ninii nun 11 "uiiii i mil i#jr<8i" did lliiiin' ion. . . . Ballade of the Golden Horn L. Bacon . . Ballade of Myself and Monsieur Rabelais L. Bacon . . Ballade of Other Idols L. Bacon . . Ballade of the Prom, A Anon. . . . Battell's Chimes, On O.H. Cooper, Jr Battle Song of Attila R. M. Edmonds Beethoven R. W. Westcott Behind the Arras H. S. Lewis. Ben Jonsoii, To /. N. Greely Calling of the River, The E. L. Fox . . Content J.N. Greely Cradle Song S. M. Harrington Daisies C.H. P. Thurston Death and the Monk A.E.Baker. . Death's Head at the Feast, The . . . W. B. Hooker . Dutch Lullaby H. A. Plummer Echoes W. B. Hooker . PAGE 20 98 I2f) 106 99 186 188 I 26 141 104 77 128 54 25 117 105 76 184 175 79 143 82 Vll CONTENTS PAGE Elizabeth Anon 130 Epigrams R.T. Kerlin . . 92 Exit Homo H. S. Lewis. . . 124 Eye of My Lord The King, The . . E. L. Fox .... 151 Father Kileen H. S. Levels ... 180 Fishing Song H. A. Webster . . 93 Forgiven Anon 89 Forgotten Grotto, A IF. S. Hastings . 66 From the City A.Updegraff . . 120 Garden Song W. B. Hooker . . 146 Gun-Casting, The H.W. Stokes . . 42 Hermit's Prayer, The G. H. Soiile, Jr. . 112 Holiness R. W. Weslcott . 88 Ideal, The A. Updegraff . . 19 Incense Dance, The T. L. Riggs . . 166 In Vagabond Golden and Vagabond Gray S. M. Harrington 1 1 o *I.xion W. B. Hooker . . 5 Japanese Serenade W. R. Kinney . . 144 Kamal of Isfahan A. Updegraff . . 67 Last Ballade, The T. Beer .... 162 Last Vagabond, The J.N.Greely . . 157 Latest Toast, The R. W. Walker . . 86 LTnconnu D. Bruce .... 73 Line Men, The W.R.Bcnet. . . loi Maeterlinck, To J. S. Newberry . 28 Matin Song E. L. Fox ... 172 Meed of Sorrow G. H . Sonic, .Ir. . 14S Meteor, The H.W. Stokes . . 97 Mona Lisa R. Moses .... 95 viii CONTENTS PAGE Moon-Fairies : . . E.K. Morse . . 185 ♦Mother's Sleep, The C. A. Kellogg, Jr. 48 Never Fear R. Morris ... 53 Odysseus at Ogygia H. S. Lewis . . 63 Old Arcade, The W. R. Walker . . 83 Old Library, To the S.N. Holliday . 18 On Seeing the Woodland Players . . /. N. Greely . . 24 Parting Word, A E.L.Fox. . . . 190 *Passio XL Martyrum A.E.Baker. . . 131 Pastoral R. M. Cleveland . 183 Pipe-Lighting Time E.L.Fox . . .125 Puck, to Queen Mab H. S. Lewis . . 23 Rain-Swept Garden, The H. S. Lovejoy . . 30 Ring of Gustavus Adolphus, The . . H. S. Lovejoy . . 43 Royal Mail, The E. L. Fox ... 169 Saint Hubert . . . H. S. Lewis . . 173 ( Calypso ) ,„„,,, 64 ♦Sonnets I ^^^P^^^ [ ^-^-Wkeeler. . ,^ Sonnet to John Keats, .A. L Goddard . . . 171 Song for the Even-Tide P. T. Gilbert . . 182 ( Vivian's Song ) ^, , , . 31 *Songs I R„,,,,, . ' [ C.B. Hoichk^ss . ,^ Sprightly Ballafl of Mistress Molly, The R. W. Walker . . 38 Toast, A S.M. Harrington 37 Twilight in March R. Westcott . . .123 Villon in Prison H.C. Robbins . 159 Voltaire to a Young Man B. A. Welch . . 90 Wanderer, The G. H. Soule, Jr. . 61 Wandering Jew, The E. L. Fox ... 107 ix CONTENTS PAGE When Pine Trees Whistle W.Richardson . 121 When Viziers Speak H. S. Lewis . . 71 Winter Sea, A W.Richardson . 129 Wooster Square S". A'^. Deane . . 16 Work-God, The E. L. Fox ... 34 ♦ University Prize Poem. CONTRIBUTORS PAGE Bacon, L i, 26, 27, 188-189 Baker, A. E 131-140, i75-i79 Beer, T 162-165 Benet, W. R 101-103, 126-127 Bruce, D 73-75 Cleveland, R. M 183 Cooper, O. H., Jr 104 Deane, S. N 16, 17 Edmonds, R. M 77-78 Fox, E. L. ... 34-36, 107-109, 117-119, 125, 151-153, 169-170, 172, 190-191 Frost, L. C 154-156 Gilbert, P. T 182 Goddard, 1 171 Greely, J. N 24, 25, 105, 157-158 Harrington, S. M 37. 76 Hastings, W. S 66 Holliday, S. N 18 Hooker, W. B. . . 5-15, 79-82, 146, 147, 186-187 Hotchkiss, G. B 31,32, 33 Kellogg, C. A., Jr 48-52 Kerlin, R. T 92 Kinney, W. R 144-145 Leicester, G. B 22 xi CONTRIBUTORS PAGE Lewis, H. S 23, 54-60, 63, 71-72, 124, 173-174, 180-181 Lovejoy, H. S 30, 43-47, 98 Morris, R 53 Morse, E. K 185 Moses, R 95-96 Newberry, J. S 28, 29 Plummer, H. A 106, 143 Richardson, W 1 21-122, 129 Riggs, T. L 166-168 Robbins, H. C 159-161 Soule, G. H., Jr 61-62, 11 2-1 16 Stokes, H. W 42, 97 Thurston, C. H. P 184 Updegraff, A 19, 67-70, 120 Walker, R. W 38-41, 83-85, 86-87 Wallis, J. H 99-100 Webster, H. A 93-94 Welch, B. A 90-91 Westcott, R. W 88,123,128 Wheeler, A. S 64, 65 Xll BALLADE OF MYSELF AND MONSIEUR RABELAIS King Henry hath his amber wine, And Frank of Guise, as gossips tell. Eats every day a capon fine And sneers at hock and hydromel. But as for us we'd rather dwell A little from the world away, Although we love its cheer right well. Myself and Monsieur Rabelais. Of Panurge on the restless brine He hath a jolly tale to tell, Of how Gargantua did dine, Or of the great Pantagruel, And what adventure him befell, To make one laugh a summer's day. We get on marvelously well, Myself and Monsieur Rabelais. Though churchmen rant of wrath divine Or Saint of Sales our doom foretell. MONSIEUR RABELAIS "Twill all come right," as we opine, Though Pope or Luther burn in Hell. The mystery of the flask to spell Brings better hope of judgment day, Which comforts both of us full well, Myself and Monsieur Rabelais. ENVOI Prince! in strict fact, although we dwell Three merry centuries away, We hob and nob surpassing well, Myself and Monsieur Rabelais. Leonard Bacon. SOLVITUR ACRIS HIEMS Now April from her brimming cup Hath sprinkled all the dusty town; Once more the open cars run up And down. Now from his hoard the Freshman brings Glad raiment, and superbly throws His old, unhappy, cast-off things To Mose. And now delivered from the gym The clamant coach invokes the eight. With vigor, that I may not im- itate. For sentiments so warmly dressed, So clothed with prefix and with affix. Are not conveniently expressed In Sapphics. Deserted now, the fire that gave A friendly glow to Temple Bar Lies smouldering, like a Judges' Cave Cigar. 3 SOLVITUR ACRIS HIEMS And let by Pan's alluring pipe, You hail at the Savinian Rock His goat, the classic prototype Of bock. And celebrate — we did, 1 know, When daily themes began to irk us — The rites of that lihidino- -sus hircus. In vain: can piety recall The flying years? Howe'er we boast, The fatal sheepskin waits for all (almost). Labuntur anni; yes, and then Of all that fame and fortune seek Thrice happy he who earns his ten Per week. — Ah! happy Sestius, you smile. Nor need 1 wish my song unsung; You've guessed my moral: Go it while You're young. Charles E. Mhrrill, Jr. 4 IX ION My wheel turns and I turn unendingly Amid the wreck of souls to whom remain No hope, no wish but one — the wish to die, The longing of the dead to die again. The sights I see would blast an earthly eye, The horrors I hear no tongue may put in words ; And all around me roars the rage of gods — Turning eternally in endless pain. Above me a great blackness, like a cloud At midnight, swaying and breaking into bulks That hurl across each other as a wind Drives mass on mass against the thunder- storm. Anon it opens cavern-deep, and shows Behind, dim gulfs of greater dark; anon It closes inward, smoothly domed — no sound 5 IXION But never still. Under me lies the floor Of Hades, ribbed and ridged and chiseled out In curious figures, like the sand of the sea. And now and then it breaks, and Tartarus Flares forth in flashes of pale flame, and screams Come from beneath, and crowds of shudder- ing sparks Rush upward as in terror; then a surge Of billowy smoke, tinged red with fires below, Floats up and merges in the gloom above, And the crack bites its lip, and the wails are hushed, And Hades turns to its own toil. I look Upward, and wonder where our old earth lies. How far beyond that veil of angry dark — Farther 1 know than heaven above the earth! Yet I am linked, bound by some deathless chain IXION To earth and life. The long full summer- time Faints into autumn, and the wintry blast Howls down the wold, but wakes no answer- ing sign In these grim skies — and yet I feel that frost Deep down within myself. I feel the spring Steal onward with warm winds and blossom- ing smells, Pale baby-leaves and breaths of hidden bloom. Somewhere far, far above me, violets Grope down their roots in the soft earth, and turn Their tiny faces to the sun, and smile Through tears of dew — I trod on violets once! Somewhere a wind stirs in the cypresses, And the owl hoots and the moon pales — I once Held death in scorn, a thing too far to fear. Somewhere broad roses open wide at eve. Bare their rich bosoms to the breeze that faints IXION Caressing them, and shake their leaves and laugh, And all the dimness maddens like new wine, And nymphs peep out between the boughs, and songs Come faint across dark water — oh, to be One moment what I once was! Oh, to hear The whisper of the woods, and see the thorn Snow down her sweetness on the green, and feel The music of the spring beat in my blood, And the fresh odors leap into my brain. And know naught ill, a child with a child's eyes One moment ! Once 1 deemed myself a god. And now — my wheel turns on unendingly Amid the wreck of souls to whom remain Nor life nor death — nor death nor life have 1, The very spouse and paramour of pain! The rage of gods! — What are the gods to me? I have moved among the gods a mortal man. Dwelt with them on Olympus, felt the clouds 8 IXION Bend to my footstep, seen the sun flash by, A bHnding car with Helios at the reins. I have seen the moon close by me in the night. And heard the singing of the stars at dawn, I half awake among the slumbering gods. Do I not know them wholly? Ah, my Queen Of Heaven, one deathless moment mine in spite Of law and gods and Fate — have I not known? How amber-bright shine all those distant days Even to my dizzy thought ! I seem to see Amid that eddying blackness overhead Olympus with its floors of gold, its walls Of amethyst and opal, shining clear In the sweet light that floats above the world ; And round the board the faces of the gods Glad with dark wine, as 1 beheld them first New raised among them. Zeus dome- browed, serene