 A MAN-OF-WAR HAWK . 311 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 MORO 314 
 
 THE TRAITOB 315 
 
 MARECHAL-NlEL ROSES 337 
 
 To A BLUE HEPATICA 340 
 
 PHAETHON , . 341 
 
THE POEMS OF HENRY ABBEY. 
 
THE POEMS OF HENRY ABBEY. 
 
 FACIEBAT. 
 
 As thoughts possess the fashion of the mood 
 That gave them birth, so every deed we do 
 Partakes of our inborn disquietude 
 That spurns the old and reaches toward the new. 
 The noblest works of human art and pride 
 Show that their makers were not satisfied. 
 
 For, looking down the ladder of our deeds, 
 The rounds seem slender //all past work appears 
 Unto the doer faulty : the heart bleeds, 
 And pale Regret comes weltering in tears, 
 To think how poor our best has been, how vain, 
 Beside the excellence we would attain > : t . 
 
 ALONG THE NILE. " 
 
 TO G. W. C. 
 
 WE journey up the storied Nile; 
 The timeless water seems to smile; 
 The slow and swarthy boatman sings ; 
 The dahabeah spreads her wings ; 
 We catch the breeze and sail away, 
 Along the dawning of the day, 
 Along the East, wherein the morn 
 Of life and truth was gladly born. 
 
 We sail along the past, and see 
 
 Great Thebes with Karnak at her knee. 
 
ALONG THE NILE. 
 
 To Isis and Osiris rise 
 
 The prayers and smoke of sacrifice. 
 
 'Mid rites of priests and pomp of kings 
 
 Again the seated Memnon sings. 
 
 We watch the palms along the shore, 
 
 And dream of what is here no more. 
 
 The gliding Cleopatran Nile, 
 
 With glossy windings, mile on mile, 
 
 Suggests the asp: in coils compact 
 
 It hisses at the cataract. 
 
 Thence on again we sail, and strand 
 
 Upon the yellow Nubian sand, 
 
 Near Aboo Simbel's rock-hewn fane, 
 
 Which smiles at time with calm disdain. 
 
 Who cut the stone joy none can tell; 
 He did his work, like Nature, well. 
 At one with Nature, godlike, these 
 Bland faces of great Barneses. 
 T is seemly that the noble mind 
 Somewhat of permanence may find, 
 Whereon, with patience, may be wrought 
 A clear expression of its thought. 
 
 The artist labors while he may, 
 But finds at best too brief the day; 
 And, tho' his works outlast the time 
 And nation that they make sublime, 
 He feels and sees that Nature knows 
 Nothing of time in what she does, 
 But has a leisure infinite 
 Wherein to do her work aright. 
 
 The Nile of virtue overflows 
 
 The fruitful lands through which it goes. 
 
 It little cares for smile or slight, 
 
 But in its deeds takes sole delight, 
 
THE STATUE. 
 
 And in them puts its highest sense, 
 Unmindful of the recompense ; 
 Contented calmly to pursue 
 Whatever work it finds to do. 
 
 Howadji, with sweet dreams full fraught, 
 We trace this Nile through human thought. 
 Remains of ancient grandeur stand 
 Along the shores on either hand. 
 Like pyramids, against the skies 
 Loom up the old philosophies, 
 And the Greek king, who wandered long, 
 Smiles from uncrumbling rock of song. 
 
 THE STATUE. 
 
 ALL bold, great actions that are seen too near, 
 Look rash and foolish to unthinking eyes ; 
 But at a distance they at once appear 
 In their true grandeur: so let us be wise, 
 And not too soon our neighbor's deed malign, 
 Lest what seems crude should prove to be divine. 
 
 In Athens, when all learning centered there, 
 
 Men reared a column of surpassing height 
 
 In honor of Minerva, wise and fair ; 
 
 And on the top, which dwindled to the sight, 
 
 A statue of the goddess was to stand, 
 
 That wisdom might be known in all the land. 
 
 And he who, with the beauty in his heart, 
 Seeking in faultless work immortal youth, 
 Would mold this statue with the finest art, 
 Making the wintry marble glow with truth, 
 
4 THE STATUE. 
 
 Should gain the prize : two sculptors sought the fame 
 The prize they craved was an enduring name. 
 
 Alcamenes soon carved his little best ; 
 
 But Phidias, beneath a dazzling thought 
 
 That like a bright sun in a cloudless west 
 
 Lighted his wide, great soul, with pure love wrought 
 
 A statue, and its changeless face of stone 
 
 With calm, far-sighted wisdom towered and shone. 
 
 Then to be judged the labors were unveiled ; 
 
 But, at the marble thought, that by degrees 
 
 Of hardship Phidias cut, the people railed. 
 
 "The lines are coarse, the form too large," said these; 
 
 "And he who sends this rough result of haste 
 
 Sends scorn, and offers insult to our taste." 
 
 Alcamenes' praised work was lifted high 
 
 Upon the column, ready for the prize ; 
 
 But it appeared too small against the sky, 
 
 And lacked proportion to uplooking eyes; 
 
 So it was quickly lowered and put aside, 
 
 And the scorned thought was mounted to be tried. 
 
 Surprise swept o'er the faces of the crowd, 
 
 And changed them as a sudden breeze may change 
 
 A field of fickle grass, and long and loud 
 
 The mingled shouts to see a sight so strange. 
 
 The statue stood completed in its place, 
 
 Each coarse line melted to a line of grace. 
 
TRAILING ARBUTUS. 
 
 TRAILING ARBUTUS. 
 
 IN spring when branches of woodbine 
 Hung leafless over the rocks, 
 
 And fleecy snow in the hollows 
 Lay in unshepherded flocks, 
 
 By the road where dead leaves rustled, 
 Or damply matted the ground, 
 
 While over me lifted the robin 
 His honey'd passion of sound, 
 
 I came upon trailing arbutus 
 Blooming in modesty sweet, 
 
 And gathered store of its riches 
 Offered and spread at my feet. 
 
 It grew under leaves, as if seeking 
 No hint of itself to disclose, 
 
 And out of its pink-white petals 
 A delicate perfume rose. 
 
 As faint as the fond remembrance 
 Of joy that was only dreamed, 
 
 And like a divine suggestion 
 The scent of the flower seemed. 
 
 I sought for love on the highway, 
 For love unselfish and pure, 
 
 And found it in good deeds blooming, 
 Tho' often in haunts obscure. 
 
 Often in leaves by the wayside, 
 But touched with a heavenly glow, 
 
 And with self-sacrifice fragrant 
 The flowers of great love grow. 
 
THE TROUBADOUR. 
 
 O lovely and lowly arbutus ! 
 
 As year unto year succeeds, 
 Be thou the laurel and emblem 
 
 Of noble, unselfish deeds 1 
 
 THE TROUBADOUR. 
 
 So many poets die ere they are known, 
 I pray you, hear me kindly for their sake. 
 Not of the harp, but of the soul alone, 
 Is the deep music all true minstrels make: 
 Hear my soul's music, and I will beguile, 
 With string and song, your festival awhile. 
 
 The stranger, looking on a merry scene 
 Where unknown faces shine with love and joy, 
 Feels that he is a stranger : on this green 
 That fronts the castle, seeing your employ, 
 My heart sank desolate; yet came I near, 
 For welcome should be found at all good cheer. 
 
 Provence my home, and fancy not, I pray, 
 That in Provence no lords save Love abide ; 
 For there Neglect, that, coming down the way, 
 Or priest, or Levite takes the other side, 
 Neglect, false neighbor, flung at me the scoff: 
 " Honor is cold, but loves true worth far off ! " 
 
 Love is the key-note of the universe 
 
 The theme, the melody; though poorly decked, 
 
 Masters, I ask but little of your purse, 
 
 For love, not gold, is best to heal neglect. 
 
 Love yields true fame when love is widely sown ; 
 
 Bloom, flower of love! lest I, too, die unknown, 
 
WHILE THE DAYS GO BY. 
 
 WHILE THE DAYS GO BY. 
 
 I SHALL not say, our life is all in vain, 
 For peace may cheer the desolated hearth; 
 But well I know that, on this weary earth, 
 Round each joy-island is a sea of pain 
 And the days go by. 
 
 We watch our hopes, far flickering in the night, 
 Once radiant torches, lighted in our youth, 
 To guide, through years, to some broad morn of truth ; 
 But these go out and leave us with no light 
 And the days go by. 
 
 We see the clouds of summer go and come, 
 And thirsty verdure praying them to give: 
 We cry, " O Nature, tell us why we live ! " 
 She smiles with beauty, but her lips are dumb 
 And the days go by. 
 
 Yet what are we? We breathe, we love, we cease: 
 Too soon our little orbits change and fall: 
 We are Fate's children, very tired ; and all 
 Are homeless strangers, craving rest and peace 
 And the days go by. 
 
 I only ask to drink experience deep ; 
 And, in the sad, sweet goblet of my years, 
 To find love poured with all its smiles and tears, 
 And quaffing this, I too shall sweetly sleep 
 While the days go by. 
 
MAY IN KINGSTON. 
 
 MAY IN KINGSTON. 
 
 OUR old colonial town is new with May: 
 The loving trees that clasp across the streets, 
 Grow greener sleeved with bursting buds each day. 
 Still this year's May the last year's May repeats ; 
 Even the old stone houses half renew 
 Their youth and beauty, as the old trees do. 
 
 High over all, like some divine desire 
 Above our lower thoughts of daily care, 
 The gray, religious, heaven-touching spire 
 Adds to the quiet of the spring-time air ; 
 And over roofs the birds create a sea, 
 That has no shore, of their May melody. 
 
 Down through the lowlands now of lightest green, 
 
 The undecided creek winds on its way. 
 
 There the lithe willow bends with graceful mien, 
 
 And sees its likeness in the depths all day ; 
 
 While in the orchards, flushed with May's warm light, 
 
 The bride-like fruit-trees dwell, attired in white. 
 
 But yonder loom the mountains old and grand, 
 
 That off, along dim distance, reach afar, 
 
 And high and vast, against the sunset stand, 
 
 A dreamy range, long and irregular 
 
 A caravan that never passes by, 
 
 Whose camel-backs are laden with the sky. 
 
 So, like a caravan, our outlived years 
 Loom on the introspective landscape seen 
 Within the heart: and now, when May appears, 
 And earth renews its vernal bloom and green, 
 Wo but renew our longing, and we say : 
 "Oh, would that life might ever be all May! 
 
THE SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 "Would that the bloom of youth that is so brief, 
 The bloom, the May, the fullness ripe and fair 
 Of cheek and limb, might fade not as the leaf; 
 Would that the heart might not grow old with care, 
 Nor love turn bitter, nor fond hope decay ; 
 But soul and body lead a life of May ! " 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 WHO art thou, mighty spirit, 
 
 That, in the twilight deep, 
 Makest a deeper twilight, 
 
 Invading tired sleep? 
 The new moon, like a jewel, 
 
 Shines on thy forehead high, 
 And shows thy wavy outline 
 
 Along the mellow sky. 
 
 Thy ample sides are shaggy 
 
 With maple, oak, and pine ; 
 Thy foot is shod with verdure ; 
 
 Thy breath is more than wine. 
 The brooklet is thy laughter ; 
 
 The light cloud likes thy brow. 
 Speak from thy breezy summit, 
 
 Say, spirit, who art thou ? 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 I am the far-seen mountain 
 Before thee towering high, 
 
 Where, peak beyond peak reaching, 
 Rise others such as I. 
 
 Our dark-blue robes at twilight 
 We draw about our forms ; 
 
10 THE SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Ours is the boundless quiet 
 That dwells above the storms. 
 
 I am a patient spirit 
 
 That worked beneath the sea, 
 And, from hills pre-existing, 
 
 Built up the hills to be. 
 To shifting sands I added 
 
 Pebble and limy shell, 
 And laid, in briny chasms, 
 
 My deep foundations well. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 O Spirit of the Mountain! 
 
 O toiler deep of yore ! 
 Vast is thy past behind thee, 
 
 Thy future vast before. 
 We call thee everlasting; 
 
 Our life is like a day; 
 Are time and tide against thee ? 
 
 Must thou too pass away? 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 I see thy generation, 
 
 Who wither as the rose, 
 And feel the isolation 
 
 That wraps unmoved repose. 
 What through uncounted ages 
 
 I wrought in sunless deeps, 
 Now, with the suns of heaven, 
 
 Its lofty vigils keeps ! 
 
 Yet slowly, ever slowly, 
 I melt again, to be 
 
RECOMPENSE. 11 
 
 Lost in my grand, gray lover, 
 
 The wild, unresting sea. 
 I cannot hear his moaning ; 
 
 But know that, on the shore, 
 He flings his spray-arms toward me, 
 
 And calls me ever more. 
 
 EECOMPENSE. 
 
 IN spring, two robins from the southern lands 
 Built a brown nest upon an unsafe limb 
 Of the large tree that by my window stands, 
 And every morn they praised God with a hymn ; 
 And, when a certain season passed away, 
 Five light-green eggs within the building lay. 
 
 Above the rush and clatter of the street, 
 Devotedly was guarded each green trust, 
 And the round house was an abode most sweet, 
 Roofed with expectant wings : better to rust 
 With iron patience, than forego a hope, 
 And pent life in the shells was felt to grope. 
 
 But one dread day, before the sun went down, 
 A cloud arose, a black and monstrous hand, 
 That robbed the sunset of its golden crown, 
 Filled the wild sky, and shook the frightened land. 
 The portals of the storm were opened wide, 
 And pealing thunder rolled on every side. 
 
 Then was it some unchained, malicious gust 
 Broke off the limb on which the nest was stayed, 
 And to the ground the tender dwelling thrust, 
 And wrecked its hapless store. The birds, dismayed, 
 Were shrill with grief, and beat the moving air 
 With wings whose frantic whir was like despair. 
 
12 DONALD. 
 
 At dawn, my friends who live across the way, 
 Sent me the whisper that their child was dead ; 
 And, when they led me where the body lay 
 The free, winged spirit's shell, untimely shed 
 And the wild cries of their distress I heard, 
 My sympathy again was deeply stirred. 
 
 Yet grief is hut a cloud that soon is past; 
 Hither the mated robins came once more, 
 And built, with cunning architecture, fast 
 In the same tree beside my friendly door ; 
 And in the soft-floored building could be seen 
 Five sources of sweet music, new and clean. 
 
 Time passed, and to the good home opposite 
 Another babe was born, and all the love 
 That was bereft that fierce and stormy night, 
 Fell to the latter child as from above : 
 And in the nest five yellow mouths one day 
 Of their impatient hunger made display. 
 
 DONALD. 
 
 O WHITE, white, light moon, that sailest in the sky, 
 Look down upon the whirling world, for thou art up 
 
 so high, 
 And tell me where my Donald is who sailed across 
 
 the sea, 
 And make a path of silver light to lead him back to me. 
 
 O white, white, bright moon, thy cheek is coldly fair, 
 A little cloud beside thee seems thy wildly floating 
 
 hair ; 
 And if thou would'st not have me grow all white and 
 
 cold like thee, 
 Go, make a mighty tide to draw my Donald back to me. 
 
IN THE VALLEY. 13 
 
 light, white, bright moon, that dost so fondly shine, 
 There is not a lily in the world but hides its face 
 
 from thine ; 
 
 1 too shall go and hide rny face close in the dust from 
 
 thee, 
 
 Unless with light and tide thou bring my Donald back 
 to me. 
 
 IN THE VALLEY. 
 
 THIS is the place a grove of sighing pines ; 
 Their fallen tassels thatch the roofs with brown, 
 The narrow roofs, beneath whose small confines 
 No dweller wakens : tho' the rains weep down, 
 Tho' winds, the mighty mourners, by the spot 
 Go unconsoled, the inmates waken not. 
 
 Along the unbusy street my way I keep, 
 
 Between the houses tenanted by death, 
 
 And seek the place where lies my friend asleep, 
 
 Alien to this the life of light and breath. 
 
 And here his grave, where wild vines bloom and grope, 
 
 Makes recollection seem as sweet as hope. 
 
 For he, my friend, was gentle, wise and true ; 
 
 Pleasant to him a beggar's thankful word; 
 
 He spoke no ill of others, and he knew 
 
 And loved clear brooks, green dells, and flower, and 
 
 bird ; 
 
 And now the flowers strive to return his love 
 By growing here his humble grave above. 
 
 But tears are more than flowers, and make for peace, 
 
 Tho' God by grief is oft misunderstood. 
 
 In tears I made complaint of his decease 
 
 Whom I had loved, for he was young and good ; 
 
14 LOW TIDE. 
 
 I made complaint that He who rules on high 
 Should suffer here the young and good to die. 
 
 O Death ! sole warder at the gates of time, 
 For ever more to those thy hinge swing wide 
 Whose hope is flown, whose souls are stained with 
 
 crime 
 
 Give way to all who are dissatisfied 
 With their recurrent days, and long to cease ; 
 Swing wide for such, and to the old give peace. 
 
 But close and bar thy black and mournful gates 
 Against the good, the beautiful, the young, 
 Whose lives the lamp of hope illuminates, 
 Whose harp-like souls for highest strains are strung. 
 O warder Death ! give way, swing wide for sin ; 
 But close, and bar, and keep the good within. 
 
 LOW TIDE. 
 
 ALONG by the cliff I walk in silence, 
 While over the blue of the waves below, 
 
 The white birds gleam in the sun like silver 
 And ships in the offing come and go, 
 And the tide is low. 
 
 Oh! it was here that in golden weather, 
 Under the cliff and close to the sea, 
 
 A pledge was given that made me master 
 Of all that ever was dear to me; 
 And the tide was low. 
 
 Only a little year fled by after ; 
 
 Wedded we came to our tryst once more, 
 And saw the deep, like a bird imprisoned 
 
THE PATIENCE OF LIBERTY. 15 
 
 Beating its wings at its bars, the shore ; 
 And the tide was low. 
 
 Now I walk alone by the filmy breakers 
 A voice is hushed I can never forget ; 
 
 On my saddened sea dead calm has fallen, 
 My ships are harbored, my sun is set ; 
 And the tide is low. 
 
 THE PATIENCE OF LIBERTY. 
 
 As in a dream I saw her, where she stood, 
 Calm, self-contained, the goddess of the free, 
 Upon a height above the storm and flood, 
 Looking far off on what was like the sea. 
 Her gown was plain : her freedman's cap she wore, 
 And, by her side, the rod magistral bore. 
 
 The lofty heights whereon she dwells alone, 
 To many hearts seem hard indeed to scale ; 
 Wilder than those above the Yellowstone, 
 With rugged paths swept by the leaden hail 
 Wherewith Oppression, in his selfish rage, 
 Drives back her worshipers in every age. 
 
 Few are the ways that lead to where she stands 
 
 Not filled with slain and hedged with bloody death , 
 
 But now I saw her on the misty lands, 
 
 And sweeter than the morning's was her breath, 
 
 And radiant with glory shone her face, 
 
 Kindly, sublime, and of immortal grace. 
 
 " Thine is the land where all, at last, are free ; 
 
 But is the freedom real or a dream ? " 
 
 She asked ; " and dost thou not despair of me, 
 
16 MARY MAGDALENE. 
 
 To see my rights abused, wealth made supreme, 
 Truth scorned by party zeal, and everywhere, 
 Honors dishonored? dost thou not despair?" 
 
 I knew that these, her questions, were a test, 
 And from the fullness of my faith I said: 
 " O Liberty ! there is not in my breast 
 Harbor to moor thy doubt; the blood we shed, 
 The bitter tears, the long, heart-rending pain, 
 Were all for thee; they have not been in vain. 
 
 " Often a public wrong a use fulfills, 
 
 And, tho* not left unpunished, leads to good; 
 
 I look to time to cure a thousand ills, 
 
 And make thee widely, better understood. 
 
 True love of thee will heal the wrongs we bear; 
 
 I trust to time, and I do not despair ! " 
 
 She stood with one hand on her eagle's head, 
 
 The other pointed to an age to be. 
 
 u Neither do I despair," she proudly said, 
 
 " For I behold the future, and I see 
 
 The shadow and the darkness overpast, 
 
 My glad day come, and all men free at last ! " 
 
 MARY MAGDALENE. 
 
 ALL night I cried in agony 
 
 Of grief and bitter loss, 
 And wept for Him whom they had nailed 
 
 Against the shameful cross. 
 
 But in the morning, in the dark, 
 
 Before the east was gray, 
 I hastened to the sepulcher 
 
 Wherein the body lay. 
 
MARY MAGDALENE. 17 
 
 The stone was rolled away I found ; 
 
 And filled with fear and woe, 
 I straight to His disciples ran, 
 
 Thereof to let them know. 
 
 I said, "The body of the Lord 
 
 Is not within the tomb; 
 For they have taken him away 
 
 Unnoticed in the gloom. 
 
 u Where have they laid him ? who can tell ? 
 
 Alas ! we know not where." 
 The words were slower than my tears 
 
 To utter my despair. 
 
 Then two disciples, coming forth, 
 
 With hurried footsteps sped, 
 Till, at the garden sepulcher, 
 
 They found as I had said. 
 
 They saw the door-stone rolled away, 
 
 The empty tomb and wide, 
 The linen face-cloth folded up 
 
 And grave-clothes laid aside. 
 
 The morn was cold; I heeded not, 
 
 With sorrow wrapped about; 
 Till both were gone to tell the rest, 
 
 I stood and wept without. 
 
 Then stooping down and looking in, 
 
 I saw two angels there, 
 Whose faces shone with love and joy, 
 
 And were divinely fair. 
 
 In white effulgence garmented, 
 
 That showed the hewn rock's grain, 
 
18 MAR Y MAGDALENE. 
 
 One at the head, one at the feet, 
 Sat where my Lord had lain. 
 
 To look on them I was afraid, 
 Their splendor was so great: 
 
 They said to me, " Why weepest thou ? " 
 In tones compassionate. 
 
 "I weep," I said, "for that my Lord 
 
 Is taken hence away, 
 And that, alas! I do not know 
 
 Where he is laid to-day." 
 
 I sadly rose, and turning back, 
 
 Beheld One standing by, 
 And knew the lily of the dawn 
 
 Unfolded in the sky. 
 
 But in the pale, uncertain light, 
 Too blind with tears to see, 
 
 I thought it was the gardener 
 There at the tomb with me. 
 
 It soothed me much, the day before, 
 
 To say it in my mind, 
 That in a garden they had laid 
 
 The Flower of all mankind. 
 
 Until Thy fragrance fell on me, 
 A thrall to sin was I ; 
 
 Flower of Peace! O Flower of Grace! 
 Thy love is liberty ! 
 
 But they had taken him away, 
 Who is of sin the price ; 
 
 1 held the gift that I had brought, 
 Of perfume, oil, and spice. 
 
THE AGE OF GOOD. 19 
 
 I had not staid to braid my hair, 
 
 And, in the early breeze, 
 The long, black luster, damp with tears, 
 
 Down fluttered to my knees. 
 
 I dimly saw the gardener ; 
 
 In grief I bowed my head ; 
 " Why weepest thou ? whom seekest thou ? " 
 
 He softly, gently said. 
 
 " O sir, if thou have borne him hence," 
 
 I eagerly replied, 
 "Tell me where thou hast laid my Lord, 
 
 Whom they have crucified, 
 
 " And I will take him thence away ; 
 
 Oh, tell me where he lies ! " 
 " Mary ! " he said I knew the voice, 
 
 And turned in glad surprise. 
 
 For he was not the gardener 
 
 That I advanced to greet ; 
 I cried, "Rabboni!" joyfully, 
 
 And knelt at Jesus' feet. 
 
 THE AGE OF GOOD. 
 
 I HAD a vision of mankind to be: 
 I saw no grated windows, heard no roar 
 From iron mouths of war on land or sea; 
 Ambition broke the sway of peace no more. 
 Out of the chaos of ill-will had come 
 Cosmos, the Age of Good, Millennium! 
 
 The lowly hero had of praise his meed, 
 And loving-kindnesses joined roof to roof. 
 
20 KARAGWE. 
 
 The poor were few, and to their daily need 
 Abundance ministered : men bore reproof ; 
 On crags of self-denial sought to cull 
 Rare flowers to deck their doors hospitable. 
 
 The very bells rang out the Golden Rule, 
 For hearts were loath to give their fellows pain. 
 The man was chosen chief who, brave and cool, 
 Was king in act and thought : wise power is plain 
 And likes not pomp and show; he seemed to be 
 The least in all that true democracy. 
 
 O Thou, the Christ, the Sower of the seed, 
 Pluck out the narrowness, the greed for pelf ; 
 Pluck out all tares; the time let come, and speed, 
 When each will love his neighbor as himself ! 
 The hopes of man, our dreams of higher good, 
 Are based on Thee ; we are Thy brotherhood,, 
 
 KARAGWE. 
 
 Because the sun hath looked upon me. 
 
 THE SONG OF SOLOMON. 
 
 AN African, thick-lipped and heavy-heeled, 
 With woolly hair, large eyes, and even teeth, 
 A forehead high, and beetling at the brows 
 Enough to show a strong perceptive thought 
 Ran out infallibly beyond his sight 
 A savage with no knowledge we possess 
 Of science, art, or books, or government 
 A captive black bereft of rights, inthralled, 
 Bought from a slaver off the Georgia coast, 
 His life a thing of price with market rate ; 
 Yet in the face of all, a brave, true man, 
 Named Kara-gwe in token of his tribe. 
 
KARAGWE. 21 
 
 His buyer was the planter Dalton Earl, 
 Of Valley Earl, an owner of broad lands, 
 Whose wife, in some cold daybreak of the past, 
 Had tarried with the silence and the night ; 
 But parting, left him of their love a child. 
 He named it Coralline: by sad waves tossed, 
 She was a spray of coral fair to see, 
 Found on the shore where death's impatient deep 
 Hems in the narrow continent of life. 
 
 IT. 
 
 Each day brought health and strength to Karagwe ; 
 Each day he worked where white the cotton grew, 
 And every boll he picked had thought in it. 
 Strange fancies, faced with ignorance and doubt, 
 Came crowding, peering in his heathen mind, 
 Like men who, gathered in some rich bazaar, 
 Elbow to see arrive the caravan. 
 
 All things were new and wonderful to him. 
 What were the papers that his owner read ? 
 What meant the black and ant-like characters? 
 He found a leaf of them and gazed at it, 
 Trying to understand their voiceless speech. . 
 This, Dalton Earl with cloudy look beheld, 
 And seized the print, commanding that the slave 
 Have twenty lashes for this breach of law. 
 
 Long on his sentence pondered Karagwe. 
 Against the law ? Who then would make a law 
 Decreeing knowledge to a few proud men, 
 To others ignorance ? Surely not God ; 
 The white-haired negro with a text had said 
 That God loved justice, and was Friend to all. 
 
 With blood replying redly to each stroke, 
 With dark skin clinging ghastly to the whip, 
 
22 KARAGWE. 
 
 The slave bore up beneath, his punishment ; 
 
 His heart, indignant, shaking his broad breast, 
 
 Strong as the heart Hippodame bewailed, 
 
 Which, with the cold, intrusive brass thrust through, 
 
 Shook the Greek spear to its extremity. 
 
 in. 
 
 Henceforth the black man's energy, enforced 
 By one opposing argument, the lash, 
 Pursued a quest for knowledge, and secured, 
 In paths familiar, pleasant wayside flowers. 
 The old slave preacher knew the alphabet, 
 And taught it, when he might, to Karagwe, 
 Whose books were crumbs of paper printed on, 
 Found here and there, strewed by the handless wind. 
 He studied in the woods and near the falls 
 That shoot in watery arrows from the cliff, 
 Feathered with spray and barbed with hues of flint 
 
 Once, looking up, he saw, upon the verge, 
 Fair baby Coralline, that, laughing, leaned 
 Over th' abyss to grasp a butterfly. 
 Ere paused he panting on the dizzy height, 
 A shriek rose shrill above the water's roar; 
 The child had fallen, and a young quadroon 
 Lay on the slanted summit, swooned away. 
 The child had fallen, but was yet unharmed. 
 The slave slipped down where ran a narrow ledge, 
 And, reaching forth, caught fast the little frock, 
 Whose folds were tangled in a bending shrub, 
 And drew his frightened burden safely back. 
 
 He told not of this peril he had braved, 
 Nor spoke of any merit he possessed, 
 Or any worthy act that he had done. 
 
KARAGWE. 23 
 
 IV. 
 
 By being always when he could alone, 
 
 By often wandering in the woods and fields, 
 
 He came at last to live in revery. 
 
 But little thought is found in revery, 
 
 And aimless thought, for most is useless dream; 
 
 And whoso dreams may never learn to act. 
 
 The dreamer and the thinker are not kin. 
 
 Sweet revery is like a little boat 
 
 That idly drifts along a listless stream 
 
 A painted boat, afloat without an oar. 
 
 The negro preacher with the text had said 
 
 That when men died the soul lived on and on : 
 
 If so, of what material was the soul? 
 
 The eyes could not behold it : might not then 
 
 The viewless air be filled with living souls ? 
 
 Not these alone, but other vague, strange forms 
 
 Around us at all times could dwell unseen. 
 
 If air was only matter rarefied, 
 
 Why might not things still more impalpable 
 
 Exist as well ? Whence came our countless thoughts ? 
 
 They were not ours : he fancied that they all, 
 
 Or good, or bad, were whispered to the soul: 
 
 The bad were sleek suggestions from a shape 
 
 With measureless black wings, that when it dared 
 
 Set on the necks of men its cloven foot ; 
 
 But, winged with light, a spirit eloquent 
 
 Named Wisdom, with his son, Humanity, 
 
 Whispered good thoughts, and told this groping heart, 
 
 That sunset splendors were as naught beside 
 
 The fadeless glory of a noble deed. 
 
 He proudly dreamed that to no other mind 
 Had been revealed these trite imaginings. 
 Alas ! poor heart, how many have awoke, 
 
24 KARAGWE. 
 
 And found their newest thoughts not new but old, 
 Their brightest fancies woven in the silk 
 Of ancient poems, history or romance, 
 And learning still elusive and far off! 
 
 v. 
 
 The young quadroon who fainted on the cliff 
 Was Ruth; she, born a thrall to Dalton Earl, 
 Was now a conscious rose of womanhood. 
 She looked on Karagwe, and saw in him 
 A man above the level of the slave, 
 A palm-tree in a wide, neglected land. 
 
 While both, at twilight, on a rustic seat 
 
 Sat talking, laughing with that careless mirth 
 
 In which their race forgot its chains and toil, 
 
 A drunken overseer staggered up, 
 
 And seeing a woman sitting in the dusk, 
 
 Swayed toward her, caught her rudely by the arm, 
 
 And, with an insult, strove to drag her forth. 
 
 Ruth trembled, fawn-like ; but the negro rose, 
 
 And, with his grasp, freed her the white man's hand 
 
 Then in the face the coward struck the slave, 
 
 Who neither struck him back nor uttered word. 
 
 But to a whipping-post they bound the black, 
 And many stripes his unhealed shoulders flayed. 
 Stung by the wrong, but lifted with just scorn, 
 That men who claimed to be superior 
 Would thus degrade their unoffending kind, 
 He wept at heart ; no groan, no cry of pain, 
 Made audible their inhumanity. 
 
 Quickly thereafter he was forced to go 
 
 And toil beneath the summer's burning glare. 
 
KARAGWE. 25 
 
 In foaming basket, on his wounded back, 
 
 Up a steep hillside to a cotton-gin, 
 
 The long day through, he bore the tyrannous, 
 
 Truth-smothering product of the slave-worked fields. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Ruth, in her household cares and restful hours, 
 Thought of the one dark face and noble heart. 
 
 He, when the labor of the day was done, 
 Moved through the dusk, between the dewy leaves, 
 And, softly as a shadow, climbed the wall, 
 And waited in the garden, crouching down, 
 Hidden and breathed on by abundant bloom, 
 Hoping that she again might come that way. 
 He saw her, by a window of the house, 
 Pass and repass within, and heard her sing 
 A wooing song of love and pity blent; 
 But would not call to her, nor give a sign 
 That he was near ; to see her was enough. 
 Perhaps, if those she dwelt with knew he came 
 To meet her in the garden, they would place 
 On her some punishment, some sharp restraint, 
 That she, tho' innocent, might have to bear. 
 So he went back again to his low cot, 
 And on his poor, straw pallet, dreamed of her 
 As loyally, may be, as any prince, 
 Lying asleep on down and broidery, 
 Dreams of his queen. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Kuth was but tinged with shade. 
 Her black, bright eyes, so proud and passionate, 
 Showed that the deep and everlasting soul, 
 Who through their liquid portals saw the world, 
 
6 KARAGWE. 
 
 Was mixed with elements of storm and gloom. 
 For never bird of thought flew down her sky, 
 But that the shadow of its flitting wing 
 Passed in her eyes : like leaves along the brink, 
 Above the depths her thick, long lashes hung. 
 Such excellent adornment was her grace, 
 That, tho' her gown was of the coarsest kind, 
 Hers was apparel more desirable 
 Than costly splendor woven by the loom. 
 
 vm. 
 
 A vast plantation, joining Dalton Earl's, 
 Was held by Richard Wain, a hated man 
 Hated of owned and hired and in the town. 
 
 But where the river limited his lands 
 
 Seclusion sweet was found by Karagwe. 
 
 For there a noble temple, pillared, aisled, 
 
 Toward heaven rose : aloft, the verdant roof 
 
 With sun-gilt frieze and cornice, and beneath, 
 
 A fragrant carpet and mossed seats of stone 
 
 A grove of pines. Here, hidden in a tree, 
 
 Was treasure kept a Bible small and worn. 
 
 From it the past arose before the slave; 
 
 The folk were vague, and their procession seemed 
 
 Like figures moving slowly in the dusk ; 
 
 Yet One there was, who, center'd in great light, 
 
 Stood out, determinate, and full of life: 
 
 A pure, surpassing face, with silken beard; 
 
 Long, golden hair that waved about the neck ; 
 
 Mild eyes of deepest azure, thoughtful eyes 
 
 Serene with knowledge of eternity : 
 
 A patient man, beneficent, divine, 
 
 Friend to the poor, and Messenger of love. 
 
KARAGWE. 27 
 
 IX. 
 
 While walking near the house of Richard Wain, 
 
 The slave beheld a paper in the grass, 
 
 Whose sheets were closely written, signed and sealed. 
 
 Thus came the chance for which he oft had sought, 
 To learn the older letters of the pen. 
 That night the writing, wrapped about his book, 
 Lay nestled in the hollow, up a tree. 
 
 There once, indeed, a wedded pair had been, 
 That with white softness lined the balmy place, 
 And hatched within it callow occupants ; 
 These being fledged, all, singing, flew away. 
 
 "What token shall I give," thought Karagwe, 
 "That she may know from it my love for her, 
 And I learn whether love has answered mine ? " 
 A straying bee, of sweet and golden wealth, 
 He caught and killed, and carried it to Ruth. 
 " I bring you, Ruth, a dead bee for a sign ; 
 For if to-day you wear it in your hair, 
 When once again you come to walk this path, 
 I thus shall find that you are mine alone, 
 Content to be my wife, and share my lot, 
 And let me with you toil like bee with bee; 
 But if you do not wear it, I shall care 
 No more for anything ; but waste my life, 
 A bee without a queen." Ruth said no word; 
 But when she went that way at one-starred dusk, 
 The dead bee glimmered in her dusky hair. 
 And meeting him for whom the sign was meant, 
 She laid her hand in his, and fondly smiled. 
 
28 KARAGWE. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Came, trilling wildly sweet, a bird-like voice, 
 When Richard Wain next day went riding by, 
 And caught, mid foliage, a glimpse of Ruth 
 A momentary picture framed in flowers. 
 " The prize I covet most is near," he said ; 
 " She shall be mine to-morrow, weep who may ! ' 
 
 Returning on his over-driven horse, 
 When shadows slowly lengthened from the west, 
 He near the house dismounted, fastened rein, 
 Strode to a threshold, asked for Dalton Earl, 
 And told him for what chattel he had come. 
 The maid was not for sale, the owner said. 
 " You talk at random now," said Richard Wain ; 
 "You know I hold the deed of all your lands. 
 And if it be, you choose to keep the wench, 
 Your lands shall be for sale, at sheriff's sale ! " 
 Pale turned the haughty planter, Dalton Earl, 
 And knowing, for his trouble came of it, 
 Whose blood made blue the fiery veins of Ruth, 
 Fixed blindly on a price immoderate. 
 " To-morrow I shall come," said Richard Wain, 
 "And take the girl, and pay the price I choose." 
 
 When Dalton Earl had told the thrall her fate, 
 
 She swooned, and to the floor fell heavily. 
 
 Recovering, she rose upon her knees, 
 
 And begged of him that she might still remain. 
 
 At this he told her how the lands were held, 
 
 And, if she went not, these would all be sold. 
 
 " Then let the lands be sold, and sold again ; 
 
 If his, they are not yours. What good will come 
 
 If I do go to him ? Then all were his ; 
 
 And I have given my hand to Karagwe. 
 
 Oh, it will break my heart to go away ! " 
 
KARAGWE. 29 
 
 XII. 
 
 To Karagwe's low roof Ruth went that night, 
 And said in loud, wild words the evil news, 
 She must be slave and worse to Richard Wain, 
 The negro sadly strove to soothe her woe 
 With consolation from the book he read; 
 For, to the souls of black and Afric slaves, 
 The gospel came unhindered by a doubt; 
 And there accepted freely, being free, 
 Was rapturous, emotional delight. 
 Masking the dreary face of hopelessness 
 With gospel cheer, the negro talked with Ruth, 
 While walking toward the home of Dalton Earl. 
 Glory of night, the restless moon was like 
 A pale cloud-sheeted ghost of a dead day, 
 Gliding abroad to ease the ache of hell; 
 For heavy sorrow, disappointment deep, 
 Sickens the heart not only, but the eyes, 
 Transforming nature to ill shapes of gloom. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A troublous morning came to Valley Earl, 
 And Ruth was sold away from him she loved. 
 
 The sad day died, and in its vaulted tomb 
 
 The Afric lolled upon the river's bank, 
 
 His mind a flowing tide that wandered back 
 
 Along the course and valley of the past. 
 
 It eddied round his loss as round a rock, 
 
 And roused the snake, revenge, that lay thereon. 
 
 Sprang up the slave, and wildly beat his breast, 
 
 His eyes enkindled with an evil fire. 
 
 Then came some memory of holy writ, 
 
 And in the depths the serpent disappeared. 
 
 The negro mourned that justice seldom was ; 
 
30 KARAGWE. 
 
 Yet knew that in God's hand the scales were set, 
 And, tho' His poor down-trodden waited long, 
 They waited surely for the balancing. 
 
 A step was heard, and Karagwe heheld, 
 
 By aid of ghostly moonlight, Richard Wain; 
 
 Behind, another followed stealthily, 
 
 With a drawn dagger in his lifted hand. 
 
 The steel, as if it feared a deed of blood. 
 
 Gleamed to the slave its dread intelligence. 
 
 He followed swift the weaponed follower, 
 
 He grasped the hand, he wrenched the blade away, 
 
 And stood before the planter, Dalton Earl ! 
 
 " Forgive," he said. " Forgiveness is a slave ; 
 
 She has no pride nor hate ; she does no harm ; 
 
 For she is light of heart, and meekly good, 
 
 And patient when the lash of anger smites." 
 
 Rebuked, the master stood before the slave ; 
 
 And Richard Wain, who sneered when he was told 
 
 That Ruth and Karagwe had plighted troth, 
 
 Went on unscathed, saved by the man he scorned. 
 
 Thus Dalton Earl : "I thank you for this act, 
 
 Thwarting a bad intent ; yet I had cause 
 
 To take the sullied life of Richard Wain. 
 
 He drugged the wine he gave me at his house, 
 
 And knew the deed of my plantation there 
 
 To be my only title : while I slept 
 
 He, shameless, stole it from me : when I woke, 
 
 He feigned that I had staked the deed and lost. 
 
 For this and more I hate him : to forgive 
 
 Implies the wronger seeks to be forgiven." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Like a great thought that full expression finds, 
 In happy buds mild spring found utterance. 
 
KARAGWE. 31 
 
 But never bud or bloom so fresh or fair 
 As Coralline, daughter of Dalton Earl. 
 
 It was in spring, they say, that Stanley Thane 
 Came from his northern home and met this May, 
 This Coralline, the joy of Valley Earl. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Far up, with sapphire over and below, 
 
 Blithe birds flew northward, singing as they flew, 
 
 And Love flew southward, sighing all the way. 
 
 They met him flying, heard him sighing so. 
 
 " Whither away ? " they musically asked, 
 
 " Whither away ? and why should Love be sad ? " 
 
 The voice o' the words of Love is soft and sweet: 
 
 " Southward I go ; but I shall soon return, 
 
 And help you in your art, and with you bide. 
 
 You will not flout me, scout me, make me sigh! 
 
 O wingers, kindly singers, fare you well ! " 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Worthy a maiden's love was Stanley Thane. 
 
 Riches were his, and he had deeply quaffed 
 
 The tonic spring of knowledge practical. 
 
 Along his veins ran potent, old-world life, 
 
 Strong English, Huguenot, and Celtic blood 
 
 All by the climate blended and subdued 
 
 To that distinctive and peculiar kind 
 
 Which is American. Dark eyes he had, 
 
 Straight, deep-black hair, firm, fair rose-tinted flesh, 
 
 And the full bloom of evanescent youth. 
 
 High thoughts and purposes, like mountain chains 
 
 Linked and white-peaked, rose in his pleasant mind, 
 
 That was as clear and fresh as air at morn. 
 
 Hating oppression and intolerance, 
 
32 KARAGWE. 
 
 Courageous, generous, but firm of will, 
 Of the strong North he was a character, 
 A stamp, a type incarnate in a man. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 Seeing her fair, he boldly kissed her hand ; 
 
 He kissed the hand of southern Coralline. 
 
 He saw that she was stately, lithe and tall, 
 
 And deemed her proud, but thought her beautiful. 
 
 What if the air was fragrant, honey-sweet, 
 
 With the magnificent magnolia's breath? 
 
 What if the odorous white avenue, 
 
 From house to highway, with magnolia trees 
 
 Graceful and tall, was hedged and garlanded? 
 
 He heeded not : the dear, chief flower of all, 
 
 The one superb magnolia of a life, 
 
 Thrilled at his touch, as with enraptured lips 
 
 He kissed the snowy petal of her hand. 
 
 He galloped with her through the idle town, 
 He wandered with her in the orange groves, 
 And watched, beside the falls, the busy brook 
 That seemed a maid, who, sitting at a loom, 
 Wove misty lace to decorate the rocks. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Long on the writing hidden in a nest 
 Pondered the slave, and found it was the deed ! 
 Then conscience, bold and prompt to tell the truth, 
 Upspoke, and said he had no right to it. 
 Yet if he gave the deed to Dalton Earl, 
 Unjustly Richard Wain might claim it still. 
 
 He thought of Ruth as of the loved who rest, 
 Mourning for her that she to him was dead, 
 
KARAGWE. 33 
 
 And once he gathered wild-flowers for regret, 
 
 And placed them where they might be found by her, 
 
 As if he somehow laid them on her grave. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 When Richard Wain knew he had lost the deed 
 
 He feigned he won at cards from Dalton Earl, 
 
 Rage and chagrin were ready at their gate, 
 
 Like pent-up water, to surpass the race, 
 
 And turn that mill-wheel voluble, his tongue. 
 
 If he mistrusted Dalton Earl the thief, 
 
 His threat's effect, Ruth's sale, disproved the thought. 
 
 Lest he might lose the power he wished to keep, 
 
 The waters rushed not, and the wheel was dumb 
 
 To tell his secret that the deed was lost. 
 
 A skiff shot out from under-reaching shore, 
 And Stanley Thane, with stately Coralline, 
 Sailed down the river through a peaceful vale. 
 About them hung the shadow of the earth ; 
 Beneath them flowed the deep and glossy gloom 
 Emblazoned by the inaccessible stars. 
 
 Already there were portents of dread war, 
 For Slavery, a dragon fell and foul, 
 Opposed the youthful knight of Liberty. 
 But Coralline, within the dragon's spell, 
 Was mute to what of shame the shape had done, 
 And praised its hateful life with heated words. 
 Then Stanley, loath to weakly hold his peace 
 And hear a wrong defended, said, " O South, 
 Your chiefs, who claim the name of democrat, 
 Pervert the sense of that which they profess. 
 They democrats ! They do not understand 
 
34 KARAGWE. 
 
 The baby letters of democracy; 
 
 For they deny that all should govern all, 
 
 And will to make men slaves and ignorant. 
 
 But God is just ; He knows nor white nor black ; 
 
 If war must come, the shackles, cleft amain 
 
 By the uncompromising sword, shall fall, 
 
 And the whole people of the land be free." 
 
 Seeming a dull machine that worked the boat, 
 
 The dusky oarsman, silent Karagwe, 
 
 Heard the winged words and caught them in his heart. 
 
 But Coralline, like an idolatrous 
 
 And cruel priestess of an ancient fane, 
 
 Who, proud of altars and of sacrifice, 
 
 Heard her base god dishonored, rose enraged; 
 
 She scorned the Northern thought of Stanley Thane, 
 
 She wished it had not been their fate to meet. 
 
 "If that you mean," he said, "then let us part, 
 
 And let us hope we shall not meet again. 
 
 Farewell ! for I will see you never more." 
 
 The boat was near the shore ; he sprang to it, 
 
 And left her standing darkly in the prow 
 
 Her pride engaged against a host of tears ; 
 
 This Paris of her high heart's Ilios roused 
 
 To drive the Greeks back to the salty sea. 
 
 Oh, far apart as east and west are they 
 Whom pride divides ! They wander aimlessly ; 
 They err ; their hope is dead ; their hearts are cold. 
 O pride ! O foolish, shallow ! that is stayed 
 On small and petty points, on nettles, thorns 
 Oh, leave us, and go hence, that in thy room 
 May bloom the violet, humility! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 A mighty angel, with triumphant face, 
 
 The torch and sword of vengeance in his hands, 
 
KARAGWE. 35 
 
 Swept overhead with trailing, crimson robe, 
 And roused a people with the cry of war ! 
 
 Wake ! for the night has passed, and dawn is come ! 
 Sons of the new world, wake ! turn scythes to swords. 
 Wake, busy town ! and quiet village, wake ! 
 
 The shame that is nourished stings to the death. 
 Voices of viol and flute are as dreams ; 
 But bugle and drum sound a call to arms! 
 The pulse of the guns, in a prostrate time, 
 Is the heart-beat fresh of a nobler day. 
 Oh, strike, tho* you die, if you make men free ! 
 Wake ! there is war with the South in the south. 
 There is war begun, and who knows the end? 
 
 xxn. 
 
 O rash wife, South ! Thy true husband, the North, 
 
 Loveth thee yet, though thou wentest astray. 
 
 In Truth's great court, where thy trial was held, 
 
 To thee was granted no bill of divorce. 
 
 Thy child, misshapen, and proud of its shame, 
 
 Was not the child of thy husband, the North. 
 
 It has led thee into the mire, and raised 
 
 To thy famished lips the cup of despair; 
 
 It were better far such a child should die. 
 
 xxin. 
 
 When, like a soldier marching to his death, 
 
 A year of battle passed with measured step 
 
 And took its chill decease, dark Richard Wain 
 
 Prepared for his departure to the war. 
 
 To-morrow he would go, and in the night 
 
 He idly sat in his forbidding house ; 
 
 Thinking, he drowsed ; his chin couched on his breast ; 
 
 A dim lamp wrought at shadows on the walls. 
 
36 KARAGWE. 
 
 Slowly the sash was raised behind his chair. 
 Perhaps he slept ; he did not heed the sound ; 
 But Karagwe sprang in and faced his foe, 
 And held a long knife up and brandished it, 
 Saying, "As surely as you call or move, 
 Your life will not be worth a blade of grass; 
 But if you do not call, and sign the words 
 That I have written on a paper here, 
 No harm will come, and I shall go away." 
 He drew the paper forth ; the planter read : 
 
 " By virtue of this writing, I disclaim 
 
 Title or right or any interest 
 
 In Dalton Earl's plantation joining mine." 
 
 "Why, this I surely will not sign," he said. 
 
 "You might have asked me to give up your Ruth, 
 
 And I should not have minded ; but your game 
 
 Lies deeper than a check upon the queen." 
 
 " Sign ! " cried the slave ; and at the name of Ruth 
 
 A sudden madness leaped along his nerves, 
 
 Like a blown flame among dry prairie grass: 
 
 " Sign ! for unless you sign this writing now,' 
 
 You shall not live ; now promise me to sign ! " 
 
 He fiercely caught the planter by the throat, 
 
 Starting his quailing eyes : " Now will you sign or not ? 
 
 You have ten seconds more to make your choice." 
 
 " Give me the paper then, and I will sign." 
 
 The name was written, and the negro went ; 
 
 But not an hour had passed before the hounds 
 
 Of Richard Wain and Dalton Earl were slipped, 
 
 And scenting on the- track of his escape. 
 
 xxrv. 
 
 The slave ran swiftly to the hollow tree ; 
 There left the paper signed by Richard Wain, 
 
KARAG WE. 37 
 
 Folding it in the deed ; then took his book, 
 And up a tireless road fled on and on, 
 Until he reached the border of a marsh. 
 
 The night was dark, but darker still the clouds 
 That loomed along the rim where day had gone. 
 The wind blew cold, and, sighing, hasted by, 
 Escaping, like a slave, the hound-like clouds 
 Whose thunder-barking sounded deep and far. 
 
 Along the dark the bay came dismally, 
 
 Of savage dogs set on the negro's track 
 
 Swift, monstrous blood-hounds trained to fight with men. 
 
 He knew a swamp-path safe for hoof or foot, 
 
 And even in the blackness followed it, 
 
 Finding a covert hummock, where a hut, 
 
 Built up of logs by some poor fugitive, 
 
 Held a rude thatch against the sun and rain. 
 
 xxv. 
 
 Men over-estimate what they desire 
 Through ignorance of it : credulous Pursuit 
 Thinks his betrothed, Possession, is divine ; 
 J$ut finds she is a mortal like himself. 
 lAjid in the hut, to which the slave was tracked, 
 That night was painted, with a facile brush, 
 On thin, unwoven canvas of the gloom, 
 Wild visions of a freedom unrestrained. 
 For long the slave had thought of Liberty, 
 And worshiped her, as in that elder time 
 A tyrant's subjects worshiped, praying her 
 That she would not delay, but hasten forth, 
 And bridge the gulf between the rich and poor 
 By making knowledge paramount to wealth, 
 Freeing the common from their ignorance, 
 And lifting up the worthy of the world. 
 
38 KARAGWE. 
 
 Oh, strange, that in our age, and in a land 
 Where liberty was laid the corner-stone, 
 A slave, perforce, should be obliged to dream 
 And dote on freedom, like the poor oppressed 
 Who lived and hoped long centuries ago ! 
 
 And slavery to this slave was like a fruit, 
 A bitter and offensive fruit to taste, 
 The fruit of wrong ingrafted upon greed, 
 Foul, pulp and pit, with rank and poison sin. 
 Yet tho' this fruit was bitter to the core, 
 Many there were who died for love of it. 
 
 Oh, many they who listened through long nights 
 To hear a footstep that would never come! 
 There 's scarce a flower along the border blown? 
 From Lookout Mountain to the Chesapeake, 
 But has in it the blood of North and South. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 When sleep left Karagwe, above the marsh 
 
 The flush and whisper of the morning went. 
 
 Then, when he would have ventured from the door, 
 
 A large, black blood-hound rose, and licked his hand* 
 
 The dog was Dalton Earl's, and did not know 
 
 That men were bought and sold for current coin ; 
 
 He only knew with joy he saw his friend. 
 
 The thrall went back, and on a paper wrote : 
 "Your dog has harmed me not, tho' sent for harm. 
 I never wronged you ; I have served you well. 
 I risked the life of him who wronged us both, 
 To do you one great service for the last. 
 You made me slave, you sold my plighted wife, 
 And now you set your blood-hounds on my track, 
 Because I flee to freedom that is mine. 
 
KARA OWE. 39 
 
 "But tho' you wrong me, I repay with good; 
 For in the nested hollow of a pine, 
 In the high grove, on ground of Richard Wain, 
 Is the lost deed that holds your house and lands." 
 The paper fastened at the hound's strong neck, 
 The negro bade him go, and forth he leaped ; 
 And Dalton Earl read what the slave had sent, 
 And found his deed safe hidden in the tree, 
 And that day made an end of all pursuit. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 Long wandered Karagwe to find the North, 
 
 Fed from the wild abundance that the sun 
 
 Ripens on southern soil: above him leaned 
 
 Tall trees with bowers beneath their wrestling arms, 
 
 Fringed with dependent moss, and overrun 
 
 By thorn-speared and leaf-shielded Vandal vines ; 
 
 Below, the water, murky with decay, 
 
 Stirred with a sluggish ripple, where had plunged 
 
 The wrinkle-throated alligator, clad 
 
 In the dark coat of his impervious mail. 
 
 Like mermaids with white faces to the sky, 
 
 An idle bevy floating on their backs, 
 
 The water-lilies lay, and over them 
 
 Birds of gay song and wing in sunshine flashed, 
 
 Or poised in thickets of lush emerald, 
 
 Where shrub and vine and frondage intertwined 
 
 Inextricably as the affairs of men. 
 
 This freedom to excess in mindless things 
 
 Appeared a happy omen to the slave, 
 
 That henceforth he should have such liberty. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 But now across his solitary path 
 
 A blue, wide, ebbing river sought the sea. 
 
40 KARAGWE. 
 
 Two heavy logs he launched and firmly withed, 
 
 Then, with a pole for help if he should need, 
 
 Cast off, and drifted slowly down the stream. 
 
 Thus for long days he drifted, eating not, 
 
 Save of the berries growing near the shore. 
 
 Once he enlarged the uncomfortable raft, 
 
 And set a bushy sapling for a sail. 
 
 The wind and tide agreed, and hasted him 
 
 Along the sparkling way, till he, unharmed, 
 
 Passed by at night a hushed, street-lighted town, 
 
 And saw at morn the hot sun leave the sea. 
 
 A red buoy tossed upon the nearer waves, 
 
 As if it were the ocean's joyful heart, 
 
 Or his own heart upon a sea of hope ; 
 
 And ships were in the offing, sailing on 
 
 Like the vague ships that with our hopes and fears 
 
 Put from their havens to return no more. 
 
 Ere night he hailed a vessel, gained the deck, 
 And found he was with friends, and on his way 
 To Freedom, guided by her fixed North Star. 
 But he, without a dread, had left the land, 
 And sailed away, to have his wish or die; 
 
 Thus ever he who seeks his heart's desire 
 Sets forward on a sea unknown and large, 
 And leaves behind the steadfast, certain shore. 
 The rooted trees exclaim, "The fool will go. 
 There is no land beyond, for all is sea, 
 And it is wide and deep: he must go down, 
 And the wet turbulence will bury him." 
 He takes no heed ; the trees are left behind ; 
 He sails away, and in his dream beholds, 
 With peaceful harbor, under pleasant sky, 
 The city of Delight, his heart's desire. 
 
KARAGWE. 41 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Three years of war, three years of blood and tears, 
 And Richard Wain in front of battle fell. 
 There, grim with powder, he led on his men, 
 With cheer or oath, and gory, waving sword 
 As if, through him, the spirit of his cause, 
 Foul Slavery, expressed itself, and fought 
 With desperation for its ending life. 
 
 xxx. 
 
 Forth in the garden dewy and perfumed, 
 Walked Coralline and Ruth, sad and alone ; 
 For Ruth was owned again by Dalton Earl. 
 
 Tho' two leal hearts, when severed by weak pride, 
 
 Dwell far apart, there is a sting remains 
 
 That rankles, and the melancholy years 
 
 Of separation are more sad than death. 
 
 Or look or smile to Coralline recurred 
 
 Dreaming of Stanley Thane : of him she thought 
 
 Regretfully, with tender trust : for him 
 
 Her love welled up like water in a spring, 
 
 From which the more she gave the more was left, 
 
 And purer for the gift : down from the north 
 
 Came tidings of his daring; and the war 
 
 And the deep gloom of absence were as night, 
 
 And he the lovable, exalted star 
 
 Whose image was reflected in her soul 
 
 As in a shadowed lake. 
 
 " From day to day 
 I grieve," said Coralline, "that Stanley Thane 
 So rashly left me, and that he should think 
 My hasty words were said with earnest thought. 
 Would that a bird might fly to him and sing : 
 
42 KARAGWE. 
 
 'She loves you, Stanley Thane she loves you still.'" 
 Ruth answered quickly, " You shall have your wish ; 
 For I will go to him who once was here, 
 And say to him the words that you have said." 
 Then on the bosom of the wronged quadroon 
 The other fell with sisterly embrace, 
 And kissed her through her tears, and promised her 
 Her freedom, if she went to Stanley Thane. 
 
 That night one stole a knife, and sharpened it, 
 Sipping the poison sweetness of revenge. 
 Those that she loved were now all lost to her ; 
 Her child was sold away, she knew not where. 
 She thought of Stanley Thane, and felt regret 
 That he should be the victim she must strike ; 
 But wished that Coralline might look on him 
 After this violent knife had wrought his death. 
 
 Alike unmindful of all joy and woe, 
 
 Insensible to both, the day-god rose 
 
 From the black valley of unmeasured space 
 
 To the fresh summits of the waking world. 
 
 Then crazed Ruth started forth from Valley Earl. 
 
 For weary days she journeyed toward the north, 
 
 And reached the camp she sought : cheating the guard, 
 
 She in the night discovered Stanley's tent, 
 
 And, stealing in, bent over where he slept. 
 
 He dreamed of Coralline, and, sighing, said, 
 
 " Dear Coralline, forgive me. I was rash." 
 
 Then Ruth cried to the sleeper, " She forgives ; 
 
 She loves you, Stanley Thane she loves you still ! " 
 
 At this he woke, and saw the woman there, 
 
 And saw the weapon held above his breast; 
 
 But horror at the mockery of her words, 
 
 Mixed with delight to find them not a dream, 
 
KARAGWE. 43 
 
 Bound voice and limb as by a wizard's spell. 
 Then a swift hand passed in and seized the wrist, 
 And snatched the knife ; and mild-faced Karagwe 
 Confronted Ruth, and turned her rage to tears. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 But afterward, Ruth sickened in the camp. 
 While she lay dying, Karagwe stood near, 
 And holding her thin hand, he sadly said : 
 " Farewell, farewell ! Forgive the wrongs you had, 
 That you may be forgiven in the skies. 
 I pray that you will there find happiness, 
 That God will give you rest and joyful morn 
 After the toilsome night of these sad years." 
 Ruth faintly said : " 'T is sad to die, O friend ; 
 But it is not so hard when those we love 
 Are near us, and we see their grief, and feel 
 We shall not be forgotten while they live. 
 I know that Coralline with Stanley Thane 
 Will wed ere long ; that they will dwell in peace, 
 With loving children round them, and be glad 
 To be alive, and live their days of joy. 
 But you and I were slaves ; we could not wed. 
 Some men are born to laughter and delight, 
 To rule and always lightly have their will; 
 But more are born to sorrow and to tears, 
 To serve and have for wages scorn and blame. 
 But blame and scorn and sorrow fell to Him 
 Who can forgive my dark intent of wrong." 
 She rose, sitting upon the couch, reposed 
 Her head against the breast of Karagwe, 
 And pointed toward the east's forerunning gray ; 
 Then saying, with bright eyes, " See ! morning comes." 
 Then, " 'T is morning ! " and " I love you. Oh, fare- 
 well!" 
 Breathed out her spirit gently in his arms. 
 
44 THE TREE OF JULY. 
 
 And at Fort Pillow, when the iron storm 
 Had gone against us, and the rebels killed 
 Five hundred men who had laid down their arms, 
 Brave Karagwe was shot, and with a prayer 
 For his whole country, he fell back and died. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 O Thou, to whom is neither large nor small, 
 In whom we trust, and, trusting, feel that Thou 
 Allowest wrong that vaster good may come, 
 Accept the sacrifice of boisterous war, 
 To be the red atonement for our sin. 
 Henceforth let not the rocky echoes roll 
 The beaten summons from our vales of peace. 
 Bring Thou true peace, and make our Union strong, 
 And make us one in heart as one in name, 
 And let forgiveness heal the cannon's hurt. 
 For we have battled not against the South, 
 We battled for the South, to set her free ; 
 She fought against herself in battling us. 
 Oh, let there be or South or North no more, 
 But a free people, generous to share 
 Their precious liberty with all mankind ! 
 1876. 
 
 THE TREE OF JULY. 
 
 WHEN vulture and falcon dash down on their prey, 
 And the burden is great and oppresses the day ; 
 When the dragon-fly darts like a spear that is thrown. 
 And swiftly the reaper sets blade to his own, 
 Escape to the wildwood, and come and be free, 
 And dwell in the shade of our wide-spreading tree ; 
 The tree like the chestnut, so strong and so high, 
 That bursts into blossom in fervid July. 
 
THE DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPER. 45 
 
 The blossoms are spun with that seeming delay 
 That is wedded to fate, and is prompt to a day. 
 The blossoms are golden, and cover the tree 
 With clustering promises tasseled and free. 
 The burr's round resistance may bristle, in sooth, 
 But crisp are the triplets and sweet to the tooth. 
 The tree spreads abroad, bringing love from the sky, 
 And is dressed in its best for the bridegroom, July. 
 
 O bride of all brides in the love of the free! 
 
