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 1907 
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LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
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 - ~" " " 
 
 
 

THE POET 
 
 AND 
 
 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 LOUIS M. ELSHEMUS 
 
 Author of Countless Works in Literature and Art 
 Born 1864 
 
 Cover Design and Decorations by the Author 
 
 EASTMAN LEWIS 
 
 304 East Twenty-third Street 
 NEW YORK 
 
Copyright, 1907 
 
 by 
 
 LOUIS M. ELSHEMUS 
 New York 
 
336802 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Scorn Ye Not the Poet 9 
 
 The True Poet 10 
 
 Sonnettines 12 
 
 November-Eve 13 
 
 " (Ten Years After) 31 
 
 The Poet 43 
 
 Poetry 43 
 
 All I Wish For 43 
 
 Song- Flood 44 
 
 Your Poet 45 
 
 When the Spirits Come 46 
 
 The Poet 48 
 
 To the Mountain Brooklet 50 
 
 Contrast 51 
 
 Poets 52 
 
 The Poet 53 
 
 Sonnet 54 
 
 Jones Very 55 
 
 Greatness 56 
 
 Who Understands Him? 57 
 
 The Poet 58 
 
 Genius 59 
 
 The Poet 59 
 
 Woman Flowers 61 
 
 To My Muse 62 
 
 God Is Spirit 62 
 
 The Muse Will Whisper Soon Again 63 
 
 A Charles Baudelaire 65 
 
 Elegy 66 
 
 Our Soul 67 
 
 The Soul 68 
 
 Life 69 
 
 Fire 69 
 
 The Angels Will Whisper Again 70 
 
 Song 73 
 
 Why? 74 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Elegiac Poems. 
 
 Victor A Fragment 78 
 
 Une Question 91 
 
 A Forsaken Grave-Lot 92 
 
 To Walcott Balestier 95 
 
 A Tune . ; 99 
 
 The Minstrel s Recompense 99 
 
 Edgar G. Brooks 101 
 
 Destruction 102 
 
 Death 104 
 
 Lines 104 
 
 Visions 106 
 
 Think of the Angels 109 
 
 Correspondence Terminated 110 
 
 Yaniun 110 
 
 Elegie Ill 
 
 Milton s Italian Sonnet 113 
 
 Death and Life 114 
 
 Life and Death 115 
 
 What the Inner Eye Doth See 116 
 
 God s Supremacy 117 
 
 When We Are Dead 118 
 
 Elegy 119 
 
 At Death 123 
 
 Little by Little 124 
 
 Death -. 124 
 
 Baby Louise 125 
 
 Poetry Reading 128 
 
 After Death Is Glow 129 
 
 Evening Lines 130 
 
 Hymn 131 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 In Lighter Vein. 
 
 A Country Child 133 
 
 Song to the Ocean 137 
 
 Strange . 138 
 
 Hearing 139 
 
 Ode to Robert Schumann 142 
 
 Song 144 
 
 Song 145 
 
 A Fancy 146 
 
 Song 148 
 
 Mastery 148 
 
 Beim Wasserfall 149 
 
 Gruss an den Wasserfall 150 
 
 Friihling 151 
 
 Waldesstille 152 
 
 To Tennyson 155 
 
THE 
 
 POET 
 
T h e -P D c : 
 
 SCORN YE NOT THE POET. 
 
 Scorn ye not the poet, God s foster-child ! 
 Ye who brood o er shelves, with silver 
 
 thronged, 
 Know that he at earth s sweet prelude 
 
 longed 
 
 First to pipe his lay in God s own guild ! 
 Ye, that crouch in timid awe and fear 
 Ye, that coin a thousand shames each year 
 Ye, that prowl about, with pride as arms 
 Ye, that bring to Virtue many harms ! 
 
 Scorn ye not the poet, God s lesser self! 
 For he reads the scrolls that God hath writ 
 He is donned with wisdom, and with wit 
 He, whom God entrusts to scan His Shelf 
 Scorn him not; for scorning him is sin! 
 Ye, that lead a life to cheat and win 
 Ye, that bask in garbs, brocaded o er 
 Ye, that trumpet "Gold" forevermore ! 
 
 Scorn ye not the poet, God s foster-child! 
 
 Ye, that live but lulled by Epicure 
 
 Ye, that doze in arms o a synecure 
 
 Know his soul to be a temple undefiled 
 
 His heart a tender solace, good and true 
 
*&:: The Poet 
 
 His aims, thought kindly for the good of you 
 Know him thus, O ye that breathe away, 
 Never knowing what brought night what 
 day! 
 
 Scorn ye not the poet, God s lesser self ! 
 To him God hath ope d a door of Heaven 
 And a drop of Angel s Knowing given ! 
 Know it, ye, that live from secret pelf 
 Know it, ye, that laugh at holy rites 
 Ye, that think the days are tranquil nights 
 Ye, whose pate is propt with dress and gloss 
 Ye, that make but this world s putrid dross ! 
 
 (1885) 
 
 THE TRUE POET. 
 
 O, the true poet is 
 
 A clay that God doth kiss 
 
 He is ethereal ! 
 O, the true poet s born 
 To sing of eternal morn 
 
 He is celestial ! 
 
 His heart more quickly beats 
 His thoughts are lightning flames 
 His soul all purely names 
 Of life the holy sweets! 
 He lives with inspiration, 
 
 Divinest abstract on this globe ! 
 
The Poet n 
 
 He dreams in exaltation, 
 
 To thought brings brightest robe! 
 O, inspiration, the poet s flame! 
 
 Tis not the working of the brain 
 
 Nor is it the deep musing of the mind, 
 Tis not the drudge by oil in pain ; 
 
 Nor is it over-thought that makes one 
 
 blind. 
 
 O list ! It is a magic law, that flows 
 Into the blessed one; it cometh 
 
 Ere he knows 
 
 Its presence, that, like roses bloometh. 
 O, list ! It is a wondrous gift, that comes 
 Unbidden, like the pang of lover 
 
 Burns in love s homes; 
 It purleth freshly there like some new-rover 
 
 In ^Egel s crystal castle-fane^ 
 When full ambrosial blow the scents, 
 
 And tinkling sound her purls again! 
 So lavishes great inspiration s flame 
 Its glow ! with blisses, and loud merriments ! ! 
 
 (1885) 
 
12 The Poet 
 
 SONNETTINES. 
 I. 
 
 A man may master blood, 
 May foster purer flood- 
 But man may nevermore 
 Fathom the soul s wide core ! 
 The mind with blood runs o er 
 The brain bears aptitude 
 In soul s sweet solitude 
 There gleams that heavenly shore ! 
 
 Fair Science boasts of Fame, 
 
 Pride won! But disbelieves 
 
 In miracles of Faith and grieves 
 
 That God is but a name ! 
 
 Ay, true-born poet sieves 
 
 That dross and glows His Flame ! 
 
 II. 
 
 O, more and more I see, 
 The true Divinity 
 Outshines Science and Skill : 
 The Wheel of world s loud Mill. 
 
 Tis Thought, self-winnowed Will 
 Tis Wisdom, Nature s glee 
 Tis Knowledge that He be 
 Our soul with light doth fill! 
 
T he P o e t 13 
 
 O, let no one despair 
 
 When lost in ignorance! 
 
 Be thinking! till in trance, 
 
 A flash of Wisdom s glare \ 
 
 Thy knowing shall advance; 
 
 For lo ! thy God gleamed there ! 
 
 NOVEMBER-EVE. 
 
 THE} MUSK. 
 
 Upturn thy gaze to Eve s immortal splendor, 
 And read therefrom the boons to every 
 
 . creature : 
 
 And lo ! the Spirit of the ^Eons will tender 
 Thee songs, that take their passion from fair 
 nature ! 
 
 THE: LONELY ONE). 
 
 As ravished as the mariner 
 
 Who sees a gleam of verdure near, 
 My eyes see thee, immortal Spirit ! 
 As gladly as the snow-lost hears 
 The far-off village bells and cheers 
 
 That guide him from a doom 
 . He untimely would inherit 
 
 Thy voice divine I hear I hear ; 
 And out from my soul s gloom 
 
 There bounds a flash that thou art near ! 
 
14 The Poet 
 
 THE MUSE). 
 
 Whilome thy floods of song 
 Rushed from thy willing soul 
 Fleet, sweetly as the stream, 
 Where Ladon s lilies dream. 
 Why these long days so lorn, 
 Hope dead, ambition shorn, 
 Like weary wolds that lie 
 Beneath an ashen sky? 
 Why no more lyre tunes, 
 No more those liquid runes, 
 That, through the breezes flung, 
 Seemed as if Angels sung? 
 No more that eye inspired, 
 No more that forehead, fired 
 With Heaven-sparks, that glow 
 With truths of long ago ! 
 Why, Child, hast like a bough 
 That droops from frost and snow 
 Kept long thine arm; no more 
 Hast listened to the voice 
 Appointing thee the choice 
 Of Heaven s Tribunal high, 
 To sing Eternity! 
 Sweet Child recall those hours, 
 That fled in lays and flowers; 
 And, with my lute, intone 
 What made thee lorn and lone ! 
 
The Poet 
 
 THE; LONELY ONE:. 
 
 The nightshade better be 
 Hidden in secrecy. 
 The doleful nightingale 
 Intrudes not in the vale 
 Where Shiraz-roses bud- 
 Where happy brooklets flood 
 A downward stream. O Muse ! 
 Why tempt me? Why not choose 
 A shepherd, piping gay 
 His love-wrought roundelay? 
 But ask not one whose woe 
 Would weave, as long ago, 
 The Lady of Shalot, 
 A shroud with blot and blot 
 Of heart-blood ; wet with tears, 
 O streaming all these years! 
 Forbear, sweet Muse ! twere well 
 If sorrow would not tell 
 Its grief, nor wan despair 
 Irradiate what be there 
 Of cold light, like the moon s, 
 When the clear autumn swoons. 
 Oh, laughter, hyena-like, 
 Upon mine ears would strike 
 Were I to sing of loss 
 Of all this worldly dross; 
 And ever would I hear 
 A waxing taunt and jeer. 
 
16 The Poet 
 
 THE: MUSS. 
 
 Lo, Child ! the gold moon glows, 
 And though a million minds 
 
 Would have it dark, it glows ! 
 Unchanged by a million minds ! 
 
 THE: LONEXY ONE:. 
 
 O Muse, like buoyant waves, 
 
 That feel the wind s quick stress, 
 My words swell and are slaves 
 
 To thy high prompting s sound ! 
 The poet s song is sent 
 From Heaven s instrument. 
 Though scores of pens would dress 
 His lay, his lore profound, 
 With garbs to suit the crowd 
 Lo, Muse ! twould be a shroud. 
 But with thy spirit s breath 
 As aft the day s glow-death 
 The moon outshineth million lights 
 That scintillate in towns, by bights. 
 Those thoughts that from me grow 
 Are flamed with Heaven s glow ! 
 
 THE: MUSE:. 
 
 Thou art again my child, 
 For in thy sayings wild, 
 Like Nature s wind and gale, 
 A spirit sings! 
 
The Poet 17 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 Exhale 
 
 That love that once was mine, 
 O Muse ! thoti all-divine ! 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 My love shall mingle with thine 
 Sing of thy woe ! 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 Recline 
 
 Fhine^ear upon the troubled air, 
 And list to how some mortals fare: 
 Of one I sang for many years, 
 O Muse, thy breath took up my tears 
 And one near day those vapors will 
 Be roseate in my evening, still 
 And calm as sunset baft a hill 
 That wards from blasts thrift s blissful mill ! 
 Of one I think, and only one; 
 But no words flow like lifeless stone 
 My thought lies like a monument 
 Upon a mound, where tears are blent 
 With morn s and evening s dew. And lo ! 
 In my despair I heard the flow 
 Of world s unruly river; drowned 
 In it my head, with lilies crowned, 
 Had felt the thuds of its gloom-waves ; 
 
18 T h c P o e t 
 
 But my soul knew that high thought saves! 
 Though splash on splash the crisps did meet, 
 Though wave on wave engulfed me fleet. 
 Lo Muse ! withthrough the leaden roar 
 There streamed sweet music from the shore. 
 It lingered in mine ears it filled 
 My heart my dying soul it thrilled 
 With new surprise, and noble deed : 
 A savior twas in my great need ! 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 Child unkind forgetful youth, 
 Twas I who gave thee back high truth. 
 
 1 followed thee I dipped my hand 
 Into the current and showed thee land ! 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 But listless grew I, and I dashed 
 
 My life within the flood again. 
 
 I sought for eyes, by Beauty flashed 
 
 To glorious orbs. Among the train 
 
 Of men and women my steps led, 
 
 Till wild my thought waxed and my head 
 
 Purled drops of disappointment s tears! 
 
 No one would love me no bright cheers 
 
 Would echo my all-loving cry, 
 
 That called to all for sympathy.! 
 
 Through the thick multitudes of man 
 
 Like a wild beast of prey I ran 
 
The Poet 
 
 Desirous that some heart would be 
 Heart-friend, and pure soul-love to me. 
 But on, through streams of motley hearts, 
 My inner wound pained, as if darts 
 With Upas poisoned pierced a-through. 
 O mercy! Fierce my heartsore grew; 
 It shed its shadow on my soul, 
 That waged as when loud thunders roll! 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 Child, if thou hadst kept that fire, 
 Which but the Angels do inspire, 
 High wisdom, which they gave to thee, 
 Half of thy woes were vanity ! 
 
 The thunders roar, deluge the plain 
 What brightness after summer rain ! 
 And what are moments to that plan 
 Of nature, are long years to man! 
 
 1 know the rest, lorn Child ; for God 
 Keeps watch for all upon earth s sod. 
 But sing to me how Angels came 
 To thee, recalling mine own name, 
 
 As when eve-breezes rustle low 
 The poplars long the plain a-row row. 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 O Muse, thy voice is sweet to me, 
 As the bird s chirp in blossomed tree ! 
 As fond am I of thy dear love 
 
2O T h c P o c t 
 
 As of warm scent from jessamine-grove! 
 
 I tell thee, Muse ! O thou dost know 
 
 All, for twas thy unforecalled glow 
 
 Pervading me in dire despair 
 
 Preserving me from Death s cold stare ! 
 
 I know not whither wend my way : 
 
 Around the gay crowds, with sea-sway 
 
 And current flow, tormented me. 
 
 I wished to clasp each to my breast, 
 
 But none would come, would list to me! 
 
 I felt like brine in eve s unrest ! 
 
 Then plunged an evil mood into 
 
 My stormy soul ; my hands clutched fast 
 
 My robe s own hem till the anger passed. 
 
 I felt as if my anger slew 
 
 Each one that gazed at me ; when lo ! 
 
 As through the fuscous cloud there flow 
 
 The blandest beams from midnight s moon : 
 
 There streamed through my soul saddest 
 
 song ! 
 
 To the town-winds I gan to croon 
 \ dirge, that trailed my love along 
 The dusky bournes of death; like air 
 To dingy rooms, where ugly dreams 
 Pollute the mind so was that fair 
 And mournful elegy! O gleams 
 From olden hours wandered through 
 The gloom and storm it was as dew 
 To parched leaves it was a light 
 Flashed forth to guide a ship aright ! 
 
T h e P o e t 21 
 
 THE MUSK. 
 
 Twas I who sent relief to rage, 
 Thy beading woe to assuage. 
 I followed thee, and when thy strength 
 Had nigh outrun its wonted length 
 Of endurance as the stream of rays 
 Pours from dun clouds on autumn days 
 Upon the drenched briers how 
 They glisten ! so those strains that thou 
 Hadst felt back of thy forehead s bone 
 Were shed from me upon thee, lone, 
 Despairing in the heartless town ! 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 O Muse, as thunder s clash proclaims 
 
 The infinite Power of Him, with names 
 
 As many as the nations be 
 
 So that sweet sense (so suddenly 
 
 Through my soul shining; in my heart 
 
 Consoling, till with it a part 
 
 Of thy all-holy spirit clung 
 
 To me till all my thoughts grew young 
 
 Till in that trance my woes were lost 
 
 A calm set o er me!), whispered me 
 
 That some elected from the host 
 
 Of Heaven sent their true child : thee, thee, 
 
 Muse ! Soul of the Divinity ! 
 
 Then, in my soul it sang, and sang 
 
 Abided there: 
 
22 T h e P o e t 
 
 A star is risen! 
 From back of musing s shorty mountain. 
 
 It will not set too soon 
 For over glorious midnight heaven, 
 And down from zenith s dizzy height 
 It has to reach the eastern portal 
 
 Of earth s involving dome! 
 
 A star is risen! 
 It shines and twinkles in its crescent: 
 
 To glow, and ease my woe. 
 For, ere it sinketh to morn s splendor. 
 Past moon and other stars it speeds. 
 Oh! may it burn, and no thick vapors 
 
 May gloom its glowing track! 
 
 It rang, and rang, 
 
 As through the fragrant forests green 
 The ripple of the brook, between 
 The mossed oaks, rings clear and long. 
 
 Muse, then burned I in my wrong: 
 
 1 swore to be thine evermore ; 
 
 To tune my song with wisdom hoar 
 So that when passing men shall hear 
 Their strains, those people shall revere 
 Them e er, as winds of India 
 Are hallowed ! 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 Sweetest, dearest way 
 Of God ! reminding thec ^i love 
 
T h e P o e t 23 
 
 O glorious, never to reprove 
 The errors of His children lo ! 
 Withthrough their souls His Preachings 
 
 flow- 
 
 As even through tumultuous skies 
 The gentle breeze s melodies ! 
 O sing to me that weird, sweet tune 
 That He sent thee as through fair June 
 The humid clouds fold one by one, 
 And sink into the depth of eve 
 So must that song now smile, then grieve ; 
 For life is joy, with woe s low tone! 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 With secrecy am I in bond, 
 
 O Muse! I swore to her, my fond 
 
 Unending love to keep those lays 
 
 Unseen to others, till far days 
 
 Shall nobly tender them to her; 
 
 When she no longer shall demur, 
 
 Like poppy-blooms in August-morns, 
 
 To burn for me all that adorns 
 
 Her nubile Naiad-frame : 
 
 So pure, and without any shame ! 
 
