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 TRANS-STYX AND OTHER 
 STRAINS
 
 TRANS-STYX AND 
 
 OTHER STRAINS 
 
 BY 
 
 I. N. PHIPPS 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 The Lay of the Wraith and Other Poems 
 
 New York and Washington 
 THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 1907
 
 Copyright, 1907, by 
 THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Page. 
 
 Preface, 7 
 
 The Trance, 13 
 
 Salvo Pudore By the Shade of Byron, 24 
 
 Decadence of Poesy By the Shade of Scott, .... 34 
 
 Te Judice By the Shade of Shakespeare, 42 
 
 "Tetrastichs" By the Shade of Khayyam, 50 
 
 Sounds and Perspectives, 68 
 
 A Weird Dream, 70 
 
 The Fisherman, 71 
 
 Re- Awakened, 72 
 
 Things 'at Used to Be, 74 
 
 Burial of Moses, 76 
 
 A Tragedy, 78 
 
 Puncheon Crick, 80 
 
 Premonition, 84 
 
 Hidden Gems, 85 
 
 The Better Way, 85 
 
 Lake o' the White Canoe, 86 
 
 Love, 94 
 
 A Violet, 9S 
 
 Meeting and Parting, 96 
 
 My Sorrow, 96 
 
 The Doll's Dress, 97 
 
 Heart Strains, 97 
 
 Virginia, 98 
 
 "Broke," 101 
 
 Buried Hopes, 102 
 
 Hope and Doubt, 103
 
 Page. 
 
 Dan and Lil, 104 
 
 Policy Not Love, 107 
 
 A Memory, 108 
 
 Cupid's Wiles, no 
 
 Faithless, in 
 
 Life, 112 
 
 Looking Backward, 113 
 
 The Poet, 113 
 
 The Banshee, 114 
 
 Visions, 116 
 
 Jephthah's Vow, 117 
 
 Sin's Punition, 1 1 8 
 
 A Memory, 1 20 
 
 My Dead, 121 
 
 Lost Leoline, 122 
 
 Bitter Memories, 123 
 
 An Idyl, 124 
 
 Address to a Mummy, 125 
 
 To the Frogs, 128 
 
 Western Plains, 129 
 
 The Errant Dollar, 131 
 
 The Phantom Thought, 132 
 
 Epigrams, 133
 
 PREFACE 
 
 It has occurred to the author of this little volume 
 of verse (he is scarcely conceited enough to believe it 
 deserving of the more dignified title of "poetry") that 
 it might be well, perhaps, to preface it with something 
 like an explanation by way of fortifying himself against 
 any possible adverse criticism touching the string of 
 epigrams submitted under the name of "Tetrastichs." 
 For his attempt to imitate the poetic stride and rhyth- 
 mic motion of that inimitable Persian (especially in the 
 serious vein so patent as to admit of no denial, even 
 were he a mind to attempt an imposition on his con- 
 science by essaying to take refuge in the claim that only 
 a parody was intended on that famous string of bril- 
 liant gems, the ample and beautiful translation of which 
 into English the poetic genius of Fitzgerald made pos- 
 sible) is apt to awake and set going the pen of those 
 unable to see beneath the surface, or read between the 
 lines, the cry of a lack, on his part, of that to which 
 he certainly lays no claim originality. For, as else- 
 where clearly shown, he denies that there is any such 
 thing as originality possible to the modern "knight of 
 the quill." 
 
 As previously intimated, in "Tetrastichs" no parody 
 is intended. On the contrary, let it be known that to 
 this writer, at least, the many parodies on Khayyam 
 partake more of the nature of sacrilege than of legiti- 
 mate humor, seeing his was evidently the quest of an 
 honest heart after Truth, whose evident failure to find 
 "any Providence but Destiny, and any world but this,"
 
 gives to his vain hope a pathetic coloring that merges 
 into the tragic, and therefore anything perpetrated in 
 jest at his expense sounds uncanny, to say the very 
 least of it. 
 
 "But," some may say, "the 'Truth' was abroad and 
 far advanced even while he was searching for it, and 
 why did he not avail himself of it, instead of groping 
 his way to the very end?" True, quite true, but at 
 that time showing but dimly in that far away, some- 
 what isolated corner of the Orient, up and down whose 
 narrow confines he came and went, busying himself with 
 the problems of futurity, which beset and harassed his 
 mind to the exclusion of all else, it would seem, but the 
 exhilarating juice of the grape, which he so persistently 
 panegyrizes, for the reason that from it appears to have 
 come to him the only relief from those hopeless yearn- 
 ings which kept him forever on the rack of doubt and 
 uncertainty. Yea, showing but dimly, as we have said, 
 and rendered yet less distinct by reason of the one and 
 seventy other and misleading religions, or "lights," 
 bobbing up and down here and there, ignis-fatuus like, 
 in the all-pervading gloom in which he found himself 
 groping, with scant, or no hope, evidently realizing 
 that through neither of those religions with which he 
 was most familiar, was there a way leading to ultimate 
 peace and quiet for his soul. 
 
 Is it any wonder then, that he, a philosopher in the 
 broadest sense (even though he caught an occasional 
 glimpse of the one and only "True Light" amidst the 
 many others), did not turn and follow it with that 
 simple faith which is the key to its precious secrets, and 
 all these lead to? The religion of our Lord, as we all 
 know, is one more particularly adapted to the humble 
 and simple hearted, as a rule, than to the arrogant and
 
 philosophically endowed especially in that day, ere the 
 full effulgence of its glory had burst upon the world. 
 
 Were not ninety and nine out of every hundred of its 
 first converts from that class whose erudition did not 
 extend beyond the mending and casting of nets, tread- 
 ing the wine press, or sitting at the receipt of customs? 
 Aside from Saul of Tarsus (who, notwithstanding all 
 he had seen and heard of this religion, was converted 
 to it only by means of a miracle), scarcely one of great 
 learning could be numbered with the early followers 
 of Christ. At least not until the persistent preaching 
 and teaching of this same miracle-made convert had 
 thoroughly impressed the glories of Christianity upon 
 all within the scope of his mission, the sage and scholar 
 with the rest. 
 
 My reasons for submitting "Tetrastichs ?" Well, 
 first of all I consider this particular form of verse one 
 of greater compass than any to be had, and therefore 
 better adapted to epigrammatical productions, to say 
 nothing of its beautiful construction, which makes "the 
 second and the fourth lines rhyme with the first, while 
 the penultimate is a blank, usually ending in a word 
 of but one syllable, and seems to play the part of a 
 slight obstruction to the rhythmical flow of the little 
 current of thought up to this point, coming to which it 
 appears to rise gracefully, curve over and glide down 
 onto the final line, giving it a pleasant, rhythmical end- 
 ing not to be found, we believe, in any other form of 
 verse." 
 
 Again: It has ever been a matter of wonder to me 
 why one of Khayyam's deep and extensive learning did 
 not include in his contribution to posterity bits of the 
 folk lore of his own and adjacent countries, embracing 
 some of those innumerable legends and myths which 
 constitute the only available history of "humanity's
 
 childhood," with many, if not most of which he must 
 have been familiar, and it occurred to me to avail myself 
 of the opportunity which he and others seem to have 
 neglected, and hence I have taken the liberty of mak- 
 ing his style of verse the vehicle for sending out a few 
 epigrams embracing some of those old myths still trail- 
 ing along in the wake of the centuries. 
 
 For the other efforts at verse found between these 
 covers I have no excuses to offer, nor explanations to 
 make. If they do not of themselves reveal the pur- 
 pose of their being, let them at once sink into that 
 oblivion which a lack of merit and valid reasons for 
 existence make inevitable. 
 
 And yet, notwithstanding this play at indifference 
 concerning the fate awaiting the puny offspring of my 
 brain, what man with the feelings of paternity upon 
 him could send the frail, untried little ones of his 
 mental efforts forth to take their chances with the vig- 
 orous, able-bodied progeny of the master spirits of 
 Poesy, without some sense of solicitude, and feelings 
 of commiseration for the possible fate in store for them, 
 and hesitate to beg for them other than an inclement 
 reception ? 
 
 Therefore, inasmuch as they are too fragile, weak, 
 and thinly clad to withstand the rigors of an over-cold 
 reception, and too timid to endure a too acrimonious 
 and quizzical scrutiny, please look upon them kindly, 
 and, if possible to overcome the aversion their only too 
 apparent indigence may induce, take some of the frailer 
 ones to your hearts for a little season at least, remem- 
 bering meanwhile with some degree of compassion, if 
 you can, the misguided author of their being. 
 
 I. N. P.
 
 TRANS-STYX AND OTHER 
 POEMS
 
 THE TRANCE 
 
 With nothing but a musty tome, 
 
 An oft-told tale of Greece and Rome, 
 
 A pencil, tablet, and the thought 
 
 I'd seek a cool, secluded spot, 
 
 I left the village by the way 
 
 That led to where the woodlands lay. 
 
 The path lay through a meadowland; 
 Before, behind on ev'ry hand 
 The grasses waved their fuzzy plumes 
 Above the nodding daisy blooms; 
 While here and there, above them all, 
 Grew snowy-tufted elders, tall. 
 
 The distant landscape softly shone 
 Through sunlit haze of azure tone, 
 And fitful sounds crept to the ear, 
 Like those in dreams we sometimes hear. 
 
 Beyond the mead I crossed a stream 
 Upon a slender Cypress beam, 
 Then on, and on, yet nearer to 
 The silent woods my footsteps drew: 
 Toward that cool, inviting wood 
 The Muse's welcome solitude. 
 
 At length a hill-environed glade 
 Offered the silence and the shade 
 My eager mind and body sought : 
 The one for rest, the other thought ; 
 And here, upon a bed of moss, 
 With restful sighs, at ease, I toss. 
 
 13
 
 What soothing draughts kind Nature brews, 
 Yet, oh, how often we abuse 
 The hospitality that she 
 Dispenses without stint, or fee 
 Consuming with the glutton's greed, 
 Nor rend'ring back to her the meed 
 Of thanks the guest his hostess owes, 
 As from her bounteous board he goes ! 
 
 Face to the earth, the book outspread 
 Beneath my eyes, I laid and read 
 The tale of the great Caesar's death ; 
 And, when his murd'rers struck, my breath 
 Seemed caught from me, and ere I knew 
 Another scene broke on my view. 
 
 No longer on the earth I lay, 
 But drifted on a cloud, away 
 Toward a moon-illumined vale, 
 Through which a river, phosphor-pale, 
 And one lone boatman on its tide, 
 Showed with a sinuous sweep to glide. 
 
 Death-gray-green willows fringed each shore, 
 And I could hear the boatman's oar, 
 And see the phosphor as it dripped 
 From the oar blades, as forth they slipped 
 From the pale waters which they cleaved, 
 As low the boatman bent and heaved. 
 
 Descending slowly, here, the cloud 
 Touched on the shore, and formed a shroud 
 Which clasped my shiv'ring soul around, 
 Much like a winding sheet is wound.
 
 "Unless my fancy plays me tricks, 
 This is," I said, "the River Styx. 
 His name who plies the oars But then, 
 What boots his name to mortal men?" 
 
 Oh, the weird murmur of that stream, 
 On which the death-green moonbeams gleam 
 With that unearthly, awesome sheen 
 Which ye, doubtless, have sometimes seen 
 A pent-up storm cloud cast before 
 White lightning it a-pieces tore! 
 
 Strange, oh, so strange was that moonlight ! 
 Unlike the moonlight of Earth's night, 
 What was not near, it made appear 
 As if it were indeed quite near. 
 
 For I had deemed the boatman nigh 
 Conceived I saw his baleful eye, 
 The while it took him long to reach 
 And bring his boat's prow on the beach, 
 Where I, a trembling shade, yet stand, 
 Till he leans forth and takes my hand, 
 And draws me in, and takes the oar 
 And rows toward the other shore. 
 
 The boatman's hands, methinks, were cold ; 
 His form was bent, and he was old. 
 Doubtless a million years he'd spent 
 Above the oars where now he bent. 
 
 He was so shrivelled, gray, and grim, 
 I could not keep my eyes from him, 
 The while he droned a medley strange 
 That caught all ages in its range. 
 
 15
 
 Not till my feet had touched the shore 
 Did I perceive the myriads more 
 Who, like myself, had lived and died 
 On Earth, and crossed the Stygian tide. 
 
 Countless as the sand grains thrown 
 By the waves on beaches strown, 
 Were those grim, diaphanous shades 
 Swarming through all those Stygian glades. 
 
 Think of a substance walking round, 
 Casting no shadow on the ground ! 
 Though shades in plenty, not a shade 
 By any substance there was made! 
 
 No bubbling springs or fountains clear 
 Were there apparent anywhere, 
 Nor ever dew, or mist, or rain, 
 So far as one could ascertain. 
 Yet these were 'n nowise desert lands, 
 Their mold was moist, and their sands 
 Were scooped and sucked by those accursed 
 With ever raging, burning thirst. 
 
 That some did thirst and others not 
 
 Gave me at once a theme for thought, 
 
 Wherefore I asked the reason why 
 
 Of other souls convenient by, 
 
 And this is how they answered 'me: 
 
 "Some sought the Living draught, you see, 
 
 Like she a-fore at Jacob's well, 
 
 And have no thirst to quench, or quell. 
 
 16
 
 "At death begins the punishment 
 
 Of whom in life their moments spent 
 
 In riot-living, heedless of 
 
 The voice of conscience, or of love. 
 
 Hence, these are they who weep and wail 
 
 The torments the like sins entail." 
 
 Ah, when you come to enter there, 
 
 Then will you know what 'tis to fare 
 
 In bournless realms, where countless shades 
 
 Forlornly roam shadowless glades! 
 
 For e'en the trees, pellucid, too, 
 
 Allow the moonbeams to pass through ! 
 
 'Twas easy to distinguish those 
 
 Whose conscience caused them endless woes, 
 
 And all as easy to discern 
 
 In whom abode the hope etern. 
 
 No social cordons there were drawn ; 
 None felt to sneer, or wished to fawn. 
 The pauper cronied with the prince, 
 Nor did the princess matters mince 
 In chumming with the peasant maid, 
 While countesses with Cyprians strayed. 
 
 Judging, the hopeful sympathized 
 With whom their sins had ostracized, 
 Nor the forlorn seemed envious those 
 The straight and narrow way had chose. 
 
 The greater intellects held speech, 
 Though less with others than with each, 
 And I, in time, came to frequent 
 Their councils to hear argument 
 For even humble souls, like I, 
 Were nof forbidden to draw nigh. 
 
 17
 
 Some that had won immortal fame 
 
 (I need not here inscribe each name) 
 
 I came to know ; and once it chanced, 
 
 As I stood list'ning, quite entranced, 
 
 At bits of repartee 'twixt Scott, 
 
 Shakespeare, and Byron, that the thought 
 
 Came over me that I would try 
 
 To mingle more with these, as by 
 
 Closer association it 
 
 Was possible to gain a bit 
 
 Of information I had sought, 
 
 By ev'ry channel known to thought, 
 
 Anent the latter twain, whose rhymes 
 
 Have been the pride of modern times. 
 
 With this in mind I quickly threw 
 Aside my diffidence, and drew 
 Into their midst, and hit for hit 
 I gave and took the current wit ; 
 
 For they were often fain to jest, 
 And I, though hitherto oppressed 
 With timidness, was no less fain, 
 Since thereby might accrue a gain. 
 
 'Twas thus we often met, but I 
 Grew less and less inclined to try 
 My wit 'gainst theirs, for illy fared 
 Whoso his wit against theirs dared. 
 
 'Twas thus, I say, we met and passed 
 Much pleasant time; but when at last 
 Came not the secret I had thought 
 Such intercourse might bring, I sought 
 By direct means to gain my end. 
 
 18
 
 And so, deciding thus, I wend 
 My way toward the rendezvous, 
 Whereto a welcome well I knew 
 Awaited me. Arrived, I found 
 Others there with them, on the ground, 
 Amongst them one Khayyam, whose verse 
 I'd much admired for its keen, terse 
 Satire and wit; and when we met, 
 As soon we did ( for here they set 
 Much store, mind you, by etiquette, 
 And those little amenities 
 The gentle-bred, in life, with ease 
 And grace of manner, ever heed), 
 The Persian said he was indeed 
 Pleased to meet one of whom he'd heard 
 His friends once say a gracious word. 
 
 Whereat I thanked him, and expressed 
 
 My admiration in the best 
 
 Way I knew how for the quatrains 
 
 Fitzgerald's pen, and Vedder's strains 
 
 Made possible for lesser ones 
 
 To glimpse the beauty through them runs. 
 
 'Twere tedious to try to name 
 The others there, of lasting fame, 
 Nor shall we so, since we're concerned 
 Alone with those whose names we've learned. 
 
 When came a lull, and I'd acquired 
 Sufficient courage, I desired 
 An audience with Scott, and he 
 Accorded it quite graciously.
 