 And tree of all trees as a sheltering tree, 
 
 Thy fibers are knit like the thews of wide wings ; 
 
 Thy talon-like root to the ribbed earth clings ; 
 
 In the journey of man thou art rest by the way; 
 
 To thy shade bring the world from the heat of the 
 
 day ! 
 
 O liberty tree ! thou shalt spread as the sky, 
 And bloom in all lands in some happy July ! 
 
 THE DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPER. 
 
 DRECKEB, a drawbridge-keeper, opened wide 
 The dangerous gate to let the vessel through ; 
 His little son was standing by his side, 
 Above Passaic River deep and blue, 
 While in the distance, like a moan of pain, 
 Was heard the whistle of the coming train. 
 
 At once brave Drecker worked to swing it back, 
 The gate-like bridge that seems a gate of death ; 
 Nearer and nearer, on the slender track, 
 Came the swift engine, puffing its white breath. 
 Then, with a shriek, the loving father saw 
 His darling boy fall headlong from the draw ! 
 
46 THE DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPER. 
 
 Either at once down in the stream to spring 
 And save his son, and let the living freight 
 Rush on to death, or to his work to cling, 
 And leave his boy unhelped to meet his fate 
 Which should he do ? Were you as he was tried, 
 Would not your love outweigh all else beside ? 
 
 And yet the child to him was full as dear 
 
 As yours may be to you the light of eyes, 
 
 A presence like a brighter atmosphere, 
 
 The household star that shone in love's mild skies 
 
 Yet, side by side with duty stern and grim, 
 
 Even his child became as naught to him. 
 
 For Drecker, being great of soul and true, 
 Held to his work, and did not aid his boy 
 That in the deep, dark water, sank from view, 
 Then from the father's life went forth all joy; 
 But, as he fell back pallid of his pain, 
 Across the bridge in safety shot the train. 
 
 And yet the man was poor, and in his breast/ 
 Flowed no ancestral blood of king or lord ; 
 True greatness needs no title and no crest 
 To win from men just honor and reward ; 
 Nobility is not of rank, but mind, 
 And is inborn and common in our kind. 
 
 He is most noble whose humanity 
 Is least corrupted : to be just and good 
 The birthright of the lowest born may be. 
 Say what we can, we are one brotherhood, 
 And, rich or poor, or famous or unknown, 
 True hearts are noble, and true hearts alone* 
 
TEE EMIR'S CHARITY. 47 
 
 THE EMIR'S CHARITY. 
 
 IN Samarcand, the nether Morning Star, 
 
 Lived a Vizier, the public treasurer, 
 
 Who did not wed until the treasurer, Time, 
 
 Had counted down to him his fortieth year. 
 
 His loving bride was younger by a score 
 
 Of such good coin, and beautiful as dawn. 
 
 Mismatched the twain, for she was generous, 
 
 And sent no beggar empty from the house; 
 
 Yet gave her own, nor touched her husband's gold. 
 
 But he, the treasurer, was miserly, 
 
 And tightened up the purse-string as he said, 
 
 " I too must beg unless you cease to give." 
 
 Disguised, the great Emir once went that way, 
 And, hearing of the kindness of the wife, 
 Had will to test it : knocking at the door, 
 No wife appeared ; but in her stead, in wrath, 
 The close Vizier, cursing the crust-fed churl 
 That dared to seek for dole and break his peace ; 
 Then stroked his beard, and swore by Tamerlane, 
 By the silk cerements and the sacred tomb, 
 That Charity herself should cease to be. 
 
 " Hold ! " quoth the beggar ; " say not so of her. 
 I pray rather that on the common street, 
 Yea, on the crowded corners of the street, 
 She yet will stand, this virgin, Charity, 
 And, hearing her true words, the people there 
 Will all espouse her cause, and make the world 
 Mount up and spurn the level of to-day. 
 Despise no man who asks alms at thy door ; 
 A precious diamond may be meanly set. 
 It does not soil the angels' holy wings 
 
48 THE BEDOUIWS REBUKE. 
 
 To hover round the poor. I doff disguise! 
 Behold! I am Emir! And yet, to prove 
 That I am not devoid of charity, 
 Still keep the boon of office that I gave." 
 
 Then to the threshold came the generous spouse, 
 And saw her husband kneeling on the step, 
 And knew at once the good and great Emir. 
 She smiled on him, and kissed his gentle hand. 
 From that day forth, the alms-folk testify, 
 The purse-string was not tightened round the gold; 
 But ever more the wife, with cheering smiles, 
 Doled bountifully to the grateful pocr, 
 Until, at last, when at the door of heaven 
 She knocked, herself a beggar, Allah smiled 
 And gave her alms of everlasting peace. 
 
 THE BEDOUIN'S REBUKE. 
 
 NEEBEB, a Bedouin of noble heart, 
 That from good men received of praise the fee, 
 Owned a brave horse, with which he would not part, 
 Because from death he once had run him free. 
 The man and beast were friends, and it is vice 
 To sell our friend or friendship for a price. 
 
 The horse was black and strong, his step was proud, 
 His neck was arched, his ears alert for sound, 
 His speed the tempest's, and his mane a cloud ; 
 His hoofs woke thunder from the desert ground; 
 His eyes flashed lightning from their inmost core : 
 Victor of Distance was the name he bore. 
 
 Daher, a Bedouin of another tribe, 
 
 Had often wished to buy this famous beast ; 
 
THE BEDOUIN'S REBUKE. 49 
 
 And as he smoked, and heard his friends describe 
 Its comely parts and powers, the wish increased ; 
 But Neeber said the horse should not be sold, 
 Tho' offered wealth in camels and in gold. 
 
 Then Daher put on rags, and stained his face, 
 And went to wait for Neeber, seeming lame. 
 Him soon he saw approach at daring pace 
 Upon the envied horse, and as he came 
 He cried to him : " For three days on this spot 
 Have I lain starving pity me my lot." 
 
 And, seeing Neeber stop, said on, "I die 
 My strength is gone ! " Down Neeber sprang, 
 And raised him gently with a pitying sigh, 
 And set him on his horse : a laugh outrang, 
 And Daher shouted as he plunged his spurs, 
 "Fair price refused, one sells at last for burrs." 
 
 " Stay ! stay ! " cried Neeber ; Daher paused to hear : 
 "Since God has willed that you my beast should take, 
 I wish you joy; but tell no man, for fear 
 Another who was really starved might make 
 Appeal in vain; for some, remembering me, 
 Would fail to do an act of charity." 
 
 Sharper than steel to Daher seemed remorse! 
 He quickly turned, and, springing to the ground, 
 With head bowed low brought Neeber back his horse; 
 Then, falling on his peaceful breast, he wound 
 His arms about his neck to make amends, 
 And ever afterward the two were friends. 
 
50 THE ROMAN SENTINEL, 
 
 THE ROMAN SENTINEL. 
 
 DEATH, or dishonor, which is best to taste ? 
 A Roman sentinel, with courage high, 
 When God's hot anger laid Pompeii waste, 
 Answered the question, and resolved to die. 
 His duty was upon his post to bide 
 Till the relief came, let what might betide- 
 
 He stood forgotten by the fleeing guard, 
 Choosing that part which is the bitterest still 
 His face with its fixed purpose cold and hard, 
 Cut in the resolute granite of his will. 
 "Better," he said, "to die than live in shame; 
 Death wreathes fresh flowers round a brave man's name." 
 
 Life is the wave's deep whisper on the shore 
 Of a great sea beyond : the soldier saw 
 That day the light in broad sails hoisted o'er 
 The drifting boat of dawn; nor dreamed the flaw, 
 The puff called death, would blow him with them by, 
 Out to the boundless sea beyond the sky. 
 
 He watched the quaking mountain's fire-gashed cheeks, 
 And saw come up the sand's entombing shower; 
 The storm darts out its red tongue when it speaks, 
 And fierce Vesuvius, in that wild hour, 
 Put forth its tongue of flame, and spoke the word 
 Of hatred to the city from the Lord. 
 
 The gloom of seventeen centuries skulked away, 
 And standing in a marble niche was found 
 A skeleton in armor all decay ; 
 The soulless skull was by a helmet crowned, 
 Cleaving thereto with mingled rust and sand, 
 And a long spear was in the crumbling hand. 
 
THE FRENCH MARSHAL. 51 
 
 Pompeii from its burial upsprings 
 Paved streets with pillared temples on each side, 
 Baths, houses, paintings, monuments of kings. 
 But the arched gate whereat the sentry died, 
 The rusted spear, and helmet with no crest, 
 Are better far to see than all the rest. 
 
 O heart, whatever lot to thee God gives, 
 
 Be strong, and swerve not from a blameless way ; 
 
 Dishonor hurts the soul that ever lives, 
 
 Death hurts the body that is kin with clay. 
 
 Though Duty's face is stern, her path is best: 
 
 They sweetly sleep who die upon her breast. 
 
 THE FRENCH MARSHAL. 
 
 MACMAHON up the street of Paris came, 
 
 In triumph from Magenta; every one 
 
 Had heard and praised the fearless marshal's name, 
 
 And gloried in the deeds that he had done. 
 
 Crowds packed the walks, and at each pane of glass 
 
 A face was set to see the hero pass. 
 
 Grand music lifted in the morning air 
 Its eloquent voice ; loud-mouthed bells were rung ; 
 Guns boomed till echoes welcomed everywhere ; 
 On buildings and in streets the French flag hung, 
 And, of a breeze, like fortune, made the toy, 
 Thrilled every heart with patriotic joy. 
 
 But while the marshal up the street made way, 
 There came a little girl clothed all in white, 
 Bringing in happy hands a large bouquet ; 
 Her flower-sweet face seemed fragrant with delight. 
 Well pleased, the soldier, dark and fierce at need, 
 Raised up the cl^ild before him on his steed. 
 
52 THE ARTIST'S PRAYER. 
 
 The pearly necklace of her loving arms 
 She bound on him, and laid her spring-like head 
 Against the autumn of his cheek, with charms 
 Of smile and mien ; while to his shoulder fled 
 Her gold, loose hair with flowers like jewels set, 
 And made thereon a wondrous epaulet. 
 
 He seemed more like an angel than a man, 
 As, father-like, he paid back each caress ; 
 Better than all his deeds in war's red van 
 Appeared this simple act of tenderness. 
 The people cried " Huzza ! " and did not pause 
 Until the town seemed shaken with applause. 
 
 THE ARTIST'S PRAYER. 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON, in a foreign land, 
 
 Went to his studio, and knelt to pray : 
 
 Starving and weak, he bowed, hand clasped to hand, 
 
 With no more strength to keep the wolf at bay. 
 
 Conscience, whose still, small voice grows loud and 
 
 clear, 
 Had risen in his heart now sad and drear. 
 
 Within the vast cathedral of the night, 
 
 The stars, the altar-lamps, their thanks outshine ; 
 
 Yet he, the artist, from whose soul shone bright 
 
 The nobler fire of genius, God's divine 
 
 And greatest gift to man, had never cast 
 
 One ray of gratitude for mercies past. 
 
 "I have been most ungrateful, Lord," he said. 
 " Bound up in self, I have forgotten Thee ; 
 Yet now, I pray, vouchsafe me this day's bread, 
 And I will pay of my poor thanks the fee, 
 
THE SINGER'S ALMS. 53 
 
 As I now pay for favors heretofore " 
 
 The irreverent knocker clanked upon the door. 
 
 Marquis of Stafford entered. "Please to say 
 Who bought," he said, " your Angel Uriel.'" 
 "It is not sold." "Not sold! Then let me pay 
 The price you ask for it." So it befell 
 That friendship followed, and the artist came 
 To better days, and had the use of fame. 
 
 THE SINGER'S ALMS. 
 
 IN Lyons, in the mart of that French town, 
 
 A pallid woman, leading a fair child, 
 
 Craved a small alms of one who, walking down 
 
 The thoroughfare, caught the child's glance, and smiled 
 
 To see, behind its eyes, a noble soul. 
 
 He paused to give, but found he had no dole. 
 
 His guardian angel warned him not to lose 
 This chance of pearl to do another good; 
 So, as he waited, sorry to refuse 
 The asked-for penny, there aside he stood, 
 And with his hat held as by limb the nest, 
 He covered his kind face, and sang his best. 
 
 The sky was blue and mild, and all the place 
 
 Of commerce where the singer stood was filled. 
 
 The many paused, the passer-by slacked pace 
 
 To hear the voice that through and through him thrilled 
 
 I think the guardian angel helped along 
 
 That cry for pity woven in a song. 
 
 The singer stood between the beggars there, 
 Before a church, and, overhead, the spire, 
 
54 THE KING'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 A slim, perpetual finger in the air 
 Held toward heaven, land of the heart's desire, 
 As if an angel, pointing upward, said, 
 "Yonder a crown awaits this singer's head." 
 
 The hat of its stamped brood was emptied soon 
 Into the woman's lap, who drenched with tears 
 Her kiss upon the hand of help: 't was noon, 
 And noon in her glad heart drove forth her fears. 
 The singer, pleased, passed on, and said in thought, 
 u Men will not know by whom this deed was wrought." 
 
 But when at night he came upon the stage, 
 Cheer after cheer rose from the crescent throng, 
 And flowers rained on him : nothing could assuage 
 The tumult of the welcome, save the song 
 That he superbly sang, with hidden face, 
 For the two beggars in the market-place. 
 
 THE KING'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 FOR seven years the drought had parched the land, 
 
 Yet day by day the sun blazed overhead, 
 
 A fire-eyed fiend of fire with flaming brand. 
 
 The stretching worm was by toothed famine fed. 
 
 No green thing grew, for starved men tilled the mold 
 
 In the dry beds where once the rivers rolled. 
 
 The fakirs of the swart, abundant gods, 
 And magi, the consulters of the stars, 
 In contrite sackcloth, bearing serpent-rods, 
 Cleft the close air with words like scimitars: 
 " The gods demand a human sacrifice 
 No rain will fall until the victim dies." 
 
THE CALIP&S MAGNANIMITY. 55 
 
 The wise king sat in council on his throne, 
 And heard the false priests going up and down. 
 " A life ! " he cried. " Must ever blood atone ? 
 I hate its clotted stain upon a crown. 
 Yet if I hold my peace, and, at their shrine, 
 A life be offered, all the stain were mine ! 
 
 u Lo, it is somewhat more to be a king 
 Than gleam in robes of office, sit in state, 
 Be first in pomps, and rule in everything: 
 To love the people that alone is great ! 
 So I, to prove my love, and give you rain, 
 Proclaim myself the victim to be slain ! " 
 
 The fancied wrath of idols to assuage, 
 Forth for his death they led their upright king; 
 Kind Time, the snail to youth, the bird to age, 
 Had touched him lightly with its passing wing. 
 Youthful in age he looked, bright-eyed, smooth-browed, 
 As for the sacrifice he knelt and bowed. 
 
 Then, while the headsman held aloft the blade, 
 A cloud, wet-laden, stole before the sun, 
 And on the weapon, with a hand of shade, 
 Laid dusky seizure; for the fates had spun 
 A longer, royal thread : the cloud amain 
 Scattered aslant its diamonds of rain. 
 
 THE CALIPH'S MAGNANIMITY. 
 
 A TRAVELER across the desert waste 
 Found on his way a cool, palm-shaded spring, 
 And the fresh water seemed to his pleased taste, 
 In the known world, the most delicious thing. 
 " Great is the caliph ! " said he ; "I for him 
 Will fill my leathern bottle to the brim." 
 
56 THE CALIP&S MAGNANIMITY. 
 
 He sank the bottle, forcing it to drink 
 Until the gurgle ceased in its lank throat; 
 And, as he started onward, smiled to think 
 That he for thirst bore God's sole antidote. 
 Days after, with obeisance low and meet, 
 He laid his present at the caliph's feet. 
 
 Forthwith the issue of the spring was poured 
 
 Into a cup, on whose embossed outside 
 
 Jewels, like solid water, shaped a gourd. 
 
 The caliph drank, and seemed well satisfied, 
 
 Nay, wisely pleased, and straightway gave command 
 
 To line with gold the man's work-hardened hand. 
 
 The courtiers, looking at the round reward, 
 Fancied that some unheard-of virtue graced 
 The bottled burden borne for their loved lord, 
 And of the liquid gift asked but to taste. 
 The caliph answered from his potent throne: 
 " Touch not the water ; it is mine alone ! " 
 
 But soon after the humble giver went, 
 
 O'erflowing with delight, which bathed his 'face 
 
 The caliph told his courtiers the intent 
 
 Of his denial, saying, "It is base 
 
 Not to accept a kindness when expressed 
 
 By no low motive of self-interest. 
 
 "The water was a gift of love to me, 
 Which I with golden gratitude repaid. 
 I would not let the honest giver see 
 That, on its way, the crystal of the shade 
 Had changed, and was impure ; for so, no less, 
 His love, thus scorned, had turned to bitterness. 
 
 " I granted not the warm, distasteful draught 
 To asking lips, because of firm mistrust, 
 
RALPH. 57 
 
 Or kindly fear, that, if another quaffed, 
 He would reveal his feeling of disgust, 
 And he, who meant a favor, would depart, 
 Bearing a wounded and dejected heart." 
 
 RALPH. 
 
 OLD, poor and alone past seventy years. 
 
 The fire is out ; there is no wood to burn. 
 
 I sit and shiver in the dreary cold, 
 
 And, through the window looking on the road, 
 
 Behold the pitiless, descending snow. 
 
 How softly fall the tender, lace-like flakes! 
 
 I wonder oft whether they come from God, 
 
 And whether He loves His creatures every one, 
 
 Or if He harshly turns to those who err, 
 
 And, at the cloud-born whiteness feathering down, 
 
 Pointing no finger, says without a tongue, 
 
 If tjiou art not as pure, pass on, pass on. 
 
 I had a strong, brave son before the war. 
 He said, "Dear mother, I am yours alone. 
 You need me ; we are poor ; but I can work 
 And fill your days with comfort for the past; 
 For I in everything will do my best 
 To please you, and ward off the briers that catch 
 And wound the passers-by in life's hard path. 
 I shall not take a wife till you are gone, 
 And death from both of us, I trust, is far." 
 
 I loved him for the sacrifice he made ; 
 I loved him for himself, he was so true. 
 My love at least had likeness to the snow. 
 But yet a mother's love should not be weighed 
 Against a love of country : this I found ; 
 
58 RALPH. 
 
 For my dear, only son, to serve his land, 
 Forsook me in my weakness and old age. 
 
 Our nearest neighbor lived a mile away. 
 
 Our road is rough, and travelers to us 
 
 Were rarer than the eagles and shy deer. 
 
 So, seldom seeing others, we became 
 
 The closer knit together, and each day 
 
 Both found new reasons for the purest love. 
 
 We prospered, for our rugged acres smiled, 
 
 Their yellow harvests dimpling in the breeze. 
 
 Well stocked the farm was, and the hay-stacks stood 
 
 Thick as the tents in Indian villages. 
 
 My Ralph was tall, a comely man to see. 
 
 Broad-shouldered, eagle-eyed, with fine, dark hair, 
 
 Complexion clear, with gladly conscious blood 
 
 Painting his heart's thought on his handsome cheeks, 
 
 He was to me the grandest man of men. 
 
 And Ralph had honesty a higher kind 
 
 Of beauty; nay, strict honesty is great! 
 
 Not all great men have fame out in the world; 
 
 For many noble, self-denying deeds 
 
 Are done in little things, and being done 
 
 Are voiceless, but are like the shining rungs 
 
 That led, in Jacob's vision, up to God. 
 
 Warm shone the sun the day Ralph went away. 
 With him I rode to town, and in the crowd 
 Stood dazed ; but clung about him while I could, 
 And to his bearded cheeks pressed trembling lips 
 Wet with the boding liquor of mine eyes ; 
 For Sorrow, drunken on the wine of tears, 
 Sobbed, desperate, and, sighing, drank again. 
 But the drums rolled and all the banners waved, 
 And still I think I hear them in my ears 
 And in my heart, the rolling, rolling drums, 
 
RALPH. 59 
 
 While over all I see the banners wave. 
 In nights of storm I oft have lain awake, 
 And thought the wind the rolling of the drums, 
 And thought the snow the waving of the flags, 
 The silken banners which I saw that day. 
 
 Your father, Ralph, almost deserted us. 
 He made you do the work upon the farm, 
 And hung about the tavern day by day, 
 And in its liquid madness steeped his soul 
 Until he died. Then, till the war broke out, 
 You worked for me with patience and pure love, 
 And I was proud and happy with my son. 
 Alas ! the frightful war ! We might have dwelt 
 In peace and plenty on these Northern hills, 
 Nor heard the roar of battle all our lives. 
 
 There came no word from Ralph, nor any help. 
 For many months I waited, every day 
 A year, and every hour a weary month. 
 Sleep only bridged a shallow, murky stream, 
 Wherein I saw inverted thoughts and scenes 
 Depending fringe-like from the shores of day, 
 As I from waiting o'er to waiting crossed. 
 
 I sought to have the acres worked on shares ; 
 
 But men were scarce, and not a scythe opposed 
 
 The ripe and peaceful armies of the grass. 
 
 The man whom Ralph had hired to do my work, 
 
 In scarce a month, himself went off to war. 
 
 I sold the unused cattle one by one ; 
 
 The apples rotted on the loaded trees ; 
 
 The grain, my bread, upon the toothless ground 
 
 Wasted its increase ; all the crops were lost ; 
 
 The leaves turned red, and naught was gathered in. 
 
 After long months of waiting for some word, 
 The rumor of a battle reached my ears 
 
60 RALPH. 
 
 " Ten thousand slain ! A glorious victory ! " 
 Little those mothers think of victory 
 Whose sons lie silent on the ghastly plain ; 
 And what cares now even the splendid boy 
 Whose life was flashed out at the cannon's mouth? 
 My nearest neighbor, riding up this way, 
 Brought me a paper having news of Ralph 
 Wounded and missing, printed next his name. 
 I read ; the cheerless room went wildly round, 
 And to the floor I fell, and all was night. 
 
 Weary the months that had been, wearier still 
 
 The months that followed, with no word, no word. 
 
 I think if I had known my darling dead, 
 
 I should have felt more peace ; but, oh ! those words, 
 
 " Wounded and missing," ringing in my brain, 
 
 Were loud, wild bells of dolor and alarm. 
 
 Only a year ago, only a year, 
 
 Only a year that does not seem so long, 
 
 A letter came from Ralph, a few brief lines : 
 
 Freed from a Southern prison ; coming home-! 
 
 Home ! Home once more ! O Ralph, my soldier son, 
 
 How glad I was ! how strong I felt ! how sure 
 
 That God had crowned my waiting, heard my prayers ! 
 
 A year ago, only a little year, 
 
 Ralph had not come. How could he wait so long? 
 
 When the dull light of that dark morning broke 
 
 I looked out on the fields and saw it snow, 
 
 And wondered whether Ralph would come that day, 
 
 For something said to me that he would come. 
 
 The snow had fallen all night, and it was cold, 
 
 Almost too bitter cold for snow to fall. 
 
 The fences and the road were lost in drifts. 
 
 I saw the silent orchard cold and white, 
 
 With branches thrown up like the stiffened arms 
 
RALPH. 61 
 
 Of dead men on a battle-field. Till noon 
 I kept my post, here at the frosted pane, 
 "Watching for Ralph; but still he did not come. 
 At last, urged by an impulse new and strange, 
 And gifted with a strength not mine before, 
 I left the house, and struggled through the storm 
 Down to the road, and out beyond the hill, 
 But stumbled there on something in the snow; 
 The chilly fleece I brushed away, and found 
 A soldier kneeling, with his face bent down 
 As if he kissed an angel's flowing robe, 
 And not the threadless raiment of the storm* 
 I turned the body : it was stiff and cold ; 
 And in the sunken features pale and thin, 
 Disfigured by a scar across the cheek, 
 I saw my Ralph, my lifeless darling, Ralph. 
 He must have died almost in sight of home. 
 If he had only struggled to the top, 
 And not sunk down behind the little hill, 
 I should have seen him and have helped him in. 
 
 Under the arms I dragged the body back, 
 
 And chafed and warmed and bathed it; but the heart, 
 
 Whose beat had been a steady martial tread, 
 
 Moved not, and all was still. No voice, no breath ; 
 
 Only a stony silence white and cold. 
 
 Here for two days I sat and watched my dead. 
 
 I did not eat nor sleep, but moaned alone. 
 
 I did not care to live ; I prayed to die. 
 
 I bent above the calm, unanswering lips, 
 
 And begged them speak, if naught but one farewell ; 
 
 And on the face my white hair lay like snow. 
 
 They found me thus, watching my dead brave son 
 My dead son, dead for his proud bride's sake. 
 His country was his bride ; he loved her well. 
 But always they endure great bitterness 
 
62 HYMN FOR DECORATION DAY. 
 
 Who give themselves to high, unselfish aims ; 
 And Ralph's distracted bride, in angry mood, 
 As if demanding only sacrifice, 
 Requited him with hunger, wounds, and death. 
 
 And now I am alone, alone. No more 
 
 Is left a hope that Ralph will come again; 
 
 Yet I may go to him and cease to mourn, 
 
 For we shall dwell where there will be no tears, 
 
 Nor cold, nor lack of food, nor any war ; 
 
 And the pure Christ, who suffered wounds and death, 
 
 And knows how precious is a mother's love, 
 
 Will cleanse my lifted spirit white as snow. 
 
 HYMN FOR DECORATION DAY. 
 
 WITH fragrant flowers we decorate their graves, 
 Who met in battle, or in prison-pen, 
 
 A fruitful death; who broke the chains of slaves, 
 And crushed the might of proud and cruej men. 
 
 They broke the chains with tears of bondage wet, 
 And gave their brave young lives for you and me ; 
 
 For, where the slave endures, it is a threat 
 Against the precious freedom of the free. 
 
 The sun of liberty dispels the dew, 
 
 The tears, the night, and shines on near and far ; 
 But, where it only lights the selfish few, 
 
 It sears and blights, and sinks in clouds of war. 
 
 'Tis fragrant gratitude we scatter o'er 
 
 The graves of them that died for you and me: 
 
 Their names, their dust, their memories, once more, 
 O Liberty, we consecrate to thee ! 
 
THE AUSTRIAN HUSSAR. 63 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN HUSSAR 
 
 WITH sabers drawn and guidons dancing free, 
 
 And music dying in the joy it made, 
 
 In gay Vienna rode the cavalry, 
 
 The pride of Austria, on grand parade. 
 
 Like a rose-garden, with fair colors set, 
 
 Lay the wide plain whereon the host were met. 
 
 A little child a lovely, rosebud girl 
 In white attire, and ribbons green as moss, 
 Straying away, lost in the crowded whirl, 
 Into the open field she thought to cross, 
 Rushed out, when to the bugle's cheerful sound 
 A squadron of hussars came sweeping round. 
 
 From the main body of the horsemen these 
 Rode down to honor with their steel salute 
 The empress, where she sat in velvet ease, 
 A diamond 'midst the cluster of her suit. 
 She cried with horror, her delight undone, 
 To see the danger to the pretty one. 
 
 Directly on the child, like angry flame, 
 
 Had wheeled at headlong speed the brave and strong ; 
 
 They faced the dazzling sun, and, as they came, 
 
 Carried a gust of pennant air along. 
 
 Swift as unbridled rage, they rode as tho' 
 
 In battle charging fiercely on the foe. 
 
 The poor, bewildered babe, in blind affright, 
 Ran toward the squadron, and her shadow there, 
 Hiding before her from the living light, 
 Flat on the grassless level dry and bare, 
 Moved gauntly, and it took the boding shape 
 And gloom of death from which is no escape. 
 
64 THE AUSTRIAN HUSSAR. 
 
 Seeing the ill, the mother of the child 
 Stood spellbound in the depth of her distress. 
 Her gaze was set ; her panting bosom wild 
 That she to save her babe was powerless. 
 So, too, the multitude stood dazed and dumb ; 
 Alas ! from them no hand of help could come. 
 
 As when, in polar regions white and still, 
 The compass points no longer to its star, 
 But downward to the ocean dark and chill, 
 And frost and heavy silence only are ; 
 So now hope's compass failed, amid the drear 
 And pallid stillness of benumbing fear. 
 
 But Succor waits on Fortune's smile and beck. 
 In the front rank the holder of a rein 
 Threw himself forward round his horse's neck, 
 And bending down, under the streaming mane, 
 Caught up the child from frightful death below, 
 And set her safely on his saddle-bow. 
 
 This feat he did, and never checked the speed, 
 
 Nor changed the pace, nor to a comrade spoke, 
 
 Nor lost his hold on his submissive steed, 
 
 Nor the alignment of the squadron broke. 
 
 With modest grace, which still endears and charms, 
 
 He gave the child back to her mother's arms. 
 
 Voices of thousands to the welkin blue 
 Cheered the good deed the brave hussar had done ; 
 And other thousands cheered it when they knew ; 
 But she who fondly clasped the rescued one, 
 And the kind empress, in that storm of cheers, 
 Could only tell their gratitude with tears. 
 
 Bright as a star the moment, and how blest 
 To the young trooper! when the emperor, 
 
THE KING AND THE NAIAD. 65 
 
 Graciously taking from his royal breast 
 One of the badges that men struggle for, 
 Placed on the other's heart, so nobly bold, 
 The shining golden emblem, more than gold. 
 
 That other, then, of honor may have thought 
 
 How unexpectedly it was his meed : 
 
 He had not found it in the way he sought; 
 
 But from an unpremeditated deed 
 
 In which he saw no merit, had no toil, 
 
 The flower had sprung, and from its native soiL 
 
 THE KING AND THE NAIAD. 
 
 WHEN the wrongs of peace grow mighty , 
 They beget the wrong of war, 
 
 Whose wild night, with deeds immortal, 
 Sparkles brightly, star on star. 
 
 " king, to health restore us ; 
 We are besieged by thirst. 
 There are two foes before us ; 
 The unseen foe is worst. 
 
 " Lest thirst's sharp arrows slaughter, 
 
 Yield to the open foe, 
 And lead us to the water, 
 Tho' it in thraldom flow." 
 
 Thus to Soils, King of Sparta, 
 
 With parched lips his soldiers cried. 
 
 When Arcadian besiegers 
 
 Hemmed them in on every side. 
 
 In the dry and stony stronghold 
 Was no drop of water found; 
 
66 THE KING AND THE NAIAD. 
 
 But a brook, beyond the rampart, 
 Lightly danced along the ground. 
 
 Lofty Soils bade a soldier 
 
 Wave a truce, and, with the foe, 
 
 Made a compact strong as granite, 
 
 With one rift where hope might grow. 
 
 Sparta will yield up her conquests, 
 She her claims to them will sink, 
 
 If her king and all his army 
 
 From the nearest fountain drink. 
 
 To these terms they made their pledges, 
 Whom dry thirst gave fearful odds, 
 
 And, to witness what they signed to, 
 Loudly called upon their gods. 
 
 In a deep, cool glen, appareled 
 
 In green boughs, which swayed above, 
 
 To the sunlight rose the waters, 
 Soft as eyes that beam with love. 
 
 Hither came the adversaries ; 
 
 And the Spartans, as by whips, 
 Were ondriven to the kisses 
 
 Of the liquid Naiad lips. 
 
 As each fever-throated fighter, 
 Bending low his waving crest, 
 
 Stooped to quaff his land's dishonor, 
 Him the troubled king addressed : 
 
 " If thou wilt not drink, but conquer 
 This temptation of the spring, 
 
 I will give to thee my kingdom, 
 
 And thou shalt be crowned its king ! " 
 
AGNES HATOT. 67 
 
 Heedless of him were his soldiers; 
 
 Thirst they gave a higher rank ; 
 By the choking captain maddened, 
 
 All, with panic faces, drank. 
 
 It appeared not heavy water, 
 
 But divine air, cool and thin, 
 Which they, freed from stifling torture, 
 
 Now were deeply breathing in. 
 
 Lastly stooped thirst-burdened Sous 
 
 To the treason of 'the spring; 
 But he turned, and would not drink it, 
 
 Being absolutely king. 
 
 Rising, as his face he sprinkled, 
 
 With his men he marched away, 
 Scornful of the daunted captors 
 
 Who in vain might say him nay. 
 
 He would yield not up his conquests, 
 
 For himself and all his men 
 Had not drank the sparkling pleasure 
 
 That allured them to the glen. 
 
 AGNES HATOT. 
 
 WHEN might made right in days of chivalry, 
 Hatot and Ringsdale, over claims to land, 
 Darkened their lives with stormy enmity, 
 And for their cause agreed this test to stand : 
 To fight steel-clad till either's blood made wet 
 The soil disputed ; and a time was set. 
 
 But Hatot sickened when the day drew near, 
 
 And strength lay racked that once had been his boast. 
 
68 AGNES HATOT. 
 
 Then Agnes, his fair daughter, for the fear 
 That in proud honor he would suffer most, 
 Resolved to do the hattle in his name, 
 And leave no foothold for the tread of Shame. 
 
 She, at the gray, first coming of the day, 
 
 Shook off still sleep, and from her window gazed. 
 
 The west was curtained with night's dark delay; 
 
 A cold and waning moon in silence raised 
 
 Its bent and wasted finger o'er the vale, 
 
 And seemed sad Death that beckoned, wan and pale. 
 
 But Hope sails by the rugged coasts of Fear; 
 For while awakened birds sang round her eaves, 
 Our Agnes armed herself with knightly gear 
 Of rattling hauberk and of jointed greaves ; 
 Withal she put on valor, that to feel 
 Does more for victory than battle-steel. 
 
 She had a sea of hair, whose odor sweet, 
 
 And golden softness, in a moonless tide 
 
 Ran rippling toward the white coast of her feet; 
 
 But as beneath a cloud the sea may hide, 
 
 So in her visor ed, burnished helmet, there, 
 
 Under the cloud-like plume, was hid her hair. 
 
 Bearing the mighty lance, sharp-spiked and long, 
 
 She at the sill bestrode her restless steed. 
 
 Her kneeling soul prayed God to make her strong, 
 
 And prayer is nearest path to every need. 
 
 She clattered on the bridge, and on apace, 
 
 And met dread Ringsdale at the hour and place. 
 
 They clash in onslaught ; steel to steel replies ; 
 The champed bit foams ; rider and ridden fight. 
 Each feels the grim and brutal instinct rise 
 That in forefront of havoc takes delight. 
 
BALLAD OF CONSOLATION. 69 
 
 The lightning of the lances flashed and ran, 
 Until, at last, the maid unhorsed the man. 
 
 Then, on her steed, she, bright-eyed, flushed, and glad, 
 
 Her helmet lifted in the sylvan air; 
 
 And from the iron concealment that it had, 
 
 The noiseless ocean of her languid hair 
 
 Broke in disheveled waves: the cross and heart, 
 
 Jewels that latched her vest, she drew apart. 
 
 " Lo, it is Agnes, even I ! " she said, 
 
 " Who with my trusty lance have thrust thee down ! 
 
 For hate of shame the fray I hazarded ; 
 
 And yet, not me the victory should crown, 
 
 But God, the Merciful, who helps the right, 
 
 And lent me strength to conquer in the fight." 
 
 BALLAD OF CONSOLATION. 
 
 A PIOUS, Catholic woman, 
 
 To burdensome poverty born, 
 For her patron chose great Saint Joseph, 
 
 And prayed to him even and morn. 
 And when she was married a twelvemonth, 
 
 A rose-chain of love linked with joy, 
 She named in her patron-saint's honor 
 
 That gift of sweet heaven, her boy. 
 
 She dwelt at the rim of the city 
 
 In a rude cabin her shrine ; 
 And a frail vine bore, by the doorstep, 
 
 One morning-glory divine. 
 But the day that this trumpeter angel 
 
 Bloomed out in the sunlight wide, 
 That day the delight of the woman, 
 
 The flower of her bosom, died. 
 
70 BALLAD OF CONSOLATION. 
 
 They bitterly mourned for their darling, 
 
 The laboring-man and his wife ; 
 The cloud and the storm were upon them 
 
 In that starless midnight of life. 
 Their loss seemed a dolorous burden 
 
 Sent for a cross from on high. 
 He went without heart to his labor, 
 
 She turned to her cares with a sigho 
 
 But time is a whirlpool of changes: 
 
 Or ever another year fled, 
 A second man-child in the cabin 
 
 Had taken the place of the dead; 
 And the trusting, affectionate mother, 
 
 With courage too faithful to faint, 
 Had the second new-comer christened 
 
 The name of her worshipful saint. 
 
 The baby grew daily, waxed stronger, 
 
 And prattled with wonder and glee. 
 The heart of the mother was joyful, 
 
 His innocent promise to see. 
 She fancied in day-dreams his future, 
 
 And found, in the beautiful years, 
 Relief from hard toil for his father, 
 
 And songs for her burdens and tears. 
 
 For she saw her babe in his manhood, 
 
 Noble and rich ; and again, 
 The crown and chief star of the city, 
 
 A far-sighted leader of men. 
 But how shall love, that goes blindfold, 
 
 Look into the future afar, 
 Whose heavy mists hasten, unsundered, 
 
 Before time's radiant car ? 
 
 Ripe Autumn came sighing and weeping, 
 Bearing her sickle and sheaves, 
 
BALLAD OF CONSOLATION. 71 
 
 And into the laborer's cabin 
 
 Threw wildly an omen of leaves. 
 The pretty babe sickened and withered, 
 
 Like leaves in the boreal breath, 
 And the gleaming sickle of harvest 
 
 Preceded the sickle of death. 
 
 The hopes of the father and mother, 
 
 Once more, in their sorrowing breasts, 
 Lay ruthlessly ruined and scattered, 
 
 Like a rose that a tempest divests. 
 But the woman, trusting, believing, 
 
 Exalted her spirit in prayer, 
 And craved of the holy Saint Joseph 
 
 To pity her humble despair. 
 
 Three fast-flying years had vanished 
 
 In the past's immemorial sky, 
 When again in the working-man's cabin 
 
 Kose an infant's pitiful cry. 
 And the grateful, reverent mother, 
 
 With faith that still fully sufficed, 
 Named her last-born too for Saint Joseph, 
 
 Who tended the young child Christ. 
 
 She prayed to the saint to watch over 
 
 And guard her own little son, 
 And spare him to solace her heartache, 
 
 Till her troubled days should be done. 
 She thought that her prayer had been granted, 
 
 For her soul-gemmed jewel and prize 
 Lived three glad seasons, and, smiling, 
 
 Looked up, out of heavenly eyes. 
 
 Then Winter came freezing and blowing, 
 
 His long hair streaming and hoar; 
 To enter the laborer's cabin, 
 
 He tugged at window and door ; 
 
72 BALLAD OF CONSOLATION. 
 
 But a colder than he, and sadder, 
 
 An entrance readily found, 
 And covered the babe's small body 
 
 As the white snow sheeted the ground. 
 
 From the bed-side the mother rose wailing, 
 
 And tore her disheveled hair. 
 And wrung her mute hands in expression 
 
 Of wordless depths of despair. 
 It seemed an injustice of heaven, 
 
 The death that bereft her that day. 
 She prayed not; but jeered at Saint Joseph 
 
 For taking her jewels away. 
 
 The picture of Infant and Virgin, 
 
 That hung in the comfortless room, 
 Disdainfully mocked, she fancied, 
 
 Her empty-armed, desolate doom. 
 Her rosary rested uncounted, 
 
 Its crucifix broken in two, 
 And she blamed her patron-saint ever 
 
 For being so harsh and untrue. 
 
 The time, rebellious and prayerless, 
 
 Flew on into hesitant spring ; 
 But no change in the dark resentment 
 
 Did the mild transition bring, 
 Till one night, when, in vain derision, 
 
 The woman had scoffed at prayer, 
 She found, in a mystical vision, 
 
 A balm for her rankling despair. 
 
 The landscape was vernal about her, 
 The soothing air fragrant and still. 
 
 She saw, with a feeling of horror, 
 Three gallows set high on a hill; 
 
 But she heard glad, musical voices, 
 
 And, turning to see whence they came, 
 
BALLAD OF CONSOLATION. 73 
 
 Beheld four angels approaching, 
 
 And each of them called her by name. 
 
 The oldest was tall and majestic, 
 
 With wings of as radiant gold 
 As that in the cloud-lands of sunset, 
 
 In splendor on splendor uprolled. 
 The linen of purity clothed him, 
 
 With outlines of delicate grace, 
 And a halo ahove him enlightened 
 
 The measureless calm of his face. 
 
 The three other angels were smaller, 
 
 With silver-like pinions that shone 
 As the moon, or the pearl heart of Hesper. 
 
 Fresh roses these angels had thrown 
 At the feet of the sorrowful woman, 
 
 As they looked upon her and smiled ; 
 And she thought she had seen their faces 
 
 In dreams or when only a child. 
 
 The radiant, golden-winged angel 
 
 Spoke to the woman and said : 
 "I am your patron, Saint Joseph; 
 
 I foster and care for your dead. 
 Tho' pleased with your faith, I was troubled 
 
 When your heart found naught of relief ; 
 For always the angels of heaven 
 
 Sympathize deeply with grief. 
 
 "I loved with deep joy the young children 
 
 To whom you had given my name; 
 But I looked out into their futures, 
 
 And saw that their lives meant shame. 
 See, yonder, alone on the hill-top, 
 
 The three dread gallows appear, 
 That would have been built for the offspring 
 
 You fondled, and prayed you might rear. 
 
74 GUYOT OF MARSEILLES. 
 
 " Wherefore, I at once interceded 
 
 To save you dishonor so sore, 
 And was given to choose between it 
 
 And the early deaths you deplore. 
 So, guided by tender compassion, 
 
 I took your young innocents three ; 
 And they are these loving immortals 
 
 Who came to meet you with me." 
 
 The angels with silvery pinions 
 
 Embraced their own mother dear ; 
 Their kisses made saintly her features 
 
 That lately were haggard and drear; 
 And they said, " O sorrowful mother, 
 
 Be joyous, and weep not nor sigh, 
 For we are all waiting and longing 
 
 To welcome you home in the sky." 
 
 The woman rose from her vision, 
 
 And heard the merry birds sing. 
 The air was sweet-scented and warmer, 
 
 The landscape verdant with spring. 
 She knelt repentant and thankful, 
 
 And from bitterness found release ; 
 For, as the earth was clothed in its verdure, 
 
 Her spirit was mantled with peace. 
 
 GUYOT OF MARSEILLES. 
 
 THE life misunderstood is sad as tears; 
 Its outer seeming courts the stab of scorn: 
 It sits apart, and, bearing gibes and sneers, 
 Feeds on the lonely hope to which 't is born. 
 It is a murmuring shell, whose rough outside 
 Shows not the beauties that within abide. 
 
GUTOT OF MARSEILLES. 75 
 
 Such life was noble Guyot's of Marseilles. 
 By patient industry he won his way, 
 And from whatever quarter streamed the gales, 
 They blew him favor, for he worked each day, 
 And trenched on night for further hours to use, 
 Taxing inactive sleep for revenues. 
 
 The silver cord was loosed, and he was bent 
 
 Graveward; but often he himself denied 
 
 The wheaten fuel, coal of nutriment, 
 
 That keeps the hungry fire of life supplied. 
 
 He wore mere rags against the sharpest frost, 
 
 And, from his youth up, shunned the ways of cost. 
 
 His rooms were mean, and on the bare, board floor 
 He slept on straw, and oft the freezing air 
 Hissed through the dusty seams and broken door, 
 As if to drive his purpose to despair; 
 But purpose, kin to sufferance, heeds no cold, 
 And habits turn to needs as men grow old. 
 
 The world condemns the miser : in the street 
 The rich at Guyot cast an honest sneer ; 
 Even the poor folk, whom he chanced to meet, 
 Hooted and scoffed and after flung a jeer, 
 For scorn of him who basely would withhold 
 The cheapest comforts for the sake of gold. 
 
 They found him lying lifeless on his straw ; 
 Ajid thus, or with like meaning, ran his will : 
 "In early youth, in fair Marseilles, I saw 
 The poor with water were supplied but ill; 
 And I trade's yellow flower have widely plucked, 
 And here bequeath, to build an aqueduct." 
 
 O creeping water of the mountain-spring! 
 dimpled water of the laughing brooks! 
 
76 ONTIORA. 
 
 O water of the river! whispering 
 To the low bough that on its likeness looks 
 Publish in crystal, through the dells and dales, 
 Of Guyot, noble Guyot of Marseilles ! 
 
 ONTIOEA. 
 
 MOONS on moons ago, 
 
 In the sleep, or night, of the moon, 
 
 When evil spirits have power, 
 
 The monster, Ontiora, 
 
 Came down hi the dreadful gloom. 
 
 The monster came stalking abroad, 
 
 On his way to the sea for a bath, 
 
 For a bath in the salt, gray sea. 
 
 In Ontiora's breast 
 
 Was the eyrie of the winds, 
 
 Eagles of measureless wing, 
 
 Whose screeching, furious swoop 
 
 Startled the sleeping dens. 
 
 His hair was darkness unbound, 
 
 Thick, and not mooned nor starred. 
 
 His head was plumed with rays 
 
 Plucked from the sunken sun. 
 
 To him the forests of oak, 
 
 Of maple, hemlock, and pine, 
 
 Were as grass that a bear treads down. 
 
 He trod them down as he came, 
 
 As he came from his white-peak'd tent. 
 
 At whose door, ere he started abroad, 
 
 He drew a flintless arrow 
 
 Across the sky's strip'd bow, 
 
 And shot at the evening star. 
 
ONTIORA. 77 
 
 He came like a frowning cloud, 
 
 That fills and blackens the west. 
 
 He was wroth at the bright-plumed sun, 
 
 And his pale-faced wife, the moon, 
 
 With their twinkling children, the stars; 
 
 But he hated the red-men all, 
 
 The Iroquois, fearless and proud, 
 
 The Mohegans, stately and brave, 
 
 And trod them down in despite, 
 
 As a storm treads down the maize. 
 
 He trod the red-men down, 
 
 Or drove them out of the land 
 
 As winter drives the birds. 
 
 When near the King of Rivers, 
 
 The river of many moods, 
 
 To Ontiora thundered 
 
 Manitou out of a cloud. 
 
 Between the fountains crystal 
 
 And the waters that reach to the sky, 
 
 Manitou, Spirit of Good, 
 
 To the man-shaped monster spoke : 
 
 "You shall not go to the sea, 
 
 But be into mountains changed, 
 
 And wail in the blast, and weep 
 
 For the red-men you have slain. 
 
 You shall lie on your giant back 
 
 While the river rises and falls, 
 
 And the tide of years on years 
 
 Flows in from a boundless sea." 
 
 Then Ontiora replied: 
 
 " 1 yield to the heavy doom ; 
 
 Yet what am I but a type 
 
 Of a people who are to come? 
 
 Who as with a bow will shoot 
 
 And bring the stars to their feet, 
 
78 ONTIORA. 
 
 And drive the red-man forth 
 
 To the Land of the Setting Sun." 
 
 So Ontiora wild, 
 
 By eternal silence touched, 
 
 Fell backward in a swoon, 
 
 And was changed into lofty hills, 
 
 The Mountains of the Sky. 
 
 This is the pleasant sense 
 Of Ontiora's name, 
 "The Mountains of the Sky." 
 His bones are rocks and crags, 
 His flesh is rising ground, 
 His blood is the sap of trees. 
 
 On his back with one knee raised, 
 
 He lies with his face to the sky, 
 
 A monstrous human shape 
 
 In the Catskills high and grand. 
 
 And from the valley below, 
 
 Where the slow tide ebbs and flows, . 
 
 You can mark his knee and breast, 
 
 His forehead beetling and vast, 
 
 His nose and retreating chin. 
 
 But his eyes, they say, are lakes, 
 
 Whose tears flow down in streams 
 
 That seam and wrinkle his cheeks, 
 
 For the fate he endures, and for shame 
 
 Of the evil he did, as he stalked 
 
 In the vanquished and hopeless moon, 
 
 Moons on moons ago. 
 
LIBERTY. 79 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 WHERE the Platte and the Laramie mingle 
 
 With waters as pure as the dew, 
 Wooing down from the Rocky Mountains 
 
 Their dreamy, perpetual blue ; 
 Where the wild-rose sweet and the balsam 
 
 Scent the glad, fresh, prairie air, 
 And the breeze, like an elk, comes leaping 
 
 From the sand-hills changeful and bare, 
 
 Stands a frontier fort, and behind it 
 
 The mountains peacefully rise, 
 Whence, over the valley, resistless 
 
 The whirl of the elements flies. 
 There the sudden storm rides madly 
 
 On an uncurbed charger of cloud, 
 While it shoots long arrows of lightning, 
 
 And utters its war-cry loud. 
 
 The Sioux were fierce, cruel, and moody, 
 
 And hated the pale-face much 
 For taking the lands where they hunted, 
 
 Which he pledged that he would not touch. 
 So they sought to unite all red-men 
 
 Against their habitual foe, 
 And, for Indian manhood and honor, 
 
 Strike one more pitiless blow. 
 
 The chief of the Sioux tribes was kingly ; 
 
 He rode undaunted and free ; 
 He was tall, broad-shouldered, fine-featured, 
 
 And as straight as a towering tree. 
 In the midst of the dusky-red council 
 
 He rose with his harrowing themes, 
 And a breeze through his utterance freshened, 
 
 With voices of forests and streams. 
 
80 LIBERTY. 
 
 In the war that he fiercely incited 
 
 While its flying arrows increased, 
 And murder and fire on the border 
 
 Angered the populous East 
 Near the fort where Laramie water 
 
 Is wed to a wandering stream, 
 Dwelt the Sioux chief's beautiful daughter, 
 
 Of twilight a glamour and dream. 
 
 She was tall, and was formed superbly, 
 
 With a face so true in each line, 
 That, seen looking upward in profile, 
 
 It seemed as of marble divine. 
 In her eyes was a languorous splendor, 
 
 The dawning of young desire ; 
 For those eyes, like the fawn's, were tender, 
 
 Yet filled with a smoldering fire. 
 
 On her forehead a beaded fillet 
 
 Bound the trailing night of her hair, 
 And her shoulders, perfectly molded, 
 
 Like her tapering arms, were bare. 
 The stars and the flowers in bead-work 
 
 Were copied, her beauty to serve, 
 And her negligent blanket discovered 
 
 Her bosom's voluptuous curve. 
 
 She was mistress of two white ponies, 
 
 And, riding on either of these, 
 She urged him to galloping swiftness, 
 
 And her long hair streamed in the breeze. 
 Then seemed she that offspring of Valor, 
 
 Liberty, and her employ 
 Was only to roam her dominion, 
 
 Embodied with beauty and joy. 
 
 Begot of the sunset and freedom, 
 And rich in the Indian's lore, 
 
LIBERTY. 81 
 
 She knew the antelope's hoof-print, 
 
 The birds, and what plumage they wore. 
 
 She could throw the lariat deftly, 
 And bring to the earth, at a blow, 
 
 The prairie-hen low-flying over, 
 Or slay the stag and the doe. 
 
 In her voice the tongue of Dakota 
 
 Was sweeter than philomel's song ; 
 She spoke, too, the words that the Mayflower 
 
 From beyond sea wafted along. 
 She read many books and news-letters, 
 
 And each was a cup to her sight; 
 For she drank from the waters of knowledge 
 
 With quenchless thirst and delight. 
 
 At the fort, from the homes of Ohio, 
 
 Were volunteer soldiers that came 
 To cover the venturesome settlers 
 
 From the Indian's desperate aim. 
 With the rest came a young lieutenant, 
 
 Blue-eyed, handsome, and pale, 
 And the Sioux chief's daughter, beholding, 
 
 Felt strong love rise and prevail. 
 
 It may be that some sense of pity 
 
 First turned to the soldier her gaze, 
 For she saw a mystery in him, 
 
 The shadow of sorrowful days ; 
 And wherever she went or tarried, 
 
 Albeit he was not near, 
 In evergreen dells of remembrance 
 
 His image would softly appear. 
 
 She could not escape from its presence ; 
 
 It dwelt in the heart of her heart, 
 Tho' in bitterest moments of passion 
 
 She ruthlessly bade it depart. 
 
82 LIBERTY. 
 
 But Love is far mightier, braver, 
 Than anger, sorrow, and scorn ; 
 
 He drives them back huddled and cowering 
 Aghast at his arrows of morn. 
 
 Like a mountain-lake silent, unrippled, 
 
 That glasses the bountiful sun, 
 And so clear that the mid-bottom pebbles 
 
 Are countable one by one, 
 Was the limpid lake of this spirit, 
 
 Where life's great day-god shone ; 
 Tho' the depths were yet clearer and deeper 
 
 Than the mountain-lake's, placid and lone. 
 
 When often the comely young soldier 
 
 Had seen the maiden, and knew 
 That daily she eagerly watched him 
 
 With fond eyes wistful and true, 
 He spoke to her kindly, and praised her 
 
 For her beauty so wild-like and rare, 
 And gave her a rose of the prairie 
 
 To lighten the dark of her hair. 
 
 Then into his eyes far looking, 
 
 She fancied she saw the sky 
 Of an infinite sadness in them, 
 
 And answered him, after a sigh. 
 She set the glad rose in her girdle, 
 
 And lovingly taking his hand, 
 They wandered along by the river 
 
 That lisps to the glittering sand. 
 
 Thenceforth he turned from the maiden ; 
 
 He felt that he could not divide 
 The love of his life for one woman, 
 
 Nor find in another his bride. 
 This other he tortured with coldness 
 
 And the slight of his downcast eyes; 
 
LIBERTY. 83 
 
 Yet she followed him oft, at a distance, 
 Perplexed, and with tearful surprise. 
 
 On horseback they once met at sunset, 
 
 In a wooded reach of the road, 
 And her heart, with its torrent of feeling, 
 
 In words and in tears overflowed : 
 . " Oh, why do you treat me so coldly ? 
 
 And why do you spurn a true friend? 
 Am I not an Indian princess? 
 
 And what have I done to offend?" 
 
 "You have not offended/' he answered; 
 
 " I have read in your eyes, I suppose ; 
 But to pluck a red rose, and discard it, 
 
 Were basely unjust to the rose. 
 I would not be false to your kindness ; 
 
 I truly shall treasure it long; 
 Yet for us to be often together 
 
 Would be unseemly and wrong." 
 
 "I know," she replied, "that the white man 
 
 Despises the dark, red race ; 
 He hunts down our tribes, and destroys them : 
 
 No foot of them stays in a place. 
 You treat us as fanged wolf, or badger, 
 
 Which on the plains skulkingly roams. 
 Is it strange that we follow the war-path 
 
 When driven away from our homes? 
 
 " We go to the wall, being weakest, 
 
 And die in the pools of our gore. 
 The path we are treading is weary ; 
 
 Our feet and our spirits are sore. 
 Mankind are all love-craving brothers, 
 
 And why should they fail to agree ? 
 Befriend us, be true to us, love us, 
 
 And of us, oh, learn to be free! 
 
84 LIBERTY. 
 
 " We can teach even that ; for of freedom 
 
 The pale-face has volumes to learn, 
 Still a slave to the past's rude customs, 
 
 Which time and thought must o'erturn. 
 Tho' he comes to the red-man's country 
 
 The gladness of freedom to find, 
 He brings his base slavery with him, 
 
 A vassal still, in his mind. 
 
 " I know that not father nor mother 
 
 Should separate loves that are true ; 
 Why then should an alien race-hatred, 
 
 Which here it is false to renew? 
 Break away from the bondage of custom ; 
 
 Fear not to be perfectly free. 
 Even I am Liberty, dearest ! 
 
 Oh, turn and behold her in me ! " 
 
 He looked at the mountains majestic 
 
 In crowns of continual snow ; 
 He saw the bright heaven of sunset 
 
 Along them refulgently glow ; 
 And he answered, " O bronze-dark critic, 
 
 The splendor of liberty flies 
 Before us onward forever, 
 
 Like the west-going light of the skies. 
 
 " We follow in fetters of custom 
 
 That we never can disregard; 
 For rebellion tightens them on us, 
 
 And makes them more galling and hard. 
 But here is your wigwam, and by it 
 
 Your mother, who loves you so well. 
 Forget me ; turn from me hereafter 
 
 Good-night, and forever farewell ! " 
 
 Forget him ! Do deer of the forest 
 Forget the lick or the spring ? 
 
LIBERTY. 86 
 
 Do eagles forget the broad sunshine, 
 
 Or the bees where the flower-bells swing? 
 
 She could not forget him; but, sighing, 
 Said softly, sweetly, " Adieu ! " 
 
 And among the trees and their shadows, 
 He went as the sun from her view. 
 
 He went, but his lingering image 
 
 Still haunted the house of her mind ; 
 And the longing, like thirst, to be near him, 
 
 She had not a fetter to bind. 
 On her pine-bough and wolf-skin pallet, 
 
 She soon was with him in dreams, 
 Where the sound of his voice was more tender 
 
 Than the musical murmur of streams. 
 
 As a traveler, lost on the prairie, 
 
 Gains the top of some rolling divide, 
 And, gazing far into the distance 
 
 Eound the level lonely and wide, 
 Can find neither succor nor guidance, 
 
 But stands in the wildering maze, 
 And absently plucks at the sage-brush, 
 
 Treasuring some of its sprays : 
 
 So, lost on love's measureless prairie, 
 
 The beautiful Indian girl 
 Looked round on the helpless horizon, 
 
 Her thoughts in a turbulent whirl; 
 And beholding no path nor assistance, 
 
 Hopeless and deeply depressed, 
 She plucked at the words of her loved one, 
 
 And treasured a few in her breast. 
 
 But day after day in the wildwood, 
 
 Adorning her beauty with care, 
 She would silver her wrists with her bracelets, 
 
 And bead her long, shimmering hair ; 
 
5 LIBERTY. 
 
 Then would go to the fort, and be willing 
 To seek her lone wigwam again, 
 
 If she only had looked on her loved one 
 Riding along with his men. 
 
 She would wait slow hours at his door-step 
 
 To see him come out and go by, 
 And Pity's sweet self had grown sadder 
 
 Watching her out of the sky. 
 Oft she followed the soldier meekly 
 
 With fawn-like, inquisitive fear, 
 As if he might even deny her 
 
 The gladness of being so near. 
 
 If the strong and unselfish goddess, 
 
 That long ago tarried in Rome, 
 Were seeking to be incarnate, 
 
 And to dwell in her dedicate home, 
 What form would she take ? Whose body 
 
 Would best with her spirit agree ? 
 And where, in the land of her favor, 
 
 Would her truest habitat be? 
 
 She would take the fresh form of a maiden 
 
 Imbued with the red of her skies, 
 Lithe, graceful, faultlessly molded, 
 
 And with dark and affectionate eyes. 
 She would choose the wide sea of the prairie, 
 
 And the mountainous Western wild, 
 As the place for her life to abide in, 
 
 And be simple and free as a child. 
 
 And would she not smile on the people 
 
 Pursuing her over the deep, 
 Who fought in her cause, and delighted 
 
 Her name in high honor to keep ? 
 She surely would hold them the dearest 
 
 Of all that the century gave, 
 
LIBERTY. 87 
 
 And would choose from among them a lover, 
 Handsome, youthful, and brave. 
 
 They told the great chief of his daughter, 
 
 As he rode with his warrior hand, 
 And he grieved at the lowly behavior 
 
 Of the pride of the Western land. 
 He sent to her friends and her mother 
 
 To take the sweet maiden away 
 To a distant vale by a river, 
 
 Where a camp of Sioux families lay. 
 
 He bade them neglect not to cheer her, 
 
 In hopes they could lead to depart 
 The profitless passion that ruffled 
 
 The innocent rose of her heart. 
 She went with them humbly and tearless, 
 
 Her life, itself, beaten and cowed ; 
 For there settled down on her spirit 
 
 A somber, enveloping cloud. 
 
 She silently rode her white palfrey; 
 
 She did not smile nor complain; 
 From the cloudy, waste country of sadness 
 
 They strove to allure her in vain. 
 She touched not the food that they brought her, 
 
 Who all were tender and kind. 
 They reached the red camp by the river, 
 
 But ever she sorrowed and pined. 
 
 Of all life's household, the humblest 
 
 Is Love, the begetter of Care. 
 Unworldly, Love asks only likeness ; 
 
 But, missing it, broods on despair. 
 As the brook by the trail, in summer, 
 
 In the rainless glare of the day, 
 Runs slowly on, fainter and thinner, 
 
 The maiden was wasting away* 
 
88 LIBERTY. 
 
 At dawn, a courier, foam-flecked, 
 
 Reached the Sioux chief's war-tent door, 
 And told him his daughter was dying, 
 
 And longed to behold him once more. 
 Away, over prairie and mountain, 
 
 Not pausing by night nor by day, 
 Sped the chief to the camp by the river, 
 
 And knelt where his loved child lay. 
 
 Of buffalo-robes, her wigwam, 
 
 Traced round with a sylvan design, 
 In a wood at the foot of a canyon, 
 
 Stood under a pitying pine. 
 A pine-tassel carpet and antlers 
 
 Embellished the softness within, 
 And warm was its couch of rude wicker 
 
 With the skulking coyote's skin. 
 
 The tawny-haired coat of a puma 
 
 Before the low pallet was spread. 
 As the sorrowful chief knelt on it, 
 
 The blighted rose lifted her head; 
 And laying her hands on his shoulders, 
 
 To his eyes that were bending above 
 Looked up with unchanging affection, 
 
 And told of her heart-broken love. 
 
 "Dear father," she said, "I am going 
 
 Across the great final divide 
 Across the dark range of death's mountains 
 
 To the parks where the spirits abide. 
 We shall, in that country, be driven 
 
 From our home of the forest no more, 
 But be at rest with our kindred 
 
 Who have silently journeyed before. 
 