With unresisted empire, hugely calm 9 IXION Like Ocean — yet I noted even then The subtle brands of fear, — the drooping lip Behind his beard, the specter in his look, That marked him more than god but less than man, Coward omnipotence; Athena, bright With panoply, the gorgon Aegis hung Before the f rory splendor of her breast ; Artemis, white, shadow-eyed, tremulous; And Aphrodite born of sun and foam, That bride-face dewy-dim with tenderness, That softly-yearning esctasy of form, So beautiful her beauty made me faint, So sweet her sweetness almost bent my will And shamed me downward to humanity. Until I thought of Smyrna's son — and laughed ; And turned to where She sat, my goddess- queen, My full-blown Hera, blooming a red rose Amid the Olympian lilies, richly dark With congregated sweet — and saw the day Turn summer moonlight in her dusk of hair, And all the feverish soutl; pant on her lip — 10 IXION Thereafter gods and men 1 held in scorn, Accepting all my fate. I know the gods, Not as pale priests and raving oracles, Not as weak women, dazzled, worshiping, But as a strong man knows a stronger man, Nor fears nor worships him — stronger than I Or else I were not here; unearthly fair Or I had not gone mad. Why was I born A spirit greater than my strength, a soul That could love utterly but could not fear? Then passed long days of calm divinity, I moving on unfaltering in my will Void of all fear — how could I fear? I loved — Setting against the wisdom of the gods My human craft, against their watchful sight The flame of my desire. The eye of Zeus Ranged over earth and heaven, and read the hearts Of men, followed the courses of the stars, And bared the secrets of the scheming gods, But saw me not. And at the last we met, 1 1 IXION Hera and I — night on the Sacred Mount Deep with the stillness of eternity, The stars above us, and beneath our feet A great storm roaring out across the sea, A pregnant hush all round us — face to face We stood, and all my soul rushed out in speech. I know not what I said. I scarcely knew I spoke, but vaguely wondered at the sound Of my own voice. I ceased. And then — and then My goddess melted into womanhood, My Queen bent down from deity to me. Clung in my arms with her great eyes on fire A moment — then our lips closed, and my heart Staggered into my ears, and the stars went out. And the heavens rocked around us, and the dark Grew gleaming green, and for one breath we hung Poised in the soul of a great emerald Shot through and through with lightnings. Then a voice 12 IXION Amid the throbbing blindness of my brain, Calm, small, and cold, and seeming far away — The voice of Zeus. And then I feared him not — I cursed his calm face while they bound me here. Lord Zeus, the jealous husband! Is it his, His all the empire of the spaces, his The joys, the woes of worlds? I know you, gods — Thieves, perjurers, adulterers are ye all. Hark to my supplication, blessed ones! I would stretch forth my hands, but they are bound — Hear my repentance — in thy teeth, O Zeus, The scorn of him thou hatest! Was it my sin, Beautiful gods, to know you overwell? What have I done that others have not done As ill or worse — Sisyphus the arch-thief Heaving his stone with groanings up the height 13 IXION Endlessly, foiled and mocked at the very goal — What is the labor of men but such as his? Tantalus the god-soiler, grasping at The vain fruit, stooping to the falling wave. Teased into madness, laughing hideously — What is the pleasure of men but such as his? They but relive their lives. I turn and yearn Bound, futile, helpless body and brain — no task However vain, no joy in sight to seek However vainly — only round and round, And every passive limb is strained and stung; Still round and round; and all my thought grows drunk With motion never ending, and the dark Is full of horrid eyes that whirl like wheels And whirling wheels that glare like horrid eyes, On every wheel a dumb Ixion, bound And bleeding, longing for the lashing flames Of Tartarus that smother sense in shrieks. And all the wild wheels whisper as they whirl, •4 IXION A sound like kisses — and the whisper grows ; And Hades rocks and totters to the sound, And swells and orbs, a globe of tremulous gloom. And shatters into whirling nothingness. My wheel turns and 1 turn unendingly Amid the wreck of souls to whom remain No hope, no wish but one — the wish to die, The longing of the dead to die again. The sights I see would blast an earthly eye, The horrors 1 hear no tongue may put in words ; And all around me roars the rage of gods — Turning eternally in endless pain. William Brian Hooker. 15 WOOSTER SQUARE The sunshine yet on Wooster Square Is bright as years and years ago; The elms are taller, greener there: But Fashion's favor changeth so! The glooming Grecian portico, The ancient, marred, much-trodden stair Forgets the days of long-ago, Forgets the days of Wooster Square. The old white church in Wooster Square Where godly people met and prayed — Dear souls! they worship Mary there, Italian mother, man and maid In gaudy Southern scarfs arrayed; The horrid candles smoulder where The godly people met and prayed. Alas! the fall of Wooster Square! Before the war, in Wooster Square The carriages, they went and came; The common folk used wait and stare, i6 WOOSTER SQUARE They bowed to beauty and to Fame. And then it ceased to be the same; The doors are tarnished all and bare Where shone each old .Colonial name Departed now from Wooster Square. Fashion, fled from Wooster Square ■ And tripping fast up Prospect Hill Where orioles flame through fragrant air, Where daisies light the roadside still, What was it changed your flighty will. What fickle fancy made you care To take the way of Prospect Hill, To leave the walls of Wooster Square? Be done, he done, with tiresome rhymes! I go with Fortune and the Fair, 1 owe no love to bygone times — Peace to the shades of IVooster Square! Sidney N. Deane. 17 TO THE OLD LIBRARY Our fathers drank of knowledge in thy halls, And Time hath sanctified thy memory: In reverential tones they speak of thee. We too have learned to love thine ivied walls, We love each blessed ivy-leaf which falls ; And think of those who planted long ago The parent vine — of those who watched it grow. And still thy mantled dignity enthralls. And in our hearts our love shall ever dwell, Though unknown hands shall rend thee stone from stone, And though thy site with weeds be over- grown. May thy successor, newly risen the while, Inspire our sons, and always serve as well As thou hast served. Farewell, beloved pile! Samuel N. Holliday. 18 THE IDEAL Brother in hope, if you Should ever pierce our empyrean through; And find that radiant star, Whose beams we have not seen, yet know they are; Say that I loved it, too, But could not climb so far. Allan Updegraff. 19 ARGALUS AND PARTHENIA Scarce had the echoes of my bugle note Died on the air, when down across the moat The drawbridge clanged, the portal opened wide. And Kalander, the seneschal, 1 spied. With men-at-arms drawn up in full array To greet a friend, or keep a foe at bay. Across 1 spurred, and hailed the varlet thus: "Tell me, good fellow, of Lord Argalus; Has he fared forth to join his liege, the King, Or tarries he, to hear the news 1 bring Of foes in field, and need of his strong arm. While love's sweet murmurs deafen war's alarm?" (God grant the day be long ere any bride So damp my courage, or subdue my pride!) "My lord's within, nor has he yet fared forth To war against the paynims in the North. So do but follow to the ample bower 20 ARGALUS AND PARTHENIA Where sits my lord, in yonder ivied tower, And his sweet mistress bears him company." "Then stay, good Kalander, and let me see. All unannounced, this fondly loving pair." The tower I reached, and climbed the winding stair; Then paused before the doorway as I heard A sweet-toned voice that rivaled any bird Warbling its morning song in forest green. The curtain gaped; I peered in on a scene That seemed to me like Heaven come to Earth, A glimpse of Paradise before the hearth: There sat Lord Argalus, with book on knee, Reading the tale of Hercules; and she, The fair Parthenia, gazing on his eyes, Staying him oft with question or surmise; To be resolved of doubt, far less, methought. Than that it gave her joy when-e'er she caught His tender glance that flashed a message sweet ; Eye answered eye, and bliss was then com- plete. 21 ARGALUS AND PARTHENIA Warming a heart I'd long thought dead and sere, This picture slowly made its meaning clear: He joyed in her; she in herself, from this: She knew him hers; but more, that she was his. No want one knew but that it straight was filled; Nor was desire by satisfaction killed. Each giving of his store, their riches grew; One life with double strands they made of two. ******* Long stood I there; my eyes grew dim with tears; Too plain I saw the line of barren years Devoid of love, with self the only goal: Bitter regret and longing filled my soul; And ere I entered to disturb their bliss The burden of my throbbing heart was this: "God grant the day come soon when such a brtde Fills me with courage and exalts my pride!" Gerald B. Leicester. 22 PUCK, TO QUEEN MAB Ods Pitkins, he who at rhymes is a dab Never would dare write a verse to Queen Mab. The words would seem empty, the slow meter wrong; For she is herself an ethereal song. A song? Nay; a chorus of cupids petite! The soloist blushing, her rounded lips sweet. A wonderful melody soundeth each cheek; When pale, in a sad, solemn music they speak. But, Mab, only blush, and there tumbles along The jolliest, rollicking, frolicking song. Harry S. Lewis. 