 O Muse, art thou like woman s mind 
 
 Disguising what gay truth should find 
 
 Upon the frank-flashed eye ! I know 
 
 That thou hadst whispered me, through glow 
 
 Of Heaven s Love, that saddest strain : 
 
 To mitigate the eking pain 
 
24 The P oet 
 
 Consuming me when lo aright 
 
 Were all thy promptings saved thy light ! 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 As butterfly the virgin bloom, 
 So kiss I thee, thy love-lorn doom! 
 We are eternal friends in Heaven 
 As well on earth, where there are given 
 To thee such gifts to take men s souls 
 To light and glorify their goals, 
 They deem a darkness all inane 
 O pity, pity those! 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 Again 
 
 Inspire me with lofty themes, 
 Till, with my words, from soul s vast dreams* 
 A western cloud-awe shall arise 
 To lead all to a new surprise. 
 O as the peasant loves the set 
 Of sun as maid the violet 
 As nosegay for her lad so be 
 My spalm, my roundelay a glee 
 To hoary hairs a rapture sweet 
 To dancing, or to hurrying feet! 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 So thou repentest of thy wrong 
 Thou wilt rejoice in Heaven s song! 
 
T h e P o e t 25 
 
 Oh ! feel my breath, and know the truth : 
 My blessing blooms eternal youth ! 
 O say in thine own wild, fond way 
 That thou wilt list to me alway ! 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 It is a song within my soul : 
 
 One summer s morn, by shining knoll, 
 
 By silvery brooklet, fragrant trees, 
 
 While passing all men s faculties 
 
 Before me, even as the west 
 
 Its sauntering shapes reviews 
 
 While dreaming on in avenues 
 
 That led to possibilities 
 
 Of world s improvements while with ease, 
 
 And languid thought I watched the brook, 
 
 And caught soft sounds in beechen nook: 
 
 A bird flew up with liquid song 
 
 Filled all the silentness along 
 
 The brooklet flitted bove the pine 
 
 Shot out of sight! A flash divine 
 
 Flamed in my musing joyously 
 
 My soul and heart I pledged to Thee, 
 
 O Muse, thou Soul of Heaven s glee ! 
 
 That bird had its own lay oh ! free, 
 
 Uncensured sang harmoniously 
 
 To Nature, and to knowing man 
 
 Like to its life, so I will plan 
 
 My days ; and, as the bird s sweet song 
 
 Enraptured me, thine echoes throng 
 
26 The P oet 
 
 The hearts of those who listen deep 
 To thine own lays ! 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 The mountain s steep 
 Seems low from where the deep blue lake 
 Reflects the shining green ! 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 Oh ! take 
 
 Not what in me doth rise like flame ! 
 The bird flew up with confidence 
 In all its lay with His high Name 
 Will bloom my song! 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 Thy lofty sense 
 Includes thee to my votaries ! 
 O let that bird bring melodies 
 Within thy life so led, that men 
 Rejoice, when through their hazy ken 
 Thou fliest even as that bird ! 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 To thee and thine be what had stirred 
 
 Within my soul ! O I shall be 
 
 Heaven s thunderbolts ; and lightnings free, 
 
 Shall pillar flames like Aetna s fire; 
 
 Make men astound with sweet-touched lyre, 
 
T h e P o e t 27 
 
 As when a town-pent man perceives 
 
 In holt forlorn the trembling leaves, 
 
 And hears athrough a magic weaving: 
 
 Portentous preludes to a lay, 
 
 Presaging all the soul s upheaving 
 
 At knowledge of its future day. 
 
 O I shall be the ice that forms 
 
 When Winter ponders; furious storms, 
 
 That trumpet to the woods the power 
 
 Of moods ! .From me shall blow, and shower 
 
 Adown on mankind that there be 
 
 One All the true Divinity! 
 
 The echoes of my soul s hall sound 
 
 To him and her O all around 
 
 Man s thinking, actuating truth, 
 
 To wisely temper joys of youth ! 
 
 The stars, in figures set up there 
 
 In night s all-ominous silentness, 
 
 Shall seem as brands on my high prayer, 
 
 Imploring for men s happiness ! 
 
 Ah ! as the surf seethes mysteries, 
 
 (Hale buoyancy a salt sea-grave; 
 
 Eternal influx ebbing seas; 
 
 Earth-eater all the droughts to save; 
 
 If in condensed air creatures live 
 
 Why not in ether rarified, 
 
 Another life?) so will I give 
 
 All what my surging soul, so wide, 
 
 And boundless, whispers moans 
 
 Sings occult sooths in undertones ! 
 
28 The Poet 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 I see the tremulous Light of Heaven 
 To all true poets ever given 
 Glow over thee ! e en as the gleam 
 Of Orient joy! O keep thy dream, 
 As though it were thy holy love. 
 With me sing of the stars above 
 Decipher all their figures show 
 To man they signal Heaven s glow ! 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 O joy that boundeth through the soul, 
 
 Even as after thunder s roll, 
 
 When in the luminous west a haze 
 
 Doth blear the silvery falling blaze 
 
 Like thought unboded springs the bow 
 
 Of iridescent bands in glow ! 
 
 O joy, when, all untutored, high, 
 
 Before unthought-of lore uprises 
 
 Within the soul ! how it surprises ! 
 
 What worthy proof that potency, 
 
 Apart of schoolman s say, 
 
 Enters our soul with instructive lay ! 
 
 O Muse, thou sheddest on me lore 
 
 A Ty brain has never known before! 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 Who knoweth how the grass doth green 
 How rain s upheld below the sheen 
 
T h e P o e t 
 
 Of liquid-lipping sun! Who saw 
 
 The moment when the white fields thaw 
 
 And when the grey bark teems in sap 
 
 When flowers color Spring s bright lap. 
 
 Who thinks that sparkling stars could be 
 
 Glow-gems held up by laws they see 
 
 Reflected in the clouds that roll 
 
 And thunder; who may read the scroll 
 
 That Nature keeps unfolded ! so 
 
 My visitings come secretly, 
 
 To others unbeheld; they glow 
 
 In thy wild verses praising me! 
 
 29 
 
 Y ONE;. 
 
 Through thee I know why stars are shining, 
 
 Why clouds appear with silver lining. 
 
 O Muse, my friend, through thee the gift 
 
 By means of words, men s thought to lift 
 
 To regions, where faith s calm and glee 
 
 Face Soul s Eternity ! 
 
 O Muse, as once thou hadst inspired 
 
 Melodious Beethoven fired 
 
 His soul to cry that highest aim 
 
 Of earthly life is not a fame 
 
 But to be seeking Heaven s Halls ; 
 
 When found, in blissful voice proclaim 
 
 To all the Elysian prodigals 
 
 Of raptures never known to shame, 
 
 Or to voluptuous sensuousness. 
 
 So kindle my brain s rich fagots bless 
 
30 T h e P o e t 
 
 Me, so to sing of soul s delights 
 To him whom yet his clay benights ! 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 When through the evening dun 
 
 Arises slow, austere, the moon, 
 
 The earth s disquietude 
 
 Is calmed for o er night s deep 
 
 Sunbeams their reign yet keep, 
 
 Till morn s awakening brood 
 
 Of Sun-rays fill the air 
 
 With signs of constancy. 
 
 O Child, so know I thee, 
 
 Filled with soul s Heaven fair; 
 
 That when thy day will come 
 
 To glow again thy tomb 
 
 Shall be those songs, full-toned, 
 
 Augmented, symphonic, sweet; 
 
 Till like sun s rays they greet 
 
 A morn that all dead poets owned ! 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 As lilies the morning dew, 
 As evening the tinted hue : 
 So feel I thy rare kiss, 
 O Muse ! 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 Now write ! and wish 
 That ever I shall be 
 Thy friend in woe, or glee! 
 
The Poet 31 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 I see thee melting slowly 
 Into the unknown ! Again 
 Appear to commune holy, 
 To weave a flowered strain ! 
 
 O thou wilt be mine soon 
 More scores of times more dear, 
 For to thine inspiration s cheer 
 Will mate experience s boon ! 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 Experience is the moon 
 The Sun is inspiration ! 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 O Knowledge is the moon 
 The Sun is soul s elation! 
 
 Paris, France (1887) 
 
 NOVEMBER EVE. 
 (Ten Years After 1897). 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 Art thou asleep, my silent one, 
 That when the trees are glowing 
 
32 ThcPoet 
 
 In red and saffron to the sun 
 Thy feet are no more going 
 To lonely nooks in woodlands fair, 
 Or stray o er fields now almost bare? 
 
 Art thou an alien to the dells 
 To streams, and gorges wild ; 
 For once, when autumn drearly tells 
 
 Her hectic tale, my Child, 
 Thou wouldst stand awe-bound on the plain 
 To view the sun-glow aft the rain ! 
 
 Thou wouldst be loitering alone 
 
 Like bard of olden time, 
 Upon the hillside, flower o ergrown, 
 
 To hearken for a rhyme 
 To listen for a ballad or to see 
 The action for a tragedy ! 
 
 Sing, Lonely One, for still in strife 
 Thou art, though ten long years 
 Were time enow to cheer thy life 
 
 That then knew wail and tears : 
 O must thou sing a song of woe 
 When now the autumn woodlands glow ! 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 Arousest thou me, as in days afar, 
 
 Out of dreariness and lethargy? 
 O Muse, thou art come like that guiding star 
 
The P o et 33 
 
 Through the cloud rack, riven o er the sea, 
 That shows the lost mariner the Southern 
 
 Cross, 
 
 So they steer their ship in safety ! 
 Thou art come to me like in hurtling war, 
 When truce comes aft long hours of loss 
 
 and loss. 
 
 Thou dost ask me why no longer I roam 
 
 Through the woods, by the gorges, and 
 
 fields. 
 
 O Muse, they were once my passion and my 
 home. 
 
 Now my lyre to songs of mankind yields. 
 Aye too well do I know I forsake the wood ; 
 
 But now my sad mind humanity wields 
 And to the welfare of man a fair tome 
 
 I indite so I live in sad solitude. 
 
 THE: MUSE:. 
 
 Whilom, ten years ago thy mind 
 
 Was gifted for that service rare ; 
 But then through cold November wind 
 
 Thou wouldst slow wander here and there 
 Away from loud-voiced streets and man 
 To dream in Nature of some Heaven-built 
 plan ! 
 
 Then wouldst thou wander all alone 
 Near to the alleyed Tuilleries, 
 
34 T he P o et 
 
 And dream of France s long-dead throne, 
 
 And hear kings sigh within the breeze 
 Then wouldst thou stand when moonlight 
 
 glowed, 
 
 On Pont des Arts, all while the swift Seine 
 flowed. 
 
 Then wouldst thou gaze upon the moon 
 
 That shone above the Bourbon Palace 
 Then still thou foundest for thee a boon 
 To walk down boulevards and alleys : 
 Arriving home, thy lyre wouldst take 
 And sing great themes that kept thy gifts 
 awake. 
 
 But now thou seemest like old age 
 
 Forsaking joy and company 
 And in thy song-book not one page 
 
 Glows radiant with one melody. 
 O why art thou forlorn, though years have 
 
 passed ? 
 Can ill-hap with lone tears forever last? 
 
 THE: LONELY ONE:. 
 
 O Muse, it seems some are ill-fated men, 
 And never may they see bright days again. 
 Ten years I ve wrought fair work for thee and 
 
 thine 
 Rapt Pao and Euterpe all divine ! 
 
The P oet 35 
 
 But through those studious hours not an one 
 Encouraged me I must needs work alone ! 
 My friends and one I helped in hours of 
 
 need 
 
 They are high on the steps of Fame, indeed ; 
 While I am as I was when musing deep 
 In France s capital. For work I reap 
 But cold neglect, and my utter loneliness 
 Obscure am I, with not a love s caress 
 E er fashioning anew without reward 
 Still hoping as my will such can afford, 
 Still willing sing in praise of God and Love, 
 Still trusting that Heaven is a world above! 
 
 THE: MUSE:. 
 
 Last night I saw the crescent low 
 
 Above the roofs, between two spires, glow ; 
 
 Th horizon, like a dim-lit arrassed wall, 
 
 Had dun-tinged purple clouds as pall ; 
 
 And drearily the north-wind blew, 
 
 While o er the zenith, as aft a storm, the 
 
 clouds 
 
 Wore heavily ; but mong stray crowds 
 Upon the streets I knew 
 Thee not to stand observant there 
 But absent-minded was thy worried stare! 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 Too much engrossed in the sad tricks men use 
 
36 T h e P o c t 
 
 To scale the height of fame : the means they 
 
 choose 
 
 To be renowned for one short month at best. 
 Too sad in heart to know that love is foam- 
 Too sober thinking of the poor distressed 
 Of those who have no bread nor decent home. 
 I cannot gaze upon the luminous moon, 
 Nor gaze athrill at stars without as soon 
 Feeling wrath swell within my manly breast. 
 Yet must I curb my ire reluctantly. 
 Therefore I think for those in misery. 
 
 THE: MUSE. 
 
 Though no one knows of all thy songs 
 
 And thoughts and fair creations mani 
 fold 
 
 Tis strange that still thy spirit throngs 
 To me far from the life of gold ! 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 Gain were a shallow substitute for song: 
 For, soon as profits show they aye must go ; 
 But soon as melodies my spirit throng 
 They linger then I make them eternal so! 
 O there are those who love their fineries 
 Who love loud boyish sport though age 
 
 should change them; 
 Who look disdainfully at a poet s pleasures, 
 
The Poet 37 
 
 Deriding all of his high imageries ! 
 They may invoke the fates to give them luck : 
 They lived a life haphazard, far from good ; 
 But when they die they may not asphodel 
 
 pluck 
 
 From off the brow of Fame as artists would. 
 They die whereas I know philosophy, 
 The arts, live on through all eternity. 
 
 THE: MUSE. 
 
 Loud is the city with rapt cries 
 Mock-pyres flame within the street 
 
 The band plays popular melodies 
 Sky-rockets rise, and burst up high ; 
 
 But in the crowds I do not meet 
 
 Thee, loved one thou art never nigh. 
 
 THE: LONELY ONE. 
 
 Why should I mingle with the populace 
 
 That jeers at lofty thought and laughs at 
 
 dreams ? 
 Or wish to vote for men who will efface 
 
 The primal statutes in the Republic s book? 
 The parties are at strife the factions look 
 
 Distrustingly at all and, so it seems, 
 Our states are principalities at best, 
 
 For unity is but a myth a word ; 
 
 The parties quarrel at the point of sword 
 
38 The P oet 
 
 Republicans hate democrats ; and the rest 
 Of odd-named factions are at loggerhead 
 
 With one another. Are they all one nation? 
 "The States" belie their once fair given epi 
 thet. 
 
 "Dis-union" would serve better nowadays, 
 For their "campaigning" is a degradation 
 
 To the pure age of Jefrersonian ways! 
 
 I cannot quite believe the people s voice 
 Should rule the governor s or president s 
 
 choice ; 
 
 But abstract names, such as integrity," 
 "Broad-mindedness," "good heart," "high 
 
 aims," should be 
 
 Like individual voters : then our land 
 Would be a nation honored, fair and grand. 
 But, as it is, our politics are a game, 
 And low at best played by stout men who aim 
 T enrich their pockets, while they their land 
 
 defraud 
 And praise the Devil when they should praise 
 
 God. 
 
 We scorn our mother country for her throne 
 When we have tyrant rulers in our own. 
 No sceptres carry they, nor golden crown ; 
 But they command, and tread the people down. 
 Tioga s most resplendent son rules all; 
 The people subjects are are held in thrall ; 
 The rulers banquet, when the people s fare 
 
T he P o et 39 
 
 Is scant, and poverty lurks everywhere. 
 The olden reign it is, I know and vain 
 It is to preach Christ s sermon high again. 
 For as He was once crucified to-day 
 He d reap worse sentence and be Scorn s own 
 prey! 
 
 The constitution for a nation s glory 
 Is written in true Liberty s fair story; 
 But such can never be on earth tis given 
 To such who feel and know the ways of 
 
 Heaven. 
 
 But as they are so few, they walk alone 
 In midst the ignorant, selfish population, 
 As planets glow and roll in exaltation; 
 Yet, by the multitude of stars around 
 They seem like lost. The state ideal is shown 
 By rare unselfishness is heavenly crowned 
 By feelings all humane and robed in white 
 By fair Simplicitv, and soul s own light 
 Sways all ; but on this earth such cannot be, 
 Since most men are possessed of Satan free. 
 Low gain is like a parasite and greed 
 Has smothered friendship, love and God in 
 deed. 
 
 So, Muse, I would not desecrate thy name 
 That one, thine own, should bow to theft and 
 
 shame. 
 I keep me noble, fain to serve my land 
 
40 The P o et 
 
 By song sublime and counsel fair and grand 
 
 A citizen not servile but all vain 
 
 To be a voice that God should rule again. 
 
 THE: MUSK. 
 
 Ah! many are the stems of grain 
 
 That sway to Notus on the plain. 
 
 But, oh ! how few the azure flowers 
 
 That blow in midst those waving bowers 
 
 So in the world: of million men 
 
 That live all earthly, only ten 
 
 Have Christ-like souls or have the sight 
 
 Of God or try to spread Truth s light. 
 
 Hence may no fair millenium be 
 
 Till all love soul s sublimity! 
 
 O Lonely One, since only song 
 
 May keep thee cheery, dost thou long 
 
 To be at rest from worldly strife? 
 
 Since thou hast never found a wife 
 
 Because all girls hate love and soul, 
 
 And only make vain show their goal : 
 
 Wouldst thou not better be Heaven-flown 
 
 Than sing and work and dream alone? 
 
 Doth not the sand-flower, lemon fair, 
 
 Upon the foothills near the sea 
 
 By lone Del Mar wish dead to be? 
 
 For no man comes nor through the air 
 
 No eagle wings his glorious way 
 
 For on the crumbled sand it blows, 
 
The Poet 41 
 
 Forsaken by all other flowers. 
 
 It lives its solitary day, 
 
 Unsought by bird or cooling showers 
 
 Yet of its solitude it knows, 
 
 As thou art conscious of thy woes. 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 We take strange fate as best we may 
 
 As best we may. 
 
 We must suppose God made our clay 
 For March and May, 
 For winter or for fall s array. 
 He made me, as He made the flower. 
 Upon the foothills it blooms fair; 
 It serves something within its hour; 
 So must I be of use somewhere. 
 
 That flower blows, though all alone 
 
 Though all alone ; 
 And patiently without a moan 
 As though twas shown 
 By unseen souls a radiant throne. 
 It opens all its petals at morn 
 
 And dazzles in the sun through day, 
 And sleeps through night, though all forlorn 
 So will I make my life its way ! 
 
 Why die when yet the mind is bright 
 The mind is bright: 
 
42 7 h c Poet 
 
 When to my soul dreams bring me light, 
 For new delight 
 
 To nerve me for a Heavenly sight. 
 O Muse, though I m alone, unwed. 
 