 "In the beautiful land of the sunset 
 I shall wait for you, father dear, 
 
LIBERTY. 89 
 
 Where the birds sing of love requited, 
 
 All the snowless, celestial year. 
 In a little while you will be with me : 
 
 Your burden is grievous to bear; 
 You are growing old, and so care-worn, 
 
 And as white as mist is your hair. 
 
 "For a pledge of you, changeless and sacred, 
 
 Dear father, your stricken one yearns : 
 Of all the chiefs you are the greatest, 
 
 And are first when the calumet burns. 
 I pray you go forth on the war-path 
 
 To cope with the white-men no more ; 
 They are countless as leaves of the woodland, 
 
 Or as waves on the voluble shore. 
 
 " Oh, spare our unfortunate people, 
 
 And make the war graciously cease; 
 Take well-won rest from the conflict, 
 
 Ere you go to the infinite peace. 
 And I would that there might be hereafter 
 
 No serpent of discord and strife 
 Between our proud Sioux and the nation 
 
 Of him I love better than life. 
 
 " When my spirit has gone, noble father, 
 
 Take this desolate body of mine, 
 Discarded, heart-broken, and wasted, 
 
 The withered branch of a vine, 
 And lay it to rest on the hillside 
 
 Where the wild-vines clamber and dwell, 
 At the fort by Laramie River, 
 
 Where I sadly learned to love well. 
 
 "In distant, wonderful countries 
 
 The pale-faces thought it was good 
 To come to our land, seeking only 
 
 To think and to speak as they would. 
 
90 LIBERTY. 
 
 They found a true name for the blessing 
 They sought, and deem sacred and fair ; 
 
 But we have no word of its meaning, 
 Tho' ever we breathed it like air. 
 
 "The name is Liberty, father 
 
 A name that is almost divine. 
 Henceforth call me Liberty only, 
 
 And make the beloved name mine. 
 And when our brave people in pity 
 
 Chant the death-song over my head, 
 Let them turn to the east their faces, 
 
 And mourn for their Liberty dead." 
 
 In sorrow too deep to be spoken, 
 
 The great chief hastened to give 
 The wished-f or pledge to his daughter ; 
 
 But bade her take courage and live. 
 He called her sweet Liberty fondly, 
 
 And said that she must not decease. 
 But in vain ; for at dawn of the morrow 
 
 Her lamp was extinguished in peace. 
 
 Then straightway they killed her two ponies, 
 
 To bear, to the spirit's dim land, 
 The hovering ghost of the maiden, 
 
 And they put some beads in her hand. 
 Two days and two nights they bewailed her 
 
 To the bluffs and the forest around, 
 And in buffalo-robes her body 
 
 They mournfully corded and bound. 
 
 The braves to their shoulders lifted 
 The burden stretched on its bier, 
 
 And they went on the fortnight's journey 
 Through winter so ghostly and drear. 
 
 Thrice a hundred dusky-red mourners 
 Rode forth in the funeral train, 
 
LIBERTY. 91 
 
 And at night, round their camp-fires, the death-song 
 Was a wild, uncontrollable strain. 
 
 " She is dead : the pale-face has slain her, 
 
 Our Liberty, gentle and pure. 
 He spurned her who most should have loved her, 
 
 And laid on us much to endure. 
 Like the traveler lost on the prairie 
 
 Whose limits he cannot descry, 
 Hungering, thirsting, forsaken, 
 
 She found naught left but to die." 
 
 They crossed the monotonous prairie, 
 
 And the shivering blizzard blew 
 In that wilderness wolf-haunted, 
 
 And the fine snow blindingly flew. 
 It ceased, and the silence unbroken, 
 
 And their freezing, vaporous breath, 
 Made it seem to them there that they traversed 
 
 The pale, still frontier of death. 
 
 They came to the mingling rivers, 
 
 And saw, on the opposite side, 
 The fort, with its striped flag waving 
 
 In starry, indolent pride. 
 They sent a young warrior over, 
 
 To carry the humble request 
 That, before the fort, on the hillside, 
 
 The chief's dead daughter might rest. 
 
 With kindness the garrison met them, 
 
 As they, from the winter-clad bank, 
 The requiem mournfully chanting, 
 
 Were solemnly riding in rank. 
 The soldiers had garnished the quarters 
 
 With flags and small arms and great ; 
 In the midst, on a flag-covered table, 
 
 They laid the hushed burden in state. 
 
92 LIBERTY. 
 
 Words of sympathy, words of welcome, 
 
 The white to the red men said ; 
 And the chaplain, with eloquent pity, 
 
 Touchingly spoke of the dead. 
 In the vanishing tongue of Dakota, 
 
 The famous Sioux chief replied, 
 And proclaimed that, with his loved daughter, 
 
 The War, Hate's daughter, had died. 
 
 "I have given," he said, "my promise, 
 
 From its cruel path to refrain. 
 Were the hopelessness of resistance 
 
 And claims of policy vain 
 To make me stay firm in my purpose, 
 
 All strife with your people to cease, 
 Then this pledge, that I gave to my daughter, 
 
 Would bind me hereafter to peace." 
 
 In her praise, flocks of winged words fluttered ; 
 
 And when, out of sunset, the gold 
 Down the passionless mountains was streaming 
 
 Pacific abundance untold, 
 The body was borne by the white-men, 
 
 Who all in the sorrowing shared, 
 To the chosen repose on the hillside, 
 
 Where stood a tall scaffold prepared. 
 
 Here gently they loosed the brown death-robes, 
 
 For a pitying, farewell look; 
 And the maiden seemed peacefully sleeping, 
 
 Like some winter-stilled, wildwood brook. 
 Soft moccasins, gauntlet-gloves, clothing, 
 
 Beside her were hastily thrown, 
 That she might not lack on the journey, 
 
 Which they knew she must travel alone. 
 
 And he whom she loved looked on her 
 As she lay in the rubicund light; 
 
THE PATRIOTS COURAGE. 93 
 
 He stood by the side of her mother, 
 Whose grief was as deepening night. 
 
 A mountain-lily he nurtured, 
 
 And other fair flowers of the West, 
 
 He laid, with regret in their fragrance, 
 On the dead girl's innocent breast. 
 
 They closed the fur coffin, and raised it 
 
 To the scaffold cheerless and high, 
 With the head to the east, and wrapped it 
 
 In a pall of the ruddiest dye. 
 Then the red-men took up the wailing 
 
 And the wild, sweet strain as before: 
 "Our Liberty, slain by the pale-face, 
 
 Shall smile on our prowess no more." 
 
 The heads and the tails of the ponies, 
 
 Brought sacredly hither along, 
 To this grave in the air were fastened, 
 
 Each to one of the four posts strong. 
 And a crystalline gift of the river 
 
 Was set before either beast's head, 
 That he might not thirst on the journey 
 
 To the shadowy land of the dead. 
 
 THE PATRIOT'S COURAGE. 
 
 WHEN our free land's great captain, Washington, 
 
 Was colonel in Virginia, ere the war 
 
 He led for Independence had begun, 
 
 A passing cloud obscured his rising star : 
 
 His sometimes frightful passions woke, and they, 
 
 Then unbroke coursers, had their fiery way. 
 
94 THE PATRIOTS COURAGE. 
 
 For while between opposing factions there 
 
 The bloodless battle by the ballot rolled, 
 
 Into one's pride whom he had found unfair 
 
 He plunged a speech-wrought weapon, keen and cold; 
 
 And the hurt voter, with a blow unmeet, 
 
 Stretched his insulter senseless at his feet. 
 
 Forth hied the dread news, waxing as it went, 
 Fed by the food it gave to every tongue; 
 Uprose, wild-eyed, the wrathful regiment, 
 And idle swords and flintlocks were unhung, 
 And marshaled to the drum, whose speedy call 
 Was like the beating of the hearts of all. 
 
 When grief has rage soft pity turns to stone. 
 
 These loved their leader as they loved their land; 
 
 Aslant, like shining ram, their muskets shone, 
 
 And harsh the voice of vengeance pealed command: 
 
 " All foully slain our colonel lies, struck down ! 
 
 On, comrades ! Give no quarter ! Burn the town ! " 
 
 Meanwhile, the stricken was made whole again, 
 And, hurried by the townsfolk, rode to meet 
 The armed, excited torrent of fierce men 
 Advancing toward the small, electoral street; 
 And gladly holden in their wond'ring sight, 
 They pressed around him with unfeigned delight. 
 
 But vengeance is so inconsiderate, 
 
 Shorn of excuse it yet pursues its prey ; 
 
 And all the soldiers, filled with gathered hate, 
 
 Were willed to leave black ruin on their way. 
 
 He charged them, lest the love he bore should cease. 
 
 To bate their wrath, and turn again in peace. 
 
 So they went back; and slowly he returned, 
 Chastising his quick passions ruthlessly ; 
 
THE PREACHERS DOLE. 95 
 
 For who, that with a foolish rage has burned, 
 Knows blame as bitter as his own may be ? 
 But when red morn rolled up its splendid wheel, 
 Joy followed close on Sorrow's fleeing heel. 
 
 For then betimes, a lark-blithe letter flew 
 Out of a heart where kindness brooded warm ; 
 But to the voter's short and narrow view 
 It was the white-winged augury of storm ; 
 It asked a meeting only, yet he heard 
 Of challenge and of duel in the word. 
 
 For who could know that one would be so bold, 
 To face and brave the time? in that it meant 
 That each his honor on his sword should hold? 
 The voter straightway to the other went, 
 And Washington, with courage strong and grand, 
 Held forth his prudent and heroic hand. 
 
 And in his love of truth, sublime and glad, 
 To him who struck him down he made amends : 
 "If with the satisfaction you have had 
 You are content, oh, let us then be friends! 
 For, looking back on our affray with shame, 
 I feel that I alone have been to blame." 
 
 THE PREACHER'S DOLE. 
 
 IN Edinburgh, 'mid its busy whirl, 
 The preacher, Guthrie, walked one afternoon, 
 And met a sun-browned little beggar-girl 
 With eyes as tearful as a clouded moon. 
 She sobbed and wept as if there stood across 
 Her dark and friendless path a giant loss. 
 
96 THE PREACHER'S DOLE. 
 
 Good Doctor Guthrie, pausing by her side, 
 Asked her to tell him all her cause for woe. 
 "My mother gave me sixpence, sir," she sighed, 
 "And to the baker's yonder bade me go 
 And buy a loaf of bread for us to eat ; 
 But I have lost the money in the street. 
 
 " Oh, she will beat me so when I go back ! 
 What shall I do ? I know not what to do ! " 
 And cried as if in torture on the rack. 
 In pity for the child, the doctor drew 
 A sixpence forth, and as he gave it said, 
 "Weep not, my lass, for I will get your bread." 
 
 He led her to a place where bread was sold, 
 And while he bought a loaf made free to say, 
 " The child was sent for this ; but, I am told, 
 She lost the sixpence for it on the way." 
 The baker answered, " 'T is a trade with her ; 
 For she is always losing sixpence, sir." 
 
 No indignation looked from Guthrie's eyes, 
 
 No word of haste flashed hot from heart to tongue. 
 
 He felt a larger, braver pity rise 
 
 That such deceit should dwell in one so young ; 
 
 And, bending down, said to the child that she 
 
 Was now an object of true charity 
 
 Knowing that she a living earned by sin, 
 He felt more pity for her than before. 
 He sorrowed at the want the poor were in ; 
 But at all wickedness he sorrowed more. 
 Weak charity had he if he should dole 
 Bread for the body and neglect the soul. 
 
 Thence to her home of squalor and decay 
 The awe-struck child and gentle Guthrie went: 
 
THE STOWAWAY BOY. 97 
 
 It was a nest for wingless birds of prey 
 Children that, by an old man taught, were sent 
 To raven on the town : the little girl 
 Was found a place safe from the vile, gray churl. 
 
 THE STOWAWAY BOY. 
 
 As, three days out, the swift ship cleft the sea, 
 There came on deck a winsome, blue-eyed boy; 
 Not any means to pay his way had he, 
 Yet looked up to the broad, free sky with joy. 
 His face was bright and fair, for what is good 
 Shines out and fears not to be understood. 
 
 But on the boy a doubting eye was cast, 
 
 And, to the question of the master's mate, 
 
 He said that his step-father near a mast 
 
 Had hidden him, with food, and bade him wait 
 
 In the dark place until the ship reached shore, 
 
 Where a kind aunt would help him from her store. 
 
 The mate was slow to feel the story true, 
 And thought the sailors fed the fareless youth, 
 And often questioned him before the crew ; 
 But the boy's lips were steadfast to the truth. 
 At last the mate avowed the glaring lie 
 Should be confessed, or else the boy must die. 
 
 Thereat he bade a sailor fetch a rope, 
 And looking at his watch, with anger said, 
 " Boy, in ten minutes you will be past hope, 
 And, from the yard-arm, hang till you are dead, 
 Unless you speak, before the time be spent, 
 And of the lie make full acknowledgment." 
 
98 THE GALLEY-SLAVE. 
 
 The boy looked up and saw the speaker's face, 
 
 And, urged by fear to call the truth a lie, 
 
 Resisted fear, and stood in bitter case, 
 
 For it was hard for one so young to die ; 
 
 But, braving death, the tender stowaway 
 
 Knelt down and asked the mate if he might pray. 
 
 Above its hell of fire the tortured steam 
 
 Shrieked, hissed, and groaned in terror and in pain; 
 
 Yet worked the ship's great muscles, shaft and beam. 
 
 The vessel seemed a sea-gull or a crane, 
 
 Beating the denser air that floods the world, 
 
 And round and round her watery wings were whirled. 
 
 The sky bent over the contented sea, 
 
 And, like the upturned face, was pure and clear; 
 
 The ship's kind folk assembled anxiously, 
 
 The Lord's Prayer from the earnest lips to hear. 
 
 The mate, in tears, by trouble sore oppressed, 
 
 Caught up the boy and clasped him to his breast! 
 
 THE GALLEY-SLAVE. 
 
 THERE is no grander, nobler life on earth 
 Than that of meek and brave self-sacrifice. 
 Such life our Saviour, in His lowly birth 
 And holy work, made His sublime disguise 
 Teaching this truth, still rarely understood: 
 'Tis sweet to suffer for another's good. 
 
 Now, tho' at heart of diverse mold and make, 
 There lived in France two brothers, like in face ; 
 One did a petty theft, and by mistake 
 The other was arrested in his place, 
 
THE GALLEY-SLAVE. 99 
 
 And sentenced soon to be a galley-slave 
 
 Yet said no word his prized good name to save. 
 
 Trusting remoter days would be more blessed, 
 He set his will to wear the verdict out, 
 And knew most men are prisoners at best, 
 Who some strong habit ever drag about 
 Like chain and ball; and was content that he 
 Rather the prisoner he was should be. 
 
 But good resolves are of such feeble thread, 
 
 They may be broken in temptation's hands. 
 
 After long toil, the guiltless prisoner said, 
 
 " Why should I thus, and feel life's precious sands 
 
 The narrow of my glass, the present, run, 
 
 For a poor crime that I have never done?" 
 
 Such questions are like cups, and hold reply; 
 For when the chance swung wide the prisoner fled, 
 And gained the country road, and hasted by 
 Brown, furrowed fields and skipping brooklets fed 
 By shepherd clouds, and felt beneath the trees 
 The soft hand of the mesmerizing breeze. 
 
 Then, all that long day having eaten naught, 
 He at a cottage stopped, and of the wife 
 A brimming bowl of fragrant milk besought. 
 She gave it him ; but, as he quaffed the life, 
 Down her kind face he saw a single tear 
 Pursue its wet and sorrowful career. 
 
 Within the cot he now beheld a man 
 And maiden also weeping. "Speak," said he, 
 "And tell me of your grief; for, if I can, 
 I will disroot the sad, tear-fruited tree." 
 The cotter answered, "In default of rent, 
 We shall to-morrow from this roof be sent." 
 
100 THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 
 
 Then said the galley-slave, "Whoso returns 
 
 A prisoner escaped may feel the spur 
 
 To a right action, and deserves and earns 
 
 Proffered reward. I am a prisoner ! 
 
 Bind these my arms, and drive me on the way, 
 
 That your reward the price of home may pay." 
 
 Against his wish the cotter gave consent, 
 And at the prison-gate received his fee; 
 Tho' it was made a cause for wonderment, 
 Along the road where labor paused to see, 
 That one so weak and sickly dared attack 
 This bold and robust youth, and take him back. 
 
 At once the cotter to the mayor hied, 
 And told him all the story, and that lord 
 Was much affected, dropping gold beside 
 The pursed, sufficient silver of reward; 
 Then sought his better in authority, 
 And gained the right to set the prisoner free. 
 
 THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 
 
 WHERE a river hastens down, 
 Stands an often wished-for town, 
 In the azure of the mountains, 
 On a broad, exalted plain. 
 Peaks of peace above it rise 
 To the bland, auspicious skies, 
 Whose inverted horn of plenty 
 
 Pours out fruits and flowers of gain* 
 
 Round the city runs a wall 
 Where the watchmen clearly call 
 
THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 101 
 
 The flying hours, that speed away 
 With wing'd, inconstant feet; 
 And, throughout the gilded place, 
 The palatial houses face 
 On cool-fountained park and garden, 
 And on pleasure-seeking street. 
 
 With sparse population stands 
 This, the pride of all the lands, 
 In temple-crowned magnificence, 
 
 The City of Success; 
 For, tho' all men strive full well 
 In its worldly halls to dwell, 
 Few even reach the roads to it 
 
 Through hitter strain and J , strops. 
 
 This hold city has great gates,. 
 And at each a dragon waits, 
 With huge, unsated, open jaws 
 
 With sharp misfortune fanged. 
 High upon the barbacan 
 Floats hope's banner, dear to man ; 
 But vainly are the throng without 
 
 From those proud walls harangued. 
 
 Witless men the gates avoid, 
 And, in wily fraud employed, 
 Mine under the cemented might 
 
 That glitters, seen afar. 
 Having basely stolen through, 
 They the secret passage rue, 
 And strive to fill and cover it, 
 And other folk debar. 
 
 Such men scoff and are ashamed 
 When, around the wide world famed, 
 Some brave outsider scales the wall, 
 And calmly takes his place, 
 
102 TEE CITY OF SUCCESS. 
 
 An exemplar sweet to men, 
 And most proper citizen, 
 Who willingly would turn to meet 
 His clean past, face to face. 
 
 They, throughout the toilless year, 
 Stand arraigned in courts of fear, 
 Who, using methods sinister, 
 
 Have snared the swift-winged gold; 
 For, if it be lost, they know 
 That they straightway forth must go, 
 And never more, but far away, 
 The day-dream town behold. 
 
 , , Oixce, from here remote in truth, 
 
 Years ago t a handsome youth, 
 : * \"V^ho glodded on his father's land 
 
 Behind the toilsome plow, 
 Saw, tho' dimly and afar, 
 This proud city like a star 
 Across the mist that islanded 
 
 The mountain's peaceful brow. 
 
 Well he loved a maiden true, 
 That of his glad passion knew; 
 For, as he went one smiling day 
 
 Home from the furrowed field, 
 With her milking-pail she came, 
 And, with heart and lips aflame, 
 He met her, told her all his joy, 
 And to her heart appealed. 
 
 With upturned, delighted eyes, 
 And low, tender-toned replies, 
 She answered him, and plighted troth 
 
 To make her his alone. 
 Sweet the voices of the birds 
 Mingled with the happy words, 
 
THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 103 
 
 And to the pair the waiting fields 
 Abroad with love were sown. 
 
 " I must hasten forth," he said ; 
 "I shall garner more than bread, 
 Till up a gracious path I reach 
 
 The City of Success; 
 Then, my dearest one, with youy 
 In that city old and new, 
 I shall abide, and naught but death 
 Shall make our joy the less." 
 
 With the dawning of the day 
 Fared he forward on his way, 
 Pursuing it undauntedly 
 
 While year succeeded year, 
 Till, among a busy throng, 
 He was caught and borne along; 
 And one high noon he saw the town, 
 For which he longed, appear. 
 
 When a gainful month had passed, 
 He the city reached at last; 
 But nearer than the environs 
 
 He could not force his way ; 
 For a selfish, struggling crowd, 
 Fighting hard and crying loud, 
 At the bronze gates seldom lifted, 
 As with scorn were held at bay. 
 
 From among the press and fret, 
 By a dragon close beset, 
 He, seeking sylvan rest, withdrew, 
 
 One summer afternoon, 
 
 And, reclining in the shade, 
 
 Saw a lovely, jeweled maid 
 
 In her pavilion on the wall 
 
 Await the rising moon. 
 
104 THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 
 
 Thus she sang : " O moon of love ! 
 Shine thou down, my heart above, 
 And light the sea that never yet 
 
 Was cleft by any keel. 
 Quickly, sailor, launch and float; 
 Wind and tide will aid thy boat ; 
 And let the young moon pilot thee 
 To all it can reveal." 
 
 As the yearning music died, 
 
 She who warbled it espied 
 
 The baffled, youthful comeliness 
 
 Beside a lulling spring. 
 To him gayly she let fall 
 Silken steps, outside the wall, 
 And beckoned him to mount by them 
 To what the stars might bring. 
 
 To her heart he clambered up, 
 And was asked to stay and sup 
 Beneath the fretted, curving roof 
 
 Of blue inlaid with gold; 
 For on ebony was spread 
 Yellow honey, milk, and bread, 
 And as he ate he saw two streets 
 Before his feet unrolled. 
 
 He beheld the roofs and domes 
 Of the envied people's homes, 
 And, far below, the valley 
 
 With the river sparkling through. 
 Reaching fondly to the skies, 
 Where the river had its rise, 
 Stood the peaks of love, enfolded 
 In their gauzy robes of blue. 
 
 Said the maiden to the youth, 
 " I beheld thee, and with ruth, 
 
THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 105 
 
 Among the motley, eager throng 
 Who struggle at the gates; 
 So when thee I saw to-day 
 Where the woodland waters play, 
 For sending thee alone to me 
 I thanked the sister fates. 
 
 "I desire that thou should'st know 
 What of happiness and woe 
 These solid walls encompass, 
 
 And to what thou dost aspire. 
 If the city please thee well, 
 And thou still herein would'st dwell, 
 My companion may advise thee, 
 If thou of her inquire." 
 
 As she spoke, there came a maid, 
 In a nun-like garb arrayed, 
 With passive face, but beautiful, 
 
 Nay, pensive, pure, and kind. 
 She was dark, and down her back 
 Streamed her tresses thick and black, 
 While amaranth around her gown 
 Unfadingly entwined. 
 
 To the comely youth she bowed 
 As the jeweled maiden proud 
 Kose and said, " Sir, this is Sorrow, 
 
 Thy attendant in this place. 
 With her through the city go ; 
 She to thee will freely show 
 The elegance and luxury 
 
 That mask its stolid face." 
 
 With a smile he bade good-night 
 In the moonbeams vague and white, 
 Which into the pavilion strayed 
 Like specters gaunt and thin: 
 
106 THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 
 
 Then with Sorrow he went down 
 To the streets, and through the town, 
 And found the house for which they sought 
 That he might lodge therein. 
 
 Heavy carpets spread the floors, 
 Noiseless were the walnut doors 
 Set with carven dryad panels, 
 
 Or with stained and flowered glass; 
 Thick, embroidered curtains swung 
 From the walls with paintings hung, 
 And in bronze a dial'd Clio 
 
 Marked the silent moments pass. 
 
 In Success few mornings frown; 
 For the youth, to view the town, 
 When morning came, with Sorrow went 
 
 Through statued park and street; 
 And they joined a gilded throng, 
 As it coldly moved along 
 Toward the temple built to Fortune, 
 Low to worship at her feet. 
 
 Up against the blue immense, 
 In its bright magnificence 
 Of pillared gold enforested, 
 
 Of architrave and frieze, 
 
 All of yellow gold and good, 
 
 On a hill the temple stood, 
 
 And cast its splendor on the vale 
 
 And out beyond the seas. 
 
 That proud hill was covered round, 
 So that none might see the ground, 
 With marble steps of hueless white 
 
 That led up to the fane. 
 Urn of plants and fountain's jet 
 On each rank of steps were set, 
 
THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 107 
 
 And seemed like new spring breaking forth 
 From winter's snowy reign. 
 
 In the temple, high in place 
 Stood Dame Fortune, fair of face, 
 Holding Plutus, god of riches, 
 
 In her fond and fickle arms. 
 Horns of plenty at her feet 
 Emptied half their contents sweet, 
 And winged Cupid stood before her, 
 Fascinated by her charms. 
 
 Down the checkered floor of gold 
 
 Went her crafty priests and bold, 
 
 Swinging incense through the concourse 
 
 Of disdainful devotees, 
 Some of whom were racked with pains; 
 Few could much enjoy their gains; 
 In plenty doomed to abstinence, 
 
 They worshiped on their knees. 
 
 Some with Sorrow had to sup, 
 And she gave to them her cup 
 From which they drank the bitterness 
 
 With unavailing tears; 
 Some had kissed the lips of Joy, 
 And had found how pleasures cloy, 
 And other some for greed of gold 
 Made hard and cold their years. 
 
 From a gallery was heard, 
 Like the carol of a bird 
 That, to the heart of darkness, 
 
 Tells the music of its dream, 
 A surpassing voice, so rare 
 That it loosed the bonds of care, 
 And seemed a strain from heaven 
 Borne along the spirit's stream: 
 
108 THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 
 
 "Asking gifts, to thee we bow, 
 Goddess Fortune : great art thou 
 Of Oceanus the daughter, 
 
 And protectress of the town. 
 Thoughtful Hellas thee adored, 
 And divine libations poured, 
 Whilst Home to thee eight temples buil 
 Lest haply thou might'st frown. 
 
 "All men woo thee, some with wiles, 
 Praying for thy sunny smiles, 
 Chasing thee in town and village 
 
 And across thy parent sea. 
 Turn thy mediaeval wheel ; 
 Youth and age before thee kneel; 
 For they who would on roses rest 
 Must be beloved by thee." 
 
 When the singing ceased, the youth, 
 Holding Sorrow's hand of ruth, 
 Wandered forth of Fortune's presence 
 
 To the shining portico. 
 Thence his glance around he cast 
 On the city strong and vast, 
 That in a stone monotony 
 Of buildings lay below. 
 
 Like a belt about it all 
 Ran the towered and gated wall, 
 A century of miles or more, 
 
 A score of chariots wide; 
 While upon a neighboring hill 
 Stood a temple higher still 
 Than this one built to Fortune, 
 
 And a voice from out it cried. 
 
 " On the morrow," Sorrow said, 
 As she down the stairway led, 
 
THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 109 
 
 " To the other, higher temple 
 We shall betimes repair. 
 Now the placid hour is late ; 
 See, my liveried servants wait 
 With my horses, which are restless ; 
 So let us homeward fare." 
 
 "Tell me of the jeweled maid 
 Who bestowed the silken aid 
 With which I entered," said the youth, 
 
 "This moneyed, ample town." 
 Answered thus his kindly guide: 
 "Would'st thou have her for thy bride, 
 And dwell within this streeted wealth 
 Till thy life's sun goes down ? 
 
 " She hath great possessions here ; 
 
 Yet her days are sad and drear, 
 
 Because wan Death, in dungeons dark, 
 
 Hath shut her dearest kin. 
 Of the youth that come to woo, 
 None to her seem good and true ; 
 But thou wok'st her admiration, 
 
 And her love thou soon might'st win." 
 
 All that night, in dreams of gold, 
 At his tired feet lay unrolled 
 Two streets, two open ways, that led 
 
 Along his future far ; 
 But he wist not which to take, 
 Tho' one led to brier and brake, 
 While at the other's slender end 
 Shone bright a drooping star. 
 
 In the morning Sorrow came, 
 And they went to look on Fame 
 Where in her temple she abode 
 Upon her sightly hill. 
 
110 THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 
 
 Many paths secluded wound 
 Slowly up the rising ground, 
 And here were highways beaten hard 
 By persevering will. 
 
 Not all these to Fame upreached, 
 Yet in all lay dead leaves bleached, 
 Tho' still the haze of summer 
 
 Veiled the languid, dreamy air. 
 Facing north, south, east, and west, 
 On the high hill's level crest, 
 Stood the temple in the splendor 
 Of Apollo's golden hair. 
 
 Of Pentelic marble pure, 
 Which forever would endure, 
 The fane was graven over 
 
 With the sounded names of men. 
 From it rose an airy dome 
 Like the one that broods on Rome, 
 But vaster, and with windows set, 
 And symbols, sword and pen. 
 
 On the four wide pediments 
 Were informed the great events 
 That change the course of history, 
 And for the truth make room. 
 On the west, Columbus stood 
 In majestic marblehood 
 Forever on San Salvador, 
 
 No more in chains and gloom. 
 
 On the unforgetful stone, 
 Many names were overgrown 
 With ivy green, and lichen brown, 
 
 Oblivion's slow hands; 
 But the priests of Fame benign, 
 Tearing off the weeds malign, 
 
THE CITY OF SUCCESS. Ill 
 
 Often made some splendid jewel, 
 Thus discovered, light the lands. 
 
 This great fane, so carven on, 
 Fairer than the Parthenon, 
 Was tenfold larger, and, untouched 
 By time or war, looked down. 
 At each entrance high and wide, 
 Obelisks, on either side, 
 In tall, Syenic massiveness 
 Set forth antique renown. 
 
 Gentle Sorrow and her charge, 
 Entering this temple large, 
 Looked round the vast basilica, 
 And saw the vaulted roof. 
 It was propped by pillars high, 
 Of gray gneiss and porphyry, 
 And in the groins the echoes trooped 
 And mumbled, far aloof. 
 
 On the niched and statued wall, 
 On the tiles and pillars all, 
 They saw the biographic lists 
 
 Of extant, splendid lights ; 
 And the laurel, which without 
 In profusion grew about, 
 Within was plaited into praise 
 
 That Fame grants sundry wights. 
 
 With her trumpet to her lips, 
 With her girdle at her hips, 
 Robed in Tyrian-dyed softness, 
 
 Stood the goddess fair to see. 
 Oft her mighty voice she sent, 
 Through the lifted instrument, 
 Round the world to every people, 
 And to nations yet to be. 
 
112 THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 
 
 Just before immortal Fame 
 Was an altar with its flame, 
 And a vestal guardian angel 
 
 Who renewed the sacred fire. 
 Face and form with splendor shone 
 As she ministered alone, 
 Feeding full this flame of genius 
 That it never might expire. 
 
 One pure crystal, man-high vase 
 Was the altar, carved with bays, 
 And, in relief, with goat-leg'd Pan 
 
 That piped upon a reed. 
 There, too, Theban Hercules 
 Robbed the fair Hesperides 
 Took precious fruit and slew a wrong, 
 In one exalted deed. 
 
 From the altar's golden bowl 
 Flared the flame's undying soul, 
 And lighted up the potent fane 
 
 And Fame's benignant face. 
 
 Other light than this was none, 
 
 Save the rays that faintly shone 
 
 In the lofty dome's void hollow 
 
 In the distant upper space. 
 
 Entering through the slanted roof, 
 Ran a warp without the woof, 
 The wire, electric nerves of Fame, 
 That sensate round the world. 
 On the shelves of pillared nooks 
 Stood a mental wealth of books, 
 And tattered flags of victory 
 Above it hung unfurled. 
 
 Of the worshipers who came, 
 That had each achieved a name 
 
THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 113 
 
 The youth beheld that some, not least, 
 
 Tho' wise and great, were poor. 
 "Tell me, Sorrow," murmured he, 
 " What injustice this may be ? 
 And why success for poverty 
 Should fail to be a cure ? " 
 
 " These," said she, " are they that long 
 From the world have suffered wrong, 
 The authors and inventors 
 
 Who have little else than fame. 
 They might boast their stores of gold, 
 Were it not that, dull and cold, 
 The people rob them statedly, 
 And do by law the shame. 
 
 "It seems not enough that they, 
 Who with me pursue their way 
 Along the crags of knowledge 
 
 To enrich the world indeed, 
 Should be troubled and depressed, 
 And upon me lean for rest, 
 Who am alien to the comfort 
 
 And to the peace they need." 
 
 But while Sorrow spoke, the maid, 
 Who had lent the silken aid, 
 Approached the twain, and greeted them . 
 
 With pleasure in her grace ; 
 And they knew that she was fair, 
 With her golden crown of hair, 
 And tender eyes that filled with soul 
 Her oval, Grecian face. 
 
 As across the lettered floor 
 They were passing to the door, 
 The lovely maiden, gentle voiced, 
 Said, turning to her guest, 
 
114 THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 
 
 "On the wall to-morrow night 
 Will appear a thrilling sight, 
 For the horsemen with their horses 
 Are to race there, ten abreast. 
 
 "All the city will be there. 
 If to see the race you care, 
 Be in readiness and waiting 
 
 When the chimes are telling nine." 
 It would please him well to go. 
 And, to streets spread out below, 
 They loitered down a laurel path 
 Before the fane divine. 
 
 Him the maiden bade adieu; 
 Then, with Sorrow tried and true, 
 He rode, and came to where arose 
 
 A lilied, marble spire. 
 " Here," said Sorrow, " they bow down, 
 And shall win a lasting crown, 
 Who tread my path with humble feet, 
 And crush each low desire. 
 
 "My dark path leads up to joy 
 That I know not, nor annoy, 
 For that it lies beyond my bourn, 
 A lucent pearl, great-priced." 
 Sorrow wept, and with the youth 
 Entered this abode of truth, 
 And heard the holy story 
 
 Of the mild and patient Christ. 
 
 In the morning cool and sweet, 
 Up the wide, frequented street, 
 Alone the youth walked, seeing much 
 
 Along the paven miles. 
 Every house by which he went 
 Was to him magnificent; 
 
THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 115 
 
 Yet the fountain gargoyles only 
 For the passer-by had smiles. 
 
 Here, he soon could plainly see, 
 Dwelt no rare immunity 
 From any evil that the world 
 
 Outside the walls endured. 
 Here were sickness, pain, and death, 
 Shame and crime with poison breath, 
 And even breadless poverty 
 A dwelling here secured. 
 
 Men who never come this way 
 Have as much of joy as they 
 Who here abide in opulence, 
 
 Their idlest wants supplied ; 
 For success lies in degrees, 
 And to rise to one of these, 
 And see the others higher still, 
 Is like a thorn to pride. 
 
 Up and down throughout Success 
 Sought the youth for happiness, 
 And saw it was an empty dream 
 
 In foolish fashion's halls. 
 Everywhere it was alloyed; 
 Nothing fully was enjoyed ; 
 For Discontent went round, or sat 
 Repining on the walls. 
 
 When the rising moon shone white, 
 And the city was alight, 
 The lady came, and took the youth 
 
 To see the eager race. 
 Up the wall ran highways wide ; 
 On them streamed a living tide 
 Skyward to the race-course straight, 
 And poured about the place. 
 
116 THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 
 
 All that seven-mile course along, 
 
 On each buttress tall and strong, 
 
 That propped the wall on either side, 
 
 And past its top arose, 
 Stood the slanted seats, where pressed 
 Countless people richly dressed, 
 Who took their places to behold 
 The swift event unclose. 
 
 On the dizzy battlements 
 Brazen cressets burned intense, 
 And flushed the massive, mighty wall 
 
 With scarlet flowers of fire, 
 Lighting up with lurid glare 
 The expectant thousands there, 
 And beaming down the valley 
 With the fervor of desire. 
 
 At the goal were cressets two 
 Flinging up flame-arms of blue, 
 And, just beyond, abruptly stood 
 
 An angle of the wall. 
 The unmoving foot of this 
 Rested on a precipice, 
 And the pebbles men flung down it 
 Seemed to never cease to fall. 
 
 In the shining, jeweled sword, 
 Belted, with a twinkling cord, 
 To the thigh of bright Orion 
 
 Where he stands august in space, 
 Is a gulf of darkness great, 
 Where no sun's rays penetrate 
 An awful gulf of nothingness, 
 
 A black and worldless place. 
 
 So appeared the dread abyss 
 Down the wall and precipice 
 
THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 117 
 
 To those who, in the night, with fear, 
 
 Looked from the balustrade. 
 Even the cressets' angry bloom 
 Parted not the heavy gloom, 
 That lay appallingly beneath 
 
 In one dense hush of shade. 
 
 Near the goal, the lady fair 
 And the youth she made her care 
 Were waiting, on the cushioned seats, 
 
 And Sorrow sat between. 
 Sorrow met them on the way ; 
 She with them had craved to stay, 
 And now of either clasped a hand, 
 And looked along the scene. 
 
 At the place of starting stood, 
 Strong, and brave to hardihood, 
 The horsemen in their chariots, 
 Their horses fiery-eyed 
 Coal-black coursers curbed with pain, 
 Plunging, fretting at the rein, 
 Long of limb and shaggy mane, 
 And to the winds allied. 
 
 Now they start ! a score of teams 
 Harnessed to revolving gleams, 
 And speed along the softened course 
 
 Upon the city's wall. 
 Driving hard with steady hands, 
 One large-browed calm raceman stands, 
 And tho' at first he fell behind, 
 Ere long he distanced all. 
 
 It was pleasure worth the view, 
 When the horses almost flew, 
 To note the rhythmic movement 
 
 With which some strained ahead. 
 
118 THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 
 
 These were urged by men of will, 
 And a beauty high and still 
 Was in the drivers' faces 
 
 While they ruled the strength they sped. 
 
 As of these each horseman fleets 
 By the living, breathless seats, 
 The praise of hands and mouths and flowers 
 
 With bounty is bestowed. 
 Yet anew it makes him feel 
 He must prove more true than steel 
 To win the goal through strong restraint 
 Along the flying road. 
 
 Some gave out beside the way ; 
 Those who in the race must stay, 
 With haggard looks and hideous, 
 
 Held slack the useless rein. 
 They, in pressing toward the goal, 
 Of their beasts had lost control, 
 And the dark, relentless passions 
 On to ruin dashed amain. 
 
 Only one man firm and true 
 Paused beyond the lights of blue ; 
 For the rest, who were behind him, 
 Rushing by with panting breath, 
 From the sheer and sullen wall 
 Leaped, and beasts and drivers, all, 
 At the balustraded angle, 
 
 Thunder' d headlong down to death. 
 
 Then on every seated bank 
 Grew the weed, confusion, rank, 
 And on the wall the people streamed 
 With shouts and mournful cries. 
 In the pressure and dismay, 
 Sorrow's hand-clasp slipped away, 
 
THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 119 
 
 And the youth could nowhere find it, 
 Nor the fair with tender eyes. 
 
 Back from wall and buttress wide, 
 Down the highways ebbed the tide 
 A saddened, shuddering, troubled thing 
 
 Whose rose was ever thorned. 
 At the goal, the youth, alone, 
 Saw that all the rest were gone, 
 And saw, in sapphire loneliness, 
 The crescent silver-horned. 
 
 Far below him, in the vale, 
 Honor's river, winged with sail, 
 Flowed along the hazy quiet, 
 
 Deep and strong, and sparkling bright. 
 Far away the rim loomed up 
 Of the massive valley-cup 
 That held the drowsy hydromel 
 Of cool, forgetful night. 
 
 He beheld, near where he stood, 
 Bathed in ruby cresset-blood, 
 Or the flame's glare falling on her, 
 
 A woman quite alone. 
 As she turned and beckoned him, 
 Through the shadows dark and dim 
 He thought he there descried the face 
 Of her who was his own. 
 
 But when he had reached her side, 
 And her features dignified 
 Looked down with cold severity, 
 
 He saw it was not she. 
 With harsh voice the woman said, 
 "I am Duty, and have led 
 Her heart to whom you plighted troth. 
 Oh, turn and follow me ! 
 
120 THE CITY OF SUCCESS. 
 
 " They who truly find success 
 Come to it through faithfulness, 
 And not by silken ladders let 
 By tender women down. 
 Happiness is found, good youth, 
 In sweet love and honest truth, 
 And naught suffices for their loss 
 In all this pleasant town." 
 
 Down a highway to the street 
 These two went on willing feet, 
 And at a gate a sentinel, 
 
 Who knew stern Duty well, 
 At her word advanced them through; 
 For the youth, to Duty true, 
 Followed her in weary darkness 
 Till they rested in a deU. 
 
 Soon the east with morning glowed ; 
 By the road the river flowed, 
 And they were on their way to her 
 
 Whose love the youth had won. ' 
 From a vessel dropping down, 
 Laden near the distant town, 
 They heard the boatmen's parting song, 
 And watched the rising sun. 
 
 "We depart, and little care, 
 Gilded city high in air, 
 That allures the simple-hearted 
 
 From his peaceful home away; 
 For where honor's river flows, 
 And the breeze of duty blows, 
 We guide the prow across the night 
 To harbors of the day. 
 
 " We the way to joy have found ; 
 But while sailing, seaward bound, 
 
A SUIT OF ARMOR. 121 
 
 We quaff the sparkle and delight 
 
 Of crystal depths below. 
 In thee, city, shadows dwell; 
 To thy walls, farewell, farewell; 
 We seek the eternal ocean 
 
 Where the tides of gladness flow." 
 
 A SUIT OF ARMOR. 
 
 A SUIT of ancient armor in a hall 
 
 Stands like an unopposing sentinel; 
 
 I see its past behind it, and recall 
 
 The chivalry that vexed the infidel, 
 
 That waged fierce wars and wrought of woe increase 
 
 In His mild name who is the Prince of Peace. 
 
 This unworn armor has a silent speech; 
 To more than steel the steel is riveted, 
 And, empty and forlorn, appears to teach 
 The patient hope that oft is felt and said, 
 That soon all armor to disuse shall pass, 
 With visored helmet, hauberk, and cuirass. 
 
 There were true knights when mail like this was worn 
 
 In the long struggle for Jerusalem. 
 
 If o'er the crescent the red cross was borne, 
 
 They died content. But fame yet lived for them, 
 
 And troubadours their brave deeds rhymed upon 
 
 From stubborn Antioch to Ascalon. 
 
 Noblest the knights while they were few and poor; 
 They vowed to tell the truth, to help the weak, 
 To flee no foe, and hold each trust secure. 
 They let their simple dress their lives bespeak. 
 Firm in misfortunes, they had strength to be 
 Humble and generous in victory. 
 
122 A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 But when they rose to luxury and power, 
 When wealth and honor, bright-eyed falcons, stood 
 On their triumphant armor in that hour 
 Went forth from chivalry the soul, the good 
 And knighthood meant a price, and turned away 
 From rugged duty into weak display. 
 
 For while slow progress up its path has toiled, 
 
 Who has been faithful that has touched its gains ? 
 
 As the clean truth, if handled, soon is soiled, 
 
 So, good is seldom pure that long obtains; 
 
 And the great cause, which sought to help and bless, 
 
 Dies at the golden summit of success. 
 
 The spirit fled, the body is but dust; 
 It lingers in corruption and decay; 
 It may not look on favor nor mistrust, 
 Tho* many praise it loud who said it nay. 
 They are too blind to see, too dull to feel, 
 'T is empty as this man-shaped shell of steel. 
 
 A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 WITH wings of love as stainless and as white 
 As snow untracked or clouds against the blue, 
 Clothed with God's peace, and radiant with light 
 That his aureola about him threw, 
 An angel dwelt in heaven, and all bliss, 
 Unending and unspeakable, was his. 
 
 Out of God's will, to this dear angel's heart 
 Came in grand music what in words is said : 
 "To yon far sparkle of the earth depart 
 That bridge the short-lived generations tread 
 And I will give it thee to guard and tend 
 A soul untried, and be his guide and friend. 
 
A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 123 
 
 "Or guide, or friend, truth-whisperer, or guard, 
 Be each, and all in one, to keep him true ; 
 Yet, if he long neglect thee, and make hard 
 And wearisome this duty thine to do, 
 Thou need'st not wait to strive against his sin, 
 But, at the gates uplifted, enter in." 
 
 Swift are the rays, the arrows of the morn, 
 That pierce the dark and shoot across the sky 
 Swifter the angel who, through ether lorn, 
 Pierced on displaying wings, until on high 
 God's joy-paved city dwindled to a star, 
 And the small earth, a pale moon, shone afar. 
 
 Hither, in silent flight, he took his way, 
 
 And found at noon, beside a shady stream, 
 
 A youth asleep, and hovered where he lay, 
 
 Appearing to the sleeper in a dream; 
 
 And was a vision of suhlime delight, 
 
 With gleaming wings and robe of snowy white. 
 
 With what regretful tears in Heaven's book, 
 
 The record of our lives is oft set down! 
 
 Filled with high hope the handsome youth forsook 
 
 His native village for the crowded town, 
 
 And met the varied shapes of vice and sin 
 
 That, clothed with soft enticement, walk therein. 
 
 He battled long their vain, misleading charms, 
 Helped by the angel in his troubled breast: 
 Arose no peal of strife, no noise of arms, 
 But fierce and giant warfare, wild unrest, 
 Raged in the soul ; and Virtue's citadel, 
 Stormed by the lower passions, crashing, fell. 
 
 When these have sway, how dark the soul and drear ! 
 His gentle friends, who saw with inner eyes, 
 
124 A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 Beheld the man debased, yet, ever near, 
 An angel following with ruthful cries, 
 Beseeching him his erring steps to cease, 
 To turn and rest upon the heart of Peace. 
 
 With holy angels there is joy in pain 
 Their pain is borne for love, and love is joy. 
 This angel would not now return again 
 To heavenly doors; but he would have employ 
 To lead a soul to pleasant fields beyond, 
 From the deep slough of error and despond. 
 
 His still, small voice had waned from less to less, 
 Pleading and sad as following he went ; 
 And the long years were one with weariness, 
 Till to the man life's shadow, death, was sent. 
 But heeding his good angel, ere he died 
 He worshiped Him whom he had crucified. 
 
 Bearing in arms of love the soul set free, 
 The angel, with God's glory on his face, 
 Mounted on wings outspread exultingly, 
 Trailing his lily robe ; and as through space 
 Angel and soul approached the central star, 
 Before them heaven shone with joy afar. 
 
 Oh, happy are the meetings that await 
 The crossers to that star of higher powers ! 
 The soul found that the angel was a mate 
 That he had loved and lost in boyhood hours. 
 Ah ! who can tell ? Belike to all God sends, 
 As guardian angels, their departed friends. 
 
AUTUMN BALLAD. 125 
 
 AUTUMN BALLAD. 
 
 How mild and fair the day, dear love ! and in these 
 garden ways 
 
 The lingering dahlias to the sun their hopeless faces 
 raise. 
 
 The buckwheat and the barley, once so bonny and so 
 blithe, 
 
 Fall before the rhythmic labor of the cradler's gleam- 
 ing scythe. 
 
 Behold the grapes and all the fruits that Autumn 
 gives to-day, 
 
 As robed in red and gold, she rules, the Empress of 
 Decay ! 
 
 Out to the orchard come with me, among the apple- 
 trees ; 
 
 No dragon guards the laden boughs of our Hesperides. 
 
 This golden pear, my darling, that I hold up to your 
 mouth, 
 
 Is a hanging-nest of sweetness ; but the birds are wing- 
 ing south. 
 
 The purses of the chestnuts, by the chilly-fingered 
 Frost, 
 
 Were opened in his frolic, and their triple hoards are 
 lost. 
 
 Last night you heard the tempest, love the wind-en- 
 tangled pines, 
 
 The spraying waves, the sobbing sky that lowered in 
 gloomy lines ; 
 
 The storm was like a hopeless soul, that stood beside 
 the sea, 
 
 And wept in dismal rain and moaned for what could 
 never be. 
 
126 THE RINGERS VENGEANCE. 
 
 THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 IN Florence dwelt a tall and handsome youth, 
 Courted and praised by fashion's fickle throng, 
 Plighted to one he loved in simple truth 
 A lady proud, whose black hair, fine and long, 
 Some said, was like a flag, that waved or fell 
 Above her heart's deceitful citadel. 
 
 The youth's days now were bright, as days may be 
 
 To all who love as lovers always should; 
 
 But one fell night a cry of dread ran free, 
 
 And one belov'd in deadly peril stood. 
 
 About her house the hot flames roared and broke 
 
 In waves of fire that dashed a spray of smoke. 
 
 Prone on the seat within her oriel 
 The lady sank ; then he, her lover, came 
 And lowered her to the street ; but it befell 
 That, as he turned back from the leaping flame, 
 The burning roof crashed in, and to the floor 
 A heavy, falling beam his body bore. 
 
 They brought him forth, all bleeding, burned, and 
 
 crushed, 
 
 And long he lay, and neither stirred nor spoke ; 
 Not yet by wayward death his heart was hushed, 
 But seemed a blacksmith pounding stroke by stroke, 
 And mutely toiling on from sun to sun, 
 Until his fateful labor should be done. 
 
 For love and youth with smiling life are fraught ; 
 They cling to life wherein to move and dwell. 
 The youth came back, at last, to life and thought, 
 And longed to see her whom he loved so well. 
 
THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE. 127 
 
 " She will be true and kind to me," he said, 
 " And glad shall be the days when we are wed. 
 
 " Dear love ! she will behold me with her heart, 
 And pity me, because my lot is hard ; 
 She will not look on this mere outer part 
 That for her sake is crippled and is scarred." 
 False hope, poor heart ! for, when the lady came, 
 She turned away with loathing, to her shame. 
 
 As one in swamps sees fireflies flare in gloom, 
 And fancies them the street-lights of a town 
 Whose spires and domes in lofty shadows loom, 
 Yet finds at dawn but lowland, so came down 
 The fond hopes of the sufferer, who found 
 Beneath his feet a waste and useless ground. 
 
 Yet Sorrow brings no dagger in her hand 
 
 To slay the heart with whom she comes to dwell ; 
 
 The youth lived on, and he was wont to stand 
 
 Before a church, and listen to the bell 
 
 That in a great spire, bright with golden gloss, 
 
 Laughed from its yellow throat beneath the cross. 
 
 Then loss of wealth with other damage fell, 
 
 And for a beggar's pittance he became 
 
 The ringer of the wide-mouthed, thick-lipped bell, 
 
 Whose noisy somersets he made proclaim 
 
 Vesper or mass or lovers to be wed, 
 
 Or pulled it with large pity for the dead. 
 
 And now they bade him ring a joyful peal ; 
 For she who once had clothed his heart with pain 
 Before the altar 'neath the bell would kneel, 
 And wed another ; then, for good or bane, 
 There came two spirits out of east and west, 
 And battled fiercely in the ringer's brgast. 
 
128 THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 Hate's dark-winged spirit like a shadow came, 
 And carried for a shield the ringer's wrong; 
 The spirit's eyes burned with a quenchless fiaine ; 
 His sword, revenge, was merciless and strong, 
 And now resembled justice, as it fell 
 With such swift strokes as he could best compel. 
 
 The spirit of Forgiveness was like day, 
 Was crowned with love divine, and for a shield 
 Had peace and innocence; while in the fray 
 The wounds he took were patiently concealed. 
 He strove to break his dark opponent's sword, 
 And save the ringer from a deed abhorred. 
 
 All the long night before the wedding-morn 
 
 The ringer in the belfry worked, dark-browed, 
 
 And, as he looked forth when the day was born, 
 
 The better spirit in his heart was cowed. 
 
 The nails were drawn, the beams made weak at last* 
 
 That once had held the great bell firm and fast. 
 
 He saw the glowing landscape, and to him 
 It was a cup, and there the red sun stood, 
 A drop of splendid wine upon the rim, 
 And clouds arose in somber cloak and hood, 
 And, with their stained lips at the far, blue brink, 
 Seemed evil genii that came to drink. 
 
 Arrived in time, with followers in file, 
 The happy bridegroom and his smiling bride 
 Advanced to organ-music up the aisle, 
 And knelt down at the altar, side by side. 
 The bride looked up beneath her veil of lace, 
 And saw with fear the ringer's livid face. 
 
 Then sprang he to the rope to ring her knell, 
 With all the rage of his inclement soul ; 
 
IRAK. 129 
 
 The huge, inverted lily of the bell 
 Shook in the gust, and, with a last loud toll, 
 Fell from its place, resounding far and wide, 
 And gave to Death the ringer and the bride. 
 
 Alas ! for her ; it was her sin to feign 
 True love that she nor felt nor understood. 
 Alas ! for him, that he avenged his pain ; 
 He might have joined the noblest brotherhood; 
 For, wrongs that are forgiven in our sin, 
 Are doors where loving angels enter in. 
 
 IRAK. 
 
 MY sire was Tobba-Himyar, Yemen's King, 
 And Arem was the center of his power. 
 Eastward the wide, red desert paid him tax; 
 For, of the Bedouins, a score of tribes 
 Brought lavish tribute for their vassalage. 
 He gave his realm such wealth of happy days 
 That it was called The Happy, every where. 
 Most generous, but for blind justice stern, 
 His life was such as aye befits a king. 
 He let no shadow swerve his steadfast will, 
 But stayed his mind on plain realities. 
 
 His was the actual, mine the ideal life ; 
 For Hagi, the magician, led me on 
 Till oft to deaf abstraction I was rapt 
 By waking visions of the universe 
 And spirit creatures haunting every gloom. 
 Gray Hagi, in the midnight, when the stars 
 Burned with their silver splendor, in the calm 
 Gathered about him beings of the sky 
 Alitta, Hebal with his seven shafts, 
 
130 IRAK. 
 
 The seven planets' seven kindly gods, 
 
 The servants of the black and sacred stone 
 
 And whispered with them, cheek by jowl, and reached 
 
 Far glimpses of the future's caravan 
 
 Approaching our small earth ; occurrences 
 
 Whose coming, furtive footfalls make no sound. 
 
 In those dim days the world was like a dream, 
 
 And life seemed vaster than the sandy waste 
 
 Lost in the azure solitude of sky. 
 
 When, by meek Hagi guided, I arrived 
 
 At recondite dim table-lands of thought, 
 
 He gave me this : a time-stained rhymed divan, 
 
 By one who knew to choose the apt and best 
 
 From infinite suggestions of the mind. 
 
 The verse was like thick, raw-silk cloth, shot through 
 
 With rare, imaginative gold, and wrought 
 
 With grotesque fancies sweetly numerous 
 
 Weird incantations strange as death, strong spells 
 
 That swayed the genii and other shapes 
 
 That scarcely leave deep darkness ; this, in might, 
 
 Roused dread revenges dealing strife and blood ; 
 
 And this, from out his mire, a dragon called, 
 
 The blear-eyed, warted offspring of disgust. 
 
 But on the margin of the final leaf 
 
 Was penned the spell of Serosch, which, when said, 
 
 Baffles the dragon and the frightful deevs. 
 
 Now, bordering these days, the King fell sick. 
 A black-winged spirit took him in its arms 
 And bore him nightward while the people wept. 
 I should not hear his rich-toned voice again. 
 An awful and impenetrable change 
 Mantled his features, and he passed away 
 Into the endless silence ; but his smile 
 Lighted, a space, the valley-land of death. 
 Then I in my great grief bowed down distraught : 
 
IRAK. 131 
 
 I heard the wailing of the streeted woe 
 That once was Arem, city of delight; 
 I heard the harps, by sympathy caressed, 
 Moan musical regret down palace halls ; 
 I heard the softened footfalls come and go; 
 I heeded naught : I knew that he was dead, 
 And clad my soul in sack-cloth, with one wish, 
 To dwell with sorrow till I too found rest. 
 
 Then, as the long procession of the hours, 
 
 Star-jeweled, or appareled by the sun, 
 
 Passed, with the banner of a waning moon, 
 
 Into the month that followed Himyar's death, 
 
 Rose the vast populace and crowned me King 
 
 Me, a mere youth, an abject slave to tears. 
 
 It pleased them well to woo me from my grief : 
 
 Before the curtain of dim dusk had dropped, 
 
 They flamed the lights in red carnelian globes, 
 
 Lest gloom might foster gloom ; beside my couch, 
 
 They burned, in agate vases, frankincense ; 
 
 And black-eyed girls, their bodies swaying lithe, 
 
 And wrists and ankles tinkling pearls and gold, 
 
 Danced to the rapture of the lute and flute, 
 
 Their long hair rhythmically undulant. 
 
 The music rose and broke like javelins 
 
 At sorrow and at silence deftly hurled 
 
 By unseen outposts of approaching joys. 
 
 For when the tenth diverted day had passed, 
 
 Lulled into slumber by the wedded tones, 
 
 I drifted duskward in a boat of palm 
 
 That, helm to prow, with mother-of-pearl was lined, 
 
 And glided down a valley's silver stream, 
 
 And paused among close-petaled fragrances 
 
 That with intoxicating gladness breathed, 
 
 Telling the love that thrilled from root to flower. 
 
 These rocked in music of the fluting breeze, 
 
 And all was music, and the dream a song. 
 
132 IRAK. 
 
 From out this mingled melody and sleep 
 
 A memory, like the maiden from the fount, 
 
 Rose fair, and glimmered through a mist of tears, 
 
 But shaped the die that, after, molded act ; 
 
 For I bethought me of my idle past, 
 
 In which, in Riad, northward situate, 
 
 I heard the tones that floated down my dream. 
 
 Then, leaving Hagi to the cares of state, 
 
 And choosing escort sworn to secrecy 
 
 That the rash step should not be jarred abroad, 
 
 We took the desert beasts, and were away. 
 
 But, as we crossed the heated Dahna waste, 
 
 Arose the slow simoom, and, by good chance, 
 
 I parted from my band, and stood alone, 
 
 And watched the crouching lion of the storm 
 
 That, maned with darkness, loomed against the sky, 
 
 And roared his arid hunger to the world. 
 
 Before the violet poison of his breath 
 
 An ostrich fled on wing-assisted feet. 
 
 My horse, my brave, sure-footed Nedjedee, 
 
 Had knelt, and lay with nostrils close to earth, 
 
 And, as the storm came near, I cast me prone 
 
 Beside him, and drew breath with lips in dust, 
 
 Till the blown whirl of sandy peril wild 
 
 Passed over me, and, moaning, went its way. 
 
 It so befell that I, of all my band, 
 
 Alone survived that lion's fatal rage. 
 
 Night after night I vaguely northward went 
 
 Without a guide except the friendly stars. 
 
 I longed for even a crust, and flag'd with thirst; 
 
 Yet, ere my strength had wholly ebbed away, 
 
 At morn I saw with doubt a distant grove ; 
 
 But urged my worn horse toward it, till the doubt, 
 
 A bird of darkness, fled the light of truth. 
 
 Here, on a small oasis, near the spring, 
 
 A sheik had pitched his tent of camels' hair, 
 
 And stood outside its hospitable door. 
 
IRAK. 133 
 
 With milletrcakes, and dates with butter pressed, 
 And pleasant words for he had known my sire 
 He gave me entertainment three brief days; 
 But on the fourth, when from her slumber rose 
 Dawn in her gauzy raiment decked with pearls, 
 He set out with me, that I might not err. 
 
 He on his camel, I of saddler blood, 
 For seven days subdued the burning miles. 
 Then, as mild twilight, with bejeweled hands, 
 Came braiding her long tresses, like a star 
 Seen from the gloomy cave of our fatigue, 
 Rose Riad, crowned with turrets glimmering. 
 The sheik embraced me now, and said farewell ; 
 But frowned as he my diamond gift pushed back. 
 The city's gates stood open : in their might, 
 They knew no fear; and itching-handed trade 
 Was trustful of the long-continued peace. 
 I led my horse among an idle throng 
 That listened to a grizzled, nomad bard 
 Who jingled rhymes, like silver in a purse, 
 In praise of princess Zayda: kind was she, 
 He sang; but even as beautiful as kind. 
 Her eyes were stars reflected in the sea, 
 Her breath was lovely perfume of the rose, 
 Her step was lighter than the coy gazelle's ; 
 And she, that morning riding near the gate, 
 Gave him an opal with its heart of flame 
 For a smooth lyric of a kindred core. 
 
 As my forthgoing to that outland town 
 
 Was of a vagrant fancy born of sleep, 
 
 I cast aside my baubles, and put on 
 
 A plainer guise, and went about the streets. 
 
 I mingled with the common of the mart, 
 
 And heard them speak of Tobba-Himyar's death, 
 
 And of his son, a weakling crushed by grief, 
 
134 IRAK. 
 
 Who lacked his father's force, and only knew 
 To rule a kingdom in the world of dreams. 
 For pastime with a zest of novelty, 
 I chaffered with the venders in bazaars; 
 And, buying once a turban from a Jew, 
 Threw down some paltry silver to a shape 
 That cringed before me with a hateful leer, 
 And begged, he said, because the king was rich; 
 But seeing how his pleading had borne fruit, 
 Exclaimed, with pleasure in his greedy eyes, 
 " May kiss of Zayda be thy round reward ! " 
 
 These humble days wore on ; and straying forth, 
 At noon, along a viny slope that trailed 
 Its green skirt, blossom broidered, in a stream 
 Whose full, suburban course curved languidly, 
 I on the lush bank sat, and watched below 
 The sword-like flash of silver scales, that shone 
 Where the hot sunlight, through the leafy roof, 
 Clasped a gold bracelet on the watery arm. 
 The hazy air lay on the grassy hills 
 Like gossamer, and thinner than the shawls ' 
 That merchants draw through ladies' finger-rings. 
 A listless camel cropped the verdure near. 
 I heard the sultry drone of pollened swarms, 
 And, dimly conscious that a subtle thing 
 Had coiled before me, saw the distance change 
 And rise, like incense, to the fading sun. 
 Then Iliad, gorged by sudden ruin, sank, 
 Dissolved in mist, and the flat world was void. 
 But soon my dizzy fancy whirled with dreams; 
 On amber isles, in sunset's ocean, rose 
 Arem and Mecca armed with soaring towers, 
 Far-glittering Balbec whose huge masonry 
 Was lightly reared by hands unseen and swift, 
 And that strange City of Pillars, Shedad built, 
 Which, long untenanted, remains entire, 
 
IRAK. 135 
 
 And stands mysterious, invisible 
 
 To all save heaven-favored travelers; 
 
 For men may walk its streets and know it not. 
 