 Then when alone, and no one near, 
 I asked him if he thought Shakespeare, 
 Should I request it, would tell how 
 His writings all he did endow 
 With that unique aptness of speech 
 The like of which none else can reach ; 
 And Byron if, as some insist, 
 He was, on earth, an atheist. 
 
 Also his own (Scott's) views on things: 
 
 Whether the modern poet sings 
 
 In measures he himself approves 
 
 (Ye know how smoothly his own moves), 
 
 And if not, then would he comply 
 
 With my request, and certify 
 
 His chief objection to the ways 
 
 These so-called poets sing their lays. 
 
 Whereon he answered me that he 
 Was sure the twain would pleasure me. 
 Since they had nothing, now, to lose, 
 How could they reasonably refuse? 
 
 As for himself, he said he, too, 
 Would do the little he could do 
 To gratify my seeming whim, 
 Whereon I ended, thanking him. 
 
 Returning to the rendezvous, 
 We found still ling'ring there the two 
 Shakespeare and Byron and one more: 
 The Persian mentioned once before. 
 
 20
 
 Finding them thus so near alone, 
 I lost no time in making known 
 My ardent wish, and hoped that they 
 Were not inclined to say me nay. 
 
 "I spurn the thought none ever heard, 
 Methinks, petition more absurd! 
 A gift that nothing worth conveys, 
 Recipient nor giver pays," 
 Said Byron, and his earnest air 
 Made seem my wish should illy fare. 
 "Fidelity to Truth was what 
 They of my time condemned, and not 
 The lack of it, since they'd have had 
 Me show the good, and not the bad 
 Whereas the strictures of my art 
 Require I should conceal no part." 
 
 But Shakespeare took the other view: 
 
 "If satisfaction should accrue 
 
 From being wiser for the truth, 
 
 I think that we should grant, forsooth, 
 
 The little asked, and more, if need; 
 
 A favor wrought is friendship's meed. 
 
 As for myself, I shall comply 
 
 With his request, as thereby I 
 
 Shall be enabled to refute 
 
 The fools who would my rights dispute." 
 
 "Suppose that I should acquiesce, 
 And grant the favor thou dost press," 
 Quoth Byron, "thou wert none the less 
 A pauper in the realm of thought 
 For gaining that from me you've sought, 
 
 21
 
 Since thou couldst not now utilize 
 What were on Earth, I grant, a prize, 
 And would go far to gild thy name 
 And add a luster to thy fame 
 But not in Stygian realms would it 
 Add to thy glory one wee bit." 
 
 Here thought succeeded for a space, 
 And silence reigned in speech's place, 
 The while the mind of Byron wrought 
 On whether he should grant or not 
 The contribution asked ; and when 
 At length he spoke, he said: "But then, 
 Since you desire it, be it so, 
 Provided I may likewise show 
 The light esteem in which I hold 
 The preacher who regards his fold 
 As but a means to worldly gain, 
 Because less pious, far, than vain." 
 
 To this provision I could see 
 
 No reason I should not agree, 
 
 Except, perhaps, it were the just 
 
 Might suffer with the false, whose lust 
 
 For gain well justified the scath 
 
 Which they might suffer through his wrath, 
 
 And therefore the contingent harm 
 
 Towards the just should not alarm 
 
 My conscience, or abate my zeal 
 
 To ascertain what were his real 
 
 Sentiments' and thoughts anent 
 
 Future rewards and punishment; 
 
 For in whom such like thoughts exist 
 
 Rarely is found an atheist. 
 
 22
 
 And wheresoever doubt is found 
 Is left a bit of fallow ground 
 Reason has failed to sterilize, 
 And conscience may yet fertilize. 
 
 Wherefore I waived contingencies, 
 And readily agreed, as these 
 Succeeding stanzas I transcribe 
 (For you and others to imbibe, 
 Or not, accordingly as you 
 Favor deceit, and truth eschew) 
 Give evidence to those who know 
 His cens'rous style and caustic flow.
 
 SALVO PUDORE 
 
 BY 
 THE SHADE OF BYRON 
 
 'Tis claimed, you know, and some assert with cause s 
 
 Filthy lucre underlies all evil 
 (The proverb's not so phrased poetic laws 
 
 Warrant this phrasing, if not the civil), 
 A saying trite, but dull, and ever was, 
 
 Howe'er much it may incense the Devil, 
 A supposition which I question much, 
 Feeling he pays but scanty heed to such. 
 
 For knowing, as he does, who quotes it best, 
 Is he who least of all observes its pith, 
 
 And that an adage oft become a jest 
 When it too frequently is dallied with, 
 
 And therefore loses all its force and zest; 
 He looks on it as you do on a myth, 
 
 Or hoary tale, wherewith you would coerce 
 
 Your children to be good, or less perverse. 
 
 Now much about my poems has been said, 
 
 Some lauding them, where censure was more due; 
 
 Some judging not because that which they read 
 Was unchaste, so much as because 'twas true, 
 
 And which, therefore, straight to the conscience sped, 
 And like the old, much-worn, proverbial shoe, 
 
 Fitted so well it needs, of course, must pinch, 
 
 And, pinching them, how else could they but wince? 
 
 24
 
 Nor have the sins and follies which I then 
 Held up to ridicule and righteous scorn 
 
 Abated in the least women and men 
 
 (Still to lust and lecherous passions born) 
 
 Pursue each other now, as they did when 
 Young Juan was by Donna Julia shorn 
 
 Of that which in monastic day a vow 
 
 Ascetics made, and some few practice now. 
 
 I'm not the moralist you'd care to quote, 
 Judging from criticisms of my work, 
 
 Nor my religious tenets, when I wrote 
 
 Of current things, so strict as some who perk 
 
 And preen before fashionable flocks. Note 
 The vanity of some you know, who'd irk 
 
 Satan himself! Yet, since you crave my views, 
 
 I'll show how worldly pulpits make godless pews. 
 
 From moral apathy and placitude 
 
 Comes the great increase in ev'ry vice known. 
 For the teachings of Christ, where understood, 
 
 There's little respect or reverence shown. 
 The Pulpit, it seems, is deeply imbued 
 
 With philosophy, which of late has grown 
 Till, in the arrogance of reason, they 
 Are seeking, 'twould seem, an easier way 
 
 To Heaven than Christ to His own made plain 
 When He taught humility, and contempt 
 
 For worldly wants and material gain, 
 And the blessedness of being exempt 
 
 From lust, hate, doubt, hypocrisy and vain 
 
 Things. In short the need to fully pre-empt, 
 
 Or crush and destroy ev'ry evil germ, 
 
 If one his faith in His blood would affirm.
 
 Medieval piety, I aver, 
 
 Virtues enjoined of a goodlier kind 
 Than to-day in Christendom anywhere 
 
 You'll find prescribed, to the best of my mind. 
 Ascetic, the monk was perforce austere, 
 
 Rugged, invective, and rarely refined. 
 Not yet he'd learned that justification 
 Came alone by faith unto salvation. 
 
 Protestants sneer at Catholicity, 
 
 And I myself hoot the arrogant claim 
 
 Of the Pope to infallibility ; 
 
 Yet I am persuaded, indeed, the same 
 
 Proscribes things Protestant morality 
 
 Countenances with quite unblushing shame. 
 
 Even detested Buddhism, I'm quite sure, 
 
 Leads them in restraints that maketh more pure. 
 
 There are too many weaklings who aspire 
 To pulpits, or a shepherd's crook to wield; 
 
 Who lack the inspiration and the fire 
 
 To reach the heart and conscience, like Whitfield, 
 
 Bernard, Jerome, Chrysostom, or the Prior 
 Of St. Mark, Savonarola, whose shield 
 
 Of righteousness venalities withstood 
 
 Till death gave him the marytr's crown of blood. 
 
 What think you, sir, I pray, of that man whose 
 Vesture stamps him as a preacher of the Word 
 
 Who seeks the busy marts of trade, and woos 
 Dame Fortune like the common, godless herd ? 
 
 And, just as they, figures to win, or lose 
 
 (By the self-same passions swayed and stirred) 
 
 Dost wonder that the church's influence wanes, 
 
 Or marvel gross materialism reigns? 
 
 26
 
 Many there be, I know, who will disdain 
 The idea that the charge applies to them. 
 
 Would this were so, and thoughts of earthly gain 
 Were as far from them as that diadem 
 
 Which those who fail not of the goal attain. 
 Only the faithless ones I would condemn 
 
 Those only who would live by bread alone : 
 
 The faithful by their godly fruits are known. 
 
 Yet there are many righteous, I avow: 
 
 Shepherds who know, and of their own are known ; 
 Who, when they at the throne of mercy bow, 
 
 Sooner than their neighbor's lot, their own 
 Forget, and plead as only those know how 
 
 Whose hearts teem not with selfish thoughts alone. 
 Such form the salt its savor loses not, 
 And live to bless when t'others are forgot. 
 
 God knows I love such blessed souls as these, 
 And not for all Heaven hath wherewith to bless 
 
 Would I disparage them, or them displease! 
 But for whose tender love and kindliness 
 
 Far fewer heartsick ones would find surcease 
 From dread, relentless woe, and sorrow's stress. 
 
 Blest be the voice that soothes, the hands that bind 
 
 The wounded, grief-pent heart and distraught mind! 
 
 Yet, now, a little farther to pursue 
 
 The matter, nor by feint or dalliance beat 
 
 The beast about the bush in this review, 
 Let us see if we cannot find the seat 
 
 Of trouble foregoing censure when due, 
 Applauding merit when applause is meet. 
 
 One should be no less fair to foe than friend, 
 
 Nor treat the evil harshly he would mend. 
 
 27
 
 I deny that's always success which succeeds. 
 
 Take, now, for instance, religious success: 
 You deem those religions (regardless of creeds) 
 
 Successful whose converts are numberless 
 The while you know 'tis man's ultimate needs 
 
 That leads him to embrace religion, stress 
 Of fear, and dread of punishment for deeds 
 Done in the flesh, that to confession leads. 
 
 Now, if that religion be a vain one, 
 
 As all of them must be, you will confess, 
 
 Save and excepting that whereof the Son 
 
 Of God is head (whose holy name we bless!), 
 
 Then that which these deluded ones have done 
 A failure is, rather than a success, 
 
 Since they vainly expect confirmation 
 
 Of their hopes of ultimate salvation. 
 
 Expediency, the Jesuit's friend, 
 
 Too oft, alas! the questionable means 
 
 Is made the quicker to attain an end, 
 However much the conscience intervenes, 
 
 Or persistently declines to recommend 
 That which a subtile evil surely screens ; 
 
 And unto it's apparent quite, if not, 
 
 Likewise, to him the end alone has sought. 
 
 How many preachers expediency use 
 To attain an end they live to deplore! 
 
 I refer to those alone who abuse 
 
 Their sacred calling, as opined before. 
 
 Some resort to wit, only to amuse, 
 
 And some of them you with new ideas bore, 
 
 While some to sensational things resort, 
 
 And some get mixed up in Scandal's report. 
 
 28
 
 Likewise one, for the sake of converts, 
 
 Conforms his sermons to the heart's gross trend, 
 Not heeding 'tis thus that Satan perverts 
 
 Christianity to his own base end. 
 For if one only seemingly deserts 
 
 His former ways, why should he not lend 
 His name to the church's roll if thereby he 
 May swell the preacher's popularity? 
 
 Which is all that some of these worldings seek, 
 
 I am sorry to say, upon my word, 
 And who with scarcely less lechery reek 
 
 Than the basest roue by the virtuous feared. 
 If I, aware of these things, failed to speak 
 
 As becometh one who by such is stirred, 
 I'd hate myself no less than I hate those 
 Whose insincerity I would fain expose. 
 
 I'd started a moment ago to say 
 
 (And that I did not, I now thank Heaven!) 
 Salt without savor's society to-day: 
 
 Meal, with a measure of Satan's leaven. 
 Yet this were so nearly true, I pray 
 
 That a little grace to me be given 
 A little time to make my purpose known, 
 And cast a dart where few have yet been thrown. 
 
 And what is Society, but a curse? 
 
 A "School for Scandal"! a "Vanity Fair"! 
 Of which the best that can be said is worse 
 
 Than the worst that you can conceive, I swear! 
 To which it is claimed a plethoric purse 
 
 Blinds the eyes of the few who would not dare 
 Do the naughty things her votaries do, 
 A charge, I am sorry, that's somewhat true. 
 
 29
 
 You marvel, doubtless, at their placitude 
 Whose lives are doomed to incessant toil; 
 
 Who for raiment and meager daily food 
 
 Their burdens bear, and dig and till the soil, 
 
 Content to feel they do less harm than good, 
 Knowing no cravings for fashion's turmoil, 
 
 Or those base pleasures the worlding fain 
 
 Would barter his hope of Heaven to gain. 
 
 The only way to happiness is through 
 
 The virtues of the heart, as you will find. 
 
 Social frivolities but serve to brew 
 
 Some passion that debauches heart and mind, 
 
 Stimulating cravings for something new, 
 Always of that demoralizing kind 
 
 Civilization breeds once it has shown 
 
 Its back to those excesses it has known. 
 
 Mark what I say, nor count it false or vain: 
 Contentment is the forfeit one must pay 
 
 For riches or intellectual gain, 
 
 As surely as the night succeeds the day 
 
 Unless the one so favored would the pain 
 Of some poor, less fortunate heart allay. 
 
 The heart, or mind, which on itself relies 
 
 For happiness, feeds on itself and dies. 
 
 A paradox in life is clearly shown 
 
 When wealth denies its favored placitude. 
 
 Happiness seems to shun a gilded throne 
 For that simplicity and quietude 
 
 That reigns where Christian faith and love alone 
 Gives zest to life, and grace and gratitude 
 
 Soul auxiliaries that are never found 
 
 Where hate, or greed, or passions base abound.
 
 Oft ignorance with greater luster shines 
 Because of graces Christian virtue lends, 
 
 Than radiates from those transcendent minds 
 The world's perverted to ignoble ends. 
 
 The faith the intellectual giant finds 
 So simple 'tis obnoxious, depends 
 
 For its adherents on the common herd, 
 
 Whose simple minds imbibe the simple Word. 
 
 'Tis passing strange the so-called great revile, 
 As oft as not, primitive Christian faith, 
 
 For which those blest ones who looked on the while 
 Christ, through his own, removed the sting of death, 
 
 Scourgings forewent, torture, death, or exile 
 Extolling Him unto their utmost breath, 
 
 Declaring He alone of all could save 
 
 Who'd o'ercome Death the monster and the Grave. 
 
 Much was my Cain condemned, and I impugned, 
 Because I dared put in his mouth the words 
 
 To which impious souls like his are tuned 
 (Wherewith a pious ut' ranee ill accords), 
 
 As he with crafty Lucifer communed, 
 
 While he to him a glimpse of words affords 
 
 Other than Earth, and myst'ries, shapes and such, 
 
 Causing him to marvel and to question much. 
 
 Should one pervert a work of art, merely to please 
 
 A falsely modest, or a narrow mind? 
 'Twould never be a work of art, if these 
 
 Found not the fault that such are prone to find. 
 By all the rules of art the blasphemies, 
 
 For which I've been persistently maligned, 
 Are perfectly consistent, I maintain, 
 In spirits such as Lucifer and Cain. 
 
 31
 
 That unrepented crime of his, which sent 
 
 Him forth a wanderer upon the earth, 
 Had seared and scathed, until no sentiment 
 
 Except blasphemy in his soul found birth. 
 Defiant, scornful, ready to resent 
 
 Even God's overtures of peace, the worth 
 Of prayer eschewing, how, pray, could I 
 Put in his mouth other than blasphemy? 
 
 Consistently, therefore, I wrote and wrought, 
 
 Knowing, meanwhile, that fools would hiss my name, 
 
 Impute to me a vicious trend of thought, 
 And otherwise attempt to cloud my fame: 
 
 Wherefore the medium of satire I brought 
 To bear upon, and put the horde to shame, 
 
 Who thenceforth took refuge in that base libel 
 
 That my views were adverse to the Bible! 
 
 And though apparent misanthropy ran 
 
 As threads of scarlet, through each woof I wove, 
 
 This was but part and parcel of a plan 
 
 I'd early formed, whereby that I might prove 
 
 My contempt for that parasitic clan 
 
 That lay in wait for those who 'strode, or strove 
 
 To 'stride Pegasus, or follow the Muse, 
 
 And eked their bread through libelous reviews. 
 
 I doubt not Time will kindly place me on 
 The pinnacle for which, in life, I pined, 
 
 Nor my reception into the Pantheon, 
 With other like contributors to mind, 
 
 Regardless of that cursed Don Juan, 
 
 Which insult to sweet womanhood, I find, 
 
 Was that which tore the laurel from my brow, 
 
 Which, else, had clung unsullied there till now. 
 