 Like a flower that blows alone, yet fair 
 God made it. by some purpose led 
 So must I be of use son:. 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 O Lonely One though ten long years 
 
 Have gone and them hadst seen all life : 
 The hovel, palace ; laughter and tears : 
 
 And though not blessed \vi a loving wife ; 
 Within thy soul thou art as pure 
 
 As when we sang together there : 
 And though temptations oft would lure 
 
 Thee from the poet s path by men 
 Of soul thou shalt be loved alway 
 
 For thou hast kept Christ-like the soul s 
 high Lay ! 
 
 XCK> York O /v. 
 
T h e P o e t 43 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 O listen ! how the poet sings ! 
 
 His songs are Rivers from eternal Springs. 
 
 O listen to the birds in linden-trees 
 
 How they mingle with the humming of work- 
 loving Bees ! 
 
 Their songs and hummings are from one great 
 Sound, 
 
 \Yhich reverberates thro* the Inane s illimit 
 able Profound. 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 Purple-petaled. perfect paragon, 
 
 Purest, pleading Poem-! 
 Pulsing peeress, purfled : proud upon 
 
 Proving poesy purity! 
 
 ALL I WISH FOR. 
 
 Oh ! All I wish for, when I m weary-grown, 
 Are the sweet poets of all centuries. 
 To read in dreamy mood the melodies 
 
 They wrote when they were by sweet Poesy 
 blown 
 
44 
 
 The Poet 
 
 On softest winds to isles, so fairy-grown, 
 That conning them evoked fair purities 
 Of song and thought so all their imageries 
 
 Replenish my lorn mind that dwells alone. 
 
 O lays that lull the moody mind to rest, 
 And rune-like lines that chant of hero s hoar. 
 Then thoughts got from fair Nature s end 
 less store ; 
 And tunes taught them when sleeping on 
 
 Love s breast. 
 
 So would my weariness be spelled then, 
 By songs writ by those Heaven-elected men. 
 
 SONG-FLOOD. 
 
 O God, they say Poetry is genius-gift; 
 
 That poetry should be prized supreme of 
 of Thee. 
 
 Yet I write all with such facility, 
 As tho some Angel led my hand, to shift 
 Over the page with lightning swiftness on. 
 
 I fear me ; like the levin are my songs ; 
 
 The myriad-minded to the stars belongs 
 They gyrate, act in orbits all their own! 
 
T he Poet 45 
 
 How fleet my pen how fair the pictures 
 
 drawn ! 
 
 A day hath many visions for my scroll ; 
 And yet I live all-lonely with my soul. 
 O let me, singing, soar within thy Dawn, 
 A lark, tho shot at by the world s low 
 
 scorn, 
 Arising, fulgent, in Thine eternal Morn ! 
 
 YOUR POET. 
 
 I. 
 
 I will be your poet! 
 But he is a delicate, little thing, 
 Who must be treated well 
 If you want him ever to sing! 
 He must not be a thing to sell 
 But like we treasure 
 
 A holiday pleasure, 
 
 So must you think of him and ward him well ! 
 For he is a delicate little thing, 
 
 Like the butterfly s radiant wing. 
 So if you treat him well- 
 Then I will be your poet! 
 
 II. 
 
 I will be your poet ! 
 But he is a tender, sensitive child, 
 Like the Angel in mid-heaven 
 
46 T he P o e t 
 
 And must be ever pleasingly beguiled ; 
 By sweetest impulses ever driven. 
 You must him be loving, 
 
 As him who never needs reproving. 
 So must you see in him a soul from Heaven 
 
 given ! 
 
 For he is a tender, sensitive child 
 Like the blushing rose in the woodland s 
 
 wild. 
 
 So if you think him born of Heaven 
 Then I will be your poet ! 
 
 (1883) 
 
 WHEN THE SPIRITS COME. 
 
 O when the Spirits come I know : 
 A word bobs up before my mind ; 
 
 Then follow others, and they glow 
 
 With justest colors, but Heaven can find. 
 
 But there arises a combat sweet 
 
 As Jacob s with Gabriel at his feet: 
 To listen to those Spirits, or no ; 
 
 Be prudish as a blushing maiden s bosom ; 
 Or be soft lightning, with its glow, 
 
 To show to man the thought-flashed blossom. 
 
 O when the Spirits come, I know them 
 Like swift gold sparkles from the flowered 
 stream, 
 
T h e P o e t 47 
 
 Words bubble in me, where they flow them 
 Even as lily-burdened waters flow 
 To meadows, where virgins marjoram 
 strow ! 
 
 And they are strains for a Heaven-theme. 
 
 I struggle to believe they re showing 
 
 Me all that glitters in man s knowing; 
 
 Till, like the woodrose, on the brooklet s barm, 
 
 Is drenched, and flows with the streamlet 
 
 warm ! 
 
 So resistless is the showering of their bless 
 ings 
 
 That momentary am I lost in vary dressings : 
 O paraments so airy spirit-like that I 
 Dream only of their immortality ! 
 
 O when the Spirits come, I know 
 A word bobs up before my mind 
 
 Then others bubble and they glow 
 
 With colors their own, but Heaven could 
 find. 
 
48 T he P o et 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 He is the Mouth-piece of the world ; 
 
 The Nation s banner bold unfurled 
 
 Waving in the ensilvered sun. 
 
 Before creation was begun 
 
 Within the Godhead s mind he was. 
 
 Precious he as crysoprass ; 
 
 And rare as Kohinoor of old 
 
 A treasure, never to be sold. 
 
 For he is one with mystery. 
 
 Not of the human womb is he 
 
 His birth is in the spirit s birth 
 
 Years aft he breathed upon this earth. 
 
 Him guide the glorious Seraphim; 
 
 Those, whom the patriarchs of eld 
 
 Of sudden in their dreams beheld ; 
 
 And taught them of great Elohim. 
 
 He is of cosmic light he wields 
 
 His virtues as the Angels shields 
 
 In the grim war with Lucifer, 
 
 What time th angelic host did stir 
 
 The stars and planets gainst the reign 
 
 Of Evil. He nor to the says 
 
 Of priest, nor to the specious ways 
 
 Of magnate, or of trade-man sways 
 
 He flouts their aims and makes them vain. 
 
 He is the sturdy oak that views 
 
The P oet 49 
 
 From craggy bluff the spreading vale ; 
 
 Him all the loving spirits choose 
 
 To deliver to man God s mystic tale 
 
 For he in sudden moments sees 
 
 Deep thro life s many mysteries. 
 
 He labors not, but lightning-thought 
 
 Empowers him. No man has taught 
 
 Him what in songs he brings to bloom 
 
 His knowledge blossoms out of gloom. 
 
 When, sad and sorrowing, he dreams 
 
 By flower, or hill-crest in the morn 
 
 Then vital prophesy fast streams 
 
 From his soul ; and thus his song is born. 
 
 Him more the Spirit s life delights 
 
 But he from casual man invites 
 
 Some mundane happenings, to cull 
 
 From them earth-doings ; then transmutes 
 
 Them into epics beautiful, 
 
 Or lyrics, soft as sounds from lutes. 
 
 He to the general world seems most 
 
 As on a drowsy summer-day: 
 
 A momentary gale its way 
 
 Glides through the trees whose boughs are 
 
 tosst, 
 
 Whose leaves a-tremble are with song 
 And all the air is cool as wave- 
 So he strows music to the throng, 
 His magic words their lorn minds lave. 
 He walks the earth in loneliness ; 
 A hermit in the soul s vast realm 
 
50 T h e P o c t 
 
 A few he finds that to him confess 
 Their heart-pangs ; none will overwhelm 
 Him with earth-blessings ; he alone 
 Walks ; man but gives to him a stone 
 Yet when he s dead, the world bestows 
 On him high honor such that glows. 
 
 (1906) 
 
 TO THE MOUNTAIN BROOKLET. 
 
 What use for amrit, or youth s quintessence 
 
 rare ; 
 For gin, great Byron s guide to Fancy s 
 
 nook ; 
 When I can write close to thee, babbling 
 
 brook. 
 And feel thy wave s breath floating on the air ! 
 
 Why drink the Rhenish wines, or those of Cos ; 
 Or those of Sicily of Marathon 
 When I can relish thee, when I m alone 
 
 And be inspired with songs full glorious ! 
 
 Away from sun-exposed summits green ; 
 
 By thee sweet words flow from my fluent 
 
 pen. 
 
 I drink thy cool wine, and, within the glen, 
 Thy rush, thy babble and thy mutter between, 
 Invite the muse to me, and then I deem 
 My work is but a summer s pleasant dream ! 
 
 (1894) 
 
T h e P o e t 51 
 
 CONTRAST. 
 (Stephen Crane His Great Funeral.) 
 
 With pomp pall-bearers, friends and stately 
 
 train 
 
 His funeral was held the other day 
 Young, yet with no great work, or glorious 
 
 lay, 
 
 That should deserve the laurel, Stephen Crane 
 Was buried as if he were greater far 
 
 Than Keats, or Poe, or Otway, they whose 
 
 grave 
 Was wreathed but long years aft their 
 
 death, and gave 
 
 The world sweet perfect works, bright as a 
 star! 
 
 Such is the world it is so dull to ring 
 
 Loud praise to those whose talents choose 
 
 light themes 
 But cannot find th creators, they whose 
 
 dreams 
 
 Are passports to the spirit s marvellings 
 Who of the world had honored Schubert 
 
 Poe 
 
 All who wrought deathless works from strife 
 and woe ! 
 
 (1900) 
 
52 T h c P o c t 
 
 POETS. 
 
 It seems We poets great are fettered strong 
 
 To dull humanity. In higher spheres 
 We did some strange all-punishable wrong, 
 
 And now we roam alone mongst tears and 
 
 cheers 
 Of this world s common women and their men. 
 
 Else why should we have larger thought 
 
 than they 
 And greater aptitude and fairer ken 
 
 And seek forever for the higher, fairer Day ? 
 
 Nought that fair Terra s people love we share, 
 Save love the freshness of the fields and 
 
 woods ; 
 But ever while we roam discons late there 
 
 Our hearts are sore in sorrow s solitudes. 
 For we are other than the motley crowd : 
 We think of worlds ringing with anthems 
 loud ! 
 
 (1898) 
 
The P oet 53 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 There clings to poet-souls a mystery : 
 A mystery unknown to other souls ; 
 A strangest sense, that leads them on to 
 goals, 
 
 Unsought by trade-enslaved humanity. 
 
 Many walk through the ruins of glorious 
 
 Rome 
 When, tired, they seek a place to quaff cool 
 
 wine 
 There ling ring with a vacant stare ; no 
 
 sign 
 That to their minds come thoughts of love or 
 
 home. 
 
 But see ! at that small table sits a poet 
 
 He wandered by the walls, Tiberius- 
 wrought 
 And saw the Alps, and Plain; and Tiber s 
 
 wave. 
 He sits but all his soul is lit, O, know it ! 
 
 With sudden images and glorious thought 
 He writes there a new song the Spirits gave ! 
 Rome, March 24, 1901. 
 
54 T h e P o e t 
 
 " To-day no one writes lays divine; 
 To speak of love s affection, woe 
 Disdain does not from their base lips flow." 
 
 (Torq. Tasso 1479) 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Thou too, O poet, much maligned through life, 
 And tortured by the little men, and fate 
 Thou knewest well that most of mankind 
 hate 
 
 To dwell on love that in the soul is rife. 
 
 But time and mankind have not changed since 
 
 then- 
 Three hundred years ago ! To-day love lies 
 Enshrouded ; left forlorn ; and all men s eyes 
 
 Stare fierce for paltry gain in town or glen. 
 
 Methinks, when dreaming of thy carking woes, 
 Torquato, fair Sorrento s genius-child! 
 That minds, who dote on worldly transient 
 
 shows, 
 
 Can never by love s glories be beguiled ; 
 And that tis genius only that lives high 
 In thought of Heaven s Love-Serenity! 
 
 February 16, 1899. 
 
T h e P o e t 55 
 
 JONES VERY. 
 
 God-reared, and Nature-fledged, thy soul up 
 rose, 
 
 Like glorious sun, to light the earth s dark 
 air; 
 
 Like morning-melodies, thy songs are fair ; 
 Like rocks along the shore, thou borest woes 
 Of life s resurgent sea and mighty throes 
 
 Of soul and heart were melted in the care 
 
 Thou feltest in this foul world everywhere. 
 O Very, God-invited ; manhood s rose ! 
 
 Yes, rose ; the fairest in man s garden-thought ! 
 Since Christ had forfeited his life for man, 
 No singer bloomed like thou on this earth s 
 
 span; 
 For thou hadst rung the God-loved shell, so 
 
 frought 
 
 With hope-songs, and that singing reverent, 
 That whoso reads loves with the God-Head 
 to be blent ! 
 
56 T h c P o c t 
 
 GREATNESS. 
 
 Who knows the sun but after it is down ? 
 Too full of light, it rolled past their dim 
 
 gaze; 
 The dim, dull gaze o the world in bustle s 
 
 maze. 
 At morn they slept ; and saw not his gold 
 
 crown. 
 
 At noon they worried when he silvery shone. 
 At eve they dozed; and saw not his gold 
 
 blaze. 
 Then night came : and they shuddered in 
 
 amaze 
 
 That light and warmth with his still death had 
 gone! 
 
 Ah, me ! So is it with the great in soul, 
 With poets, and all great men striving on. 
 No one doth notice, as no one the sun 
 That, as the sun doth o er the heavens roll, 
 A great light rilled the world with truth and 
 
 song. 
 
 Yet when he s dead, they rue for all their 
 wrong ! 
 
The P oet 57 
 
 WHO UNDERSTANDS HIM? 
 
 O who can understand 
 The poet s scope the poet s land? 
 
 None other but the poet; 
 For he doth bask on Fancy s strand 
 And dreams, holding Imagination s hand 
 He seems a god on peaks reclining 
 And looks on earth, her secrets deep divining- 
 
 O therefore none can know it 
 But he who is a poet wild and sweet 
 A poet singing ever fair and meet. 
 
 The depths, the heights, 
 He delves to see the soul s great lights 
 
 None knoweth but the poet 
 For others only seek to find 
 The pleasures of the earthly mind; 
 The poet seeks in solitude the world, 
 Where God s high scroll will be unfurled 
 
 And poets only show it; 
 r when a poet sings, an Angel shows 
 Him all the super-world that glows. 
 
 O who can feel the flow 
 Of thoughts that but the poets know ? 
 
 No other man can know it 
 For when a poet sings and dreams 
 
58 T h e P o e t 
 
 Then all this world but vapor seems 
 And in a land of fairest love and glowing 
 He thinks he is where rarest tunes are flowing, 
 
 And he is but a poet 
 Whom all the world deems mad, I ween 
 Because the world his fair thoughts hath not 
 seen ! 
 
 November 14, 1899. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 Within his marvel-mind, and canorous clay 
 There dwell like two sweet-loving essences 
 The delicate breath of flowers perfumeries, 
 
 And strength of the wide, sturdy oak alway ! 
 
 He hath the feelings of some hundred hearts 
 Of maidens, all rare given to sweet love ; 
 And hath the wildness of ten men, that 
 shrove 
 
 For heinous crime in city s darkest parts. 
 
 So may he all know, feel, express, and sing ; 
 
 May curse, and love; perjure; or slay or 
 weep, 
 
 For in his being all men s passions keep 
 Their home not running loose, or rioting 
 But ever guarded by the God-like power 
 That fashions his song as to a jewel-flower! 
 
T h e P o e t 59 
 
 GENIUS. 
 
 Thou art like the unresting ocean s deep ! 
 E er changing in thy moods, and hues of 
 
 mind ! 
 
 ^ Now calm in sun, then wild in Eastern wind. 
 Forever fluent refluent ne er asleep ; 
 Now mounting, then down-gliding, in thy 
 
 tide. 
 
 Thou, fluid, never art exact, but thou 
 Dost change like water s bosom the blessed 
 
 one s brow; 
 By thee the ocean s changes aye abide. 
 
 So ^a vaunt! thou man who dost thyself repeat; 
 Exact like chisselled stone dost work away- 
 Dull, dry sand-earth is all for thy work-day. 
 
 But fly to me, thou Genius, liquid-sweet 
 Reflecting all within thy fluid-soul : 
 
 Thou lone, great mind; Heaven s realm thy 
 glorious goal ! 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 Say not the poet is a useless man, 
 Is like the trill from mocking-bird 
 
 And mars dull mankind s money plan, 
 And is not worth a praiseful word. 
 
60 .The P o ct 
 
 Say not that he doth lead a life 
 For from trade s wheel-utility 
 
 Nor tell his hours with cant are rife 
 Nor that his years roll lazily ! 
 
 Ah ! doth not he alone give balm 
 
 To wearied hearts ; to merchant-minds, 
 
 All aft their toil, he giveth calm- 
 So they re refreshed, as with soft winds. 
 
 What would the traders in despair 
 
 Do, had they not some poet s lay- 
 To read, that braced them so they dare 
 To live again the next long day! 
 
 The world of trade is like a waste- 
 All sand and gray monotony ; 
 
 Yet God as He rare flowers placed 
 On earth, so with sweet Poetry. 
 
 He let the poets sing atune 
 
 With Nature mankind, and the stars 
 So know him as your flower-boon 
 
 Who sings to heal fate s smarting scars ! 
 
 Ah ! wreathe him with rare laurels green- 
 He writes what Heaven sings to him ; 
 
 His song is what High God s has been 
 Since Angels sang: Our Eloim. 
 
The Poet 61 
 
 Say not the poet is a useless man 
 
 Spends lazy years of dreams and song 
 
 He s just as needful in rare Nature s plan 
 As men who trade their life-time long ! 
 October 12, 1894. 
 
 WOMAN-FLOWERS. 
 
 We poets are like honey-seeking bees. 
 
 What numbers, all-untold, of flowers 
 They sip, to find gold-sweetnesses. 
 
 On plain, on field, in woodland-bowers ! 
 So must we strangely-minded mortals live 
 To find new song that flower-women give. 
 
 Yet, though the many deem us strange, 
 
 W T e have our honey-hives well stored ; 
 And like the bees that in their grange 
 
 Live in sweet honey, songs afford 
 To us sweet thought on lonely days ; so we 
 Pass thro the years in tender melody ! 
 
 No time is squandered ; for we breathe 
 
 To s ing, which is for our delight. 
 When we find flowers, for them we wreathe 
 
 Song-chains, so honey-sweet, and bright. 
 Ah, me! as bees sip mel in wood s recess, 
 We poets find songs in woman s loveliness. 
 