23 ON SEEING THE WOODLAND PLAYERS Musing I sit with half closed eyes. The play Is finished and the sound of clapping dies, When, lo, before me sunny Arden lies. Alluring bright, as on an olden day. I hear her young voice, Rosalind the gay. And I am young. I sigh for Jacques' sighs; And now I laugh with Touchstone, and my eyes Are wet, with mirth or grief I cannot say. And while I muse the wind that moves the trees Sings, sighs, and laughs in sympathy with me. How like the Poet is this vagrant breeze That moves the trees to music wonder- fully — And now they laugh, now drink unto the lees Of grief , and all in wondrous harmonv- J. N. Greely. 24 TO BEN JONSON 'TwERE good, above a jovial cup, Amongst the merry throng. To hear thy great voice lifted up — The laughter of thy song. Thy fate, O Ben, was wondrous kind. Thy fame has lasted long; For still in musty books men fmd The laughter of thy song. J. N. Greely. 25 A BALLADE OF OTHER IDOLS I Hail! Astarte of far Phoenice, Hail! O Dagon, the Shammothite, HaiL' O Rulers of Golden Greece, Splendid gods of the sun and the light — Ye who were strong and brave and bright, Who has taken your strength away? "We may not say who has shorn our might — Other idols men love to-day." II Keels that sundered the Danish seas Are gone with the galleys of Sidon's might, And the wealth of the Golden Chersonese Is lost in the fathomless mid-sea night. The gates of Carthage are gray with blight. And lepers inhabit their decay. Baal and Moloch have taken flight — Other idols men love to-day. 26 BALLADE OF OTHER IDOLS For higher merchantmen master the seas, And the lands are Hnked together with light, And the newer gods make the new decrees. As they rein the world with a newer might. And still men drain their days of delight, Forgetful when other men shall say, After their greatness is naught and night: "Other idols men love to-day." ENVOI Prince, we hold it is meet and right That ever from age to age they say. As they front the dawn or salute the night: "Other idols men love to-day." Leonard Bacon. 27 TO MAETERLINCK Weaver of dreams like cloudy tapestries, With runic symbols curiously wrought, Half-guessed at in the gloom, the mystic keys That guard strange treasuries of secret thought; Painter of haunted gardens gray with time, Dark, dreamy forests stretching to the sea, Grim castles blackened by unwhispered crime. And lifeless marshes palled with mystery; Singer of moonlight music that disparts The dim, strained silence of the summer night With passion too intense for human hearts, And horror shuddering itself from sight; The sense of fugitive, forgotten things Stirs through the twilight beauty of thy bars, 28 TO MAETERLINCK Strange gleams of knowledge, as of hidden springs That seep their way through fresh arbu- tus stars. Far oflF we hear the full sea's pulsing beat, Through all his lofty oaks the wood-god mourns, We dare not look, lest, in the dark, we meet The awful eyes of the unhurried Norns. J. S. Newberry. 29 THE RAIN-SWEPT GARDEN The heavy drops on the canna's leaf Linger a moment ere they fall, Spattering on the mould beneath. The spider's web by the crumbling wall Scarce bears on its fme-spun silken guys The strain of its trembling burden's weight. From the sodden earth gray mists arise, Enshrouding the trees with a ghostly state. The blossoms droop on their curving stalks; The bedraggled birds on the sinking boughs Sit silent and shiv'ring; the gravel walks Are muddy streams between bordering sloughs Of tangled grass and pasty earth. Nature lies resting under a pall Ere in the beauty and strength of new birth She rises to answer the bright sun's call. H. S. LOVEJOY. 30 VIVIAN'S SONG O, THE fields are green with a silvery sheen, Where the dew besprinkled lies; And violets peep from their dreamy sleep, With shrinking, half-shut eyes. 'Tis morn ! Tis morn ! Come wind the horn ! Let laughter echo long, And melody float from every throat, For life is all a song! The courser champs his bit, and stamps; The boar-hounds fret their chains; The beagles bay at the long delay, And the hooded falcon strains. Sluggards, arise, and rub your eyes, Cloyed with your honeyed sleep! The deer in the brake are seeking the lake, And the hares from the covert leap. Come, mount your steed, nor check his speed, Strong for the chase and fleet; 31 VIVAN'S SONG Across the fields, the grass scarce yields To the touch of his flying feet. The breezes smite till your eyes grow bright, And the blood in your cheeks is rife; Then you feel a glow at your heart, and know That to live is the joy of life. George Burton Hotchkiss. 32 RONDEAU He wrote her rimes and roundelays, And hymned his love in divers vv'ays; " Dear heart," he sang, " I love but you, 1 love you ever, love you true; You are the light of all my days." She blushed beneath his ardent gaze, Her young soul thrilled with sweet amaze; Untaught till then, she never knew A poet's love. She little guessed that all his praise, His burning words and passioned phrase. Were given to many another, too. For out of art his amours grew; And tend'rest verse ofttimes displays A poet's love. George Burton Hotchkiss. 33 THE WORK-GOD From the iciest bergs of the Northland Mid the realms of eternal snow To the placid streams of an Eden Where the Regia lilies blow; From the East, where the Sultan's millions Bow down at the muezzin's call, To the West, where the ringing hammers Forever rise and fall; Wherever the Four Winds journey, Wherever the Earth's brown face Is mottled and blotched and teeming With the Ants of the Human Race, Wherever Man's Love of Conquest Has led Man's Foot to stray, Lord over his Hands and the Sweat of his Brow The Work-god holds his sway. He bides in the heat-swept foundry Mid the breath of the molten steel And guides the naked striking-arm 34 THE WORK-GOD With a touch it cannot feel. He enters the soul of the Artist With Nature's beauties rife, And lo, the Painted Bosom Heaves with the Breath of Life. He stands at the Seaman's elbow When the lightning's fitful gleam Lays bare the teeth of the Sisters Three And pales the Home Light's beam. He touches the brain of the Statesman Charged with a nation's cares, And clears the eye, and calms the mind, That guard the State's affairs. The creeds of Mohammed and Buddha May be marked by a race or a clime; Their beginnings and ends are known by Men, And are pricked on the Chart of Time. But behold the Creed of the Work-God Is the Creed of Forever and Aye; It began with the World's Creation, It will end with the Judgment Day. 'Twas the Creed of the Grecian galley slave As he strained at the ashen oar; 35 THE WORK-GOD 'Tis Creed to-day of the engineer When the thundering drive-wheels roar. It heeds not Race, nor Color, Nor Birth nor Boundary Line, For the Yankee is kin to the Malay At the step of the Work-god's Shrine. E. Lyttleton Fox. 36 A TOAST Come, fill your cups but once again! Toast the lasses Ere time passes: Lift them high and clink your glasses ! We meet no more till who knows when? While these friendship days ye boast, Days of singing, Voices ringing, Fleeting days all gladness bringing, Ere they're gone, come, drink this toast! To a little laughing maid. Drooping lashes. Brown-eyed flashes. Hearts a-tied with her own sashes, Maiden daring, half afraid! Come, fill your cups but once again ! Toast the lasses Ere time passes: Lift them high and clink your glasses! We meet no more till who knows when? S. M. Harrington. 37 THE SPRIGHTLY BALLAD OF MISTRESS MOLLY 'TwAS back in the Reign of the good Queen Anne When the vogue of the Gentleman Wit began, When trouble with Spain was beginning to brew, And the bucks sat at Ombre the whole night through, That the portly Lord Clive brought his daughter to town To offer her royal respects to the Crown. Such, at least, was his Lordship's ostensible reason, But since they had lodgings engaged for the Season A whisper was started, which spread with despatch, That they came rather hoping to make a fine Match. Be that as it may, she was duly presented 38 MISTRESS MOLLY Resplendent in Satin, patched, powdered, and scented. Till even her vain little heart was contented. Then she sparkled at Levee, Ridotto, and Ball, Was ogled by many, but out of them all To whom should this silly Maid's favor be shown But an Ensign, with never a groat of his own. Twas amazing, and so thought her choleric Sire, Who denied him admittance with threaten- engs dire. And ('tis hard to believe, but the gossips all swear it). Hurled straight at his head a half-bottle of Claret, And offended two guests, who expected to share it. 'Twas a delicate Scandal, a Morsel most rare For the Wits and the Dowagers everywhere. But the Season rolled on as all town Seasons do. And the tale was forgot in a fortnight or two, 39 MISTRESS MOLLY For Miss Molly, uptilting her pert little nose, Still smiled and made eyes at a score of the Beaux, And as for the luckless young Ensign, 'twas said No thought of him lodged in her gay little head. But one night, or to speak more correctly, one morning, As home from a Ball in the gray of the dawning Went fair Mistress Molly, just outside the town Her Chair was attacked, honest Terence knocked down. Stout James and the Link-boy belabored most soundly. While they bawled for the watch till they fell, cursing roundly, And Miss Molly, I learn from the very best Source, Carried off in a Coach by — the Ensign, of course. < 40 MISTRESS MOLLY Then indeed all the Town was agog with the tale, And, "O Lud," cried the Ladies, and promptly turned pale. While the Wits chuckled heartily over their Ale. But as for Milord, when they told him the News, First he swore at his men till they shook in their shoes, And then, "Damme," cried he, after think- ing a bit, "I'll be cursed but I love the young Dog for his wit." Raymond W. Walker. 4' THE GUN-CASTING In the furnace-glare the anvils rang With an ever reechoing rattle and clang, Where the hot metal gleaming With bright flashes streaming, As on it the ceaseless hammers sang, Made sound everlasting. Prepared for the casting, The molten steel, like Vesuvian flood. In the dusky caldron seethed and glowed. They swung it over the gaping mould, Massively yawning dark and cold, And the liquid lightning, Their tense faces brightening, Slid over the edge, and cracking rolled Downward. Now the iron lips And flaming throat of the caldron drips A fiery slaver. All around Sputter the sparks. — With booming sound The metal bubbles beneath the ground. Horace W. Stokes. 