 33
 
 Enough of this! Howe'er, I love to feel, 
 Or hope, at least, it kindled no desires, 
 
 Wrought no evil to connubial weal, 
 Added no fuel unto passion's fires, 
 
 Whose warmth e'en virtue loves too near to steal 
 (Because of those sensations such inspires), 
 
 From whence retreat, alas! she oft delays, 
 
 While she with the new, sweet sensation plays, 
 
 My old Pegasus is as fleet to-day 
 
 As in the times when I bestrode him last, 
 
 And fain would take the bit and speed away, 
 As oft in that somewhat lamented past ; 
 
 And, but for these, awaiting here to pay 
 A tribute to thy wish verses to cast 
 
 Into thy eager hands then would I heed 
 
 His eagerness, and bid him to his speed. 
 
 But as it is, reluctantly I now 
 
 Resign my charger to the Scottish bard, 
 
 Whose laurels are as fresh upon his brow 
 
 As when he trode the highlands and the sward 
 
 For legends and traditions to endow 
 His poems with that flavor, 'tis so hard, 
 
 Once you have ever tasted, to forget. 
 
 So end I, now, in ending this couplet. 
 
 33
 
 DECADENCE OF POESY 
 
 BY 
 THE SHADE OF SCOTT 
 
 'Twas not for fame, or glory's meed, 
 I sung my songs on Earth, nor greed ; 
 But to reclaim and still prolong 
 The cadences of feudal song, 
 The wand'ring minstrel, harping, sung 
 To knight and lady fair and young, 
 Did I espouse the Muse, and string 
 My harp to minstrelsy, and sing. 
 
 To ev'ry peasant's song mine ear 
 I bent, if I perchance might hear 
 A strain of those expiring rhymes 
 That thrilled the heart in feudal times, 
 And made the wand'ring minstrel quite 
 The peer of any lord or knight. 
 
 And often from these peasants came 
 A strain that lit the Muse's flame, 
 A quaver, or a fragment of 
 A martial lay, or tale of love, 
 And hence it was, a transient note 
 Often inspired the song I wrote.
 
 We here upon the hither shore 
 
 Of Styx have marked and much deplore 
 
 The tendency in modern verse 
 
 To cold rigidity, and worse 
 
 The absence of that sentiment 
 
 That to our own a sweetness lent. 
 
 The heart where sentiment abides 
 Holds love and sympathy besides; 
 The heart where these have no abode 
 Is doomed to wither, or corrode. 
 Savor of death, to death the trend 
 Of that which gladdens not the end ! 
 
 That is not poetry that fails 
 To win responsiveness entails 
 No tender thought, or hope, or aim 
 To do a kindly act, and shame 
 The evil tendencies that we 
 Inherit with humanity. 
 
 In ev'ry heart, or old, or young, 
 
 Aeoleon-like harps are strung, 
 
 And ever these, or soon, or late, 
 
 Responsive to a touch vibrate, 
 
 And fortunate the one that sings 
 
 The song that wakes the dormant strings. 
 
 A benefactor and a friend 
 
 Is any mortal who can lend 
 
 A meager hope, a transient ray 
 
 To light some pilgrim on his way. 
 
 How many hearts, though callous grown, 
 
 Are softened by a tender tone! 
 
 35
 
 Dost wonder at my scorn for those 
 Who, by transposing pleasing prose, 
 Construct a rigid verse they call 
 A sonnet or a madrigal? 
 Shame on their flagrant, base abuse 
 Of the ancient, glorious Muse! 
 
 For they have crowded her aside, 
 And now for Pegasus bestride 
 A golden calf, to which they bow 
 Between effusions, and allow 
 That it an inspiration lends 
 Sufficient to their sordid ends. 
 
 Look through the Classics all and find 
 Now, if you can, something in kind 
 Like this new square-and-compass verse 
 The modern magazines disburse, 
 In lieu of that with sense and pith 
 We used to pay our readers with. 
 
 Civilization less to prose, 
 
 Than it does to poetry, owes 
 
 For its languages; and the molds 
 
 For thought, and love, and feeling, holds 
 
 Each the impress of the Muse 
 
 That formed and fashioned them for use. 
 
 The poet fashioned ev'ry myth 
 The ancient was familiar with, 
 Creating those mythologies 
 Whence came those low apologies 
 For Deity, from whom they sought 
 Indulgences, as Nature taught. 
 
 36
 
 Wherefore, likewise, it chanced, in time, 
 
 Heroes and heroines of rhyme 
 
 Became the models for the art 
 
 That fills a niche in ev'ry heart 
 
 The least esthetic'ly endued 
 
 With love for sculpture, draped or nude. 
 
 'Tis true, the Pantheon of each race 
 Oft held some hid'ous beast, in place 
 Of those fair forms the poet's mind 
 Made to conform to human-kind 
 The gods and goddesses that he 
 Transmitted to posterity. 
 
 Dost thou dare say the faultless grace 
 (Both of his creature's form and face) 
 With which he fashioned them, in verse, 
 Inspired not that served to coerce 
 Man from barbaric ways, and led 
 Him to a civil state, instead? 
 
 Quite true, he had the sculptor's aid, 
 But who was it the sculptor made? 
 Find, if you can, some record of 
 An image, ere a tale of love 
 Came from the poet's fertile brain, 
 Then count my boast as false and vain. 
 
 His heroines, we know, were lewd 
 More oft than with chasteness endued : 
 Heroes licentiously endowed, 
 And at the shrine of Bacchus bowed ; 
 Yet they an impulse gave to thought, 
 And thought, in time, for virtue wrought. 
 
 37
 
 Hence, we maintain to poesy 
 The world's indebted for the free 
 And boundless knowledge is its meed, 
 From sciences to simplest creed, 
 In that it gave the first impulse 
 To learning, and the nicer cults. 
 
 Yet, with this to its credit, now 
 
 We find it has become, somehow, 
 
 The plaything of those shallow minds 
 
 Who in it a medium find 
 
 Through which some tale or waggish thought 
 
 To the like hearts and minds is brought. 
 
 All which but goes to prove, of late 
 
 Mind has descended to a state 
 
 Of material thoughts and things, 
 
 Denying to its fancy wings 
 
 To mount on high, and thence explore 
 
 The realm of shadows, as of yore. 
 
 The mind that haunts the marts of trade 
 Alone hath rarely e'er essayed 
 A thought above the lust of gain, 
 And therefore by the golden chain 
 Itself hath forged, to Mammon's bound, 
 And ends with him life's weary round. 
 
 Alike by man and Heaven scorned, 
 Is ev'ry man who has suborned 
 His conscience with some specious plea 
 To cease its vigilance, while he 
 Despoiled and left to shame the fair 
 And hapless victim of his snare.
 
 Yet he who would despoil the Muse 
 
 Of her prerogative, and use 
 
 The modern vehicle for thought 
 
 The growing lust of gain hath wrought, 
 
 As much a subject is for scorn 
 
 As he by whom the maid is shorn. 
 
 Yet there are some exceptions to 
 My charge, as there are still a few 
 Who court the Muse by the same rule 
 They practiced in my time and school 
 Both wit and poet, when they would 
 Say something trite, sententious, good. 
 
 And now the moral laxity, 
 
 Peculiar to Society, 
 
 I'll tax your patience with, and time, 
 
 Bad as I hate to smirch my rhyme, 
 
 By making it the instrument 
 
 To rend that rose and aureate blent 
 
 Scum, which screens the undertow 
 
 That bears its victims down to woe. 
 
 And it may be somewhere beneath 
 That noisome scum, this screen of death, 
 You'll catch a glimpse, a passing gleam 
 Of something in this hell-bent stream 
 Which may encourage you to dare 
 The hope all is not rotten there. 
 
 Here the graceful libertine 
 Hero is, and the heroine 
 Is the woman who'll advance 
 The farthest in loose dalliance, 
 Arousing passions doubtless she 
 Indulges without stint or fee. 
 
 39
 
 Excessive riches pave the way 
 To idleness, and this decay 
 Of ev'ry moral germ, wherein 
 Abides a counterpoise to sin. 
 O for a Paula or Jerome 
 To rear an altar in each home ! 
 
 The public conscience, callous grown, 
 
 Scarcely protests against the known 
 
 Evils, which, Briarean-like, 
 
 At ev'ry moral safeguard strike. 
 
 Better a stern Puritanism 
 
 Than a gross materialism ! 
 
 The certitudes of Heaven alone 
 Afford the only pleasures known; 
 Who will upon them may repose, 
 Scorning alike earth's joys and woes. 
 
 Scoff at ascetics, if you will, 
 
 Who, through stern penance, sought to kill 
 
 The evils that beset the flesh, 
 
 And weave about the soul a mesh 
 
 Of self-restraint and abstinence, 
 
 And thus against the Devil fence. 
 
 Rapt in sweet reveries and dreams 
 
 Celestial, they caught transient gleams 
 
 Of faces wherein radiant shone 
 
 The Light reflected from the throne, 
 
 Illumining likewise the road 
 
 Which leads from earth to Christ and God. 
 
 40
 
 Alas! how few pursue the trail, 
 How few beside who start and fail, 
 Discouraged by some trivial thing 
 That did but prick or lightly sting 
 A trick the Devil often plays 
 To lead men into devious ways.
 
 TE JUDICE 
 
 BY 
 THE SHADE OF SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Who to original thought lays claim 
 
 Is conscience seared and a deceiver; 
 Those ancient wits winged all such game, 
 
 And not till I, came a retriever 
 With aptness and an amplitude 
 
 Of acumen, and wind to range 
 The fields they'd traversed and bestrewed 
 
 With rarely plumaged thought and strange 
 But fascinating metaphor: 
 
 Trite and striking similitudes 
 (Such as the realists abhor), 
 
 And airy little aptitudes, 
 Which from the unculled fields of thought 
 
 They'd winged and left to lie unseen, 
 Till I their reclamation wrought, 
 
 And clothed them in perennial green. 
 
 No worth had they till we'd descried 
 
 And put them to poetic use. 
 The pronoun "we" includes, beside 
 
 My humble self, my gracious Muse. 
 
 Some yet wore the swaddling-bands 
 
 Their nameless sires had wound them in, 
 
 Foundlings and waifs from divers lands, 
 Bereft of living kith or kin. 
 
 42
 
 Some in embryo were indeed, 
 
 A crude, half semblance of the thought 
 They'd have begotten, you'd agreed, 
 
 If you had seen them ere I'd wrought 
 With them, and 'rayed them in a weave 
 
 Made from the threads my fancy spun, 
 Which you, sir, may or not believe 
 
 Were rav'lings taken, ev'ry one, 
 From sayings old thread-bare with age 
 
 Which in the dawn of Time were young: 
 Decrepid waifs, some ancient sage 
 
 To his untutored friends had sung. 
 
 One scarce can over-amplify 
 
 The great antiquity of most 
 The proverbs each posterity 
 
 Of each succeeding age has tossed, 
 Each to the other, lip to ear, 
 
 In serious or playful vein, 
 On obelisk, or parchment clear, 
 
 By hieroglyph, or liquid stain. 
 
 All which, I claim, but goes to show 
 
 Nothing is new beneath the sun. 
 Old as the ocean's ebb and flow ; 
 
 Old as the day when Time begun ; 
 Old as the first gray mist that hung 
 
 Above the first outgoing wave; 
 The song the Morning Stars first sung, 
 
 The blood that cried from Abel's grave ; 
 Older than God's Covenant, far, 
 
 The rainbow which the heavens spans; 
 Coeval with the first-born star, 
 
 Is each and ev'ry thought of Man's. 
 
 43
 
 Moderns, I grant you, have evolved 
 
 From Nature's subtile elements 
 What Ancients had in no whit solved, 
 
 So far as we have evidence. 
 Yet who dares say their minds held not 
 Shadows of things now manifest? 
 May not heredity have wrought 
 
 The evolutions here expressed? 
 
 Who letteth unobstructed flow 
 The spirit of the times, at length 
 
 About his mind's abode will show 
 
 The fullest growth, the greatest strength. 
 
 Man's way across the ages lies, 
 
 O'ercast with shadows, flecked with light, 
 And somewhere in the way he dies, 
 
 And friends remove his corpse from sight. 
 And those whose welfare is his aim, 
 
 And those who journey by his side, 
 Alike forget him, and his name 
 
 Is lost in Time's remorseless tide. 
 Age after age has gone the way 
 
 His face is set, and he must needs 
 Find something meet to do and say 
 
 Along the line his dest'ny leads 
 Must build a Babel, or remove 
 
 A mountain that obstructs his view; 
 Delve in the earth for treasure-trove, 
 
 Or whatso'er he finds to do. 
 
 No creature of his handicraft 
 
 Is he, the creature, able to 
 Endue with life and skill to draft 
 
 A semblance, as himself can do. 
 
 44
 
 What does the sculptor with the stone, 
 
 But chisel a similitude? 
 What has the artist, when 'tis done 
 
 A real, or an imaged wood? 
 The brick wherewith the mason builds, 
 
 The mortar that he spreads between ; 
 The gilt wherewith the gilder gilds, 
 
 The colors in the prism seen, 
 All, all from Nature taken were, 
 
 And fashioned to the needs of man 
 Her crude materials ev'rywhere 
 
 The artist waits, and artisan. 
 
 So, as the sculptor gets his stone 
 
 From Nature, and his model, too, 
 The artist thence likewise the tone 
 
 Wherewith his pictures to imbue; 
 The mason in her clays and sands 
 
 And carbonates the needful finds, 
 And ready to the gilder's hands 
 
 The precious metal from her mines. 
 
 The poet thence likewise repairs 
 
 For trite and telling similes, 
 For sentiment and tender airs, 
 
 And metaphor, and harmonies. 
 Maybe a thousand times or so, 
 
 From other lips, from other eyes, 
 The same have caused to play or flow 
 
 The smile he wakes, the tear he dries. 
 
 Hence, from the greatest to the least, 
 
 We are but copyists at best; 
 The visual, or mental feast 
 
 We toast each other through with zest, 
 
 45
 
 Others partook of in the days 
 
 When Man was few, and Earth was young, 
 Though it may be our modern lays 
 
 More rhythmic are than those they sung. 
 
 Wherefore my legacy to mind 
 
 Was not original, you see, 
 And whoso claims new thoughts, you'll find, 
 
 Is playing your credulity. 
 
 The poet far less prestige qwes 
 
 Original than range of thought; 
 The fountain which to fullness flows 
 
 Is ever the most prized and sought. 
 Likewise, he to tradition owes 
 More for the glory he acquires, 
 Than to the written page, which glows 
 
 With facts and romance of empires, 
 Because a fable it supplies 
 
 Wherewith the other can't compare, 
 And gives his fancy rein to rise, 
 
 And fare where it is wont to fare. 
 
 The time was when men's wit was not 
 
 So hedged about as 'tis to-day; 
 Who first secured the brilliant thought 
 
 A careless wit dropped by the way 
 Might such appropriate and use, 
 
 Without the consequence of shame, 
 Or fear the critic would refuse 
 
 The meed of praise that gilds a name. 
 
 The wit of ev'ry wit of them 
 
 Was his who had the greater mind 
 
 Knew best the sparkle of the gem 
 By chance or fortune he should find. 
 
 46
 
 Illiterate times a harvest yields 
 Of sentiment and homely wit. 
 
 The untaught swain most deeply feels, 
 And, voicing love, he pictures it. 
 
 'Tis in such times the great appear 
 
 Greater, methinks, than is their meed; 
 
 Absorbing ev'rything that's near, 
 
 With others' wit their own they feed. 
 
 Even the foolish sometimes say 
 A witty thing, not knowing it, 
 
 And he who will may take and pay 
 It out as coin of his own wit. 
 
 No classic known, or prose, or rhyme, 
 Had birth and being in one mind ; 
 
 The best of all preceding time 
 Were in this Ultimate combined. 
 
 As one, a thousand minds had wrought 
 To crown a single one with fame ! 
 
 Through centuries these gems of thought 
 To him, all cut and fashioned, came. 
 
 Even the sov'reign form of prayers 
 (I shame not Him in saying it), 
 
 Ere Christ gave it the form it wears, 
 Had served the Rabbis bit by bit. 
 
 To Him all praise and glory be 
 
 For plucking from the dross and silt 
 
 The golden words that framed the plea, 
 Uttered in faith, preserves from guilt ! 
 
 47
 
 Scarcely a classic, prose or rhyme, 
 
 But had its origin in Myth; 
 The heritage of farthest time 
 
 Is all you are familiar with. 
 
 From India's stores of myth the tale 
 
 Of good King Lear, by devious ways, 
 Crept slowly to our times, and stale 
 
 With age the Venice Merchant plays 
 For us the very roles he played 
 
 (With Portia, pound of flesh, and ring) 
 For those the Macedonian made 
 
 Acknowledge him their sovereign king. 
 
 And Peeping Tom of Coventry 
 
 In India peeped ages before 
 Godiva knew his lech rous eye 
 
 Had sought the key-hole of her door. 
 
 And Johnny Sands could trace his source 
 
 To Nineveh or Babylon; 
 A child of Myth, he came in course 
 
 Of time to strut our stages on. 
 
 Whence came the art of ancient Greece, 
 
 The sculpture all posterity 
 Admires no less with Time's increase? 
 