62 T he P o e t 
 
 TO MY MUSE. 
 
 Thou Muse! art first of all my wild, sweet 
 powers. 
 
 Neglect of thee shall never soil my day. 
 
 But thee I worship first : I sing my lay 
 Sweet votive to thy inspiration s showers, 
 Before I court gay Pao with her flowers. 
 
 For thou dost come to me, sweet, there to 
 stay 
 
 But for short moments ; so, with no delay, 
 I write what in me sings: thy kindest dowers. 
 
 Sweet pictures have their life all-tangible; 
 But songs and thoughts burst but within the 
 
 soul: 
 
 And are mysterious ; aye ! they in me roll 
 As breakers glorious, born by hidden spell. 
 So will I ne er forego thy whispers rare ; 
 But first list to my soul s tunes, past com 
 pare ! 
 
 GOD IS SPIRIT. 
 
 How most are sore misled by pope and priest 
 To think that God hath arms and feet and 
 
 eyes- 
 He is the Spirit, live on land, in skies 
 
The Poet 63 
 
 And matter is made of motion, at least. 
 
 Our bodies are the shells of soul s rare life 
 God is in all that have a thought in them 
 God s works are wrought from out His Ana- 
 dem 
 
 Of Light and Spirit, with fair Wisdom rife ! 
 
 All works of man are first evolved in thought, 
 And afterwards his hands transfer them fast 
 To visible, material forms, to last ! 
 
 The more of spirit in a man, and caught 
 
 At moments when the Angel whispers low 
 The greater is man s work heir of God s 
 glow ! 
 
 THE MUSE WILL WHISPER SOON AGAIN. 
 
 There is a lull come to my lucid singing 
 
 As when on rocky shores the splashes cease 
 And silence broods ! But sounds will soon 
 
 increase, 
 
 Till like a vale where village maids are bring 
 ing 
 
 Their flowery tribute to May s fair upspringing 
 Oh ! all the vale is tremulous with song 
 And laughter rises from the gladsome 
 
 throng 
 While all the air with joyous din is ringing. 
 
64 T he P o et 
 
 There is a something that directs us dreamers 
 
 In art, in poesy or in music hours ! 
 Last week twas Pao flaunted her pied stream 
 ers 
 
 That made my brushes show my painting- 
 powers. 
 
 So will this lull in singing soon be broken 
 And I from Fancy get her sweetest token ! 
 * * * * -jf. 
 
 With extasy I think of the fate-tended days 
 
 To come ! 
 The days that wait for me 
 
 (In the long, broad-hollow chain of 
 Time!) 
 
 In whose green brilliancy 
 My Muse s silver-bells will chime : 
 In greener groves on blossomier fields on 
 nearer ways 
 
 To my tomb! 
 
 * # * sjs * 
 
 And I have borne the cold 
 Way in my heart s deep cavern where 
 It froze my love and made it bare 
 
 A mystery as fold ! 
 
 And my weird soul had felt 
 The whiffs, that waved from forth my heart; 
 It felt as when our dear ones part 
 
 We know not where they dwelt ! ! 
 
The P oet 65 
 
 A CHARLES BAUDELAIRE. 
 
 Tu as vu de vaste fantomes entottrant ton ame. 
 Au soir; et dans la nuit, quand le silence 
 
 reigne. 
 Au bords des fleuves bosques ; en parcourant la 
 
 plaine. 
 Dans les villes peuplees ton coeur sentait la 
 
 flamme 
 
 De 1 amour pure, du luxure. Dans tes rimes, 
 Qui coulent comme les cataractes au clair de 
 
 lune, 
 
 Ta vision surhumaine chantait de la brune 
 Deesse Beaute, reine des cieux et des abimes ! 
 
 O Baudelaire! tu m as ete inconnu toujours; 
 Ce n est qu aujourd hui que j ai lu tes "Fleurs 
 
 du Mai." 
 
 Ton chant sonore m a ebloui 1 esprit dormeur. 
 O beau poete, seul dans la France des an- 
 
 ciens jours. 
 J aime les pensees qui hors de ton orgue royal 
 S ecoulent en harmonic plein d une triste 
 
 douleur! 
 
 (1907) 
 
66 T he Poet 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 O is the world now lichened grey with sin! 
 Hath pomp enslaved its rural beauties all! 
 Hath gold and silver won a timid thrall ; 
 And filled the fields of earth with tumid din ! 
 O hath the eye of kith, an eye for kin 
 Or doth a name serve for true valor s call 
 Or struts the / in money-shelved hall; 
 Nor sees, nor feels, nor hears, what earth had 
 
 been 
 When innocence blushed peach-like; when 
 
 fond love 
 
 Was sovran in the heart of sturdy man! 
 When natural liberty did fondly prove 
 That God abounds in goodness; when their 
 
 sparkling eyes 
 Were gladdened with the sight of fluttering 
 
 dove; 
 
 And loved to praise the land and radiant skies? 
 
 (1883) 
 
 The pleasant pain of deep meditation ! 
 Felt o er the bending, bony brow- 
 In the tear-wooing eyes ! 
 The ache of poet s excitation! 
 
 When he dreams there in skies, 
 And leaves the world to ask : "O, how !" 
 
The P o et 67 
 
 OUR SOUL. 
 
 Our soul is like the perfume of the flower 
 
 That wafts away, when withered lie 
 The petals, the sapless stem and petiole. 
 
 Our soul is like the sounds of harmony 
 
 That, when the salt-waves shoreward roll, 
 Melt in the far, far west where shadows 
 cower ! 
 
 O Marvel, O Wonder! 
 As are invisible the joyouces of our soul 
 So art Thou, O Everlasting Benefactor, God! 
 
 O God ! who knoweth Thee ! 
 Not he who wills all done to his vain brain 
 Nor he who deems all wrought from mortal 
 
 powers 
 
 But he who feels his soul soft-cooled in bless 
 ing rain 
 
 Who deems himself Thy child at all of earth 
 ly hours. 
 
 As are invisible the joyances of our soul 
 So art Thou, O God ! Creator, Friend and All ! 
 O Marvel! Wonder! 
 
68 T he P oet 
 
 THE SOUL. 
 
 It doth beset me : the eternal truth. 
 
 My soul is one with the huge Cosmos. 
 I see it soar it is eternal youth 
 
 I pant, expire but my soul is soaring! 
 Tis real I ve tasted of th eternal soul 
 
 I ve felt its wing upon my daily musing 
 And though the towers ring the spires toll, 
 
 I m gazing on you, with my joying Spirit. 
 
 It doth beset me, oh ! the rapturous joy : 
 
 My soul is mingled with the eternal Allah 
 I see it in its essence no annoy 
 
 I breathe; I m cold but ever soars my 
 
 Spirit. 
 O I have felt the Spirit touch my thinking 
 
 O I have watched it coming while I dreamed 
 O laugh, my soul ! they think all is hard mat 
 ter- 
 But thou art what thou never yet hadst 
 
 seemed 
 
 Tis real : I ve tasted of the cosmic thrill- 
 Good bye, you proud ones ! O my conscience s 
 
 still 
 
 My soul is mingled with the lasting Allah ! 
 . * # * * # 
 
 And I have felt the chill 
 Of this world burthened mystery 
 Deep in my bones ! and cooling me, 
 
 Like a cool midnight-rill ! 
 
T he P o et 69 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Life is a choice 
 Between the outer and the inner voice. 
 
 Life is a cheat 
 The unseen is the real the seen will fleet ! 
 
 FIRE. 
 
 O divinest Fire ! 
 Like ever uprising desire, 
 Through thee we do regain 
 
 Our powers ! 
 As earth blooms fair in rain : 
 
 Heaven s fruiting showers ! 
 
 When chilled we be, as is the snow-drop in the 
 swift March-wind, 
 
 Thou permeating subtlety! through thee we 
 e er refind 
 
 What makes us breathe and move; as to the 
 mellow airs 
 
 That May, O radiant child! as her spell-gar 
 ment wears: 
 
 To enfold the thousand buds and blooms ; 
 To flower all the sods of all earth s tombs ! 
 
70 T h e P o e t 
 
 As mystified as the moon must be 
 
 When she sees her proud Dame erubesce and 
 
 glow 
 
 And ring her involving circles with delight: 
 Now dipping in gloaming then uprising from 
 
 night 
 
 So a mystery will envelope my awe 
 When, through the fire s live candescence a law 
 Evolves uplooming at last to a living Essence 
 O gloriously showing an ever-rekindling Pres 
 ence ! 
 
 O divinest Fire 
 Like man s ever changing desire ! 
 
 THE ANGELS WILL WHISPER AGAIN. 
 
 I begged the Angels ring their flower-bells 
 With flower-songs to fill my musing soul! 
 
 I prayed to let me write what Heaven tells 
 Sweet-tune to lays divine our dumb, dark 
 goal. 
 
 O Angels, now I know why you have left me 
 To let me live with no song s golden fruit 
 age 
 
 O now methinks to feel why you ve bereft me 
 Of fair harmonious flow, and lulling lutage ! 
 
The P oet 71 
 
 The moon pitched down the Western wavy 
 
 deep 
 
 The moon hung high above the evening-star ; 
 The moon rose baft the Eastern ebon steep 
 The moon forsook the world and wandered 
 far! 
 
 One moon and more ago, the Angels richly 
 
 filled me 
 With Wisdom ; whispered me with lightning 
 
 verbiage 
 They flashed, through soul and heart, stern 
 
 words that thrilled me 
 As sad wind, moving through the river- 
 cooled herbage ! 
 
 But lo ! their language lost the balm that quick 
 ens, 
 Methought no more that they had chosen 
 
 me; 
 But lo ! the days, when sorrow our thinking 
 
 sickens 
 
 Have caved songs virile strength and ex- 
 tasy! 
 
 A potency more magical than magian s, 
 
 Must bring its wand before mine endless 
 
 dreaming 
 To fast conjure those heavenly-gifted legions 
 That like the vaster Djinns have their 
 strange seeming! 
 
72, The Poet 
 
 Then will my song sweet-harp those olden 
 
 days 
 My sparkling plectrum strike the long-sung 
 
 tunes 
 
 And through the^even, when the virgin prays, 
 The wind will herald them as blessing boons ! 
 
 The moon must wander past the unknown sun- 
 star 
 
 The moon must cozen the curious orient 
 wise-men , 
 
 The moon must glow, and fatten by eves 
 
 throne-star 
 
 The moon must redden, ere cleaving the 
 eastern-skies wan ! 
 
 One moon and more shall see the words that 
 
 take 
 Their hues from wolds and vales of Fara- 
 
 dise 
 
 And from the gold empyrian Cherubs wake : 
 To glory knowledge, for the coming Skies ! 
 
 Angels, now I bid no quick return of singing- 
 Yet in me are the truths, like rivers min 
 gling ; 
 
 Angels, each new day rich thoughts are sooth 
 says bringing 
 
 In trust my all from rapture-pulse is tin 
 gling! (1883) 
 
T h e P o e t 73 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Why shed a gloom upon thy heaven s soul 
 
 Because no mortal lauds thy soothing song- 
 Be satisfied that when thy earthly goal 
 
 Be reached thy works will aye keep fair 
 and strong; 
 
 For thou art crowned ! 
 The Spirits owned 
 
 Thy mind thro youth s and manhood s hours 
 At death thou reapest Glory s radiant dowers. 
 
 The Angels wreathed with fadeless asphodel 
 
 Thy poet-brow these years of solitude 
 
 Care not if jealous pens foreswore to tell 
 The world that thou with wisdom wast im 
 bued; 
 
 For thou wast crowned 
 In youth, when Spirits owned 
 Thy mind and filled it fair with melodious 
 
 thought 
 Be glad ! thou hast the fond acclaim of God. 
 
 Why shed a tear within thy glorious soul, 
 Because none read thy songs from Heaven 
 blown ? 
 
74 
 
 The Poet 
 
 Be happy that no one can change thy goal 
 That ushers thee to worlds with glory 
 strown. 
 
 For thou art crowned ! 
 The Spirits owned 
 
 Thy poet soul since first thy song was born. 
 Sing joy! at death thou lt hail God s wondrous 
 Morn! 
 
 March, 1907. 
 
 WHY. 
 
 Why madest thou, O God! 
 
 The poet, filled with beauty rare, 
 But never gavest him 
 A woman fairest-fair? 
 Must songs be like the rainbow s life 
 
 That lives but after storm and rain ? 
 
 Ah ! poet never wrote his sweetest strain 
 But after loss in love or strife ! 
 
 For harshly treated he 
 
 By women voluptuous and fine. 
 
 My fairest lays but show 
 
 Their lovelinesses all divine. 
 
 But they will never love me true. 
 
 They shun my ways forevermore. 
 Ah ! is my life sad matin-dew 
 
 Along a flowerless, desolate shore? 
 
T h e P o e t 75 
 
 Why madest them, O God ! 
 
 The poet, thrilled by all that s fair. 
 Yet beauty rarely glows 
 
 Near him; no woman is there! 
 Must poets be like summer s glow, 
 
 That comes but after showery hours ? 
 Ah ! poet ever wrote from deepest woe, 
 
 From tears wove chains of immortal 
 flowers ! 
 
 (1893) 
 
ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
T he P o et 
 
 VICTORA FRAGMENT. 
 (Laurel Hill, 1885.) 
 
 O Victor ! How that name doth pour a flood 
 Of thoughts, and reveries! a stream of joy 
 A sense of melancholy, and a mood 
 Of awe impressing deep in me its bane. 
 For thou art gone ! Dead ! . . dead ! . . and dead 
 Is being lost to our eye ; dead : it withholds 
 From us the joy to press thy hand to gaze 
 Upon thee dead ! . . and what may blow to 
 
 breathe 
 
 Thy life again! Oh! unintelligible Death!! 
 Here, here I ask of Thee divulge Thy sooth- 
 Unveil Thy mystery . . but on the bland breeze 
 
 blows ; 
 
 And not a revelation whispers here 
 Nor sings the tune-grown sway of wandering 
 
 air 
 
 A lore that once Thy might had swelled within 
 The breast of him, who knew Thee, far in days 
 When Eden was garlanded to glow and glad 
 
 den ! 
 
 Thou gone! and all the season liveth on!^ 
 The oaks sprout forth their leaves and pines 
 Outspread their harping arms; all lives- 
 Outlives the dead ! Alone thou mayest not 
 
T h e P o e t 79 
 
 Be here ! gone ; gone forever ! . . History 
 Builds its towers indestructible and fills 
 The earth with lay and sermon but the dead 
 Are lost! and their speech murmurs no, no 
 
 more! 
 
 High art proclaims yet proudest workmanship ; 
 Hath audible answer to the questioning 
 
 tongues ; 
 
 And states uprise and roar their revolutions ; 
 But not a voice doth syllable thy name 
 Forgotten ! dead ! and who knew that there 
 
 lived 
 
 Such tender youth as thou ! untimely lost ! 
 Oh, terrible catastrophe in mind s confines : 
 To delve Death s mystery when, bound on 
 
 bound, 
 
 Repelling rocks are hurled against the too 
 Inquisitive interrogator ! Dead ! 
 And here I sit and muse of thee, O Brother ! 
 Here, where we twain enjoyed the hours, we 
 
 played, 
 
 And spake in accents, child is wont to prate 
 Exulting in the arms of Nature ! Thou 
 Whose fate ordained a grave in youth s sweet 
 
 prime 
 
 Art thou beholding me and sheddest thou 
 A tear that thy lone brother yet hath life 
 Upon this sphere ; or hast thou Angel-power ! 
 And hoverest o er me, fain dictating me, 
 As on my words gush all the swell of thought 
 
go The Poet 
 
 That thou and thy demise evoke! . . O Spirit! 
 Tell, tell, what lashes all my soul, to see the 
 
 face 
 
 Of Death ! to join hands and to feel the thrill 
 Of D eatlrs embrace! 
 
 And this the month that saw 
 Thee ope thine eyes unto strange scenes when 
 
 dark 
 Of womb had brightened, and the light of 
 
 Nature s all 
 
 Pervaded thy whole being ! These the lawns, 
 And orchards; groves and hills, that felt thy 
 
 feet 
 
 So wayward, fleet as bound the kids o er their 
 Sweet quiet! These the warbles; these the 
 
 breezes. 
 
 The airs that warm ; the innumerable sounds, 
 And heavings of a myriad-motioned Nature ! 
 Are these the same that inspired thee with life, 
 That tendered tokens of friendship while a boy, 
 And loved thee as I loved thee, when the soul 
 Yet shrouded gleams in childhood s fondest 
 
 dreams ! 
 
 Here in this arbor we wished what no one hath. 
 We thought of things that never shape have 
 
 taken 
 Rapt dreams of boys! We shouted to the 
 
 hills ; 
 
The Poet 81 
 
 Heard the soft buzzing of the bee, that rested 
 Within the vines, that clung t the rustic bower : 
 Verbena-tangled, with suckles blooming sweet, 
 Where, libant, the darning-needle passed, then 
 
 flitted 
 
 To dales of fairer mel. We heard the wren 
 That carolled through the blooming cherry- 
 trees ; 
 
 To thrushes, and the lark, that flooded throngs 
 Of tunes upon the greenest lawn and here 
 We garlanded fair flowers, to deck some 
 
 cousin, 
 
 Maid-waiting neath yon pine-grove ; eager, 
 Sweet innocence in her reposed shape. 
 Unfolded bud ! and ran we through the aisles 
 Of cedars with their spicy scents, and tunes, 
 Mating our hearts to thrilled joyance ; ran 
 To yon quaint tower, that standeth master-like, 
 Supervisor of the park and lofty head 
 To scan the prospect wide, and far withdrawn ! 
 O^may mine eyes see thee again, wild youth! 
 Disporting, as antelope, through these fair 
 
 grounds. 
 With brother s endearment whispering me the 
 
 snares 
 To surprise the hare to tame the captive 
 
 hawk 
 
 And shun the dangers, brooding in the darker 
 dens 
 
82 T he P o e t 
 
 Of Nature! Were we young! and ten long 
 years 
 
 Have sung their various lays to me ; ten years 
 
 Wherein my mind bloomed ; and the sense of 
 man 
 
 Upswelled its wave to flood my soul with 
 gifts 
 
 Such the sterner mortal nurtures through a 
 life! 
 