42 THE RING OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS Within his tent the Gold King of the North Sat feasting; merry bits of Swedish songs Or solemn, deep-toned hymns of Germany Broke forth in turn and trembled on the air Till shouts of laughter drowned their melody. An hundred torches flaring in their racks Cast on the warrior's arms a dancing light And reddened their fair hair and flaxen beards. A noble, near the entrance, raised the flap And gazed into the night; then, "See!" he cried, "The North Wind holds; for Sweden that bodes good. Success awaits us! Lord, I drink to thee! Gustavus! Hail, Gustavus, hero-king! 'Cum Deo et victricibus armis!'" The king, with eyes alight and fair cheeks flushed. Sprang smiling to his feet. "My friends," he cried, 43 GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS "I thank you. If your arms be but as strong As your good-will, I fear no Wallenstein, We shall prevail. 1 have a talisman That, while I keep it, shields me from all harm. When Gustav Vasa at the Mora Stone Took oath to free our Sweden from the Danes, A priest, the last who served the old Norse gods, Gave him a ring on which in ancient runes Was graven deep, ' Great Odin grants to him Who wears this ring long life and sure suc- cess As long as he is just and merciful.' From sire to son this talisman has passed A precious heirloom for our race, preserved By mercy and by justice in our rule." Gustavus ceased and fumbled at his throat. "My lords," he said, "you shall behold the ring That fights for me and guards my very life As long as 1 am 'just and merciful.'" But suddenly there burst into the tent 44 CUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS A soldier with bound hands and naked back; He pushed his way among the startled lords And threw himself before the angry king. "Oh wise and gracious sovereign, pity me; Look at these wounds I gained in serving you. The suppliant raised his head. "As you are just I pray you give me justice, my dread king." Gustavus, red with sense of injured pride, Indignant for his interrupted tale, Disdained the soldier kneeling at his feet. "Seize him and drag him forth to punish- ment," He bade the guards who waited at the door. "And in addition to the sentence passed Give him a score of lashes with your thongs; Presumption such as this deserves no less." The soldier slowly rose to his full height And stared into the hard eyes of the king That flashed with thousand points of chilly steel. "Oh, most just king," he said, and then he laughed, 45 GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS "Most cruel rather than most just," he sneered. Wrath choked the king; he swayed upon his feet And whispered to himself in maddened rage; Then frantically he tore his doublet's throat And thrust his trembling hand into his breast. A moment thus he stood while o'er his face There spread an infinite astonishment That gradually congealed to numbing fear; A weakness seized his limbs and pulled him down. "The ring!" he gasped. "The ring that Odin gave! The ring that guards my life and brings success I 'Tisgone! I've lost it! I have lost my ring!" Then as he sat, the Lion of the North, His great head bowed between his mighty hands, There stole into the tent a filmy mist; It thickened and became a heavy fog That, rolling on before the damp South Wind, 46 GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS Hung o'er the field of Lutzen like a pall And stole between the king and all his lords Until he seemed a shadow of himself, A dim, gigantic ghost that wept and wept. And muttered ceaselessly, "My ring, my ring." H. S. LOVEJOY. 47 THE MOTHER'S SLEEP I Soft-borne and drowsy, muffled in the dark, The sheepfold's tinkhng rises; in long notes The cowherd drones his call; and, floating faint From a distant hilltop, horn-blasts swell and die. The oaks have ceased their rustling and are still. Save for the dreamy twittering deep within. In heaven the little, lonesome clouds are pale With wandering, and nestle to their rest, Unhoused. All garish lights are hid, and night Is kindling soft-flamcd watch-fires o'er the Earth. Closing her weary eyes, and drawing close 48 THE MOTHER'S SLEEP Her darkling robe, the Earth breathes soft and sighs, And sinks asleep. 1 would that I, too, slept. II O would that I might sleep And dream like the Mother dreaming; So wondrous calm and deep, A sleep that is past our deeming! We close our gloom-pressed eyes; Our souls are for ever waking. We couch our limbs, and rise With hearts that are ever aching. And all our wish is rest. Short rest and a little slumber. That we may fight our best Through battles that have no number. Ill The sleep of the Mother is dewy and soft, And balms from her breath arise As sweet as the honey-flowered locust aloft, And fresh as the morn-streaked skies. 49 THE MOTHER'S SLEEP Her bosom is calm, and her breathing is still And soft as the sea-breeze blows; But deep in her breast is a wondrous thrill Like that in an unblown rose. And all through the dark swells the joy in her breast To burst with the rose-rimmed light In bird-caroled paeans of joy for her rest, And joy for her fresh-limbed might. The lovely-haired goddess all-radiant springs To greet with a song the morn; "The toils of the ages are nothing," she sings, "Then hail to the toils unborn!" IV Great Mother, may it be That, when the life-springs cease flowing And men return to Thee, They enter that sleep past knowing? A sleep which, full and strong, is deep, yet prepares a waking; For though the night be long The morn will again be breaking, 5" THE MOTHER'S SLEEP And we shall have our rest, Sweet rest and a welcome slumber, And rise to fight our best Through battles that have no number. V The Earth sleeps on. The sheepfold now is hushed ; No horn-blast wakes an echo; all the birds Are mute and dreaming — save the owl, whose notes, Forlorn and querulous, bemoan her lot Of outcast. Cradled on the sky's broad breast Float still the cloudlets, now not pale, but topped With shade, and downy-bosomed. Star- fires wane; The eastern heaven is filled with liquid light ; And lo, the great-eyed moon upthrusts her head Above yon hill and stares across to this. Softly she cometh — not to wake but watch The Sleeper. Slow she mounts and peers below. 51 THE MOTHER'S SLEEP The darkness melts and passes from the vales ; The meadow-lands are mellowed in the light; Even the grim and black-browed forests smile, Grow radiant, and drink deep the silver flood. Charles Alexis Kellogg, Jr. 52 NEVER FEAR It's cozy we are in the hut, Tim, Lie still now, ye might steal a nap, For what is the thunder to us then, With you cuddled up in my lap? The lightning is chasing the witches, Peering 'round every boulder and tree! What's that? Is it thunder you're fearing? Faith, the thunder falls in the sea! It's the spirits are quaking to-night, Tim, Not good folks like you and me. For it's witches the lightning is after. And the thunder falls in the sea! Ray Morris. 53 BEHIND THE ARRAS A CHRISTMAS MASQUE ( Yvrel, a damosel, and Noel, a page, speak in this wise seated in a tapestry-hung corner of the Kings great Hall.) YVREL What star has given thee its care, My Noel, and has made thee fair? NOEL Hark! With antic and with mow They drag the Yule block in; and now The pompous steward tells them how. What star has watched since I was born? 'Tis Mercury: that Christmas morn There came a warlock to declare, "Vain Mercury shall make him fair, • And he quicksilver shall be e'er." He shook his cane, — one of those staves 54 BEHIND THE ARRAS Of yew cut from adult'rers' graves, — And added, "The red cock shall sing Twice seven Christmas nights; then he This babe, the heart that most will cling To him, will break by vanity." The rascal lied ; I am to you As leal as angels, and as true. {In the hall sounds the peasants' Yule Log song. Noel, careless of Yvrel's troubled face, listens to the song.) CHORUS OF PEASANTS The Yule log, the Yule log, It be where fays do dwell. From out their house pell mell They flicker in a noisy crowd. I heard one stammering aloud, "By Mary," quotha, "Mistress Spark, Our good log house is cracking: hark! The flame folk beckon through our wall, Come, Mistress Spark, away. They call." {A page enters with tankards. The peasants sing.) 55 BEHIND THE ARRAS Here comes the ale With a flagon for me, And another for thee, To the good King; hail! Wench Marian, With the beggar man, And a wand'ring mime beside. All giggle and wink With a sinkful o' drink, For 'tis the Christmas-tide! {The peasants exeunt. Yvrel speaks.) YVREL Dear Noel, I believe you true. You've sworn on Christmas eve to do Aught 1 might bid; to break the spell Of Barbarossa; or, through Hell, Clean to the Nadir ride, and bring Me up the trident of its king. Last night the Princess promised me As a novice to the nunnery; Which, once a year, 'mid Christmas sport, Is given a maiden of the court. Let's on thy Father's wild chateau! 