 For answer Egypt's temples see, 
 The rude relief the architect 
 
 Designed for ornament and show, 
 On temple walls, I half suspect 
 
 Led by degrees to sculptor. So, 
 Likewise, the minstrel for the strain 
 
 That wakes a sigh, or starts a tear, 
 Owes some winged warbler whose refrain 
 
 Has caught and held his raptured ear. 
 
 4 8
 
 Boccacio garbled all he wrote, 
 And from Boccacio much I drew. 
 
 Scarce one truism people quote 
 To its reputed source is due. 
 
 Not what he fashions, or designs, 
 The genius makes, but knowing how 
 
 To utilize the waste he finds, 
 
 That hangs the laurel on his brow. 
 
 In each succeeding age appears, 
 
 Above the horizon of thought, 
 Some intellect the coming years 
 
 Will crown for something said, or wrought. 
 
 'Twas Wisdom gave us not to see, 
 In youth, the rainbow nimbus hung 
 
 About our heads, and, seemingly, 
 
 Our future paths with garlands hung 
 
 Else had we clung to mother-skirts, 
 
 Or hid beneath paternal boughs, 
 Reluctant to endure the hurts 
 
 Which life inflicts while it endows. 
 
 One kindly deed, in mercy wrought, 
 
 Will sink a thousand wrongs from sight 
 
 One look of pity oft hath brought 
 To hopeless souls a ray of light. 
 
 49
 
 "TETRASTICHS" 
 
 BY 
 THE SHADE OF KHAYYAM 
 
 The thoughts and fancies which I here append 
 For your acceptance or rejection, friend, 
 
 Are merely transcripts from some scores I wrote 
 Ere the grim Ferrash came and wrought my end. 
 
 One's mere witticisms, flung in jest at Fate, 
 Or morbid tendency to speculate 
 
 Anent the mystery of Life and Death, 
 The broad, impartial mind will tolerate. 
 
 "What most imports a mortal man to win, 
 And whither on life's way should he begin?" 
 
 One asked of me, and I, scarce knowing, said, 
 "Some soul, methinks, to righteousness from sin." 
 
 He answered me, "What profits that the man 
 Whose soul itself is under heavy ban? 
 Whoso starts not his charity at home, 
 The reach from earth to heaven scarce shall span." 
 
 One, seeking, asked me, "What is Death?" I said 
 (How quake some at a very shadow's tread!) 
 Well, what I answered him concerns it you? 
 First answer me the number of thy dead! 
 
 50
 
 Not knowing at whose bier ended the line 
 Of consanguinity, couldst reckon thine? 
 The source of kinship lies too far away 
 For me to trace and count the dead of mine! 
 
 And as the sea-shell still echoes the strain 
 Sung in the caverns of its native main, 
 
 However far remote, so chants the soul 
 The songs of its lost Ed'n, and sighs in vain. 
 
 Yet howsoe'er I strive to fright away 
 The phantoms that beset me, and be gay, 
 
 Dread of Futurity doth ever taint 
 The flavor of the pleasures due to-day. 
 
 Ah, soul of mine! 'tis folly to deny 
 Thy craven fear, and all as vain to try, 
 
 E'en lip to lip with this sweet second spouse, 
 The Prophet's lurid warning to defy! 
 
 Now it may be the snare for her was set 
 To prove the Woman's proneness to forget, 
 
 And change a blessing for a doubtful whim, 
 That into the void left might come regret. 
 
 For until he the snake appeared, no sting 
 Had found her heart, or other hurtful thing, 
 
 To turn her thoughts within, and make her feel 
 That need of pardon which remorse doth bring. 
 
 Not knowing it shall find, through death, the rest 
 Which proves in life a weary, hopeless quest, 
 
 Marvel not thou the soul oft shrinks, appalled, 
 And life is robbed of all its charm and zest.
 
 And still the knot of human fate resists 
 The efforts of the curious, and twists 
 The mind whoso would unravel it, 
 Till fain to quit the tangle, he desists. 
 
 "And what is Life?" another questioned me; 
 "Drag thou aside the veil that I may see." 
 
 I turned, and pointing to an open grave: 
 "Behold," I whispered him, "Life's mystery." 
 
 Wherefore, O man, dost thou so blanch and start? 
 What is it knocks for answer at thy heart? 
 
 "My soul," he said, "would know the whence and 
 
 where, 
 No whit of which I'm able to impart." 
 
 Canst thou no single grain of comfort lend 
 Thy wistful soul, so near its mortal end? 
 
 Thy plight scarce balances the just deserts 
 Of one who would debauch so close a friend! 
 
 "Thou fool!" he answered me, "I am my soul's, 
 And howsoever it will it me controls; 
 If evil, what? if good, where is my gain? 
 Am I aught other than the grave enfolds?" 
 
 ""But it is bruited thou some day shalt rise, 
 And stand before the Bar of the Allwise, 
 
 Who will thy everlasting place declare 
 According as thy Earth-life justifies." 
 
 Then answered he with speech more temperate, 
 "I know, indeed, before His throne shall wait 
 
 Alike the quick and dead their weal or woe; 
 But is such mine, or only my soul's fate?" 
 
 52
 
 Such mystery pervades the written Word, 
 Had I dared answer him perhaps I'd erred, 
 And witlessly false hopes or fears aroused 
 In one who seemed already deeply stirred. 
 
 I passed an open portal, whence one cried, 
 "Ho! all who will may here the night abide; 
 
 The Bride awaits thee, and the Groom says come 
 Then why dost linger on the outerside?" 
 
 But, heeding not, I passed the portal by, 
 Yet whereso'ere I went, heard I the cry, 
 
 Till on a day the Voice its pleadings ceased, 
 And now, alas, I know the reason why! 
 
 Well, I am sorry; and if again I hear 
 Those loving accents dinning in my ear, 
 
 And find the Portal whence the Voice came, 
 Then will I heed and enter, have no fear ! 
 
 The soul itself is its own witness, friend, 
 And for refuge and succor needs depend 
 
 On nothing other than its conscious self ; 
 Then why, O fool! thy conscious soul offend? 
 
 As Water doth the Body cleanse, so Mind 
 By Truth is purified, Menu opined ; 
 
 Well, howsoever this may be, we know 
 We're less to good than evil thoughts inclined. 
 
 If Eblis would not yield obedience when 
 Commanded to show Adam homage, then 
 
 Blame not Almighty that He cast him forth, 
 Where, out of spite, he "lies in wait for men." 
 
 S3
 
 From Al Araf, we're taught, an open view 
 Is had of Paradise, and Hades, too; 
 
 Unfit for Heav'n, nor yet deserving hell, 
 Are those adjudged to fare between the two! 
 
 Then, destined not of Paradise to be, 
 Grant me a place upon Al Araf, free 
 
 To badger those who, knowing, missed the way 
 They were too self-engrossed to show to me! 
 
 'Tis not so much the sting of death we dread, 
 
 Nor yet the grave, where Love's last farewell's said, 
 
 As that sheer plunge into the vast Unknown 
 The soul must take on new found pinions sped. 
 
 Presumptuous Earth! albeit you foresaw 
 
 The creature God designed should break His law, 
 
 How dared you seek to have him change His will, 
 And from His little scheme of Man withdraw? 
 
 Let's see : Robbed of its doctrine that the soul 
 Exists beyond the portals of Life's goal, 
 
 What's thy religion left, you should deny 
 Your senses leave to play their wonted role? 
 
 Foredoomed To-morrow on the self-same stroke 
 To-day, forespent, will have his farewell spoke, 
 
 With gladsome step will start toward that past 
 On which no sound but sighs has ever broke. 
 
 And some of us who shall with laughter greet 
 Him where the past and where the future meet, 
 
 Ourselves must slip the shackles, and go hence 
 Ere he his little circle shall complete. 
 
 54
 
 Think not thy Sharak can the question solve; 
 On thee the consequences all devolve; 
 
 Take courage from thy conscience, and thou wouldst 
 Unhorse Old Doubt, flaunting a just resolve! 
 
 I cast a sonnet to a gaping crowd, 
 
 And their acclaim was earnest as 'twas loud, 
 
 Till one arose and threw a madrigal, 
 When, as one man, they to this idol bowed! 
 
 And with the Avesta the Bactr'an Seer 
 Gave him for guidance, need the Parsee fear? 
 
 But mark! the sacred fire the sunbeam lit 
 Must never be allowed to disappear! 
 
 Both Armazda and Ahriman were great, 
 And each upon his throne of power sate, 
 
 And the equal homage of the Magi took 
 Who would no chances on the Ultimate! 
 
 Sunrise of man a lengthened shadow throws, 
 At noon it hath crept back about his toes; 
 
 So mind in youth leaps forth in its conceit, 
 But later finds how little then it knows. 
 
 From the two cups which we together clink, 
 O friend of mine, the lees of life we drink! 
 
 The bitter and the sweet together swirl 
 As to our lips we turn them, whence they sink ! 
 
 There is a music which attaints the ear; 
 There is a laughter that echoes a fear; 
 There is a joy that forecasts a woe, 
 And ev'ry eye distills a limpid tear! 
 
 55
 
 Sighs will not alter, nor regret erase 
 A single memory we would efface; 
 
 Though warm and plastic, yet the tablet holds 
 The impress of each act on it we trace. 
 
 Not whence we came, so much as where we go 
 Is it that most imports a man to know, 
 If it be true the lesser and the great 
 Alike shall reap and garner as they sow. 
 
 Well, what my harvest is to be, I needs 
 Must wait the germination of the seeds, 
 
 Then cast but will I be allowed to cast 
 The balance 'twixt my good and evil deeds? 
 
 Now, if she did indeed the Jew invoke, 
 And from his shoulders snatched away his cloak 
 As from the am'rous one he turned and fled, 
 Which commandment was it Zulieka broke? 
 
 And then when Bahram Gur and his fair seven 
 Are called before the bar of all in heaven, 
 Think of the witnesses against the man, 
 And of their chances there of getting even! 
 
 And Sohrab dies ! But while his life blood flows, 
 He the amulet to doubting Rustum shows. 
 
 Well, had they heeded Ruksh's wild, weird neigh, 
 Mayhap it had not then so happ'd, who knows! 
 
 And if Al Sirat is no wider than 
 
 A spider's thread, then fear, indeed, the span ! 
 
 The reach from Earth to Heaven, over hell, 
 Makes it unsafe for even a just man ! 
 
 56
 
 There is a story of a fratricide, 
 
 There is a tale about the Blood that cried 
 
 Up from the ground unto its Maker, and 
 A mark none that I've read of e'er descried. 
 
 Then answered one and said, "I've heard it told 
 Adam sent Seth, when he had waxen old, 
 
 To seek the cherub guarding Eden's gate 
 And beg a Balsam from his lost freehold." 
 
 "Nonsense!" said one, "for Adam was too wise 
 To deem his son could find lost Paradise, 
 
 No glimpse of which hath ever yet been had 
 To gladden any other mortal's eyes." 
 
 Then quoth the other, "Softly, softly, friend, 
 And hear the legend to the utter end : 
 
 Adam showed Seth his feet had scorched a trail, 
 And warned him on these footprints to depend." 
 
 "Got he the Balsam?" asked one I knew not. 
 "No," quoth the other, "but instead he got 
 
 A seed that he should plant in Adam's mouth, 
 At his decease, along with him to rot. 
 
 " 'Four thousand years must pass,' the cherub said, 
 Ere opes the gate through which the twain were led. 
 
 Tell them the Serpent's touch hath scathed the tree, 
 And, save the root and tip, the tree is dead. 
 
 ' 'Twas from that tree thy parents plucked and ate; 
 From it this seed their dust shall propagate, 
 
 And grow the wood whereon shall come to pass 
 That shall restore them to their lost estate! 
 
 57
 
 "The tree waxed strong and mighty, girth and height, 
 And Solomon, requiring one of might 
 
 For the chief pillar to support his roof, 
 Had it felled, and scored and fashioned right. 
 
 "But when they stood the pillar in its place 
 It was too short by ever such a space, 
 
 Wherefore they built a pedestal for it, 
 And then it pierced the roof and marred its grace. 
 
 "At this the King, becoming wroth at last, 
 Ordered the beam across the Cedron cast; 
 
 An end of it on either bank was placed 
 To form a bridge for whoso daily passed. 
 
 "From thence 'twas moved and buried in the glade 
 Where, later on, the famous pool was made 
 
 To whose clear waters it imparted that 
 Which healed the ailing who in it were laid. 
 
 "About the time He was betrayed and tried 
 The beam rose to the surface of the tide, 
 
 And so was used to make the cross, 'tis said, 
 On which the Christ was raised and crucified." 
 
 "A likely tale," said one, decrepit, gray; 
 "A fair invention, though, I'm bound to say. 
 
 But if his feet had left a blackened trail, 
 How was it others never found the way?" 
 
 Now was it just to the Scape-goat to lay 
 The sins of wicked Israel on him, pray? 
 
 Better its fate whose death their sins atoned 
 Than his who bore them to the wilds away ! 
 
 58
 
 Man stalks the world with vanity replete, 
 Unmindful that the dust beneath his feet 
 
 Is that to which he owes the form he wears, 
 And likewise debtor for his vain conceit. 
 
 I've heard a tale where one Jan Ibin Jan 
 Is made to seem a pre-Adamic man, 
 
 Building and ruling over Chilminar 
 Long ere the days when Adam's reign began! 
 
 'Tis well, perhaps, between the mind of man 
 And that we call the Infinite Plan 
 
 Suspends a veil we cannot penetrate 
 Till we have rounded out life's little span. 
 
 Tread where we will, we press a human heart 
 Or that which was of man a mortal part. 
 
 The air we breathe, others, expiring, left 
 When the grim archer winged them with his dart. 
 
 Life's insufficient glimpses but reveal 
 
 How greatly less we know than what we feel. 
 
 Not his excessive and utter conceit 
 Can from man's soul his littleness conceal. 
 
 'Twixt the Avesta and the Koran how 
 Are we to know to whom, indeed, to bow? 
 
 Well, nothing better, let us still pursue 
 The beaten path and make the most of now. 
 
 And when we've had our round of mirth and wine 
 And slipped the shackles which to-day confine, 
 
 Come thou, O Saki, to my bier and tilt 
 A flowing beaker to these lips of mine! 
 
 59
 
 If one to harp and one's ordained to burn, 
 How, then, is fate on our own acts to turn ? 
 
 Destined to harp, then why our mirth subdue? 
 Foredoomed, then vain is all our heart's concern. 
 
 The stars that tremble on yon azure plain, 
 As little know they of what we would fain 
 
 As we know of the Hand that thursts them forth 
 And draws them back behind the veil again. 
 
 Shall we accept the tale and question not? 
 David, 'tis told, took refuge in a grot 
 
 Where spiders quickly spun a web across, 
 Deceiving those who, else, within had sought ! 
 
 I tell you this: a game of chance decides 
 (Behind the curtain Now and Then divides) 
 What is to be my lot, and yours, and yours, 
 And He that throws the dice is judge besides. 
 
 And Man was lulled to sleep, and from his side 
 God took the rib and fashioned him a bride, 
 And this first sleep became the pattern of 
 That one to'rd which our heedless footsteps glide. 
 
 As cried the traitor's blood when Aeneas drew 
 The Myrtle from his ashes, whence it grew, 
 
 So cried my soul when doubt uprooted quite 
 The one remaining hope 'twas clinging to. 
 
 That was a sorry trick the Devil played 
 Upon King David when himself he made 
 
 A stag, and lured the royal sportsman on 
 To where Goliah's kin his death essayed ! 
 
 60
 
 Answered the Vine: "But for the Devil's wiles 
 My juice had nourished only mirth and smiles." 
 
 Hist, O Vine! he did but add a spice; 
 Not it, but man himself, himself defiles! 
 
 And when the Book in which mine acts are shown 
 Into the scales awaiting it is thrown, 
 
 Will they go up, I wonder, or go down? 
 For as they rise or fall my fate is shown ! 
 
 Or should the Messenger present, instead, 
 Fruit from the tree of Life, turn not thy head ; 
 
 Not thy aversion, nor thy prayers can stay 
 The penalty which He in Eden read. 
 
 Had not the Raven by example shown 
 How to entomb the dead, had Adam known? 
 
 For he and Eve and Abel's faithful dog 
 Had watched the corpse till it had putrid grown. 
 
 Were I (that Arab like) permitted to 
 Enter the gates and Iram's wonders view, 
 
 I would not flee in dread her silent ways 
 Till I had filched a rose or two for you! 
 
 Now if it be that when accounts are squared, 
 All those who at my hands unjustly fared 
 Receive of my good deeds a recompense, 
 Shall any good, think you, to me be spared ? 
 
 And if, then, from the Tuba Tree out-flow 
 (As they who picture Janet Aden show) 
 Four rivers, one of which is ruby wine, 
 Oh, who would not to Janet Aden go! 
 
 61
 
 So when I worship at a human shrine 
 Do I therein not worship the divine? 
 
 Either I do, O Thou! or they do err 
 Who teach my spirit is a part of thine. 
 