 And thou, when boyhood bears adventurous 
 fruit 
 
 Hadst said a long farewell! thou wert em 
 balmed 
 
 In Death s weird fold, when yet the brow is 
 smooth, 
 
 And cheeks are round, eyes glisten brightest 
 rays: 
 
 Diaphanous like the sun s, that shoot from 
 forth 
 
 Some crowned, pellucid gem! Oh, then we 
 knew 
 
 No voice that floweth as the mountain-tor 
 rent 
 
 No heart-throbs, beating as wings of dying- 
 swans. 
 
 No rancorous moans, that quell not when the 
 glow 
 
 Of Orient splendor invests the dreary day 
 
 No deeper thought dipped golden buckets 
 down 
 
T he P o et 83 
 
 Than but the dreams of wildest joy ; and pas 
 sion 
 
 Lay, as the sky upon a lake, where round 
 No breath is heard, nor liveth aught to shed 
 A dimpling rain, that ruffles its glassy calm ! 
 Oh, then to me the wisdom of those peers 
 In poetry s skies was all unknown; the thrill 
 Of meditation all unfelt ; the sense to know 
 Unlit ; the wild enthusing thoughts of sex 
 Yet hidden brooded ; and life s secret was 
 Yet sealed! Nor frothed within me that in 
 tense 
 
 Upheaving to delve the mysteries of man 
 To mattock the interminable mines of soul 
 Nor arm against world s wrongs nor seem 
 
 to be 
 
 One lonely heart that weighed the sufferings 
 And weals of all my fellow-mates ; but then, 
 I was, like thou, a boy and Nature-loving ; lost 
 In childhood s fancy-fields; and guided true 
 To reason by that Hand, that blesses thee now ! 
 Thou hast been spared to know what all these 
 
 ten 
 
 Fat years have taught me ! Dead thou art, 
 These long years ! Furnished not with wiser 
 
 brain 
 Ta en away from here, before the thoughts o 
 
 the Past 
 
 Could store thy mind ! Dead with no Knowl 
 edge Vast; 
 
84 The P o et 
 
 Experience born with years ; no joy profound 
 Of self-ebullient thought of own creations ; 
 Nor what love breedeth ; nor with that proud 
 
 badge : 
 
 A name ! O brother ! who dost sing of Glory, 
 Thy heart had felt pulsations of a Hand 
 That teaches one short lesson, serving for 
 The vastness of the myriad lesson-books 
 That lie wild scattered through and in great 
 
 nature. 
 
 To know the flower grows to see it die 
 To feel its leaves to marvel at its structure 
 To own within that what is there is made 
 By One All-Mighty Hand is all we need 
 To know ; for all else is but the all-same 
 Each one for one lone mind and all for 
 
 thought 
 Of nations, tribes, and clans, and families ! 
 
 Doth the balmy air of Spring suggest the days 
 When we were sporting! lively as the lark 
 That shot the blue and frisksome as the fawn 
 That bound its vernal joy o er branch and 
 
 brier, 
 And woodland flowers ! O Victor ! Brother ! 
 
 Thou, 
 Who wept st young tears at some rude words. 
 
 of mine, 
 
 Hadst clasped thy delicate hands, to ask of me 
 Obedience to thine Angel-voice when I, 
 
T he P oet 85 
 
 Thy younger mate, had shunned to walk on 
 
 ways 
 The good man takes ! O Thou hadst in thy 
 
 heart 
 
 That sweeter blood, the Heaven-blessed own 
 That tender sweetness round thy lips that, 
 
 sad, 
 And weeping through thine eyes, was language 
 
 still 
 To mark thee one of those, who gaze at 
 
 Heaven 
 Ere Heaven to others is disclosed; oh, 
 
 Brother ! 
 Thou wert too good, too kind, too sensitive 
 
 far 
 
 To lead the life the older live ; breathe days 
 When retrospection addles brain, contempla 
 tion 
 On the world, its miseries, consume our 
 
 thought 
 
 And we, the blest, weep silently a tear 
 That purls within ourselves a tear to be 
 The seed we sow in Heaven s Homes, when 
 
 there 
 We see it sprout to Blessings manifold the 
 
 dear 
 And deep, true recompense for having wept for 
 
 those 
 Whom we could help not ! 
 
 Ten years ! and with 
 
86 The Poet 
 
 Their changing hues, the days saw me in towns 
 Of strange names, where thy foot had never 
 
 trod 
 I heard men speak in foreign tongues have 
 
 answered 
 
 Them ; fared on seas ; and mated with the boors 
 Of lands thou hadst not known; I learned the 
 
 thought 
 Of men, whose names n er touched thine ear; 
 
 have pursued 
 
 The jacal on the cliffs of Jura s ranges slayn 
 The boar by brakes where Moritz wildly 
 
 roamed ; 
 Have mused of stars have seen the Bear 
 
 move round 
 
 That lode-star, centre of the unknown realm ! 
 Knew how to point at lost Egeria to those 
 Proud planets, said to be our sister-worlds ! 
 
 [Till here written in the open air, Laurel Hill, 1885.] 
 
 [What follows is continuation; written from 2 A. M. 
 
 5 A. M., during the night.] 
 
 My vaster mind could astound at the Unseen ! 
 What wond rous boundless space outreached 
 
 the realm 
 
 The sage astronomers call universe ! 
 Ten long years ! in their full flood of various 
 
 motions 
 I learned God s Lesson, imprinted on a brow 
 
T he P oet 87 
 
 That impossible Lesson? learned by one s 
 
 self; 
 That imbibes, from love-pores, all the natural 
 
 eye 
 
 Beholds ; imperishable vast and complex 
 That mighty Lesson, stamped on the human 
 
 brow, 
 
 Till, flashing round his temples, as the glow 
 Of Heaven opens sudden, suffusing light 
 And an unspeakable sheen around that Les 
 son 
 
 Bursts welded to the kiss of God ! . . And such 
 One eve, while dreaming of a love, my brow 
 Experienced since, I walk the earth, as none 
 Would dare a child of Him ; with knowing 
 
 right 
 To love who showed Himself in ineffable 
 
 sheen ! 
 
 I felt the Spirit dawn upon me and, at once, 
 The mysteries were revealed. I needed naught 
 To ask of man. The Father of the man 
 Had flashed before me ... Once a bliss, un 
 known 
 To those who walk their path with naught but 
 
 staff- 
 
 Who know of body only once a bliss, 
 A joy supreme begot itself in me : 
 Not in my thinking but, effulgent, burst 
 Without my soul ; and laved the sentient parts 
 Of my frame then it was I felt that we 
 
88 The P o et 
 
 Were not the children of a man and woman 
 But were in friendship with a higher Light! 
 Each one stood bare before a vaster Throne! 
 And each should give account to One, who 
 
 thought 
 
 It wisest, when Him listed, to imbue a soul 
 With Spirit ! or impart to him a knowledge 
 That He alone could give! 
 
 And hast thou felt 
 Such bliss supreme ! when fifteen frettings 
 
 played 
 
 With thee ! when yet the sense of theosophy 
 Is as the leaf of some fruit-branch when yet 
 The learned brain naught originates, but thinks 
 In trains of thought like those that it was 
 
 taught. 
 Oh, but such is not known perchance such 
 
 bliss 
 
 Was thine but, like a secret, kept it locked 
 For none to dream of having been. 
 
 Those years 
 
 Have taught me the rich sciences the store 
 Of wisdom kept for aye in poet-works 
 Works given them by powers of the vast 
 
 Power ! 
 
 As foams the brook when rocks are lying loose 
 About the bed, so foamed my feeling gainst 
 
 the say 
 
T he P o e t 89 
 
 Of those that flung the soul to nothingness. 
 
 Spurned by invisible angels, at once, I thought : 
 
 To enlighten their deep darkness ; and suc 
 ceeded. 
 
 For, during that long conflict, I worked with 
 self 
 
 With study of myself with abstract dream, 
 
 With contemplation calm, and self-applied ! 
 
 At length my victorious pen pronounced me 
 
 man 
 
 Of soul and body! Thus by will mine own, 
 (If though it was His!) by a knowledge deep 
 Acquired by mine own dispatch and being 
 Of reverent mind about myself without 
 Man s teaching I battled gainst the blinded 
 
 brain : 
 And took the laurel, which an Angel wreathed! 
 
 In midst of hundred minds that warred for 
 
 fame, 
 To tell the truth I broke my glaive ; and 
 
 fought 
 Fought with their minds ! till in my mind the 
 
 war 
 
 Assumed an ant-hill, trodden by vulture s claw ! 
 Age crowned my young, weak brow and 
 
 sapiency 
 
 Swelled in my long untutored brain I was! 
 In youth I knew the minds of those who lived 
 
90 T he Poet 
 
 Their lives to think, collect their facts and 
 
 judge 
 
 From lists of testimonies aggrandized ! 
 Thus full equipped, I warred and won; for 
 
 all 
 
 They said in sneers, were to my trophies true 
 The tests of truth ; exultingly I cried ! 
 And when suspicions rose I traced them back 
 To earth s beginning, saw a Thought and 
 
 praised ! 
 Thus thought and praise and love (which 
 
 out of both 
 Breeds naturally) were the three stars that 
 
 shone 
 
 To light my life ! were the three duties for 
 A mind s life, the three glories, that a soul 
 Could show before the Heaven ! 
 
 And thou, my Brother ! 
 At thy tender stage of breath hast not known 
 
 such ! 
 Perchance thou didst yet timid at display. 
 
 And through those long-drawn seasons I had 
 
 grasped 
 
 The nation s faint conceptions of a God ! 
 Of wonder-men in all parts of the globe, 
 Till culminating in our Jesus sole 
 Great man, whom God endowed with His true 
 
 Light 
 
The Poet 91 
 
 By his life-fellows crowned the Christ ! He 
 
 was 
 
 The meek law-giver ; He was God s sweet way 
 To guide His flock, far-fleeing ; though a 
 
 Jew 
 
 Like Buddha, though an Indian, both were im 
 bued 
 With Wisdom such that God doth dower ! 
 
 How kind 
 
 Of God : in lowly minds He sheds His Law 
 And Prophesy ; and if in thunder-voice 
 He tells His creatures He is there -in sott, 
 Subdued, and tender prophesies He wards 
 His nations to desist from wrong ! Oh ! praise ! 
 Oh ! love that Godhead Father, Mind and 
 
 Spirit ! 
 
 For He did all : the carol of a morning-bird, 
 The meekness, surety of an endless Christ. 
 
 (Written in 1885.) 
 
 UNE QUESTION. 
 
 Des morts humaines laquelle est la plus belle: 
 De Tenfant tendre, cueillant les fleurs de mai ; 
 De la vierge, songeant a son fiance; 
 
 De Tage, qui marche dans le frimas dur? 
 Je pense, que comme le papillon si gai, 
 Qui meurt dans la splendeur de la journee, 
 
 L homme jeune, qui a un coeur si pur! 
 
92 The P oet 
 
 L age doit connaitre tqus les vents de glace ; 
 Les heures lugubres, quand au soir il neige, 
 Malheurs d une vie, comme les vents de 
 
 Norvege. 
 Mais Thomme qui ne connait du monde que 
 
 grace, 
 Et meurt quand Juin joyeux voit toutes ses 
 
 fleurs 
 
 N a pas de Tage toutes les tristes humeurs ! 
 
 (1892) 
 
 A FORSAKEN GRAVE-LOT. 
 (Greenwood Cemetery.) 
 
 This autumn-noon, when trees were red ; 
 
 And clouds of snowy hue 
 Neath skies of purest azure sped, 
 I walked thro grave-lots of the dead- 
 Till one lone stone my atte ntion drew. 
 
 No fence to guard it; but fair tombs 
 
 Around and far, and flowers ; 
 That stone stood cold with no sweet blooms 
 A mound forlorn, like haunted glooms ; 
 
 Bereft of love s memorial dowers. 
 
Poet 93 
 
 Two small, low bushes at the head 
 With not one bloom to cheer it ; 
 The mound grass-grown, and not a bed 
 Of flowers ; but fallen leaves instead. 
 While twigs and sticks were lying near it. 
 
 A tall, broad elm alone stood there. 
 
 How all forlorn the grave, 
 For thirty years or more no care 
 Shown, left to spring s and summer s air ; 
 
 The fall s and winter s blasts to brave ! 
 
 In eighteen fifty-six he died: 
 
 Babe Leslie, two years old. 
 To both his parents was denied 
 The joy to see him at the side 
 
 Grow up a man, robust and bold ! 
 
 Ah ! sure they loved him well those years, 
 When wedlock-hours were sweet. 
 
 Their first child ah ! his mother s tears ! 
 
 Yet with dire sickness grew wild fears : 
 They saw him prone at death s white feet ! 
 
 Two years of baby-croons ; and weeks 
 Filled with bright prospects rare. 
 
 Ah ! roses burst on Leslie s cheeks ; 
 
 Her wonder when she cried : he speaks. 
 Too soon death made her gladness bare. 
 
94 T h e P o ct 
 
 Ah ! are they dead too, since no sign 
 
 Of memory is on that mount ; 
 Or had dire poverty, like a vine, 
 Quick strangled love, so they entwine 
 
 Their hearts no more, by affection bound? 
 
 Why is that grave forlorn, who say ! 
 
 For forty-two long years 
 No mourner stood there in the day ; 
 No woman went there slow to pray ; 
 
 Or shed for one so young soft tears. 
 
 Forgotten and untended lies 
 
 That babe s mound and headstone; 
 Yet sheds the elm-trees melodies 
 And autumn, wrapt in glorious dyes, 
 Strows flower-hued leaves on it alone. 
 
 Thus some are stricken by harsh fate : 
 They wed ; know bliss ; see death ; 
 
 They mourn perchance grow poor, and wait 
 
 For riches; still are desolate; 
 
 Or check thro death life s rythmic breath. 
 
 Though no one comes to tend that grave 
 
 The birds sing in the shades 
 Of that one elm, whose branches wave 
 Soft elegies; the seasons lave 
 
 The mound, so that it never fades. 
 
 (1894) 
 
T he P o e t 95 
 
 TO WOLCOTT BALESTIER. 
 
 We sat once side by side 
 
 In those happy college days 
 When to our thoughts this life seemed wide ; 
 
 And we could reach our goal 
 By many, many ways 
 
 Of heart, and mind, and soul. 
 Ah ! me ! now thou art dead, 
 From thee life s laurels all have fled. 
 Thou since hadst won renown 
 Before death quivered down 
 Upon thee his so icy spear; 
 And we shed now full many a tear 
 
 For thee 
 Dear College-friend and friend in poesy ! 
 
 I see thy face so pale 
 
 With ambition s flush soft-rosed ; 
 As thou didst tell to us the tale 
 Whose humor made us smile. 
 
 Ah ! how thy head was posed, 
 So genius-like the while 
 Thine eyes lit with the light 
 Of contemplation deep and bright. 
 
 Thy lips flowing rare wit 
 
 As we did round thee sit. 
 
96 The Poet 
 
 Thy brow thy face all, all thy mien 
 Had glowing there the brilliant sheen 
 
 Of gifts 
 
 That hidden lay whose veil fair manhood 
 lifts ! 
 
 Ah ! then who thought that fame 
 
 On thy head its crown would lay 
 We all were students with no name 
 
 With hope ambitions proud, 
 That would be true one day, 
 
 And win the wond ring crowd. 
 I* yet remember thee, 
 As in a stage together we 
 With students drove, to hold 
 A solemn barbecue of old 
 Upon Cayuga s midnight shores, 
 (When we became proud Sophomores). 
 
 O night 
 
 Of strangest feasting with song s true de 
 light ! 
 
 Then, as within the room 
 
 We gathered thou didst ask 
 Me play some tune of gloom 
 
 Then Schumann s soul-strain shone ; 
 And therein thou didst bask 
 
 As in the sun thou dst done. 
 Thy pensive head thy dreamy eye 
 I loved then and it seemed that I 
 
The Poet 
 
 97 
 
 Could trace in thee what haunted long 
 My mind that since has flowed in song 
 Oh ! yea, I read aright for fame 
 Clings to the utterance of thy name. 
 
 O now 
 
 Fair laurels wreathe thy beauteous genius- 
 brow ! 
 
 A short life was thy doom 
 
 Ah ! too soon, too soon to die ! 
 Nipped in the flush of bloom 
 
 Ere all thy gifts could glow ; 
 Ere rarest panoply 
 
 Thy special powers could show ! 
 Yet in thy work powers beam, 
 Like sparkles in a rushing stream ! 
 Thy genius that I read in youth 
 Hath shown its splendrous strength, in sooth. 
 And now the world doth weep for thee 
 Why must cold death untimely be; 
 
 And take 
 From us rare minds that are to art awake ! 
 
 We sat once side by side 
 
 In our happy college-days, 
 And yet those hours abide, 
 
 As though twere last fair year. 
 Yet since, fate s many ways 
 
 Showed thee an early bier 
 While I must sing in dole 
 
98 T he P o et 
 
 Thy memory from out my soul. 
 For we had sung together then ; 
 In college-room in shady glen. 
 And now I m glad to know thy fame ; 
 That praise and love cling to thy name. 
 
 Forego 
 
 To ask of me more than what thrills me so ! 
 
 (1891 
 
 A TUNE. 
 
 Why kiss the dead? 
 Their soul is fled ; 
 And in its stead 
 Corrosion black 
 Is on the body s track ; 
 And Putrefaction green 
 Cries in between ; 
 Whilst change with yellow breath 
 Bites at the corpse and that is Death. 
 Why touch their clay? 
 From it the soul is away ; 
 Within the body stay 
 Dire unseen things 
 And transmutation clings 
 To every pore; 
 To heart s unfathomed core; 
 Whilst maggots do service good, 
 And death becomes another s food! 
 
T h e P o e t 99 
 
 Why kiss the dead ? 
 Their souls are fled, 
 And all their earthly dread, 
 That thro the body made 
 Them feel harsh pain invade ; 
 Disease its pangs despair 
 And troubles everywhere. 
 That dread is gone ; for change s breath 
 Decays the clay frees the soul, and that is 
 
 death! (1894) 
 
 * * * * # 
 
 The corpse embalmed, or soaked with chem 
 icals, 
 
 Man doth defy decay. 
 But when the principle that thralls 
 To life our clay 
 Will thrid away 
 No man hath power 
 At death s weird hour 
 O er life s rare principle to show his sway! 
 
 (Written at table.) Dec> 
 
 THE MINSTREL S RECOMPENSE. 
 
 There lived a wandering minstrel young 
 
 Who oft his woe in tunes had sung, 
 
 Who passed through many a favored town, 
 
 And seen life s river up and down. 
 