 Beneath the cities yawned a murky gulf 
 
 That swallowed them, at last, and aU was dark. 
 
 The night pervaded space, and had no bounds. 
 
 The stars were blotted, and the blinded earth, 
 
 By her own elements consumed, was blown 
 
 Through the dull gloom in dust impalpable. 
 
 But I with spectral glide explored those fields 
 
 Until I came to where abrupt they swept 
 
 Downward, like some great wave of deepest sea, 
 
 Into a valley cold and dolorous. 
 
 Below me, midway on the slope, there rose 
 
 A somber portal strewn with ashy bones. 
 
 I heard the hingy thunder of the gate; 
 
 And grimly issued thence the dragon, Death, 
 
 Fiercer than frothing madness, and so vast 
 
 No antique hippogriff had braved his wrath. 
 
 His eyes were sunken, and his putrid jaws, 
 
 Distending wide, red drippled of his feast. 
 
 His wings were cloud-like, and his breath a storm, 
 
 And, all puissant in his bony mail, 
 
 He came at me, a king, this monster, Death. 
 
 But I recalled the spell of Serosch, penned 
 
 On the stained margin of the old divan ; 
 
 For there that angel wrote it when he paused 
 
 Once in his thought-swift, seven-fold, nightly flight 
 
 Around the sleeping earth, to guard good men. 
 
 I said his magic words as with drawn blade 
 
 To meet the dread destroyer I went down. 
 
 Escaping Death's cold jaws, beneath his wing 
 
 That, webbed with terrors, over me displayed, 
 
 I thrust at his fell heart, and saw its blood 
 
 Burst from the wound in black forgetfulness. 
 
 I felt that I had done a mighty deed, 
 
136 IRAK. 
 
 Because with strenuous arm and eager front 
 I gave to his own sleep the dragon, Death. 
 But now rolled back the pallid sea of mist, 
 The curling incense swung from censer stars, 
 Scooped by sirocco from the under sky. 
 Slowly from this came out the distant view 
 And Iliad with its cliff-like walls and towers. 
 
 Before me, severed in the glossy midst, 
 
 A baffled serpent writhed with wrathful hiss; 
 
 And bending over stood a form so rare 
 
 I fancied that the charm was still complete, 
 
 That still my brain was pictured with a dream. 
 
 The maiden bade her slave take back his sword, 
 
 And shed on me heart-sunlight with her smiles. 
 
 She led along a path to her kiosk, 
 
 And sat beside a fount, and bade me speak. 
 
 I thanked her for my life, which she had saved, 
 
 Not worth the viperine, unselfish risk. 
 
 I said I was a desert wanderer 
 
 Veered by the winds of chance, but nobly born. 
 
 Her voice was like the carol of a bird : 
 
 " The sweetest waters of Arabia 
 
 Rise in the desert: so the proverb runs," 
 
 She said, and blushed as if the fairied air 
 
 Into a crimson rose were changing her. 
 
 The fountain plashed its crystals, each on each, 
 
 That in the pool-vase fell in showers of light. 
 
 The polished floor of tessellated stone 
 
 Lay like a ripe pomegranate cleft in twain; 
 
 A stairway with a heavy balustrade, 
 
 Wound upward to a gilded gallery 
 
 On which, at either side a curtained arch, 
 
 A statue stood as warder : one upheld 
 
 A meaning finger to the sky, and one 
 
 Maintained the gathered drapery at its breast, 
 
 And clutched a scroll, and bent the head in thought 
 
IRAK. 137 
 
 On golden wheels the joyful days rolled by, 
 And, keeping in disguise my rank and power, 
 I wooed and won the princess Zayda's love. 
 Then to the haughty King went some vile spy, 
 And in my ears were echoed bloody words 
 That craved to slay me lest I grow more bold. 
 At night a messenger toward Arem sped 
 Bearing these news to Hagi : " Swiftly send 
 Ten thousand horsemen, veterans of the war, 
 To enter Riad at its many gates, 
 And wait about the palace for my call, 
 On the first midnight of the next new moon." 
 But lest a secret dagger might divert 
 The armed arrival to revengeful use, 
 I said to her who loved me, that a vow 
 Pressed on me much to be at once performed 
 That I would ride to Mecca, and go round 
 Seven times the Caaba's heaven-descended stone, 
 And then come back, to reach her ere again 
 The slender crescent sailed the western sky. 
 So I a caravan for Mecca joined, 
 And, on the sacred journey's living wave, 
 The dromedary, rocked, reached pilgrim-wise 
 The worshiped stone, and paid, indeed, my vow. 
 
 When on the far-off verge the faint new moon 
 
 Lifted its prow of pearl, upon the hill, 
 
 That passively looks down on Riad's towers, 
 
 I too looked down, and watched the many lights 
 
 Gleam, and the groups of buildings, shadow-like, 
 
 Join vaster shadows of dream-haunted night. 
 
 I entered at a gate that, like the rest, 
 
 Stood open wide, and reached with weary beast 
 
 The many-peopled inn. Thence, when refreshed, 
 
 I went to Zayda, who awaited me 
 
 In palace depths, and seeing me approach, 
 
 Rose from the languid cushions, crowned with joy 
 
 As with a chaplet woven of fresh flowers. 
 
138 IRAK. 
 
 That night, to his chief officers, the King 
 
 Gave a rich banquet in his lofty hall. 
 
 The drinking-cups of gold with rubies set 
 
 Poured down the vinous riot to the blood. 
 
 The distant laughter of the revel came 
 
 To our young ears, as now to me is borne, 
 
 Down the dim length of memory's palace-halls, 
 
 The recollection of that happy time. 
 
 And Zayda's tender accents, soft and low, 
 
 Were the remembered music that I heard 
 
 When in my grief I sailed a tide of dreams. 
 
 I said that our true love was like a ship 
 
 Lashed by wild winds and cold, remorseless waves ; 
 
 Yet I, the pilot guiding through the storm, 
 
 Saw Safety, in her harbor, beckoning. 
 
 Even as I spoke, the arras near me swung, 
 
 Perchance in the light breeze that floated by, 
 
 And on my ear these words fell soft as dew : 
 
 "We come: our swords are sheathed; our banners 
 
 furled." 
 
 Then entered slaves, their gleaming sabers drawn, 
 And led me to the presence of the King 
 Who sat, above his guests, upon the throne. 
 He said that I must die ; he so decreed ; 
 For, by the mad presumption of my love, 
 I cast base insult at his royal power. 
 Brave Zayda on her knees implored for me, 
 And vined her arms about my neck, and wept. 
 Then waved the King his slaves to take me thence. 
 I brushed them off, and, high above the hush, 
 Voiced the alarm ; and into that bright room 
 Rushed my fierce warriors, as I cast aside 
 The loose disguise that hid my royal robes, 
 And stood before them, while they knelt around, 
 Irak, the son of Himyar, and their King! 
 
 In the same hall, I made the princess mine, 
 And crowned her Queen of Yemen and my bride. 
 
FOREKNO WLEDGE- 139 
 
 With flags and roses they festooned the walls, 
 And mirth and music reveled in the streets, 
 And myriad welcomes, jubilant and sweet, 
 Rose in the sunny air, or fell with flowers. 
 
 And since, the brittle goblets of my years, 
 Filled to the brim with golden honey-mead, 
 And handed me by the great cup-bearer, Fate, 
 Have all been deeply quaffed; but from these hands 
 Fallen away, lie shattered at my feet 
 The mute mementos of a life of joy. 
 1863. 
 
 FOREKNOWLEDGE. 
 
 AT Pentland Frith, beside the sea-coast white, 
 Stood an old inn to which the young Laird came. 
 Rain and wild wind fulfilled the sightless night : 
 But good cheer laughed before the hearth-stone flame. 
 Well entertained, the pleased and drowsy guest, 
 Ere it was late, retired to dreamful rest. 
 
 His father's death had left him an estate 
 On Mainland of the Orkneys set in sea; 
 And in the Hall, now part in ruins, Fate 
 Had roofed and reared his titled ancestry. 
 To visit it the Laird was on his way, 
 And would embark betimes the coming day. 
 
 He felt the old inn tremble in the roar ; 
 But soon to him all sounds became remote, 
 And he was walking on the island's shore ; 
 For he had crossed the Frith without a boat, 
 And saw the Hall's great windows all alight 
 In the weird depth of that forbidding night. 
 
1 40 FOREKNO WLED GE. 
 
 He treads his hall of banqueting, rebuilt 
 By sleepless fancy from moss-grown decay. 
 It flames with wax-lights whose thin 'lances tilt 
 And splinter on the gloss of rich array. 
 A tapestry garden, gay with woven bloom, 
 Is hung around the tiled and corbeled room. 
 
 In crystal and on gold a feast is spread, 
 And they thereat are guests of high degree ; 
 While he, the Laird, is seated at the head, 
 And wonders who the gentlefolk may be. 
 But as his glance from face to face is cast, 
 Up, at the spectral sight, he starts aghast ! 
 
 He sees his ancestors! And he recalls 
 
 That often, in his boyhood, he has viewed, 
 
 Against the gallery's wainscoted walls, 
 
 Their vivid portraits from the frames protrude. 
 
 His ancestors, in order as they died, 
 
 Are ranged along the board at either side. 
 
 First of the line, and opposite the Laird, 
 Fierce in the tawny skins of beasts of prey, 
 A chieftain sits, blue-eyed and yellow-haired, 
 To whom the brave drank wassail in his day. 
 In storm of battle fell this Norse oak tree, 
 The sturdy founder of the family. 
 
 The late laird sits beside the living host; 
 
 His light of life went out the year before. 
 
 And next there is a fonder, dearer ghost, 
 
 Come back through sleep to be with him she bore ; 
 
 Her smile, that in his heart's core has a place, 
 
 Still glorifies her mild and saintly face. 
 
 The dead, when they return to us in sleep, 
 Are seldom frightful and of horrid mien. 
 
FOREKNO WLEDGE. 1 41 
 
 Their changeless forms the bygone likeness keep, 
 And give no token of the dim unseen. 
 Their presence seems not strange ; they speak their will ; 
 We answer them, and are familiar still. 
 
 But here the young Laird shudders to behold 
 His unexpected guests, and knows that they 
 From tombs of sculptured quiet stained and old, 
 Through wind and rain have found their lonely way. 
 They chill the lighted air ; they draw no breath, 
 And cast no shadow in that room of death. 
 
 How long the host sits spellbound, none may know. 
 
 His stately guests, in low and hollow tones, 
 
 Murmur together of impending woe ; 
 
 For each the ill, forerunning news bemoans. 
 
 Their feasting done, the wan assembly all 
 
 Kise, mingle and move round the feudal hall. 
 
 In time, the Norseman, clad in savage guise, 
 Glides to the door that, untouched, opens wide. 
 He, at the threshold, turns, and lets his eyes, 
 Which pierce like spears, on the young Laird abide; 
 Then, with a warning gesture, cries " Beware ! " 
 And like a vapor fades in outer air. 
 
 Thus from the hall the vague ghosts, one by one, 
 Slowly, in turn, depart : each at the door 
 Pauses, and facing, as the first had done, 
 The rapt beholder and the light once more, 
 With look and hand that warn from direful doom, 
 Exclaims " Beware ! " and vanishes in gloom. 
 
 So the dream ends ; and when dawn, cold and gray, 
 Like a pale ghost, passed through its halls again, 
 The Laird awoke, and would not sail that day 
 For the dream's sake : and it was well ; for then 
 
142 SCIENCE AND THE SOUL. 
 
 The storm-tossed boat that to the Islands crossed 
 Went down at sea and all on board were lost. 
 
 SCIENCE AND THE SOUL. 
 
 I SOUGHT, in sleep, to find the mountain-lands 
 Where Science, in her hall of wonder, dwells. 
 When I had come to where the building stands, 
 I found refreshing streams, delightful dells, 
 Invigorating air, and saw, on high, 
 Turret and dome against the boundless sky. 
 
 Out of her busy palace then she stepped, 
 And kindly greeted me, as there I stood 
 Doubting my right, and whether I had slept. 
 " Welcome," she said, " and whatsoe'er of good 
 You find in me, you have full leave to take 
 For warp and woof of verses that you make." 
 
 That these, her words, for more than me were meant, 
 I felt, and thanked her as seemed fitting then ; 
 While, in her looks, I saw that she was sent 
 To lighten work and knit together men; 
 And that with patience such as hers could be, 
 The coral mason builds the isles at sea. 
 
 Servant of Use, upon that mountain wise 
 Was the plain title she was proud to own, 
 And, clearer than her penetrating eyes, 
 The light of Progress on her forehead shone. 
 Her smile the lips' sharp coldness half betrayed, 
 As if a wreath upon a sword were laid. 
 
 But now, about her palace everywhere, 
 She led my steps, and often by her side 
 
SCIENCE AND THE SOUL. 143 
 
 A lion and a nimble greyhound were. 
 
 The swifter to a leash of wire she tied, 
 
 And made a messenger of good and ill ; 
 
 The stronger with white breath performed her will. 
 
 She traced the lapse of awful seas of time 
 On fossil limestone and on glinting ore; 
 Described wild wonders of the Arctic clime, 
 And of all lands her willing slaves explore ; 
 Opening large laboratories to my view, 
 She showed me much that she had skill to do. 
 
 Then, down a marble stairway, to her bower 
 Was led the gracious way. " And here," said she, 
 " I meditate beyond the midnight hour ; 
 Invent for peace and war, for land and sea ; 
 Read the round sky's star-lettered page, or grope 
 In the abysses of the microscope." 
 
 But, while she spoke, there stood another near 
 The fairest one that ever I beheld ; 
 I fancied her the creature of some sphere 
 Whence all of mist and shadow are dispelled. 
 Her voice was low and gentle, and her grace 
 Vied with the beauty of her thoughtful face. 
 
 A clear, unwaning light around her shone 
 A ray of splendor from a loving Source 
 A light like sunshine, that, when it is gone, 
 Leaves darkness, but sheds glory on its course ; 
 Yet, in my dream, her footstep made me start, 
 It was so like the beating of my heart. 
 
 I turned to Science, for small doubt had I 
 That she best knew her whom I deemed so fair, 
 And asked, " Who is she, that so heedfully 
 Waits on you here, and is like sunny air? 
 
144 SCIENCE AND THE SOUL. 
 
 In her all beauty dwells, while from her shine 
 Truth, hope, and love, with effluence divine." 
 
 Then Science answered me, severe and cold: 
 " She is Time's brittle toy : the praise of men 
 Has dazed her wit, and made her vain and bold. 
 With subtle flattery of tongue and pen, 
 They title her the Soul ; I count it blame, 
 And call her Life, but seek a better name. 
 
 " Alone, in her gray-celled abode, she dwells, 
 Of fateful circumstance the fettered thrall, 
 The psychic sum of forces of her cells, 
 Molecular and manifold in all ; 
 But aeons passed ere Nature could express 
 This carbon-rooted flower of consciousness. 
 
 "Life, from the common mother, everywhere 
 Springs into being under sun and dew; 
 And it may be that she who is so fair 
 From deep-sea ooze to this perfection grew, 
 Evolving slowly on, from type to type, 
 Until, at last, the earth for man was ripe. 
 
 " But like a low-born child, whose fancy's page 
 
 Illuminated glows, she fondly dreams 
 
 That hers is other, nobler parentage ; 
 
 That, from a Source Supreme, her being streams.- 
 
 But, when I ask for proof, she can not give 
 
 One word, to me, of knowledge positive. 
 
 " Wherefore, regretfully I turn away, 
 
 In no wise profited, to let her muse 
 
 On her delusion, now grown old and gray. 
 
 It is a vain mirage that she pursues 
 
 Some image of herself, against the sky, 
 
 To which she yearns on golden wings to fly." 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 145 
 
 What time I left that palace high and wide, 
 She followed me, whom I had thought so fair, 
 To guide me down the devious mountain-side, 
 Speaking with that of sorrow in her air 
 That made me grieve, and soon a tear I shed 
 To think that here she is so limited. 
 
 " Oh, I am life and more, I am the Soul," 
 She said, " and, in the human heart and brain, 
 Sit throned and prisoned while the brief years roll, 
 Lifted with hope that I shall live again ; 
 That when I cross the flood, with me shall be 
 The swift-winged carrier-dove of memory. 
 
 " I shall have triumph over time and space, 
 For I am infinite and more than they. 
 In vain has Science searched my dwelling-place ; 
 For, delve in nature's secrets as she may 
 For deeper knowledge, she can never know 
 Of what I am, nor whither I shall go." 
 
 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 WHERE a river and a highway 
 
 Running side by side together, 
 Lead along through pleasant queendoms 
 
 To a peaceful, ancient town, 
 Once a bent and wrinkled Graybeard, 
 
 Brave and true in every weather, 
 On the road pursued his journey, 
 Autumn's fruitful land adown. 
 
 He had left Spring's balmy country, 
 
 He had passed through that of Summer, 
 
146 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 And through Autumn's bronze dominion 
 
 Was advancing on his way, 
 When a bird of sweeping pinion, 
 
 To the kindly-hearted comer, 
 From the topmost bough of knowledge 
 
 Caroled forth a welcome lay. 
 
 Dragging from this boat of music 
 
 His close net of recollection, 
 Went the Graybeard's thought, regretting 
 
 One great pearl that he had lost. 
 He beheld again the country 
 
 Ruled by Spring, and clear reflection, 
 In his spirit's limpid waters, 
 
 Of the star-like pearl of cost. 
 
 Then the Truthsayer, far-sighted, 
 
 Found the long-sought Graybeard dreaming 
 In the thoughtful, wayside shadow 
 
 Of the vocal, golden tree ; 
 And he said to him, " O brother, 
 
 Would'st thou find thy pearl, whose seeming 
 So enchants thy soul with beauty 
 
 That thou think'st no more shall be ? 
 
 " In the ocean-bounded city, 
 
 Whither thou art tending surely, 
 Undissolved thy pearl awaits thee 
 
 By the darkly silent shore. 
 Do thine alms-deeds ; follow mercy ; 
 
 Hold thy hand from wrong securely ; 
 When thy pearl again elates thee, 
 Thou shalt have it ever more." 
 
 To behold the Prophet fully, 
 
 Turned the traveler sedately, 
 
 Tho' doubt and hope, alternate, 
 
 Were reflected in his face ; 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 147 
 
 But the Sayer had departed, 
 
 And the other wondered greatly 
 That a stranger, kingly-hearted, 
 
 Should regard him aught with grace. 
 
 All one way the folk were going, 
 On that highway by the river, 
 In their journey daily nearing 
 
 Rest and quiet by the sea. 
 Long the Graybeard searched among them, 
 
 With his thankful lips aquiver, 
 For the Prophet glad and cheering, 
 Who foretold the joy to be. 
 
 But he found him not, and sadly 
 
 Down the road his course pursuing, 
 Saw the wizened leaves whirled madly 
 
 And bestrew the crystal stream; 
 He beheld the air-like current 
 Making haste to its undoing, 
 And, on birds that dipped and skimmed it, 
 Watched the sunlight's silver gleam. 
 
 Often ships of cloud sailed over, 
 
 With their wingy canvas lifted, 
 Or they lay becalmed or anchored 
 In the portless, circling blue. 
 In a small, frail shallop nightly 
 
 On the silent stream he drifted, 
 Till bright Lucifer had fallen, 
 
 And the victor drank the dew. 
 
 Then on wakefulness he stranded, 
 
 And took up his onward journey, 
 Thinking deeply of the promise 
 
 That so graciously was made ; 
 While the winds, like knights of terror, 
 
 Round him whirled in joust and tourney ; 
 
148 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 But of gusty doubt and error 
 His belief was not afraid. 
 
 For through these he went undaunted, 
 
 And, one afternoon, when brightly 
 Shone the sun, by clouds unhaunted, 
 
 At his feet a valley lay. 
 He was standing on a hill-top, 
 
 And below him, wide and sightly, 
 Where the river cleft the sea-coast, 
 Eose the City of Decay. 
 
 Far beyond it, black and silent 
 
 Stretched Oblivion's deep ocean 
 Fog-confounded, thick and waveless 
 
 To the rim of western sky. 
 Time's replenished river emptied, 
 
 With a never-ceasing motion, 
 Into these relentless waters 
 And unfathomed mystery. 
 
 Often vessels, steered by Circe, 
 
 Down the ebbing river sailing, 
 Ventured boldly out, and vanished 
 
 In the mute deep's heavy gloom ; 
 But not one came back, or wafted 
 
 Sounds of laughter or of wailing, 
 From Persephone and Pluto's 
 Dimly-lighted land of doom. 
 
 Down the highway to the city 
 
 Came the Graybeard through the valley, 
 While its sunset skies were glossy, 
 
 And approached the crumbling wall. 
 At the gateway, high and mossy, 
 
 Soon he paused, his strength to rally ; 
 And expectancy allured him 
 
 With the joy that would befall. 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 149 
 
 II. 
 
 Wide the rusty gates stood open, 
 
 For they long had been unguarded; 
 And perforce the foot would enter, 
 
 That the weary road had come. 
 In the passage, half imbedded 
 
 Lay the heavy bolts discarded, 
 And therethrough went Echo, wedded 
 To the twilight gray and dumb. 
 
 Here the air was damp and chilly, 
 
 And, with pencil chaste and rimy, 
 Drew the arabesques of Winter, 
 
 On the stones that arched the way; 
 But in the vast metropolis 
 
 The walls with dew were slimy; 
 Tho' it was the land of Autumn, 
 It was like the home of May. 
 
 Tho' the border-hills of Winter 
 
 To the city were adjacent, 
 Up the dreary, sullen ocean 
 
 Came the sultry, panting South; 
 And it fawned on beldam Ruin, 
 
 That, in pride of dress complacent, 
 Sat attired in grass and ivy, 
 
 And concealed her gaping mouth. 
 
 On the city wall grew poppies 
 
 Red as wine, or white as lilies ; 
 And so drowsily they lifted 
 
 Their full faces to the sun, 
 That the saffron-vested robin, 
 
 Proud, erect a winged Achilles 
 Sang no more with wakeful rapture 
 As he in the Spring had done. 
 
150 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 In the city dwelt in plenty, 
 
 In a mansion quaint and olden, 
 One who was a lady truly, 
 
 For she doled the poor her bread. 
 Gentle charms of face and manner 
 
 Hid her years in glamour golden, 
 And her hair of silver brightened 
 To a halo round her head. 
 
 She was once superb in beauty, 
 
 And a handsome youth true-hearted 
 Had desired of her this duty, 
 
 That she love him all his years ; 
 But too late her troth was plighted ; 
 
 Yet with soft regret she parted 
 From the youth, the unrequited, 
 
 Who had turned away with tears. 
 
 Now her husband and her children 
 
 Under church-yard turf were sleeping; 
 She, with Kindness to attend her, 
 
 Down life's western slope made .way; 
 But she watched the couch of sickness, 
 
 Calmed the bitter voice of weeping, 
 And enlarged the paths of mercy 
 In the City of Decay. 
 
 Haply hearing of her goodness, 
 That it was a potent essence 
 To revive the weary stranger, 
 
 Or to heal misfortune's sting, 
 The Graybeard sought her dwelling-house, 
 
 And, standing in her presence, 
 The diminished star discovered, 
 
 Whose full orb he loved in Spring. 
 
 Having given his name, he briefly 
 Sketched their early, tender meeting, 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 151 
 
 And the after-years these chiefly 
 
 For the star's projected beam. 
 The woman smiled, and took his hand 
 
 With kindly words of greeting ; 
 Her eyes were memory-vistas, 
 
 And love was like a dream. 
 
 Then he told her of the wonder, 
 
 Long in Summer his possession, 
 That had slipped from him asunder 
 
 Into Time's elusive tide; 
 And anon of that Truthsayer 
 
 Who had warned him from transgression, 
 And who promised that the jewel 
 With its owner should abide. 
 
 Glad the woman was, and said she, 
 
 " Whatsoe'er my friendship chooses, 
 That it lives to do would aid thee 
 
 Till thy perfect joy thou find. 
 He achieves no Alpine summit, 
 
 Who to take stout help refuses ; 
 And not yet have line and plummet 
 
 Gauged the sea-depths of the mind. 
 
 "Come, Kindness, near, and speak him fair, 
 
 That once was my true lover, 
 And, up and down this crumbling town, 
 
 Assist him in his quest, 
 Searching daily, rising early, 
 
 Till, at last, he shall discover 
 That great virtue pure and pearly, 
 Which aforetime he possessed." 
 
 So with soothing hand came Kindness, 
 
 And reposed it on his shoulder ; 
 But he dazedly, as with blindness, 
 Pressed his palm upon his brow, 
 
152 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 And bethought him of his sister, 
 
 Who to memory seemed older 
 A beloved and holy maiden 
 
 That abode in heaven now. 
 
 The woman spoke: "Across the way, 
 
 There stands a monastery, 
 Where, within a darksome cloister, 
 Dwells an abbot sad and pale. 
 I know him well ; he lives alone ; 
 
 But many folk, once merry, 
 To have him pray their sins away 
 His heavy doors assail. 
 
 " Bide thou with him hereafter ; 
 For I shall reward him freely. 
 But to-night he shares our table ; 
 Nay, he even now is here ! " 
 Thereupon, the abbot entered, 
 
 And his restless eyes and steely 
 On the woman quickly centered ; 
 
 But she gave him gracious cheer.' 
 
 Low his monkish garb depended 
 
 With a cross and beaded cable. 
 As if but his cowl offended, 
 
 He removed it from his head. 
 The abundant, girdled habit 
 
 Heightened whitely, with its sable, 
 His dull, hollow-cheeked pallor ; 
 But his lips were full and red. 
 
 The Graybeard, bowing coldly, 
 
 Touched the abbot's hand extended, 
 
 And, beside the board, more boldly 
 
 Showed his liking scant and small ; 
 
 But when rising for departure, 
 
 He was to the monk commended ; 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 153 
 
 And they crossed the street, and lingered 
 In the monastery hall. 
 
 Seated here beneath the flicker 
 
 Of a lamp hung from the ceiling, 
 Said the abbot, "Worthy senior, 
 
 Doth thy heart not know me yet? 
 Hast forgot? Thou thought'st me sainted, 
 
 In the wayside shadow kneeling: 
 Who with me is unacquainted, 
 Seeing that I am Regret?" 
 
 Past midnight lone, the guest was shown 
 
 Where he might sleep and slumber, 
 As, on before, the abbot bore 
 
 A bronze, Pompeian lamp. 
 The Graybeard saw long rows of lore 
 
 The echoing halls encumber, 
 And, on windows mediaeval, 
 
 Heavy night-dew trickle damp. 
 
 But thenceforth he scarce elected 
 
 To behold the monk, who, hidden 
 In his cell, with soul dejected, * 
 
 Brooded palely on the past. 
 There was a trusty servitor 
 
 That took him food when bidden, 
 And the guest's lone board replenished 
 With profusion to the last. 
 
 But that night the Graybeard's spirit 
 
 Anchored in the Indian Ocean, 
 Off Ceylon, in oystered waters 
 
 Where, with sudden plash and swirl, 
 Swarthy divers darted under ; 
 
 And, with weltering commotion, 
 From the breathless fields of wonder 
 Brought the harvest of a pearl. 
 
154 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 III. 
 
 Early service swift to render, 
 
 Came the woman's placid maiden, 
 And led on through morning splendor 
 
 To a ruin old and gray. 
 It was of an arch, or grotto, 
 
 That, with heavy mosses laden, 
 High upon it bore the motto, 
 Only truth shall not decay. 
 
 Near the arch had stood a temple 
 
 Where an oracle was spoken 
 On the sea of truth men worshiped 
 
 For a meaning all their own. 
 
 Now about the sward they dented 
 
 Lay the fluted columns broken, 
 
 And the thought they represented 
 
 Was as mythic error known. 
 
 Each belief is truth most holy 
 
 To the holder is eternal 
 Tho' beliefs are birds that slowly 
 
 Hatch their broods and fly away. 
 Ammon, Isis, Auramuzda, 
 
 Jove and all the gods supernal, 
 Had the ruins of their altars 
 In the City of Decay. 
 
 Carefully round arch and column 
 
 That had been to Truth erected, 
 Went the Graybeard, meekly solemn, 
 
 Seeking out his one desire. 
 He had fondly hoped to find it, 
 
 By the love of Truth protected, 
 Somewhere hidden here, denuded 
 Of the restless river's mire. 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 155 
 
 But it had his search eluded, 
 
 And from that sad place he wended 
 Through a street of tombs and willows, 
 
 Nor believed the jewel there ; 
 Tho' far and wide on either side 
 
 The monuments extended, 
 And birds with heaven flooded sweet 
 The unregretful air. 
 
 Ruined castles slowly crumbled 
 
 Here and there within the city ; 
 Their high battlements had tumbled, 
 
 And their grassy moats were dry. 
 Gone every knight and lady dight, 
 For no more the love-lorn ditty 
 Rose beneath the listening window, 
 In the moon's enamored eye. 
 
 There have been, in Spain, great castles 
 
 Of the nimble mason-wizard 
 That, with neither square nor plumb-line, 
 
 Ever rears a chinkless wall. 
 Once as great were these now broken, 
 
 Where abode the bat and lizard, 
 And where just a word, loud spoken, 
 Sometimes caused a tower to fall. 
 
 Haply, Kindness and the Graybeard 
 
 Reached a magic castle olden, 
 That was standing draped with ivy 
 Like a goddess with her hair; 
 But the cross-barred gate of iron, 
 
 All so rustily was holden, 
 That they pushed it down, and wandered 
 Through the stillness lone and bare. 
 
 From the ample space allotted 
 
 Towered the thick walls skyward grandly, 
 
156 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 Tho' the floors and roof had rotted, 
 And in dust had disappeared. 
 
 Overhead a light cloud drifted, 
 And an owlet, resting blandly 
 
 In the shade, to where it shifted, 
 Nestled closer, as they neared. 
 
 That this dusky bird Minervan 
 
 On the corbel-mask was perching, 
 Now the Graybeard thought an omen 
 
 That herein his quest would end; 
 And his hope would fain accord him 
 
 That the castle they were searching, 
 Or one like it, must reward him, 
 And his master-wish befriend. 
 
 For he knew that in the ruins 
 
 Of men's high anticipations 
 There are pearls of greatest moment 
 
 Found in wiser after-years; 
 But no joy for his anointment 
 
 Here was vased, and sad libations 
 Poured he out to disappointment, 
 
 From the brimming cup of tears. 
 
 Kindness, quick to calm and cherish, 
 Homeward then his steps directed, 
 Shunning streets where daily perish 
 
 Hopes of wealth and high renown. 
 But her words, that sweetly fluttered, 
 
 Told him of a world affected 
 By the influence that uttered 
 
 From the portals of the town. 
 
 As the sun his blue path travels, 
 
 Highest minaret and steeple 
 Toward him lean; the sweet bud ravels 
 Into flower, and toward him blows ; 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 157 
 
 And throughout the ages hoary 
 Have the ever-restless people, 
 Westering and migratory, 
 
 Followed his unfading rose. 
 
 To this wide-spread sunset city 
 
 Thus are drawn the generations ; 
 Youth, and middle-age, and ancient 
 
 Hither stream in swerveless tides. 
 Here life centers ; gay youth enters 
 
 Crowned with Spring's associations; 
 But decrepitude, so childish, 
 Often longest here abides. 
 
 While true Kindness thus was talking 
 
 To her charge, they passed by slowly 
 Thronging counter-currents walking 
 
 In the sunny, spacious way. 
 He, with alms-deeds oft appeasing 
 
 Want with palm outstretched and lowly, 
 Found its gratitude as pleasing 
 As the fragrancy of May. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Lady and the Graybeard, 
 
 Drawn by horses black and prancing, 
 Down the morning-streeted valley, 
 Rode to Retrospection's halls. 
 There was not a court or alley 
 
 Where the dancing sunbeams, glancing, 
 Lighted not unfading pictures 
 Hung upon interior walls. 
 
 Everywhere, in grandeur dusky, 
 
 Rose, to Retrospection builded, 
 Palaces with hinges husky 
 
 Opening backward in review 
 
158 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 Lofty halls like Spain's Alhambra, 
 
 Ceiled with frost-work forms, and gilded 
 Buildings like the Doge's Palace, 
 
 Glassed in depths of dreamy blue. 
 
 All faced one way ; all looked eastward 
 
 Up the road, and up the river, 
 Peering over roof and ruin 
 
 Into Summer's land and Spring's. 
 Some by fountains were surrounded, 
 In whose crystal toss and quiver 
 Humming-bird-like sheen abounded, 
 
 Burnished blue and twinkling wings. 
 
 There in grass the long-thighed hopper 
 
 Clicked his castanets in measure, 
 An unrecognized Tithonus, 
 
 And old, crabbed Pantaloon; 
 While the almond-tree in blossom 
 
 Dropped its snowy petal-treasure, 
 And the windows of the buildings 
 
 Dimmed and darkened all too soon. 
 
 The abodes of Retrospection 
 Separately were divided ; 
 Like the Cretan Labyrinthus 
 
 They were doored from hall to hall; 
 But no artful terror thundered, 
 
 Nor were prisoners there misguided ; 
 For to each his rooms were secret, 
 But he knew them scarcely all. 
 
 Of these palaces, the pictures 
 Bore one master artist's fecit; 
 
 For the Angelo of Memory, 
 Whose brush is never still, 
 
 Did the work alone, and daily 
 His delight was to increase it, 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 159 
 
 Till of spaces left in places 
 
 None remained for him to fill. 
 
 When from halls deceased a tenant, 
 He would take his painted story 
 On his starry journey with him, 
 
 To declare his place and age ; 
 But History, backward glancing, 
 
 With her stylus dipped in glory, 
 Likenessed all the greater pictures 
 On her scant but deathless page. 
 
 Many deeds of noble daring 
 And of patient self-denial, 
 That alone were, worth the caring, 
 In what yet was left to tell, 
 Had survived the heel of silence, 
 
 Cheered the world in every trial, 
 And of Love's broad ocean murmured 
 In Expression's rhythmic shell. 
 
 Having briefly on their way fared, 
 
 To a House of Retrospection 
 Came the Lady and the Graybeard, 
 
 Where, to old-time words, the door 
 Opened for them ; and they wandered 
 Through the halls in each direction, 
 And, before the canvas, pondered 
 On its reminiscent store. 
 
 Lighted corridors retreating, 
 
 Through the woman's past descended ; 
 And their calm research completing, 
 
 Saving that of but a few, 
 She would not stay, but turned away 
 
 With him that she befriended, 
 Knowing well his spirit's compass 
 
 Had to Heaven and her been true. 
 
160 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 For he led her through his smiling 
 
 Halls of manhood, now resounding 
 To their footfalls on the tiling, 
 
 Where lay broken cups of joy. 
 In pictures wide, on either side, 
 
 His life arose, abounding 
 In the painter's richest colors, 
 
 Which the grave can not destroy. 
 
 When day with his life-giving torch 
 
 Was to the sea descending, 
 Came out upon the building's porch 
 The wand'rers sere and gray ; 
 Then as heavy-uddered cloud-herds, 
 
 Trampling loudly, were impending, 
 Homeward hied the couple quickly, 
 Down the dream-dispelling way. 
 
 Against the west the clouds up-pressed 
 
 In blackly moving ledges, 
 But o'er a rift that seemed to lift 
 There was a rainbow thrown ; 
 This climbed and kissed an ebon mist 
 
 Far up with pallid edges, 
 Toward whose craggy shore a vessel, 
 The freightless moon, was blown. 
 
 Soon the crystal keel encountered 
 
 Its mirk doom, and crashing, sinking, 
 Left the sky to darkness dreary 
 
 Pierced by lightning, wind, and rain; 
 Yet that night the Graybeard weary, 
 In his sleep's disordered thinking, 
 Deemed the vanished moon the jewel 
 He was seeking to regain. 
 
 Through the hopeless night and morrow 
 Poured the gray rain sobbing, sighing, 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 161 
 
 While its gusty breath of sorrow 
 
 Tossed the dead leaves to and fro. 
 
 Looked the Graybeard from the casement 
 On the leaves and rain-drops flying, 
 
 And a wind of self-abasement 
 
 Through his spirit seemed to blow. 
 
 She to whom he was beholden 
 
 Sent him fruit for toothsome pleasure, 
 Apples crimson, apples golden, 
 
 Ripe as Juno's and as sweet. 
 Truths he thought them ; Kindness brought them, 
 
 And, with hope of his lost treasure, 
 Sunned away his rainy feelings, 
 Seated humbly at his feet. 
 
 v. 
 
 The defeated clouds retreated, 
 
 And the flushed, exidtant morning, 
 With shields that shone and banners blown, 
 
 Advanced above the hill. 
 And divine, reviving roses, 
 The metropolis adorning, 
 Looked up to greet the victor, 
 
 Sweet with fragrance they distil. 
 
 The Lady and the Graybeard, 
 
 Urged by Kindness, their attendant, 
 Rode to see the lofty palace 
 
 Where the Emperor abode ; 
 For Decay was chief of cities 
 
 That upon him were dependent, 
 And within its grassy quiet 
 
 His unfailing bounty flowed. 
 
 " Gray Time, the Emperor, lately, 
 To display his might and splendor, 
 
162 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 Has proclaimed a triumph stately," 
 Said the Lady to her guest. 
 
 " Vast his recent conquests tragic ; 
 But, as did the witch of Endor, 
 
 He will raise the dead by magic 
 From their melancholy rest. 
 
 "He will break their vaulted slumber, 
 
 Bring again their absent features, 
 And advance their sea-sand number 
 
 In diversified array. 
 Them, that erst were his possession, 
 He will show to us, his creatures, 
 And re-lead them in procession 
 Through his capital, Decay. 
 
 " He, besides his scion, Winter, 
 
 Has three pure and loving daughters : 
 Proud, bright-eyed, fruit-bosomed Autumn, 
 
 Summer dark with sun and dew, 
 And young Spring with eyes of azure ; 
 
 These, along the ebbing waters, 
 He has given each a country 
 
 Good to dwell in, fair to view. 
 
 "No Lear he among his children; 
 
 He is yet their ruler rigid. 
 Tho' at times they seem to brave it, 
 They his will have aye obeyed. 
 Its still chains with might environ 
 
 And constrain the kingdom frigid; 
 For his scepter is of iron, 
 
 Tho' with velvet softness swayed." 
 
 On the way, the simple Graybeard 
 
 Cheered his tender heart with flowers, 
 Whose rare beauty rose exultant 
 
 From the black and humid soil. 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 163 
 
 Dark decay is beauty's mother; 
 
 And the daughter turns to bowers, 
 Ruins gray, and decks their towers 
 With a tendril-twining toil. 
 
 Every form is matter's dwelling, 
 And, as soon as one is wasted, 
 From decay another rises. 
 
 Changing like the forms of truth, 
 Matter round the bent world wanders ; 
 
 It of every joy has tasted, 
 Finding in decay renewal, 
 
 And the fresh delights of youth. 
 
 Through the city, in profusion, 
 
 Danced, on wings like flakes of color 
 From the painter Nature's palette, 
 
 Nectar-fed gay butterflies. 
 Even a woodland fairy-ballet 
 
 To the sight were less and duller ; 
 For the hue of their seclusion 
 Is the fairies' only guise. 
 
 On the faithful Graybeard brightly 
 
 Burst the view of Time's great palace, 
 In the distance rising lightly 
 
 From the hill's enameled crest. 
 Arm-high, near the site commanding, 
 
 Every lily raised its chalice, 
 As if at a banquet standing 
 In the honor of a guest. 
 
 Somewhat like the regal dwelling 
 That enroofs the crowned Castilian, 
 
 In Madrid, its high life swelling 
 
 The impassioned heart of Spain, 
 
 Stood the Emperor's white palace 
 Hung with banners of vermilion, 
 
164 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 And a clock-tower rose amidst it, 
 With a bell of solemn strain. 
 
 In a meadow near the ocean 
 
 Trod an old man mowing, swaying 
 With the keen scythe's crescent motion, 
 
 As he laid the long years low. 
 In the stable where he shut them 
 
 Stood the sun's black horses, neighing 
 For the provender he cut them, 
 
 Which not otherwhere would grow. 
 
 Like the Halls of Retrospection, 
 
 Facing mornward, up the river, 
 Stood the palace, and behind it 
 Ran the city's mighty wall. 
 This with towers and bastions bristled; 
 
 But no soldier emptied quiver 
 While its barbed death sped and whistled, 
 When a tower would sway and fall. 
 
 Where it fell, it formed a passage 
 
 For the troops of vegetation 
 To attack the standing rampart 
 
 With triumphant shields and spears. 
 Kindness and the Graybeard clabbered 
 
 Over debris to a station 
 On the wall, and wide before them 
 Lay the city worn with years. 
 
 Far as the eye could aught descry, 
 
 The town stretched, quilted, seamy, 
 Toward Winter's star ; and eastward far, 
 
 With pagan, pillared fanes. 
 The castle towers and palaces 
 
 Hung in the distance dreamy, 
 And ancient baths and aqueducts 
 Were traced in arched remains. 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 165 
 
 Along Time's hill, which bordered 
 On the ocean black and lonely, 
 The high wall ran whereon the man 
 
 And Kindness gazed around. 
 Far below them, on the waters 
 
 That were gloom and silence only, 
 Lay a twilight that to midnight 
 
 Deepened westward, vapor-bound. 
 
 VI. 
 
 On another day came Kindness 
 
 With the Graybeard, and, descending 
 To the dismalest of beaches, 
 
 By the dark sea walked a while. 
 In the shallow, marshy reaches, 
 
 Where white ibises were bending, 
 Grew the lotus and papyrus 
 
 That have vanished from the Nile. 
 
 In the hillside steep and rocky, 
 
 Seamed with paths of deep reflection, 
 Countless tombs were hewed, whose mummies 
 
 Were in life to Horus true. 
 He, to perished lives he cherished, 
 
 Brought fresh bloom and resurrection, 
 Son of Hathor, golden goddess 
 
 Of the heavens soft and blue. 
 
 Egypt thought that, with life brutal, 
 Souls departed were encumbered ; 
 But again they would be human, 
 After three millenniums fled. 
 With their self-renewing beetles, 
 
 Long the mummies here had slumbered, 
 And beyond the time appointed ; 
 
 Yet they woke not from the dead. 
 
166 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 As if tomb or beach enshrined it, 
 
 Sought the Gray beard for his jewel. 
 He was sure that he would find it 
 By the dateless, dusky shore ; 
 For his failures ever straightway 
 
 Gave his flame of hope new fuel; 
 Yet he clambered to a gateway, 
 Unrewarded as before. 
 
 On the arch an unknown motto, 
 
 In the weedy stones and rotten, 
 Was engraved, and gave its token 
 
 To the blind and voiceless deep ; 
 While inside this coastern entrance, 
 
 Busts of great men long forgotten, 
 And their statues, marred and broken, 
 Lay unvalued on the steep. 
 
 But behind the stagnant ocean 
 
 Glowed bright-arrowed day, declining; 
 Yet no shaft of all his splendor 
 
 Pierced the dull deep's mail of night. 
 All the city towers, like tapers, 
 
 With his level rays were shining ; 
 But the waters and their vapors 
 Were the darker for the light. 
 
 On the coast the wall was weakest, 
 
 Holding up a slight resistance ; 
 For a tidal-wave incoming, 
 
 At a blow, had dashed it down. 
 But it showed the thin partition, 
 And how perilous the distance 
 Was between dead inanition 
 
 And the retrospective town. 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 167 
 
 vn. 
 
 With his lovable companion 
 
 Went the Graybeard on the morrow, 
 Toward the quay along the river, 
 
 And the rotting, wooden piers. 
 He was swiftly growing older, 
 
 And her strength he had to borrow; 
 For he leaned upon her shoulder 
 
 With the trembling weight of years. 
 
 It was beautiful to see them 
 
 As they through the old streets wended. 
 Her eyes were mild, and when she smiled 
 
 Some heart with joy was filled. 
 She was fair, and her complexion 
 
 With the open lily blended ; 
 But her words set roses blooming, 
 And the raging tempest stilled. 
 
 Many a time some mildewed building, 
 
 Bat-frequented, long neglected, 
 Would, with sunken roof and doorway s 
 
 Fall across the empty street. 
 On the mound it thus erected 
 
 Outlaw briers and weeds collected, 
 To cut and try the passers-by, 
 And often cause retreat. 
 
 But from out a lofty gateway 
 
 Of the wall beside the river, 
 Came the gentle couple straightway 
 To their quest along the quay. 
 They beheld the dead leaves, drifting 
 
 In the black, thick water, quiver 
 And eddy near some slimy pier, 
 To ebb away to sea. 
 
168 TEE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 All the commerce was departed ; 
 And tho' deeply laden vessels 
 On the wide, straight river started, 
 
 To discargo at the town, 
 Few arrived to cheer and richen ; 
 
 None the tempest longer wrestles ; 
 For all lie half-sunk, unpitchen, 
 
 By the piers, and there go down. 
 
 Patiently the Grayheard hunted 
 
 For his mystic pearl delightful. 
 On pier and hulk and round each bulk 
 
 He looked to see its gleam. 
 For he fancied, as he sought it, 
 
 That for him, the owner rightful, 
 Some kind riverman had brought it, 
 Having found it in the stream. 
 
 Baffled still, the Graybeard lifted 
 
 His calm eyes to scan the distance, 
 And a bulged sail growing larger 
 
 Watched till it beside him moored. 
 Men make faith of what is hoped for ; 
 
 And, that his foot-sore persistence 
 Soon would clutch the gem it groped for, 
 By his faith he was assured. 
 
 Forthwith went he toward the master, 
 
 Who upon the prow was standing, 
 And exclaimed, with heart-beats faster, 
 
 " Tell me of my pearl, long lost ! " 
 Then the other, as a brother, 
 
 To the Graybeard on the landing 
 Kindly said, " Describe this jewel, 
 Which must be of heavy cost." 
 
 When the Graybeard had outlined it, 
 As he might some fading vision, 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 169 
 
 He whom he besought to find it 
 
 Blankly stared, as in a swound. 
 " Vain is search," he answered slowly ; 
 
 " Yet, within my thought elysian, 
 One abides whose name is holy; 
 
 She a pearl like yours had found. 
 
 "She the winsome jewel lost not; 
 
 In my heart she has it ever; 
 Only there can I restore it ; 
 
 She who wore it was my bride. 
 Woe befell me: bride and jewel, 
 
 In the swift, onflowing river, 
 In the silence cold and cruel, 
 
 Sank, in darkness, from my side. 
 
 "She was hurried to the waters 
 
 Where the dream called life forsakes us 
 Dream, or glimpse, that Nature gives us 
 
 Of her many-featured face. 
 To the sea she sweeps the nations ; 
 
 Thence she brought us, thither takes us, 
 And we lose the limitations, 
 Time, causality, and space. 
 
 " More we see not, nor this plainly ; 
 For our knowledge here is blinded, 
 And it gropes and searches vainly 
 Out beyond life's final breath. 
 Doubt not of it we shall profit, 
 
 Tho* the creeds were other minded, 
 If it be a fact in nature 
 
 That the soul lives after death." 
 
 Oh! never more along that shore 
 
 This riverman went sailing. 
 No breeze might waft his wingless craft, 
 That all dismantled lay. 
 
170 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 Nor was he met thereafter 
 
 By the Graybeard, who, fast failing, 
 Deemed the quest was unavailing 
 In the City of Decay. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Day by day the Graybeard wasted, 
 Scarce from his apartment going, 
 Till he turned from food untasted, 
 
 And lay ridden on his bed. 
 Kindness and her friend, intently 
 
 To his care themselves bestowing, 
 Smoothed his patient pillow gently, 
 
 And their comforts round him spread. 
 
 But when, like May, the triumph day 
 
 Came balmy-aired and splendid, 
 They moved him to a broader view, 
 
 And swung the window wide. 
 To every space the populace 
 
 Their waiting sea extended, 
 And by-streets nigh and housetops high 
 Were blackened with its tide. 
 
 Down the way came heralds riding, 
 
 Through their silver trumpets crying, 
 " Time is passing ! Time is gliding ! 
 
 Live the Emperor ! He is here ! " 
 Countless pretty baby children, 
 
 Laughing, sighing, running, flying, 
 Led the pageant ; while sweet music 
 From a distance charmed the ear. 
 
 Naked were the infant Moments, 
 
 But with fruit-tree blossoms belted, 
 That were ever snowing petals 
 
 And bestrewing all the ground. 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 171 
 
 Then came lissome older children, 
 By the flying blossoms pelted 
 Graceful Hours, and twelve were rosy; 
 
 Twelve, dark-veiled, with stars were crowned. 
 
 Then the Days came, budding maidens : 
 They had hair of morning brightness, 
 And about with night were skirted; 
 
 Some Days dark and others fair. 
 At their heels the Months close followed: 
 
 In their steps was less of lightness ; 
 On her arm a shield of silver 
 
 Each Month lifted high in air. 
 
 Spring came smiling, showered with praises, 
 
 Crowned with violets and arbutus, 
 Robed in woven flowers and fragrance, 
 
 Crocuses, anemones, 
 Tulips, hyacinths, and lilacs, 
 
 More than all the wealth of Plutus ; 
 And of marigolds and daisies 
 
 Hung her tunic to her knees. 
 
 Round her flew the birds, and uttered 
 
 Her full soul in warbled wooing: 
 All her blossomed promise fluttered 
 
 With the blithe surprise of song. 
 Fell her hair of gold supernal 
 
 To her feet; their touch renewing 
 Waking Love, whose laughter vernal 
 Followed after and along. 
 
 Swarthy Summer was next comer : 
 
 Dowered with beauty Cleopatran, 
 Fervid, full of storms and sunshine, 
 
 And with bosom deep and round. 
 Like a ruby shone the dog-star 
 
 On the forehead of the matron, 
 
172 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 While her gown, her form revealing, 
 Trailed with roses on the ground. 
 
 With a sickle for a scepter 
 
 Autumn followed, luscious, mellow, 
 On vines that groaned and sheaves enthroned, 
 
 And under boughs of fruit. 
 Loud the flail announced her progress, 
 
 Thudding on her grainy yellow, 
 While her sober verdure lightened 
 To a gold and crimson suit. 
 
 Winter came with freezing bluster, 
 
 In an icy chariot riding, 
 Drawn by northern, snowy horses, 
 
 Each with long and streaming mane. 
 Crowned with icicles whose luster 
 Sparkled, he, in ermine hiding, 
 Sat and frowned, his body palsied 
 By his breath's benumbing pain. 
 
 But the Graybeard paled and shivered ' 
 In the breath so sharp and stinging, 
 Like a clinging leaf that quivered 
 
 In December on a tree. 
 He could feel the years encroaching; 
 
 He could hear far, sweet bells ringing, 
 And the Emperor, approaching 
 With his horses, he did see. 
 
 These, in maned and fiery splendor, 
 
 Never man beheld correctly; 
 For inadequate and tender 
 
 Is the eye, and deemed them black. 
 They the sun-god's were, and coldly 
 
 Glanced at Winter indirectly; 
 But they drew the monarch boldly, 
 
 With the scythe hung down his back. 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 173 
 
 Of him heedless, scant devotion 
 
 House or street would show this mower 
 Of the meadow by the ocean, 
 
 For his passing won no cheers ; 
 Yet his chariot resplendent, 
 
 Moving swifter, never slower, 
 Scattered blessings, some transcendent, 
 From its stopless wheels of years. 
 
 The Emperor, tall and meager, 
 
 Had a forelock thin and snowy, 
 Of which the bold have taken hold, 
 
 And gained the thing they would. 
 He wore no crown ; his scepter 
 
 Was a clock-hand gilt and showy; 
 And the sands he held were running 
 Toward the promised Age of Good. 
 
 In the chariot, with the ruler, 
 
 Rode three stated creatures duly : 
 One, the woman, was his consort, 
 
 And was of divinest mold. 
 Of her lord she much demanded, 
 
 Tho' she loved that niggard truly ; 
 But, with folly open-handed, 
 Spent his momentary gold. 
 
 She was Life, and gave the lowest 
 
 Often overflowing measure, 
 While withholding from the dearest 
 
 What she spared to bird and beast. 
 In her hand she held her goblet, 
 
 Bitter-sweet with pain and pleasure, 
 Quaffed with bacchic joy by matter 
 At the outset in the East. 
 
 She the Graybeard at the window 
 
 Saw, and toward him reached the chalice. 
 
174 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 Smiling on him with a glory 
 
 That outbeamed the light around; 
 But the figure like a shadow, 
 
 Hooded, mantled as in malice 
 In the splendid chariot riding 
 
 Dashed the goblet to the ground. 
 
 This was Death, Life's dread companion, 
 
 Bound to Time by icy fetters ; 
 But between Death and the woman 
 
 Stood her slave, a comely youth. 
 He could sweep the keys of feeling, 
 
 Bead the earth-book's rocky letters, 
 And in cloistral conscience kneeling 
 
 Face to face commune with Truth. 
 
 Like the genii so potent, 
 
 In the story of Aladdin, 
 That were faithful in the service 
 
 Of the egg, the lamp, or ring, 
 To the human clay enchanted, 
 
 He was slave, and strove to gladden 
 Life, at whose warm touch it panted: 
 
 What she asked for, he would bring. 
 
 It was he that built the cities, 
 
 Wielded nature's restless forces, 
 Led the arts, delved mine and quarry, 
 Bridged the rivers, sailed the air, 
 Tamed hot steam to fetch and carry, 
 
 Traced the dim stars in their courses, 
 And brought wing-footed Mercury 
 Labor's yoke to don and wear. 
 
 Of obtrusive foot elusive, 
 To the wise and gentle-hearted 
 He was ever welcome, being 
 
 Slave and king whom men call Thought. 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 175 
 
 High of forehead, pale and silent, 
 
 With a smile his lips were parted, 
 And his eyes, large, dark, and dreamy, 
 From the skies their ardor caught. 
 
 Close behind Time's chariot followed 
 
 Earliest men, the club-armed savage 
 Of the geologic epoch 
 
 When grim Winter plowed the earth. 
 With the mammoth and the great bear, 
 
 Which at will were wont to ravage, 
 These men met in hasty warfare, 
 
 And were brutal from their birth. 
 
 From this shaggy strife and grewsome, 
 
 Each was in his trophy girded. 
 Fierce his beard swept down his bosom, 
 
 And his long hair flag'd behind. 
 Reared in caves where day scarce shimmered, 
 
 He with mimicked sounds was worded ; 
 Yet from even him outglimmered 
 Dawnings of a prescient mind. 
 
 Then came those who toiled in Shinar 
 
 To upbuild sky-seeking Babel, 
 With Noah bent who eastward went, 
 
 And founded China's power- 
 And with Misraim, Nile's lord, Misraim, 
 
 Son of sable Ham in fable; 
 For Misraim fared to Egypt 
 
 From the folly of the tower. 
 
 After these came gods, or rather 
 
 Famous folk of mythic story, 
 Who, for beacon deeds or passions, 
 
 By mankind were deified. 
 Zeus, Latona, and Apollo, 
 
 Venus fair and Neptune hoary. 
 
176 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 Thor, the hammerer, and Odin, 
 Glided by with stately pride. 
 
 Into view upon the way rose 
 
 Many purple heads of nations, 
 All the shepherd-kings and Pharaohs, 
 
 With gray Sidon's kings, and Tyre's- 
 Nay, Nineveh's and Babylon's; 
 
 While their subject populations 
 Hung about them, kindred vapor 
 Filled with often-flashing fires. 
 
 And the Graybeard at the window 
 
 Saw the colony Egyptian, 
 Who, in Attica, the rugged, 
 
 Added grace to art and lore. 
 Then not surprised he recognized, 
 
 By Homer's clear description, 
 All the heroes that for Helen 
 
 Raged with battle-joy of yore. 
 
 In that ever-moving pageant, 
 Far surpassing every other, 
 He beheld the prince -3neas 
 
 On his exiled, Idan prow ; 
 Saw great Romulus and Remus 
 
 With their lupine foster-mother; 
 Saw dictator Cincinnatus 
 
 Standing humbly by his plow. 
 
 With his army, Alexander, 
 
 In bright armor and regalia, 
 Preceded Afric Hannibal; 
 
 And high in pomp and state 
 Sat the mighty leader, Csesar, 
 At the feast of Lupercalia, 
 'Pushing back the golden bauble 
 
 That aroused the dagger's hate. 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 177 
 
 Darkness came; the land was shaken, 
 
 Fanes and castles waver'd falling, 
 Graves were of their dead forsaken, 
 
 And the risen gibberers pale 
 Down the way moved whitely, fleeing 
 
 In the mid-day night appalling, 
 On whose stream each ghostly being 
 Seemed a tempest-driven sail. 
 
 Then the Graybeard at Death's window 
 Saw a sight that deeply thrilled him: 
 Three dead bodies on three crosses 
 
 On dark Calvary lifted high. 
 But the Central Face with rapture 
 
 And with glad amazement filled him ; 
 
 For with joy he cried, The Truthsayer! 
 
 Then fell backward with a sigh. 
 
 Through the gloom a wan ray glinted 
 
 As the woman found his pillow, 
 And, in benediction, printed 
 
 On his lips a sacred kiss. 
 He was dead : a shadow horrid 
 
 Had engulfed him, like a billow. 
 Cold he lay, from foot to forehead; 
 
 But his hands were clasped in bliss. 
 
 rx. 
 
 With a foot that rested lightly- 
 On the wall that girt the city, 
 Where the masonry looked seaward 
 
 Near the palace-towers of Time, 
 Robed in splendor stood an angel 
 With benignant arms of pity 
 Wings like gleams of morn outspreading, 
 And face and mien sublime. 
 
178 THE CITY OF DECAY. 
 
 His stature was colossal; 
 
 He was taller than the tower 
 Of an organ-voiced cathedral; 
 
 Yet most beautiful his form, 
 Rising worshipfully Godward, 
 
 Calm, august with sacred power 
 His serenity more awful 
 
 Than the grandeur of a storm. 
 
 Just ahove him, back a measure, 
 
 On a level with his shoulder, 
 Stood a lofty, equal pleasure, 
 
 Like a brother to the first. 
 Over him a third joy hovered, 
 
 Then a fourth, till their beholder 
 Knew a hundred, glory-covered, 
 On the raptured vision burst. 
 
 Thus the great seraphic stairway 
 
 Reached far out above the ocean, 
 Step by step, to dim dominions 
 Of the sapphire-vaulted sky. 
 In the light the argent pinions 
 
 Beat the air with gentle motion, 
 And the robes of brightness fluttered 
 Trailing downward from on high. 
 
 As the angel stairs ascended, 
 
 To the vision they diminished, 
 Tho* they all were like, and blended 
 As one ray their wisdom shone. 
 They looked down with calm indulgence 
 
 On the pageant still unfinished, 
 Waiting, in their winged effulgence, 
 To receive and crown their own. 
 
 Now, the freed soul of the Graybeard 
 In her bosom bearing gently, 
 
THE CITY OF DECAY. 179 
 
 Came dear Kindness to the seraph 
 
 With his foot upon the wall. 
 Into his soft hands she gave it, 
 And he looked on it intently ; 
 For to him it was an infant 
 
 New-born, helpless, frail, and small. 
 
 To the angel next above him 
 
 He upheld it when he blessed it, 
 And that splendor took the spirit 
 
 And bestowed it on the third ; 
 To the fourth the third joy raised it, 
 
 And it grew as each caressed it, 
 For young wings upon its shoulders 
 Started out as on a bird. 
 
 Upward, onward borne and lifted 
 To the tenth seraphic whiteness, 
 There the spirit fair was gifted 
 
 With a spotless robe of truth, 
 And was crowned with his lost jewel 
 
 Nay, a star a dream of brightness 
 The beatified renewal 
 
 Of the lustrous pearl of youth. 
 
 Gentle Kindness, gazing upward, 
 
 Saw the radiant youth ascending, 
 Far along the wide-winged stairway, 
 
 Toward the glory-parted skies. 
 He had spread his sweeping pinions, 
 
 Filled with love and peace unending; 
 
 And she watched his heavenward journey 
 
 Till he vanished from her eyes. 
 
 Yet she heard the music tender 
 
 That adown the stairway sounded, 
 And beheld the blessed splendor 
 
 When high heaven's gates were raised. 
 
180 8ELLEROPHON. 
 
 But with rhythmic wings and voices, 
 
 Her the seraphim surrounded, 
 And, beseeching her to join them, 
 They upon her beauty gazed. 
 
 But Kindness yet would rather 
 
 Bide within Time's breathful portal, 
 Knowing that she has a Father 
 
 In the purer world above 
 Love unselfish, universal, 
 
 Truth celestial and immortal, 
 In the city built of jewels, 
 
 Whose foundation is of Love. 
 
 BELLEROPHON. 
 
 THERE lives a creature of a dreamer's brain, 
 That strove by charms, and with the aid of ghosts, 
 Of making gold to find the secret out; 
 That drew a wide ring round his crucible, 
 And, while the spirits worked at alchemy, 
 He, to beat back vast, adverse ghosts essayed. 
 But soon, within the circle he had drawn, 
 Was set a monstrous Foot, so large, his face 
 Was level with the instep : all in vain 
 His puny efforts to drive back the Foot. 
 
 Oh, hard for him who, having once let in 
 On the charm'd circle of the golden good 
 The first advance of error, strives to oust 
 The evil, and make clear the round again. 
 Not often will the giant Foot retreat. 
 