56 BEHIND THE ARRAS NOEL Oh sweet Yvrel, I love you so That, saving thee, mayhap I'll go To-night and, — {There breaks in a chorus from masquers assembling in the great hall.) CHORUS Hurl not the mace Nor couch the lance. In stately grace Thy ladies dance. Hence, — rude steel case. Hence, — war horse prance, Each lovely face Now doth advance. Thy gaze we hold By sinuous fold Of silks and lace. We'll thee entrance. Come, lest we scold, Be gay, be bold. 57 BEHIND THE ARRAS Come ! Come ! Take place. Come! Join the dance. {hloel continues, excitedly peering forth at the gathering group.) NOEL We'll flee, perhaps, upon the morrow. Take cheer, like me; nor trouble borrow. These carols, wassail, boisterous fun. Take all to-night; without ME none Of all the sports were rightly done. YVREL The nun's damp veil fills mc with dread, I hate it; I were better dead. Oh sweet, to-morrow is too late. For, by thy sunny dear brown head, These nuns will seize me if we wait. NOEL It is a pity. Well, — I pray That you'll be abbess there some day. Were honor or thy life in need, 58 BEHIND THE ARRAS I'd save thee, by death-daring deed. But peaceful is the nunnery, And pleasant there thy life will be. 1 love you, but — YVREL You love me not ! Oh God, how piteous is my lot! NOEL Now, now! Weep not, poor little maid. Upon the long wolf-haunted way I fear you would be sore afraid. And weary, weary, never gay Is life on Father's wild bleak moors. Wouldst have ME a dull boor of boors? When here at court — {He looks eagerly around the hall, and con- tinues), See, only see ! There's Corisant of Telivit, His doublet hath a villainous fit! Saw'st how my new hose fitted me? Come, dry these tears. Like me, scorn woe. 59 BEHIND THE ARRAS List, there the hautboys sound, I go. Chuck, one last kiss; for I loved thee. The dance begins; dear heart, I go. {As he departs the dancer s song begins.) CHORUS Who loveth not smacking And Burgundy wine Anon may go packing, He ne'er shall be mine. My love, — {They continue the song; whilst Yvrel, seeing Noel begin the dance with a fair maid, sinks down on a stool, with frightened sobbing. A nun enters the hall, and looks about it inquiringly.) Harry S. Lewis. 60 THE WANDERER "Oh tell me, tell me, have you seen A girl go by this way? Her eyes are deep as if from sleep She half-awakened lay; . Her hair floats golden in the breeze Around her radiant face, As if the sun, his journey run, Had lingered for a space To fondly kiss a last good-night And rest him from his race. "Her dress flew lightly in the wind And singing did she pass. Wandering slow as faint airs blow. Across the bowing grass, Through the deep field, and up the hill. And down, against the sea. As, burning red around her head. The sun drooped lovingly, Making a halo of her hair. And drew her far from me. 6i THE WANDERER " I breathed, and, following on her path, I saw a western star Trembling with light rise in the night — And though she seems so far Sometimes 1 listen and I hear, I faintly hear her sing; When golden rays burn into days I peer at everything — Sometimes, beyond a grove, I see Her garments fluttering. "Oh tell me, tell me, have you seen A girl go by this way? Her eyes are deep as if from sleep She half-awakened lay; Her hair floats golden in the breeze Around her radiant face, As if the sun, his journey run. Had lingered for a space To fondly kiss a last good-night And rest him from his race." George H. Soule, Jr. 62 ODYSSEUS AT OGYGIA Against the evening sky with arms out- stretched to welcome me, Above the long grass-waving slope, she stands. — Penelope? Ah, no; why must my thoughts of Ithaca befool me yet? It is Calypso. Fond old eyes, you evermore forget. Calypso's warm moist kiss and salt tears mingle on my lips. And yet I fancy I again am with the tossing ships. Dim land is seen; my face is flecked with wind-flung briny foam; The oars bend nigh to breaking, as we near the long sought home. Harry S. Lewis. 63 CALYPSO High on a crag above the restless sea In weary woe Calypso waiting stands, Forever stretching out her long thin hands, A mute embodiment of agony. The last light fails, the wet winds rise, but she . Hopes on, with haggard eyes like burning brands Searing the darkness, while the loosened strands Of all her wondrous hair float wildly free. Forgotten are the dreams of other days, Her soul is flame, her parted lips are dry. The languorous noonings in the dark cool caves Were centuries ago. How long he stays! Her fate is fixed, a goddess cannot die, And ah, the ceaseless beating of the waves! Arthur Stanley Wheeler. 64 NAUSICAA The skies o'er Scheria are always blue Because of one fair presence on the isle, One heart that knows nor evil thought nor guile, A maiden ever innocently true. No aftermath of rosemary and rue Is thine, Nausicaa. No lurking wile Lies hid beneath the charm of that swift smile That fades as lightly as it lightly grew. Thy lamp once shed a soft and silvery beam Athwart the Wanderer from overseas, Who, tasting bitterly his soured lees, Forbore to mar thy delicate pure dream, And, so departing, left the lily-maid A memory to cherish unafraid. Arthur Stanley Wheeler. 65 A FORGOTTEN GROTTO The loves of gods of other days Still gleam moss-covered on thy walls, The fountain that still laughing plays Spatters thy marble as it falls In rainbows through the golden haze. And yet — was that the whispering breeze? I seemed to hear the dryads laugh, The sound of clicking hoofs as flees The satyr, followed close by half A swarm of wanton, pillaged bees. The sunlight dies, the zephyrs fan The hillsides with the breath of wine; And fresh as when the gods began Come wood-notes weird and half divine, The gayly calling pipes of Pan. W. S. Hastings. ^ KAMAL OF ISFAHAN So still he sat, and watched the end of day Fade, like an angel's smile, away. So breathed he deep, and stared into the bays Where clouds hung at their starry quays. And every distant, scintillant hint of fire Rhymed with his heart's desire; And every meteor, red-tinged of hell, Screamed, Azyavel! Could I but crush her mouth with mine, he said. Till the lips dripped red! Could I but bend her body's sinuous grace To one love-mad embrace! Too rare her lips, he said, for the poor king, And her deep bosom's bourgeoning; Though she be his, and all her glories' dower. Can such a moth suck such a passion-flower? 67 KAMAL OF ISFAHAN So is the fool less happy even than I Whose soul has cried the exceeding bitter cry; Whose heart, long immolate on her beauty's pyre, . Her hair enmeshes round like white-hot wire! The nightingale, he sang, bleeds for the rose; His breast impaled upon her cruellest thorn, He sings till morn; And this his torture — not his breast all torn: To breathe the fragrance that abroad she blows To all alike, unheeding of his throes. And death-singing! Oh, this his torture: that she never knows, And cannot know, and cannot know. His life-blood ebbing throe on throe, And death-singing! From the embrasure of a broken cloud Looked Ramazan's wan moon on Kamal bowed ; 68 KAMAL OF ISFAHAN Lit Ramazan's wan moon a gray-burnt land, And one crouched figure in the wastes of land. And shadows marked the lonely watcher's place, And crawled, 'neath clouds, across the desert's face; And where the purple edge of dark began, Buttressed the ghostly walls of Isfahan. A sudden shape, whose gray the moon made white, Grew from the gradual night; And straight and swift o'er-slipped the noiseless sand. As one full-planned ; And neared the bowed man, and went slow, more slow. And stealthily as wild things go; Then crept upon him, caught with short, fierce cries His head and throat, and covered mouth and eyes. 69 KAMAL OF ISFAHAN Kill then! he gasped. Strike home! and God approve! Came the quick answer: Nay, not death — but love! And swooned away the purple-pulsed night, And morning sprent the sky with rose-leaf light. Allan Updegraff. 70 WHEN VIZIERS SPEAK Along the streets of rich Bagdad, In gold-embroidered silks yclad, With glittering cavalcade doth ride The caliph Haroun Alraschide (Alrashid's good, but Alraschide Is just as good, and rhymes, beside.) The grand vizier beside him paces. The caliph speaks of well-known faces And things which greet him everywhere. "That beggar woman over there, I've seen when out in some disguise, For ten years, anyway. She cries, ' For Allah's sake an alms, kind one. At home there starves my new-born son.' 'Twill take a long while, at this rate. To grow as old as we, and great." The vizier smiled and bowed his head. "You jest, milord," was all he said. As they were passing by a harem, " I'd like to peek in there, and scare 'em," The caliph said. The vizier titters, V WHEN VIZIERS SPEAK "He, he, ha, ha," in sparrow-twitters. On steeds with dainty trappings scented. On warriors old, Haroun commented; On frying pans and porticoes, On donkeys' ears, and slave girls' toes. And ever the vizier, bowing low. Quoth in mild tones, " Yea, sire, 'tis so." The caliph cleverly proposes A diet to cut off Christians' noses. Old questions argues, like a Guelph, And often contradicts himself. The silent vizier by his side Looks most exceeding edified. At last he ventures to suggest Which kind of scimiter is best. The caliph spoke on building jails. And on the pseudo Sunna tales. A half an hour passed by, and then The vizier dared to speak again. The caliph's face in anger flamed, "Thou dog," he wrathfully exclaimed, "Scarce can 1, when within your clutch, Hear my own thoughts; you talk too much!" Harry S. Lewis. 