 In cities, where applause was given 
 
 To men that lectured preached of Heaven. 
 
ioo The Poet 
 
 He tarried ; there he wrote full sweetly 
 
 Rare songs that came to him so fleetly : 
 
 Like May-winds, opening June-kept roses ; 
 
 Like June-breaths, quickening woodland closes. 
 
 He thought that once acclaim would sound 
 
 From those who read his lays profound ; 
 
 And, in his day-dreams, often he 
 
 Would think himself applauded be, 
 
 And not like others, who do bow 
 
 Their thanks but he would raise his brow 
 
 Heavenward, and point that there 
 
 Some spirit sent to him the fair 
 
 And potent song he wrote so well 
 
 And had strange power the world to spell. 
 
 So dreamt he but never came the -hour 
 
 When he could feel the applause s shower 
 
 Fall exultingly upon his ears. 
 
 Through all his earthly sorrowing years, 
 
 Not once before an audience he 
 
 Spoke out his songs so tunefully 
 
 Yet lived he on alone and well 
 
 With Spirit-sounds adorable. 
 
 And he was satisfied that death 
 
 Came to him with his crystal breath 
 
 Entoning anthems of rare Heaven 
 
 That but to poets true are given. 
 
 So hidden are Heaven s peers of song 
 They never to the world belong; 
 But like some star in evening set 
 
The P o c r 
 
 They live alone, with no regret, 
 But all resigned, and knowing of 
 The Spirit s future glowing love; 
 That they need no applause or praise. 
 Their inspirations are their meed; 
 And their souls to the Creator raise 
 Song-thanks so one bright day will lead 
 Them to a new life s fairer ways ! 
 
 EDGAR G. BROOKS. 
 
 (Obit. 1888.) 
 I see the road that windeth up the mount 
 
 Beyond the azure lake, from this quiet hill. 
 That road we came ago from learning s fount : 
 
 Fair, far Cornell. Ah! fifteen years and 
 
 still 
 The memories my thought sweet entertain. 
 
 You were with me, rare Edgar, poet true ! 
 We both had loved the melancholy strain. 
 
 And let rare fancy our two souls imbue. 
 
 To-day, a rover o er world s roads untold, 
 I gaze upon the azure lake, far, far 
 
 And feel a sting that all those days of old 
 As ^ embers, once kept bright, untended are. 
 
 And in my soul there is a wail, that seems 
 
 To tell that life is but a show of dreams! 
 
*ib2 ff%e Poet 
 
 DESTRUCTION. 
 
 Destruction ! Twas ordained. Who was that 
 
 mind? 
 
 Who thus destruction vast contemplated? 
 And, with a deeper feeling fraught, to soothe- 
 As flowers blow, implicitly colored fair, 
 Perfumed, and grown by roselands, swales, 
 To beautify the barrenness ; or with 
 That soul of love, sex-born, to elevate 
 The inner joys, innate in those that feel 
 A breath of holiness, when in the converse pure 
 Tween man and maid? 
 
 Yet through that pulse 
 
 Of ichored veins, which sensates highest soul, 
 There faintly chafes a mingling muttering 
 As by some lonely Rhododendron-grove 
 Within the silentness the shadowy falls 
 Their hollow mysteries pronounce, a grief 
 That mutters : oh ! the untold certainty 
 Of Heaven, with the destruction dark, that 
 
 roars 
 
 Within us, as some storm o er cliffs, that cave 
 The prophet-eagles, far, by Tiflis hoar. 
 
 Destruction! And the fire of the sun 
 
 Doth parch the senses of the brain ; doth burn 
 
 The vigor of the creating soul inspired. 
 
The Poet 
 
 103 
 
 Yet through the ripening air, the highest work 
 Of God doth labor ; but in the mystic clay 
 Unknownly acts some higher element 
 Not doomed as body or as brain, but glowing 
 With essence not the man may master 
 Or unravel ; such doth suffer by the sun ! 
 The braccate bushes lush in savory gems ; 
 They grow ! There rounden .on the apple-trees 
 The blossomed flowers ; some crubesce ; they 
 
 thrive ; 
 Glow-bunches, pendant, bend the straightened 
 
 stems ; 
 The grain grows goldier, pinkest, and doth 
 
 fatten. 
 
 Fields glorious spread a lustre o er their neigh 
 bors, 
 More than egregious in their supporation s 
 
 sheen. 
 
 All plants thrive ; also beasts, incicurable, 
 As too tame laborers for agrestic- man. 
 But should th inventive brain of man suc 
 cumb ? 
 
 Joy, jocund sport, droop, as an Afric-flower 
 Upon the bourne of the Simoon ; the links 
 That chain past days of momentous feats do 
 
 fold 
 
 And, crisping, shrivel, as dried leaves in woods 
 That scatter beneath the tread of pard and gnu. 
 The incalescent veins, as geyser s spray 
 
104 T he P o et 
 
 Where the fleet elk o er torrid lands doth roam 
 Transvey their torpitude to temple, and stay 
 The vivacity of pulse, and brightest wit. 
 And frivolous charms incrust within that shell 
 Of covert walls, as though the Limat soft 
 By the Kamsin with terror should be mured, 
 Till Cyprus glow a desert red, and clouded 
 With tremendous -fire ! Oh ! so destruction dire 
 Its myriad-fanged fire-tongue doth fletch. 
 Toward soul its brands wild tosses, till they 
 flame ! 
 
 Fragment (1888) 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 We awake from out the wondrous womb 
 
 And smile at life so rosed. 
 And wonder at God s mighty plan. 
 
 Then we go to our destined grave : 
 The doors to T ature and to man 
 
 Forever closed! 
 
 LINES. 
 
 The canary-bird, he calleth me 
 
 The canary-bird calls peevishly 
 
 But now he singeth full and cleai 
 
 A whistling, sweet as from the far Azores 
 
 Where all the verrlant, scented shores 
 
The Poet 105 
 
 Ring purling; re-echoing far and near. 
 The metal carols from the golden throats 
 The liquid, triU ring of the laughing notes! 
 
 The golden breasted bird, so free, 
 
 Now sings so clear his madrigal 
 And, O, my soul takes wing to thee, 
 
 Fair land of eolden fruit-trees tall ! 
 Have I nepenthe quaffed ; 
 
 Or hemlock-goblet taken? 
 Or hath a wizard laughed, 
 
 His wand o er my head shaken? 
 
 Nepenthe I have taken 
 And with a dreamy look 
 Have stroked the mystic Book. 
 
 The pages fly around me ; round 
 
 About me lingers opiate-sound: 
 
 As tinklings from bells and dance-tuned 
 
 shawms 
 
 Linger pleasant round the garnered hawlms ; 
 While dimpled cheeks, and firy eyes, 
 Whirl gladsomely below cool skies : 
 All when the harvest-moon is white, 
 In silvery sickle-raiments dight. 
 
 {Fragment.) 
 
io6 The Poet 
 
 VISIONS. 
 
 I. 
 
 What vastness is behind the frontal bone ? 
 
 What visions loom ; what realities are there ! 
 
 With wind s swift pace, we fly to regions 
 
 fair 
 
 Or, like a lull, we dream of God alone ! 
 So came to me a thought wild, wild, as waves 
 
 In the mid-sea or as a meteor s fire : 
 
 All souls that cling to earth, to its same gyre, 
 They will, at death, be born again; nor saves 
 A jot of prayer to take them to the Heaven. 
 
 But those free souls, that think of God, and 
 are 
 
 Beyond the earth s dictations love the star 
 More than the gold, that is to Mammon 
 given 
 
 Those souls, so different from earthly men 
 
 At death, they need not go to earth again! 
 
 II. 
 
 Hath that no truth ? What use this suffering 
 We know ; our body s thraldom to the air ! 
 Our anguish all our love our strange de 
 spair ! 
 
The Poet 107 
 
 What boots all this, if we should no more sing 
 Our heart-songs in some fields, more flour 
 ishing 
 Than these, where asps do hide miasmas 
 
 rise. 
 There must be yet some planet, where the 
 
 skies 
 Shout loud : Perfection must bloom everything ! 
 
 Oh! for an earth that doth not change our 
 
 health 
 
 Where bodies thrive suavely in all climes 
 No colds, no aches no pests no poisonous 
 
 times ; 
 So all our thoughts may wreathe themselves 
 
 with wealth 
 Of soul-born dreaming; pure sweet homes 
 
 and heap 
 On all our doings blessings we can keep! 
 
 III. 
 
 There are such worlds ! astronomers have seen 
 Fair Mars it boasted of divinest fields 
 And woods, and life that clement earth-air 
 
 yields ! 
 Why should not more be there? At death, I 
 
 ween, 
 
 The Heaven-prescient souls shall to their hopes 
 Be borne, and have new shapes, more per 
 fect far 
 
io8 T he P o c t 
 
 Than ours ; and shall be nearer to that Star 
 For whom our searching soul so sternly 
 gropes ! 
 
 If evolution be in Nature souls evolve; 
 And, ripe, break ; rising to the fairer spheres, 
 Where more perfection is, and more of 
 
 cheers ! 
 
 And there our woes, and tears, and pain dis 
 solve. 
 For there no changing airs will soil the 
 
 day- 
 An ever balmy clime for Love s true Lay ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 For such I rave ; oh ! where God s wonders 
 
 fair 
 
 I long may muse on ; till I find His Law 
 And Love, so I be perfect with no flaw 
 On me to need reproval or another s care. 
 Triumphant, all my thoughts will sweet en 
 twine 
 With God s high thinking in the Future s 
 
 Dawn ! 
 
 Then Money will be rotted on Soul s Lawn 
 We all shall love, and lead a life divine ! 
 
 And such can be ! I feel it as I feel 
 
 Spring s breath in quick ning woods, and 
 budding plains 
 
The P c t t 109 
 
 Ignore thy pride thy greed for clinking 
 
 gains ! 
 
 Only when all thy soul will sweet appeal 
 To Praise, and Love, and Peace, wilt thou 
 
 become 
 Worthy to enter God s more perfect Home! 
 
 THINK OF THE ANGELS! 
 
 A simple story have I read to-night, 
 ^ While lost in gazing at the sky s perfection. 
 So obvious is it, yet twill give delight 
 
 To those abhorring woe or dark dejection : 
 Proud affluence seems to glitter only for us ; 
 
 As in the sun, we do forget our end 
 But, when in darkness, all the world ignore us, 
 
 Good Heaven s consolation is our friend ! 
 As when air s darkness covers land and sea 
 A million dazzling stars shine bright and free, 
 To whisper goldenly that God created 
 The right as well as hours sorrow-freighted ! 
 
 Read in the blue of- night : the stars are there. 
 
 And, in thy woe : think of the Angels fair! 
 
no T h c P o e t 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE TERMINATED. 
 
 Not that some vine of bane its tendrils wound 
 Around our friendship; nor that quarrels 
 
 doomed 
 
 A separation ; nor that jealousy had gloomed 
 The amicability that was profound. 
 Not that to distant countries he had gone, 
 Forgetful of loving hours by the woods ; 
 Nor that I so had loved thoughts solitudes. 
 Not that the cause that letters never shone 
 Upon the days when either longed for news 
 From either ; oh ! stranger reason was 
 
 alive. 
 
 I loved him yet ; but months and years had fled. 
 "He is inconstant," thought I ; "he did 
 
 choose 
 
 "To avoid my answers." But when blos 
 soms thrive 
 I knew the dreary cause: for he was dead! 
 
 YAMUN. 
 
 "Why lonely through those rose-groves walk 
 ing, where 
 
 The bulbul trebleth her lotus-scented song! 
 Alone by padme-lakes, where nautch girls 
 throng 
 
The Poet in 
 
 Not on a Siva-dedicated day ! 
 Why thither strolling in the heavy air, 
 
 Heavy with rich flower-fragrance, to yon 
 
 bay 
 
 Whom the pink Ibis dreadeth the lyre-bird 
 But visits when her mate s song s no more 
 heard!" 
 
 "Away from cymbal, and the soft dance, far 
 From temples reared on lonely vine-clung 
 
 sites ; 
 Lonely with my thoughts, and the song of star, 
 
 Th ineffable magic of mysterious nights ! 
 Alone I wander, yet in talk with One Who 
 
 saith : 
 I am thy friend, am Yamun ! I am Death ! " 
 
 (Lakewood-forest, N. /.) 
 
 ELEGIE. 
 
 There was a beauteous shell upon the strand 
 That shell lay there at morning-hour. 
 
 Then came the people from the town and land 
 And gazed admired it more than flower. 
 Then said they : at the night 
 
 We ll take it home to give to others like delight. 
 
ii2 The Poet 
 
 At night they came but since the glorious 
 
 noon 
 
 The tide had grasped the shell so fair 
 Twas gone ; then all the people left and 
 
 soon 
 The shell of beauty, past compare, 
 
 From all their thoughts had gone 
 Their memory of its rarest splendor now had 
 flown. 
 
 They knew soon other shells would lie upon 
 
 the strand 
 No print the shell left on the beach twas 
 
 lost. 
 
 So is it when a human being from the land 
 Hath gone to join the Manes-host 
 
 Soon he is far from earth 
 The world, forgetting him, thinks of another s 
 birth. 
 
 O thou who now dost know what after death 
 
 will be 
 
 Thou art forgotten by the world so soon. 
 O hadst thou only left a mighty memory 
 In work for all thy precedents as boon 
 
 Thou still wouldst be to this day 
 A power to all the coming host in human clay. 
 
 We live but by our works, our deeds, our 
 
 aims 
 When death comes, though we lie at rest, 
 
F h e P c e t 113 
 
 The future world, by conning what we did, still 
 
 claims 
 Us as their own and sees we did our best. 
 
 But when no work we left 
 Of memory, of life aft death, we are bereft ! 
 
 So men and women, youths and maids, be fond 
 To leave some work of greatness when you 
 
 die 
 
 So when you are in realms of heaven beyond 
 On earth ye have your immortality 
 
 For only works of glory 
 Insure a life aft 1 death in this world s story ! 
 
 (January I, 1900. 
 
 MILTON S ITALIAN SONNET. 
 
 (Translation.) 
 
 Thou pretty damsel, whose fair name revives 
 The grassy Rhenish vale ; its noble crests 
 Well he, who any worth discharging, rests 
 
 Far from thy gentle soul where passion lives. 
 
 O gently let him show it if he gives 
 
 Sweet proof of his attachment and his zests ; 
 And all these gifts, of his own truth the tests, 
 
 Will bloom love s flower, aft which thy virtue 
 strives. 
 
H4 The Poet 
 
 When thou, adream, dost speak, O blithely sing 
 So that thou mov st the obdurate mountain- 
 wood. 
 
 Look each within the eyes, and, murmuring, 
 Proclaim to all, who re worthy, thy love s 
 
 mood : 
 
 Thanks only to the worthy ; tis not told 
 That love s desire in the heart grows cold ! 
 
 DEATH AND LIFE. 
 
 October shed her glory on rare tree, o er hill. 
 And down the valleys through the dingle 
 
 fair 
 When through the labyrinthine paths, passed 
 
 bare 
 White tombs and sculptured sepulchres so 
 
 chill- 
 We strolled to find our friend s grave, flower- 
 
 orned 
 Of death we thought of separation s 
 
 gloom 
 
 When down a hill two faces all abloom 
 Came, thus the sad place was with smiles 
 adorned. 
 
 They stepped down lightly to where we, 
 
 mourning, stood 
 Then, as our eyes met oh ! the ripples red 
 
The Poet 115 
 
 Upon their cheeks we quite forgot the 
 
 dead. 
 
 So is death hidden by love s eternal brood 
 That, though we see tombstones around, love s 
 
 power 
 Sheds life and love in us as from spring s 
 
 Shower! (October, 1894.) 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 Activity is life and sloth is death. 
 
 Grim truth : for when we idly live the day 
 To cold-germs is our death-loved body prey ; 
 Our throat grows choked and we lose quick 
 ening breath ! 
 
 When stagnant lies our blood within our core 
 Death-germs, e er waiting in our organs 
 
 frail, 
 
 Grow sudden therefore must we evermore 
 Promote new heat to kill who life assail ! 
 Oh ! is this life but heat and death is cold ! 
 It is too true : within our system lie 
 Grim germs, that, when our body is not 
 
 warm, 
 
 Infest us and take of our organs hold 
 Then woe to us where is life s ceaseless 
 
 charm? 
 
 When age s stagnant blood grows thin we 
 die! 
 
 (December 31, 1898.) 
 
n6 The Poet 
 
 WHAT THE INNER EYE DOTH SEE. 
 
 "Speak not thy curse ! nor ope thy lips to flow 
 A random mock at Nature s majesty !" 
 Hast uttered it ! That undulous air will be 
 
 Recorded in caverns of the long ago ! 
 
 Now, now, the pendulous earth doth note the 
 
 blow, 
 
 And through the stellar space, so noiselessly, 
 It is propelled, till, gainst the planets free 
 
 It shakes their ponderous spheres soft to and 
 fro! 
 
 Beware what wild speech flameth from thy 
 
 mouth 
 
 Scarce flung, in madness, all the spheres re 
 sound 
 
 That utterance, years afar, in God s Pro 
 found ! 
 
 All whispers wend their wavy way, and Truth ! 
 
 Like surges, on the multitudinous shores 
 
 Of things, spill all they said, for Time s own 
 stores ! 
 
T h e P o e t 117 
 
 GOD S SUPREMACY. 
 
 I delight to see a storm 
 
 For therein God is manifest ! 
 
 No man may stay its sway, 
 
 And say the winds to blow away 
 
 But on, in its own swift behest, 
 The storm doth rage ! 
 
 I delight to watch a wave 
 
 Dash gainst a cliff of mystic form. 
 
 For in its power God is manifest ! 
 
 No man may tell the main to calm 
 Nor pour o er its wild pulse a balm 
 Its passion to assuage ! 
 
 I delight to trace the levin 
 
 When loud the winds howl in a cave ; 
 For, in its flash, the God is manifest- 
 Its swiftness men may never sway 
 For, on, in its own swift behest, 
 The levin flashes, 
 And crashes ! 
 
 I love to contemplate the marvels all 
 Of God ! In them a lasting vein 
 Of His Supremacy doth reign 
 That maketh man a wondering thrall 
 To them ! O God ! Who art so grand 
 Pray, on Thy scorners use a lenient Hand ! 
 
ti8 The Poet 
 
 WHEN WE ARE DEAD! 
 