 And I bethink me him who, in the past, 
 Before Christ's passion ransom'd man from sin, 
 
BELLEROPHON. 181 
 
 And in a land that did not know of God 
 Forced back the Foot of one remorseful crime, 
 Walked silently beneath the silent stars, 
 And gave his heart to cogitation thus: 
 
 " Anteia, wife to Proitos, tempted me : 
 
 She, in the palace where the fountains are, 
 
 Met me at twilight as she walked alone, 
 
 Clad with uncinctured robe, adorned with gems, 
 
 Perfumed with all the spices of the East. 
 
 She made her arms a wreath about my neck, 
 
 And, lifting both her small, gold-sandal'd feet, 
 
 Hung her full weight on me ; her mouth's closed bud, 
 
 Thrilled by the ardent summer of desire, 
 
 Burst into honey'd flower against my lips. 
 
 With warm cheek pressed to mine, she, in my ear, 
 
 Exhaled the poison whisper of her love. 
 
 "I drew back scornfully surprised, and hissed 
 Between set teeth a menace at all sin. 
 She left me thus, and went to him, her liege, 
 And with the broken fragments of her speech 
 Bits of the jar that could not hold her tears 
 She let it fall that I had wronged her much. 
 
 "In swift, deep wrath the fierce king called for me, 
 And on a tablet writing fatal words, 
 With them he sent me forth beyond his realm 
 To Lykia, to the king thereof, who met, 
 And, by the stream of Xanthos, welcomed me. 
 Nine days of feasting passed, and on the tenth 
 The tablet was unsealed, its purport known 
 And its base appetite is gorged to-day. 
 
 "Th* unconquerable Chimaira first I slew. 
 
 She was in front a lion, and behind 
 
 A serpent, and was in the middle a goat. 
 
182 BELLEROPHON. 
 
 Her breath was blazing fire, with which, in rage, 
 
 She burned the drought-parched forests in her path. 
 
 And her, by winged alliance with the horse, 
 
 I slew, indeed, and gave to rigid death. 
 
 I overcame the far-famed Solymi, 
 
 I smote the man-opposing Amazons, 
 
 I turned to naught the well-armed ambuscade, 
 
 And made illustrious my bitter name. 
 
 " But what if I had yielded to the queen, 
 
 And from the king had stolen that which she, 
 
 Tho' offering, had yet no right to give? 
 
 I hold, the soul is like a piece of cloth 
 
 That, being stained, can be made clean no more 
 
 That nothing can erase the stain of sin. 
 
 "Picture that I, having passed safely through 
 The darkness that is seen by dying eyes, 
 Have reached the light beyond, and see the gods 
 In synod throned, and hear Zeus speak and say: 
 
 " ' We serve no law, yet bind the steadfast earth 
 And all the ways of men in chains of law 
 Harmonious with good and linked thereto. 
 The blinded mortal lured to break one chain 
 Makes discord, stains the fabric of his soul, 
 And brings dire retribution headlong down.' 
 
 " Then I, in meek abasement kneeling there 
 Upon the low, first step of Zeus's throne, 
 Hold up my shameful soul, a piece of cloth 
 Through fault of Queen Anteia doubly stained, 
 And say: 
 
 "<O Zeus, accept this humble gift! 
 Thou wroughtest it: the texture is as fine 
 As the loose wool of clouds, or the worm's silk. 
 These blots and stains are most like roses strewn.' 
 
THE HERMIT. 183 
 
 " His calmness rippled by slight breeze of scorn, 
 The great cloud-gatherer would answer me : 
 
 " ' O fool ! and blind, to mock the mighty gods ; 
 For, on the mystic texture of the soul, 
 Only a noble deed shows like a flower.' 
 
 " Well, whoso wills shall ever have his way, 
 And what was right, that I had willed to do. 
 So, haply, I on Pegasus shall scale 
 White-crowned Olympus to the brazen halls, 
 If I may keep the path of righteousness 
 That the strong gods ordained." 
 
 Thus mused he then, 
 Unmindful that great zeal for any good 
 Begets a narrowness that leads to ill. 
 The heaven-sent gad-fly stings the flying horse, 
 And hurls the rider back to common ground. 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 THE holiday was azure-domed and fair, 
 And to the Coliseum thronged again 
 Blithe children, fresh and pure as morning air, 
 Fond, tender women, and rude, brawny men; 
 And all gaze centered in the ring below, 
 To view once more a gladiatorial show. 
 
 The late few days had been to waning Rome 
 
 A giddy wine in pleasure's brittle bowl. 
 
 There had been pomp of legions marching home, 
 
 And civic games, and races to a goal ; 
 
 There had been fights with beasts ; and now all breath 
 
 Served expectation at the show of death. 
 
184 THE HERMIT. 
 
 This was the triumph that had been decreed 
 
 To Stilicho, who, on an Easter-day, 
 
 Had met the Gothic hordes, and made them bleed, 
 
 And turned invasion into wild dismay ; 
 
 But with drawn swords the gladiators came 
 
 To end the pleasures with a deed of shame. 
 
 Feeling the weight of eyes upon them rest, 
 They came undauntedly, for often pride 
 Shuts up the dens of fear within the breast. 
 These men were bold to battle till they died, 
 But lacked the fortitude, uncommon still, 
 To show resistance to the public will. 
 
 For it is less to face soon-ended death 
 Than to oppose a great and popular wrong. 
 But he was bolder, armed with fearless breath, 
 The white-haired hermit, broad of soul and strong, 
 Who in that deep arena dared intrude, 
 And raise his voice against the multitude. 
 
 " This is not pleasure it is shame ! " he cried. 
 " O people, let these public murders cease ! 
 Here let them end, and now, lest we be dyed 
 In guiltless blood again, and mar our peace. 
 Oh, let us not with sin God's grace repay 
 That gave us might to drive the Goth away ! " 
 
 Bareheaded, and with naked feet, he stood 
 
 Between the fighters in the open place, 
 
 Clothed in plain garb : his face was mild and good, 
 
 And beautiful with kindness to his race; 
 
 For there are June-like souls so warm and free 
 
 That love blooms in them for humanity. 
 
 But round him loud the Coliseum rang 
 With disapproval of his kind appeal ; 
 
A MORNING PASTORAL. 185 
 
 The populace, exclaimed, " On ! on ! Let clang 
 The sharp contention of exciting steel ! 
 Fight, gladiators, fight ! Nor heed nor look 
 Give to the movement of that babbling brook ! " 
 
 Enraged that still he kept the swordsmen back, 
 True as an arrow to his heart's good aim, 
 The whirlpool of the people in attack 
 Surged down resistless, hissing as it came; 
 And, buffeted and trampled on, he died, 
 And was as drift ingulfed in that round tide. 
 
 For when the living whirlpool ebbed away, 
 And cleared the barbarous arena's space, 
 Stretched on the ground the hermit-martyr lay, 
 A smile of triumph on his peaceful face ; 
 His long white hair was clotted with his gore, 
 And marks of feet were on the garb he wore. 
 
 Great is the martyr's blood, for it can gain 
 
 Its owner's cause, and surelier than he ! 
 
 For when the people saw the hermit slain, 
 
 And through the storm-spent cloud the sun shone free, 
 
 They loathed what they had done, and from that day 
 
 The shows of gladiators passed away. 
 
 A MORNING PASTORAL. 
 
 IF some way Bichat's theory be true, 
 
 That animal and all organic life 
 
 In man combine and culminate the brain 
 
 The animal, the heart the organic life 
 
 I know wherefore my love unasked goes out 
 
 To meadows, trees, clear brooks, and distant hills, 
 
 For thus I am their fellow and their kin. 
 
186 A MORNING PASTORAL. 
 
 I chiefly like, while yet the day is new, 
 
 To walk among the fields along the road, 
 
 And brim my heart with Nature as I go. 
 
 The hoarse grasshoppers soon begin their drone ; 
 
 But on a leaf, one here appears to drowse 
 
 A sleepy sailor in an open boat, 
 
 Rocked on uneasy billows of thin air 
 
 A Palinurus, who, while piloting 
 
 The Trojan galleys on disastrous seas, 
 
 Drowsed into death, among the Siren rocks. 
 
 Here, on a cliff, a noisy brook gets force, 
 
 And, plunging under alders, leaps along 
 
 Down to the fallow, rioting like a boy. 
 
 Anon I start a thrush, and up he wings, 
 
 And with a trail of music darts away, 
 
 Seeking that first republic, the high woods, 
 
 Where he is citizen, but where his kind 
 
 Use melody for speech, and have no flag 
 
 Save the waved leaf above each wicker home. 
 
 Over the tree-tops yonder flies a crow 
 
 That blares his aboriginal bold note, 
 
 And breasts the stubborn wind to gain the shore, 
 
 And cram his crop with what the tide brings in. 
 
 All flowers along the way are friends of mine, 
 
 And once I knew a meditative rose 
 
 That never raised its head from bowing down, 
 
 Yet drew its inspiration from the stars. 
 
 It bloomed and faded here beside the road, 
 
 And, being a poet, wrote on empty air 
 
 With fragrance all the beauty of its soul. 
 
 I pause beneath an overhanging elm, 
 
 Where, cut in granite of the vine-grown wall, 
 
 The wide mouth of a quaint, conspicuous face 
 
 Speaks to all thirst with visible eloquence. 
 
 Beside it sits a beggar on its trough, 
 
 Who craves with quivering lip an alms from me. 
 
 I give him from my earning, and go back 
 
 Toward the loud city with a lighter heart. 
 
VANDERLYN. 187 
 
 STORM. 
 
 THE pale day died in the rain to-night, 
 And its hurrying ghost, the wind, goes by ; 
 
 The mountains loom in their silent might, 
 And darkly frown at the sea and sky. 
 
 The petrel wings close to his surging home, 
 And stabs with a shriek the shuddering night ; 
 
 The mad wave beckons with hands of foam 
 Dipped in the blood of the sea-tower's light. 
 
 So, in my heart, is a storm to-night, 
 Gloom and tumult that will not cease; 
 
 And my soul, in bitterness, longs for the light, 
 For the waking bird and the dawn of peace. 
 
 VANDERLYN. 
 
 THE man who, with a single aim, sailed forth 
 
 From doubting Spain toward the unknown West, 
 
 I would so paint that men in after-years, 
 
 Like me, long sick at heart with hope put off, 
 
 Seeing his lifted and prophetic face 
 
 That fronts the fact and substance of his dreams, 
 
 Shall look not only on Columbus there, 
 
 But see themselves in him, and each one feel 
 
 That he, too, with persistence, shall set foot 
 
 On the firm border of his hope's new world. 
 
 How weak our hands to do the work of thought 
 That flies before ! Here, after thirty years, 
 I am again in Rome: now on the quest 
 To find a portrait of my hero's face, 
 
188 VANDERLYN. 
 
 And fill one panel at the Capitol. 
 
 With failing force weary, broken, old 
 
 How shall I say in color what I feel, 
 
 Or make stand out the picture seen within? 
 
 'Tis well that doting retrospection comes 
 
 To help us bear the burden of disuse, 
 
 When little light is left wherein to work, 
 
 If so be any more may still be done. 
 
 I, looking back, see that my work is true 
 
 At one with truth, and wrought with humble love. 
 
 Men come and go ; but truth shall ever be. 
 
 It does not fade, nor rust, nor waste away; 
 
 But, like the sun, endures : forgetting this, 
 
 We painters miss the heights we might attain 
 
 In feeling that the truthful work we do 
 
 Will live and speak when we are silentest, 
 
 And strongly plead for us against neglect, 
 
 The dull, cold-shouldered mother of regret, 
 
 That in oui hopeful faces shuts the door. 
 
 For merit scorned may safely laugh at scorn, 
 
 Because the common heart by nature turns 
 
 And to the truth despised does reverence. 
 
 But whether scorned or praised, good work abides, 
 
 And, praised or scorned, the undeserving dies; 
 
 And who is he, so short of sight, so vain, 
 
 That is content to have his poor work live? 
 
 Painters there are who never touch a brush : 
 The founders of my country's government, 
 Upon the ample canvas of their hope 
 Painted a great republic that to art 
 Should be most bountiful, should wed no creed, 
 But be fast bound to honor in all ways, 
 And free to peaceful feet from every shore. 
 Thus clear was their exemplar: it is strange 
 The work itself should be so coarse and dull. 
 
VANDERLYN. 189 
 
 How long before the outlines that are left 
 
 Shall be defaced, and no republic be? 
 
 Munificent to art! its artists starve. 
 
 Art does not thrive without encouragement, 
 
 Which follows surelier beneath a crown, 
 
 Where titled wealth and taste are often joined, 
 
 Than from republican ingratitude. 
 
 For how shall art have that which is its due 
 
 Where every nerve strains in the race for wealth, 
 
 Which, being won, is not laid out for art 
 
 Nor aught that will ennoble, but for dress, 
 
 Gay equipages and mere brainless show, 
 
 Incongruous with true democracy ? 
 
 Nay, how shall art receive its just reward 
 
 Where honest worth, willing to serve the state, 
 
 Spurns the political and slimy rungs 
 
 That lead up to a short authority? 
 
 Where foul corruption, listless to rebuke, 
 
 Veiled by the shadow of the Capitol, 
 
 Stains weak hands with dishonorable gold, 
 
 And so makes law ? 
 
 It has been truly said 
 That, lacking art, no nation can be great; 
 But yet one wholly given up to it 
 Is a top-heavy ship, not ballasted, 
 And helpless in the fury of the storm. 
 But in a baser, more ignoble case, 
 A nation of mere dollar-getters, warped, 
 Narrow and sordid people such as mine, 
 Who left me to stand waiting through life's noon, 
 Through life's high noon, that never comes but once, 
 And when my sad and only day is spent 
 Give the commission twenty years delayed. 
 Why not have handed it forthwith when asked? 
 Then I had ringed the whole Rotunda round 
 With painted history, and from the past 
 
190 DANDELION AND TIGER-LILT. 
 
 Called back a silent Congress to look down 
 On men the immortal on the mortal. 
 
 But now, too late! The studio is cold, 
 The landscape on the easel rent across, 
 The palette broken, the last brush worn out 
 All colors fade ; for night we know not of 
 Soon, soon will close the brief, regretful day. 
 Too late! too late! 
 
 DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 
 
 THE gentle slope of a meadow 
 Lay mantled in spring-time green, 
 
 And beyond, in the glare of sunlight, 
 The sky-rimmed ocean was seen. 
 
 A rocky ledge in the meadow 
 
 Towered up with a lichened face, 
 
 And a lonely, sighing pine-tree 
 Shadily rose from its base. 
 
 The meadow was jeweled over 
 
 With the dandelion flower, 
 And under the boughs of the pine-tree 
 
 There grew a natural bower. 
 
 From the distant, spire-crowned village, 
 A man in life's young prime 
 
 To the rocky green seclusion 
 Came seeking rest for a time. 
 
 A breeze from the lulled Atlantic 
 
 Swayed the pine-tree's grieving bough, 
 
DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 191 
 
 And, caressing each dandelion, 
 Kissed softly the comer's brow. 
 
 And a breeze from a sea of sorrow 
 
 Swept over his inmost soul: 
 To branch and flower of his being 
 
 The sighing tenderness stole. 
 
 This waft from the isles of music 
 
 Was yearningly sad and sweet; 
 It murmured along till he voiced it in song 
 
 For the flowers that grew at his feet. 
 
 He sang to the dandelions 
 
 That covered the meadow fair, 
 And they lightly leaned and listened 
 
 To the words of his pale despair. 
 
 THE DANDELION. 
 
 Dear flower, so meek and humble, 
 
 Most kindly I behold 
 Thy slender stem and leafless 
 
 Upbear thy yellow gold. 
 
 Sweet day-star of the meadow, 
 
 The languid lily knows 
 The weariness that closes 
 
 Thy petals for repose. 
 
 The stars that watch thy slumbers 
 Helped warm thee into bloom; 
 
 Haply of them thou dreamest 
 When curtained in thy room. 
 
 Thy room hath silken curtains 
 Wherein thou dost abide 
 
192 DANDELION AND TIGER-LILT. 
 
 When Sleep and Night come sailing 
 Across the darkling tide. 
 
 Thou lack'st the soul of fragrance 
 That hath the rose, thy queen ; 
 
 Thy soul is globed and downy, 
 And at thy death is seen. 
 
 Death ends not life, thou showest; 
 
 For thy white, mist-like ghost 
 Is blown abroad, and wanders 
 
 To distant field and coast. 
 
 Yet not beyond the border 
 Of this round stage of strife 
 
 May thy wan ghost be wafted 
 And dwell again with life. 
 
 But man has faith; whose pinions 
 The starry depths divide, 
 
 That he, in worlds he knows not, 
 Shall be revivified. 
 
 flowers ! O dandelions ! 
 The flower I love is dead. 
 
 Beneath the dandelions 
 
 They made her lonely bed. 
 
 1 could not see her spirit 
 As I might look on thine, 
 
 That, soft and light as zephyr, 
 Floats in the air divine. 
 
 But she is still before me 
 In beauty rich and fair ; 
 
 Her face is bending over 
 Amidst her golden hair. 
 
DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 193 
 
 Her eyes, in depth and luster, 
 
 Outrival star and gem ; 
 She is more lithe and graceful 
 
 Than thou upon thy stem. 
 
 She, too, a golden day-star, 
 
 Dreamed of the stars on high, 
 Closing her jealous curtains 
 
 When Sleep and Night came by. 
 
 Alas, the flower-like maiden 
 
 Whom I have loved so well! 
 Too soon her white soul ripened, 
 
 Too soon life's petals fell. 
 
 Yet when the flower had faded, 
 
 And all was tears and dole, 
 Poised on its stem a moment 
 
 The sphered, departing soul. 
 
 A wind of night came sighing, 
 
 And bore the soul afar, 
 Beyond the world, to waken 
 
 On some seraphic star. 
 
 No more my arms enfold her; 
 
 In grief I bow my head. 
 O flowers ! O dandelions ! 
 
 The flower I love is dead. 
 
 n. 
 
 Near the foot of a lofty sierra, 
 Whose peaks were bound in snow, 
 
 Lay a dreamy town of adobe* 
 In the summer noontide glow; 
 
194 DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 
 
 And in one of the sunny plazas, 
 That boasted the city's name, 
 
 Was a well in the midst of cacti, 
 And hither some maidens came. 
 
 Up-drawing the pleasant water, 
 That sparkled as winter stars, 
 
 On their heads, like Syrian women, 
 The bevy set it in jars. 
 
 One rose of the dark-eyed garden 
 Was lovelier far than the rest; 
 
 She bore no jar, and a jewel 
 Heaved on her tawny breast. 
 
 With her night-like shawl she hooded, 
 For a traveler wandered near; 
 
 But, out of the folded darkness, 
 Upon him she looked with cheer. 
 
 " Sweet maid," said the handsome stranger, 
 
 Dismounting at the well, 
 "Beneath which roof in the plaza 
 
 Does the good alcalde dwell?" 
 
 With a graceful, languid gesture 
 That bore an unconscious charm, 
 
 She drew the long hood backward, 
 With the glimpse of a rounded arm. 
 
 She stood, an embodied twilight, 
 
 With fading sunset skies, 
 And the moon of love, and the star above, 
 
 In the depths of her dusky eyes. 
 
 She answered the simple question 
 With utterance soft and low, 
 
DANDELION AND TIGER-LILT. 195 
 
 And the gentle intonations 
 Had a longing, melting flow. 
 
 " My father is the alcalde ; 
 
 And, if the stranger please, 
 I will lead the way to the mansion ; 
 
 It is yonder, among the trees." 
 
 The traveler walked with the maiden, 
 
 And led his dusty beast ; 
 And first to meet them and greet them 
 
 Was a long-robed shaven priest. 
 
 The maiden smiled at the omen, 
 
 As it seemed to her throbbing heart ; 
 
 But was grieved that the manly stranger 
 Moved from her slightly apart. 
 
 She felt he had read the meaning 
 
 Of her smile and every look, 
 As if they were lines red-lettered 
 
 In some old, familiar book. 
 
 He was tall and of graceful carriage, 
 And had black-lashed, deep-gray eyes. 
 
 That under his wide sombrero 
 Looked eager for bold emprise. 
 
 Reproachfully went she nearer 
 
 And glanced at his face above ; 
 For the summits of admiration 
 
 Were touched with the dawn of love. 
 
 The stranger entered the mansion 
 
 And its court of tropic green, 
 Where a warm New-Mexican welcome 
 
 Was given with stately mien. 
 
196 DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 
 
 For the much-beloved alcalde 
 
 Was glad, he said, to behold 
 The son of a faithful comrade 
 
 In the wandering days of old. 
 
 Dull gray were the walls of the building ; 
 
 But white were the rooms within, 
 And a crucifix over a mantel 
 
 Was hung for the healing of sin. 
 
 While Hospitality, sitting 
 
 In the midst of a lavish store, 
 
 Filled the house with her plenteous sunshine 
 That had lighted it oft before. 
 
 And the joy of the good alcalde, 
 Her thoughts not daring to phrase, 
 
 Disclosed to the guest her favor 
 In tenderly winning ways. 
 
 That night, on his arm close-leaning, . 
 
 In the moonlit garden air, 
 She rested against his shoulder 
 
 Her crown of lustrous hair. 
 
 But a vision rose before him 
 
 Of the love that used to be, 
 With the form so fair and the golden hair 
 
 That he saw by the distant sea. 
 
 And tears in the blue eyes gathered, 
 That drew him reluctant away 
 
 From the breathing flower of enchantment 
 That close to his shoulder lay. 
 
 For his cold good-night was spoken 
 At once, with a shrinking start, 
 
DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 197 
 
 And the maiden still lacked a token 
 To gladden her loving heart. 
 
 But he dreamed of her long black lashes, 
 
 And the gloss of a raven tress ; 
 For the dream was veined with the love contained 
 
 In the soft, repulsed caress. 
 
 m. 
 
 He rose in the sultry weather ; 
 
 The sun was soaring high, 
 And the pathed court under his window 
 
 Lay smiling up at the sky. 
 
 There glistened a spraying fountain 
 
 With green luxuriance round, 
 And tiger-lilies were blooming 
 
 In a beam of the star-shaped ground. 
 
 They lifted their red-gold trumpets 
 
 As they stood in close array, 
 And with swarthy silence saluted 
 
 The ruler of shining day. 
 
 The guest, beholding their beauty, 
 
 By the voice of his heart was told 
 That more than the dandelion's 
 
 Is the tiger-lily's gold. 
 
 For he saw in the tiger-lilies 
 
 The gracious similitude 
 Of the tawny, motherless maiden. 
 
 Whose favor had come unwooed. 
 
 At eve she came from vespers, 
 
 With her prayer-book, like a saint, 
 
198 DANDELION AND TIGER-LILT. 
 
 And, alone in her room in the twilight gloom, 
 With tears made mute complaint. 
 
 While they yet fell salt and grievous, 
 
 A curtain was drawn aside, 
 And the frank request of the favored guest, 
 
 To speak, was not denied. 
 
 His kiss on her hand brought succor 
 To the hopes that had fought her fears. 
 
 And she brushed away the uncounted 
 Pearl rosary of her tears. 
 
 The young man spoke: "Senorita, 
 
 'I love you' is simply said; 
 As I say it to one that is living, 
 
 I said it to one that is dead. 
 
 " Far away where the wild Atlantic 
 
 Boils white on New England's shore, 
 In a kindly village I met her 
 
 Whom morning shall waken no more. 
 
 "Green, green lay the earth about us, 
 And the meadow with flowers was fair ; 
 
 For the gold of the dandelion 
 Was like my loved one's hair. 
 
 " Her eyes were the skies of azure, 
 Her voice was the woodbird's song, 
 
 And the radiant love she gave me 
 Was a river deep and strong. 
 
 " But she faded away to a spirit 
 
 That often I still behold; 
 Her eyes are upturned and peaceful, 
 
 Her hair is fluttering gold. 
 
DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 199 
 
 *She dwells on a star, and softly 
 
 Descends on its limpid ray, 
 To float as a song where I journey along 
 
 The irretraceable way. 
 
 "From the scene of my Eastern passion, 
 
 The prairie wilds across 
 I came to forsake my sorrow, 
 
 The shadow of bitter loss. 
 
 "When first I beheld you I loved you, 
 And the shadow was turned away ; 
 
 But what of my dead love's spirit? 
 Must I bear its scorn for aye ? 
 
 "Will it scorn me, and harm you for taking 
 The place in my life it possessed? 
 
 It may be that my love brings sorrow; 
 But here it shall stand confessed. 
 
 "I warred at first with its coming, 
 
 And bade it forever depart, 
 Lest a shaft from the quiver of evil 
 
 Might find its way to your heart. 
 
 "For if she had lived on, and my spirit 
 Kept watch and ward of her life, 
 
 Would / be content and unangered 
 To see her another's wife? 
 
 "I know not. I know that I love you." 
 As her hand in his own he pressed, 
 
 Her arm round his neck stole fondly, 
 And drew his head to her breast. 
 
 And she said, with a voice whose music 
 Flowed clear as a rock-sourced stream, 
 
200 DANDELION AND TIGER-LILT. 
 
 "The living should live for the living, 
 For the dead are a fading dream. 
 
 "The living should live for the living, 
 For the dead, on the further shore, 
 
 Are filled with joys immortal, 
 And think of this life no more," 
 
 IV. 
 
 Again queen Sleep ascended 
 Her sable, starry throne, 
 
 And her heavy, indolent empire 
 About its base lay prone. 
 
 She lifted her downy scepter 
 With closed and weary eyes, 
 
 And opened the gates of dreamland 
 Where her poppied meadow lies. 
 
 The elves and fairies came tripping 
 Across the fantastic green ; 
 
 The clown and harlequin jested, 
 And columbine danced between. 
 
 The dead with the living mingled, 
 And time was rolled away ; 
 
 For in dreamland is no to-morrow, 
 Nor yesterday, nor to-day. 
 
 Thus rapt, the town of adobe 
 Lay shut in the hand of night ; 
 
 And the moon's impalpable silver 
 Clad roof and wall with white. 
 
 All deeply dark were the shadows, 
 And, like another of these, 
 
DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 201 
 
 A Nav'ajo lithe, broad-shouldered, 
 Crept onward by sure degrees. 
 
 He stole along through the plaza 
 Till, the door of the mansion found, 
 
 His summons startled the echoes 
 That repeated it far around. 
 
 He said to the proud alcalde, 
 
 " One day my life you saved. 
 Your mercy to-night I come to requite, 
 
 And much for this have I braved. 
 
 "As glad to reward a kindness 
 
 As I am to avenge a wrong, 
 My arrows are swift and deadly, 
 
 And the love in my heart is strong. 
 
 "Twice a hundred fierce Apaches 
 
 On the war-path start to-day, 
 And are coming down the canyon 
 
 To rob your people and slay. 
 
 "The Utes and Navajos promise 
 
 To meet and battle the foe, 
 That will hasten back, as a frightened pack 
 
 Of howling coyotes go." 
 
 In the dusk of the day that followed, 
 
 The friendly redskins came ; 
 And their camp-fires, round the plaza, 
 
 Were a girdle jeweled with flame. 
 
 Three hundred armed and painted 
 
 Were mounted at break of day, 
 And the Navajo with the white guest 
 
 Rode in the van away. 
 
202 DANDELION AND TIGER-LILT. 
 
 Three hundred warriors dusky 
 
 Rode out in the dewy morn, 
 And many an Indian maiden 
 
 Was doomed to live forlorn. 
 
 The good alcalde's daughter 
 
 Sat at her window alone, 
 And, seeing the armed departure, 
 
 Drooped with a piteous moan. 
 
 But the Utes and Navajos, valiant, 
 
 Rode onward till lost to view, 
 And came to the silent canyon 
 
 Where the sensitive aspens grew. 
 
 The fir and the pine cast shadows 
 Down the slopes of the great divide, 
 
 While a sorrowful wind, like a soul that had sinned, 
 In the resinous branches sighed. 
 
 All the lonely length of the valley 
 
 A stream of melted snow 
 Wound gulfward, a pale-blue ribbon, 
 
 With a silken sound and flow. 
 
 Between white-hooded mountains 
 
 The awful canyon lay, 
 The bed of a mighty river 
 
 Whose waters had shrunk away. 
 
 Two days the leader-like pale-face 
 
 And the warriors followed the trail, 
 And they reached the sides of the canyon 
 
 That it seemed no foot might scale. 
 
 Here the frightened stream rushed toward them 
 As white as the face of fear; 
 
DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 203 
 
 And an eagle, in widening circles, 
 Flew up from his covert near. 
 
 At the mouth of the league-long narrows, 
 
 Like a dragon's out-thrust tongue 
 Stretched a plain, where, in deep, lush grasses, 
 
 The bells of flowers were swung. 
 
 The trail led up the canyon 
 
 And clung to its rocky side. 
 What was it thereon descending 
 
 That the pale-face first descried ? 
 
 He looked from a jutting bowlder 
 
 And knew the Apaches came. 
 The westering sun was sinking 
 
 Like a giant world aflame. 
 
 The brave allies then quickly 
 
 Returned from the open space, 
 And in a gorge of the mountain 
 
 Encamped in a hidden place. 
 
 They saw the distant Apaches 
 
 Arrive on the flowery plain, 
 And betimes for the night in the shadowy light 
 
 A restful bivouac gain. 
 
 How soothingly thou dost silence, 
 
 O Night! the discord and jar, 
 And manacle with thy darkness 
 
 The violent hands of war. 
 
 Give sleep to the seeker for glory, 
 
 And dreams that angels devise ; 
 For a night that is deeper than thou art 
 
 To-morrow may darken his eyes! 
 
204 DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 
 
 V. 
 
 Ere from the dim horizon 
 
 The darkness had yet withdrawn, 
 
 The day like a bride forthcoming 
 Was seen hi its veil of dawn. 
 
 The Ute and the Navajo army 
 Moved down, in the early breeze, 
 
 To the green plain's southerly border 
 Of rustling cotton-wood trees. 
 
 Therein a watchful Apache 
 
 Fired an echoing shot of alarm. 
 
 With fierce surprise in their fearless eyes 
 The camp awoke to arm. 
 
 They ran for their tethered horses, 
 
 Tho' flying arrow and ball 
 Fell'd some of them near, while other 
 
 At the neighing goal must fall. 
 
 Yet the many in safety mounted, 
 And, swarming like angry bees, 
 
 Charged, yelling and whipping with fury, 
 On the deadly cotton-wood trees. 
 
 But, meeting a flight of arrows, 
 The squadron divided in twain ; 
 
 For some of the steeds were wounded, 
 And some of the riders slain. 
 
 Each brave bore a petted rifle, 
 A steel friend true and tried; 
 
 And he fired it with deadly damage 
 As he rode on his horse's side. 
 
DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 205 
 
 Each face was striped with vermilion, 
 
 And plumes and trappings were red; 
 The sun rose savage and fiery, 
 
 And dark as the pools by the dead. 
 
 But the Utes and the Navajos fiercely 
 
 Resisted the charge of the foe, 
 Tho' the sting of Apache rifles 
 
 Laid many a warrior low. 
 
 Wherever the war blazed densely 
 
 The pale-face battling rode; 
 His roused, swift blood was a risen flood, 
 
 And his gray eyes burned and glowed. 
 
 Two frowning storm-clouds, meeting 
 
 With volleying bursts of fire, 
 Clash loud with bellowing thunder, 
 
 And the strife is vivid and dire. 
 
 So clashed the band of defenders 
 
 With their fell Apache foe, 
 And the rifle-shots rolled and thundered 
 
 Through the canyon to and fro. 
 
 Now, from her heights descending, 
 
 Came Victory, flushed and proud, 
 And hovered over the battle 
 
 Like sunshine over a cloud. 
 
 She led the charging Apaches, 
 
 As if fain to become their guide ; 
 But, when doubting they stood at the verge of the wood, 
 
 She ran to their enemies' side. 
 
 Long, long in the wood raged the battle, 
 For the foemen fought hand to hand. 
 
206 DANDELION AND TIGER-LILT. 
 
 When the Navajos once retreated, 
 The unyielding Utes made a stand. 
 
 They pressed the baffled Apaches 
 From the wood to the open plain, 
 
 And fired at the red invasion 
 From ghastly ramparts of slain. 
 
 The pale-face, as in a vision, 
 
 Saw Victory waiting near, 
 A brilliant, masterful goddess, 
 
 Majestic, brave, and austere. 
 
 She carried the branch of a palm-tree, 
 And laurel leaves wreathed her head; 
 
 There were praise and joy in her coming, 
 But her steps with slaughter were red. 
 
 Her sandals were gold, and her garment 
 To the movement of limb was free, 
 
 While her face for its firmness and patience 
 Was honor and glory to see. 
 
 The pale-face glanced at his shoulder, 
 And knew for the first that it bled ; 
 
 But he still to the foe dealt carnage and woe, 
 Tho' his steed at his feet lay dead. 
 
 He cheered as he saw the Apaches 
 
 Disordered flee to the plain; 
 Yet they turned, with a desperate rally, 
 
 And wildly re-charged ; but in vain. 
 
 For the fierce allies in the battle 
 Were tireless to do and to dare, 
 
 And hurled, from the steeds advancing, 
 The might and main of despair. 
 
DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 207 
 
 The pale-face saw Victory running 
 
 From one to the opposite side, 
 As if at a loss, in the turmoil and toss, 
 
 With whom it were right to abide. 
 
 But while the few scathless Apaches 
 
 Still doggedly held to the fight, 
 Above and between the two forces 
 
 Victory paused in her flight. 
 
 She stooped, her sandal to fasten, 
 
 And her right hand reached and found 
 
 Her raised right foot ; but the movement 
 Had swerved her body around. 
 
 Thus postured, staggering, falling, 
 
 Her form on the balustrade 
 Of the temple, Athena NikS, 
 
 The Greeks in marble displayed. 
 
 And now, when she lost her balance, 
 As on one foot poised she had stood, 
 
 She fell as a gift to her lovers 
 
 That fought on the edge of the wood. 
 
 Giving palm and crown to the pale-face, 
 
 He felt on his cheek her breath ; 
 But he sank to the earth in darkness, 
 
 And lay by the river of death. 
 
 O sister to Strength and Valor, 
 
 And daughter of Titan and Styx, 
 Was it well, with this draught of thy nectar, 
 
 So bitter a potion to mix? 
 
 Was it done to avenge the spirit 
 
 With golden semblance of hair, 
 For that the new love of her lover 
 
 Was more than her heaven could bear ? 
 
208 DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The guest of the proud alcalde*, 
 
 That fell in the surly fray, 
 In the weird and ghostly silence 
 
 On the shore by the river lay. 
 
 No light in the night about him 
 
 Showed either earth or sky, 
 While beneath was a deeper darkness, 
 
 With darkness weltering by. 
 
 It seemed to him there by the river 
 That a thousand years had passed, 
 
 When, dim and afar, a glimmering star 
 Pierced the black shadow at last. 
 
 The star waxed larger and brighter, 
 And shone in one broadening ray 
 
 That sharply parted the darkness, 
 But scattered it never away. 
 
 As the light of a boat on the water 
 Sends down a dagger-like gleam, 
 
 The light of this boat of heaven 
 Pierced deathward its silvery beam. 
 
 And a spirit of light and beauty, 
 Appareled in sanctified white, 
 
 Emerged from the star, and descended 
 The depths of the desolate night. 
 
 She came on the ray, with no movement 
 Of wing, or of foot or hand, 
 
 And was borne, by her calm volition, 
 From the bright to the shadowy land. 
 
DANDELION AND TIGER-LILT. 209 
 
 She was white as the downy spirit 
 
 Of the dandelion flower, 
 And seemed as if lightly wafted 
 
 From the lonely Atlantic hower. 
 
 About her head a nimbus 
 
 Of golden, floating rays 
 Was the glorious hair that the angels wear, 
 
 To the dreamer's enraptured gaze. 
 
 That templed and palaced city, 
 
 Her thoughts, with her past in fee, 
 In her soft blue eyes was mirrored, 
 
 Like Venice in azure sea. 
 
 The spirit stood over the dreamer 
 
 In the glow of the star-sent light, 
 And tenderly low was her voice, and its flow 
 
 As a song's on the water at night: 
 
 "O loved one that still dost wander 
 
 The whirled earth's dreary round, 
 I lament thee here by the river, 
 
 Life's uttermost mundane bound. 
 
 "I lament thy painful danger 
 
 And the ebb of thy fearless blood, 
 And grieve that thy fate hath brought thee 
 
 So close to the sorrowful flood. 
 
 "I looked from the star and beheld thee 
 
 With the maiden of midnight hair, 
 And to see thine arms enfold her 
 
 Was a bitterness hard to bear. 
 
 "To see thine arms about her 
 
 To thy troth and my love seemed wrong; 
 
210 DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 
 
 While the feeling that I was forgotten 
 Trailed like a serpent along. 
 
 "By thee, whom I love, I was wounded, 
 
 Tho' the suffering left no scar; 
 But I wished thee to die, and to meet me on high 
 
 In yonder luminous star. 
 
 "Experience broadens forever; 
 
 And the selfish dross and the clay 
 In the crucible of that moment 
 
 Were purged from my love away. 
 
 " For soon I fully forgave thee ; 
 
 The love that is pure is wide ; 
 And I know that my joy will deepen 
 
 When thou art wed to thy bride. 
 
 " But the Powers of the Universe ever 
 Hold the cause of the wronged in trust, 
 
 And repay with an equal evil 
 Whatever they deem unjust. 
 
 "Yet fate, that I fought, to save thee 
 From the path that thou would'st pursue, 
 
 Hath carried thy life through the perilous strife, 
 And given thee victory too. 
 
 " Thy hurt is the retribution 
 
 For that I was wounded sore ; 
 But thy fate now draws thee backward 
 
 To life and the light once more." 
 
 Thus she spoke, and ascended softly 
 
 The silvery path of the ray, 
 As the soul of the dandelion 
 
 At a breath is lifted away. 
 
DANDELION AND TIGER-LILT. 211 
 
 And the star and the darkness faded 
 In light that seemed suddenly born, 
 
 As the orbs of the firmament vanish 
 In the opulent gift of morn. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Looking down on the tiger-lilies 
 That grew in the court beneath, 
 
 Sat the joy of the kind alcalde*, 
 Twining a delicate wreath > 
 
 A wreath of love for her lover, 
 Of endearing thoughts and dreams, 
 
 The redolent flowers that the sunniest hours 
 Bring forth with their kindly beams. 
 
 For the faithful Navajo wildly 
 That day appeared at the door, 
 
 And told, to the pale astonished, 
 His tale of battle and gore. 
 
 There had been, of the Utes and his people, 
 
 A daring moiety slain; 
 But never a score of Apaches 
 
 Escaped from the canyon's plain. 
 
 The pale-face fought like the giants 
 That, of old, hurled bowlders down, 
 
 And he with his brave, red comrades 
 Was riding back to the town. 
 
 But he and others were wounded, 
 And some of them scarce alive: 
 
 It might be midnight or morrow 
 
 Ere the burdened troop would arrive. 
 
212 DANDELION AND TIGER-LILY. 
 
 The good alcalde's daughter 
 
 Sat rapt in a waking dream, 
 And was borne, in her song of the brave and strong, 
 
 On melody's plaintive stream : 
 
 THEY ABE BRINGING THE WOUNDED HOME. 
 
 They are bringing the wounded home 
 
 From the field of havoc afar; 
 The feet of the horses are slow ; 
 
 But my love is the light of a star, 
 And crosses the distance between. 
 
 I look on my loved one's face, 
 That is paled by a crimson loss : 
 
 If he die, I would be in his place. 
 
 They are bringing the wounded home; 
 
 But Victory's glittering wings 
 Enlighten the honored return, 
 
 And the heart in my bosom sings; 
 For my lover is brave and true, 
 
 And fought like a king in the fray : 
 He rose as the sun in his might, 
 
 And the battle-mist vanished away. 
 
 They are bringing the wounded home; 
 
 But the print of the hoofs is red. 
 O steed of my lover, be strong, 
 
 And warily, tenderly tread. 
 Bear him safely home to my arms, 
 
 As lightly as waves bear the foam. 
 To healing and waiting and hope, 
 
 They are bringing my hero home. 
 
 The loving melody ended 
 
 In the low, dim glow of the west ; 
 
THE GIANT SPIDER. 213 
 
 But the singer's fears, like darkness, 
 Gloomed in her passionate breast. 
 
 A trample of hoofs at midnight 
 
 Was heard in the plaza below, 
 And the town, for the fortunate victors, 
 
 Was quickly with welcome aglow. 
 
 The jubilant bells rang music 
 
 From the belfry holy and high, 
 And waves of huzzas surged upward, 
 
 While bonfires lighted the sky. 
 
 For the guest and the tiger-lily 
 
 Soon came betrothal and feast, 
 And the service was said, when the lovers were wed, 
 
 By the bride's good omen, the priest. 
 
 THE GIANT SPIDER. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 OF the strict god called Science, hi my youth 
 I had enthusiasm and a gift. 
 About the lives of winged and creeping things 
 I was most curious; and having heard 
 That in gray Caffa, or its ancient tombs, 
 A giant spider balked the snares of men, 
 Thither I went, and in the city dwelt. 
 
 The simple folk wagged heads incredulous 
 Of what I asked to know ; but ere the moon, 
 A crescent at my coming, changed to full, 
 I chanced, at sunset, on a fisherman 
 Leaning against his stranded prow : he looked 
 
214 THE GIANT SPIDER. 
 
 As gray and melancholy as the sea. 
 
 In answer to my question, which had trod 
 
 On smiling salutation's awkward heels, 
 
 He said that he had seen my quest's desire. 
 
 He thought the spider larger than a, man, 
 
 And that the cord it spun might serve for rope 
 
 To hoist the boat's lateen impatience with. 
 
 At night belated on the tumuli 
 
 That make the hillside sloping to the shore 
 
 A page of raised, archaeological words 
 
 For the blind gropers of to-day to read, 
 
 He entered wearily an empty tomb, 
 
 And slept therein, until defeated night, 
 
 Warding the thrown spears of advancing day 
 
 With the round world's upheld, emblazoned shield, 
 
 Retreated, facing its continual war. 
 
 So seemed the conflict in his dream : he woke, 
 
 And found that in thick cords he lay ensnared ; 
 
 But reached his knife, and slowly cut them through. 
 
 Then, from the lighted outlet of the tomb, 
 
 A horror fled on sidewise-working legs. 
 
 Back from the beach, and nestling in a glen, 
 A vine-clad cottage, under heavy eaves, 
 Looked seaward with a set, expectant gaze, 
 As some lone watcher with hand-shaded eyes 
 Looks thither for the unreturning sail. 
 Here dwelt my helper to the spidery news. 
 Trees, and a varied garden full of flowers, 
 Sequestered and perfumed the verdant cot. 
 Like Ahab in his house of ivory, 
 Dining on savory pleasures rich and rare, 
 The bee, in casual pollen robed and crowned, 
 Sipped in the snowy lily's palace hall. 
 And there lay yellow lilies strewn about, 
 As if the place had been the banquet grove 
 Of Shishak, king of Egypt; for the flowers 
 
THE GIANT SPIDER. 215 
 
 Were like the cups of gold that Solomon 
 
 Wrought for the service of the only God. 
 
 Out of the cottage, through the garden came, 
 
 Like spring, but breathing a diviner air, 
 
 A maiden with a violet in her hand. 
 
 " This is my daughter," said the fisherman. 
 
 Her jacket glistened with a golden fringe; 
 
 The hound-like sea-breeze, romping by her side, 
 
 Caught up her sash, and let it fall again ; 
 
 Her broidered skirt drooped loosely to her knees ; 
 
 The silken, Turkish trousers hung below, 
 
 Their fullness at the ankles gathered in; 
 
 But the red, toe-curved shoes betrayingly 
 
 Left her arched insteps naked as the moon. 
 
 A scarf enswathed her head, and masked her face ; 
 
 But large, dark eyes looked forth, and in their depths 
 
 I viewed a soul of tenderness and truth. 
 
 So first I met this unexpected May, 
 
 On the Cimmerian Bospore's fateful shore. 
 
 I saw light laughter dancing in her eyes 
 
 At my mistaken uses of their tongue. 
 
 We lingered round the cot a flowery hour, 
 
 Then entered, and, refreshed with grateful fare, 
 
 Made music an occasion for delay. 
 
 We parted in the garden under boughs, 
 
 And as I hurried homeward, light with hope, 
 
 I still beheld her softly-speaking eyes, 
 
 Which in my heart shone down like two clear stars 
 
 Set in the boundless heaven of her soul. 
 
 Thenceforth, day after day, I went to meet 
 The dark-eyed daughter of the fisherman. 
 She welcomed me beneath her trustful roof; 
 The scarf, that veiled the splendor of her face, 
 She drew away, and laid her hands in mine. 
 Her eyes were diamond portals arched and pure, 
 And Sleep their silken latches softly closed 
 
216 THE GIANT SPIDER. 
 
 When, couched beneath his poppy parachute, 
 He wooed her, leaning from his dusky car. 
 As angels issue out of heaven's gates, 
 So, swift and bright, her glances, full of love, 
 Streamed from the sunny portals of her soul. 
 If painter or if sculptor should behold, 
 Upon a summit of that spiritual world 
 He treads with visionary, faltering feet, 
 Faith, Hope, and Charity in outward forms, 
 And give them concrete likeness in one face, 
 I know that it would be a face like hers. 
 
 Yet she at times was sad when I was near, 
 
 And when, embracing her, I asked the cause, 
 
 She said she sorrowed much at their estate, 
 
 At fortune dwindled low, and at the yoke 
 
 Their people chafed their necks in, on the hills. 
 
 Her father was a great Circassian chief; 
 
 But here, in dress and work, he dwelt disguised, 
 
 Till he again could lead his tribes to war, 
 
 And raise the heel that ground them to the dust. 
 
 To confidence there was, in my reply, 
 
 A silken clew: on this at once she seized, 
 
 And said that unknown evil threatened her. 
 
 Forerunning shadows of approaching doom 
 
 Darkened the parks and gardens of her mind, 
 
 So late familiar with the feet of joy. 
 
 She felt she was entangled in a web; 
 
 For tightening cords were drawn about her life, 
 
 And not on any side would give release. 
 
 I tarried late, and told her of my past, 
 
 And of the monster I had come to find; 
 
 But now, even she, of whom I had not dreamed, 
 
 Around my heart had cast a web of love. 
 
 She said that she too in this web was bound, 
 
 But could escape not from that darker web 
 
 Woven about her by the spider, Fate. 
 
THE GIANT SPIDER. 217 
 
 Our hearts renewed, we parted ere the dawn, 
 
 And, at our lips, love met deliciously 
 
 His clinging counterpart, the answering love. 
 
 As from the garden shore I homeward went, 
 
 I saw against the sky a distant hill, 
 
 Whose outlines, merged in darkness, took the shape 
 
 Of an immense black spider : its raised arms, 
 
 That I remembered were by day two trees, 
 
 Caught vainly at a gleaming, firefly star. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 An early knuckle smote against my door. 
 
 I rose and opened to the fisherman ; 
 
 For it was he his face as white as death's, 
 
 His eyes insanely glaring, and his hair 
 
 Tossed up as if abhorrent with his fear. 
 
 "Come, hasten with me," were his boding words. 
 
 We ran along the morning road and shore, 
 
 And breathless reached the silence of his house. 
 
 He led me to his daughter's vacant couch. 
 
 The single window of the favored room 
 
 Was open, and I looked out to the ground. 
 
 On the low cottage's gray, crannied side 
 
 A vine with tapering fingers clung and crept, 
 
 And, latticing the window, curtained it 
 
 With drooping, heart-shaped leaves. But what was this 
 
 That, fastened to the ledge, trailed to the earth ? 
 
 A glutinous rope, twisted with five strong strands. 
 
 Fright, like a wild wind, rushed on me, and whirled 
 
 And bore me like a leaf, as I, with bloodless lips, 
 
 Gasped out, "The Spider!" 
 
 What was best to do ? 
 We saw strange vestiges along the beach; 
 But these were lost beside a marshy dell 
 Where all trace had an end. The long day through, 
 
218 THE GIANT SPIDER. 
 
 Up from the dell we searched among the tombs ; 
 But unrewarded, when the sun was quenched, 
 Sat wearily down, and gave ourselves to tears. 
 Then by a slender thread the darkness dropped, 
 And, like an awful spider, o'er the earth 
 Crawled with gaunt legs of shadow : soon we rose 
 And sought our homes, to meet again at dawn. 
 
 The night was warm, and with the window raised, 
 I sat, and Job-like cursed my natal day 
 And, filled with grief and horror, wrung my hands. 
 Without a light, the house in darkness stood. 
 My back was toward the window : something shut 
 The puny sheen of starlight from the room. 
 The Thing, a monstrous shape, was with me there; 
 Its two hard arms were thrown about my waist, 
 And in them I was carried lightly forth. 
 Benumbed, I had no voice to make a cry, 
 Nor moved to cast my foe off, bound by fear 
 No less than by the giant spider's arms. 
 Then I grew glad thinking I should be borne 
 To the dull creature's web, and there, mayhap, 
 Learn the dread fate of her I loved so well. 
 Ere long we neared the hill whose two tall trees, 
 Like spider's arms, clutched at the fire-fly stars. 
 Up the stark cliff we went, and crossed the web 
 Just as the full moon bloomed upon the verge, 
 And lilied white the Panticapean vale. 
 
 The funnel of the web was in the mouth 
 
 Of a vast tomb, whose outside, hewn on rock, 
 
 Outlined a Gorgon's face with jaws agape 
 
 Medusa, Stheno, or Euryale, 
 
 Changed to the stone that, in the elder time, 
 
 She changed the sons of men who looked on her. 
 
 Then, through the funnel, into the tomb we went. 
 
 Kound me the spider quickly drew his cords, 
 
THE GIANT SPIDER. 219 
 
 Binding my arms, while I resistiessly 
 Drooped on the rock, inured to ugly fear. 
 I fancied that I now was safe till dawn. 
 If I could use my hands, I might lay hold 
 On club or stone, and wield a chance for life. 
 Pinioned, I drew my arms along my sides, 
 And struggled till at last I wrenched them free ; 
 But both hung harrowed by the twisted bonds 
 That with my blood were wet. 
 
 The dread night drag'd; 
 But at the glimpses of auroral gray, 
 A faint moan woke an echo in the tomb. 
 The echo, like a pitying answer, came 
 For solace to the moan ; the light increased, 
 And I descried, not far from where I lay, 
 A maiden sitting: of her thick, long hair 
 She made a raven pillow, as she leaned 
 Against the gloom of that memorial wall. 
 My heart threw wide to her its doors, my arms. 
 She too, as I had been, was closely bound ; 
 But I undid, in part, her sticky cords. 
 
 The sun came up and spread his cloth of gold 
 
 Over the world : we saw the vale and sea, 
 
 And there the ancient city's skeleton 
 
 Protrude, with rib-like columns, from its grave. 
 
 We watched the folk, mere ants, move here and there 
 
 Within the modern town, and pointed out, 
 
 Not knowing we should enter it again, 
 
 The billowy grove wherein her cottage stood. 
 
 Two thousand years ago this outspread sea 
 Was whitened by the snowy flakes of trade 
 That fly from land to land along the tides. 
 When Athens was, and when her scholars cut, 
 With thoughts unrusting, their exalted names 
 
220 THE GIANT SPIDER. 
 
 On the stone tablet of slow-footed fame, 
 A city flourished here, and from the gates 
 Its thrifty, wheaten surplus sent abroad. 
 For centuries, like some majestic star, 
 The city waxed and waned ; now shining large 
 With Eastern splendor and magnificence, 
 Now into occultation fading back, 
 With naught but ruins of its greatness left. 
 It felt the undermining wrongs of peace, 
 And was acquainted with the wrong of war, 
 And these destroyed its power; for all wrong 
 Crawls like a giant spider through the world, 
 And blights the cities where it weaves its web. 
 And buries men in tombs of dark despair. 
 
 While we looked forth on this past-haunted view, 
 
 We saw the subtle spider throw his cord 
 
 Over an eagle tangled in the web. 
 
 With what of strength was left, the eagle fought, 
 
 And spread one wing, and darted its sharp beak. 
 
 At last the spider seized it by the neck 
 
 With his serrated claws, which grew like horns, 
 
 And bit it dead ; then plucked the vanquished plumes, 
 
 And sucked the warm blood from the sundered ends. 
 
 This showed us that the monster brought us here 
 
 To be a hideous banquet, and that one 
 
 Must needs be near and see the other slain. 
 
 The web was like the sail of some large ship, 
 And reached out from the Gorgon's open mouth 
 To boughs of blighted trees on either side. 
 Birds were caught in it ; and, about the place 
 Wherein the spider hid to watch for prey, 
 Their bones lay bleaching in the fervid sun. 
 On the strong web the winds laid violent hands, 
 And tugged amain ; but had no sinew knit 
 To tear it, or divorce it from its place. 
 
THE GIANT SPIDER. 221 
 
 The rain left on it, when the sun came out, 
 Dyed the vast cloth with gay, prismatic hues, 
 And made it glitter like the silken wings 
 Of Cleopatra's barge. 
 
 We felt quite sure 
 
 The eagle's death bequeathed us lease of life. 
 In hopes to find an object of defense, 
 We closely searched about: the tomb was strange, 
 And secret save to the spider and to us. 
 A rich sarcophagus stood in the midst, 
 Of deftly inlaid woods, or carved, or bronzed; 
 Within, a skeleton (its white skull crowned 
 With gold bestarred with diamonds) chilled my blood. 
 A bronze lamp, cast to represent a beast, 
 The triple-polled conceiver of the Sphinx, 
 Lay on the floor, and from its lion's mouth 
 The flame had issued like the flame of life 
 That flickered and went out from the grim king. 
 A target hung above, and on it clashed 
 Trojan and Greek, adverse as right and wrong. 
 About lay cups of onyx set in gold. 
 On conic jars were bacchanalian scenes: 
 Nude, chubby bacchi, grotesque, leering fauns 
 All linked beneath the cluster-laden vine ; 
 And in the jars were rings and flowers of gold. 
 We found twin ear-drops, sapphire Gemini, 
 Metallic mirrors, and a statuette 
 Of amorous Dido naked to the waist. 
 All these we found, but nothing for defense. 
 A club had been of greater worth than these. 
 On desert sands a crust is more than gold, 
 In peril arms, and on the sea a plank; 
 The moment gives the value to a thing. 
 Hopeless of any weapon to repel 
 The loathsome, crawling danger, we embraced, 
 And kissed with silent kisses mixed with tears, 
 
222 THE GIANT SPIDER. 
 
 And waited for the end. Then, for light things, 
 Like gnats that dance in air before a storm, 
 Rise in the mind in moments of suspense, 
 I thought of Italy's tarantula 
 Whose bite is cured by music, so they say, 
 And wondered whether love, which ever seems 
 Like tenderer music than sweet sounds afford, 
 Had power to heal us from this spider's wounds. 
 
 As day was sinking to his crimson death, 
 
 With back to us, the savage monster crouched 
 
 Upon the cliff at our pale prison's mouth. 
 
 His hateful body was a fathom long; 
 
 Two parts it had the fore part, head and breast, 
 
 The hinder part, the trunk : the first was black, 
 
 The last was furry with short, yellow hair. 
 
 Eight sprawling legs to the tough breast adhered ; 
 
 Eight eyes, that never closed, stared from the head, 
 
 Behind their windows of transparent nail. 
 
 His pincers stood between his foremost eyes, 
 
 Were toothed like saws, were sharp and venomous, 
 
 And on their ends had claws ; two arms stretched out 
 
 From the mailed shoulders, and with these he caught 
 
 His tangled prey, or guided what he spun. 
 
 Slowly about he turned, and glared at us, 
 
 Working his arms, and opening his claws, 
 
 Then suddenly moved toward us in attack. 
 
 Dismayed, we fled to the sepulchral depths 
 
 Where darkness dwelt, and where, as Heaven willed, 
 
 My foot on some hard substance struck surprised. 
 
 Stooping, I grasped, and found with boundless joy 
 
 That sharp, unpitying fang of war, a sword ! 
 
 I rushed upon the spider as he came, 
 
 And with one blow cut off his baneful head. 
 
 Awhile he writhed, but, at another stroke, 
 
 Drew up the eight long legs and two thick arms, 
 
POPLICOLA. 223 
 
 And, rolling over on his useless back. 
 Gave up to Geryon his Hadean ghost. 
 
 The treasure of the tomb soon brought us wealth. 
 And the great Tzar, hearing our story told, 
 Sent us rich wedding-gifts of silk and pearls. 
 
 POPLICOLA. 
 
 WHEN Roman virtue was aroused, 
 
 And had deposed the kings, 
 Looking on all their pomp and pride 
 
 As unbecoming things ; 
 When lustful Tarquin's might was crushed 
 
 By all-avenging Fate, 
 A consul named Valerius, 
 Wise Publius Valerius, 
 
 Became the head of state. 
 
 Against the sky, upon a hill 
 
 Before the forum, rose 
 His ample, lordly dwelling-house, 
 
 In marble's white repose. 
 Rome's grave assembly, gazing up, 
 
 Soon made of it a foe ; 
 For, tho' mistrust may not be wise, 
 They thought the house cast jealous eyes 
 
 On what was done below. 
 
 To see come forth Valerius 
 
 With his attendant train, 
 Their potent rods and axes borne 
 
 As if in high disdain ; 
 To see them then descend the hill 
 
 Before the forum wide, 
 
224 POPL1COLA. 
 
 To doubt and fear, that prate of woe, 
 It was an ostentatious show 
 To regal pomp allied. 
 
 It was indeed a stately sight, 
 
 Of which a bard might sing; 
 But men would have that it was meant 
 
 To shadow forth a king. 
 They said, too, that the dwelling-house. 
 
 The robed hill's showy crown, 
 Was lordlier than the palace, 
 That the consul, out of malice, 
 
 Had sternly leveled down. 
 
 Love's shadow is dark jealousy, 
 
 And jealousy knows fear; 
 For men who love their country much, 
 
 And hold their freedom dear, 
 Are jealous of the tendencies 
 
 In him they trust with power, 
 And mark them in his acts, lest he, 
 On their devoted liberty, 
 
 Should bring a trying hour. 
 
 But when the wise Valerius 
 
 Knew what suspicion said, 
 And that the people, whom he loved, 
 
 Upon him looked with dread, 
 He sent for many laborers, 
 
 And, in a single night, 
 Pulled down that pale magnificence, 
 His stately, marble-walled offense, 
 
 And blotted it from sight. 
 
 The people in the morning came, 
 And saw that it was gone, 
 
 The dwelling-house an architect 
 Had lavished beauty on; 
 
POPLICOLA. 225 
 
 And when they knew it was destroyed 
 
 For words that they had said, 
 They truly mourned, as if it were 
 A vestal, or a senator, 
 
 That lay untimely dead. 
 
 The sight of it was lost to them 
 
 They felt with sense of shame, 
 And for unfounded jealousy 
 
 They held themselves to blame. 
 Through these light mists of kind regret 
 
 Their consul's rising star 
 Shone in the Roman mental sky 
 Like daily Phrebus mounting high 
 
 In his triumphal car. 
 
 Valerius now owned no roof; 
 
 But dwelt with gentle friends 
 Until the people, with respect, 
 
 Had hewn him stone amendsc 
 They built the doored and windowed gift 
 
 To lodge their servant in, 
 All seemly to their rigid will ; 
 But not upon the haughty hill 
 
 Where his offense had been. 
 
 They bear the palm and rule the best 
 
 Who wish to truly serve, 
 And nothing from this meek intent 
 
 Could make the consul swerve. 
 He hoped to found a government 
 
 Men would not overturn, 
 And that to virtue would be dear: 
 He made it pleasant, pure, and near ; 
 Not distant, proud, and stern. 
 
 He mingled with the people all 
 To learn the common will, 
 
226 POPLICOLA. 
 
 And ever deemed its finer sense 
 
 His duty to fulfill. 
 He was familiar, kind, and true 
 
 To every one that came ; 
 He strove to mete out justice due; 
 And all the winds of heaven blew 
 
 The trumpet of his fame. 
 
 Surrounded by his civic guard, 
 
 He to the forum went, 
 Whenever the assembly met 
 
 For acts of government. 
 On entering he bowed his head, 
 
 And, to the left and right, 
 His axes parted from his rods, 
 And homaged, as it were the gods, 
 
 The sovran People's might. 
 
 Yet was the man's humility 
 
 The noble means he took, 
 Not, as men thought, to dwarf himself 
 
 For reputation's book ; 
 But to disarm their doubts and fears, 
 
 So quick to rise and frown 
 To give the factious murmur sleep, 
 And, by a wise forbearance, keep 
 
 The dragon, envy, down. 
 
 For envy comes from ignorance, 
 
 Which sees the outward show, 
 And lightly thinks of heavy cares 
 
 That with high office go. 
 Hence bad men climb to power, and glut 
 
 The ways that lead to it. 
 With venal hands they foul its stream, 
 And cause reproach to make it seem 
 
 For moral health unfit. 
 
POPLICOLA. 227 
 
 The honor of Valerius 
 
 Was sweet to every lip. 
 He gave the right to citizens 
 
 To sue for consulship ; 
 Yet ere he would a colleague take, 
 
 Lest one might thwart the cause, 
 Or bring delay where none should be, 
 He built a house for Liberty, 
 
 Of just and equal laws. 
 