72 L'INCONNU Amid the dungeon's stifling gloom he lay, — A white-haired prisoner; his beard unkempt, His tattered garments, and his wasted frame, Told of long years of solitude. Above, A narrow loop-hole pierced the massive wall. And through it fell a sunbeam, pallid, thin. Across whose path, marked by the dancing motes. Wavered a single fly in aimless flight, Buzzing a dreary monotone. Faint gusts Of far-off shouting and the echoing call Of bugles drifted through the narrow cleft. Breaking the wonted silence of the cell. Yet still the prisoner unheeding lay. Watching the sunlight, as it slowly crept Along the dungeon wall to where were cut Rude characters, half legible and dim. Deep carven in the blackened stone, — crude shift 73 L'INCONNU To tell the passing of the leaden hours. Hard by the mark which told the hour of noon Three words were graven, — and the sun- beam stole Yet nearer, nearer, till at last it reached The first and flooded it with golden light: — " Fraterntie": the old man's dying gaze Grew more intent, — faint came the whis- pered words: "Ah, brother, — brother, — Jacques, my brother, — you Had sworn — " Breath failed. The shouting from without Grew louder, fiercer, mingled with the boom Of cannon, and the rumbling crash and roar Of battered, falling masonry. The sun Touched now the second word: " Egalite"; And straight the weary eyes were lit with joy. And then grew dark with pain. "Marie, — Marie, — Are all your smiles for him, — and this for me? We loved together, Jacques and I, we fought 74 L'INCONNU And toiled as one, Marie, — are all, — are all Your smiles — for him — and this — " The whisper died. No longer through the narrow loop-hole came The shouting, but with ever fiercer din. And clash of steel on steel, through the thick door Of massive oak, cross bound with iron straps. And now the letters of the last-carved word Are touched with gleams of gold, — 'tis "Liberie." The tired eyes grow brighter as they gaze, Then fade in death. A rush of heavy feet Down the long corridor. Shrill screams the door Upon its rusty hinge. The cell is filled With men in arms, all wet with sweat and blood, Their eyes aflame with light and victory. And through the vaulted passage rings the cry: "Liberie! EgaliU! Fraternite!" Donald Bruce. 75 CRADLE SONG Oh, the silver bow of the moon hangs low, Sleep, my little one, sleep! And the starlight glow is guarding thee, so Sleep, my little one, sleep! Sleep, while murmuring waters flow. And summer grasses are waving slow — Sleep, while night winds softly blow, Sleep, my little one, sleep! Oh, the trees stretch high in the bending sky, Sleep, my little one, sleep! And the swift fire-fly is moving by, Sleep, my little one, sleep! Sleep, while elves their dream-lathes ply! Sleep, while swaying tree-tops sigh. And lingering zephyrs breathe and die, Sleep, my little one, sleep! S. M. Harrington. 76 BATTLE SONG OF ATTILA Rise, ye Huns, to fire and plunder! Let the passes vomit forth Clouds of horsemen — rumbling thunder Rolling from the frozen North! See the blackened trail behind you! Bloody light stains all the skies. Where is law to check, to bind you? — Clans of Attila, arise! See the palfrey and the litter! Women are these men of Rome, (Silken-curtained, all aglitter), Softened by their tropic home. Through the dust the legions glimmer; Tinsel bulwark of Rome's might, — Clustered spears and helms ashimmer, — Burnished eagles gleaming bright. Cleave them, Huns! Lovv' couch your lances! Toss on high your spray of blades ! See, the Hunnish wave advances. Pauses, bursts, then floods the glades. 77 i BATTLE SONG OF ATTILA Romans, where is now your splendor? — Vanished in the smoke-dimmed sky. — Homage, now, ye slaves must render: — Foes of Attila must die! RoLLAND M, Edmonds, \ 78 THE DEATH'S-HEAD AT THE FEAST Ye glorious sons of Egypt's royal race, Look on this quiet guest that shrouded lies. Once pain and joy disturbed that peaceful face; A woman's lips once pressed those buried eyes. As he did once, drink deep thine earthly bliss — Yet a few years and thou shalt be like this. In crimson cloud slow sinks the hot, red sun; The glassy Nile refloats the ruddy gleam And faint sweet songs across the shadows run Where slumber-closed the lotos lilies dream. The world is beauty — death a dark abyss. Yet a few years and thou shalt be like this. 79 THE DEATH'S-HEAD AT THE FEAST The eager heart that leaps against thine own, Her eyes on thee hke darkhng fires that shine, The tremulous joy that throbs through blood and bone — But for a little while these things are thine. Take while thou may'st that poppy-laden kiss — Yet a few year^ and thou shalt be like this. The mighty guardians of the outer vast — Osiris, Isis, Horus and the rest — Ere thy first breath ordained and knew thy last. Shall woman-born escape their dread be- hest? The bow is drawn — nor shall that arrow miss. Yet a few years and thou shalt be like this. Then crown the bowl! Let pour the laugh- ing wine And song and laughter ring from hall to hall! 80 THE DEATH'S-HEAD AT THE FEAST Thine age is mortal; make tliy youth divine, For this grim banqueter doth say to all: "Thine is the hour. Thine own the moment is — Yet a few years and thou shalt be like this!" W. B. Hooker. 8i ECHOES A BLAST of thunder broke above the world And all the mountains huge and hoar; Reverberant grandeur down their valleys rolled In answering roar on roar. A red star shone upon the midnight main; And in the hollow of the flood Out of the dark its image forth again Flashed like a drop of blood. The breath of violets, blown by wandering airs, Came soft across the waving lea; And all my heart, stormed by a thousand cares, Laughed with the thought of thee. W. B. Hooker. 82 THE OLD ARCADE A QUAINT old type of a bygone time, A lordly home in the golden days, But now a mark for the idle rhyme. Lost in the web of the city ways, It stands, unseen by the passing eyes. Hard pressed by the endless rush of trade, But proudly its graceful columns rise, For haughty still is the Old Arcade. Time was when its high-arched walls were gay With laughing voices and flirt of fans. When gallant gentlemen rode that way, And lovely ladies in gay sedans. And many a summer afternoon The old, old game of hearts was played. And lovers begged for a lover's boon On the vine-clad porch of the Old Arcade. And oft when the diamond panes were bright With the glow of the candle-light within, 83 THE OLD ARCADE The great rooms echoed with laughter Hght, And the low, sweet drone of the violin; While red lips tempted and soft eyes shone, And the walls, now flaunting a curt "To Let," hooked down through the hours, till night was gone. On the swaying grace of the minuet. But those days passed this many a year, And now — alas, for its ancient pride! For trade and traffic are rumbling near, And the great, white door which opened wide To birth and breeding and fortune high, To stately squire and gracious dame. Now beckons to every passer-by. And gleams with a tradesman's sordid name. But they say by night, when the town's asleep. The quaint old shades drift back once more. Softly their ancient revels keep 84 THE OLD ARCADE And dance till dawn on the crumbling floor To the faint, sweet wraith of an old-time tune; And then for a space, till the candles fade, And the last strains waver and fall — too soon — Happy again is the Old Arcade. Raymond W. Walker. 85 THE LATEST TOAST Now rank and beauty's all agog; The very last sensation Has just arrived from Warwick way, — Sir Gay's obscure relation, Who's come to take her first sweet sip Of London's dissipation. Last week at Lady Bolton's Drum She made her first appearance, And all the beaux were smitten straight Almost to incoherence. Her gown was gay with knot and lace, But quaintly, sweetly simple, And on her check a huge black patch Quite covered up the dimple. "Perfection," quoth that oracle, The haughty Lord Dalrvmple. For she has such a fetching way Of glancing down demurely, 86 THE LATEST TOAST And such a saucy, pouting mouth, 'Twould charm the gravest, surely. So all the gallants, to a man. Protest she's wondrous sprightly; At Brook's and White's and all the Clubs They pledge her blue eyes nightly, And vow she reigns in old Mayfair, Quite properly and rightly. So rank and beauty's all agog. For London's last sensation Has just arrived from Warwick way, — Sir Gay's obscure relation. Raymond W. Walker. 87 HOLINESS Now am I glad, after the accurate day Has brightened into certainty some shades Of doubt, that, as among those moon-washed glades We wandered yesterday, 1 kept at bay The Adam-impulse that scarce brooked de- lay; Nor made complaint when, like an hundred blades Of steel, desire stabbed my soul ! Day fades Again to dark. Now memory, I pray! Hark back the spell that calmed my broken sighs: — The shadow-softened glory of her face Purer than Artemis'. She breathed round me Aromas that wrapped sense in ecstasy So high, it was most holy — from the grace Of her pure body — her soul's paradise. Ralph W. Westcott. 88 FORGIVEN TwAS on a brisk October day, The skies and water, both, were gray; Babette abruptly turned away; Our guns beside us rested — The rabbits, peeping 'tween the trees, Had ne'er seen huntsmen such as these. While, heavily, against the breeze. The geese flew unmolested. The saucy quail had made a boast They never should be served on toast. (Alas, the dish we loved the most !) And now the time beguiling. She waited for my heart to break — I smoked in silence — neither spake, Until, reflected in the lake, I saw Babette — all smiling. 89 VOLTAIRE TO A YOUNG MAN You say, my friend, you do not understand How God (your God) can let you suffer pain. Why He permits the wrong to conquer right, Or rears a hope, to let it die again. Well, last night, in haste, I crushed a rose That lay o'erbowed upon its slender tree. While rushing heedless to the evening tryst. 'Twas not my fault. Perhaps He does not see. You say, my friend, you do not understand How God (your God) can strike your guilt- less breast, How He can bear to wither all your hopes, Why He destroys your good and leaves the rest. Well, 'twas but an afternoon ago, I wandered through a meadow, musing, sad. A butterfly disturbed my thought. In rage 1 struck. It fell. Perhaps your good is bad. 90 VOLTATRE TO A YOUNG MAN You say, my friend, you do not understand How God (your God), who knows the worst in all. Can let this tragedy of things play on. And not, in mercy, let the curtain fall. Well, in yonder cage, there pines a bird, ^ And better far for him, if all were naught. And yet his color charms my eye, his voice Delights my ear. Perhaps you too, were caught. Bradley A. Welch. 