 All hath been said! 
 Each new soul, ent ring in Life s Hall, 
 Propounds some questions ; and is thrall 
 To queries of same Nature ; same, as, when 
 
 The youth, in Noah s days, was curious 
 To know why shone the sun ; why gleamed the 
 
 glen 
 At eve ; why birds were building nests ; why 
 
 loss 
 Of friend fostered the pain in heart; why 
 
 glowing, eyes 
 
 Were harbingers of some advent, full-glow 
 ing: 
 With spangles round an amorous arm ; to sing 
 
 of skies, 
 
 Propitious of a day for love s bestowing; 
 Why flamed the fire ; why flowed the river ; 
 
 why 
 Were stars in heaven ; why moaned the wind 
 
 on high; 
 Why were the maidens delicate more than the 
 
 boys? 
 Why was there more of woe than of gay 
 
 pranks and joys; 
 
 Why seemed age odd, when youth and man 
 hood stronger were ; 
 
The Poet 119 
 
 Why had there grown on hills the plantain 
 
 and the fir! 
 Why breathed the fish; why had the world 
 
 been made; 
 Why was there coolness in the cave, and in 
 
 the forest-shade; 
 Why, why and why to countless things, all 
 
 found in Nature; 
 Why, why to many moods in man, in lower 
 
 creature ; 
 
 And so as each new soul asks why as long ago 
 And all is same on earth, then we shall know 
 More beauteous things, ivith heavenly wings, 
 When we are dead! 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 (In Memory of my late Brother Frederick.) 
 
 White clouds float in the azure sky; 
 
 This June-morn breathes a candent air; 
 
 Yet intermittent breezes fare 
 Thro this fair grove so coolingly. 
 
 Quick liquid songs, and chirps so gay, 
 Sound from the many birds around. 
 And, farther, comes to me the sound 
 
 Of farmer-boys and girls at play. 
 
120 The Poet 
 
 Ah ! well thou knowest where I be, 
 
 Dear brother! dead these four years gone. 
 Here dream I now, so all alone 
 
 Still, thou art in my memory! 
 
 For thou wert here, ten years ago. 
 
 When we would walk the wild, free wood. 
 
 And contemplate the solitude 
 And listen where the brook-waves flow. 
 
 Here, at the early morn, in June, 
 We rode adown the valley green ; 
 Our ponies young would oft careen; 
 
 We heard the embowered thrushes tune ! 
 
 Here, we would dream of fame to be ; 
 
 Of love-ties that were never tied. 
 
 For fate had to thy life denied 
 The bliss of love s felicity. 
 
 And here, this morn, with no one near 
 Thou in my thought, I dream away; 
 Thinking of all thy woe, that day 
 
 When death surprised thee that doleful year 
 
 Oh! can I smile, as roses smile 
 
 When the awakening morn blooms full ! 
 Oh ! can I here my memories lull 
 
 As lilies near the pasture-stile? 
 
T h e P o e t 121 
 
 Nay, nay ! we are not like the flowers 
 Nor like the gale ; nor like the birds ; 
 Nor like the bees; nor like the herds; 
 
 Nor like the air in May-born showers. 
 
 We have a demon that assails us : 
 
 Deep Thought that cowers at our side. 
 And snaps at us, when we abide 
 
 By Memory past, that aye bewails us. 
 
 Bewails us; for we think and dream, 
 
 In vain to solve the mysteries; 
 
 In vain to call the destinies : 
 Those friends that like mock-demons seem. 
 
 Long have I thought, since thou hast died ; 
 
 Long thoughts passed thro my dreary mind. 
 
 Yet never could I surcease find; 
 Though to desist I long have tried. 
 
 Oh ! Life ! thou torturer to souls 
 That feel in them the larger world. 
 Thou life, that hast thy veil tight-furled 
 
 Hiding the light of all our goals. 
 
 Oh ! death ! art thou the wrencher wild 
 Of that grey veil, that hides her face ? 
 And thou, who hast now seen Heaven s 
 grace, 
 
 Art thou by truth and light beguiled? 
 
122 The Poet 
 
 It must be so for I am calm 
 
 When death seems but the portal fair 
 That leads us to a larger air: 
 
 A world of peace, and love and balm! 
 
 Then will I loud proclaim to all 
 That death unveils life s mystery. 
 In voice as fair as when the wild wind free 
 
 Inbreathes with song the wood-trees tall. 
 
 Then will I be a herald here, 
 
 While living lonely, shorn of love, 
 With songs, as sound within the grove 
 
 When dawn inspires the thrush to cheer ! 
 
 Thou brother ! dost thou listen now ? 
 
 Within this wood we twain had been ; 
 
 And loved to walk thro wood-aisles green 
 And stand exultant by the brook-oak s bough. 
 
 O trust is fair ; and hope is strong. 
 
 I shall await my change in peace ! 
 
 For then my doubt and woe shall cease ; 
 And till I die will sound my song. 
 
 Delaware Water Gap (1899) 
 
The Poet 123 
 
 AT DEATH. 
 
 When to the sepulchre my remains they take 
 Not one will know who died. For through 
 
 my life, 
 
 That was a waging with incessant strife, 
 No one was to my greatness e er awake. 
 They slept, and slept ! Ah ! me ! so was it too 
 With all those solitary men of old : 
 Poets, song-wrights, in Art s wide fairy- 
 fold ; 
 
 Their graves were wreathed and known save 
 by a few. 
 
 So it is fate that makes the poet great 
 
 Unknown to his own kind while here on 
 
 earth. 
 See Shelley, Keats, and all those souls whose 
 
 fate 
 
 It was to die alone in woe or dearth. 
 So when my bones lie mould ring in my grave 
 The few might know what to fair Art I gave ! 
 
124 
 
 LITTLE BY LITTLE. 
 
 Little by little do we come to conclusions ; 
 Little by little do we flee life s delusions ; 
 Little by little do we learn thought s abstru- 
 
 sions ; 
 Little by little do we lose youth s illusions. 
 
 Little by little do those, living, advance ; 
 Little by little do we gain fame s height ; 
 
 Till we till we awake from a Trance ! 
 And our Self sees the Heavenly Light. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Methought that all we see was true and fair ; 
 That all our thoughts bloomed from the 
 
 brain and blood ; 
 
 That all our actions in life s brawling flood 
 Had their right source from what changed 
 
 often there 
 
 Within the body, grown for weal and strife. 
 Ay ! I had mused full oft that all we see, 
 We touch, feel, smell, and hear so won- 
 
 drously, 
 
 Was the great means that made our earthly 
 life. 
 
The Poet 125 
 
 When, as I died, in blissful calm of mood 
 My rising spirit knew that all life gave 
 Of moment, had to perish in the grave. 
 Yet all that made me conscious of myself 
 That told me right and freed me from low 
 
 pelf 
 Was my own self to rise to Heavenhood ! 
 
 BABY LOUISE. 
 
 AN 
 
 What hath existence is a prey 
 
 To fell destruction s ruthless laws! 
 
 God breathed His Light within thy clay, 
 Yet Death fast stretched his griffon-claws 
 
 And choked thee, tender child, scarce five vears 
 old! 
 
 What hopes we shared to see thee bloom 
 To womanhood in summer s glow 
 
 But now thou sharest another doom, 
 To be released from life s long woe 
 
 And sing and gladden in Heaven s glorious 
 fold! 
 
 What grows in Beauty by the stream : 
 
 The gummy roses of the wood 
 Must fall aground and be a dream _ 
 
 Nor can it e er be understood 
 Why Beauty must become a mouldered clay ! 
 
126 T h e P o e t 
 
 The gorgeous lyre-bird doth fly 
 In midst of redolent southern trees 
 
 But soon it flutters down to die 
 Within the lonely fastenesses. 
 
 What lived in beauty dies within a day ! 
 
 And we, with light divine in us, 
 
 Though we have God to help and aid 
 
 Are thralls to death so treacherous 
 We lie beneath the cypress-shade; 
 
 And soon grow all forgotten of the world ! 
 
 O where is Christ to crush harsh death ? 
 
 O where is God to keep us well? 
 And ere we speak we lose our breath 
 
 And ere we know comes death so fell 
 And we and all are in oblivion hurled ! 
 
 O babe Louise scarce taught to say 
 A few soft words we love to hear 
 
 Scarce smiling with us through the day, 
 Not strong enough to brave wild fear 
 
 Comes death to take thee from our love 
 away ! 
 
 O babe Louise, untaught ; unsaught 
 
 By comrade or by bonnie beau ; 
 Not having felt the Spirit, fraught 
 
 With God s high Wisdom and its glow 
 Comes death to take from thee thy wedding- 
 day ! 
 
The Poet 127 
 
 Thou rosy child where art thou now ? 
 
 Too young to feel high reason reign 
 Could st thou have gone to Heaven s glow? 
 
 Or wilt thou come to earth again 
 Since thou hast not yet learned life s lesson 
 stern ? 
 
 And if thou must, I pray for thee 
 Less pain so thou can st grow a rose 
 
 Crowned by a lover s constancy 
 
 Unharmed by life s sad tears and woes 
 
 So aye thy thoughts to mirth and Heaven 
 turn! 
 
 What smiles and blushes hotly here 
 
 Must on some day be icy cold 
 God dyed the clouds with colors clear 
 
 Death wrought the body s fetid mould 
 And beauty fades and smiles must turn to 
 tears ! 
 
 What hopes we share to see thee bloom 
 To womanhood, my young Louise 
 
 But God foresaw another doom : 
 To spare thee much of life s unease 
 
 He took thee to Him in thy tender years! 
 
 New York City (Feb. 18, i 
 
128 The Poet 
 
 POETRY-READING. 
 
 So, now I know they comprehend not 
 
 The beauty-similies of poets 
 For as one read some liquid verses 
 
 Rich in the glow of dreamland 
 His thoughts were not sweet mated, 
 
 But trod upon brain s brown-herbed turf- 
 land; 
 He saw not the opalescent beauty 
 
 Shine heave upon the sweet word s weav 
 ing; 
 
 So, therefore would you comprehend us, 
 
 Be like the fair wine-tester, 
 Who sips the claret or the nectar 
 
 Then brings its flavor to his thinking 
 Then judges ! so then, read while dreaming 
 
 Observe the golden thoughts inwoven. 
 In quietude, link word to sentence 
 
 Till similes, and thoughts be throbbing! 
 And to it bind imagination 
 
 Then will you ever comprehend us ! 
 
 California (1889) 
 
The Poet 129 
 
 AFTER DEATH IS GLOW. 
 
 O there s a glow soon after our death 
 There s a world far brighter than ours. 
 
 For glows not at eve the silvery breath 
 Fresher far than at noon-tide hours! 
 
 O there s a splendor soon after our death 
 There s a rapture far lovelier than ours 
 
 O glance at the silvery flood of the breath, 
 The dead sun on the skies o er-showers ! 
 
 O there s a joy soon after our death, 
 More sublime than all earthly dowers 
 
 O look at the glist ning, roseate wreath 
 On the even skies how it towers ! 
 
 O there s a world soon after our death 
 A fair world that s ruled by kind powers. 
 
 O list to the sway of Nature s sweet breath, 
 When balm-Eve her eyelid soft lowers ! 
 
 Ithaca, N. Y. (1884) 
 
130 The Poet 
 
 EVENING-LINES. 
 
 O list to the lyre of the firs, 
 
 When in the even-breeze it stirs. 
 
 How its melody glideth on ! 
 
 As though o er a mossy carpet soft, 
 Its harmony flows streamwise way aloft. 
 
 As if all harshness hard had gone ! 
 
 O list to the sway of the firs, 
 
 When the besom of the breeze now stirs ! 
 
 How plaintive like a wave at sea ! 
 It rustles not, but, smooth as the wind, 
 It glides along the resounding rind 
 
 With a gloom of its own wild agony ! 
 
 O list to the strain of the firs, 
 When the wind in the even-air stirs ! 
 Like the sigh of a soul that is lost! 
 Now gentle breathings, uttered soft 
 
 and low : 
 
 A faint far lustre of its long ago 
 Then are its strings in the wild wind 
 tossed ! 
 
 Adirondacks (1883) 
 
The Poet 131 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 And if these groves were thronged amain 
 
 With vilest vipers, emerald scaled, 
 And if there streamed a smiting rain 
 
 Adown the heavens, vapor-veiled 
 Great God ! my knowledge of Thy Might, 
 
 And of Thy Goodness, unassailed, 
 Would strengthen me, mine arm to fight 
 
 And walk these groves, yea, unbewailed ! 
 
 And if my path were densely strewn 
 
 With thorny twigs, to bleed my feet 
 And if loud Laughter paled me soon 
 
 And soon base Calumny would bleat 
 Good God ! my Knowledge of Thy love, 
 
 And Thy compassion, . Paraclete ! 
 Would soft my heart ; and I would rove 
 
 O, free of fear my heart would beat ! 
 
 And if this World were woven with woof 
 
 And warp, so sharp as hellebards 
 And if this World were all from me aloof 
 
 And I stood sad, as death-doomed guards- 
 Thy Consolation would I cherish. 
 
 To Thee, with fervor would I pray: 
 And if, in my delight, I perish, 
 
 I know Thou It love me now and aye! 
 
 (1884) 
 
IN LIGHTER VEIN 
 
The Poet 133 
 
 A COUNTRY CHILD. 
 
 My road took me adown a slope 
 To a willow-watched stream ; 
 
 And there I met a country-child, 
 In its eye a wistful beam. 
 
 Its gown was one short flitting dream 
 Of its tender frame and limbs ; 
 
 It wooed each swell and lovely shape 
 When the breeze "blew twenty whims. 
 
 It was a six-year-child a girl 
 That was bred by hill, and weir, 
 
 A simple lass with short-grown curls, 
 That would shine the sun-specked mere 
 
 A child, and innocent and fair 
 
 Like the flower that cheered the slope. 
 
 And wayward, when it ran the wilds, 
 Like a young, sweet antelope. 
 
 When first it beamed upon my sight 
 It had crossed the swaying plank. 
 
 Then ran it through a garden-gate, 
 Where a hut stood by the bank. 
 
134 The Poet 
 
 It dwelled, where I would not to live : 
 
 In a hut, with cracks and holes. 
 But there it played with wickers and mud ; 
 
 And it tried to lift long poles. 
 
 Around the hut lay strew about 
 
 Old logs, corfs, and leaves, and crocks ; 
 
 Pans, kettles, and, among them all, 
 
 Strutted hens and scarlet-wattled cocks. 
 
 And, neath the slim bloomed apple-trees, 
 Lay some newly-wickered creels 
 
 And near the pebbly creek, there lay 
 Few brown nets, and fish-feared weels. 
 
 In the curled stream a manly wright 
 Washed the muddy wheels and wains 
 
 And brushed the weazen wood-meil well ; 
 And he thought o the morrow s gains ! 
 
 And there that child hopped, and it bound 
 
 Like a lambkin in the fields ! 
 It laughed, like birdling, in the blossomy 
 boughs, 
 
 That would know what summer yields. 
 
 Now flew that simple, six-year-child 
 Past the golden-sprinkled willows 
 
 With dreamy withes touching the stream, 
 That had foamed its fairy billows ! 
 
The Poet 135 
 
 I lost it when the tender blue-green shade 
 
 Of the oziers wept a haze 
 Then sauntered it, with shout, upon the sedge, 
 
 Where the kine at even graze. 
 
 I saw it climb to the red barn ; 
 
 And it passed the blake-beamed booze 
 The dove-cot, with its whirring air ; 
 
 O er the byre s rushing sluice. 
 
 Then passed the button-wood, that greened 
 Its small leaves, and whitened its blea 
 
 Till soon it reached the open barn, 
 Where there played gay children three. 
 
 And see them chase the chanticleer 
 And the hens and wattling geese. 
 
 What shouts they raise what clamor breaks 
 The calm breathing of the trees ! 
 
 O see its loose-hung robe ! its limbs 
 Like the apple-blooms were rosed 
 
 At each grace-step, its fluttering gown 
 On its tender form reposed! 
 
 They threw small stones, they shrieked and 
 cried 
 
 And it bent its knees so fast ! 
 So that I thought it seemed a boy 
 
 But no one cried loud : "Avast !" 
 
136 The Poet 
 
 It climbed the barn-yard fence, and seemed 
 
 Like a wayward boy, so strong. 
 It clasped the boards with both its knees 
 
 And it cried its child-like song! 
 
 But when it ran athwart the road 
 With its curls and gown awhirl 
 
 Its naked limbs had all the grace 
 Of a timid, tender girl ! 
 
 Back of the hamlet s ivied hammel, 
 That small child ran low and high 
 
 O er bawned meads past haw-haws old 
 Like a colored butterfly! 
 
 Till all the languid willow-trees 
 Hid the wandering child from me. 
 
 And where I walk, o er fields, down slopes 
 In my mind, its gown I see. 
 
 What simple thoughts that bairn must bear 
 By the stream, and near the brake ! 
 
 Its unconcern pleases the mind 
 And youth s days in me awake ! 
 
 Oh ! simple, six-year-child, so gay ! 
 
 Be there long, by mere and weir; 
 By kine, and bluff, and mead, and woods 
 
 So thro life thou shed no tear ! 
 
 Ithaca, N. Y. (1884) 
 
The Poet 137 
 
 SONG TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 May thy waters be led 
 By the storms that are fed 
 
 By great Cyclone all day 
 When the strand begs for peace, 
 All thy white waves must cease 
 
 And must lose their great sway 
 Alway ! 
 
 When the foam of thy waves 
 So capriciously paves 
 
 Thy wide stretch with spume-caps 
 When the gale cometh forth 
 From the halls of the North 
 
 At the shore thy rage laps 
 And taps. 
 
 Nor may Fury avail 
 
 To drive on the loud gale 
 
 So it sweep the high sea 
 On the land, or the rocks 
 There it loseth all shocks, 
 
 And stops sudden its glee 
 So free! 
 
1 38 T h c P o e t 
 
 May thy power in mid-main 
 Wreck the vessels again 
 
 And again on the shore, 
 Though thy might pushes on 
 Thy great waves with loud groan, 
 
 Thou hast power no more 
 Nor store 
 
 Of gigantic strength left 
 Thou rt then power-bereft ! 
 
 And the sand feels thy spume 
 Like the touch of babe-hands 
 And the strength of the lands 
 Is thy death, and thy gloom 
 And doom ! 
 
 Cape May (1893) 
 
 STRANGE. 
 
 Methought to see the daisy s grace 
 Bloom to a modest human face ! 
 It looked so meaningful at me, 
 I thought it could no flower be ; 
 But some divine portraiture, made 
 To enliven this cool chestnut-shade. 
 