 He made it death to seize on power 
 
 Without the people's leave. 
 He raised offenders one more hope 
 
 Their freedom to retrieve ; 
 The sentence that the consuls gave 
 
 The people might relax ; 
 And, brave with either sword or pen, 
 He freed the poorer citizen 
 
 Of an excessive tax. 
 
 What thus from his authority 
 
 He wisely took away 
 He added to his real power, 
 
 Which in the people lay; 
 For they submitted willingly, 
 
 And showed their happy state 
 By naming him Poplic-ola, 
 Republican Poplicola, 
 
 Or People-lover Great. 
 
 Poplicola ! Poplicola ! 
 
 Reechoes in the air. 
 Across the silent centuries 
 
 I hear fame's trumpet blare; 
 Across wide wastes of slavery, 
 
 Time's dusty deserts vast, 
 Across the heat, the dearth, the shame, 
 
228 POPLICOLA. 
 
 Comes sounding down the honored name, 
 From out the ruined past. 
 
 I see its way along the years ; 
 
 I see how pomp and pride 
 Have robbed the people of their rights 
 
 And turned the truth aside. 
 In crowned oppression's bloody work 
 
 To rivet servile chains, 
 I see the fight for freedom sway, 
 I see the triumph and dismay, 
 
 The losses and the gains. 
 
 What wonder that when, sere with age, 
 
 The grand old Roman died 
 The people deeply felt the debt 
 
 They owed this faithful guide? 
 The flowers he found on freedom's heights 
 
 They scattered round his bier. 
 The shadow of their loss was dark, 
 For, as his special honor-mark, 
 
 All women mourned a year. 
 
 He slept entombed in Velia, 
 
 Within the walls of Rome ; 
 And when, of his posterity, 
 
 One reached the common home, 
 The mourners set the body down 
 
 Where its great kinsman lay, 
 Then held a torch the bier beneath; 
 And with this flower from honor's wreath, 
 
 They bore their dead away. 
 
 They showed that honor follows not 
 
 From sire to son along. 
 Few men can rule by love and truth, 
 
 The most have ruled by wrong. 
 
THE EMPEROR'S MERCY. 229 
 
 Not birth, but nature, makes men great ; 
 
 True greatness is divine. 
 It bursts the bars of humble blood, 
 And streams not in a constant flood 
 
 Along a royal line. 
 
 O Liberty ! that on our land 
 
 Hast seemed to kindly smile, 
 Oh! let not wealth and pride of place 
 
 Men's hearts from thee beguile; 
 But make our rulers each like him 
 
 Who knew thy way to plan, 
 Poplicola Valerius, 
 Republican Valerius, 
 
 In very truth a man ! 
 
 THE EMPEROR'S MERCY. 
 
 WHEN Theodosius, who ruled the land, 
 
 Had laid exactions, deemed too hard to bear, 
 
 On Antioch, a mad revolt was planned, 
 
 And, hoarsely surging to the public square, 
 
 The folk dashed on the statues of the crown, 
 
 The ruler's and his wife's, and broke them down. 
 
 But when the tide of fury ebbed away, 
 Upon all hearts there lay a stranded dread ; 
 The people sorrowed for their deed that day, 
 And on thought's canvas saw their danger spread. 
 A somber painter, born of fault, is fear, 
 That magnifies the ills it makes appear. 
 
 So Bishop Flavianus, strong of pen, 
 
 In truth a poet, but who humbly found 
 
 That he of greater use could be to men 
 
 In preaching Christ than if with laurel crowned, 
 
230 THE EMPEROR 1 8 
 
 Left Antioch, and hasted on his way, 
 The ruler's wrath to soften and allay. 
 
 He reached Constantinople, and was led 
 Before the emperor, who heard his plea: 
 "We place a wreath on even the wicked dead ; 
 Since wrong, repented of, no more can be, 
 On our dead wrong let now thy pardon rest, 
 Like wreathen roses on a lifeless breast." 
 
 With darkened look the ruler made reply : 
 
 "In breaking down the statues, your mad throng 
 
 Have reared another to the angry sky 
 
 The black, colossal statue of a wrong ! 
 
 This shall abide the fury of my hate! 
 
 I am resolved : my word is law and fate." 
 
 With saddened soul the bishop turned away; 
 But, knowing that, of boys with harps, a choir 
 Before the emperor made glad the day, 
 While he reclined at meat, there came desire, 
 Through these, the singers, to renew his plea, 
 And with a song the threatened city free. 
 
 Straightway, with loving care, he wrote an ode 
 Glad that, at last, to turn the wheel of use, 
 The sparkling brook of his clear numbers flowed. 
 " That art is best," he said, " which can induce 
 To serviceable ends : of old, art's kings 
 Were fain to do good work on useful things." 
 
 The rhyme was finished, and the gliding words 
 Launched on a sea of music, whose sweet tone 
 Was like the morning notes of woodland birds ; 
 And when from off his golden-curtained throne, 
 The ruler came to feast, like seraphim 
 The choir with harps took up the song for him. 
 
LOW LIVES WE LED OF CARE AND SIN. 231 
 
 They sang the wrong and fears of Antioch, 
 And of the might that mercy gives to kings; 
 They woke, with fingers swift, a flying flock, 
 The fine compassion of the trembling strings. 
 The ruler cried, " Oh, cease your plaintive song, 
 For I forgive the city of the wrong ! " 
 
 LOW LIVES WE LED OF CARE AND SIN. 
 
 Low lives we led of care and sin, 
 And had no aim but that to win 
 
 Our brown and bitter bread. 
 Beside a mountain, at its base, 
 We dwelt, and saw its passive face, 
 
 A sphinx's, overhead. 
 
 We could not read a meaning there. 
 To our dull eyes, what rose in air 
 
 Was naught but rocks and trees. 
 We had not climbed the cloudy height; 
 Enough for us the small delight 
 
 To sit betimes at ease. 
 
 What good were ours, if we should stand 
 Upon the wind-swept table-land, 
 
 And look on fields below? 
 We sneered, contented in the vale; 
 We had nor will nor wish to scale 
 
 The cliffs where cedars grow. 
 
 But haply on a genial day, 
 
 A neighbor, plodding on his way, 
 
 Saw, at the sunset hour, 
 The day-god on our mountain high 
 Rest, like a golden butterfly 
 
 Perched on an azure flower. 
 
232 LOW LIVES WE LED OF CARE AND SIN. 
 
 Our least impressions have their use ; 
 The good or ill that they produce 
 
 Must soon or late befall. 
 And our observant neighbor said, 
 "It may be fertile overhead 
 
 Upon the mountain-wall." 
 
 Forthwith we climbed the flinty crags, 
 And boughs and vines hung like the flags 
 
 Of welcome in a town. 
 On vernal plains we wandered by 
 Clear lakes wherein the bending sky 
 
 Narcissus-like looked down. 
 
 The very grass beneath our feet 
 
 Was somewhat greener and more sweet 
 
 Than that which grew below. 
 We breathed a purer, better air; 
 Our lives seemed wider and most fair, 
 
 And earth with love aglow. 
 
 O ye, long used to care and sin, 
 
 Look up ! take heart ! and strive to win 
 
 A high and noble ground ! 
 Think not that Virtue sits alone, 
 Withdrawn on peaks of ice and stone 
 
 Where only thorns abound. 
 
 She rather has the mountain dells 
 Where, with her kin, in peace she dwells. 
 
 Her sky is ever fair; 
 And in her pleasant, quiet meads 
 The flowers of fragrant thoughts and deeds 
 
 Enrich the healthful air. 
 
THE HOSTS HUMILITY. 233 
 
 THE HOST'S HUMILITY. 
 
 HUMILITY is the excess of love 
 
 We have for others if that be excess 
 
 Which He, who for our help came from above 
 
 And wore our humbler nature, loved to bless; 
 
 But Envy is the coward side of Hate, 
 
 And all her ways are bleak and desolate. 
 
 Nathan, a wise man, who had nursed with care 
 
 A tree of trade that bore sufficient coin, 
 
 Lived not alone for self, but thought to share 
 
 His wealth with others ; so at once to join 
 
 His thought to action, where two highways crossed 
 
 He reared a palace, fair and white as frost. 
 
 Here, food he laid, and smooth wine made to flow 
 For all who came from either east or west; 
 Beggars were not too base for him to know, 
 And each was served as an invited guest ; 
 And when at last there came the parting day, 
 He gave them gifts, and saw them on their way. 
 
 From these mere springs, his fame in rivers flowed, 
 And proud Mithridanes, not taking heed 
 That charities, when done for praise, corrode 
 And lose their virtue, thought that each good deed 
 He too might do and win as high renown, 
 For Nathan's name was better than a crown. 
 
 So he too built a palace, wide and high, 
 And clad it with the banners of his land ; 
 The prosperous towers touched the golden sky, 
 The cooling fountains tossed on either hand : 
 And this, and Nathan's palace, seemed to be 
 Let down from heaven for works of charity. 
 
234 THE HOSTS HUMILITY. 
 
 But proud Mithridanes was envious still, 
 
 As Nathan's name was held above his own ; 
 
 And soon he willed to go to him and kill 
 
 The generous man, that he, and he alone, 
 
 Through the broad world might win the fame he could 
 
 For hospitality and doing good. 
 
 See how vile Envy may mislead our hearts, 
 And feed us with unpalatable sin ! 
 Mithridanes for Nathan's door departs, 
 And, reaching it, with peace is welcomed in ; 
 Even a parrot, up a stairway heard, 
 Stabs at his envy with a friendly word. 
 
 But ere he gained that house munificent 
 He overtook a graybeard on the road, 
 And said to him, as by his side he went, 
 "I go to Nathan and his praised abode." 
 "I am his servant," said the old man gray: 
 " I will ride forward with you on your way." 
 
 This man was Nathan, tho' unknown to him 
 
 Whose deadly purpose slumbered in his breast ; 
 
 And often in the park, at twilight dim, 
 
 They met thereafter, one with gloom oppressed, 
 
 And dealt in words so pleasing and so true, 
 
 That, from the commerce, wealth of friendship grew. 
 
 Here, in the green seclusion of the wood, 
 
 The proud guest told the frost-beard that he came 
 
 To slay his envied rival great and good 
 
 That, furled by death, the banner of his name 
 
 No more should over hill and vale be sent 
 
 As the most noble and benevolent. 
 
 " That you may do the deed and not be seen," 
 Meek Nathan answered, "at the bud of day 
 
THE HOSTS HUMILITY. 235 
 
 Your foe will walk beneath this covert green, 
 And you may fall on him, and be away 
 Before his death is bruited : lest in wrath 
 They should pursue you, flee the mountain-path." 
 
 At morn, to slay the host, went forth the guest, 
 And saw the old man walking 'neath the trees, 
 The friend that he of all men loved the best. 
 " Lo, I am Nathan ! great Mithridanes ; 
 Here, where the heart is, pierce me to the hilt ; 
 Pause not with fear, but slay me if thou wilt." 
 
 Then at his feet the guest fell prone, with tears : 
 " My dearest father, I was proud and base ; 
 Forgive me, for remorse in after-years 
 Will rack me, when I think upon thy face ! 
 No more my envy makes a foe of thee, 
 For I behold thy vast humility." 
 
 " Arise ! " said Nathan. " Tho' I do forgive, 
 
 I need not; for, in wishing to excel, 
 
 You have done nothing wrong ; proud monarchs live 
 
 Who, to be great, have thought it wise and well 
 
 To slay whole armies on the field of strife; 
 
 But you have only sought my humble life." 
 
 The pleasant jewel of good Nathan's face 
 Shone with the inborn luster of his soul, 
 As round the other's neck, with loving grace, 
 His friendly arms in f ull forgiveness stole ; 
 While coward Envy, as she turned to fly, 
 Envied the triumph of Humility. 
 
236 TO RICHARD GRANT WHITE. 
 
 TO RICHARD GRANT WHITE. 
 
 ON READING HIS LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 I READ your life of Shakespeare late; 
 
 The clock, swift-handed, showed the hour 
 Of midnight on the numbered plate, 
 
 And yet your cultured page of power 
 Held my attention captivate. 
 
 I seemed to be in Stratford town, 
 Our Shakespeare's English Nazareth. 
 
 I saw the houses thatched and brown, 
 
 The street whose squalor brought it death. 
 
 To my own time the past came down. 
 
 I saw the Avon wind and glide, 
 
 And Sir Hugh Clopton's bridge across, 
 
 With fourteen arches cool and wide, 
 Deep-shadowed in the water's gloss, 
 
 Like care that spans some pleasure's tide. 
 
 And still the present seemed to me 
 
 The age of Queen Elizabeth. 
 And on the wall of Trinity 
 
 I saw the painted shape of Death 
 The rude, tho' strong, Dance Macabree. 
 
 To Shottery I seemed to stray, 
 
 And to the house where Shakespeare went, 
 In idle hours of youthful May, 
 
 To wed himself to discontent 
 And that fair shrew Ann Hathaway. 
 
 I saw his lampoon on the gate 
 
 Of proud Sir Thomas Lucy's park, 
 
TO RICHARD GRANT WHITE. 237 
 
 And knew lie thus would irritate, 
 
 More than deer-stealing after dark, 
 The pompous village potentate. 
 
 Boy-husband, scarcely twenty-one, 
 
 Yet with three children round his knees, 
 
 It was full time the poet won 
 
 From Fortune's wheel the bread for these ; 
 
 For mouths must eat, and work be done. 
 
 And by the magic of your book, 
 
 Which was like something seen, not read, 
 
 I saw our Shakespeare as he took 
 The road for London from the stead, 
 
 And his want- shadowed cot forsook. 
 
 And from the Aladdin's lamp he bore, 
 
 I saw his wondrous dramas rise 
 Vast palaces of precious store, 
 
 Perfumed with flowers, adorned with dyes 
 Of thoughts that no man had before. 
 
 At Globe or Blackfriars, in his play 
 Of "As You Like It," him the part 
 
 Of faithful Adam, sere and gray, 
 I saw impersonate, with art 
 
 As fresh and natural as May. 
 
 I saw him when he meekly wrote 
 
 With Greene and Marlowe and the rest. 
 
 Of his own power he took small note ; 
 For wounded pride within his breast 
 
 He sought a simple antidote 
 
 And that to dwell in Stratford town, 
 
 And live at ease, a gentleman, 
 By poverty no more held down, 
 
THE PICTURE. 
 
 No more beneath that dreadful ban 
 The village great-man's stony frown. 
 
 And so through life the poet passed, 
 To win a goal of poor pretense ; 
 
 Like that old sculptor, who once cast, 
 For low and paltry recompense, 
 
 A statue deemed divine at last. 
 
 THE PICTURE. 
 
 A WIDOW by her landlord was oppressed 
 
 To pay at once her backward coin of rent; 
 
 For he, cursed by the wealth that should have blessed, 
 
 Forgot that he, too, in a tenement 
 
 Dwelt, with unpaid arrear ; and surely he, 
 
 More than the widow, lived in poverty. 
 
 For they alone are rich who have obtained 
 
 The love of God, for which no gold can pay. 
 
 Blind to the peaceful joy he might have gained, 
 
 The craven landlord, on a winter's day 
 
 That pierced with cold and wind-thrust snow and sleet, 
 
 Drove forth the widow to the roofless street. 
 
 Her clinging son, with elfin prattle, sought 
 
 To charm away her grief; yet, in his heart, 
 
 By the indignant pencil of his thought, 
 
 The shameful scene was drawn in every part. 
 
 There lived the widow's tears, and hard and base 
 
 Stood out the likeness of the landlord's face. 
 
 Like breaking waves, year after year rolled up, 
 And in their tide the widow's son became 
 A truthful painter, in whose life's bright cup 
 A thankful world dissolved the pearl of fame. 
 
FLOS MORTI. 239 
 
 Then, with his brush, which spoke in every hue, 
 The picture in his heart he strongly drew. 
 
 Near to the landlord's home the painting hung, 
 As at his threshold, in a public place ; 
 To view it came the townsfolk, old and young, 
 And said, " This is our neighbor's ruthless face, 
 And this the cruel deed that he has done 
 To the poor widow and her artist son." 
 
 The landlord brought temptations coined and vast, 
 And would have given half the wealthy town, 
 To lay the brush-raised specter of his past: 
 No gold availed ; the specter would not down ; 
 But haunted him thereafter till he died, 
 In looks and words and deeds, on every side. 
 
 FLOS MORTI. 
 
 IN MEMOBIAM H. E. O., MT. XVTI. 
 
 MAIDEN, whom I so briefly knew 
 That unto me thou art a dream, 
 
 A lovely vision lost to view 
 
 Across the dark, relentless stream, 
 
 They bring thee final gifts, and one, 
 A broken lyre of fragrance deep, 
 
 Is symbol of thy life, undone 
 
 By that cold hand whose clasp gives sleep. 
 
 They bring thee flowers, who wert a flower 
 
 Above the lily and the rose. 
 The fading tribute of an hour 
 
 I also bring to thy repose. 
 
240 FLOS MORT1. 
 
 This flower of rhyme, this petaled song, 
 I give to death, I bring to thee 
 
 Whose soul was raised and home along 
 By mystic tides of poesy. 
 
 Thou wert thyself a poem true, 
 A lasting joy to know and read; 
 
 The manuscript is torn in two ; 
 
 The rhythmic strain is mute indeed. 
 
 So oft, through flowery paths of song, 
 Sweet angels led thy thoughts to range 
 
 The immaterial world along, 
 That heaven can not to thee be strange. 
 
 For not to verse wert thou impelled 
 By love for praise; but by the stir 
 
 Of voices that within thee welled, 
 And by thy strength of character. 
 
 O loveliness with eyes like night ! 
 
 We should not call thee to return 
 From out the darkness that is light, 
 
 To where our lamps of being burn. 
 
 For long and thankless is the path 
 Wherein thy tender feet were set; 
 
 Thou shalt not know the briers it hath 
 On heights beclouded with regret. 
 
 On thee Old Age shall lay no hand, 
 Friends shall not turn from thee away, 
 
 Nor shall Temptation near thee stand, 
 Or Disappointment say thee nay. 
 
 From Life thou took'st thy rose of youth, 
 Which at the beaker's brim was hung ; 
 
THE JEWS PIETY. 241 
 
 And in the Heart of love and truth 
 Thou shalt abide, forever young. 
 
 Not less with us thou still shalt dwell ; 
 
 For it is beautiful to be 
 Enshrined in hearts that love thee well, 
 
 A blest and grateful memory. 
 
 THE JEW'S PIETY. 
 
 DANGER ennobles duty simply done. 
 
 Nicanor, an Alexandrian Jew, 
 
 Had traded honestly with every one 
 
 Until his spreading tree of fortune grew 
 
 Beyond the small, dwarfed stature of his needs, 
 
 And each bent bough bore reproducing seeds. 
 
 And then, like him who, walking up the way, 
 Turns round to question him that comes behind, 
 He, turning, faced his heart and asked one day, 
 u What shall I make my duty ? Fixed, my mind 
 Demands its aim must now be understood, 
 For every man should live for some set good." 
 
 Thereto his heart made answer, " Lips are fair ; 
 Make two vast doors for lips, and go with them, 
 And hinge them on the Temple's mouth, that there 
 They long may name thee to Jerusalem : 
 With lily-work and palm thy doors be made, 
 And both with beaten copper overlaid." 
 
 In time the lips were wrought, and, with much gain, 
 He stowed them on a bark, and sailed away, 
 And saw the land fade forth from off the main. 
 Beneath the sun, the rippled waters lay 
 
242 THE JEWS PIETY. 
 
 Like the great roof that Solomon of old 
 Built on the Temple, spiked with goodly gold. 
 
 When certain days flew west a storm came up, 
 And night was like a black and fearful cave 
 Where Powers of Awe held banquet ; as cloud-cup 
 Struck waved cloud-cup, the clash deep thunder gave, 
 And spilled the wine of rain : the thrilling gloom 
 Was filled with loud but unseen wings of doom. 
 
 Then said the master of the worried keel, 
 " Vile Jew, thy doors are heavy : they must go ! " 
 Nicanor cried, " Here, at thy feet, I kneel, 
 And crave of thee to spare them: I will throw 
 My goods away and gold, my proof of thrift ; 
 But spare the doors to God my humble gift. 
 
 " Despise me not ; for he that scorns a Jew 
 Without just cause, himself shall be despised." 
 Thereat his gains he gathered up and threw 
 Into the sea, till all were sacrificed 
 Except his gift; but still the Pan-like blast 
 Piped on the reed of each divested mast. 
 
 Up spoke the sailors to their master dark : 
 " We late made mention to our gods of this, 
 And they require we shall unload the bark 
 Of the vile Jew and all that may be his." 
 As the dread judgment meek Nicanor heard, 
 He radiantly smiled, but said no word. 
 
 Into the deep the lofty doors were thrown. 
 Nicanor prayed, " I put my trust in Thee ! " 
 And sprang out to the storm, and scaled alone, 
 'Gainst Death, the rolling rampart of the sea. 
 He sank and rose ; but, going down once more, 
 His guided hand seized on a drifting door. 
 
WINTER DATS. 243 
 
 Dripping and weak, he crawled upon his float, 
 And heard the cry go by, " The ship is lost ! " 
 Then shrieks, death-ended. Swords of storm that smote 
 Were now soon sheathed, while flags of foam that tossed 
 Were furled in peace, and good Nicanor found 
 The Hp there kissed the sweet and certain ground. 
 
 A cape ran out, a long, rock-sinewed arm 
 
 That buffeted the sea, and this had caught 
 
 The Jew and both his doors ; and free of harm 
 
 He stood in dawn's gray surf : stout help he brought, 
 
 And going safely inland far and fast, 
 
 The gifts were on the Temple hinged at last. 
 
 Long centuries succeed, and Herod, king, 
 
 Hose to rebuild the Temple : for rough stone, 
 
 He reared stone snow, white marble ; each pure thing 
 
 He beautified. Nicanor 's doors alone 
 
 Were left. " These," said the wise high-priests, " shall 
 
 be 
 For a memorial of piety." 
 
 WINTER DAYS. 
 
 Now comes the graybeard of the north : 
 The forests bare their rugged breasts 
 
 To every wind that wanders forth, 
 And, in their arms, the lonely nests, 
 
 That housed the birdlings months ago, 
 
 Are egged with flakes of drifted snow. 
 
 No more the robin pipes his lay 
 
 To greet the flushed advance of morn ; 
 
 He sings in valleys far away ; 
 
 His heart is with the south to-day ; 
 He can not shrill among the corn. 
 
244 IN HANGING GARDENS. 
 
 For all the hay and corn are down 
 And garnered ; and the withered leaf, 
 
 Against the branches bare and brown, 
 Rattles ; and all the days are brief. 
 
 An icy hand is on the land; 
 
 The cloudy sky is sad and gray ; 
 But through the misty sorrow streams, 
 
 Outspreading wide, a golden ray. 
 And on the brook that cuts the plain 
 
 A diamond wonder is aglow, 
 
 Fairer than that which, long ago, 
 De Rohan staked a name to gain. 
 
 IN HANGING GARDENS. 
 
 IN an old city, so the Rabbins say, 
 
 Lived a fair lady having youth and wealth, 
 
 Who in the hanging gardens, day by day, 
 
 Moved through the noiseless paths as still as stealth - 
 
 The lofty paths that climbed, the sun to kiss, 
 
 Above the pinnacled metropolis. 
 
 Here stair on stair with heavy balustrade, 
 And columned hybrids cut in rigid stone, 
 And vase, and sphinx, and obelisk, arrayed, 
 And arched, wide bridges over wheelways thrown. 
 Valleys of heaven the gardens seemed to be, 
 Or isles of cloud-land in a sunset sea. 
 
 The lady, daughter of some prince or king, 
 Was sued in love by one of lowly birth. 
 He gave her gems inclosed in toy or ring, 
 Trifles of cost, of value for their dearth; 
 But she was used to greater gifts than these, 
 And their small beauty failed her heart to please. 
 
ON A GREAT WARRIOR. 245 
 
 She turned away : she did not love him less 
 For that he gave her what to him was rare; 
 She only felt its total nothingness 
 Beside the jewels she was wont to wear. 
 She turned, and in the hanging gardens strayed 
 By drippling fountains in the palmy shade. 
 
 The Soul is child of God, and when the World, 
 Her lover, brings his presents, wealth and fame 
 Wealth, a bird jeweled; fame, a ring impearled 
 She is not satisfied : she bears no blame ; 
 But turns from them to gardens hung in bliss, 
 The un templed calm of heaven's metropolis. 
 
 ON A GREAT WARRIOR. 
 
 WHEN all the sky was wild and dark, 
 When every heart was wrung with fear, 
 
 He rose serene, and took his place, 
 The great occasion's mighty peer. 
 
 He smote armed opposition down, 
 
 He bade the storm and darkness cease, 
 
 And o'er the long-distracted land 
 Shone out the smiling sun of peace. 
 
 The famous captains of the past 
 March in review before the mind; 
 
 Some fought for glory, some for gold, 
 But most to yoke and rule mankind. 
 
 Not so the captain, great of soul, 
 At peace within his granite grave ; 
 
 He fought to keep the Union whole, 
 And break the shackles of the slave. 
 
246 ON A GREAT WARRIOR. 
 
 A silent man, in friendship true, 
 
 He made point-blank his certain aim, 
 
 And, born a stranger to defeat, 
 
 To steadfast purpose linked his name. 
 
 He followed duty with the mien 
 Of but a soldier in the ranks, 
 
 This God-sent man that saved the State, 
 And conquered its victorious thanks. 
 
 How well he wore white honor's flower, 
 The gratitude and praise of men, 
 
 As General, as President, 
 And then as simple citizen ! 
 
 He was a hero to the end ; 
 
 The dark rebellion raised by death 
 Against the powers of life and light, 
 
 He battled hard, with failing breath. 
 
 O hero of Fort Donelson, 
 
 And wooded Shiloh's frightful strife ! 
 Sleep on ! for honor loves the tomb 
 
 More than the garish ways of life. 
 
 Sleep on ! sleep on ! Thy wondrous days 
 Fill freedom's most illustrious page. 
 
 Long-mem'ried Fame shall sound thy praise 
 In every clime, to every age. 
 
PHILIPPA. 247 
 
 PHILIPPA. 
 
 IN praise of Queen Philippa in her praise 
 
 Who, while the king, her husband, fought with France, 
 
 Beat back at Neville's Cross the sturdy Scots, 
 
 And from the grape of their invasion pressed 
 
 The wine of victory. 
 
 A manly deed 
 
 Befits a woman, as, in truth, no less, 
 An act of gentleness befits a man. 
 
 But when the Scots were scattered on the hills, 
 And nursed defeat, Philippa crossed the sea 
 Between the island and the continent, 
 And, in the camp besieging Calais' gates, 
 Was welcomed by the army and the king. 
 
 Upon the wall of Calais, which, howe'er 
 
 Impregnable to savage force of arms, 
 
 Was stormed and scaled by Famine gaunt and thin, 
 
 Stood up the governor in sight of all, 
 
 And waved for parley to his English foe. 
 
 The king sent forth to him an officer, 
 
 Who, when arrived, look'd up, and asked his wish. 
 
 " Brave knight," exclaimed the governor, " my king 
 
 Intrusted unto my command this place. 
 
 Nearly a year you have besieged us round, 
 
 And I, with these about me, as we could, 
 
 Have done our duty in the town's defense. 
 
 But now we are reduced by that lean foe 
 
 Invisible, more pitiless than war, 
 
 And deadlier than its missiles ; for, alas ! 
 
 We yield to famine, and to thee who art 
 
 Its officer and representative. 
 
248 PHILIPPA. 
 
 But, ere the gates be opened, I require 
 This one condition, that thou wilt insure 
 The lives and liberties of these brave men 
 Who have with me borne peril and fatigue." 
 
 The knight made answer to the governor: 
 
 "I know the will of Edward, England's King. 
 
 Enraged at Calais, that so stubbornly 
 
 It has resisted him, he has resolved 
 
 To put it wholly to the sword, and make 
 
 A red example for succeeding wars; 
 
 That henceforth when he stands before a town 
 
 And calls for its surrender, those within 
 
 Will blanch and tremble with the ague, fear, 
 
 If in defense one dare to raise a hand; 
 
 For all will think of Calais, and so yield." 
 
 " Consider," said the governor. " Is this 
 
 Such treatment as the brave accord the brave? 
 
 The blinded victor shows the basest fear, 
 
 Belittles his own deed, and conquers not, 
 
 Who grants no mercy to a fallen foe. 
 
 Were I an English knight, and this a town 
 
 In sea-girt England, what would'st thou expect 
 
 Save that I should be valiant to resist? 
 
 The men of Calais did that for their king 
 
 Which merits the esteem of every prince, 
 
 Much more of one so gallant as thine own. 
 
 But now I make to thee no idle boast; 
 
 If we must perish, thou shalt buy our lives 
 
 With heart's-blood of thy ranks ; for, tho' not strong, 
 
 We are not yet so weak that we will die 
 
 And leave unstruck a blow for hope forlorn. 
 
 But these are desperate and wild extremes 
 
 To which thou should'st not drive us ; but we trust 
 
 That thou, brave knight, wilt kindly interpose 
 
 In our behalf thy gentle offices, 
 
 And thwart' the vain continuance of war." 
 
PHILIPPA. 249 
 
 The knight went back, and on his loyal knees 
 
 Raised meek petition to the warlike king 
 
 To make his rigor less, and so revoke 
 
 The doom that threatened Calais. To the prayer 
 
 The angry monarch yielded, but required 
 
 That six of Calais' noblest citizens 
 
 Should be sent forth to him, without delay, 
 
 That he might treat them after as he willed ; 
 
 They must come barefoot, and bareheaded too, 
 
 With ropes about their necks, to hang them with 
 
 Must bring the keys of Calais in their hands, 
 
 And lay them at his feet : if this were done, 
 
 The people in the city should be spared. 
 
 When these ill news were bruited through the town, 
 
 Fresh consternation wanned the hollow cheeks. 
 
 Who were the six to be? To send them out 
 
 To fall on certain and ignoble death 
 
 For signal valor in a common cause 
 
 Seemed as severe as that they all should die. 
 
 As when a vessel beating 'gainst the wind 
 Changes her course, and for a time drifts back 
 As if irresolute which way to turn, 
 Her white sails flapping, trembling in the gust, 
 So were the men of Calais, in that hour, 
 White, shaking, fearful, and devoid of will. 
 
 But soon brave Eustace de St. Pierre stepped forth 
 
 To show his willingness to suffer death 
 
 For safety of the populace ; and then 
 
 Another, by his lofty action roused, 
 
 Made a like offer, till the needed six 
 
 Stood up before the people, whose wet eyes 
 
 And trembling lips made manifest the grief 
 
 Felt for the martyrs to the city's cause. 
 
250 THE FISHER-MAIDENS. 
 
 At the high gate the doomed went calmly out, 
 
 As malefactors clad, bearing the keys, 
 
 And laid them proudly at the conqueror's feet. 
 
 He, hard and cold, and heedless that his steps 
 
 Went down to infamy in such a deed, 
 
 Ordered that these heroic burgesses 
 
 Should be removed and quickly put to death. 
 
 Then she who won the day at Neville's Cross, 
 Philippa, saved her husband's mighty name 
 A blotch beyond time's healing ; for, with tears, 
 She threw herself before him on her knees 
 Nay, England in the person of the queen 
 And begged the lives of these brave citizens. 
 
 Obtaining her request, she led the six 
 Into a tent where rich repast was served, 
 And giving each silk clothing and red gold, 
 Dismissed them all in safety to their homes. 
 
 THE FISHEE^MAIDENS. 
 
 NORMANDY. 
 
 WE two are fisher-maidens, and we dwell beside the 
 
 sea 
 Where the surf is ever rolling, where the winds are 
 
 blowing free ; 
 And we loved a youth, the bravest that had ever drawn 
 
 the seine, 
 And for comeliness and honor he was fit to wed a 
 
 queen. 
 
 We loved him, and we hated one another for his love 
 That he never showed for either. Could he toss it like 
 a glove ? 
 
BY HUDSON'S TIDE. 251 
 
 But one day the sails were hoisted, and he left the 
 
 loving shore, 
 And we saw him in the beauty and the pride of life 
 
 no more. 
 
 For the tempest broke upon him as at night he ven- 
 tured back: 
 
 All the sea was frothy madness, all the sky was wild 
 and black; 
 
 But we combed the drifted sea-weed from the sable 
 of his hair, 
 
 And the day that he was buried seemed too much for 
 us to bear. 
 
 We two are fisher-maidens, and we hold each other 
 
 dear; 
 We are wedded by a sorrow, we are very fond and 
 
 near; 
 For the love we lost unites us is a bond between us 
 
 twain, 
 And in tears we clasp each other in the nights of wind 
 
 and rain. 
 
 BY HUDSON'S TIDE. 
 
 WHAT pleasant dreams, what memories, rise, 
 
 When filled with care, or pricked in pride, 
 I wander down in solitude 
 
 And reach the beach by Hudson's tide I 
 The thick-boughed hemlocks mock my sigh ; 
 
 The azure heaven is filled with smiles ; 
 The water, lisping at my feet, 
 
 From weary thought my heart beguiles, 
 By Hudson's tide. 
 
252 BY HUDSON 1 8 TIDE. 
 
 I watch a slow-wing'd water-fowl 
 
 Pursue her finny quest, and bear 
 The gasping silver of her prey 
 
 Far up th' untrodden heights of air. 
 In quiet depths I note the course 
 
 Of dreamy clouds against the sky, 
 And see a flock of wild-ducks float, 
 
 Like water-lilies nearer by, 
 
 On Hudson's tide. 
 
 The mullein lifts, along the bank, 
 
 Its velvet spires of yellow bloom ; 
 And there a darting humming-bird 
 
 Gleams in the cedars' verdant gloom. 
 By basins of the brook that flings 
 
 Its dewy diamonds far below 
 Into the ripples' pigmy hands, 
 
 Sweet maiden-hair and cresses grow, 
 By Hudson's tide. 
 
 I wander on the pebbled beach, 
 
 And think of boyhood's careless hours 
 When, in my boat, I used to float 
 
 Along the bank and gather flowers ; 
 Or catch the wind, and swiftly dash 
 
 Across the white-caps in their play, 
 And feel their wet resistance break 
 
 Against the prow in pearly spray, 
 On Hudson's tide. 
 
 And once, in those lost days, I lay 
 Becalmed with limp and drowsy sail, 
 
 And drifted where Esopus Isle 
 
 Mid-stream reclines along the vale ; 
 
 He slowly rose, and stood erect, 
 His giant body all of stone, 
 
BY HUDSON'S TIDE. 253 
 
 And cast his eyes, as from the skies, 
 On me that drifted there alone 
 On Hudson's tide. 
 
 Only his feet were lost to view, 
 
 And cleft the current ebbing down; 
 His lofty headdress, plumed with trees, 
 
 Touched the blue zenith with its crown. 
 The river's self was but his bow 
 
 That lay neglected on the ground ; 
 Like down, or fur, the soft leaves were, 
 
 That, as a blanket, wrapped him round, 
 On Hudson's tide. 
 
 I had not been surprised if he 
 
 Had mounted on some thunder-cloud 
 And rushed at Ontiora's knee, 
 
 With sudden war-whoop sharp and loud. 
 But he was mild, and blandly smiled, 
 
 And spoke with accents sweet and low. 
 His words with kindness glanced and fell, 
 
 And seemed like music or the flow 
 Of Hudson's tide. 
 
 "Enjoy the river and thy days," 
 
 He said, "nor heed what others say. 
 What matters either blame or praise, 
 
 If one in peace pursue his way ? 
 The river heeds not ; heed not thou : 
 
 Cut deep the channel of thy life. 
 Thou hast a fair exemplar there : 
 
 With what serene indifference rife 
 Is Hudson's tide ! 
 
 "How level lies its changeful floor, 
 Broad-sweeping to the distant sea ! 
 
 What Titan grandeur marks the shore ! 
 What beauty covers rock and tree ! 
 
254 INVOCATION TO THE SUN. 
 
 What ample bays and branching streams, 
 What curves abrupt for glad surprise! 
 
 And how supreme the Artist is 
 Who paints it all for loving eyes 
 By Hudson's tide ! " 
 
 I woke ; and since, long years have passed ; 
 
 By Hudson's tide my days go by : 
 Its varied beauty fills my heart. 
 
 Of fairer scenes what need have I? 
 And when my boat of life and thought 
 
 Shall quit the harbor of my breast, 
 And seek the silent, unknown sea, 
 
 I trust this dust in peace shall rest 
 By Hudson's tide. 
 
 INVOCATION TO THE SUN. 
 
 O SUN, toward which the earth's uneven face 
 Turns ever round, strong Emperor of Day, 
 To thee I bring my tribute of large praise; 
 And yet not I ; but that which in me is, 
 The Hfe in life, conscience, suggester, muse. 
 
 Not as to Quetzalcoatl came of old 
 Fane-climbing worshipers with trump and drum, 
 And human victims bared for sacrifice 
 On dizzy Aztec altars; nor, indeed, 
 As to Apollo of the golden hair 
 And fiery chariot, who darted war 
 Against the lords and following of Night, 
 Come I, O Sun, to thee. 
 
 Nor like the Gheber throngs 
 Who on the eastern shore of ocean 
 
INVOCATION TO THE SUN. 255 
 
 Kissing the trail of thy departing robes, 
 Do I, to thy down-going, offer prayer. 
 
 I, worshiper no less, but not of thee, 
 Rising at cool-breathed, night-releasing dawn, 
 Thank the unseen All-Giver for thy day, 
 And see in thee a ray-strung instrument 
 Swept by His hand for harmonies of life. 
 
 Not I alone salute thy springing beam; 
 The mountains do thee homage first of all, 
 And hinder, with their bold and rocky brows, 
 Thy swift, protracted ray. 
 
 Thou callest up 
 
 The blooming new from out the withered old, 
 And givest consciousness to soulless things. 
 Thou sendest forth the lightning-arrowed cloud ; 
 And the coy breeze, a wordless whisperer, 
 Doth interchange the breath of man and tree. 
 Thou dost invite the robin from the south; 
 Thou whitenest the harvest for our need ; 
 Thou fillest out the youthful cheeks of fruit 
 With sappy wholesomeness, and dost, at last, 
 Print one broad sunset on autumnal woods 
 In rubricated letters making known 
 A sad and sylvan moral of decay. 
 
 To tread where populations that are dust 
 
 Eked out their changeful lives, and left behind 
 
 Little beyond a rum and a name, 
 
 Men trust the brief forbearance of the sea; 
 
 But thou, above, silent, immutable, 
 
 Art long familiar with the scenes they seek, 
 
 And hast beheld all times and nations fade. 
 
 Tho' like the leaves the generations die, 
 And tho' the ages in the past recede, 
 
256 DELAY. 
 
 Spun by this pendulous swift wheel of earth 
 In its fixed orbit by thy influence, 
 Thou makest man endure ; he ceases not ; 
 But stands with steadfast feet upon all time ; 
 Nor shall he cease while yet to-morrow holds 
 Its one remove away. 
 
 Our yesterdays 
 
 Are like a lonely and a ruined land 
 Wherein a breeze of recollection sighs 
 A fading land to which is no return. 
 
 Uncertainly we bode the life to come, 
 Yet deem we stand upon the topmost height 
 Material; but this, that thinks and dreams 
 This many-tided vaster sea within 
 Baffles itself, and knows not what it is, 
 Save that its being is enlinked with thine. 
 
 And thou, O Sun, dost look on many worlds 
 On eight-mooned Saturn with his shining rings, 
 On Jupiter, on Venus, pearl of dusk 
 Thou dost behold thy worlds, and lay on them 
 Thy ray's restoring finger: they receive 
 Their sight, and go rejoicing on their way, 
 Changing, we think, thy light and heat to life. 
 But we, bound down, shut in on one small star, 
 Shall not know fully of those other spheres 
 Until the soul, up-drawn by rays Divine, 
 Out of this seed-like body blooms on high. 
 
 DELAY. 
 
 AWARE that, in the warp and woof of fate, 
 Delay's long threads are seen to be sublime, 
 
AZOAR. 257 
 
 Till even hope was dead I learned to wait, 
 And waiting donned the foolishness of crime. 
 
 How often, in the bitter words, " Too late ! " 
 Delay gets back the slight it gives to time! 
 
 AZOAR. 
 
 Mr loved and beautiful bride, Azoar, 
 Stooped to drink at the wayside spring 
 
 When, riding up from the wooded shore, 
 Garbed as a hunter came the King. 
 
 He begged, with a smile, to quaff the bowl, 
 And ever his heart to her eyes would cling 
 
 Those sea-blue boundaries of her soul. 
 
 A cry went out o'er the land for war 
 You who have heard it know how it thrills ! 
 
 Low on the verge burned my rising star. 
 
 There was breath of hope in the wind of ills. 
 
 Feeling that life was shut in no more 
 By the blue impervious haze of hills, 
 
 I bade farewell to my bride Azoar. 
 
 Pointing to cliffs in the wilderness, 
 
 I said, ere weeping I turned away, 
 " Lo ! the years their saddened lips shall press, 
 And mark their progress in sure decay, 
 
 On these ; but not on my love for thee." 
 Then the clouds loomed up across the day, 
 
 Like bergs of ice in a polar sea. 
 
 So, for the rights and the hopes of man, 
 
 An eager host, tho' weary and sore, 
 Marched southward far. I was in the van. 
 
258 AZOAR. 
 
 We pitched out tents on an alien shore. 
 Soon, with iron lips and flaming breath, 
 
 Gage of battle was cast, and we bore 
 The shock and brunt in the teeth of death. 
 
 And it chanced that men unfurled my fame 
 Like a thousand flags in the joyful air. 
 
 The deeds I did as the sun became 
 And shone with my glory every where. 
 
 The army moved at my sole command ; 
 All opposition put on despair, 
 
 And I was lord of the conquered land. 
 
 Yet with an uncertain sense of loss, 
 
 I went to embrace my home once more, 
 
 And peace, like a great white albatross, 
 Passed over the realm from shore to shore. 
 
 The King gave honors that might be seen, 
 And down to greet me he led Azoar 
 
 My bride no more, but Azoar, the Queen ! 
 
 Honors of Satan ! Glory of shame ! 
 
 Dishonor smiting true honor's face ! 
 To fight to victory, win a name, 
 
 And meet, at triumph, the name's disgrace ! 
 " I will not brook it ! " I fiercely said. 
 
 Then insurrection made head apace 
 And crowned me King in the false King's stead. 
 
 It struck him down as he sat enthroned ; 
 
 It slew Azoar as she hied away; 
 For mine was the cause the people owned, 
 
 And death and vengeance were of the day ; 
 Since there never fails to come the hour 
 
 When trampled honor begets dismay 
 And mounts again to the seat of power. 
 
A DREAM FROM SONG. 259 
 
 FAITH'S VISTA. 
 
 WHEN from the vaulted wonder of the sky 
 The curtain of the light is drawn aside, 
 And I behold the stars in all their wide 
 
 Significance and glorious mystery, 
 
 Assured that those more distant orbs are suns 
 Round which innumerable worlds revolve, 
 My faith grows strong, my day-born doubts dissolve, 
 
 And death, that dread annulment which life shuns, 
 
 Or fain would shun, becomes to life the way, 
 The thoroughfare to greater worlds on high, 
 
 The bridge from star to star. Seek how we may, 
 There is no other road across the sky; 
 
 And, looking up, I hear star-voices say : 
 
 " You could not reach us if you did not die." 
 
 A DREAM FROM SONG AND VAIN DESIRE. 
 
 IN the amber haze of a tropical land, 
 
 A giant lily I saw it grow 
 Spread its white pavilion, cool and bland, 
 
 And cast its shade in the path below. 
 
 A large, slow serpent in emerald coil, 
 
 Waiting for aught that the hour might bring, 
 
 Lay 'neath the lily, half hid in the soil, 
 And death forgetful was in his sting. 
 
 So sweet and drowsy the scent of the flower, 
 
 On all volition it turned the key ; 
 For, pent in fragrance, I had no power, 
 
 Nor scarce the purpose, to set me free. 
 
 The lily's stamen of vivid gold 
 
 Stood, to the middle, in floral snow. 
 
260 A DREAM FROM SONG. 
 
 Was it hair or pollen, in fold on fold 
 Around the stamen ? I questioned so. 
 
 It was hair, long hair, disheveled quite ; 
 
 Its arrested sunshine glinted there 
 The hair of a maiden in gauzy white 
 
 A graceful maiden most strangely fair. 
 
 A sudden gust bent the lily down 
 
 To the toppling grass at my listless feet, 
 
 And lightly forth with her waving crown 
 The maiden stepped from her pale retreat. 
 
 As the flower swung back and her glance met mine, 
 I sighed for the heaven of her embrace; 
 
 For love's divinity seemed to shine 
 
 From her lily beauty of form and face. 
 
 The cloven wave of her bosom heaved 
 
 With passion so deep that it bordered pain, 
 
 And, mad of the joy which it had received, 
 The quick blood danced in my heart and brain. 
 
 Her magic loveliness thrilled me through ; 
 
 It fixed on my being's inmost core, 
 And I reached out longing arms to woo 
 
 The breathful life that the lily bore. 
 
 The vision was fruit of a vain desire. 
 
 Or ever the loveliness moved a pace, 
 The dreaded serpent, with eyes of fire, 
 
 Wound swiftly forth from his covert place. 
 
 My bondage ceased as he reared his head 
 To deal me death with the joy denied ; 
 
 And the maiden's voice, as I turned and fled, 
 Flooded the air with a blissful tide 
 
GARNET-SHIRLS. 261 
 
 A voice of melody, full and clear, 
 
 Repeating a tender, love-sweet cry : 
 Return, my belov'd. Why winged with fear f 
 
 Return, my belov'd, lest I fade and die. 
 
 Or was it a songbird high in the pine 
 
 Warbling his love in the moonbeams white ? 
 
 I heard him singing his song divine, 
 
 And woke from my vision of crossed delight. 
 
 Oh ! wild the song and supremely sweet 
 
 In that noon of night and the light thereof, 
 
 And waves of ecstasy through it beat 
 
 On shores of sorrow from depths of love. 
 
 Vanished were maiden and serpent, all ; 
 
 But loud, from his perch in the tassePd choir, 
 Was the wakeful nightbird's rapturous call, 
 
 The longing voice of a vain desire. 
 
 GAENET-SHIRLS. 
 
 ONE quality your beauty has, no less 
 
 Than your supernal soul : it is a rare 
 Unvarying note of delicateness. 
 
 The lily has it, and she is so fair, 
 She seems the very angel of the flowers 
 
 So pure and holy that, across the seas, 
 They pluck her gladly from the willing bowers 
 
 To deck the Christ with, at solemnities. 
 The doubter likes his mission, and will say 
 
 That delicacy is ripeness soon to fall, 
 A frost-work fairy-palace, or a ray 
 
 Of lace-like moonlight on an ivied wall; 
 
 But that oft stays to be the last of al), 
 Which ever lifts its wings to fly away. 
 
262 WHAT DO WE PLANT f 
 
 Oh! might I praise your beauty as I would 
 
 With splendors of the high, impassioned pen 
 That, at a touch, transmits the salient good, 
 
 And, to the spirit, makes it live again! 
 So Dante wrote of Beatrice divine, 
 
 So Petrarch wrote of Laura, and so he, 
 Shakespeare, made even more real Rosaline, 
 
 Miranda, Juliet, Hermione. 
 Had I the gifts the master poets had, 
 
 I should compose a ring of golden verse 
 And in it set you, Diamond, all too glad 
 
 Such jeweler to be, and thus rehearse 
 To the whole world, and for all time renew, 
 The excellence that sways me and is you. 
 
 WHAT DO WE PLANT? 
 
 WHAT do we plant when we plant the tree? 
 We plant the ship, which will cross the sea. 
 We plant the mast to carry the sails ; 
 We plant the planks to withstand the gales 
 The keel, the keelson, and beam and knee; 
 We plant the ship when we plant the tree. 
 
 What do we plant when we plant the tree ? 
 We plant the houses for you and me. 
 We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors, 
 We plant the studding, the lath, the doors, 
 The beams and siding, all parts that be ; 
 We plant the house when we plant the tree. 
 
 What do we plant when we plant the tree ? 
 A thousand things that we daily see ; 
 We plant the spire that out-towers the crag, 
 We plant the staff for our country's flag, 
 We plant the shade, from the hot sun free ; 
 We plant all these when we plant the tree. 
 February, 1890. 
 
A COLONIAL BALLAD. 263 
 
 TO BAFFLE TIME. 
 
 To baffle time, whose tooth has never rest, 
 
 And make the counted line, from page to page, 
 Compact, fulfilled of what is apf and best, 
 
 And vibrant with the keynote of the age, 
 This is my aim ; and even aims are things ; 
 
 They give men value who have won no place. 
 
 We pass for what we would be, by some grace, 
 And our ambitions make us seem like kings. 
 But never yet has destiny's clear star 
 
 For aimless feet shed light upon the way. 
 So have I hope, since purpose sees no bar, 
 
 To write immortally some lyric day, 
 
 As Lovelace did when he informed the lay 
 Inspired by his Lucasta and by war. 
 
 A COLONIAL BALLAD. 
 
 IT was winter in New York and the British held the 
 
 town; 
 For the Colonies, in arms, were inflamed against the 
 
 Crown. 
 There was danger in the air, and it frowned on either 
 
 side; 
 
 But the city, ne'ertheless, had of gayety a tide. 
 Officers, in coats of red, lightly butterflyed about, 
 Flitting round the human flowers at reception, ball, 
 
 and rout. 
 
 Miss Van Steenbergh, Kingston's belle, and of urban 
 
 fair renown, 
 Paid a visit's flying gold, at the season's height, in 
 
 town. 
 She had charms of grace and wit; she could feign a 
 
 pretty sigh 
 For a hapless lover's case, with a twinkle of the eye. 
 
264 A COLONIAL BALLAD. 
 
 " Sweetest girl that I have seen, and as beautiful as 
 dawn," 
 
 Looking on her at a ball, said the British General 
 Vaughan. 
 
 At a formal word or two, soon their hands and glances 
 met, 
 
 And he led her, like a king, in the courtly minuet. 
 
 Many candle-groups of wax lighted up the tripping hall ; 
 
 Flutes and viols, perfumes, dress, swayed the senses, 
 raptured all, 
 
 But the music of one voice, and one face, too soon 
 withdrawn 
 
 From his dazzled, ardent eyes, filled the heart of Gen- 
 eral Vaughan. 
 
 When the winter days were past, and the spring and 
 summer spent, 
 
 Up the Hudson General Vaughan for a vengeful deed 
 was sent. 
 
 In the mid-October haze boding leaves were fiery red. 
 
 Up the river sailed the fleet and the doughty Friend- 
 ship led. 
 
 She had twenty guns and more. Friendship? Such 
 we found indeed ! 
 
 News about the coming fleet spurred ahead with anx- 
 ious speed. 
 
 There were seven ships in all, and of galleys just a 
 score ; 
 
 There were sixteen hundred troops that the ships and 
 galleys bore. 
 
 Kingston, " nest of rebels " bold, heard the certain 
 
 news with dread. 
 That the place was doomed to burn, gadding Rumor 
 
 grimly said. 
 There could be but slight defense, well the menless 
 
 village knew. 
 They must flee with what they might, Duty's trumpet 
 
 harshly blew. 
 
A COLONIAL BALLAD. 265 
 
 Fresh with morning came the fleet to the mouth of 
 
 Rondout creek, 
 Which, with two redoubts, like tongues full of rage 
 
 began to speak. 
 From the decks flashed swift replies, scarcely more 
 
 than fume and threat. 
 Nothing hushed the loud redoubts but the charging 
 
 bayonet. 
 As when some undaunted bird on a flock makes wild 
 
 attack, 
 And the ruffled leave the flock, overpower and drive 
 
 him back, 
 So a patriot galley now, that against the fleet made 
 
 war, 
 
 Adverse galleys turned upon up the Rondout har- 
 ried far. 
 
 Then began the British march, guided by a captured 
 slave, 
 
 To malign, with fire and sword, Kingston folk for 
 being brave. 
 
 Up the hills, across the plains, with the Catskills look- 
 ing down, 
 
 Into Kingston marched the troops of the arbitrary 
 Crown. 
 
 To the houses and the barns, right and left the torch 
 was plied. 
 
 Roaring conflagration burst from the roofs on every 
 side. 
 
 Pillage, got of robber blood, did its petty, coward 
 shames. 
 
 Villagers in flight looked back and beheld their homes 
 in flames. 
 
 All great things, ere they are won, toil and sacrifice 
 require : 
 
 In the New World now leaped up Liberty's first altar- 
 fire ! 
 
266 A SEA-FIGHT. 
 
 But a gentler flame is seen, here beside the flame of 
 
 war. 
 To the fair Van Steenbergh's home it was more than 
 
 bolt and bar. 
 " Yonder stands," said General Vaughan, " an abode of 
 
 wit and grace. 
 Colonel ! it is my command : let no harm befall the 
 
 place ! " 
 
 So that house alone was spared; even to this hour it 
 
 stands, 
 
 A remembrancer in stone of Colonial days and hands. 
 It is said, our Kingston belle with her lover had no 
 
 part ; 
 Cupid's Tory arrow glanced from her Continental 
 
 heart. 
 January, 1893. 
 
 A SEA-FIGHT. 
 
 WE sailed the trim brig Enterprise, and scoured 
 The seas and bays and inlets, swooping down 
 On British navigation, beak and claws, 
 Till Terror snatched the trumpet of our fame 
 And blew it loud. A hundred strong we were; 
 We liked our canvas plumage, wooden walls, 
 And brave commander Burrows. He so well 
 Had trained us to our service on the brig, 
 That by one will, which seemed to be her own, 
 The vessel was inspired ; and gracefully 
 She moved or stayed, like some strong-pinioned fowl 
 Whose life is air and billow. 
 
 On our track 
 
 Was sent, to sink or capture us, a brig, 
 The Boxer, in command of captain Blythe. 
 Above a hundred manned her, chosen men 
 Well versed in sea-fights and not dreading death. 
 
A SEA-FIGHT. 267 
 
 In any part her outfit nothing lacked 
 
 That forethought joined to long experience 
 
 Could with free hand bestow. She crossed the deep 
 
 Hope-winged and steered by warlike confidence. 
 
 k 
 
 Ere new September's sun had quite forgot 
 
 His August anger, and when that ardent god 
 
 Had sent his gray forerunners up the east, 
 
 In shore, scarce three leagues south of Pemaquid, 
 
 The Boxer lay at anchor. We could see 
 
 Her upper half of rigging, yards and spars 
 
 Against the starry sky above the shore. 
 
 The wind was south by west, a freshening breath 
 
 That filled with steady progress all our sails. 
 
 Things dangerous give warning ere they strike : 
 The fanged snake rattles and the lightning's ship 
 Darkens the west. But we, to warn the : brig 
 And rouse her from her slumber, as she lay 
 Rocked on the breathing bosom of the sea, 
 Sent her an iron message round and swift, 
 That chipped a mast and cut a stay in twain. 
 The sending woke the echoes of the coast, 
 Kan up the flag of England to the peak 
 And strained upon the digging anchor-fluke. 
 We heard the alien orders trumpeted, 
 The roll of drums, the hoisting of the sails, 
 Then swung our helm to larboard, stood to sea, 
 And showed the British mariners our heels. 
 With all sails set we stood away to sea; 
 And knew that, having sent so sweet a kiss, 
 We should be followed by our charmer soon. 
 
 Out of the wide Atlantic rose the sun, 
 As red as Mars and girt with pageantry. 
 Dismissing satiate Sleep, he scattered far 
 The insubstantial navies of the dark. 
 He cast a splendid presage on our sails 
 
268 
 
 A SEA-FIGHT. 
 
 And showed us, far astern, the English brig 
 
 Crowding her canvas in excited chase. 
 
 Her sails were puffed out like the blowing cheeks 
 
 That the old painters, picturing the sky, 
 
 Gave the personified, loud-rushing winds. 
 
 Tho' thus she strained, until we clewed and reefed, 
 
 She fell behind and faded from our sight; 
 
 But at his post the lookout ever kept 
 
 His glass set on her, if she waxed or waned. 
 
 And now, with zest expectant, each man broke 
 
 His sleepy fast; and, at the fragrant board, 
 
 The frolic spume of quip and badinage, 
 
 Cast up by surging thoughts too deep for words, 
 
 Kan on and sparkled with misleading light. 
 
 But leaning forward under press of sail, 
 
 Hull down and far to leeward, gained on us 
 
 The Boxer, plunging, tearing through the waves. 
 
 We lay to for a while, then luffed and tacked 
 
 Until an eighteen pounder at her bow 
 
 Sent us a bare-back rider on the wind. 
 
 We heard him cry and saw him as he leaped 
 
 Lightly at our curved mainsail, piercing it 
 
 As if indeed it were a paper'd hoop 
 
 Held up to jump through in a circus-ring. 
 
 And we, ready and waiting for the fight, 
 
 With bulwarks down, screens up, the shot on deck, 
 
 Guns loaded, tackles rove, yards slung, fires out, 
 
 And powder filled, stood silent at our posts 
 
 And meant the battle should be sharp and brief. 
 
 But on the Boxer they had yet no will 
 To close with us so soon ; for, coming up, 
 They at respectful distance ministered 
 Their broadside thunder, damaging in chief 
 Our topsails, flying-jib, top-gallant mast. 
 But we took lower, readier aim, and when, 
 On the white summit of a hill-like wave, 
 The lifted Boxer rose and showed the green 
 
A SEA-FIGHT. 269 
 
 Below her water-line, we paid her back 
 
 With the fierce best that our loud guns could do. 
 
 No fabled dragons ours that, roaring rage, 
 
 Belched flame and smoke and dealt destruction dire, 
 
 With instant iteration, peal on peal 
 
 No fables these the Boxer surely found. 
 
 We paused to let the smoke lift, and beheld 
 
 A hurrying to and fro upon her deck, 
 
 And saw her veering to the starboard tack. 
 
 We followed gleefully, and twice with grape 
 
 We raked her, fore and aft, as to the wind 
 
 She came up shivering. But St. George's cross 
 
 Still at her gaff-peak flaunted enmity. 
 
 Her captain, seeing his unhappy case, 
 
 The dead and wounded thick about the guns, 
 
 The leaky damage to the hull, the masts 
 
 Half cut in twain, stood on the quarter-deck 
 
 And propped the failing courage of his men : 
 
 "Tho* sorely pressed, we shall not lose the fight 
 
 If yet your hearts are equal to your hands ; 
 
 For victory of valor and of strength 
 
 Is evermore begot. And will you strike 
 
 To Yankees her great flag that rules the seas 
 
 To rebels that, with open aid of France, 
 
 Wrested the fairest jewel from our crown ? 
 
 They fought, they said, for precious liberty 
 
 For liberty ! and have not freed their slaves ! 
 
 Nay, nay, you shall not haul the ensign down; 
 
 Go nail it to the mast: we will not strike 
 
 The flag of England on our brig to-day ! " 
 
 The leak was stopped, the masts were stayed, decks 
 
 cleared, 
 
 And, ready again for action, down on us 
 The Boxer bore to scatter us to the winds. 
 
 Far west, upon our inland prairie sea, 
 Two buffaloes with deadly hatred meet, 
 
270 A SEA-FIGHT. 
 
 And one is gored and suddenly slinks away 
 
 To lick his wounds and gather his spent strength. 
 
 His pain excites his fury, and he turns 
 
 Undaunted on his stronger enemy 
 
 With tenfold greater violence than at first. 
 
 So on us now the Boxer, bellowing war, 
 
 Her oak flanks smoking and her head bent down, 
 
 Turned furiously. The sea, struck into foam, 
 
 Dashed over her like pawed-up prairie dust. 
 
 But ever, as she rose upon the wave, 
 
 We welcomed her with carnage and a roar, 
 
 And riddled her in rigging, sails and hull. 
 
 Thus, when the eastward shadows for three hours 
 
 Had flatly rigged the rounded, seamy decks, 
 
 Did the two brigs approach, discharging death, 
 
 And, scarcely half a pistol-shot apart, 
 
 Stand wrapped in battle. Loud and fiercely hot, 
 
 The grim ingredients of floating war 
 
 Mixed in that witches' caldron. Blythe was dead. 
 
 Burrows lay dying; carried from the deck, 
 
 He saw our colors through a rift of smoke, 
 
 And pointing toward them, said, " Strike not the flag ! 
 
 The stars of dawn are in its azure field 
 
 And in its stripes the sunrise ; it denotes 
 
 A strife with dark oppression, old-world wrongs 
 
 A progress toward the goal of liberty. 
 
 What Hampden, Cromwell, fought for, we to-day 
 
 Are fighting for ; we carry on their war. 
 
 Our guns wake echoes of great Milton's songs, 
 
 Of Burke's appeals. Lower not fair Freedom's flag! 
 
 For England's noblest dead look down on us, 
 
 And Washington and our slain patriots 
 
 Look down on us, approving our just cause." 
 
 We cheered and fired, and cheered and fired again, 
 
 Unmindful of the faltering replies 
 
 The Boxer sent from her remaining guns. 
 
 But they who manned them soon for quarter cried: 
 
GETTYSBURG. 271 
 
 "Our colors nailed, we cannot haul them down." 
 
 Then Burrows heard that victory was ours, 
 
 And clasped his hands and said: "I die content." 
 
 At Portland, to which haven we had borne 
 
 The mass of shreds and splinters called the prize, 
 
 We buried the brave commanders, side by side. 
 
 The sympathetic music of the bands, 
 
 The solemn throbbing of the muffled drums, 
 
 The slow procession, stepping rhythmically, 
 
 The somber drapery of the crowded streets, 
 
 The farewell musket volleys all of these 
 
 Were salient, undivided honors paid 
 
 The victor and the vanquished, now at peace. 
 