 And there, likewise, dark-eyed Musk-maidens wait 
 Each coming of her predestined mate 
 
 Whose hands shall dip and minister the wine, 
 And kisses even more the soul elate! 
 
 And when the angels of the lurid hue 
 Enter my tomb and bid me rise, and true 
 Answers accord of all they question me, 
 May these be such no torture shall ensue ! 
 
 Or shall the earth be closer round me pressed, 
 And dragons bite and sting me, thwarting rest? 
 Well, I know not, but this, indeed, I know 
 Death on the Sabbath day will bar their quest! 
 
 If destined I the fervid shoe to wear, 
 Or agonize in sweat, the while I'm there 
 Before the Bar, pending my final doom, 
 I pray no haste in judging me He'll spare! 
 
 Then if my good deeds are not equal to 
 Rend'ring to each and all their rightful due, 
 They may add of his sins to mine enough 
 To balance the account, and justice do! 
 
 But if, after sufficient has been ta'en 
 Of my good deeds, there yet enough remain 
 To equal quite the weight of one wee ant, 
 Why then my life will not have been in vain ! 
 
 62
 
 Waste not your efforts on the creature who 
 Has not the wit or wish to learn of you. 
 
 The ass, we're told, the Nazarine bestrode 
 Were still an ass, though brought to Mecca too. 
 
 At length the Muezzen the hour declares 
 And the Mohammedan retires for prayers. 
 
 Which thought, I wonder, now, concerns him 
 
 most 
 His last misdoing or his day's affairs ? 
 
 And you and I are hov'ring on the brink 
 Of that weird mystery which is the link 
 
 That couples Time to vast Eternity 
 The little scoop in Earth from which we shrink. 
 
 Well, it may be that our own fate we weave; 
 That the predestined one which some believe 
 Lies ambushed in the shadows at the end 
 Is but a Fancy, as we shall perceive. 
 
 The Hand that fashioned man to human shape 
 Likewise gave form and color to the grape, 
 But it was Satan mingled with its juice 
 The blood of lamb and lion, sow and ape! 
 
 Will thoughts confusing never cease to rise? 
 A tale I've heard somewhere runs on this wise: 
 
 The first man was bi-sexual, at first, 
 And quite a hundred-fold his present size! 
 
 Along with this exists a legend frail: 
 That Adam was created with a tail, 
 
 From which Almighty cleverly designed 
 A creature far more fair than he, but frail !
 
 But when Adam perceived his former tail 
 Too frisky was by far for the female 
 
 Designed to cheer him down the ways of life, 
 He prayed to God, and not without avail. 
 
 For then it was from Adam's rib He made 
 The woman whom the Devil sought and played 
 
 The trick upon with the forbidden fruit 
 The consequence of which we can't evade. 
 
 By which recital I am forced to go 
 
 Yet further with the narrative and show 
 
 How that the one He fashioned from the tail 
 Is with us in the giddy ones we know! 
 
 Yes, it is strange not one returns to tell 
 
 What Heaven is like, or what the ways of Hell 
 
 If Heaven is what we dream, and Hell the same, 
 Or if Death was, and Hell, ere Adam fell. 
 
 I say: If Solomon Ashmedai knew 
 To be the Evil One, yet careless grew, 
 
 And pledged his ring to learn a magic trick, 
 It mattered little if he lived to rue. 
 
 Again I tell you, and its truth declare: 
 Who is indicted of misdoing there 
 
 Shall have recourse to no tribunal else, 
 Or less relentless, yet shall justly fare. 
 
 Ah, well ! might I recast my life, no doubt 
 'Twould leave a fairer luster when 'tis out. 
 
 Still, the Muezzen's sight is bad, you know 
 How then discern 'twixt me and the devout? 
 
 64
 
 And if the Giants did the heavens invade, 
 
 And fright the gods, who thence for Egypt made, 
 
 Blame not the gods, nor those who worshiped them 
 In their new forms assumed because afraid. 
 
 When the grim Ferrash strikes and spits my heart, 
 And my scared soul and I are doomed to part, 
 
 Methinks I know what my last thought shall be 
 A-twixt the parting and the rankling dart. 
 
 For I have looked on life with scant content, 
 And into unknown realms my soul have sent 
 
 Some inkling of that afterward to gain, 
 And it came back less knowing than it went. 
 
 If from the infinite past there came no call, 
 And the infinite future waved no pall, 
 
 And hope and fear were both unknown to man, 
 Then were the finite present all in all. 
 
 And when into that stern, infinite past 
 We too, with all that went before, are cast, 
 
 Shall we then know, think you, which end of Time 
 The end that was, or end to be 's more vast? 
 
 Lest, dreaming, I meet Siltim unawares, 
 I shun the groves where it is said he fares, 
 
 Since I've no charm to wear upon my arm 
 To shield me from the wily demon's snares! 
 
 And if, then, it shall chance the little plot 
 The grave in which we're laid at last is not 
 
 The end of all, as some, you know, maintain, 
 Where fares the soul while it awaits its lot? 
 
 65
 
 The mystery of life more tangled grows 
 The deeper into it our reason goes; 
 
 The Galilean solved it, certain claim, 
 Yet man no more of it, than ever, knows. 
 
 And those who sought and failed, and those who found 
 The key to riches and with wealth were crowned, 
 
 Alike are paupers in the realm of Death 
 Tenants by grace of one small plot of ground! 
 
 And this I've learned: the richest man is he 
 Whose wants are fewest, and a mind to see 
 
 The folly of desires which, gratified, 
 Lead to yet others which can never be. 
 
 Now tell me this, I pray: If Moses knew 
 Whereof he wrote, why not of Satan, too? 
 
 'Tis not a query, poked in idle jest 
 I fain would know thfe reason, friend, from you. 
 
 And those first prophets were no less remiss. 
 They threatened vengeance and they promised bliss, 
 
 Yet nought about the Evil One they said! 
 Now who can give a reason, pray, for this? 
 
 O soul of mine, thy fruitless quest forego! 
 The One True Way hast sought in vain, and so, 
 
 Lost in a mist of doubt, bide still, and see 
 What is thy destiny or weal, or woe! 
 
 Take from thy creed the all-pervading thought, 
 "Future Rewards and Punishment," and nought 
 
 Of thy religion, Man, you'll find is left 
 To feed the hopes and fears itself has wrought. 
 
 66
 
 Then if the purpose of this life is more 
 Than waxing merry in the wine we pour, 
 
 Think you the Saki will get all the blame 
 When we the judge of all are called before? 
 
 And if the crafty priest, Benaiah, scared 
 The moor-hen, as toward her nest she fared, 
 
 So that she dropped the Schamir, which he sought, 
 Think you that he could a lesser hazard dared? 
 
 Well, it were equally as wise, no doubt, 
 To make a merry jest of Life, and flout 
 
 The ever-haunting doubts and quaking fears 
 Until the hour is up and lights are out! 
 
 Whereon, O Saki, one last bumper pour! 
 Fill up the beaker till it trickles o'er, 
 
 Then write my epitaph, and let it read: 
 "Women he loved, and wine, but wine the more!" 
 
 67
 
 SOUNDS AND PERSPECTIVES. 
 
 On the hillsides I have seen 
 
 In the springtime great white splashes 
 Of dogwood, and crimson dashes 
 
 Of red-bud amidst the green 
 Of the thicket's meshes. 
 
 I have caught the tinkling sound 
 Of the distant cow-bell's rattle 
 On the busy, browsing cattle 
 
 Seen the hawk, high sailing round 
 When the crows gave battle. 
 
 Summer noon-tides I have stood 
 
 'Neath the cool gloom of the beaches, 
 Gazing off across the reaches 
 
 Of white heat, toward the wood, 
 Where yon highway stretches. 
 
 Watched the puffe of white dust rise 
 Where the teamsters knee-deep waded 
 In it, goading their poor, jaded 
 
 Oxen, till the heat mine eyes 
 Blinded, and all faded. 
 
 Seen the harvesters a-field, 
 
 Caught the rhythm of the sickle 
 Like a silvery fountain's trickle, 
 
 The while the season's bounteous yield 
 Set their hearts a-tickle. 
 
 68
 
 I've seen thin veils of blue mist (hung 
 By the woodland-nymphs) at morning 
 All the mountain tops adorning; 
 
 Heard the woodman's ax that rung 
 The forest tree's death warning; 
 
 Caught the homeward low of herds, 
 Distant, dreamy, melancholy, 
 Stealing o'er the meadows slowly, 
 
 And the vesper hymn of birds 
 In the twilight holy. 
 
 I have felt that pensiveness 
 
 We are sometimes wont to borrow 
 From the forecasts of the morrow, 
 
 Foreshadowings of something less 
 Than sheer grief or sorrow. 
 
 Felt those hopes which come and go 
 When anticipated pleasures 
 Fail to yield expected measures, 
 
 And that bitterness of woe 
 Over vanished treasures.
 
 A WEIRD DREAM 
 
 I stood last night where a white mist rose 
 
 Above a silent river, 
 And the eerie forms that come to those 
 
 Who feel no joy ever, 
 Came to me by the silent shore 
 Where the pale mist drifted o'er. 
 
 The mist, it drifted over the stream, 
 The moon shone blood-red through, 
 
 The stars grew dim, till no faint gleam 
 Relieved the murky blue, 
 
 And a w T eird loneliness and dread 
 
 Crept into my sad heart instead. 
 
 My heart grew chill a nameless fear 
 
 Came over me, for now 
 Voices, long hushed, fell on my ear, 
 
 And dank hands touched my brow 
 Hands that I had felt before 
 Pressed my brow as oft of yore. 
 
 A voice I knew came out of the mist, 
 And a form I'd known before 
 
 Came out, and bent o'er me and kissed 
 My pale lips o'er and o'er, 
 
 And oh ! the touch of those lips, and oh ! 
 
 The breath that chilled and numbed me so! 
 
 70
 
 THE FISHERMAN 
 
 O happy the life the fisherman lives, 
 
 Healthy and happy is he; 
 Casting his nets and lines, he thrives, 
 
 And laughs right merrily 
 
 As he pulls for the shore with his catch of shad, 
 Where waiting and watching, his tow-head lad 
 
 Dances and sings with glee.
 
 RE-AWAKENED 
 
 I thought that I had left it all behind me 
 The sighing, and the sorrow, and the tears; 
 
 That my heart held nothing of her to remind me 
 Save that piteous, pallid, placid face of hers. 
 
 And I said, "The dead must give way to the living, 
 Even as the old leaf gives way to the new," 
 
 And "the heart is happy only when 'tis giving 
 The love for love it was created to." 
 
 'Twas thus I thought, and thus I said, not knowing 
 The ashes of the dead love held a spark 
 
 A breath, a sigh would change to embers glowing, 
 Like the glimmer of a red light in the dark. 
 
 Then I turned me from the sweet enthralling present, 
 From the glamour and the glory of her eyes, 
 
 And knew my love for her was evanescent 
 As my heart sent forth the old familiar sighs. 
 
 And my heart, so lately pulsing in the sweetness 
 And the warmth of love her loveliness inspired, 
 
 Is now chill, and still, and frozen to completeness, 
 And the dead above the living is desired. 
 
 In the shadow of that early, bitter sorrow 
 In fancy now I stand beside a grave, 
 
 And from the solemn silence seek to borrow 
 The respite and the solace mortals crave. 
 
 72
 
 But in vain! The fountain of all hope is dried up 
 By the arid winds of utter grief and woe, 
 
 And the future in the blessed past is tied up 
 While the silence and the shadows deeper grow. 
 
 Then a whisper seems to agitate the stillness 
 And the shadows are illumined by a smile, 
 
 And I see her face as ere that fatal illness 
 When I held her to my heart a little while. 
 
 And the face, so lately cast in marble whiteness, 
 Is now flushed with the rich color love imparts, 
 
 And my soul hath left the shadow for the brightness 
 And the beauty that illumines happy hearts. 
 
 Alas! the vision passes, and the feeling 
 
 That crushed me when they told me she was gone 
 
 Comes o'er me like a shadow, surely stealing 
 The sweetness that my heart was feasting on. 
 
 73
 
 THINGS 'AT USED TO BE 
 
 It's many a day since I've bin here, 
 An' many o' them I knowed is dead, 
 An' most o' the old lan'-marks is fled, 
 
 'Ceptin' the road 'long the crick bank, where 
 Past the old schoolhouse it led. 
 
 An' when I go 'long that road now 
 I can't he'p thinkin' 'bout when she 
 Used to go 'long there with me, 
 
 Fer mem'ry will run back, somehow, 
 To things 'at used to be. 
 
 An' the feelin' that comes over me 
 A kind o' longin' an' regret 
 Makes me wish 'at I could forget 
 
 Some o' the things 'at used to be 
 Some things 'at ha'nt me yet. 
 
 Fer instance, when we started to go 
 To meetin' once across the crick, 
 An' cause the old foot-log was slick, 
 
 An' partly 'cause her head swum so, 
 She couldn't walk it, an' turned sick. 
 
 At which I got 'most mad as sin, 
 
 An' said I knowed 'twas all put on 
 Knowed ef she would, she could 'a' gone, 
 
 An' wished 'at she had fallen in 
 An' sp'ilt her nice new lawn. 
 
 74
 
 An' then she looked so hurt, an' cried, 
 An' said she'd bet I'd see the day 
 I'd wish I hadn't talked that way 
 
 'Specially when I knowed she'd tried, 
 Whatever else I'd say. 
 
 An' true as fate, her prophecy 
 
 Was all fulfilled when she lay dead, 
 Fer many times since then I've said 
 
 I wished to goodness gracious I 
 Had humored her, instead. 
 
 An' though I've loved an' wed since then, 
 An' though my other 'n's young and fair 
 As any woman breathes the air, 
 
 I can't he'p thinkin' 'bout t'other 'n' when 
 My heart is wrought with care. 
 
 Fer she had a way o' sayin' things, 
 A tender, soothin', coddlin' tone 
 (Which to the other 'n' is not known) 
 
 'At showed she felt an' shared the stings 
 Which now I bear alone. 
 
 Ah, well! ef on'y we could foresee 
 The bitterness a harsh word brings, 
 An' how the memory of it stings, 
 
 We'd ponder well, I think, 'fore we 
 Give ut'rance to some things. 
 
 Fer when our dead are dead, they're dead 
 Ther' ain't no way to bring them back, 
 An' howsoe'er the conscience slack 
 
 Its vigilance, the harsh word said 
 Some day our heart will rack ! 
 
 75
 
 BURIAL OF MOSES. 
 
 No winding sheet of earthly weave 
 Enwrapped the form of Moses: 
 
 Supernal hands, we may believe, 
 Laid him where he reposes. 
 
 And no man saw the funeral train, 
 And no man saw the burial 
 
 Out there on Moab's lonely plain, 
 Except the folk ethereal. 
 
 No gloria-in-excelsis here 
 On earth was ever chanted 
 
 To equal that above the bier 
 Of him to whom was granted 
 
 Permission to behold a-near 
 His people's sure possession, 
 
 While yet the doom rings in his ear 
 That cancels his transgression. 
 
 And standing on the rugged crest 
 Of Pisgah, gazing yonder, 
 
 Over the scene toward the west, 
 He's little time to ponder 
 
 On what may, or may not be; 
 
 Yet, with eye prophetic, 
 He sees their glorious destiny 
 
 And mounts to heiehts ecstatic. 
 
 76
 
 And while in this ecstatic state 
 The Lord recalls his spirit, 
 
 And gives the form inanimate 
 Sepulture of such merit 
 
 As never since the world began 
 
 Was honor like accorded 
 To any other mortal man 
 
 As that to him afforded. 
 
 With His own hands God laid him in 
 The grave there excavated, 
 
 Rememb'ring now no more the sin 
 He'd fully expiated. 
 
 And well we know an angel choir 
 
 Sang peans at his burial, 
 And that a golden harp and lyre 
 
 Added to strains ethereal. 
 
 77
 
 A TRAGEDY 
 
 The morn was bright and balmy, with signs presaging 
 
 rain, 
 The loon's cry, the raincrow's, the tree-toad's rasping 
 
 strain, 
 
 An' we were in the woods alone, little sister an' I, 
 She pluckin' little blue-bells, I in a tree near by 
 A small tree, a service-tree with berries red and 
 
 ripe. 
 
 Beneath the hollow of the sky a single cloud was seen ; 
 The wind rose, the heavens paled, an' then a hazy 
 
 green 
 
 Crept across the sun's face, until a shadow fell, 
 An' dark an' gruesome grew the wood 'round me an' 
 
 sister Nell, 
 The dense wood, the drear wood, it frightened 
 
 Nell an' me! 
 
 Across the hills the thunders came, an' then the light- 
 ning played; 
 
 The clouds belched, the winds shrieked, an' sister got 
 afraid, 
 
 An' I slid down the bush an' crawled beneath a leanin' 
 tree, 
 
 An' sister dropped her blue-bells an' nestled close to 
 
 me 
 
 'Cause she was scared, an' I was scared, as any one 
 Vd be! 
 