91 EPIGRAMS PROPOSED INSCRIPTION FOR THE NEW LIBRARY Something for all, Invention's myriad kinds; The silent banquet hall of moths and minds. on a medieval tome Long buried, like some Inca's horde, behold! Amid this dust-heap gleam bright bars of gold. the poet's paradox In tears I sang my sweet content. With joy 1 wrote my wild lament. R. T. Kerlin* 92 FISHING SONG Pierre Lefarge de Doulazec, A fisherman bold was he, And he set his Hnes and he set his nets In the restless, roaring sea. He would not marry a fisher lass, And he would not kiss a-one: For the sea, he said, would be his bride, When his fishing days were done. But the waves roll high and the waves roll low, And wave runs fast on wave; And underneath is the undertow, And underneath, — the grave! So there came a time when the sky was hid By the flying clouds and rain, When he set out with his fearless crew. And never came back again. For he was true to the oath he took, A brave, bold lad was he; 93 FISHING SONG And he went down in a winter's storm, To the arms of his love, the sea! Oh, the waves rolled high and the waves rolled low. And wave rolled fast on wave; And underneath was the undertow, And underneath, — the grave! H. A. Webster. 94 MONA LISA Thy face is the question of ages; Thy form is the mirror of time; Round thy temples the wisdom of sages; In thy smile the foreknowledge of crime: 'Tis a smile half sneer and half sadness, The lips now curl, now repine — Ah, gentle precursor of madness, Our Lady Divine. Thou knowest the past and the morrow, And yet in thy far-gazing eyes I see not a hint of man's sorrow, But the world-old contempt of the wise. Time's symbol unchanging thou seemest; Yet the sin-ridden past is thine. Which moulds thy form as thou dreamest. Our Lady Divine, Age has etched out thine eyelids aweary And thy fleeting intangible smile; The eyes that are somber and dreary, 95 MONA LISA Thou Artemis, Circe of guile. Are we ever constrained to surrender, Forever to bow at thy shrine. Most subtle, most cruel, most tender, Our Lady Divine? Robert Moses. 96 THE METEOR A SUDDEN sword of brilliant light Unearthly, flashed across the night And cleft it with a blinding seam. Flung down upon a dreaming world Fantastic shades that leaped and whirled. To melt away beneath its gleam. "Behold! A god descends to earth! A gloom-god of portentous birth! A god of pestilence and storm ! Kneel to the god !" With cries of fear Men viewed the monster crouching near, And shunned its dark metallic form. — Worn smooth by time and sleet and rain, Imbedded in a barren plain, The form still rests, forlorn, alone; The men long dead, their god unknown. Horace W. Stokes. 97 ATTILA The croaking ravens flap o'er fallow fields, The gaunt wolf lairs in ruined city walls, While man, the Mighty Master, skulking crawls On hands and knees so that no stir reveals His presence; sunk to shameful depths he yields His meal, a half-gnawed bone, to beasts. The halls Where nobles feasted now are used as stalls And ladies' bowers are piled with leathern shields. Fierce Messengers of Hell the barbarous horde Swept through the land: beneath their hoofs the sod Was shriveled; overhead a flaming sword Blazed in the sky ; behind Destruction trod, Yet men, submissive, bowed before the Lord And whispered, "Peace, it is the Scourge of God." Henry S. Lovejoy. 98 A BALLADE OF NOVEMBER "This is the time when the dead leaves fall," The pessimist cries in self-torturing glee. "And the wild wind rattles the tree-tops tall, And cold and the raucous airs are free. All earth and mankind are in misery. The outcast weeps and the branches toss — " But 1 lick my lips and go smilingly, For this is the season of cranberry sauce! The sea-storms to the land-storms call, And the land shrieks out to the boiling sea; The black skies gather and threaten all, And the sun-warmth goes and the sun- beams flee. The rain-bullets patter incessantly, Prophetic and boding of pain and loss — But little these bodings can trouble me. For this is the season of cranberry sauce! 99 BALLADE OF NOVEMBER Let the wind stir the coats in the chilly hall, The dining-room fire burns merrily; The table is crowded from wall to wall, And it creaks with the dainties — so what care we? The corpulent turkey smells savory. The gravy steams. And the fruits' dull gloss, The coffee's scent, make it plain to see That this is the season of cranberry sauce! Groaners and pessimists, come to be Cheery, whatever your plaint or cause, For this is the season of jollity. For this is the season of cranberry sauce! J. H. Wallis. 100 THE LINE MEN The Full he may punt for fifty-odd, The Half he may buck for five, The Quarter's the brain behind every gain And he keeps the team alive. But when the tiers are a-rock with cheers. And the air's like a nip o' wine. Here's a toast to the souls who open the holes, Down in the muck of the line. Tense is the grimy crouching foe. Tense is the straining crowd, Trampled and torn is the turf below, When the signal's bark cracks loud. Here's an eye for an eye, and it's do or die! Your bone and his bone must meet In the crash on crash as the giants dash To the goal of the foe's defeat. The yards are twenty before the goal, Each breath is a sobbing sigh, lOI THE LINE MEN And it's up to the Line Men to pay the toll That lets the Half-back by. Your teeth are set, but you're not gone yet, Though your moleskin's a weight of lead, For the yards must pass on the trampled grass And the ball go ever ahead. The yards are five with the goal behind; So near — but the line holds fast. No place for a shirk for it's two men's work — "Hold hard!" — for the pace can't last. Hand, tooth, and nail and it must avail, • As the crashing pile sways o'er. And it's far from the top that the Line Men stop Ere it's "Up!" and "Hold!" once more. The Full has his hands outstretched afar, The Ends they are widely spread; Your men must be quick to block the kick. And you must play with your head. And with the roar that tells of the score Your heart and soul are aflame. 102 THE LINE MEN Though the wild stands call for the man with the ball, You played your part in the game. The Full may punt for fifty-odd, The Half he may buck for five, The Quarter's the brain behind every gain And he keeps the team alive. But when the tiers are a-rock with cheers. And the air's like a nip o' wine, Here's a toast to the souls who open the holes, Down in the muck of the line. W. R. Benet. 103 ON BATTELL'S CHIMES The steady march of Academic years. The glow of hope, the transient sighs and fears. The world-old longings, and the griefs far flown — Battell, from age to age thy chimes intone. O. H. Cooper, Jr. 104 CONTENT The night comes, let it come; The day goes, let it go — • With a friend, and a stein, Or a bottle of wine, And a pipe, in the firelight's glow. Old age comes, let it come; Blithe youth goes, let it go — With a friend, and a stein. Or a bottle of wine, And a pipe, in the firelight's glow. J. N. Greely. 105 A BALLAD OF BOYHOOD BAY When silken ships put out to sea And the foam of the wave swings by, As the sunset isles of infancy Fade low on the fleece-bound sky; With sails a-gleam o'er the silver stream, They bend on the westward way To the golden glow of long ago, By the blue of the Boyhood Bay. There's a rainbow strand for Wonderland And a cove for the pirate boat ; There's an emerald sward for the toy com- mand To storm at the castle's moat ; — Oho! for the joy and the ways of the boy, For the day is eternal play In the golden glow of long ago, By the blue of the Boyhood Bay. Howard A. Plummer. 1 06 THE WANDERING JEW Sweeter than softest music Of earth or sea or sky Is the stifled gasp of dying To him that may not die; — To him that, wan and deathless, Must watch, dumb-souled with pain, The nations rise and crumble Till Christ shall come again. The marble courts of Princes My casque-plumes, sweeping low, Brushed in their deep obeisance A thousand years ago. Mine was the robe of purple, That speaks a king's right hand, And when the war-gong thundered Mine was the chief command. Where axe on helm was crashing I led, and prayed to die, Bowed to the glittering broadsword; The broadsword passed me by. 107 THE WANDERING JEW Within a sun-scorched city, Lost in the desert sand. Crazed with the rack of famine. Dank from the Scourge's hand, 1 crawled amid the stricken And, palsied arm on high. Prayed for the Scourge to take me, But, lo, it passed me by. Far in a clanging workshop — The West's full-furnaced Hell — Where great earth-shaking hammers Obedient rose and fell. Amid the soot and turmoil. Choked by the hissing air. Toiling with molten rivers 1 braved the white-hot glare. Reckless of mighty engines, And chains that burst and fly, I prayed for them to whelm me. But, lo, they passed me by. And so, throughout the aeons That roll unceasingly. Quelled by the hand of heaven io8 THE WANDERING JEW I bow to its decree. Toiling where toil is granted, Wrapped in a leaden calm, Broken of soul and weary, I drift from pole to palm, Straining with heavy eyelids To catch the fire unfurled That tokens in its gleaming The sunset of the World. E. Lyttleton Fox. 109 IN VAGABOND GOLDEN AND VAGABOND GRAY The road of the vagabond's mottled and winding: It runs through the hills and round by the sea, And the end of it takes a long day for the finding, And the heart of the man must be vaga- bond-free. Vagabond, vagabond, vagabond he Who follows the trail for the whole of his day, Who hearkens unto the road's decree, "Vagabond golden and vagabond gray." It matters no whit that the long night be binding — Who knows but a star may break o'er the lea? — And the sea may forever go on with its grinding; no VAGABOND GOLDEN None knows what the waves at the last are to be. This only is certain: the wind in the tree, The feel of the air and the stinging spray, The sun, and the rain, and the wild things aglee Are vagabond golden and vagabond gray. The call of the road is sacredly binding — Tattered or girded, of every degree, All for the golden, the gray never minding, An host has departed, — and lo, where the bee Clambering, filches his honey-fee. His vagabond kin gleaned, yesterday. Vagabond beauties such as folk see In vagabond golden and vagabond gray. In the face of the mighty they turn not to flee: They are vagabonds careless and vaga- bonds gay. Ah — what hale-hearty vagabond comrades are ye In vagabond golden and vagabond gray! S. M. Harrington. 