 Dust in their graves upon our northern coast, 
 They sleep away the ever-passing years, 
 Burrows and Blythe, true heroes, worthy types 
 Of valor, English and American 
 Brave hearts, firm wills, that shall not be forgot 
 While glory waits on patriotic deeds. 
 1887. 
 
 GETTYSBURG. 
 
 THE RECORD OP A NORTHERN" REGIMENT. 
 THE FIRST DAY. 
 
 HIGH-HEARTED with many successes, and never so 
 strong as then, 
 
 Lee marched into Pennsylvania with a hundred thou- 
 sand men. 
 
 But the Army of the Potomac caught up betimes with 
 his van, 
 
 And at Gettysburg fronted invasion valiantly, man for 
 man. 
 
272 GETTYSBURG. 
 
 Then the splendid Eightieth Regiment of New York 
 
 Volunteers, 
 Named "The Ulster Guard" for their county may 
 
 it never lack their peers ! 
 
 Tho' last of the Federal army to strike their Virginia tents, 
 Were first to arrive at Gettysburg and first to wage 
 
 its defense. 
 
 Save that Buford's cavalry only, had come on the day 
 
 before ; 
 And the Ulster Guard, as they double-quicked, could 
 
 hear the far-off roar 
 Of the horsemen's guns, as they thundered to hold the 
 
 coveted ground ; 
 For eagle-eyed General Pleasanton the vantage place 
 
 had found. 
 
 He had given the duty to Buford hereon to make a 
 stand, 
 
 And Buford repeated to Devin, a colonel in his com- 
 mand, 
 
 That here must be fought the battle, and he feared 
 that it would begin 
 
 Ere the infantry could assist him, for the scouts were 
 driven in. 
 
 But Devin, who doubted the foemen in positive strength 
 
 were near, 
 Said that he would "take care of any who might at 
 
 his front appear." 
 " You will not ! " said Buford, " for early to-morrow 
 
 they will attack, 
 And we shall do well, Tom Devin, if we are not soon 
 
 driven back. 
 
 " For the enemy then will come booming his skir- 
 mishers three deep." 
 
 So boded the chevalier Buford, and turned him to 
 warless sleep; 
 
GETTYSBURG. 273 
 
 But he spoke to his signal-captain, reminding him of 
 
 his trust, 
 Saying, " Look out to-night for camp-fires, and in the 
 
 morning for dust." 
 
 There was dust enough in the morning, and lines of 
 
 camp-fires that night ; 
 And Buford and Devin, a-saddle, were early forth for 
 
 the fight. 
 The enemy's van was at them. And where was our 
 
 army delayed ? 
 In a helfry stood gallant Buford, and watched for the 
 
 northern aid. 
 
 The dust of the First Corps' coming was a trailing, 
 glorious cloud. 
 
 The full, red disk on the banners was a sun-like sym- 
 bol and proud. 
 
 The blue-coated succor and rescue marched up the 
 Emmitsburg road 
 
 And across the swale where, like silver, Stevens Bun 
 peacefully flowed. 
 
 Welcome, magnificent, thrilling was the spectacle to behold, 
 
 As the ranks, at double-quick moving through the har- 
 vest's swaying gold, 
 
 Swept up Oak Ridge and deployed there, on the crest, 
 in battle array, 
 
 Their arms and accouterments gleaming in the July 
 light of day. 
 
 When Rowley's brigade reached the ridge that is west 
 
 of Willoughby Run, 
 In a sheltering wood they halted; their wearisome 
 
 march was done. 
 But in Hagerstown road, which rudely of quietude was 
 
 bereft, 
 They at once formed line of battle, with the Ulster 
 
 Guard on the left. 
 
274 GETTYSBURG. 
 
 Then the prompt brigade, by the right flank, in solid 
 
 column advanced 
 Through the wood and the fields beyond it, where 
 
 yellow butterflies danced, 
 Toward Gettysburg, to the ridge-slope that is east of 
 
 Willoughby Run, 
 Where they formed new line of battle, with their backs 
 
 to the mounting sun. 
 
 But ordered over the ridge-top and into the valley below, 
 
 There the rifle missives were pinging, and there were 
 who got their woe; 
 
 Beyond, in a grain field, swarmed hornets, sharp- 
 shooters plying their trade. 
 
 So, back to their place on the ridge-slope, discretion 
 sent the brigade. 
 
 They had been to the spot where Reynolds, their great 
 
 corps commander, fell, 
 And Doubled ay, of their division, now served in his 
 
 stead right well. 
 They had Biddle in place of Rowley, for the hour its 
 
 needs creates; 
 And the Federal left wing, this day, fought under our 
 
 colonel Gates. 
 
 Across from that left, nearly westward, stood a dwell- 
 ing-house of brick 
 
 And farm buildings other, not distant from where the 
 foemen were thick. 
 
 From the buildings our captain, Baldwin, after a spir- 
 ited fight, 
 
 Drove the enemy, took possession and checked and 
 harried their right. 
 
 Then Cunningham daringly followed, to give brave 
 
 Baldwin his aid, 
 And, for two hours, they and their soldiers the left 
 
 flank covered and stayed. 
 
GETTYSBURG. 275 
 
 This deed of a handful excited the growing enemy's 
 
 ire ; 
 He partly surrounded the buildings, the smaller of 
 
 which took fire. 
 
 The companies lost their defenses, and soon thereafter 
 were seen 
 
 Retreating under the cover of cavalry and a ra- 
 vine. ... 
 
 The fear that is felt by the soldier ere the first few 
 shots are fired, 
 
 By the Ulster Guard was forgotten ; for they fought 
 as if inspired. 
 
 The enemy's musketry rattle and dread artillery roar 
 
 Made ever a louder minute than the one that thun- 
 dered before, 
 
 As fresh, impetuous foemen arrived on the furious 
 field, 
 
 And their batteries quickly unlimbered and into action 
 wheeled. 
 
 Their division of Kodes arriving on Oak Hill's summit, 
 
 was seen 
 Overlooking the uplands southward and the basking 
 
 meads between. 
 On the crest they planted their cannons, and with shot 
 
 and shell they cleft 
 The ranks of Federal soldiers, from the right to the 
 
 utmost left. 
 
 As the sickle of pest, for ravage, was this reaping en- 
 filade ; 
 
 To get from the sweep of its anger, the Federal 
 troops essayed. 
 
 By the left flank, Biddle retreated, the Hagerstown 
 road to try, 
 
 Supporting the cannons of Cooper, which to Oak Hill 
 made reply. 
 
276 GETTYSBURG. 
 
 The Federal line was bow-shaped, the apex on Cham- 
 
 bersburg road, 
 The left on Hagerstown highway, and where Bock 
 
 Creek trippingly flowed, 
 
 On the north of Gettysburg, rested the dexter end of the bow ; 
 For the bow was bent backward strongly, as if to 
 
 shoot at the foe. 
 
 But where was the arrow, the army, that should 
 
 straightway pierce his heart ? 
 The bow was soon palpably broken, or broken, at best, 
 
 in part. 
 Too great was the strain for endurance, and the strain 
 
 each moment grew ; 
 For what could four Union divisions, with half of 
 
 Lee's veterans do ? 
 
 When Swell's Corps, formerly Jackson's, had entered 
 
 the clashing field, 
 They meant that the Federal forces should presently 
 
 die, or yield. 
 There were thirty and five armed thousands with this 
 
 savage, warlike will, 
 Slave-holders and proud work-scorners, and for being 
 
 that, fiercer still. 
 
 But, fewer than half their number were the blue in 
 
 battle array 
 Round Gettysburg, northward and westward, on that 
 
 first unequal day. 
 They were cool, effective fighters, and the enemy 
 
 sadly found 
 That the price was his heart's red current, for each 
 
 rival inch of ground. 
 
 But the westering sun drooped hapless when long 
 
 Confederate lines 
 Of closely-formed infantry, moving as pawns in their 
 
 player's designs, 
 
GETTYSBURG. 277 
 
 Began the advance ; and behind them came strong re- 
 serves, and the fight 
 
 Blazed loud. But the Union's defenders broke at the 
 center and right. 
 
 Then Gettysburg groaned and was crowded and choked 
 
 with the men who fled. 
 
 The rebels, hotly pursuing, fed havoc on murderous bread. 
 The town was streeted with slaughter, and even in 
 
 alley and lane 
 Was the thud of the leaden summons and the cry of 
 
 deadly pain. 
 
 But the First Corps had not waver'd, and strove to 
 
 recover the day, 
 Tho' a half of the Union forces was scattered, as 
 
 leaves, away. 
 Yet the left of the line was holden by Biddle's superb 
 
 brigade, 
 And Cooper's four deep-throated war-dogs were loud 
 
 with their iron aid. 
 
 On the left of these baying creatures, the Ulster 
 Guard, true and tried, 
 
 Stood under the Federal standard their starry, bullet- 
 torn pride. 
 
 They held their strong morning position, eastward of 
 Willoughby Run, 
 
 On the ridge ; but a darkling onset in the distance 
 had begun. 
 
 For a cloud of troops, a division, from the tempest's 
 
 bounds afar 
 In the west and south, hasted forward in powerful 
 
 lines of war. 
 Awaiting the grim adventure with calmness not void 
 
 of delight, 
 Stood the Ulster Guard in their prowess, undauntable 
 
 in the fight. 
 
278 GETTYSBURG. 
 
 As the enemy came from the cover of woods, where 
 he had formed, 
 
 With a torrent of screaming death-shots his solid ad- 
 vance was stormed. 
 
 Our infantry fire lightened sharply, our guns were 
 cleverly served ; 
 
 But the living took slain men's places, and the ranks 
 came on unswerved. 
 
 They came in their might, and outflanking Gates's 
 
 intrepid command, 
 Fired oblique, destructive volleys, which madness might 
 
 scarcely withstand ; 
 But our soldiers -knew they were fighting, on their own 
 
 free northern ground, 
 For their homes, their country, and all things that in 
 
 these birthrights abound. 
 
 And their zeal and enthusiasm were their very light 
 
 and breath ; 
 Each soldier did valorous actions and smiled on wounds 
 
 and on death. 
 Tho' the dead there fell till the living fought from 
 
 behind them at last, 
 To the ground our Guard seemed rooted, for they 
 
 stood unshaken and fast. 
 
 Above them the smoke of the conflict heavily lifted 
 
 and curled, 
 And the hot sun floated behind it like some fulvid 
 
 phantom world, 
 Toward which foregone souls were ascending, in sacred 
 
 columns and slow 
 From the pitiless field of slaughter in the real world below. 
 
 The mingled thunders of battle shook widely the val- 
 orous ground ; 
 
 Not since the hills were heaved upward had they 
 throbbed with such mighty sound. 
 
GETTYSBURG. 279 
 
 The sooty air, split with concussions, bore bruit of the 
 
 fight afar, 
 And hurried the long, forced marches to this suck and 
 
 whirlpool of war. 
 
 The Ulster Guard, fearless and hardy, outflanked by a 
 
 whole brigade, 
 Stayed the whelming wave of onset and retreated no 
 
 whit dismayed. 
 
 They were last to leave the position, and as they slowly retired 
 (Often loading, halting and turning) they on their 
 
 pursuers fired. 
 
 On his horse Gates shouldered the colors (lest, haply, 
 
 it should be lost) 
 Till he knew the chance for its capture was safely 
 
 weathered and crossed ; 
 For not far from the Seminary, where a stone and 
 
 rail fence stood, 
 He again formed line with Biddle, at the edge of a 
 
 narrow wood. 
 
 Here, with five brave batteries near them, and Meredith 
 on their right, 
 
 Assailed by a Southern division, they made a despe- 
 rate fight, 
 
 Till the enemy fled the carnage, and retreated toward 
 the sun, 
 
 To the dank and sorrowful valley of sluggish Wil- 
 loughby Run. 
 
 Our forlorn hope saved from destruction the greater 
 
 part of their corps, 
 Whose confused retreat they defended, and they could 
 
 not, that day, more. 
 For the bulk of the Union army they had helped, 
 
 with courage grand, 
 To hold the great natural bulwarks, which back of 
 
 Gettysburg stand. 
 
280 GETTYSBURG. 
 
 Thus the Ulster Guard nobly combated, in open field, 
 eight hours, 
 
 'Gainst double and triple their number, secession's 
 violent powers. 
 
 Then the Guard retired to the bulwarks where, on a 
 commanding height, 
 
 By the verdant graves of the townsfolk, they bivou- 
 acked for the night. 
 
 At midnight the sleeplessly anxious took heart and 
 
 rest at a sound 
 The advent of Meade and his army on the rugged , 
 
 rising ground. 
 The orderly footsteps of thousands, the iron trample of 
 
 steeds, 
 And the rumble of guns and caissons, made music for 
 
 Union needs. 
 
 THE SECOND DAY. 
 
 On the second day of the battle the Ulster Guard was 
 
 arrayed 
 With a Pennsylvania regiment a special demi- 
 
 brigade, 
 Whom Colonel Gates took the command of and if 
 
 one regiment durst, 
 The other durst more ; none braver than that Hundred 
 
 and Fifty-first. 
 
 Not till afternoon did the foemen begin their flanking 
 
 attack, 
 And the demi-brigade went forward when Sickles was 
 
 driven back. 
 So they helped to check the invader, and when the 
 
 darkness divine 
 Closed the terrible strife, they were posted centrally in 
 
 the line. 
 
GETTYSBURG. 281 
 
 In the whistling forefront of conflict stood firm the 
 
 demi-brigade, 
 And a fence of rails, which was near them, they 
 
 changed to a barricade. 
 What the shield was to the crusader, this was to 
 
 them in the fight, 
 And behind it they lay on their muskets throughout 
 
 that sullen night. 
 
 O Night! on the battle-field tarry; thou truce, two 
 
 armed days between. 
 The troops asleep in their blankets and sentinels dimly 
 
 are seen. 
 The hands of Darkness and Silence are over the 
 
 mouths of the guns. 
 And, in dreamland, dove-like are homing our country's 
 
 bivouacked sons. 
 
 Yonder, stretcher-bearers go laden ; here runs a trench 
 
 for the dead ; 
 Hark ! moans of wounded and dying, and the caw of 
 
 hunger overhead. 
 Oh ! what shall eventful to-morrow bring forth for the 
 
 dreaming brave ? 
 Shall he be the hero and idol, or rest in a nameless 
 
 grave ? 
 
 THE THIRD DAY. 
 
 At noon, on the third day, the prelude to Pickett's 
 wild charge began 
 
 A dirge, by the guns of rebellion, for the Lost Cause 
 and its ban ; 
 
 And the Ulster Guard's covert station, it fatefully so 
 befell, 
 
 Was swept by a hideous tempest of shot and explod- 
 ing shell. 
 
282 GETTYSBURG. 
 
 Unknown in their sharpest warfare was the like to 
 
 these men of ours ; 
 Full a hundred bellowing cannon played on them for 
 
 nearly two hours. 
 The sky was a burst of black missiles, the ground was 
 
 harrowed amain ; 
 But, by their barricade shielded, a few men only were slain. 
 
 When the cannonade had subsided, Pickett's division 
 
 began 
 To debouch from the woods and orchard, where their 
 
 strong right center ran. 
 With shouldered arms, with their battle-yell, and at 
 
 double-quick, they came, 
 Devoted, that brave eighteen thousand, to death and 
 
 immortal fame. 
 
 The charge moved apace through the open ; the mili- 
 tant ocean of men 
 
 Surged inland in three awful billows, submerging 
 meadow and glen. 
 
 The steel was as water that sparkled, the standards as 
 flying spume, 
 
 And the roar of guns was the breaking on rigorous 
 rocks of doom. 
 
 When Pickett's men entered the valley in front of the 
 
 Ulster Guard, 
 That Guard opened fire on them briskly. Did this 
 
 their approach retard ? 
 Into one their three waves melted as they marched by 
 
 the left oblique ; 
 Then the whole to the right surged quickly, to dash 
 
 where they thought us weak. 
 
 Through their lines of advancing battle, great, horrible 
 
 rents were plowed ; 
 Yet the ranks closed up in a moment, and came on, 
 
 fearless and proud. 
 
GETTYSBURG. 283 
 
 But angrily toward them converging, the daring demi- 
 
 brigade 
 Moved down like a storm-cloud, and met them with 
 
 a deadly fusilade. 
 
 There rested the left wing of Hancock back in the 
 Ulster Guard's rear, 
 
 Behind the guns on the bluff-top, and the right of 
 Pickett was near. 
 
 What was it that led Gates forward, from his barri- 
 cade and shield, 
 
 To fulfill, at the one great moment, this gap in the 
 foremost field ? 
 
 Till beneath the height at our center, Pickett had 
 
 charged with a will; 
 But he paused at a fence for shelter, just at the foot 
 
 of the hill. 
 There, over the fence, was a slashing, a grove that lay 
 
 felled and dense 
 Felled to clear the range for our cannons and this 
 
 he made a defense. 
 
 His hardihood showed his purpose in striking our right- 
 center line. 
 
 The demi-brigade battled fiercely, set teeth to foil his 
 design 
 
 To reach, on the bluff-top, our cannons and silence 
 them then and there; 
 
 But, for guerdon, the enemy's effort had flagrant loss 
 and despair. 
 
 For fate stood over against it, espoused to the worthier side. 
 Tho' the oppressor a while may prosper, fate ruins him 
 
 in his pride. 
 Bringing vict'ry the Proclamation had bid that the 
 
 slaves be free, 
 And the side of the wronged will triumph, whatever 
 
 the odds may be. 
 
284 GETTYSBURG. 
 
 The desperate onset of Pickett was this far fruitless 
 
 and bare, 
 
 As yet, for the battery'd summit, he had to do and to dare. 
 The Union troops that opposed him, he outnumbered 
 
 as six to one ; 
 But the fewer had cooler courage, and willed to be not 
 
 outdone. 
 
 So the strife for the fence and hillside was stubborn 
 
 and most severe ; 
 Both sides knew well that the title to the guns was 
 
 the question here. 
 At quarter the range of a pistol the enemy swarmed 
 
 like bees ; 
 But he was screened and protected by the fence and 
 
 the fallen trees. 
 
 Then the demi-brigade, through the slashing, charged 
 with a right good will, 
 
 And they sent up a cheer that gladdened the cannon- 
 eers on the hill. 
 
 In the sharp, hand-to-hand rencounter, where the fierce 
 in the brunt contend, 
 
 The enemy's guns played among them, alike on foe 
 and on friend. 
 
 But Pickett's men turned in confusion, all hindered of 
 
 their desire, 
 And into them, whipped and retreating, Gates volleyed 
 
 a scathing fire. 
 The hundreds of prisoners taken now seemed the best 
 
 of the gain ; 
 But the place of the strife was covered with rebel 
 
 wounded and slain. 
 
 Give pause for a tear for Baldwin and weep for them 
 
 all who died, 
 In the three days' fight on the ridges, that the Union 
 
 might abide ; 
 
ELEUSINIA. 285 
 
 For when the gray billow of Pickett fell wasted back 
 
 from its strand, 
 Gates found his own loss in the battle was more than 
 
 half his command. 
 
 At Gettysburg this charge ended the Ulster Guard's 
 
 part in the fight. 
 The broken Confederate army fled, with their wounded, 
 
 at night. 
 On our troops and those rock-ribbed bulwarks, which 
 
 seemed for the hour to wait, 
 Dashed in vain the flood of rebellion; and the fiat of 
 
 God is fate. 
 
 ELEUSINIA. 
 
 THE sun-bronzed Arabs, living at the base 
 
 Of Karnak's mighty ruin, see in it 
 
 The work of no man's hand. They cannot think 
 
 Its lofty beauty and majestic form, 
 
 So awe-begetting, even in decay, 
 
 Are the unaided deed of their own kind. 
 
 But, as most men are wont, when sharply faced 
 
 By problems that they do not understand, 
 
 The squalid Arabs, quite too ignorant 
 
 To seek in natural causes for a key, 
 
 Exalt their case to the miraculous 
 
 And supernatural, and so believe 
 
 That monstrous genii, in antiquity, 
 
 To please the holder of some magic ring, 
 
 Built Karnak in a night! 
 
 All governments, 
 
 Books, customs, buildings, railways, ships, and all 
 The stark realities that men have made, 
 Are but imagination's utterances. 
 The invisible speaks in the visible, 
 
286 E LEU SI NT A. 
 
 And over all, the high, far-reaching thoughts 
 Of great imaginations domineer. 
 First of the Magi, Zoroaster yet 
 Colors the Western theosophic mind, 
 Besides the minds of Asian myriads. 
 Nor have his genii lost hold on men; 
 But are an explanation, in the East, 
 Of architectural victories, which appear 
 Beyond the power of human hands to win. 
 
 But we, of higher credence, think not so. 
 
 Of larger literature and ampler range, 
 
 We know the same full-browed intelligence, 
 
 The same Masonic wisdom, that upreared 
 
 High-girdled Babylon and purple Tyre 
 
 And built the Temple of King Solomon, 
 
 Built also the sepulchral Pyramids, 
 
 Built Philae, hundred-gated Thebes, and all 
 
 Those works stupendous, whose calm grandeur yet 
 
 Shows the departed glory of the Nile. 
 
 It scarce seems longer past than yesterday 
 
 That men undid the brazen clamps which held 
 
 Upon its pedestal the Obelisk 
 
 That ray-like shaft, which Thutmes raised at On 
 
 To grace the Temple of the Setting Sun 
 
 And found Masonic emblems there bestowed. 
 
 Such useful emblems have been found withal 
 
 In prehistoric ruins Mexican. 
 
 If other clue were needed to connect 
 
 Our modern Craft with builders of the past, 
 
 We have the evidence of what we know, 
 
 That nothing can be operative long 
 
 And not be speculative too ; for Use 
 
 Is more than manual. Intelligence 
 
 Must see the ideal in the real, and clothe 
 
 Upon the impalpable and naked truth 
 
 The palpable resemblance; it must needs 
 
E LEU SIN I A. 287 
 
 Behold in all that is material, 
 External, the express embodiment, 
 Or signature, of far more lasting things, 
 Which are internal, spiritual. 
 
 Swedenborg, 
 
 Upon the other worlds of heaven and hell, 
 His ideality imposed, and strove 
 To picture them, the universe and God, 
 Using the splendid words of holy writ 
 As signs and tokens of the mysteries 
 That, in imagination, he beheld. 
 But not so far the wise Freemason dares. 
 In square and compasses, in setting-maul, 
 And in the other stated working-tools 
 Used by the Craft, he sees an ideal use. 
 To him they are the emblems of such things 
 As have been found alike in every soul 
 -And make the world fraternal. 
 
 Symbolism 
 
 Is the rich blood and life of Masonry. 
 A symbol is the solid link between 
 The real and the ideal. It must be 
 That man himself, the crown of earthly things, 
 Made in his Maker's image, is the true, 
 The only symbol of the Power Divine. 
 It follows that sublime Freemasonry 
 And heaven-born, strong-pinioned Poetry 
 Are one at heart ; for, whatsoever be 
 Sincere, commensurate, symbolical, 
 Is native of the Muse her work. To think 
 In symbols is imagination's house. 
 So the fast hold which Masonry has kept 
 Upon the minds of men for centuries 
 For long millenniums is, in truth, the same 
 As that of Poetry. For Poetry 
 Drank from the fountain of immortal youth, 
 
288 EMANUEL. 
 
 Then rose in beauty, like the Morning Star, 
 And lit the holy, intellectual fire, 
 Guide of our faith and practice, that is laid 
 Upon Masonic altars. 
 
 When expressed 
 
 In buildings she is seen, as in the tree 
 The hamadryad, we but change her name, 
 And Architecture nominate the Muse. 
 But the broad tenets, on whose soil is based 
 Our Ancient Order, are a fertile land, 
 And all the arts and sciences alike 
 Find in it healthful sustenance, and, nursed 
 In genial sunshine and condensate dew, 
 Burst into bloom and yield abundant fruits. 
 
 EMANUEL. 
 
 IN the New World, the hemisphere unknown 
 When, Hebrew-wise, Moriah uttered praise 
 In a new land of liberty and hope, 
 Of golden harvests and of broad, fresh fields 
 In the new Promised Land we dedicate, 
 We consecrate this House of Righteousness. 
 Be in our hearts, Shekinah! 
 
 In all this land there is no king but God. 
 He is our God, and we have built to Him. 
 To men of every creed, who serve his law, 
 We make the doors of this that we have built, 
 As wide with welcome as are freedom's doors, 
 As open and as tolerant as they. 
 Be in our hearts, Shekinah! 
 
 Of us the Branch to whom the nations bow. 
 
 In us is testimony and the root 
 
 Whence sprang the palmy, Messianic New. 
 
THE LONG REGRET, 289 
 
 The New is of the Old to which we cling. 
 Not to destroy the New we plant the Old, 
 But that the Old may flourish with the New. 
 Be in our hearts, Shekinah ! 
 
 The end we know not; but we wander on, 
 Down the regretful wilderness of time. 
 Nations have risen and dissolved away ; 
 But we remain, and are together bound 
 As are the glad, innumerable suns, 
 The blazing jewels in the Almighty's crown. 
 Be in our hearts, Shekinah! 
 
 Here may we ever worship as we will, 
 With strong simplicity and manly trust. 
 Here may the wistful aspiration, prayer, 
 Fire the neglected voices of the soul. 
 And may Jehovah this, his temple, give 
 The rapture of cherubic wheels and wings. 
 Be in our hearts, Shekinah! 
 
 1892. 
 
 THE LONG REGRET. 
 
 Two angels stood without The City's gate 
 And down beside the wall where ran a stream, 
 And palms hung over, and the day was mild. 
 
 These angels' chosen duty was to aid 
 
 Weak comers to The City from our world. 
 
 For when they saw a spirit down the void 
 
 Mounting on weary, nigh exhausted wings, 
 
 They flew to it and helped it to The Gate. 
 
 So, often in communion with the souls 
 
 That from this life depart, these angels learned 
 
 Much of our world, which, to their sight, was like 
 
 A glowing topaz far below in space. 
 
290 THE LONG REGRET. 
 
 Beside the jasper wall where fell a stream, 
 
 And palms waved over and the light was soft, 
 
 I marveled much to hear the angels speak. 
 
 For both were weary of the long regret 
 
 That, tho' the Christ is worshiped in the world, 
 
 And tho' his name is great and spread abroad, 
 
 There are so few obedient to his will. 
 
 Still extant are the sins that wrought his death. 
 
 The envy of the chief priests and the scribes, 
 
 The avarice of false Iscariot, 
 
 The slander of the blatant multitude, 
 
 The lack of manhood, the servility 
 
 Of Pontius Pilate, these four sins, and more, 
 
 Continue unabated as the seas. 
 
 Old, savage error in the blood survives, 
 
 Ignores the truth and sullies its domain. 
 
 Of those who hopefully avow the faith, 
 
 Few for their enemies pray, or aught forgive, 
 
 Or with fair favors unkind acts return. 
 
 And fewer still judge not lest they be judged; 
 
 For most fling wide uncharities of speech, 
 
 Warped prejudice all false, or calumny. 
 
 Many evil with evil resist, nor fear 
 
 To punish those who wrong them, as if God 
 
 Were not a jealous God, and had forgot 
 
 That vengeance is his fixed, essential right 
 
 And his alone. 
 
 Both voices swelled and chimed 
 All variously and like cathedral bells. 
 Then the swift angels, with white wings outspread, 
 Plunged down th' abrupt, interminable gulf. 
 They disappeared, but soon to sight returned, 
 And I beheld a ray of love divine 
 Illumine their calm faces, as each bore 
 A rescued spirit Godward to The Gate. 
 
CLAY AND WEBSTER. 291 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 THE night is long, the hour is late, 
 The bridegroom tarries while we wait. 
 Our lamp is trimmed and sends its light, 
 A steady gleam, across the night. 
 
 Kind hands, that long upheld the lamp, 
 Have fall'n away to dust and damp. 
 Now ours the task, and tho' we keep 
 The lamp replenished, we must sleep. 
 
 The oil is beaten for the light; 
 The gleam is pure and true and white. 
 We hold the lamp aloft to heaven 
 And deem that it is one of seven. 
 
 But tho' the star of Bethlehem 
 
 Be brighter in his diadem. 
 
 The bridegroom, when he comes, will know 
 
 His gracious light and feel its glow. 
 
 Come quickly thou, our prince and priest, 
 And bid us to the marriage feast. 
 Give us thy mercy, for we strive 
 To keep thy light of love alive. 
 
 CLAY AND WEBSTER. 
 
 THE life-like, life-size bust of Henry Clay 
 
 Stands in its niche here, in my paneled room. 
 Clay had more fire than Webster, less of gloom. 
 
 Few statesmen have been greater than were they. 
 
 On slavery they looked with righteous hate ; 
 
292 VEERA. 
 
 But saw it dominant, and fixed in power. 
 
 They knew that, for its overthrow, the hour 
 Had not yet struck, and that the North must wait 
 Till strong enough to conquer. So they wrought, 
 
 With compromise and makeshift, for delay. 
 Their foresight, with the people, passed for naught. 
 
 The North cried, " Ichabod ! " in loud dismay. 
 But slavery, that shackled life and thought, 
 
 Gnashed at these giants who had barred its way. 
 
 VEERA. 
 I. 
 
 THE KING'S SEAL. 
 
 A PRINCE was I, of warlike, ancient line; 
 
 And when my father, the indulgent King, 
 
 Lay near to death, my younger brothers twain, 
 
 To end my life and share the crown agreed. 
 
 I did not tell the King, because I feared 
 
 To shorten by one breath his waning day. 
 
 Beside his couch I knelt and bowed with tears. 
 
 He laid his thin, hot hand upon my head, 
 
 Invoking Allah's blessing, then said on : 
 
 " Thou hast beheld the green and tender blade 
 
 Thrust upward through the all-begetting soil ; 
 
 In time, the sure day crowns it with a flower. 
 
 So thou, when I am not, shalt wear a crown, 
 
 The people's flower and symbol, and be King. 
 
 But take thee now this lesson to thy heart 
 
 And from the grass learn wisdom : Wear thy crown 
 
 As meekly, and as passionless of pride, 
 
 As doth the green herb hiding under leaves ; 
 
 For pride becomes a passion in small minds 
 
 That, when in mighty seats, degrade their power 
 
 By masking it in pomp and arrogance." 
 
VEERA. 293 
 
 Then bent he down with pain and kissed my cheek, 
 
 As if, in confirmation of a law, 
 
 He set his seal upon it the King's Seal. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE KING'S FRIEND. 
 
 I cared not for the crown, save as a means 
 
 To reach a wider outlook over life, 
 
 And show men two things unaccountable. 
 
 Of these my tutor taught me. He was weird 
 
 My father's friend, adviser, menial gnome 
 
 A probing critic, not well liked at court, 
 
 Nay, feared and hated by the eunuch group, 
 
 Who boldly said that he should be vizier. 
 
 His will was strong. His heavy, hairy brows 
 
 Bridged over eyes that shone like furnace fire. 
 
 For all his usual careless gait and wear, 
 
 Derision ceased to sneer when he approached, 
 
 And straightway fell to cringing servitude. 
 
 My will was lost in his, as smoke in air, 
 
 As waters of a river in the sea. 
 
 To be like him I daily longed and strove. 
 
 I only cared to study and to dream. 
 
 And it was he that, standing in the night 
 
 Beside a pillar of the palace porch, 
 
 Saw my two brothers, where they met below, 
 
 And overheard their dark, cold-blooded plot 
 
 To slay me and to seize upon the crown. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE YOUNGER BROTHERS. 
 
 The night before the murder was to be, 
 
 I drew my keen, slim dagger from its sheath 
 
 And stole forth, down the long, wide, marble stairs 
 
 And past the throne-room, through the curtained arch, 
 
294 VEERA. 
 
 Beyond which, in a cool, high-vaulted place, 
 
 My brothers had their bed. A wick, afloat 
 
 In aromatic oil in cut glass vased, 
 
 Dependent from the ceiling's middle star, 
 
 Diffused a drowsy twilight. Like two boats 
 
 Rising and falling with a long sea- swell, 
 
 My brothers on their broad couch lay asleep. 
 
 I saw their faces, and the one was fair ; 
 
 Light, golden locks back from his forehead waved 
 
 And, on the silken pillow, spread like spray. 
 
 The other's face was shadowy and dark. 
 
 I felt no pity in my angry breast 
 
 For this, the elder brother of the two, 
 
 For he had more deceived me. When we met, 
 
 He ever honored me with words of praise. 
 
 My slightest act had merit, on his lips. 
 
 Praise is a dust of perfume, which, if thrown 
 
 Into the eyes of even noble men, 
 
 Will blind them to the thrower's plainest faults. 
 
 But now my will vaned round, I know not why. 
 
 The moon was at its full and glimpsed forth pale, 
 
 From blue between two fringed and tasseled clouds, 
 
 Like some fair princess from her curtained bed. 
 
 The vagrant wind came through an open blind 
 
 And whispered of the desert. The same breath 
 
 Fanned the small flame that, in the crystal urn, 
 
 Mimicked a star. Beneath its rays I wrote : 
 
 I thought to slay you both ; for you have planned 
 
 To take my life. I spare you and I go. 
 
 Between them there I laid the paper down 
 
 And thrust my dagger, to the jeweled hilt, 
 
 Through it, into the couch. Then, passing forth, 
 
 I came to that high room wherein a life, 
 
 The King's, lay drifting near the reefs of death. 
 
 My tutor at his bedside, on the floor 
 
 And overcome by sleep, lay like a dog. 
 
 I fain would see the King's face once again 
 
VEERA. 295 
 
 Ere, like a maid that in her lover trusts 
 Some outland youth that she has scarcely known 
 I gave myself up, even body and soul, 
 To the wide desert and the world beyond. 
 
 IV 
 
 THE DEAD KING. 
 
 How sweetly slept the King! His long, white hair 
 
 And venerable beard were undisturbed 
 
 By scarce the stated motion of his breath. 
 
 Surely, I thought, the fever must have passed ! 
 
 I bent down tenderly to kiss the cheek. 
 
 How cold ! My heart sank gave a choking bound, 
 
 And drove a weltering wild wave of grief 
 
 Far up the sad, unmitigated sands 
 
 Of utter desolation. The wave broke 
 
 And fell in blinding mists of bitter tears. 
 
 I moaned in dark despair; but hushed my woe 
 
 And kissed again the cold, insentient face 
 
 The face august that I should see no more. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 I left the sad room, parting with slow care 
 The heavy, silken curtains, fearful then 
 Their rustle might alarm some wakeful ear. 
 I found the jewels of the crown, and these 
 With all my own, I in a bag secured, 
 Or hid about my person as I might. 
 As noiseless as a ghost, then, through the hall 
 And down the stairway wrought of sandal-wood, 
 I made light footsteps. Yet not quite so light 
 But love could hear ; for as I tip-toe went 
 
296 VEERA. 
 
 Along the alcoves where the women slept 
 
 In deep recesses hidden from the view, 
 
 A maiden stood before me. She outstretched 
 
 Her soft, white, naked arms to bar my way, 
 
 Then clasped them round my neck, and laid her cheek 
 
 Against my cloak, with odors and a sigh. 
 
 This was the lady Veera. She, of late, 
 
 For heavy ransom had been captive held 
 
 From a large tribe of warlike Bedouins ; 
 
 But, when the gold was brought, she would not go. 
 
 The King was pleased thereat, for thus she made 
 
 A lasting peace between him and her kin. 
 
 No maiden in the city could be found 
 
 To rival her for beauty ; all her words 
 
 Were apt and good, and all her ways were sweet. 
 
 I, in the lovely prison, ivory barred 
 
 By her warm arms, was fretful for release; 
 
 For Heaven, if gateless, would a prison be. 
 
 But Veera would not free me till I told 
 
 The meaning of my vigil. This I did ; 
 
 For here she made a pledge of secrecy. 
 
 I named the city that I meant to reach. 
 
 I did not wait to pay her back her kiss. 
 
 I hurried to the stables, where I found 
 
 My jet-black horse, which neighed and pawed the floor. 
 
 I bound the saddle firmly, grasped the reins 
 
 And, in a moment, through the Eastern gate, 
 
 Shot out upon the desert, where the wind 
 
 Made race with us, but lagged behind at last. 
 
 VI. 
 
 TWO PROBLEMS. 
 
 Vienna reached, I gave myself to books. 
 Here, I had promised Veera, I should be. 
 In eager study passed abstracted days. 
 Far-reaching paths were opened to my view. 
 
VEERA. 297 
 
 All that my tutor knew seemed small and poor 
 Beside these wider ways of thought and truth. 
 Better, I said, to know than be a king. 
 There is no royal, gem-encrusted crown 
 That so becomes a man as knowledge does. 
 
 To solve two problems now fulfilled my time. 
 On them my tutor spent absorbing years ; 
 But ever groping vainly in the dark, 
 On me he set the purpose of his soul, 
 Determined, at the last, that he, through me, 
 Would wrench the secrets out of Nature's grasp, 
 Tho* Life, long since, had given him back to Death. 
 The subtle problems were: How make fine gold? 
 And How exist forever on the earth ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE DOOR. 
 
 There lay, among the books that I had bought, 
 
 The Book that is the greatest of all books, 
 
 The angel to our spiritual needs, 
 
 The indestructible sure Word of God. 
 
 The prized Koran takes from it, but ignores 
 
 The inspirational, prophetic gold 
 
 Relating to the Christ. Mohammed made 
 
 No suras to belittle his own claims. 
 
 To read the Bible I at once began ; 
 
 But, ere I had read far, I found the door 
 
 Behind which lay concealed the consequent 
 
 Solution of my problems ! Firmly locked 
 
 The strong door stood the Door to Life and Gold ! 
 
 I read of Eden that, in the east of it, 
 And in the center of the Garden there, 
 The unforbidden Tree of Life bore fruit. 
 Then of the gold: Out of the Garden ran 
 
298 VEERA. 
 
 A river, which was parted, and became 
 
 Into four heads. Euphrates was the fourth. 
 
 And one was Gihon, that's the Ethiop flood, 
 
 And one was Pison, the great crystal stream 
 
 Round Havilah, wherein good gold is found, 
 
 Magnetic bdellium and the onyx stone. 
 
 My tutor said that, tho* the problems seemed 
 
 In no wise like, nor either kith or kin, 
 
 Yet one within the other was enclosed, 
 
 And he who solved one, would have solved them both. 
 
 Of many things he tried to make the gold, 
 
 Or to distill from them th' Elixir true. 
 
 But, unlike him, I had no choice of means. 
 
 Whether I made or found, it mattered not, 
 
 And it is easier to find than make. 
 
 Over the text I pored, and kissed the page 
 
 With thankful lips, my blood revivified 
 
 By the strong impulse of the mystic words. 
 
 VIIL 
 
 THE KEY. 
 
 As one, in some deserted street at night, 
 
 Who spurns by chance an old and rusty key 
 
 And holds it to the light and sees, with joy, 
 
 The long-lost sesame of one closed door, 
 
 Behind which, wished-for wealth has lain unused, 
 
 So I, when first I chanced on Mesmer's Works, 
 
 Felt I had found the Key that would unlock 
 
 The batten' d fast-shut, Pentateuchal Door, 
 
 Behind which lay, I thought, those unstringed pearls, 
 
 The answers to my problems. Day by day, 
 
 Of Mesmer I made study and delight. 
 
 Like his, my will was potent, dominant, 
 
 And seemed to wield an all-compelling force; 
 
 But I was not clairvoyant, and few are. 
 
 I mourned the lonely death that Mesmer died. 
 
VEERA. 299 
 
 Nor had he gained the portals of success 
 
 When voted an impostor by the learned. 
 
 The learned are often slow to see new truth. 
 
 The pioneer, who builds beyond the pale, 
 
 Is thought, at first, foolhardy and absurd ; 
 
 But when thick population marks his site, 
 
 And everywhere the pale has been advanced? 
 
 All call him great and make his name a star. 
 
 And Mesmer's land was so indefinite, 
 
 So hard to get a foothold in, that men 
 
 Cried "Witchcraft!" and to follow him refused. 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE TUTOR EXECUTED. 
 
 Down the long street, astride my proud, black horse, 
 
 I rode and pondered, scarcely heeding aught: 
 
 "Where shall I seek to find a blameless soul, 
 
 Pure as the radiance of the gleam-winged stars, 
 
 Who, to my will, shall be angelic clay 
 
 To mould and fashion as my purpose guides 
 
 A soul clairvoyant, who can lightly soar, 
 
 Swifter than any lofty cloud could do, 
 
 Around the earth, or, at a word, go back 
 
 Into the past's ghost-peopled corridors, 
 
 And bring therefrom the thing that I would know ? " 
 
 While thus I mused, lo ! up a garden walk, 
 'Twixt house and street, a maiden chased a bird. 
 An empty cage stood in the vine-clad porch. 
 The bird seemed like some rare, elusive thought, 
 The maid, Greek Sappho in pursuit of it. 
 She shyly glanced my way to see me pass, 
 Then quickly turned and gayly toward me ran, 
 Her large, dark eyes with gladness scintillant. 
 She was my friendly, sweet-faced Bedouin. 
 Her hand upon my shoulder, up the walk 
 
300 VEERA. 
 
 We went, my horse beside me ; and her bird, 
 Tired of his liberty, soon found his cage. 
 
 I sat with Veera by her cottage door 
 
 And heard ill news. Here she abode in peace ; 
 
 But through the city she had sought me long. 
 
 What time my traitorous two brothers read 
 
 The paper I had written, their wrath burned 
 
 Against my tutor, whom they deemed the spy. 
 
 He, being found asleep by the King's bed, 
 
 And the King lifeless, to the tutor's door 
 
 They brought the charge of murder. Through the streets 
 
 They sent the criers to proclaim the deed. 
 
 Then, clamorous for his life, the people rose 
 
 And dragged him forth and led him to the block 
 
 And slew him. On a spear they set his head 
 
 And placed it high above the Eastern gate. 
 
 The vagrant birds pecked at the staring eyes 
 
 And wove the hair into their rounded homes ; 
 
 The rain beat on it, and the active wind 
 
 Dashed it with desert dust. Always the sun 
 
 Made salutation to it, flushing it 
 
 Until it seemed more ghastly than before. 
 
 And after this mad crime, the elder grew 
 
 Jealous of him, the younger, till one morn 
 
 They found the last-born lifeless in the street, 
 
 Stabbed in the back, the poniard in the wound. 
 
 Misrule got new misrule, and Justice fled, 
 
 Followed by blushing Shame with downcast eyes. 
 
 Laws were annulled that were as bonds to sin, 
 
 And spur was given to uncurbed desires, 
 
 The headstrong horses of all violence. 
 
 Her story done, the maiden begged of me 
 To set out for my kingdom, with the dawn. 
 " Not yet," said I, u not yet," and then I made 
 The passes with my hands and fixed my will 
 
VEERA. 301 
 
 To sway her will, till, with a questioning glance, 
 She fell into a cairn, Mesmeric sleep. 
 I saw that I had found the very soul 
 My purpose needed, and I bade her wake. 
 
 X. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR. 
 
 I sat and pondered in my room that night 
 Until the erstwhile silent towers and spires, 
 The shadowy sentinels of peaceful sky, 
 From near and far announced the midnight hour. 
 With waving hands I roused magnetic force 
 And set my will that Veera should approach 
 Should leave her house and enter at my door; 
 But none must even see her on the way. 
 I set my will and, when the will believes, 
 It is an act of faith, and I had faith. 
 
 At last I heard her footfall on the stairs 
 
 The patter of her feet like drops of rain. 
 
 My door was opened and she silent stood 
 
 Upon the threshold, rosy as new day. 
 
 Her large eyes, wide and staring, took no heed 
 
 Of anything before them. Thus she slept. 
 
 A long white wrapper, made of satin, edged 
 
 With lace and fine embroidery of gold, 
 
 And with two diamonds buttoned at the throat, 
 
 Loosely enfolded and revealed her form. 
 
 A string of opals hung around her neck, 
 
 A hundred lambent worlds with central fires. 
 
 Her feet were bare and all her hair was down. 
 
 I bade her sit beside me, and I laid 
 
 The Bible on her knee and her forefinger 
 
 Upon the verse that names the Tree of Life. 
 
 " Tell me," I said, " where can this tree be found ? " 
 
302 VEERA. 
 
 She answered me at last, " The way is long 
 
 And I am worn and weary ; mile on mile 
 
 The course of one long river I have tracked. 
 
 The fierce sun burns and dazes, and I thirst. 
 
 I cannot find the Tree! My search is done." 
 
 "Look down the past, and see if any knew, 
 
 Where grew this Tree, and whether it may be found/* 
 
 Her eyes were closed, and for a while she paused, 
 
 As if her soul were wandering afar. 
 
 At last her lips moved, answering : " One I see, 
 
 Long dead, who bends above a written scroll 
 
 And thereon makes strange characters, which hold 
 
 Some hidden sense pertaining to this Tree. 
 
 In fair Milano, in the library 
 
 Ambrosian, waits this quaint, time-yellowed scroll." 
 
 "Now to thy home go back, sweet spirit," I said, 
 
 " Thou art as meek and good as that great man, 
 
 The first who wrote God's words." At once she rose, 
 
 Moved down the flight and out beneath the stars. 
 
 I followed closely, musing, all the way, 
 
 Upon sub-consciousness, that deeper self, 
 
 That stream of wisdom flowing, pure and clear, 
 
 Beneath the conscious surface of the soul. 
 
 Great minds have wells in it and draw from them, 
 
 To give new art and science to the world. 
 
 And in the soul that now before me walked 
 
 In sleep and innocence, the stream serene 
 
 So near the surface ran, it bubbled up 
 
 And glorified her speech and countenance. 
 
 I followed her through dim, deserted streets 
 
 And saw her enter at her cottage door; 
 
 Then hasten'd homeward ; but, as in a dream, 
 
 She seemed my Quest that entered at a Door. 
 
VEERA. 303 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE PALIMPSEST. 
 
 In Milan, in th' Ambrosian library, 
 Among Pinellian writings blurred with age, 
 I sought and found a prophet's palimpsest, 
 A scroll that Angelo Maie brought to light. 
 And on the margin, half way down the scroll, 
 Were signs particular, which baffled me. 
 In my perplexity, a bookworm named 
 The mongrel dialect of which they were. 
 I thus translated : Gihon is the Nile. 
 A sinless soul may find long life and gold. 
 
 Veera, I thought, is stainless and most pure. 
 Her soul's blue sky has not one cloud of sin. 
 If her feet seek the soil where Eve first trod, 
 I, at no great way off, may follow them. 
 
 Back to Vienna then I straightway sped 
 And, finding Veera, made my purpose plain. 
 I begged of her to join me in my quest. 
 She smiled assent: To be near me, she said, 
 Had brought her to Vienna; to be near me 
 Detained her from her kinsmen. Her heart's book 
 She frankly opened and I read her love. 
 
 So we were wed, and thenceforth our young lives 
 Were like those double stars that shine as one. 
 
 XII. 
 
 GIHON. 
 
 Now up the Nile we journeyed far, and reached 
 The place called Gondokoro, where the stream 
 
304 VEERA. 
 
 Of Bahr-el-Abiad, or White Nile, flows. 
 Thence on we passed and with the savage folk 
 Made friends and rested in their shady huts. 
 We met the tribe of dwarfs, and verified 
 That doubted chronicler, Herodotus. 
 
 We came upon the sources of the Nile, 
 
 The long-mysterious Nyanzan lakes. 
 
 Men seldom value what they have not sought. 
 
 If to Vienna I had now gone back 
 
 And given my discovery to the world, 
 
 My name, withheld here, had been loved by fame. 
 
 Allured by hope, we slowly journeyed on 
 
 And entered soon into a fervid land 
 
 Where nothing grew and all was sand and sky. 
 
 Here the cherubic sun, with flaming sword 
 
 Every way turning, threatened our advance. 
 
 All pale and worn was Veera. For my sake, 
 
 With tacit patience she endured fatigue. 
 
 Our feet were swoll'n and with the hot sand scorched. 
 
 Our garments hung in tatters beggars we, 
 
 And in a land where there was none to give. 
 
 At night we slept beside a sluggish stream 
 
 Whose lukewarm moisture scarcely slaked our thirst. 
 
 My beard was grown, and thick my hair hung down 
 
 Neglected round my shoulders. I was weak 
 
 And thin and feverish, and Veera too, 
 
 I saw, was ill and languished hour by hour. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 GOLD. 
 
 Beside the stream and, hiding in the sand, 
 Was an unusual something, which all day 
 Replied with yellow luster to the sun. 
 I brushed away the sand arid found it gold! 
 
VEERA. 305 
 
 A nugget of pure gold that was so large 
 I had not strength to stir it in its place. 
 I would have given then the lump of gold 
 To buy our hunger respite on a crust. 
 
 We came next where four rivers went their ways. 
 Which should we follow ? One, I thought, 
 Led surely to the long lost Tree of Life. 
 A dead bird here, slain by its kind, we found 
 And, tearing off its gaudy plumage, ate. 
 Upon occasional trees grew bread-fruit, dates, 
 And these sustained us as we wandered on. 
 For many miles along the banks we walked 
 By each of these four rivers and came back. 
 Then hope's star sank below the horizon's rim 
 And clouds of disappointment settled down. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 Heartsick and weary, we were laid by Sleep 
 
 Beneath a palm, and Veera in the dawn 
 
 Woke and, me awakening, told her dream : 
 
 " While I have slept three men have talked with me 
 
 Three plain, good men whose voices charmed and soothed. 
 
 They said that Eden was a land well known 
 
 Before the Deluge that the Tree of Life 
 
 Prefigured him who rose from Olivet, 
 
 And that all those who were set free of sin 
 
 Would surely find the Garden of the Lord 
 
 And eat the Tree of Life's abundant fruit. 
 
 Then I beheld," said Veera, " as when you 
 
 Have willed my soul away to other scenes, 
 
 A forest wild and dense and, eastward there, 
 
 A garden filled with many trees I knew 
 
 And, in the midst, a Tree most bountiful, 
 
 Which I knew not, but it surpassed them all. 
 
306 VEERA. 
 
 Above the Tree, upon a cloud, there stood 
 One Godlike, radiant, the Christ, who said, 
 * Believe in me, The Tree of Life am I ! ' 
 Then pointing downward to the unknown Tree, 
 ' Believe in me/ he said, ' and to this Tree 
 Go forward ; but thou shalt not eat ofit! 9 " 
 
 Obedient to the vision, Veera cried, 
 " I do believe ! " And I abased my soul 
 Tearing my mad ambition from my heart. 
 Then in his name, who is The One Foretold, 
 I prayed and laid on him my load of sin 
 And took upon myself his easy yoke. 
 
 XV. 
 
 THE GARDEN. 
 
 With happy hearts we went upon our way 
 
 And found the forest seen in Veera' s dream. 
 
 Its wild luxuriance made our progress slow. 
 
 At mid-day here the sun could scarcely pierce ; 
 
 So thick the foliage was, he only let 
 
 Into the gloom thin pencils of his rays. 
 
 The animals seemed tame ; they harmed us not, 
 
 And many insects hummed but never stung. 
 
 Of berries and of fruits there were enough 
 
 On every side to satisfy our needs, 
 
 And plants medicinal to soothe and heal. 
 
 We drank of limpid brooks that crossed our path. 
 
 We made our way like children, laughed and sang 
 
 And felt sweet youth and vigor stir our blood. 
 
 At last we came out in an open place 
 Where, in the midst, a tree remarkable 
 Snowed its incessant blossoms to the ground 
 The Tree that Veera in her dream had seen. 
 
VEERA. 307 
 
 This, and the other trees, were housed with nests, 
 
 And every one was like a city of song 
 
 Where only joyful, kindly minstrels dwelt, 
 
 And never work was done except for love. 
 
 The sparkling stream, that through the Garden flowed, 
 
 Fondled by mint and cresses all the way, 
 
 Was fed by many rills of spring water 
 
 Almost as voluble as were the birds. 
 
 The grass that hid the soil and climbed the rocks, 
 
 Was softer, thicker than a Persian rug, 
 
 And gratefully inwrought with fragrant flowers. 
 
 Nature, inviting sleep, spread couches round 
 
 In green-roofed, lulling dells of perfect peace. 
 
 A sense of rest and joy was in the air. 
 
 The sky was always blue ; for, set with stars, 
 
 The blue was only of a deeper shade. 
 
 The roses were abundant in all kinds 
 
 And, like an army, stood with nodding plumes. 
 
 The lilies too, were like an army there, 
 
 And every night they struck their snowy tents 
 
 To please their great commander, the white moon, 
 
 Night's lily in the garden of the sky. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 CAST OUT. 
 
 Too often to my mind came searching thoughts 
 Relating to existence or surcease 
 To the forbidden tree whose fruit gave death, 
 And to that other Tree, which I had sought. 
 At times I questioned mine auspicious star 
 Whether the place, indeed, wherein we were, 
 Was the true Garden planted by the Lord ? 
 Or if the Garden lay, as some believe, 
 In northern Asia, from the Equator far? 
 Or if that other theory were true, 
 
308 VEERA. 
 
 That, at the Deluge, this huge ball of earth, 
 Changing its axis, buried Eden deep 
 Beneath relentless, Arctic ice and snow? 
 
 We kept 110 record of the flight of time. 
 As to the rose, or heliotrope, floats down 
 Some golden butterfly that 'lights and flies, 
 But leaves no vestige of its sojourn, thus 
 Each happy, gold-winged day came softly down 
 And rested for a while, then flew away. 
 
 Now in an evil hour I longed for food 
 
 Other than that which I was wont to use ; 
 
 For servant trees extended food to us 
 
 With their long arms, and ever waiting stood. 
 
 I, seeing the Tree that we had left untouched, 
 
 And the rich fruit that nestled 'mid its bloom, 
 
 Deemed it unwise never to know its taste. 
 
 " A dream is but a dream," I said in thought. 
 
 "To Adam this Tree was not at first denied, 
 
 And it was but forbidden us in dream. 
 
 There is no surety that this is the Tree, 
 
 And, if it be, what harm is it to live ? " 
 
 Then I reached up, and took the fruit, and ate, 
 
 And all the sky grew dark, and from the place 
 
 Malignant terrors drove me shrieking forth. 
 
 And as I fled, sight dimmed, my hair turned gray ; 
 
 My youthful body aged at every step. 
 
 A sad, old man, I wandered in the wastes. 
 
 Once, looking backward where the Garden lay, 
 I saw, or thought I saw, and knew it so, 
 The sky above the Garden, blue and clear, 
 And, in the air, an angel mounting up 
 With shining presence and vast sweep of wing, 
 Who in his arms bore Veera, now a gift, 
 An alabaster urn of precious nard, 
 That he was taking joyfully to God. 
 
VEERA. 309 
 
 XVII. 
 
 THE KING IS CROWNED. 
 
 I came to my own city- It was night. 
 
 The moon, forth-gazing from a silvered cloud, 
 
 Trailed its white robe, thin and impalpable, 
 
 Across the tower above the Eastern gate, 
 
 And there revealed the outlines of a skull 
 
 Set on a spear. The portal was unbarred. 
 
 Keeping in shadow, I passed through the arch 
 
 And spoke the sentinel, who gave me food. 
 
 It chanced that there remained to me one coin, 
 
 A piece of gold, and this I paid him with 
 
 And made a friend. He said the late King died, 
 
 The moon before, and left two eldest born, 
 
 Twin brothers, both desirous of the crown. 
 
 Neither would yield his claim, nor would consent 
 
 To govern with the other, both in power. 
 
 The city was dividing, and even now 
 
 There rose low mutterings of violence. 
 
 On the next day, I to the palace went 
 
 And asked for audience with the old vizier. 
 
 I told him all my story, kept naught back, 
 
 And bared my arm and showed an old-time scar, 
 
 And bared my breast and showed the birth-mark there. 
 
 Embracing me with joy, he kissed the mark 
 
 And knelt and did me homage, hailed me King ! 
 
 That day they crowned me with rich pomp and show, 
 
 And all the city with delight was filled. 
 
 Even my nephews offered me their swords 
 
 In token of obedience and trust. 
 
310 VEERA. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 THE PROPHECY. 
 
 Now, for ten years, have I borne mildest sway, 
 
 And hear and see that I am not misliked. 
 
 They know not I am Christian to the core, 
 
 Nor that my mildness is reflected light. 
 
 Some day, ere long, I shall give up the crown 
 
 And let the one twin brother, who survived 
 
 The plague, which, sometime since, swept through the 
 
 land, 
 
 Assume the robes and burdens of the State. 
 I tire of power and fain would put it by; 
 For all my life and even abiding hope 
 Seem dust and ashes, knowing that I dared 
 To thrust aside the mandate of the dream, 
 And eat the mystical, life-giving fruit. 
 
 The pendulum of emigration now 
 
 Swings westward to the New World over sea. 
 
 It yet will reach the limit of its arc 
 
 And, oscillating toward its eastern bourn, 
 
 Populate Africa from coast to coast. 
 
 There, nations greater than perhaps we know, 
 
 Enlightened and progressive, will enlarge 
 
 To wider bounds the arts and sciences, 
 
 And lead the world to heights scarce dreamed of now. 
 
 With such a people I should like to dwell 
 
 And learn their manners, customs, modes of thought, 
 
 Inventions, aspirations and desires. 
 
 Then, on all knowledge having feasted much, 
 I would arise at last and seek again 
 That Garden, equatorial, wonderful, 
 
A MAN-OF-WAR HAWK. 311 
 
 Where I with Veera dwelt in happy years 
 And, if I might, I should abide therein, 
 With meditation on eternal things, 
 Till Heaven repented doom on my misdeed 
 And granted me the kindly gift of death. 
 
 A MAN-OF-WAR HAWK 
 
 WITH sure descent, a man-of-war hawk, 
 Which seemed like a dingy fleck, 
 
 Circled, high in air, round a Swedish barque, 
 While the captain paced the deck. 
 
 He watched the hawk as round the sails 
 
 It swept, and came, and went; 
 And he saw that the bird made him its aim, 
 
 And a swift attack was meant. 
 
 Heavy for days the weather had been, 
 
 And the sea a surging fear ; 
 But the storm was taking its gray sails in, 
 
 And the lower west was clear. 
 
 The sun had set with a sudden blaze, 
 And the horses of coming night, 
 
 Just rising over the eastern rim, 
 Tossed up their manes in the light. 
 
 At the mass of beak and feathers and rage 
 
 The captain struck as it came, 
 With a hastily seized belaying-pin ; 
 
 But the blow quite missed its aim. 
 
 For the hawk rose high above the barque, 
 As it fled the weaponed .hand, 
 
312 A MAN-OF-WAR HAWK. 
 
 And questioned, " How shall I utter at all, 
 What a man can understand ? 
 
 " Oh ! wide is the gulf 'twixt birds and men, 
 
 Where wings avail us naught ; 
 Nor is there ever a bridge across, 
 
 To carry each other's thought. 
 
 "If I meet him now who treads the deck, 
 
 I shall at once be slain. 
 What matters it? Death is never far, 
 
 And seldom long its pain. 
 
 "My spirit, set free, to his will speak, 
 
 And alas ! if it may not so ; 
 For I would tell him, in life or in death, 
 
 The way that his barque should go." 
 
 And now, in narrowing circles, again 
 The man-of-war hawk came down. 
 
 The captain waited, ready and armed, 
 And stood with a settled frown. 
 
 The hawk rushed at him, flapping its frings; 
 
 But he killed the bird with a blow. 
 As it lay all pitiful on the deck, 
 
 The slayer he boded woe. 
 
 For he thought the hawk an omen true; 
 
 Some unknown danger he feared ; 
 Then to the binnacle turned his steps, 
 
 To see which way he steered. 
 
 And, for no cause that he could surmise, 
 He made the steersman change, 
 
 One point to the east, the vessel's course, 
 And thought his own act strange. 
 
A MAN-OF-WAR HAWK. 313 
 
 Soon darkness, like ghosts of birds and of beasts, 
 
 Did round him hover and glide ; 
 For, in a moonless chariot, Night 
 
 Rode over the toppling tide. 
 
 The troubled captain walked the deck, 
 
 Till he drowsed in the ghostly dark ; 
 Then vaguely, and, as it were, in a dream, 
 
 Heard voices all round his barque. 
 
 He woke, and ran to the vessel's side, 
 
 And saw, in the water near, 
 Someone struggling ; and cries for help 
 
 Beseechingly smote his ear. 
 
 At once his vessel heaving to, 
 
 He lowered his every boat, 
 And took from the ocean threescore souls, 
 
 On pieces of wreck afloat. 
 
 The good barque tacked in the warm Gulf Stream, 
 
 And sailed the Georgia coast, 
 As Morning, in priestly vestments decked, 
 
 Uplifted its splendid host. 
 
 The captain looked at the man-of-war hawk 
 
 And thought of the night now past ; 
 Then tying together the feet of the fowl, 
 
 He hung it against the mast. 
 
 The billed head drooped, and the wings spread out 
 
 As wide as a man is tall ; 
 And he stroked its breast and shed a tear 
 
 For the pity and joy of it all. 
 
 Then he gathered the shipwrecked round, and said, 
 
 " The deed its doer survives. 
 Look well at this noble man-of-war hawk, 
 
 Which perished to save your lives ! " 
 
314 MORO. 
 
 MORO. 
 
 Now, through the crowded amphitheater, 
 Sounded a herald flourish loud and clear. 
 A breeze of expectation seemed to stir. 
 The unkempt sunnyside sent up a cheer. 
 With wicked-looking horns and sullen mien, 
 The black bull, Moro, entered on the scene. 
 