 78
 
 An' while the storm was ragin', little sister cried an' 
 
 said, 
 "Oh! my foot hurts the' 's thorns here!" I looked 
 
 a copper-head 
 Was creepin' off, an' then I knew it wasn't thorns at 
 
 all, 
 An' when I looked to'rd her again she was about to 
 
 fall, 
 An' I caught her an' held her, an' tried to soothe 
 
 'er pain. 
 
 An' when she kep' a cryin' I took 'er on my back, 
 An' bendin' low, I ran so toward our little shack. 
 But when I felt 'er arms loose their clasp about my 
 
 neck, 
 I stopped an' laid 'er on the ground, an' tried to make 
 
 'er speak 
 But she laid there, a strange stare in her baby eyes! 
 
 An' when she wouldn't speak or move I shouted in 
 
 alarm, 
 An' father came an' knelt down an' took 'er on his 
 
 arm, 
 An' kissed 'er little pale cheeks, an' wept aloud, an' 
 
 said, 
 As he took 'er up to bear her home, "My God, my 
 
 baby's dead!" 
 An' I cried, an' he cried oh, how my papa cried ! 
 
 Then some folks came an' stood around, an' talked in 
 
 whispers low 
 'Bout what a awful thing it was a little child should 
 
 die so. 
 An' when they'd made a deep hole, away down in the 
 
 ground, 
 They laid 'er in, an' covered her, an' made a little 
 
 mound, 
 An' ev'ry day I go there, an set by it an' cry! 
 
 79
 
 PUNCHEON CRICK 
 
 I want to see the people we used to know on Punch- 
 eon 
 The people that we neighbored with a dozen years 
 
 or more; 
 Where's the use o' tryin' to be happy when you're 
 
 dyin' 
 
 For the kindly, honest faces that you used to know 
 before ? 
 
 I'd like to step in on 'em when they weren't expectin' 
 
 me, 
 An' see their look of glad surprise, an' hear 'em 
 
 when they say, 
 " 'Tain't no use a talkin', you're the master gal to 
 
 walk in 
 
 On a body unbeknown," an' "How's yer ma to- 
 day?" 
 
 Oh, where's the use o' riches, when your heart is 
 
 heavin' sighs, 
 An' your soul is filled with longin's they will not 
 
 satisfy ? 
 It sets me almost ravin', this everlastin' cravin' 
 
 The freedom of the meadows, an' the fields of wavin' 
 rye! 
 
 So
 
 When they struck the gusher on the farm, an' father 
 
 sold 
 The place for fifty thousand, I was happy then, it 
 
 seemed 
 
 Laid awake nights buildin' castles in the air, an' gildin' 
 Them with ev'ry fancy that a mortal ever dreamed. 
 
 I pictured us a mansion on the Boolyvar in town, 
 An' carriages, a driver, an' a footman to attend, 
 
 An' myself reclinin' on a sofa-couch, a pinin' 
 
 For a truant lover, an' a-wishin' life would end. 
 
 The log-house in the country had no carpets on the 
 
 floor, 
 An' only muslin curtains for the windows, that was 
 
 all; 
 
 An' father kep' his saddle out on the porch, astraddle 
 Of the banister, an' bridle on a peg driv' in the 
 wall. 
 
 The chickens an' the turkeys had their dust-bath in the 
 
 yard, 
 The geese an' ducks their lavatory near the garden 
 
 fence, 
 An' I used to think the noise of the geese, an' ducks, 
 
 an* boys, 
 
 An' the peafowls an' the guineas would deprive me 
 of my sense. 
 
 Then think of us a havin' pictured carpets on the 
 
 floors, 
 An' rugs of bear an' tiger skins, with heads, an' 
 
 claws, an' all, 
 
 So lifelike that I've trembled, so much the things re- 
 sembled 
 
 The real, livin' creatures, 'specially that one in the 
 hall. 
 
 81
 
 I'd like to be a-livin' back on Puncheon Crick again, 
 Where, unconcerned with etiquette, an' fashionable 
 
 gush, 
 
 I'd go to meetin' Sundays, an' wash an' iron Mon- 
 days, 
 
 An' help to rake an' rick the hay durin' the harvest 
 rush. 
 
 I'd like to see Belinda Yeager go a-ridin' by 
 
 On her flea-bitten critter, with her basket on her 
 
 lap, 
 All in a pleasant flutter, thinkin' what her eggs an' 
 
 butter 
 
 Would buy to trim her weddin* gown, to marry 
 Silas Knap. 
 
 An' there is Larkin' Rudd, who used to come a 
 
 sparkin' me; 
 I'd like to see him ridin' down the lane, as oft of 
 
 yore, 
 Ev'ry Sunday mornin', a holly-hock adornin' 
 
 The lapel of the skimpy seersucker coat he wore. 
 
 I used to think when I'd so much to do out on the 
 
 farm, 
 To milk, an' churn, an' sweep, an' half a hundred 
 
 other things, 
 I'd like to be a lady of leisure, in some shady 
 
 Nook a readin' novels, an' a wearin' diamond rings. 
 
 But now that I have tried it I would willin'ly ex- 
 change 
 
 My boodwar in the city for my garret snug retreat, 
 Where the rhythmic patter of the rain upon the latter 
 Would send me off to dreamland on the wings of 
 slumber sweet. 
 
 82
 
 Ah, well! we're ne'er more happy, once we've grown 
 
 wordly wise. 
 
 An' true it is that ignorance is happiness instead; 
 The path hill-people follow to their cabin up some 
 
 hollow 
 
 Alone leads where contentment neath a rustic roof 
 is bred.
 
 PREMONITION 
 
 "Rora, O Rora! the winds are wild, 
 And the waves run high on the sea; 
 
 I fear, oh I fear for the fate of our child 
 To-night, wherever he be!" 
 
 "Ah, Katie, the boy is a fearless lad, 
 
 And knows how to reef a sail; 
 Little he cares if the sea is mad, 
 
 And the winds do shriek and wail." 
 
 "Yes, Rora, I know he is fearless and brave, 
 
 Yes, fearless and brave is he, 
 But what could he with an angry wave 
 
 On the breast of a raging sea? 
 
 "Go watch on the beach, where the waves may throw 
 
 His lifeless form to-night; 
 For, Rora, he'll perish to-night, I know, 
 
 And my heart is breaking, quite." 
 
 When morning dawned they found him there, 
 
 A pale, cold corpse on the sand, 
 With sea-ooze clinging in his hair, 
 
 Sea-ooze clutched in his hand.
 
 HIDDEN GEMS 
 
 There are many little gems of thought 
 Deep-hidden in the poet's mind, 
 
 Which, though he try, he yet cannot 
 Reveal to any but his kind. 
 
 THE BETTER WAY 
 
 Come thou, O Muse, cease thy light dalliance; 
 
 Too long, methinks, hast trilled soft, witless airs 
 
 To love-sick maid and shallow-pated swain. 
 
 Leave such to those of little wit and worth, 
 
 And tread with me the unfrequented ways 
 
 That lead toward the border lands of Myth, 
 
 Where Bellerophon Pegasus bestrode, 
 
 Ere Homer sang, or Pindar tuned his lyre, 
 
 Or magic mind of Eschylus had wrought 
 
 To open graves and bring "pale spectres" forth 
 
 To strut the stage and frighten timid hearts; 
 
 Where elves, and nymphs, and fauns, and satyrs dwell, 
 
 And fairies come and go, and sirens flute 
 
 In coverts green, and lure to certain death 
 
 Who would a fancied assignation keep.
 
 LAKE O' THE WHITE CANOE 
 
 "Woe! woe!" the phantom sang, 
 "Woe to the hapless swain 
 Woe to the trusting maid 
 Whom parents cross in love, 
 Woe to the lovers twain 
 
 If he and she 
 
 A trysting flee 
 To the Lake of the White Canoe! 
 
 "O may they shun the spot, 
 The dark and mirey fen, 
 The drear and dismal wood 
 That skirts the stagnant pool, 
 And seek a trysting place 
 
 Beyond the bound 
 
 And dreary sound 
 Of the Lake of the White Canoe. 
 
 "The she-wolf loves the spot, 
 The muckwa prowleth there; 
 Here sounds the hoot-owl's cry, 
 Here croak the frogs and thrum, 
 Here sings the muckawis, 
 
 And the copperhead 
 
 Here makes his bed 
 By the Lake of the White Canoe. 
 
 86
 
 "At night here may be heard. 
 If hushed the muckawis, 
 And silent the she-wolf's tread, 
 Unheard the muckawa's growl, 
 Suppressed the hoot-owl's cry, 
 
 The measured dip 
 
 Of a paddle's tip 
 On the Lake of the White Canoe. 
 
 "And there likewise is heard 
 Words of a tender song, 
 Whose burden is a tale, 
 Sung to a touching strain, 
 As through the pale white mist 
 
 A boat with two 
 
 Glides into view 
 On the Lake of the White Canoe. 
 
 "Ages have come and gone 
 Since this sad thing befell. 
 My father told it me, 
 His father's father him, 
 And from his father he 
 
 Received the tale 
 
 Of the lover's bale 
 On the Lake of the White Canoe. 
 
 "Upon the Great Arm's brink, 
 In that far away time, 
 Dwelt the brave Roanokes, 
 Most dreaded of the wilds, 
 The whizzing of whose crest 
 
 Scared all away, 
 
 Traditions say, 
 From the Lake of the White Canoe.
 
 "Among the brave Roanokes 
 A youth and maiden dwelt, 
 Who from their childhood loved 
 The brave Annawan he, 
 The fair Pequida she 
 
 And oft at night 
 
 They'd row in sight, 
 On the lake in a white canoe. 
 
 "He the son of a chief, 
 She a warrior's daughter, 
 He the son of a Roanoke, 
 And she a Maqua's pride, 
 Which two brave men were foes 
 
 When maid and youth 
 
 Plighted their troth 
 On the Lake of the White Canoe. 
 
 "From childhood's happy hours 
 Together they had roamed 
 Bosky dell and bower, 
 Woodland glen and hollow, 
 Or by the river's brink 
 
 Ever they strayed, 
 
 And gaily played 
 Near the Lake of the White Canoe. 
 
 "At last their sires forbade 
 The courtship of the twain, 
 Whereon by stealth they met, 
 Despite the stern decree, 
 And every summer eve 
 
 They sought the tryst 
 
 Beneath the mist, 
 On the Lake of the White Canoe. 
 
 83
 
 [ 'Twas thus for moons they met 
 While darkness veiled the earth, 
 Naught caring for the wolf 
 That skulked amidst the brake, 
 Nor for the muckwa's growl, 
 Could they but feel 
 The bliss and weal 
 Of love in a white canoe. 
 
 "When autumn came and brought 
 The summer's bounteous yield 
 The fields of ripened maize, 
 The vines of clustering grapes, 
 It brought likewise a bane, 
 
 For now no more 
 
 Put off from shore 
 The twain in a white canoe. 
 
 "For now their sires had heard 
 How, at the midnight hour, 
 That those who walked the beach, 
 Or watched the lick for deer, 
 Oft heard a tender song, 
 
 And sometimes caught, 
 
 Or so they thought, 
 A glimpse of a white canoe. 
 
 "And thus the maiden's sire 
 Did question her and say, 
 'Pequida, it is said 
 A little bird told me 
 That oft at night is seen 
 
 A white canoe, 
 
 Wherein are two 
 Tell me, daughter, is either you?'
 
 "Then from the maiden's eyes 
 Came, like the summer's rain, 
 The tears she could not stay, 
 As thus she answered him, 
 'I love brave Annawan, 
 
 And oft, I own 
 
 As thou has shown, 
 We meet in our white canoe.' 
 
 " 'Love the son of my foe, 
 Knowing the bitter wrongs 
 That he has heaped on me! 
 Harken, then, to my words, 
 And tryst no more with him, 
 
 Nor be thou seen 
 
 Mist-waves between, 
 On the lake, in a white canoe.' 
 
 "Annawan's father said, 
 'A bird has whispered me 
 Who walks the beach at night, 
 Beneath the moon and stars, 
 May see, upon the lake, 
 A white canoe 
 In which are two 
 Answer, my son, if one be you?' 
 
 "Then answered Annawan, 
 'A warrior's soul is mine 
 I will not falsify; 
 The bird hath told thee true ; 
 I love the M aqua's daughter, 
 
 And oft at night, 
 
 By dim star-light, 
 We tryst, in a white canoe.' 
 
 90
 
 " 'Listen, my son, to me. 
 You must forego your suit, 
 Nor wed the Maqua maid, 
 Or meet her day or night 
 On the lake or land, 
 
 That to my ear 
 
 These tales I hear 
 Come not of a white canoe.' 
 
 "At night came to the lake 
 The maiden, young and fair, 
 And thus self -queried she, 
 'Why comes not Annawan, 
 My lover leal and true, 
 
 To go with me, 
 
 As often he 
 Hath gone, in our white canoe? 
 
 " 'Oh surely he has come 
 And sails the lake alone; 
 And though the wind is strong, 
 And rough the lake, and wild, 
 I must his barque pursue, 
 
 For it may be 
 
 He looks for me 
 On the lake, in his white canoe.' 
 
 "Into her barque she sprang, 
 
 And left the shore alone. 
 
 Loud shrieked the winds and moaned, 
 
 Fierce pealed the thunder's crash, 
 
 And vivid lightnings threw 
 
 Their lurid rays 
 
 Where madly plays 
 The waves with her white canoe.
 
 "Wildly she shrieked his name, 
 And strained her eyes for him. 
 The thunders drowned her cries, 
 Her eyes the lightning dimmed, 
 As through the driving spray 
 
 Onward she flew 
 
 In tears and rue, 
 O'er the lake in her white canoe. 
 
 "At last with hasty strides 
 Annawan seeks the tryst, 
 But finds Pequida gone, 
 And likewise, too, her barque; 
 Whereon his heart despairs, 
 
 For well he knows 
 
 The storm that blows 
 Must surely wreck her white canoe. 
 
 " 'My fair Pequida, come 
 
 Come back to me!" he cries; 
 
 But answer none hears he, 
 
 Though, glimmering through the mist 
 
 A small white speck appears 
 
 Gliding along, 
 
 While a death song 
 Comes back from the white canoe. 
 
 "Into his canoe then 
 Annawan quickly sprang, 
 And bounded o'er the wave, 
 Pursuing barque and song. 
 And though he saw and heard 
 
 All night long 
 
 Both barque and song, 
 Vain his chase of the white canoe.
 
 "At morn he sought his sire, 
 And thus upbraided him: 
 ' 'Twas you that made her grave 
 Deep in the Dismal Swamp, 
 Whither I too shall go, 
 
 And e'er at night 
 
 You'll see a light 
 Where we paddle our white canoe !' 
 
 "So saying, he turned away, 
 And never was seen again 
 By either friend or foe; 
 But oft at night, I know, 
 The shade of youth and maid, 
 
 With fire-fly lamp 
 
 The Dismal Swamp 
 Skim, paddling a white canoe." 
 
 93
 
 LOVE 
 
 I know not when you crept into my heart, 
 Or if direct, or by some sinuous way: 
 
 I only know you came, and are a part 
 Now of my life forever and for aye. 
 
 I think, may be, by way of thy soft eyes, 
 Or by thy kindly, gentle mien you came: 
 
 At any rate, in some such subtile guise 
 
 You found my heart, and lit the mystic flame. 
 
 And flowers now a sweeter fragrance yield, 
 The songs of birds are sweeter than they were, 
 
 A fairer sheen bedecks both wood and field, 
 Softer and purple-hazed the atmosphere. 
 
 If this be love as it must surely be 
 
 (Else what could so the heart and soul enthrall), 
 Then give me love, for love is ecstasy, 
 
 When it so casts a glamour over all. 
 
 94
 
 A VIOLET 
 
 From the far hills, dear wife, I send 
 This little mountain flower, 
 
 Whose tints to pure cerulean tend 
 Born of an April shower. 
 
 And, nestling in its petals tender, 
 
 A kiss I send to thee, 
 Knowing thou wilt homage render 
 
 Such token, love, from me. 
 
 Nor is the tint its petals holds 
 Truer, dear, to it than I 
 
 Unto the one my heart enfolds 
 With a love that cannot die. 
 
 95
 
 MEETING AND PARTING 
 
 Hail! farewell! farewell and hail! 
 
 Gladness, sadness, joy and woe, 
 Beginning and end of an old, old tale, 
 
 Ah me! a tale we all must know. 
 
 MY SORROW 
 
 Because who was the world and all to me is dead, 
 I cannot look upon a little golden head, 
 But I am forced to turn aside and weep awhile, 
 Or hide my agony behind a tear-veiled smile, 
 Lest others, seeing it, should pause and pity me, 
 Or mock my woe by staring curiously. 
 
 Oh ! it is hard to look upon the little face, 
 Lying there mutely in its snowy, coffin place, 
 Knowing no more we'll hear it lisp our name, or feel 
 Its precious arms about our neck in rapture steal. 
 
 96
 
 THE DOLL'S DRESS 
 
 I found this garment here to-day, 
 
 Moth-marked, and in some places moulded: 
 
 God bless the little hands that folded it away 
 The little hands, themselves now folded! 
 