 I must be in some magic wold ; 
 And not near to the shepherd s fold 
 A wold, where all that blooms so fair 
 
The Poet 139 
 
 Is gifted with man s senses rare ! . . . . 
 O to that daisy did I tell 
 Mysterious stories, quaint as spell. 
 
 Still gazing at its golden face, 
 Encircled by its petals grace, 
 Methought it nodded, sweetly smiled, 
 While bird-songs all the day beguiled. 
 And, as it played with the low wind, 
 Methought it one with human kind. 
 
 HEARING. 
 
 How wonderful is hearing ! tis so strange 
 That through our ear all sounds of Nature 
 
 range ! 
 
 From the loud bell that tolls for eventide 
 To that sooth murmur where the gold-bees 
 
 hide! 
 
 At once, the distant clare from chanticleer 
 Doth come with laughter from those children 
 
 near. 
 And how the footfalls are distinct from 
 
 voices 
 From creaking carts, and blacksmith s clanking 
 
 noises. 
 
 And when I sit alone by dancing flowers 
 The brushing breeze is heard and feather- 
 showers 
 
I 4 o The P o ct 
 
 Fall on the lawn so still the breeze falls low 
 Upon the mounds where dandelions blow ! 
 The flute s soft mourning down the dale is 
 
 heard, 
 While, near, sounds sweetly joy from May s 
 
 fair bird ; 
 
 While on the early fox-glove rasps the bee 
 And the brown leaf doth rustle plaintively. 
 How sounds the cascade down the distant dell ! 
 While by yon hoary oak the lambkin s bell 
 Doth tinkle softly and, near to our nook, 
 We hear the souze of fishes in the brook ! 
 
 How wonderful is man s own ear that he 
 May hear all sounds that in rare Nature be ! 
 Clear, and unmuffled each distinct and fair- 
 Each sound hath individual dwelling there ! 
 Creator of the million spheres, that roll 
 Around our globe Thou hast in Thy control 
 The wondrous means to make a human soul 
 And to it such a body wonderful 
 Wherein mysterious things work beautiful ! 
 Who may be fool enough to doubt Thy might 
 When from an atom Thou hadst made soul s 
 
 light 
 
 And from all sounds hadst made a vortex small 
 In shape of human ear our mind to enthrall- 
 In which we may distinguish faint low tunes, 
 And hear the thunder, or winds of many Junes. 
 In which we gather love-words, whispered low, 
 
The Poet 141 
 
 And hear the shouts when men to battle go ! 
 
 O ear, thou art so wonderful to me, 
 
 (For I have known what tis half deaf to be) 
 
 Tis thee to celebrate these lines I flow 
 
 As fluently as stream where lilies blow. 
 
 How wonderful is hearing tis so strange 
 That through our ear all sounds of Nature 
 
 range ! 
 
 The laughter from those cherry-lips I hear 
 Distinct from the rose-petal, falling near. 
 And, through yon breezy grove, bellows of kine 
 Come dreamy while my sweet one sings di 
 vine 
 
 Fair tunes ; and, at my feet, the cricket s chirr 
 Sounds like a distant note from dulcimer ! 
 How wonderful it is that we may know 
 Whether the wind doth soft or stormy blow. 
 And how the ripples lave the rushes or the 
 
 wave 
 
 Doth dash in fury gainst the seashore-cave. 
 How marvellous that we may hear Love s low 
 Sweet whisper and the bugles when war s 
 
 aglow ! 
 
 But ah ! how wretched are those lonely minds 
 When to their ears no sound a passage finds. 
 How miserable that some ignore the breeze 
 And chirr of insects in the summer-trees. 
 To them is lost a charm shy lovers know 
 
1 42 T he P o e t 
 
 When to their ears her "y ea - s rig" moves so 
 
 slow. 
 
 Oh ! happy they who have all senses left 
 And are not of sweet hearing s charm bereft 
 For wonderful is hearing tis so strange 
 That through our ears all sounds of Nature 
 
 range ! Biskra, Africa ( 1893) 
 
 ODE TO ROBERT SCHUMANN. 
 
 (HIS SONATAS.) 
 
 Thou Milton, who with tones, and sounds har 
 monious 
 Marshalls grand soul-conceptions so they 
 
 stand 
 
 All perfect and eusphonious ; 
 When we thy Titan-souled Sonatas play ! 
 Attila with his hordes with spear s wild 
 
 clashing 
 Then feast processions o er the conquered 
 
 land; 
 
 Then by the sea-waves swashing 
 So sound those bars with all their Titan-sway ! 
 
 All those Sonatas show grand dreaming : 
 Like prophet-visions on Mount Arrarat. 
 
 The clash and clang and screaming 
 Of festals, honoring strong Solomon! 
 
 Grand marches, full reverberant of valor, 
 
The Poet 143 
 
 That crowned the valiant Knights at Astolat ; 
 
 Then singing of maid s palor 
 When at the tournament her hero falls alone ! 
 
 Now cloister-singing flows through strains ro 
 mantic 
 
 Hoar oaks their branches bend by chapel- 
 doors 
 
 While organ-chordes gigantic 
 Sound as the virgins pray their solemn 
 
 prayer ! 
 
 Then woo soft melodies sweet scenes of lov 
 ing 
 While languid June-breaths move down 
 
 mount-lake shores 
 Where she and he are roving 
 Sweet whispering stories with love-endings 
 fair! 
 
 All sound so glorious, joyous full, sonorous. 
 No dream of petty troubles moved through 
 
 thy great soul 
 
 Thou heardest the fair chorus 
 That glories in the vastness of another world! 
 So when I play thy soul-sonatas wondrous, 
 I hear the joy see the splendor of our 
 
 goal 
 
 When Death from life will sunder us 
 So we ourselves can see Heaven s realm un 
 furled ! 
 
 (1895) 
 
144 The Poet 
 
 SONG. 
 
 O, there are fairer hills, that weave 
 
 For us magnetic charms 
 And, as the rainbow, at the eve, 
 
 Clings to huge clouds of storms 
 So will the beauty in our wandering heart, 
 Be ever iridescent, will ne er depart. 
 
 Afar the vales have fairer dells, 
 Where we may dream at will ; 
 As when the dingle-brooklet swells 
 
 Into the vale, so still- 
 Yet there a poet sings his lay and lo ! 
 His singing makes the stream more brightly 
 flow! 
 
 O, there are fairer hills afar ; 
 What here we miss is there ! 
 As souls dream to a distant star, 
 
 Respiring purer air. 
 
 So may we leave the fond, familiar cove 
 For other woods are pregnant with dearer 
 love ! 
 
 Belgium (1887) 
 
The Poet 145 
 
 SONG. 
 
 There is a dell, which not a one may see 
 
 A dell with wild wood-flowers richly pied - 
 With hum of honey-bees ; and music s glee 
 
 A dell which none hath ever yet espied : 
 For, tis away, away in the depth of my soul- 
 Far from earth s sunrise far from the eve 
 ning s low toll ! 
 
 A dell, so lone, where purest fragrance 
 
 dwells 
 
 Where gutty flowers cling to passing winds, 
 Where warbles the gold-thrush liquid canti 
 cles 
 
 But never wanderer that lone dell finds 
 For, tis away O, far in my dreaming it is 
 There, solitary, live sweetest love and pure 
 bliss ! 
 
 O, there I dream with sweetest moods, mine 
 own ! 
 
 With mood, far dearer than a languid maid s, 
 When pining, lorn with memories alone 
 
 A mood, O, no one knows -for e er it fades : 
 
146 T h e P o e t 
 
 Since, like my soul, ethereally blooms it and 
 
 lives 
 And but to me such extasies plenteously gives. 
 
 There is a dell, which not a one may see 
 A dell, where lilies whisper lovely lore ; 
 And where the breeze is swaying purity. 
 
 A dell, which lieth hidden evermore : 
 For, tis away, away in the depth of my soul! 
 There it is nestled till life s seething waves no 
 more roll! 
 
 Paris (1887) 
 
 A FANCY. 
 
 Trip, little fairies ! O, trip to the tune 
 
 Titania s minstrels pipe! 
 While they are cradled on beams of the moon, 
 
 Their flute-shafts with webs they wipe ! 
 
 Garland the pale air with safTron-hued stole, 
 With wreathed curls floating wild ! 
 
 Sing to the pipers and court the dark mole, 
 That digs, till a mound is piled. 
 
 Trip, wanton fairies! in loveliness trip! 
 While glimmers the glow-worm weird! 
 
The Poet 147 
 
 Turret the musk-rose passed the silver-lake, 
 
 slip 
 To violets midnight-teared. 
 
 There you may weave a dim-sparkling wild 
 
 dance ; 
 
 Ring shrilly your ouphen-chant ! 
 Wake the dank newt from his revelry s 
 
 trance 
 Conjure the dark night-shade plant ! 
 
 Hover then o er the uncanny, deep pool, 
 Till Limniads spatter sweet ! 
 
 Fear no loud clangors that sound baft a 
 
 ghoul- 
 Be merry your winged beat ! 
 
 List to the lull from the fells in the wood 
 
 Avaunt ! List ! Titania calls ! 
 Back to the moon-lighted grove, where the 
 flood 
 
 O er blue-broidered rock-steps falls ! 
 
 Trio, little elfins ! O, trip to the time 
 Your Queen s merry-making swings ! 
 
 Rest on pale twigs where the clusters of lime 
 Waft orient imaginings ! 
 
 (1886) 
 
148 The Poet 
 
 SONG. 
 
 With a tuneful low number 
 Softly lull me to slumber 
 
 Mylitta, my love ! 
 Lie on mosses and flowers 
 While the sunny noon-hours 
 
 Linger through this lone grove ! 
 
 Keep fond vigil for me 
 While I sleep neath this tree, 
 
 Mylitta, so true; 
 Soft the breezes will fan thee 
 And the flowers will scan thee 
 
 While the heavens are blue ! 
 
 Wilt thou sing me to sleep 
 And dear watch o er me keep, 
 
 Mylitta, my love ! 
 Ah ! then I can soft slumber 
 While thy tuneful low number 
 
 Lingers through this lone grove ! 
 
 MASTERY. 
 
 The Parian block stands all before his hand 
 With chisel, Michael Angelo began 
 To hew out marble till a perfect man 
 
 Of beauty stood revealed : in all earth s lands 
 
The Poet 149 
 
 Acknowledged true the sculptor s paragon ! 
 So must the poet great flow from his pen 
 A stream of perfect words (to knowing men 
 
 Faultless) with ease and no correction! 
 
 Thus hath sweet Chatterton his deathless song 
 Written and Fletcher his delicious strains ; 
 Shakespeare his wondrous dramas, without 
 
 pains. 
 For only when true inspiration throngs 
 
 The artist s soul can he with clear-wrought 
 
 script 
 
 Write down what from a Spirit s whispers 
 slippt. 
 
 (1895) 
 
 BEIM WASSERFALL. 
 
 Stiirze, stiirze dich, O schaumender Bach 
 Hinab im tiefen Abgrunde ! 
 
 Giesse iibergiesse mein Mannes Ach, 
 Labe meine tiefe Knabwunde ! 
 
 Ertone, holder Bach, O deine Weise ; 
 Dort oben, im Bette frohem Geleise ! 
 Erdonnere von Fels zu Fels den Schmerz 
 Der taglich triibt mein einsam Herz ! 
 
150 T h e P o e t 
 
 Stiirze, stiirze dich," O vielerzahlender Bach! 
 
 Im steinigen and bemoosten Abgrunde, 
 Mit Heftgkeit hinab so wird das "Ach !" 
 Des Marines wohl iind kiihl die Knab- 
 wunde ! 
 
 (1885) 
 
 GRUSS AN DEN WASSERFALL! 
 
 O sei gegriisset 
 
 Du weisser wasserfall ! 
 Wo die Blume einsam spriesset ; 
 
 Und dein ferner Donnerschall 
 Ertonet durch Wald und Thai. 
 Und dein dumpfer Wiederhall 
 Tief in der tiefen Hohlung Spaltung hohl, 
 
 Erf asset me in Gramen allzumal 
 Erloset uns vom Denken an das Menschen- 
 wohl ! 
 
 O sei gegriisset 
 
 Du gelb-schaumender Wasserfall ! 
 O sei du mir gekiisset ! 
 
 Und dein traumender Donnerschall 
 Sei mir zur Seligung ein Lied. 
 
 Und dein trauriger Wiederhall 
 Umsausend wild, Gebiisch und Waldesstille 
 
 Durchstrome meinen Geist, jed Leibes 
 
 Glied, 
 So dass ich Gottes Amt erfulle ! 
 
 Watkins Glen, A. Y, (1885) 
 
The Poet 151 
 
 FRUHLING. 
 
 Seid nun heiter, liebe Kinder ! 
 
 Die Sonne scheint nun warmer, 
 
 Von Tag zu Tag. 
 Die Liifte wehen linder, linder 
 
 Nur in dem Baumenschlag 
 Tont das Singen lust ger Vogelschwarmer ! 
 
 Fern ist nun der Schnee ; die Wiesen 
 
 Ergriinen; in dem Walde, 
 
 Durch das Thai, 
 Springt die Quelle Blumen spriessen 
 
 Der Bach singt allzumal ; 
 Und Blatter werden schatten geben balde ! 
 
 Doch viel freud ger, seeliger stisser, 
 Als all das landlich Schone 
 
 In der Natur 
 Wird Schatzchen, wenn ein junger Kiisser 
 
 Singt ihr nen treuen Schwur 
 Das ist ihr meher als all die Friihlingstone ! 
 
 (March, 1900) 
 
152 The Poet 
 
 WALDESSTILLE. 
 
 Es 1st die Stille 
 
 Des einsamen, diistern Waldes ! 
 Die grauen Wolken fegen 
 Den Sonnebeschienenen Himmel. 
 Und dunkeln das Laub und die Krauter, 
 
 Die Schatten und bunte Verzierung 
 
 Dem tief-rieselnden Bache geben. 
 Nur horchet die Tanne dem Winde ; 
 Nur lauschet die Eiche dem Brausen 
 
 Des lauwehenden Windes ! 
 Nur senket sich die Esche dem Toben 
 
 Des traurigen, eintonigen Wehens. 
 Nur Waldesblumen neigen die Bliithen 
 
 Und Stangel dem frischen Zuge 
 Des Schauer-erregenden Aethers ! 
 
 Es ist die Stille 
 
 Des Waldes! 
 Die Giphel der Baume 
 
 Beugen sich, und rauscheln. 
 Die Cicada tonet 
 Seine Trommel so helle. 
 Und wehet immer 
 Der Wind eintonig, 
 Nach seiner Veise. 
 
The Poet 153 
 
 So traurig, so duster so dunkel ! 
 
 Keine Seele mir nah. 
 Nur alte Erinnerungen 
 Die die Schauerlichkeit des Waldes 
 Noch schauerlicher mahrchen ! 
 Er formet jeder Zweig sich 
 Zu hohnende Gestalten. 
 Und jede Dunkelheit bewohnet 
 Die Schurkschaft eines Daemonen. 
 
 Die Stille dranget 
 Die Muth in die Enge. 
 Es wuthet der Wind da droben, 
 
 Und schiittelt jed Gewachs, 
 Und mir die tiefen Nerven. 
 
 Es ist die Stille 
 
 Des Waldes ; 
 Doch singet vereinsammt 
 
 Ein Vogel sein Lied. 
 Eichhornchen kichern 
 In Angst, und scheinen verlassen. 
 
 Doch singet des Wehen 
 Des Windes eine Weise 
 So schauerlich ich denke ich fiihle 
 
 Die Kalte des Todes. 
 Jedesmal sein Athem 
 
 Meine Backen umfliesset ! 
 
 Es ist die Stille 
 
 Des einsamen, diister n Waldes. 
 (Wie mocht ich mit Liebchen 
 
154 The Poet 
 
 Hier sein sie inniglich kiissen!) 
 
 Doch meine Seele 
 Sie lebt in Gedanken. 
 
 Ich bin hier wie ein Toder ! 
 Allein ! doch die Seele 
 
 Erschwillt mit dem Winde 
 Erkennet die Allmacht! 
 
 Nur trostet seinen Trauer 
 Dass iiberall ist Leben. 
 
 Wenn nicht Geistigkeit, 
 Doch Wiederhallen 
 
 Der ewigen Weissheit ! 
 
 Es ist so stille! 
 
 So auch das Grab ! 
 Der Wald hort des Windes Weise- 
 Der Wind ertont den Wald. 
 Mein Geist hort viele Gedichte ; 
 Meine Seele verherrlicht 
 
 Den Inhalt der Lieder. 
 
 Es ist die Stille 
 Des tiefen, verlassenen Waldes. 
 
 Es wird zutraulicher. 
 
 Der Schauer beim Eintritt 
 Vergehet und friedlich 
 Winken Baume and Schatten: 
 Verherrlichung statt Grtibeln ! 
 
 Der Wind weht Trost mir 
 Und alles erscheint mir traulich. 
 
 So ist der Tod! 
 
The Poet 155 
 
 Wir fiirchten ihn ! Doch kommt er, 
 
 Nach kurzem Kennen 
 Erfreut sich die Seele, 
 
 Und singet, und jtibelt. 
 
 Erkennung dass Gott 1st 
 Dass Er tins nimmt nach dem Tode, 
 
 1st wie die eigene Stille 
 Des einsamen, dustern Waldes : 
 
 Wann graue Wolken schwillen 
 Und Winde brausen im Sturme ! 
 
 ( 1886) 
 
 TO TENNYSON. 
 
 Whenever my young thoughts are steeped in 
 
 thine 
 
 I feel as though they bathed in golden wine 
 In wine the grapes for which were golden- 
 glossed 
 
 Were filled with juice like liquid gold 
 Were seeded with gilt balls, that rolled 
 In times of old, when they by Jove s great mind 
 were tossed. 
 
 These grapes were then thrown in glass bowls, 
 
 by feet 
 Of fairies pressed by hands, more pure and 
 
 sweet 
 Than Daphne s, touched ; till, when a bowl was 
 
 filled 
 
156 
 
 The Poet 
 
 With honeyed, liquid, through a sieve 
 Of gold the juice was strained to leave 
 The gilt dregs dream! And now the wine 
 was thrilled ! 
 
 Whenever my young thoughts are steeped in 
 
 thine, 
 
 O Tennyson, thou golden bard divine. 
 Methinks twould be a boon to live in gold 
 In gold, that glitters like thy fair thoughts 
 In gold, that, found in heavenly courts, 
 Contains the Beauties, of a heaven-watched 
 fold ! 
 
 (1883) 
 
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