 This was the bull of which the placards said, 
 A maiden would subdue his utmost rage, 
 Unless, in the attempt, her blood were shed. 
 Did not all Cadiz know the formal page? 
 And Moro greeted, with a thundrous roar, 
 The ruthless, living hill he lowered before. 
 
 At once by his tormentors he was met : 
 
 Capas before him shook their teasing cloth; 
 
 Banderilleros in his shoulders set 
 
 Their cruel darts ; and when he rushed, right , wroth, 
 
 Upon a yellow challenge waved with jeers, 
 
 The picadores pricked him with their spears. 
 
 Against the nearest picador he turned 
 
 And lifted horse and rider from the ground. 
 
 Thus three good horses had he gored, and spurned 
 
 Infuriate, when quietly around 
 
 Withdrew the fighters, proud of courage shown, 
 
 And left the bull, in his fierce rage, alone. 
 
 Then fell a rill of music, pearl on pearl, 
 
 And straightway into the arena sprang 
 
 A tawny, Andalusian peasant-girl, 
 
 Pretty and breathing charm ; she sweetly sang, 
 
 Advancing toward the bull with fearless joy, 
 
 Then, pausing, ceased and cried, " Moro ! Ya voy ! " 
 
THE TRAITOR. 315 
 
 Of glad Espara she, and she had fed, 
 Petted and cared for Moro happy years. 
 But when of late she heard it lightly said 
 That he must grace th' arena, full of tears 
 She sought authority and gained the right 
 To save his life, if in this wise she might. 
 
 Amidst the wide, hushed amphitheater, 
 At the first piping of the bird-like voice, 
 Moro had quelled his fury, and seeing her, 
 The girl, his friend, he seemed quite to rejoice. 
 And when beside him she had come to stand, 
 With his mute tongue he licked her loving hand. 
 
 Her voice and presence soothing every smart, 
 He knelt before her as she stroked his head. 
 She, bending over, soon removed each dart, 
 With tearful pity ; then, joy-garlanded, 
 Her arm around his neck, and all elate, 
 She, smiling, led him toward the torril's gate. 
 
 THE TRAITOR. 
 I. 
 
 THE ANCIENT CINTRAN CITY. 
 
 HIGH upon the rocky summit of a cliff in red Algiers, 
 Raised against the sky of sunset, like a beaker filled 
 
 with wine, 
 While each dome is like a bubble that above the brim 
 
 appears, 
 
 Stands the city I was born in, my loved mother, 
 Constantine. 
 
316 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Rank on rank, the brick-roofed houses, with their heavy, 
 
 gray stone walls, 
 And among them, far above them, rises mosque and 
 
 minaret ; 
 Like the voice of an enchanter, sound the loud muezzin's 
 
 calls, 
 
 And the rustle of the cypress has a murmur of re- 
 gret. 
 
 Bound the ancient, Cintran City runs a sturdy wall and 
 
 strong, 
 Like the girdle of a soldier, and a gate the buckle 
 
 seems ; 
 There a tower upon the rampart is a dagger hilted 
 
 long, 
 
 And its blade is sheathed in foldings of a circling 
 sash of streams. 
 
 Far away the Atlas mountains lift primeval heads of 
 
 snow, 
 And appear like old men seated in some quiet sylvan 
 
 place, 
 Where they bathe their feet like children in the brooks 
 
 that run below, 
 
 Or they smoke their pipes of comfort till the clouds 
 obscure each face. 
 
 I was poor; a beggar found me lying naked in the 
 
 street, 
 And he selfishly befriended me and took me to his 
 
 door, 
 Where he cared for me and tended me, until my growing 
 
 feet 
 
 Could patter on the thoroughfares and yield him alms 
 the more. 
 
THE TRAITOR. 317 
 
 A stranger to the tenderness of father or of mother, 
 My tatters scarcely covered me, privation made me 
 
 thin. 
 
 I had grown cold to sympathy, or kindness, from an- 
 other ; 
 
 For I drank a sullen wormwood from the cups of 
 want and sin. 
 
 II. 
 
 IN THE BLUE KIOSK AND GOLDEN. 
 
 In the days when I, a beggar, idly roamed from street 
 
 to street, 
 
 By the palace, in the garden where the scented foun- 
 tains play, 
 Near the blue kiosk and golden, it was given me to 
 
 meet 
 
 One to whom my wild heart bounded, and I could not 
 turn away. 
 
 For my eyes fed on the banquet of her beauty and her 
 
 grace. 
 
 Nay, how could I choose but love her whom the an- 
 gels might adore ? 
 Soon she wearied of my staring and averted her dear 
 
 face; 
 
 But I saw the opals tremble, which about her neck 
 she wore. 
 
 Either cheek was sea-shell tinted and, upon her crimson 
 
 lips, 
 
 Danced a smile that lingered fondly, as the starlight 
 on the sea. 
 
318 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Growing bolder, on my knees I fell and kissed her 
 
 finger-tips, 
 
 And begged of her, and prayed to her, that her slave 
 I now might be. 
 
 I was swarthy, handsome featured, comely, both in form 
 
 and face, 
 And my sable hair flowed glossily about my neck and 
 
 head. 
 My large, dark eyes were luminous, and I had an inborn 
 
 grace 
 
 That almost changed to royal robes my ill-fashioned, 
 faded red. 
 
 With my arm I bound the maiden and I would not let 
 
 her go, 
 Tho' she said she was Eudocia and that Yorghi was 
 
 her sire. 
 
 I said I was Demetrius and, if but a beggar low, 
 By my love I was ennobled as with purifying fire. 
 
 Heavily her long, jet lashes hung above her dreamy 
 
 Like twin clouds of stormy portent drooping near 
 
 two crystal lakes; 
 
 Or they were as wings of ravens seen against the twi- 
 light skies, 
 
 Or as fern-sprays hanging over glossy water in the 
 brakes. 
 
 Her rich vesture was embroidered with a lace of finest 
 
 gold. 
 And a diamond in her fillet with a star-like twinkle 
 
 shone. 
 All her drooping silk in outline of the form within it 
 
 told, 
 
 And her slender waist was circled by a jewel-fastened 
 zone. 
 
THE TRAITOR. 319 
 
 To mine eyes she gave her dear eyes, down to gaze into 
 
 and dream, 
 And I was as one who, musing, leans upon a bridge's 
 
 rail, 
 
 And, of all else heedless, gazes into the pellucid stream, 
 While the twilight comes and passes and the starry 
 hosts prevail. 
 
 After this, I met her daily in the palace-garden's ways, 
 And she gladly came to meet me, often at the very 
 
 gate, 
 Sometimes chiding, sometimes smiling at my minute-long 
 
 delays ; 
 
 And she brought me dainty viands on a burnished sil- 
 ver plate. 
 
 I, her lover, was a beggar ; but she also, felt the flame. 
 Had I been Harun-al-Rashid, she could not have 
 
 loved me more. 
 This she fondly whispered, kissing on my lips and eyes 
 
 my name, 
 
 While her very soul embraced me. Could I other 
 than adore ? 
 
 Yet all pleasure cloys or ends soon; if the cup be 
 
 stricken down, 
 Then the content is like acid, leaving scars of deep 
 
 regret ; 
 If it cloys, we calmly quit it, with perhaps a careless 
 
 frown. 
 
 As with pain, it is with pleasure, both are easy to for- 
 get. 
 
 In the blue kiosk and golden, with the maiden's hand 
 
 in mine, 
 
 Sat I when appeared proud Yorghi with a storm upon 
 his face. 
 
320 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Dared Eudocia so disgrace him ? Would she soil his 
 
 noble line ? 
 
 Then he stamped his fierce invective and he drove 
 me from the place. 
 
 Ere I went, I turned upon him, and I boldly claimed 
 
 her hand, 
 And I vowed that I would have her, tho' the city 
 
 barred my way; 
 
 But he scoffed at me, a beggar, and repeated his com- 
 mand, 
 
 Never more to meet his daughter, for my life's sake, 
 from that day. 
 
 III. 
 
 GOOD FORTUNE. 
 
 Thus two rivers, nigh united, were abruptly turned apart ; 
 One to glide through palace gardens, sweet and clear, 
 
 but never free; 
 One to move by towns and bridges, bearing cargoes to 
 
 the mart, 
 
 But assured it was our kismet that a confluence should 
 be. 
 
 I would cease to beg, and straightway ; for there came 
 
 across my thought 
 A passionate intolerance of the course my life had 
 
 run; 
 And I went out to the venders, where some petty wares 
 
 I bought ; 
 But in selling and in buying, my vocation was begun. 
 
 Soon I found myself the owner of warehouses, camels, 
 
 sails 
 
 A commended prince of traffic, with my slaves be- 
 yond the line, 
 
THE TRAITOR. 321 
 
 Where they sold my costly merchandise of cloth and 
 
 woolen bales, 
 
 Colored leathers, ostrich feathers, figs and olives, dates 
 and wine. 
 
 Hard I labored and my gains accrued and doubled in 
 
 my hands ; 
 For Dame Fortune, having given once, will often give 
 
 us more. 
 Mine the golden touch of Midas, mine the foresight that 
 
 commands 
 
 And receives a lavish tribute from the desert and the 
 shore. 
 
 And I studied, learned the meanings that the wisest pro- 
 verbs teach 
 Gained the Greek verb-roots by delving like a rustic, 
 
 long and hard 
 
 Woke a mystical foreknowledge of some rules that gov- 
 ern speech, 
 
 And drank deeply at the fountain of the verse of 
 Scio's bard. 
 
 All my ships had winds of favor ; not one sank or went 
 
 ashore. 
 They were laden low each voyage and had faithful 
 
 planks and seams. 
 Sometimes blocks of massive buildings would not hold 
 
 my ample store, 
 
 And my thrifty, daring bargains dimmed all other 
 merchants' dreams. 
 
 I still wore my beggar garments, liking things that 
 
 marked Luck's birth. 
 
 And I donned my old-time turban with its folds of 
 faded red. 
 
322 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 I had worn no better garb then, had I owned the peo- 
 pled earth. 
 
 Better, rich, to wear clean rags, than, being poor, wear 
 silk, I said. 
 
 Daily, from my cottage window, flew a pigeon high in 
 
 air, 
 And beneath its wing lay folded, words for her whom 
 
 I loved best. 
 
 Daily, from her palace lattice, one came back with greet- 
 ings fair, 
 
 Set in idyls full of heart-speech, faithful ardors of her 
 breast. 
 
 Dearest love ! she waited patiently, with longing, mourn- 
 ful eyes. 
 Like the moon, she waited nightly for the clouds to 
 
 leave her brow. 
 
 Like a bird, she waited daily for the coming in the skies 
 Of another bringing gladness and a mating on the 
 bough. 
 
 Naught of wealth won recognition ; for she had, to look 
 
 upon, 
 Art's own pictures, color-raptures of the Spring's or 
 
 Autumn's land. 
 And she dined on sweets and spices, coffee, bread and 
 
 cinnamon, 
 
 While they shook light perfumes over and the air 
 about her fanned. 
 
 Down her back, her hair, escaping from its pearl-set 
 
 comb of gold, 
 
 Uttered fragrance, seemed a cascade plunging into a 
 ravine 
 
THE TRAITOR. 323 
 
 Seemed the plumage of a raven that adventured, proudly 
 
 bold, 
 
 And, upon her forehead perching, was a darkness and 
 a sheen. 
 
 Every day in milk they bathed her, till she grew to be 
 
 as white 
 Dyed her nails with crimson henna round her eyes 
 
 touched almond kohl 
 Fed her cakes of cream and honey; but she tasted no 
 
 delight, 
 
 And her bed of golden curtains gave no quiet to her 
 soul. 
 
 IV. 
 
 DEMETRIUS AND HIS TEN FRIENDS CALL ON 
 YORGHI. 
 
 But at length the chosen day came that my hopes had 
 
 longed to greet, 
 When I cast aside the tatters I had worn for many 
 
 years, 
 And arrayed my comely person faultlessly from head to 
 
 feet, 
 In apparel that was seemly, in the velvet of my peers. 
 
 I had bought me restless horses, Arab steeds, five 
 
 white, six black. 
 The eleventh was the noblest and the gentlest of them 
 
 all. 
 And a friend I had who loved me, to bestride each 
 
 horse's back 
 
 Ten good friends of smooth demeanor, handsome fea- 
 tures, strong and tall. 
 
324 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Every friend I gave a cloak to, purple velvet ermine- 
 bound. 
 All the horses were caparison'd, their bridles jingling 
 
 gold. 
 At high noon we started gayly and the palace-entrance 
 
 found, 
 
 Where, dismounting, we sought Yorghi, and to him 
 my purpose told : 
 
 I had come to wed his daughter, for her heart had long 
 
 been mine. 
 I had won her when a beggar; but I loved her yet 
 
 the more, 
 Now that my great wealth was famous and ennobled 
 
 my design. 
 
 For Eudocia I would give him half my fortune, store 
 on store. 
 
 In my face he laughed, me scorning, and despised me 
 
 and my part 
 Called me but a beggar wealthy, as he waved me 
 
 thence away; 
 For to him belonged his daughter ; he knew nothing of 
 
 her heart; 
 
 He had pledged her hand in marriage to my ruler, 
 Ahmed Bey. 
 
 There are times when our resentment centers solely 
 
 in a glance, 
 When our feelings burn too fiercely for effectiveness 
 
 in speech ; 
 
 Such a look I gave to Yorghi, as I led out in ad- 
 vance 
 
 Of my ten good friends, who followed with brave 
 consolation each. 
 
THE TRAITOR. 325 
 
 V. 
 
 THE CITY BELEAGUERED. 
 
 War, like distant thunder, muttered in the terror-dark- 
 ened air. 
 In the sky were signs and omens giving presage of new 
 
 graves. 
 
 Huddled families of shepherds hurried townward in de- 
 spair ; 
 
 They had heard the tramp of armies like the beat of 
 ocean waves. 
 
 War a pestilent disease is, on the body of the world, 
 A disease that sometimes purges, tho' it leaves the 
 
 patient sore, 
 And there is no drug will cure it until Freedom shall 
 
 have hurled 
 
 From its pedestals Oppression, and abides on every 
 shore. 
 
 What availed my rows of buildings and my bartering 
 
 for gold ? 
 All my gains seemed vainly gotten, for Eudocia was 
 
 not mine. 
 With my goods turned into money, I my lands and 
 
 houses sold, 
 
 And sent out the thankless product from the risks 
 of Constantine. 
 
 Like a war-hawk swooping on us, came Damrfcmont 
 
 with his men. 
 We had seen his wing-like colors, and had closed 
 
 and barred the gates. 
 
 All the women urged to battle ; every man a soldier then, 
 And the fierce Kabyles were certain of the friend- 
 ship of the Fates. 
 
326 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 I had held that love of country was a higher love of 
 
 self; 
 For the pride in it is selfish, whatsoever may be 
 
 proved. 
 Wearing lightly my allegiance, save for love's sake and 
 
 for pelf, 
 
 I had now no other country than to wed with her I 
 loved. 
 
 Thus it is with men of one aim, in their swerveless, 
 
 headstrong race; 
 They will neither heed entreaty, nor the warnings of 
 
 the soul. 
 They will turn aside for no man, and will scarcely 
 
 slacken pace; 
 
 But they often miss some blessing that is greater 
 than their goal. 
 
 All was plain ; if I should falter, then to me my pearl 
 
 were lost; 
 But, if steadfast in my purpose, I could claim her as 
 
 my right. 
 Baffled love is half resentment that will seldom count 
 
 the cost, 
 
 And I stole out from the city to the alien camp that 
 night. 
 
 There was still a higher motive that had urged me to 
 
 the deed: 
 If the French should be the victors, they would give 
 
 to Constantine 
 Their refinement, art and culture, and sow everywhere 
 
 the seed 
 
 Of the Masterful religion that should make the world 
 divine. 
 
THE TRAITOR. 327 
 
 Honor ? Honor ? What is honor, if it be not to up- 
 hold 
 That which heart and soul espouses and seems ever 
 
 for the best ? 
 Shall a man defend his rulers with his life and with his 
 
 gold, 
 
 When he knows that, in their downfall, all the peo- 
 ple would be blessed? 
 
 From the cliff I slipped in silence, and I reached the 
 
 foreign camp 
 Where, to see its brave commander, I was taken, it 
 
 befell. 
 There like sheaves were stacked the muskets, and he 
 
 sat behind a lamp, 
 
 Where he planned a crimson harvest for the French 
 and Azrael. 
 
 " I have come to sell assistance, if you take my terms," 
 
 I said; 
 
 " For I know the weakest portion of the city's scowl- 
 ing wall. 
 With Eudocia, Yorgbi's daughter, I have wished for years 
 
 to wed. 
 
 Promise her to me in marriage, and I frankly tell 
 you all." 
 
 Then across his table smiling, me he granted my de- 
 sire. 
 It may be, the smile was memory's, bringing back 
 
 some crowned delight. 
 
 But he listened to my story and, he said, he would re- 
 quire 
 That I go into the city as a spy the coming night. 
 
328 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE MASKED SPY IN THE PALACE. 
 
 Years before a secret entrance underneath the wall was 
 
 made ; 
 But the three were dead who built it, and none knew 
 
 the place but me. 
 When the next night came, I reached it and, soon after, 
 
 in the shade, 
 
 Passed through lonely urban precincts where the bat- 
 tle was to be. 
 
 Soon a purse, with gold well freighted, bought the whis- 
 pered countersign, 
 So that I could reconnoiter place and number of the 
 
 troops. 
 I chalked boldly on a building : Lo ! the doom of Con- 
 
 stantine / 
 
 Death and Folly urge resistance and the people are 
 their dupes ! 
 
 In the street I met a masker hasting onward through 
 
 the night. 
 There was something in his bearing that betokened 
 
 him a friend. 
 " Sir," I said, when by his shoulders I had turned him 
 
 to the light, 
 
 " Tell me why you hide your visage and what con- 
 quest you intend ? " 
 
 By my voice he straightway knew me, and took off the 
 
 mask to say: 
 
 "I am going to the palace. Have you heard not of 
 the fte? 
 
THE TRAITOR. 329 
 
 In three days great Yorghi's daughter is to wed with 
 
 Ahmed Bey, 
 
 And to-night the plighting party. Do not keep me ; 
 it is late." 
 
 " Hold ! " I cried, " you care but little for the pleasure 
 
 that you seek. 
 
 Lend to me your mask and raiment ; let me take to- 
 night your place. 
 
 I shall prize the favor highly, and will pay you in a week 
 With a gem for every minute, and they shall not see 
 my face." 
 
 Entering his cool apartments, he took off the garb he 
 
 wore, 
 And I donned the half fantastic silken garments and 
 
 the mask; 
 Then I hastened down the stairway and was in the 
 
 street once more, 
 
 Thinking only of Eudocia, in whose presence I should 
 bask. 
 
 From foundation to entablature, the palace beamed with 
 
 light, 
 
 And I fancied it a genie ; every window was an eye ; 
 His mouth the yawning doorway, and a cloud, across 
 
 the night, 
 
 Seemed like hair about his forehead, tossed and 
 streaming in the sky. 
 
 Then he gorged me ; for I entered and I heard th' en- 
 trancing moan 
 Of the music heard the dancing girls with bells 
 
 upon their feet. 
 
 There ten thousand flowers most fragrantly their pres- 
 ences made known, 
 And the least, in its apparel, was a miracle complete. 
 
330 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 To a splendid hall, a eunuch led me down a damask 
 
 floor, 
 And the guests were there assembled in their beauty 
 
 and their pride. 
 Rare the gonfalons and pictures ; but all eyes could 
 
 only pore 
 On the Bey and on the lily he was leading by his side. 
 
 Eound a fountain, in the center of the golden burnished 
 
 room, 
 Danced the dancers, played the players, to the cadence 
 
 of its fall; 
 While without, beyond the balcony, amid the sylvan 
 
 gloom, 
 
 One lone nightingale was singing, and with sadness 
 mocked us all. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE MEETING IN THE GARDEN AND FLIGHT OF THE 
 SPY. 
 
 When the Bey passed by me graciously, I whispered in 
 
 the ear 
 Of the maiden he was leading, (Should I fail to win 
 
 her yet !) 
 "Lo! our day is at its dawning; I, Demetrius, am 
 
 here ! 
 
 Meet me, dearest, in the garden where we have so 
 often met." 
 
 Thither me she followed quickly, and I clasped her to 
 
 my heart, 
 
 And bestowed perfervid kisses on her lips and cheeks 
 and chin. 
 
THE TRAITOR. 331 
 
 Here she longed to dwell forever, so that we might never 
 
 part, 
 
 And be fed with many kisses, mine enfolding arms 
 within. 
 
 There the rhythmic stars out-twinkled and a sordid little 
 
 lake, 
 Like a miser, hugged the coinage of their glimmer to 
 
 its breast, 
 
 Nor would venture from the closet of the trees and tan- 
 gled brake, 
 
 Lest some fortunate bold robber should it of its hoard 
 divest. 
 
 Now the years had changed Eudocia from the rosebud 
 
 to the rose, 
 Had perfected every feature, added gentle grace to 
 
 grace, 
 And she made my heart her garden, where to dwell and 
 
 find repose. 
 
 Neither time, nor change, nor absence, could her love 
 for me efface. 
 
 She was fain to be a lakelet in the starlight of mine 
 
 eyes, 
 And what time my lips gave kisses, she would catch 
 
 their spicy dew. 
 When my face was bending over, it was like affection's 
 
 skies, 
 
 And mine arms were as the verdure that around the 
 margin grew. 
 
 But I dared not risk to tell her of the spy that she was 
 
 near. 
 
 Ahmed Bey, I said, would tremble when I came to 
 claim her hand; 
 
332 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 And I told her to despair not, but to wait with patient 
 
 cheer ; 
 
 For my triumph would be bruited in the corners of 
 the land. 
 
 Suddenly arose commotion in the palace down the hill. 
 Many lights swung in the distance, like red fireflies 
 
 in a glen. 
 Call by call was heard and answered, as of winging 
 
 birds and shrill. 
 
 We had seen a hundred torches with the coming forth 
 of men. 
 
 " Love, they seek you ! " cried Eudocia. " You must go, 
 
 or else be slain ! " 
 But sad, oh, sad the sundering of the cherished, heart 
 
 from heart ! 
 Cloven is the oak's tough fiber by the vivid lightning 
 
 chain ; 
 
 But the lovers cling the closer that they strive to rend 
 apart. 
 
 On a seat I laid her swooning, then sped lightly through 
 
 the gloom, 
 Tho' a torchman so approached me that I fancied I 
 
 was seen ; 
 But, down-crouching for a moment by a shrub of densest 
 
 bloom, 
 
 I fled onward to my entrance through the streets that 
 intervene. 
 
 Overhead a sudden meteor made a pallid day of night, 
 And, tho' burning with a bluish glow, was trailed 
 
 with ruby shine. 
 It seemed like a lifted torch to me, borne swiftly in 
 
 the flight 
 
 Of a spirit that, with warning, brought defeat to 
 Constantino. 
 
THE TRAITOR. 333 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE BATTLE. 
 
 To the town outspoke the cannons, as the dawn charged 
 
 on the night, 
 And they told of wounds for mercy and of death to 
 
 old despair ; 
 But the sullen town was ready to defend itself with 
 
 might, 
 
 And replied with scornful missiles that came hissing 
 down the air. 
 
 When the sun rose hot and bloody, all the fight had 
 
 well begun. 
 The artillery was pounding at the weak place in the 
 
 wall. 
 Soon the smoke from vale and city hung between us 
 
 and the sun, 
 
 And, for many, was the only sign or semblance of a 
 pall. 
 
 Like a strong, Numidian lion, on her rock the city lay, 
 Nothing daunted, tho' surrounded, and with scanty 
 
 store of bread. 
 O'er two gates, in calm defiance, stared through battle, 
 
 day by day, 
 
 Her proud eyes, two flaming standards, both of bright, 
 unvaried red. 
 
 At these gates they set their swordsmen, thinking thence 
 
 to drive us back, 
 
 If their sallies should deceive us and we to the gates 
 should come ; 
 
334 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 But in vain, we would not follow, tho' we longed for the 
 
 attack, 
 
 And, to make it, chafed and listened for the signal 
 guns and drum. 
 
 Stone by stone, a breach was opened at the weak place 
 
 in the wall. 
 Then we sent a truce-flag bearer, and he to the city 
 
 said: 
 " Fight no more ; at once surrender ! Constantine shall 
 
 surely fall. 
 
 If you wait, no man remaining shall you have to count 
 your dead." 
 
 Like a sword-thrust came the answer : " There is plenty 
 
 in the place 
 Of both food and ammunition. Is it these the French 
 
 desire ? 
 We can give, and with abundance ; but surrender means 
 
 disgrace, 
 
 And our homes shall be defended while a shot is left 
 to fire ! " 
 
 If this town should not be taken, every man must share 
 
 the fault, 
 And full many there bethought them of their own in 
 
 sunny France. 
 Down our lines the word was wafted, " Now, to take it 
 
 by assault ! " 
 
 And, at last, we heard the signal for the stormers to 
 advance. 
 
 Like great billows, never breaking, were the rocks of Con- 
 stantine, 
 
 And a cargoed ship the city, with her keel in every 
 one. 
 
THE TRAITOR. 335 
 
 She was sailing for the future, with the barter of the 
 
 line, 
 
 And her mast-like towers were gaudy with the pen- 
 nons of the sun. 
 
 But a roaring storm had struck her and a rent was in 
 
 her side, 
 Where the waters rushed in wildly, overwhelming all 
 
 before ; 
 For in vain each brave endeavor, tho' they all on board 
 
 her tried 
 
 To reduce the leak and stanch it with their fury and 
 their gore. 
 
 Eager Frenchmen were the waters that could not be 
 
 stayed nor checked ; 
 But the ship was little damaged by the storm she 
 
 had endured ; 
 And, re-officered and garnished, was so far from being 
 
 wrecked, 
 
 That she seemed to sail more proudly for the change 
 we had secured. 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE WEDDING AND THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 It was night. The conquered palace bloomed with many 
 
 lights again. 
 In a hall of mingled standards and of heavy rugs 
 
 and mats, 
 There were women fair as houris, there were brave 
 
 and handsome men, 
 
 And the fish leaped up to see them from the foun- 
 tains' marble vats. 
 
336 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Never quite so fair Eudocia, and she won exalted 
 
 praise 
 
 From the aliens there assembled to observe our mar- 
 riage rite. 
 Not alone her magic beauty, but the grace of all her 
 
 ways 
 
 Drew all eyes and thoughts upon her, filled with un- 
 disguised delight. 
 
 While the service yet was saying and, before I placed 
 
 the ring 
 On her tapering heart-finger, some one pushed the 
 
 guests aside, 
 And I saw my friend, the masker, his resentful presence 
 
 bring 
 
 To the center of the wedding wild of gesture, an- 
 gry eyed. 
 
 "Thus should die the thankless traitor, whether lord 
 
 or beggar he ! " 
 
 And a dagger rose above us with a glitter in- the light, 
 Then was struck upon my bosom, with a fierce fanatic 
 
 glee, 
 
 And my false friend, from the service, hasted wildly 
 in his flight. 
 
 But the mad bee had not stung me in his hurry to de- 
 part, 
 And in evil as in good deeds, haste allures its cause 
 
 to loss ; 
 For I wore a faithful secret close upon my waken'd 
 
 heart, 
 The symbol irresistible, an inspiring golden Cross. 
 
 This had turned aside the weapon, and had spared me 
 
 many a year 
 
 For that soul whose eyes have been to me a more 
 than Meccan shrine 
 
MARECHAL-NIEL ROSES. 337 
 
 For her for whom I paid a town, and thought the price 
 
 not dear. 
 The citadel of Jugurtha and once Christian Constantine. 
 
 We are living in a palace by the river's winding way ; 
 But at times I ride on horseback in the twilight dim 
 
 and late, 
 
 And I hear above my city the muezzin, in the gray, 
 Shout, " To prayer ! To prayer, ye people ! Only 
 God is good and great ! " 
 
 MARECHAL-NIEL EOSES. 
 
 You say you like my roses well, 
 
 So golden and so fair, 
 And some are pinned upon your breast, 
 
 And some are in your hair. 
 The roses and your gown of white 
 
 Your lovely looks enhance, 
 And in your voice is melody 
 
 Like music of the dance. 
 
 Now will you sit, or will you waltz? 
 
 I care not which you will, 
 So you be near me ; at your glance 
 
 My finer feelings thrill. . . . 
 Then let us yonder to the dim 
 
 Conservatory go, 
 And leave the rout. What was it, that 
 
 You said you wished to know ? 
 
 Why yellow roses, such as yours, 
 Are called the Marechal-Niel ? 
 
 Let us be seated 'neath this palm j 
 These ferns the place conceal. 
 
338 MARECHAL-NEIL ROSES. 
 
 How tired you are, O drooping rose! 
 
 I catch the perfume near 
 Of heavy petals in your hair . . . 
 
 The moon floods silver here. 
 
 But brighter, o'er the French heart once, 
 
 A glory seemed to steal, 
 When home from Solferino came 
 
 Brave General Adolph Niel. 
 He rode where whistling dangers sped 
 
 And bristling onsets burned, 
 And, with his fell artillery, 
 
 The tide of battle turned. 
 
 The day was won ; Fame bruited it, 
 
 And France a triumph gave 
 The victors, whom the people cheered 
 
 As bravest of the brave. 
 To General Niel some hand unknown 
 
 A generous basket sent, 
 Heaped up with roses, such as these, 
 
 Your floral complement. 
 
 There ran a legend on a card, 
 
 Which in the foliage lay, 
 "Your glory is betokened here 
 
 In fragrance and display." 
 Pleased was the hero then to find 
 
 His valor so repaid, 
 And, choosing one by one the flowers, 
 
 A rare bouquet arrayed. 
 
 The petals were like butterflies 
 
 That flutter in the noon ; 
 But every rose recalled to him 
 
 Some low-hung, mellow moon. 
 
MARECHAL-NIEL ROSES. 339 
 
 Yet most he thought of her for whom 
 
 He shaped his gift the glad 
 Eugenie Empress, and the one 
 
 Sweet note the Empire had. 
 
 At evening, in the Tuileries' glare, 
 
 The height of triumph came. 
 The Empress took his gift, and pleased, 
 
 She asked the roses' name. 
 " They have no name, your Majesty," 
 
 The warrior replied. 
 He saw she smiled most graciously, 
 
 And howed to her with pride. 
 
 Upon her it had flashed how she 
 
 Her good news might reveal. 
 " Then I will name the rose/' she said, 
 
 " It is the Marechal Niel ! " 
 Thus did the Empress, with a word, 
 
 Not only name the flower, 
 But, to a gallant general, 
 
 Give greater rank and power. 
 
 And is the story so, indeed? 
 
 Well, it is told in France. 
 The Paris Journal . . . Slight your doubts ; 
 
 They pander to romance. 
 The soldier's gift was less than mine, 
 
 Tho' better than he knew ; 
 For with my Marechal-Niels, my dear, 
 
 I gave my heart to you ! 
 
340 TO A BLUE HEPATIC A. 
 
 TO A BLUE HEPATICA. 
 
 A FLAKE of light-blue sky, 
 Perched on the top of a slender stem, 
 Like a bird with his azure wings outspread, 
 Here, at my feet, as I wandered by, 
 
 I found thee, wilding gem! 
 And the dead leaves rustled to my tread 
 In the weird and aged wood. 
 
 I understood 
 As it were thy glance. 
 It was like a dance 
 
 Of glad surprise 
 In those sweet, blue eyes, 
 Which thou and heaven above 
 
 Dost 'mind me of. 
 
 I thought of winter gone, 
 
 When the brief sun shone, 
 Nor abated aught th' intolerant cold, 
 Which would yield no place, 
 On the white earth's face, 
 To thy beauty, O flower! But the mold, 
 Rich and black, under fallen leaves 
 
 Held thee safe as garnered sheaves. 
 Strange, that a tender flower like thee, 
 Against the rude and eager stress 
 Of Winter's frosty selfishness, 
 In forefront of revolt should'st be! 
 
 And yet, rathe flower divine, 
 On whom I almost trod, 
 I take thee for a sign. 
 With peace thou art endued, 
 Petaled beatitude 
 And little child of God! 
 
PHAETHON. 341 
 
 I, too, rebel against the old 
 Against the drear, insensate cold 
 Of selfish customs manifold ; 
 And I say that every kindly deed 
 Is a flower like thee in the wilderness, 
 
 And makes for peace, and will sow the seed 
 
 Of other deeds to help and bless. 
 When these are common when strikes that hour, 
 
 Of Time the dower 
 The world shall see life truly free 
 The endless Summer that is to be, 
 
 The ripened fruit, the light, the power 
 Of democracy-! 
 
 Spirits of peace are in the air, 
 
 And gleams of Springtime everywhere ! 
 
 PHAETHON. 
 
 THE OATH OF CLYMENE. 
 
 ALL glittering shone the Palace of the Sun, 
 Set high on stately columns, bright with gold 
 And carbuncle that rivals living flames. 
 The oval roof was polished ivory. 
 And paramount, for workmanship most rare, 
 The massive, double, silver-seeming doors. 
 On them was carved the circle of the deep, 
 Set with a mighty emerald, the earth, 
 Enhanced with men and cities, woods and beasts, 
 And, bent above, the sky with its twelve signs. 
 Six signs from either portal gleamed and spoke. 
 And there, in sea, were azure deities 
 Shell-sounding Triton Proteus mutable 
 ^Egseon clinging to a hundred whales 
 
342 PHAETHON. 
 
 Gray Doris with her daughters, part of whom 
 Were swimming, while the rest, upon the shore, 
 Shook out their hair to dry it in the sun. 
 
 This, at a distance, Phagthon beheld 
 As he approached along th' ascending path, 
 Which led from his contiguous domain. 
 Now in his breast the taunt of Epaphus, 
 That he was not the offspring of the Sun, 
 Seemed idle as a mist that fades away. 
 His father's palace, with imposing truth, 
 Dispersed the lowering falsehood of the taunt. 
 
 Long had he been assured by lofty thoughts 
 
 And forceful impulses to mighty deeds, 
 
 That his was more than mortal parentage. 
 
 Had not his mother sworn it, standing forth 
 
 In sacred beauty and true modesty 
 
 And looking day ward with uplifted arms? 
 
 Her words devout reechoed in his ears: 
 
 "By this clear beam, with calm, far-shining rays, 
 
 That hears and sees, I swear that thou, that thou 
 
 Of this bright Sun above us, wast begot. 
 
 And if I falsely speak, let him by me 
 
 Be seen no more and this light be the last 
 
 That I shall look upon ! " His mother seemed 
 
 A fountain of ambition tossing him. 
 
 She and her new, hereditary self, 
 
 Existent in her son, impelled him on. 
 
 He loved her as the image of a star, 
 
 Reflected in the water, loves the star, 
 
 And deemed her wise in that she bade him go 
 
 And, in the Red-Gold Palace Glorious, 
 
 Hear his own father's voice confirm her oath. 
 
 The lofty mind begets the lofty deed. 
 
 It was some taint of weakness in the blood 
 
PHAETHON. 343 
 
 Of dull mortality that forged the doubt. 
 
 It is the doubt that ever makes us fail. 
 
 Yet Phaethon was brave to seek the sun, 
 
 And had good faith that he would greet his sire 
 
 And learn of him the fixed, unchanging truth. 
 
 If this should be hope's substance, foothold, field, 
 
 Upon it his ambition should have rein, 
 
 And speed him on to deeds unparalleled 
 
 Save by the gods, and prove himself a god ! 
 
 What time this son of Clymene arrived, 
 He entered straightway his paternal house 
 And, in the Sun-god's presence, stood at gaze ; 
 But distantly, for he could not yet bear 
 The dazzling radiance of the charioteer. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE BED-GOLD PALACE GLORIOUS. 
 
 In purple robes sat Phoebus, high enthroned 
 
 On sparkling emeralds. He held the lyre, 
 
 The speedy arrows and the golden bow. 
 
 Behind, from ivory pillars crowned with globes, 
 
 The velvet hangings seemed like molten gold. 
 
 To right and left, the Hours, the Days, the Months, 
 
 The Years and hoary Ages were arranged 
 
 All at their stated distances apart. 
 
 There stood blithe Spring with blossoms chapleted, 
 
 There naked Summer garlanded with corn, 
 
 There luscious Autumn smeared with trodden grapes, 
 
 And icy Winter rough with crisp white hair. 
 
 Then from the midst of these looked forth the Sire 
 With his all-seeing eyes, and there beheld 
 The young man standing overcome with awe. 
 
344 PHAETHON. 
 
 " What dost tbou seek, O Phaethon, my son ! 
 In this my palace ? Far, oh ! far away, 
 I saw thee tracking the unwonted slope, 
 Thy body, from thy knees up, like a tower 
 Above the forest that conceals the path." 
 
 Straight answered Phaethon, now all aflame 
 
 To do a deed becoming to a god : 
 
 " O Thou ! divine and universal Light, 
 
 That daily wheelest from the east to west, 
 
 Phoebus, my father ! if so be I thus 
 
 May use thy name, which is to me most dear, 
 
 And if my mother, Clymene, say true 
 
 Give me, my parent, some assurance strong, 
 
 Some potent token worthy instant fame, 
 
 By which all gods and men henceforth shall know 
 
 That I am sprung immortally from thee ! " 
 
 Then fervid Phoebus, taking from his head 
 The crown of rays that all around it shone, 
 Commanded Phaethon to come to him, 
 And, with a close embrace, he fondly said: 
 " Thou dost indeed deserve to be my son. 
 Thy mother truly spake thine origin. 
 And, that all doubt be driven from thy mind, 
 Ask thou for any gift that I can give, 
 And I will grant it thee ; and let the stream 
 By which all gods confirm their solemn oaths, 
 Be sponsor to the promise I have made ! " 
 
 Scarce had the hot assurance of his words 
 Dropped from his lips, when Phaethon announced 
 The gift that he desired : " Just for one day, 
 Lend me, my father, thy bright chariot 
 And those wing-footed horses that are thine, 
 That I may speed them on their heavenly course 
 Just for one day ! " 
 
PHAETHON. 345 
 
 III. 
 
 PHCEBUS PLEADS WITH PHAETHON. 
 
 How Phoebus did repent 
 How bitterly ! his oath to Phaethon ! 
 His radiant head shook thrice with adverse thought, 
 And when he spoke, his tone of deep regret 
 Was like wan Agamemnon's as he chid 
 Ulysses on the shore of Erebus : 
 u Alas ! my son, thy words have made mine rash. 
 Would that I now my promise might revoke ! 
 Too hasty words are serpents venomous. 
 Let me dissuade thee from thy wild emprise ; 
 For thou hast reason and a noble mind. 
 Oh ! listen to the warm, parental love 
 That would withhold thee from thine injury ! 
 To be a mortal, fate hath fixed thy lot. 
 That which in ignorance thou dost desire, 
 Belongeth not to mortals, but to gods. 
 Nay, even the gods themselves may not secure 
 The riskful privilege thou hast besought. 
 Myself alone excepted, none would dare, 
 For none is able, here to take his stand 
 Upon my swift, fire-flinging axle-tree. 
 Nay, even the Sovereign Lord Olympian 
 Hath not the skill to guide my chariot. 
 Yet who is mightier than Jupiter ? 
 
 " Besides, the first part of the road is steep. 
 
 Tho' in the morning they are fresh, my steeds 
 
 Are loath to climb it and would turn aside. 
 
 In middle heaven the road is high aloft. 
 
 Even to myself comes fitfully white fear 
 
 To look far down upon the earth and sea. 
 
 Abrupt and dreadful is the last descent, 
 
 And he who drives there must have sure command, 
 
346 PHAETHON. 
 
 Strong-sinewed arms, cool nerves, to hold the reins 
 And guide the horses safely to the deep. 
 There Tethys, who receives me in her waves 
 Outspread below, hath often spell-bound stood 
 Lest / plunge headlong down, and ancient Night 
 Resume her sway and no to-morrow dawn. 
 
 " Besides, with unseen forces I contend, 
 
 Along the hazardous, o'erarching way. 
 
 With dizzy revolutions whirl the stars ; 
 
 The very heavens' rondure whirls around 
 
 Some dim, Herculean center far remote; 
 
 And that which overcomes all other things 
 
 Me does not overcome ; for I compel 
 
 The blinding brilliance of my vivid team 
 
 In an oblique direction, opposite 
 
 To that one followed by the rapid earth. 
 
 Could'st thou proceed, and stem this monstrous whirl? 
 
 Nay, rather, it would carry thee away 
 
 And fling thee down the measureless abyss. 
 
 " Perchance thou fanciest that on the road 
 
 Are springs, and pleasant groves to loiter in, 
 
 And welcome-gated cities of the gods 
 
 With temples lavishly enriched with gifts. 
 
 It is not so; the way is dangerous 
 
 And guarded everywhere by creatures fierce. 
 
 Although thou heldest steadily thy course 
 
 And were not turned aside in wanderings, 
 
 Yet must thou pass between the Bull's wide horns, 
 
 And through the Centaur's drawn, Haemonian bow, 
 
 And face the Lion's visage ponderous, 
 
 And see the Scorpion's extended claws, 
 
 And brave the dreadful Serpent and the Crab 
 
 All these immeasurably vast, enlarged 
 
 To infinite beyond their natural growth, 
 
 And set forever in the firmament. 
 
PHAETHON. 347 
 
 " Nor are my horses pliant to control ; 
 
 But wild and furious with those fierce flames 
 
 That, from their mouths and nostrils, widening rush. 
 
 Hardly by me the horses are restrained, 
 
 When all their fiery spirit is awake, 
 
 And their maned necks, against the ringing reins, 
 
 Wrestle and toss impatient of the bit. 
 
 " Forsooth ! thou askest for undoubted proof 
 
 That thou may'st know thyself sprung from my blood. 
 
 And what proof surer can I offer thee 
 
 Than that I for thy welfare am alarmed ? 
 
 Behold my countenance ! Would thou could'st gaze 
 
 Into the larger world that is my heart, 
 
 And see therein the ocean of my love 
 
 Distraught and tempest-tossed with fear for thee ! 
 
 Bethink thee now of what the earth contains 
 
 Of rich, or fair, of blessings manifold 
 
 Abounding in the land, or air, or sea. 
 
 Choose thou from these that I may gladly give. 
 
 Undo thy rash desire, the daring fruit 
 
 Of thy sheer youth and inexperience. 
 
 It brings no honor, but a penalty ; 
 
 It brings a punishment and not a gift." 
 
 Thus Phoebus spoke, and Phaethon 
 
 Embraced his neck with his endearing arms, 
 
 His disappointment rising to his eyes 
 
 And pleading with a look of wounded love. 
 
 Straightway his speech the wounded look enforced : 
 
 " O honored father ! kind, beneficent ! 
 
 Who scatterest abroad thy precious rays 
 
 On wholesome and on noxious things alike, 
 
 I thought thee always great and generous, 
 
 And never willing to withhold thy gifts. 
 
 Deny me not; for all that thou hast said 
 
 Incites me but the more to do the deed 
 
348 PHAETHON. 
 
 On which my heart is set unchangeably. 
 For I would prove I am thy very son, 
 By doing, if but once, thy daily task 
 Myself Time's signal for a day of fame ; 
 And if I fail, I fail. No son is he 
 That plays the plover to his eagle sire. 
 
 "Nor lay my wish to youth and thoughtlessness. 
 
 Not all rash deeds are done in early years. 
 
 Success has justified imprudent means ; 
 
 For courses hazardous not always fail. 
 
 And there are minds so wondrously endowed 
 
 That they are broader than experience, 
 
 And, like Minerva, stand full grown in youth! 
 
 Am not I too the offspring of a god ? 
 
 Dissuasion to ambition is a spur. 
 
 Or won, or lost, the race must needs be run 
 
 When that within us calls us to the deed ! " 
 
 To Phaethon made answer Phoebus thus : 
 "Then doubt not that, whatever be thy wish,' 
 It shall be granted thee and stinted not ; 
 For I have sworn it by the Stygian waves ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE HORSES AND THE CHARIOT. 
 
 Thus spake he, seeing that his earth-born son 
 Was flushed with eagerness to mount the sky. 
 And as he now no longer could delay, 
 He led him outward to the chariot 
 The lofty chariot that Vulcan gave. 
 The axle-tree and poles were all of gold, 
 As were the tires and fellies of the wheels. 
 Of silver was the range of widening spokes. 
 Along the yoke, in graceful order set, 
 
PHAETHON. 349 
 
 Great chrysolites and gems flashed brilliantly 
 Their infinite reflections of the Sun. 
 
 But while aspiring Phaethon admired 
 
 The dazzling splendor and its workmanship, 
 
 Behold! Aurora, watchful, opened wide 
 
 Her purple portals in the ruddy east, 
 
 Her cool halls filled with roses glittering. 
 
 Still flushed with sleep she stood, draped round with mist 
 
 Through which the warm tints of her body glowed. 
 
 Then, one by one, the wan stars disappeared, 
 
 The flocks whereof effulgent Lucifer 
 
 Collects, and, from its station in the sky, 
 
 When he had driven the last, himself withdrew. 
 
 Now father Titan, when he saw the earth, 
 
 And all the bent sky over it, grow red, 
 
 And saw the distant moon's white horns turn wan, 
 
 As if they soon would vanish from his sight, 
 
 Gave orders to the swift, obedient Hours 
 
 To yoke the shining coursers of the day. 
 
 All speedily the silent goddesses 
 
 Complied, and from the lofty stalls led out, 
 
 Rampant and furious and snorting fire, 
 
 The mighty horses, on ambrosia fed% 
 
 And in their mouths they put the sounding bits. 
 
 Then Pho3bus with a hallow'd drug o'erspread 
 The face of Phaethon, that it unharmed 
 Might bear the red intensity of flames. 
 Upon his locks he set the crown of rays 
 And, sighing doom and sorrow, thus he spoke : 
 " If thou can'st here at least, my son, obey 
 The prudent dictates of a father's care, 
 Be sparing of the lash ; for of themselves 
 The steeds are wont to gallop madly on. 
 
350 PHAETHON. 
 
 " And let not other than the track oblique 
 Allure thee ; lo ! its curvature is broad 
 And in it glimmer traces of the wheels. 
 That heaven and earth may equal heat enjoy, 
 Drive not too low, nor yet thy equipage 
 Urge to the chilly summit of the sky. 
 The middle course is Safety's ; there she treads 
 At all times with her mild-eyed followers. 
 So shall the right wheel bear thee not away 
 Against the twisted Serpent, nor the left 
 To the low Altar draw thee ruinously. 
 
 " Of this I may not tell thee more ; for thou 
 Hast won thy knowledge but from semblances, 
 Those doubtful guides that live in masquerade. 
 And he who gives new knowledge, who beyond 
 The pale of things accepted dares to step, 
 Is even more apt to fall on ridicule, 
 Than one who babbles only ignorance. 
 But be, my son, assured of this one truth : 
 The road is other than thou thinkest it. 
 
 "The rest I leave to Fortune, who, I pray, 
 
 Will aid thee, taking wiser care of thee 
 
 Than of thyself thou dost. But whiFst I speak, 
 
 Moist Night has touched the goal of western shores. 
 
 The darkness is dispersed, and Morn is here ! 
 
 Delay is not allowed and I am called. 
 
 Seize firmly now the will-conducting reins, 
 
 Or, if thy mind is capable of change, 
 
 Take thou my counsel, not my chariot ! " 
 
 V. 
 
 THE WAY IS LOST. 
 
 Ambition heeds not prudence if it go 
 Not arm in arm, or by another road. 
 
PHAETHON. 351 
 
 And Phaethon, distracted by his wish, 
 
 Was deaf to all that crossed it. Thrilled with joy, 
 
 He lightly sprang into the chariot 
 
 And stood aloft, and clutched the golden reins, 
 
 Which in his hands were put reluctantly. 
 
 What Pegasi these are, that he would drive ! 
 
 Of daylight and imagination born, 
 
 And rather of the mind than of the sky ! 
 
 And were his training and ambition matched, 
 
 What opportunity for hard-earned skill 
 
 To give effect to genius, and to win 
 
 The herald heights and very goal of hope ! 
 
 But now the four swift horses of the Sun 
 
 With neighings filled the air, sent forth red breath 
 
 And, with impatience, pawed the barriers. 
 
 When these, upon the instant, were withdrawn, 
 
 And all the universe's boundless scope 
 
 Was given the mighty beasts, they took the road 
 
 And, moving through the air their rapid feet, 
 
 Dispersed the silent, gliding ghosts of clouds. 
 
 Then spreading wings, with manes astream, they rose, 
 
 With magical progression and uplift, 
 
 And passed by newly-risen eastern winds. 
 
 But light the yoke and light the vehicle, 
 
 And so far lacked these now their wonted weight, 
 
 That soon the flying horses seemed to feel 
 
 They scarce were, drawing aught, but were set free. 
 
 For as a ship unballasted is tossed, 
 
 Unsteadily careening o'er the surge, 
 
 So did the chariot leap, or swerve and sway. 
 
 Aroused thereat, the steeds rushed fiercely on ; 
 
 But not in order as they did before. 
 
 They turned aside and left the beaten track. 
 
 And too ambitious Phaethon himself 
 
352 PHAETHON. 
 
 Is sore alarmed, and all his looks are wild ; 
 For, now the way is lost, and were it found, 
 He could not manage those gigantic steeds. 
 He does not know their names ; oh, that he did ! 
 For names, if kindly spoken, pacify. 
 
 And now the cold Triones, for the first, 
 
 Grow warm with erring sunbeams and, in vain, 
 
 Attempt to bathe in the forbidden sea. 
 
 Now was the Serpent, near the icy pole, 
 
 Long torpid with the cold and hence not feared, 
 
 Warmed into life and terrifying rage. 
 
 Thou too, Bootes, it is said, took flight, 
 
 Although thou wert impeded by thy wain. 
 
 But when unhappy Phaethon looked down 
 From a great height of never-ending sky, 
 And saw the small earth lying far beneath, 4 
 He paled, and abject terror shook his knees. 
 Then, for a time, so blinding was the light, 
 Thick darkness overcame his painful eyes. 
 
 Too late he wished that he had never touched 
 The horses of his father, never known 
 His parentage divine, and never gained 
 The right to guide the dizzy chariot. 
 
 One moment looked he forward to the west, 
 Which he, by fate, was not allowed to reach, 
 And then, a moment, turned to see the east. 
 For much of silent heaven was left behind, 
 But more arose before his straining eyes. 
 Now in his mind he measured either space 
 And stood appalled by awful distances ; 
 Nay, stupefied, he let not go the reins, 
 Nor did he hold them firmly in his hands. 
 
PHAETHON. 353 
 
 He saw strange objects scattered everywhere 
 
 About him in the broadening heavens, and fright 
 
 To them gave weird and most abhorrent shapes. 
 
 He saw withal the forms of huge, wild beasts, 
 
 To which his fancy added attributes ; 
 
 For, near that spot wherein the Scorpion 
 
 Throws into vast twin curves its stellar arms, 
 
 And bending tail and claws on either side, 
 
 Extends along two Zodiacal signs, 
 
 This unequipped aspirant to the things 
 
 Beyond his reach, this grasper at too much, 
 
 With chill of rigid horror dropped the reins, 
 
 Beholding, as it seemed, the Scorpion, 
 
 With sweat of fatal venom dripping wet, 
 
 And, with its barbed tail, threatening wounds and death. 
 
 When on their backs the horses felt the reins, 
 They plunged, they roved at large without restraint 
 And, in an unknown region, cleft the dark 
 That trailed behind some planet like long hair. 
 Unchecked they dashed along, surpassing winds 
 And strange, ethereal forces of the void, 
 And rushed upon the fixed, remoter stars. 
 
 But fright not always lasts, and Phaethon, 
 In whom red blood and ghostly ichor mixed, 
 Arose and, in the chariot, upright stood. 
 He looked abroad upon immensity 
 And saw that still inordinately far 
 The fixed stars shone, each star a blazing sun 
 Surrounded wide by planetary isles. 
 Expanding rapidly at his approach, 
 And parted fearfully by chasms of space 
 Where dwelt Eternity alone with God, 
 These gleaming archipelagoes informed 
 The silent sea of gray infinitude. 
 
354 PHAETHON. 
 
 Along the universe he looked its length 
 And met the light of that astounding ring, 
 The Milky Way's thick myriads of stars. 
 Then, sweet and clear, he heard angelic strains, 
 And saw long troops of glad, ascending spirits 
 Far journeying through space to other worlds. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE DAY OF FIRE. 
 
 Now was the sky, in which the horses ranged, 
 Most sharply cold ; but they abruptly wheeled 
 And through steep places furiously dashed 
 Down headlong paths and nearer to the earth. 
 
 The moon, surprised to see her brother's steeds 
 Eun lower than her own, sent forth hot clouds 
 And drew into her bosom all her seas. 
 
 And now the earth is parched by cruel heat, 
 
 Which bears away her moisture ; grass grows pale 
 
 And trees and foliage leap up into flame. 
 
 But why should we complain of lesser ills 
 
 When vaster ruin surrounds us everywhere ? 
 
 Strong cities perish with their walls and towers. 
 
 The flames whole nations into ashes turn. 
 
 And now high woods and mountains are on fire. 
 
 The firm ground bursts asunder, and the light, 
 
 Down-streaming into deepest Tartarus, 
 
 Startles the King Infernal and his spouse. 
 
 The lovely nymphs, with hair disheveled, stand 
 
 In ruined dells and on the sometime shores, 
 
 Lamenting the decease of springs and lakes. 
 
 Thrice, wrinkled Neptune ventures angrily, 
 
 To thrust up from the sea his huge, green arms, 
 
 And thrice does he withdraw them from the air, 
 
 Unable to endure, or even to gaze 
 
 Upon its wavering heat and breathlessness. 
 
PHAETHON. 355 
 
 Thus Phaethon with shame beheld the world 
 In agonies of fire by his rash act, 
 Nor could himself abide the rageful heat. 
 He saw that even his chariot was scorched. 
 As with a whirlwind, he was wrapped about 
 With flying embers and with burning gusts. 
 On every side involved in coiling smoke, 
 A pitchy darkness covered him like night, 
 And whither he was going, he knew not, 
 Nor where he was, at madding pleasure borue 
 By Pegasi dread-winged and errorful. 
 
 His wretched father hid away his face 
 With unavailing sorrow overcast, 
 And on that day, 'tis said, there was no Sun, 
 Or that he went not down ; but at the word 
 Of Joshua, stood still on Gibeon. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE EARTH'S PRAYER TO JUPITER. 
 
 At last, the genial Earth, in sore distress, 
 
 Upturned her kindly, many-featured face, 
 
 And to her forehead placed her helpless hands. 
 
 Then, shaking all things with a tremor vast, 
 
 She prayed with bitterness to Jupiter : 
 
 "O Sovereign of the Gods! if thou of this 
 
 Approvest, and if this I have deserved, 
 
 Why do thy lightnings linger ? Send them forth ! 
 
 Let me, if doomed to die by heat intense, 
 
 Be rather by thy sudden flames destroyed! 
 
 My mouth is parched ; the vapor chokes my speech. 
 
 Behold my singed hair and me miserable, 
 
 With ashes cov'ring all my face and eyes ! 
 
 And dost thou give this as my recompense? 
 
 Is this reward for my fertility 
 
356 PHAETHON. 
 
 And for my pains, in that I must endure, 
 
 From crooked plow and sharp-toothed harrow, wounds, 
 
 And serve bronzed Agriculture all the year, 
 
 Supplying for the cattle pleasant leaves, 
 
 For human kind the corn, a wholesome food, 
 
 And frankincense for gods ? The tortured seas 
 
 No more obey the trident, but shrink up. 
 
 Do these deserve destruction ? Do the skies ? 
 
 Atlas himself is struggling and in pain. 
 
 Hardly upon his shoulders and bent back 
 
 Can he his fiery burden now endure. 
 
 If earth and sea and thy starred palace burn, 
 
 Then into ancient chaos we are thrown 
 
 And all the labor of the gods is vain. 
 
 O Sovereign of Olympus ! grant my prayer ! 
 
 O Sovereign of Olympus ! quench the flames ! " , 
 
 The suppliant words upflew, like white-winged doves, 
 And nestled in the breast of Jupiter. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A SYNOD OF THE GODS. 
 
 Amidst the synod of the gods, he sat, 
 
 He of the far-borne voice, the Sceptered God, 
 
 Enthroned upon the heights where he was wont 
 
 To spread the clouds above the spacious earth, 
 
 To roll his deep-voiced thunders, and to hurl 
 
 His brandished lightnings crinkling down the sky. 
 
 Loud thunder'd now the Sire Omnipotent, 
 
 And called the gods to witness, and him too, 
 
 Who lent his equipage to Phaethon, 
 
 That they must heed the fruitful Earth's appeal, 
 
 Preserve the House Celestial, and prevent 
 
 Another chaos from usurping all. 
 
 " And if," he said, " ambitious Phagthon 
 
PHAETHON. 357 
 
 Can manage not his father's chariot, 
 Yet in a great attempt he finds his fate. 
 It is th' attempt, the bravery to face 
 Defeat and death, that shows the noble soul. 
 And tho' ambition often overleaps 
 The saddle where it fain would sit renowned 
 And in the dust lies fallen, it still deserves 
 Less pain than its own disappointment gives 
 Surely not scorn. For proud and lofty deeds, 
 Which, but for high ambition, had not been, 
 Are stars that fight against oblivion." 
 
 Meanwhile sat Phoebus, spotted-faced, long haired, 
 
 In squalid garb, and destitute of light 
 
 Beyond his wont when he endures eclipse. 
 
 He all abhorred, himself, the light, the day, 
 
 And from the world withheld his needed gifts. 
 
 His mind was canopied with dismal grief 
 
 And full of anger at th' Olympian Sire 
 
 For threat of doom implied. " Since time began, 
 
 My lot," said Phoebus, "hath been ever one 
 
 Of thankless effort and of little rest. 
 
 Of hardships I am tired of labors long 
 
 That bring no honors and that have no end. 
 
 And when my brave son craved it as a boon, 
 
 To give me respite for a single day, 
 
 In secret I was glad, tho' much I feared 
 
 The issue. Yet what father is not pleased 
 
 To have his son step proudly in his place 
 
 And take the burden he has borne for years ? 
 
 But my regret is deepen'd by the thought 
 
 That I, who prated prudence, needed it 
 
 In that I did not go with Phaethon, 
 
 And going, show him how and where to drive. 
 
 " But as the youth has failed, let one of you 
 Attempt the chariot that bears the light ! 
 
358 PHAETHON. 
 
 If no one will, and all of you confess 
 
 That you can not, let Jupiter himself 
 
 Drive it, that, while he holds the reins at least, 
 
 His angry lightnings may be laid aside. 
 
 Then will he know, when he has tried the strength 
 
 Of my flame-footed horses, that my son, 
 
 If in a natural ambition balked, 
 
 Deserves not death nor further punishment. 
 
 Repent thee, Sire, and harm not Phaethon ! 
 
 Repentance is the Angel Beautiful. 
 
 When gods repent, she proves them truly gods ; 
 
 When men repent, she makes them nobler men. 
 
 She gives the soul a rose that never fades." 
 
 So Phoebus spoke in synod with the gods, 
 Who, startled at his words, around him pressed, 
 While they entreated him submissively 
 That he would not bring darkness on the world. 
 
 But Jupiter imperiously arose, 
 
 High as an Alp, as frigidly supreme, 
 
 And, with a voice like thunder in the hills 
 
 Reverberating far, he thus ordained: 
 
 " This day thou shalt recall thy frenzied steeds, 
 
 O Phoabus ! and to-morrow drive them forth 
 
 To gild the world and give new beauty life. 
 
 And Vulcan, thou shalt mend the chariot 
 
 Refix the silvery, electric spokes 
 
 In their coronal tires ; and I, myself, 
 
 Revisiting the earth and all the heavens, 
 
 Shall, as I may, restore what is destroyed. 
 
 "I know the past and future, seeing all. 
 Repentance with strict justice should not clash. 
 Better, indeed, that with the shades below 
 Brave Phaethon should bide, than on the earth, 
 Or on our cloud-capped heights Olympian; 
 
PHAETHON. 359 
 
 For he is not a god, nor yet mere man, 
 
 But partly both. And spirits such as his, 
 
 Their hopes all cloud and fire, their strength but tow, 
 
 Their bolder efforts drossy with the faults 
 
 That negative perfection, needs must drink 
 
 The cup of disappointment and regret." 
 
 Again the Sire Olympian thunder'd loud 
 And, poising in his hand the lifted bolt, 
 He darted it against dazed Phaethon. 
 Him it deprived of life and of his seat 
 In the bright vehicle of golden day. 
 
 Th* affrighted horses quickly turned aside 
 
 And wildly bounded in a course diverse. 
 
 They shook the jeweled yoke from off their necks, 
 
 And, from the tangled harness, set them free. 
 
 In one place lay the reins ; another held 
 
 The golden axle-tree wrenched from the pole ; 
 
 Another held the spokes of broken wheels. 
 
 The shining bravery of the chariot, 
 
 To fragments torn, was scattered far and wide. 
 
 But Phaethon, his yellow locks on fire, 
 
 Was headlong hurled, down, down the vast abyss, 
 
 And, like a sudden meteor, seen from earth, 
 
 He crossed the sky and vanished in the night 
 
 That, for a moment, he had lighted up 
 
 With the trailed brightness of his blazing hair. 
 
(gfre 
 
 Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton, & Co. 
 Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
Abbev* Her 
 
 try 
 
 Poems of i 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 YC148K