 HEART STRAINS 
 
 O heart of mine! so prone to sing; 
 
 O lips! too weak to utter 
 The songs that constantly upspring, 
 
 Only to flutter, flutter, 
 As beats the 'prisoned bird its wing 
 
 Against the potent shutter, 
 
 Impotent I impotent we 
 
 To charm the world with minstrelsy. 
 
 Yet sing, O heart, thy songs divine, 
 More oft they charm than pain me 
 
 And as the frailest twig the vine 
 Sustains, so they sustain me; 
 
 For as love's tendrils hearts entwine, 
 Thy subtile strains enchain me, 
 And evil thoughts depart in haste 
 At sound of melodies so chaste. 
 
 97
 
 VIRGINIA 
 
 Down by the cottage stile, 
 
 In the afterglow 
 Of the summer twilights 
 
 In the long ago, 
 She and I together 
 
 Watched the roses bloom 
 Now their fragrance they diffuse 
 
 About Virginia's tomb. 
 
 'Neath the elm's foliage 
 
 Stood the cottage low 
 Overlaced with creepers 
 
 That clambered o'er it so 
 You couldn't tell the color, 
 
 Or if board or thatch, 
 Though now and then a glimmer 
 
 Of color you might catch, 
 
 Where the shifting foliage, 
 
 Shaken by the breeze, 
 Parted for a moment, 
 
 Showing bits of frieze 
 Or a patch of gable, 
 
 Where the robins sung 
 'Neath the rakish cornice 
 Where the ivy clung. 
 
 98
 
 Climbing roses blossomed 
 
 O'er the portico, 
 The path was made of pebbles 
 
 To the stile below, 
 And though a great profusion 
 
 Of shrubbery was seen, 
 Everything was tidy, 
 
 The garden neat and clean. 
 
 In the bowered windows 
 
 Potted flowers stood. 
 Often bent above them, 
 
 In a pensive mood, 
 I have seen Virginia 
 
 As lightsomely I strode 
 Up the pebbled pathway 
 
 To my love's abode. 
 
 That was in the heyday 
 
 Of a youthful dream, 
 Ere our little shallop neared 
 
 The rapids of life's stream 
 Where the cruel waters swept 
 
 My darling from my side, 
 Whereon I left my boat to drift, 
 
 And bowed my head and cried. 
 
 And often in the gloaming, 
 
 As in the long ago, 
 I wander to the cottage stile, 
 
 Backward, to and fro, 
 Where (maybe it is fancy) 
 
 I sometimes seem to see 
 My sweet Virginia tripping 
 
 Down the pebble-path to me. 
 
 99
 
 Then when the vision fadeth 
 
 I wander to a grave 
 Out beyond the garden wall, 
 
 Where with my tears I lave 
 The modest little flowers 
 
 Blooming o'er the spot, 
 The pink and purple pansies 
 
 And sweet forget-me-not. 
 
 100
 
 "BROKE" 
 
 The friends (?) who flocked around us when 
 Both wealth and worth were ours 
 
 Now pass around us, as you've seen 
 Bees shun insipid flowers. 
 
 The moth that flutters 'round the flame 
 
 Till it ceases to burn 
 Is quick indeed to shun the same, 
 
 The waning light to spurn. 
 
 What can't be cured we must endure, 
 
 It is misfortune's gift; 
 It is the penalty the poor 
 
 Must pay for lack of thrift.
 
 BURIED HOPES 
 
 O blessed, buried hopes, wherewith are laid 
 The cherished loves of many pleasant dreams! 
 
 How oft beside thy graves we've wept or prayed ! 
 Nor deemed it folly then, as now it seems. 
 
 As now- it seems! Nor was it folly then, 
 
 For what were life without these dreams of ours? 
 
 A lonely, barren waste, where meets the ken 
 No pleasant thing, no fragrant flowers. 
 
 And even now, as oft we stray alone 
 
 Amidst these buried loves, these treasured wrecks, 
 We sometimes pause beside a broken stone 
 
 To trace a name the weary heart detects. 
 
 O heart of man! and weeping woman's too, 
 But for these fleeting, transitory gleams 
 
 What would the souls of weeping mortals do 
 If memory no more diffused her beams? 
 
 102
 
 HOPE AND DOUBT 
 
 Some where, some time, I know not when, 
 My heart shall wake to a sweet surprise 
 
 When one steps out from the ranks of men, 
 And gazing deep down into my eyes 
 
 Shall take my hand, and then, ah then! 
 
 My heart shall wake to a sweet surprise! 
 
 We women, you know, will dream and dream, 
 
 Till the fate that lies in w r ait for us all 
 Arrests our barque, adrift on the stream, 
 
 And binds our heart in a golden thrall. 
 Will it be for weal, or the fateful gleam 
 
 That goes before a woman's fall? 
 For women, you know, are frail in love, 
 
 While men are wily, and prone to sue, 
 And swear by the stars and all above 
 
 That they will be leal and true, 
 And we sometimes yield all to prove 
 
 That we can be leal and loyal too. 
 
 So, in the awakening I may know, 
 
 Shall I find the love and peace I crave, 
 
 Or awake to a life of shame and woe? 
 Of lust and sin shall I be a slave? 
 
 When tempted to err, shall I answer no? 
 
 God pity my weakness, and make me brave! 
 
 103
 
 DAN AND LIL 
 
 "Which do you want?" said Dan to me, 
 Where I set across the hearth from him ; 
 
 "Fer sence it's got we can't agree, 
 We may as well git things in trim. 
 
 You kin hev whichever farm you will, 
 
 An' a one-ha'f int'rest in the mill." 
 
 Of late there'd been a hitch, somehow, 
 An' to save our lives we couldn't agree, 
 
 An' so we'd about concluded, now, 
 Thet it wuz better to part, you see 
 
 He takin' one farm, an' me t'other, 
 
 Seemed better'n tryin' to live t'gether. 
 
 "An' then there is the stock, y'know 
 The cattle, an' hosses, sheep, an' such, 
 
 You kin hev your shur o' them also, 
 Ur ef a little more, I don't keer much. 
 
 An' I hope you'll find, as y' think y' will, 
 
 You'll be better off without me, Lil. 
 
 "But I'm thinkin," said he, coughin'-like, 
 An' lookin' jest like he did thet day 
 
 They took an' buried our little Ike, 
 "Thet mebby, Lil, you'd better stay 
 
 In the old place here, jest es it is, 
 
 You keepin' the trinkets, an' things o' his. 
 
 104
 
 "Per I'm shore," he said, coughin' ag'in, 
 "Ef he'd a knowed, afore he died, 
 
 This wuz a goin' to happen, then 
 You'd a got all his in the divide; 
 
 Which knowin', I'd hate to hev it said 
 
 I didn't respect the wish o' my dead." 
 
 I didn't durst fer to look at him, 
 
 Knowin' he wuz lookin' straight at me; 
 
 My heart wuz full, my eyes wuz dim 
 Wi' the mist an' haze of memory; 
 
 Fer I seed our lives es they hed bin 
 
 'Fore a cross, harsh word hed entered in 
 
 When our home wuz al'ys full of cheer, 
 An' both our hearts wuz rilled with joy, 
 
 He a settin' thar, me a settin' here, 
 Watchin' th' pranks of our little boy, 
 
 Now a kissin' Dan, ur a makin' me 
 
 Set with him on his daddy's knee. 
 
 An' how he'd clap his han's with glee 
 When Dan 'u'd pull me out fer a romp, 
 
 Es he of'en did, jest fer to see 
 
 Our little darlin' laugh an' stomp! 
 
 An' then, sometimes, when his romp wuz o'er, 
 
 He'd fall asleep at our feet, on the floor. 
 
 Then Dan 'u'd come an' set by me, 
 Takin' my hand in th' tend'rest way, 
 
 An' talk of our joys, an' th' love thet we 
 Found a growin' sweeter day by day. 
 
 "An' now," I thought, with a sinkin' heart, 
 
 "Dan an' me are about to part." 
 
 105
 
 An' my heart kep* swellin' more an' more 
 Es one a'ter another mem'ry came, 
 
 Till I got up an' walked the floor 
 
 Tryin' to think which wuz to blame; 
 
 But his faults wuz hid in th' fust sweet years, 
 
 An' c'u'dn't be seen through a mist o' tears ! 
 
 An' when my heart seemed breakin' with pain 
 I saw Dan crossin' th' room to me, 
 
 An' to save my life I can't explain 
 How it all happened I know thet he 
 
 Pressed me to 'is heart, an' kissed my cheek, 
 
 An' when at last I wuz able to speak, 
 
 Sez I to Dan'l, "Say what y' will 
 I don't want this ner the other farm, 
 
 Ner a one-ha'f int'rest in th' mill 
 I jest want your protectin' arm 
 
 To shield me es long es we both sh'll live, 
 
 An' all th' love yer able to give." 
 
 106
 
 POLICY NOT LOVE 
 
 "The woman I love," said he, "I know 
 
 Treats me well for the tribute I bring, 
 
 And not for love's sweet sake alone 
 Which thought is a bitter thing." 
 
 So saying, he dropped his head, and I 
 
 Marked that a tremor shook him through, 
 
 And for his grief I could have wept, 
 And for what some women will do. 
 
 "Ah, truly love is blind!" I said, 
 
 "Or will not see, e'en when it might; 
 
 For from the first her heart he read, 
 But closed his eyes to the light !" 
 
 And because he loved this woman so, 
 From morn he strove till day grew dim, 
 
 Giving love and wealth without return 
 Thus daily she robbed him! 
 
 107
 
 A MEMORY 
 
 I do not know why it is to-day 
 
 I dream so much of the past, 
 Why it is I turn so often away 
 
 From the present to that last 
 Sweet, sad tryst by the river side, 
 
 Far back in the halcyon days 
 Of my youth-time, where my 'trothed bride 
 
 And I had met always. 
 
 'Twas autumn time, and the leaves lay brown, 
 
 On the springy mould below, 
 And the sunbeams, creeping through, lay down 
 
 At our feet, as if they'd know 
 Whereof my bride betrothed and I 
 
 Talked in that low, soft strain, 
 While the limpid waters, gliding by, 
 
 Chanted a sweet refrain. 
 
 Mayhap some subtile touch of hers 
 
 Hath woke the dormant strings 
 Of my sad heart, and brought those years 
 
 Back with the dear, dead things 
 Which I had thought were lost beneath 
 
 The debris of life's waste, 
 So that the sweetness which they breathe 
 
 I once again might taste. 
 
 108
 
 'Tis many years, though now they seem 
 
 So many months instead, 
 Since that last tryst, by that lone stream, 
 
 And my darling, long since dead, 
 Is young and fair, as on that day, 
 
 And I again possess 
 That buoyancy that soars away 
 
 Beyond all pensiveness. 
 
 'Tis years ago, and the restless tide 
 
 Of life hath crept apace, 
 Yet the golden dreams of youth abide 
 
 With me, and her sweet face, 
 Crowned with its wealth of auburn hair 
 
 I sometimes see, and feel 
 Her touch (sweet antidote for care!) 
 
 Across my hot brow steal. 
 
 109
 
 CUPID'S WILES 
 
 Cupid, they say, one summer day 
 
 Went to the river bathing, 
 And flung his bow and quiver, 
 
 And gauzy clothes beneath a rose 
 On the margent of the river. 
 
 A pretty maid that morning strayed 
 
 Aimlessly to the river, 
 And found young mischief sleeping, 
 
 And then and there she laid a snare 
 To get him in her keeping. 
 
 Beneath the rose she 'spied his clothes, 
 Likewise his bow and quiver, 
 
 And caught them to her heart, 
 
 And while he slept she slowly crept 
 
 A little ways apart. 
 
 Alas! such dreams as maidens' schemes,, 
 It was just what he wanted 
 
 The very thing at which he'd aimed. 
 He knew the dart lay next her heart, 
 
 Which soon must be inflamed. 
 
 From his repose he slowly rose, 
 
 And followed slowly after, 
 Only to find her weeping. 
 
 "My pretty maid," he, laughing, said, 
 "Thou hast me in thy keeping!" 
 
 no
 
 FAITHLESS 
 
 I give thee back thy troth to-night, 
 And in return my own I claim. 
 
 I love thee, but would shun the blight 
 I'd suffer if I shared thy name. 
 
 Return my troth, and take the ring 
 It is not meet that I should wear, 
 
 And time, maybe, will heal the sting 
 A woman's pride hath planted there.
 
 LIFE 
 
 Sweet is that life 
 Whose noon is pure and faultless as its dawn, 
 
 With no regrets to cast their sombre hue 
 Across the narrow way it journeys on, 
 
 Or steep the eyes in bitter drops of rue. 
 
 Life is at best, 
 Methinks, no sweeter than our faintest dream 
 
 Of its felicities makes it appear, 
 And we should nurture tender thoughts, and deem 
 
 Ourselves most fortunate when hope is near. 
 
 The tide of life 
 Has many rapids that our barque must shoot, 
 
 And woe betide who near its maelstroms glides! 
 It is at best a treacherous stream, and foot 
 
 By foot let's sound it from our shallop's sides. 
 
 There is a way 
 A narrow channel, which if we will seek", 
 
 And ship aboard the Pilot ever near, 
 Then may we reach the harbor without leak 
 
 Or hap of any kind that we need fear. 
 
 Alas! how few 
 How few compared to those who hourly embark 
 
 Upon the bosom of this treacherous stream, 
 Call on this Pilot, or His warnings hark, 
 
 Till comes the wreck and drifts their boat a-beam ! 
 
 112
 
 LOOKING BACKWARD 
 
 The days are drear, the nights are long, 
 The years are filled with vain regret, 
 
 And there are catches in the song 
 We sing because we can't forget. 
 
 How many a sigh the chasm spans 
 That separates us from the past, 
 
 Across which we, on knees and hands, 
 Were fain to creep, could we, at last! 
 
 THE POET 
 
 The flight of mind is never higher 
 Than its native gifts inspire; 
 'Tis genius furnishes the wings 
 On which the poet mounts and sings. 
 
 The adage that the poet's born 
 Hath never of its truth been shorn, 
 For never yet the poet made 
 To the succeeding ages played.
 
 THE BANSHEE 
 
 The night it was serene and moonlit, 
 In the sere, melancholy October, 
 The last night but one of October, 
 
 And, taking my viol, "I'll tune it," 
 I said, "to comport with this sober, 
 
 Unutterable mood of my soul" ; 
 
 And lo! there came out of my viol 
 
 A tone I had felt in my soul! 
 
 And I said, "That is surely an echo 
 From the far, remote shores of Lethe, 
 The dim, indistinct shores of Lethe, 
 
 The plaint of Ulysses, whom Calypso 
 Enslaved on the Isle of Ogygia 
 
 Whom the fair nymph Calypso enslaved, 
 
 For eight weary years kept encaved 
 
 On the Isle of Ogygia, enslaved." 
 
 Then something, whatever I knew not, 
 Impelled me to look to'rd the window, 
 The vine-arbored, moon-checkered window, 
 
 And I swear upon fancy I drew not 
 For what I saw there peering into 
 
 My room, nor for the wild, uncanny shriek 
 
 Which drove the blood back to my heart from 
 my cheek, 
 
 O that wild, weird, unearthly, uncanny shriek! 
 
 114
 
 Its face closely pressing the casement, 
 
 The moonlight falling full on its hair, 
 On its long, dankish, disheveled hair, 
 Stood something, I saw with amazement, 
 
 A woman or banshee, I swear! 
 Then, shrieking again, it departed, 
 And I let fall my viol, and started 
 With fright as it shrieked and departed. 
 
 And I said, "That is surely an omen, 
 Some evil portent I am sure, 
 A dread Scottish banshee I'm sure, 
 The wraith of some unhappy woman 
 
 Come out of her sphere, to allure 
 Some precious soul of my household away!" 
 (And my lips they grew ashen and gray) 
 "Lure the soul of some loved one away!" 
 
 I sighed as I reached for the shattered, 
 Wrecked viol that lay at my feet, 
 The riddle I'd dropped at my feet, 
 Of whose utter ruin it mattered 
 
 But little, since soon I must greet 
 That grim-visaged monster that enters 
 The fold where affection all centers 
 O the grim monster our love-fold that enters !
 
 VISIONS 
 
 Oh! forms of beauty, which adorn our dreams, 
 Oh! mystic sounds of music sweet and rare, 
 
 How unattainable, which ever seems 
 
 So near, O thou more subtile things than air! 
 
 Why is it so why is the poet given 
 
 Glimpses of things no mortal can portray? 
 
 Why are these sounds across his senses driven 
 To linger for a while and pass away? 
 
 And why those forms evanish while his hands 
 In rapturous longing are stretched out to them? 
 
 Than which 'twere easier to count the ocean's sands 
 Than 'twere to touch their garment's hem. 
 
 But so it is the poet's dream is vain; 
 
 He may see, but may not paint these faces; 
 May hear, but may not sound one single strain 
 
 Seen and heard in Fancy's mystic places. 
 
 n6
 
 JEPHTHAH'S VOW 
 
 Oh ! rash man that I was, to blindly vow 
 
 A sacrifice to God, well knowing how 
 
 Like her 'twould be her father first to greet 
 
 With timbrels, song and mazy-moving feet 
 
 The first on whom mine eyes shouldst light when I, 
 
 Returning from the conquest, must rely 
 
 On fate, or chance for what must first appear 
 
 To greet the vision. Love for my child and fear 
 
 Of His just wrath, should I fail of my vow, 
 
 War in my heart. Ah me! well wot I now 
 
 The throes that rent poor father Abraham 
 
 Ere he espied the thorn-entangled ram: 
 
 Oblation providentially ensnared, 
 
 He might the sacrifice and grief be spared. 
 
 Oh! baleful chance, O fate! why didst decree 
 My daughter first of all that I shouldst see? 
 Would mine eyes had been holden that my sight 
 Had been darkened to the densest night, 
 Ere on my darling they were led to light! 
 
 O fate! O chance! O cursed chance and fate! 
 Alas! I see my error now too late! 
 
 "7
 
 SIN'S PUNITION 
 
 Ever I've been the mark of fate, 
 Fared illy at the hands of Time ; 
 
 Either a bit too soon or late 
 Has kept me ever out of chime. 
 
 Never a time, far off or near, 
 Clouds intercepted not my view; 
 
 Never my steps led anywhere, 
 It was not to regret or rue. 
 
 My heart was never free from sighs, 
 My soul was never free from dread ; 
 
 Never but stalked before my eyes 
 Some horrid phantom of the dead. 
 
 I've walked the crowded streets, and been 
 As lonely as in woodlands drear; 
 
 I've stood in forests dense and seen 
 Gay myriads moving ev'rywhere. 
 
 I've loved, nor had my love returned; 
 
 I've prayed, nor had it given heed; 
 Sought Wisdom in her haunts, and learned 
 
 I'd missed this most excessive need. 
 
 My way across life's waste I've found 
 Entangled with a prickly growth; 
 
 Each step I take invites a wound, 
 Till to proceed I'm growing loth. 
 
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 Yet when I would return I find 
 
 A yawning chasm intervenes 
 Between the years that lie behind, 
 
 And present, uninviting scenes. 
 
 A gleam of hope, once now and then, 
 Far in the distance I have caught, 
 
 But always it has faded when, 
 
 Forespent and faint, I reach the spot. 
 
 Yet daily I am touching hands 
 
 With those who've found the better way, 
 Whose daily walk and life commands, 
 
 I find, what I'm denied to-day. 
 
 Such is the soul that dwells within 
 The ruin which its own has wrought, 
 
 And ponders on the might have been 
 Had Youth the other pathway sought.
 
 A MEMORY 
 
 Let's see: It was ever so long ago 
 
 That she and I sat here together; 
 How many years though, I do not know, 
 
 Though I know 'twas autumn weather. 
 
 'Twas autumn I know, for I made a crown 
 
 Of the red maple leaves that lay at her feet, 
 
 Or fell in her lap as they circled down 
 Less bright than the rose on her cheek. 
 
 'Twas autumn, I know, for the chestnuts brown 
 Peeped out from the burs on the swaying bough, 
 
 The winds playing over which shook them down 
 Oh ! I wish she were here with me now. 
 
 120
 
 MY DEAD 
 
 Poor little hands! they are folded now, 
 Oh! how many times their loving touch 
 
 Have caressed and soothed my aching brow 
 Poor little hands T there are no more such. 
 
 Poor pale lips ! now so mute and still ! 
 
 No unkind word fell from them ever. 
 Where they could not warm they would not chill, 
 
 Or could not bind they would not sever. 
 
 Dear little heart! it is pulseless now; 
 
 How warmly it beat for others' woes, 
 How faithful it was to the lightest vow 
 
 Only the heart of another knows. 
 
 Dear little feet ! they were weary when 
 
 The angel came for her, but they 
 Gladly answered the summons then 
 
 Would they could answer mine to-day. 
 
 121
 
 LOST LEOLINE 
 
 Oh! bitter the day and cold, 
 Oh! stormy the night and long, 
 
 When my lost love, my Leoline, 
 Went down in the billows strong. 
 
 Oh ! why should thy waves return 
 To thy bosom again, O sea! 
 
 When my lost love, my Leoline, 
 Can never come back to me? 
 
 123
 
 BITTER MEMORIES 
 
 I've jest bin down in the orchard there, 
 An' I tell you what, it ain't no use 
 
 To make believe 'at we don't care 
 
 Ef things don't turn out es we'd choose. 
 
 Fer when we've lost some cherished thing, 
 Er missed our way to some one's heart, 
 
 I can't he'p thinkin' thet the sting 
 Leaves in our after life a smart. 
 
 An' when revisitin' old scenes, 
 
 An' trampin' 'long the old by-ways, 
 
 Over the hills, an' cross ravines 
 'At we have trod in by-gone days, 
 
 Somehow we can't he'p pausin' here, 
 Er hurryin' past some object there 
 
 'At brings to mind some memory dear, 
 Er birthplace of some bitter care. 
 
 A tree whose leafy boughs we've seen 
 Sheddin' its ample shadders round, 
 
 While shafts of sunlight slipped between 
 An' danced an' quivered on the ground, 
 
 It may be is the thing we'd shun, 
 Er Mecca, may be, we have sought, 
 
 As the gauntlet of the past we run, 
 With sweet or bitter memories fraught. 
 
 153
 
 AN IDYL 
 
 Here, poor tired, aching heart, just here, 
 
 Beneath this friendly spreading beechen limb, 
 We'll pause awhile, repressing memory's tear 
 
 Memory or time or distance cannot dim, 
 But grows more sweet or bitter with each year 
 
 As joy's cup or sorrows nears the brim, 
 Albeit, the remembrance of a bier 
 
 Doth shroud our lives as did the grave-clothes him. 
 
 Here in the smooth, light-clouded bark appear 
 Two names, with day and date all neatly done, 
 
 Showing the wear and tear of lapsing years 
 Hath plainer made the handiwork of one 
 
 Whom we have mourned with scarce surcease of tears 
 
 Since the still, cold lips mutely sealed our fears!
 
 ADDRESS TO A MUMMY 
 
 Come, tell me, Mummy, if you can, 
 How many times hath reappeared 
 Thy soul in reptile, beast, and bird 
 
 Since it cast off the guise of man? 
 
 And when he rendered his decree, 
 Did Osiris enumerate 
 The sins that it should expiate 
 
 Ere it returned again to thee? 
 
 Who wert thou ere bereft of soul? 
 
 What was thy calling, what thy caste? 
 
 Between thy present and thy past 
 Couldst count how many ages roll? 
 
 If one of those of priestly caste, 
 
 What of that esoteric lore 
 
 You held above both rich and poor? 
 A menace dire in that dim past ! 
 
 Perchance wert of those Pharaoah 
 Commissioned to enhance the task 
 Of those whom Moses came to ask 
 
 Might with him three days' journey go? 
 
 Yet scarcely so, for doubtless those 
 Were caught in that catastrophe 
 Along with others in the sea, 
 
 When God bade the walled waters close. 
 
 125
 
 Well, it were no far-fetched conceit 
 To fancy you witnessed the test 
 When Aaron's rod devoured the rest 
 
 All writhing serpents at their feet! 
 
 And if not there, of course you passed 
 
 Through those dire plagues which Aaron's rod, 
 ( Mirac'lously endowed of God) 
 
 O'er all the land but Goshen cast. 
 
 Thou canst not be that Potiphar 
 
 Whose wife had fain debauched the Jew? 
 Well, somehow I am glad that you 
 
 Were not, and knew naught of her. 
 
 Where were you when ( tradition 'ly) 
 
 The moon increased to that extent 
 
 The Libyans, on rebellion bent, 
 Frightened, renewed their fealty? 
 
 Is it not irksome to be wound 
 
 So closely in a winding sheet? 
 
 Heavens! how can you stand your feet, 
 And hands, and all so tightly bound? 
 
 Didst live what time that King, Kakan, 
 
 (Who worship of the bull, Apsis, 
 
 First introduced in old Memphis) 
 His celebrated reign began? 
 
 Where was thy seat of empire, pray? 
 
 Was it at This? Didst thou live there? 
 
 That much, at least, you might declare 
 Canst thou not answer yes or nay? 
 
 126 

 
 Where wert when Rameses, the Great, 
 Led forth his mighty hosts to war, 
 By land and sea to Ganges, far? 
 
 Was that before your time? Please state. 
 
 Perhaps wert living when the Nile 
 Ran honey one and ten whole days 
 (Believing what Manetho says), 
 
 Quaffing it daily all the while! 
 
 It could not be- you helped to make 
 That enigmatic thing, the Sphinx; 
 Scarcely could be so old, methinks, 
 
 Though eons wander in thy wake. 
 
 Was there an ante-death compact 
 Whereby thy soul, on its return 
 From its thousands of years sojourn 
 
 Elsewheres, shouldst find its house intact? 
 
 Well, if you will not answer, then 
 Suppose we must forego our quest, 
 Though we could relish with much zest 
 
 Who thou wert, where didst live, and when. 
 
 What! Come now, Mummy, know a jest 
 (Even when of all grossness stripped), 
 From lips through which a soul hath slipped, 
 
 However apt, imparts no zest. 
 
 Whose reign? Usertesen the Third! 
 
 Planned that great Labyrinth and Lake? 
 
 Well, for thy very age's sake 
 We must, of course, accept thy word. 
 
 127
 
 Yet ne'ertheless, some doubt remains, 
 For that sounds very like a lie; 
 If so, you'll find out by and by 
 
 One Satan down in Hades reigns. 
 
 TO THE FROGS 
 
 Wherever stagnant pools or streams are found, 
 Or mucky fen or marshy meadow, ye 
 Are heard to croak and murmur drear'ly, 
 
 Lulling the silence with a dreamy sound, 
 
 Thy red throats quaking with the grating strain 
 That slides out brokenly across the plain, 
 From lungs forespent with ceaseless murmuring, 
 That nature gave ye not the power to sing. 
 
 From morn till noon and noon till night again, 
 And constantly all through the night till morn, 
 With sober, solemn look and mien forlorn, 
 
 Ever the same ye murmur and complain, 
 
 Blinking the stars, or sheathing from the sun 
 Thy leaden orbs, since time and tide begun.
 
 WESTERN PLAINS 
 
 A brooding silence hovers over all 
 
 This vast expanse of undulating plain, 
 Whence one is conscious of that voiceless call 
 
 (Ye all have caught it time and time again), 
 
 Soul beckoning to soul across the waste 
 
 That intervenes between the Now and Then, 
 
 One soul urging the other soul to haste, 
 Yet never, never intimating when 
 
 The waters of the dreaded stream shall tear 
 Life from its precarious moorings here, 
 
 And thence toward the mystic harbor bear 
 
 It, 'spite of wife's, or child's, or mother's tear. 
 
 Not yon vast, blue, inverted bowl alone 
 Is it obstructs my human vision's range; 
 
 God curbed my sight, lest unto me be known 
 The image of the thing to which I change. 
 
 And though ('tis claimed) we may sometimes behold 
 
 Our spirit-selves projected into view, 
 We doubt if these are yet the same we're told 
 
 That we shall wear when we are made anew. 
 
 There are so many forms in earth and sky, 
 So many, many kinds of beast and bird, 
 
 I wonder, now, if I shall still be I 
 When the loud blast of the last trump is heard? 
 
 X29
 
 Each sect doubts each and all the other's creeds, 
 And most of them Metempsychosis flouts, 
 
 Yet he who reads, and ponders what he reads, 
 
 May find himself at last hemmed in with doubts. 
 
 What is to be is not within the ken 
 
 Of man, and speculation reigns supreme; 
 
 Yet each must feel there is beyond a Then 
 
 Which shall, somehow, approach his life-long dream. 
 
 Eternity abuts upon the lines 
 
 Which circumscribe the narrow plains of Time, 
 Whose swiftly flowing tide an outlet finds 
 
 In the dark stream we cross to the sublime. 
 
 Wrapped in a silence which is all their own, 
 Guarding the secrets of their mystic past, 
 
 These plains suggest to Fancy things, if known, 
 Would cause the mind to pause, and shrink, aghast. 
 
 O crypt-like Future, whence no light projects 
 A radiant gleam along Life's darkened way, 
 
 Vouchsafe one glimmer till my soul detects 
 My Master's footprints in the sand, I pray! 
 
 130
 
 THE ERRANT DOLLAR. 
 
 As fleeting as time, as errant as air, 
 
 Not pausing for story or song, 
 I sigh as you slip from my hand to fare 
 
 On your mission of right or wrong. 
 
 Mine for a moment, and then you're away 
 
 On your errand of good or evil, 
 Relieving the wants of a saint to-day, 
 
 To-morrow glad'ning the Devil, 
 
 As into the till of the bar you clink 
 From the hand of the maudlin youth, 
 
 Who dallies and drains to the dregs the drink 
 In the drunkard's school, forsooth. 
 
 From the till to the bank, and then, may be, 
 
 You'll burn a Samaritan's palms, 
 Till he findeth a place for charity, 
 
 And the giving of worthy alms. 
 
 Thence to the butcher's or the grocer's till 
 You will find your path straightway, 
 
 From whence you will go to cancel a bill 
 That he finds he needs must pay. 
 
 Then around to the church, maybe, you'll swing, 
 
 And drop in the deacon's tray, 
 As he passeth it round while the choir-folk sing, 
 
 And the devoutly righteous pray. 
 
 Thence to cancel the debt the miser holds 
 
 Against the house of the Lord, 
 Who hides you amidst the convolute folds 
 
 Of his purse, and sneaks for his hoard.
 
 THE PHANTOM THOUGHT 
 
 Away, dread thing! thou dark, unbidden guest; 
 
 Unheralded and unexpected thou 
 Too oft hath broken in upon my rest, 
 
 And, passing, left thy shadow on my brow. 
 
 Thou dost the very realm of hope invade, 
 
 Casting a ling' ring shadow over all ; 
 Scarcely one single move in life I've made, 
 
 Thou wert not there to flaunt a fun'ral pall. 
 
 Light hearted, humming some quick-moving air, 
 I've left my home at morn with lightsome stride, 
 
 Feeling how very bright the world, and fair, 
 When, lo ! you came, and on my lips it died ! 
 
 No place so sacred thou dost not intrude; 
 
 No heart from thy disturbing presence free; 
 I mind me at my bridal thou wert rude 
 
 Enough to show an open grave to me. 
 
 Between my loved ones and my eyes you flash 
 
 A vision of a coffin or a bier, 
 And from my lips the cup of gladness dash, 
 
 And in its stead tender a draught of fear. 
 
 No mercy on the doting heart hast thou, 
 But harry it with scenes of darkest hue, 
 
 Wherein its cherished ones are made to bow 
 To stern adversity, and plead and sue. 
 
 Avaunt, thou dark intruder, nor return 
 Till the last sputter of life's flick' ring ray 
 
 To point with low'ring brow and finger stern 
 
 To'rd that waste blackness whitherto we stray! 
 
 132
 
 EPIGRAMS 
 
 Time from his throne hath looked ahead in vain 
 
 For lo these eons past to glimpse, perchance, 
 The dreaded herald of his closing reign. 
 
 Now it is strange the path we daily tread 
 Lies straight before us to the utmost end, 
 Yet we may never see a step ahead ! 
 
 Oceans embrace our earth, a liquid band 
 Twines it about, seeming anomaly, 
 Round-rolling in the hollow of God's hand. 
 
 Is it not strange that we can never retrace 
 
 Our way to youth and childhood's aureate plain, 
 Except as Fancy leads us to the place? 
 
 Think for a moment think a single breath, 
 
 A tiny, subtile, fleeting breath alone 
 Is all that stands between us here and Death! 
 
 From the high summit of my early dreams 
 Might I look down upon myself to-day, 
 Mine eyes should fail, so faint Hope's beacon gleams. 
 
 Man's egotism 's such, his ego swells 
 
 To the conceit that he is one with Him 
 Who made the world where he, the pigmy, dwells ! 
 
 133
 
 How from his seat upon the eons, Time 
 Smiles at the eager haste of puny man 
 To end his little chores of Love and Crime! 
 
 Might I look in upon my neighbor's heart, 
 
 Where, crouching, hidden, lurks his secret past, 
 I'd scarce see aught at which mine own should start. 
 
 Why should the world accord its praise alone 
 
 To him within whose heart Chance drops the key 
 That liberates the song locked in its own? 
 
 Left to the mercy of his chief desires, 
 
 Man scarce would pause short of the bestial plain, 
 Except as failed the fuel feeds his fires. 
 
 No stream so deep, there is no shallow shoal; 
 No chain so strong, there is no faulty link ; 
 No love but yields illicit thoughts some toll. 
 
 The Rib from which Almighty woman made 
 
 Chanced not, methinks, to be of common clay, 
 But dust from whence some sweetest rose decayed! 
 
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