1 1 1 THE HERMIT'S PRAYER A HERMIT knelt before his woodland shrine Of blue, cold-rugged stone. The unhurried spring, His rosary, o'er-spattering the sedge Around the Virgin's feet, ran through the glen — Cathedral arched, bright-paved in leaf mosaic. Rich-windowed with the red of sunset clouds Burning between the frets of woven boughs, Murmuring with echoes from a choir of brooks And low-accompanying breeze. But hark! there rose Beyond the hill a voice, gleefully Climbing in tunefulness, and tripping on Into a happy, happy hunting song! New music of a voice! He looked, and shuddered, For there upon the crest, against the sun, All blood-red in her lightly hanging gown 112 THE HERMITS PRAYER There poised, surprised, a vision of a girl Just ready to descend, her head thrown back, Her breast with full breath heaving, and her hands Swaying two saplings, as to hold her there. Then, graceful as a falling maple leaf. She skipped along the ground, and with her flew The ghosts and all the images of love He had lashed into darkness. Crouching back. He trembled, crossed himself, and looked away, Flung forth his scarce-clad arms, entreating her: "Go, go, thou witch! Oh leave me now in peace!" She stood before him, smiling in his eyes. And touched his shoulder lightly with her hand. "I am no witch," she answered laughingly, "But just a maid who loves the autumn woods And wanders at her will. To prove it thee 113 THE HERMIT'S PRAYER I'll sing to thee a Virgin's lullaby My mother loved to croon to me at sunset. She tilted back her head and eyed the sky As if to see the tune; "Ah yes," she said, And hummed, and started sweetly into song: "My heart, as red as the sun, My little one. Yearns to Thee ! My arms, as warm as its beams Almost, it seems. Cling to Thee! " But Thou, who rulest the sun, My little one. Need not me! Angels will shelter Thy sleep And they will keep Thee from me!" She tightly clasped her hands against her breast, Her eyes were far, like stars before the dark, Her. tears dripped slow, as from a passing cloud, 114 THE HERMITS PRAYER Her low voice caught, as if the Mother sang. The hermit started back, adoring her; He fell upon his knees, with hands upraised; Trembling, he bowed in esctasy of prayer: "O Virgin, sacred, most immaculate. Pardon, oh pardon my presumptuous sin!" Her laughter fled from her and filled the dell, Repeated clear from every tree and stone; She took his face between her light young hands And lifted it until he looked at her. All smiling gazed she in his blighted eyes. And laughing said to him: "No — no — not I — Oh do not worship me — " She paused, her smile Faded, as sunset into gloom, so sweet And tenderly, as she bent down, and pressed Her Hps against his forehead. He leapt up, But she had turned and fled, and as he heard Her footsteps rustling dim away, his arms Sank empty to his sides. He bowed his head, Dropped slowly to his knees, and prayed: "O Lord, 115 THE HERMIT'S PRAYER I thank Thee for Thine ever-present help And Thy dehverance from this — foul — witch!" Darkness and loneliness crept up to him, He heard the whispering voices of the breeze, And the low-singing runlet, and the spring — Then spattered many a drop without a prayer, George H. Soule, Jr. ii6 THE CALLING OF THE RIVER Sweet and clear, sweet and clear, The cloister bells are ringing; Soft and low, soft and low, The somber monks are singing. Still and deep, toward the sea The sunlit stream is flowing. What if I too should doff the cowl And toward the town be going? This river here that skirts the Abbey wall And stirs those reeds beneath the poplar tree, — They say it sees a world of wondrous things Before its lazy ripples reach the sea. Beyond the yellow worlds of waving grain It flows where castles rise and turrets frown. Burdened with fishers' boats and barges gay. And hearkens to the murmur of the town. 117 THE CALLING OF THE RIVER There, on a mossy bridge that spans the stream, Bronze-bearded pikemen swagger to and fro. And merry children watch the painted fish That swim within the mirror flood below. Sometimes at night when all is still and dark, With never star to gleam from overhead. Men curse, and struggle with their fellow- men. And sink in silence to the river-bed. But on the evenings when the moon shines forth Gen'rous with mellow light, men whisper low — Even the river cannot hear — to maids With laughing eyes, and bosoms like the snow. Sometimes a pied street-fool in red and green. Sometimes the king with glittering retinue, And many other sights as passing strange The river sees, they say, — but is it true? ii8 THE CALLING OF THE RIVER What lies beyond whither the fishes swim, Whither the rushes nod, the ripples flow, Even the meadow lark has seen, — and sings — Ah, to be eager twenty, and not know! Sweet and dear, sweet and clear, The cloister bells are ringing; Soft and low, soft and low. The somber monks are singing. Was it the sight at eventide Of man and maid a-wooing. Or was the joyous robin's song The cause of my undoing? Still and deep, toward the sea The sunlit stream is flowing. What if I too should doff the cowl And toward the town be going? E. Lyttleton Fox. 119 FROM THE CITY On every side the endless, hurrying press, Streams, whirlpools, eddies of humanity: A girl who laughs; a youth whose name might be John Keats, or Chatterton; a scarlet dress, A scarlet soul; a beggar bends to bless The child who gives; a huckster motions me; And yet for longing one dear face to see, I think I ne'er have known such emptiness. On every side the endless hurrying press; Myriads of voices, undertoned by feet Of passing throngs, and from the crowded street The car's crescendo, and the heavier stress Of booming drays. At every street's ingress The diapason grows that was replete With all of human sounds that ear might meet, — And yet not all ; one lacking — can you guess? Allan Updegraff. 1 20 WHEN PINE TREES WHISTLE Pine trees sighin'? Wal, I guess not. Never heard a pine tree sigh. Heard 'em whistlin' like blue blazes, Laughin' like as they would die. Just one time they ain't a-whistlin', — When the forest's all aflame With the colors of the autumn, Then it's just a cryin' shame Way them maples in new dresses Swaggers 'round afore them pines, (Just like schoolgirls' exhibition,) All togged out to say their lines. Then them pines ain't saying nothin', 'Cept to murmur now and then, Just to show they're still alivin', "Wait till winter comes again." Sort o' scares them stylish maples. Makes 'em nervous and they shake Till they just go all to pieces, Realizin' their mistake. And the pine trees whistle louder 121 WHEN PINE TREES WHISTLE When them dresses turns to brown. Never stop their talk for breathin' Till the leaves come whirlin' down. My! but how them pines do whistle When the snow whirls 'round their feet, Laughin' at them poor young maples Standin' bare agin the sleet. Walter Richardson. 122 TWILIGHT IN MARCH Guarding the dusky hilltop bare and bold, Black-etched upon a sheen of lambent gold; Three gaunt pines creak and shiver in the cold. Ralph Westcott. 123 EXIT HOMO The play is over, and the players gone. Across the world-stage, lonely now, there race The dark-chilled chaos winds. No hope of dawn, The glacier-curtain in its ancient place. The play is over; with Polonius lie The players, couched at dinner. Every scene Is moldering — brothel, college, temple high, With frescoes decked, of arms, or laurel green. The play is over. Stands the empty stage. Come there no other caperers for pence. To rant "This is the immortal, final age"; To bore the everlasting audience? • What though thedrearynight engulf the play! Faint hints the promise of another day. n. Sinclair Lewis. 124 PIPE-LIGHTING TIME When twilight paints the fading wall With gloomy shapes, grotesque and tall, Or conjures forth a merry band Of tinseled forms from F'airyland To hold me in their silken thrall. My half-unconscious fingers fall Upon the old, familiar bowl, The magic moment is at hand, Pipe-lighting Time. The dreamy smoke's slow-rising pall Shuts out the babbling carnival; And lo! on Spain's dim distant strand There leaps the Future's castle grand. • 'Tis gilt Ambition's hour to call, — Pipe-lighting Time. E. Lyttleton Fox. 125 "AS FROM THE PAST—" Moonlight upon the mullioned pane, Moonlight flooding the vacant stair, MoonHght throbbing a soft refrain, Ever as I sit brooding there. Ever — and all its strain to be "Dorothy — Dorothy!" Back from my chair the shadows glide, And in the corner the armor glows — Helm of the knight who rode by thy side, Greave of the hero who wore thy rose, Relics of olden chivalry — "Dorothy — Dorothy!" Over my head the 'scutcheons hang — Marquis, and earl, and baronet. And, as 1 ponder, the gisarms clang, Truncheon on halberd ringing yet. Back flit the days of cap-a-pie. "Dorothy— Dorothy!" 126 "AS FROM THE PAST—" Wake! for the backlog smolders dead; The gray dawn steals through the mul- lioned pane. Burned is the incense, the past has fled, Yet through my soul swells the soft re- frain — Dear golden dream days of thine and thee — "Dorothy — Dorothy!" Wm. R. Benet. 127 ON SEEING A PICTURE OF BEETHOVEN Sounds the deep boom of ocean and the roar Of wind surging through tree-tops. Past the moon Wings the wild screaming heron, and the loon Bewails its nest, storm-strewn along the shore. Alone, slow-striding, bending towards the gale, Unmindful of the lashing sand and rain. The Master listens to the savage strain And marks the meter of the Storm King's tale. R. W. Westcott. 128 A WINTER SEA A BREATH, Then a growl, And a rising howl. Till the cordage shrieks in the swelling gale; And the ship keels deep to the dreary wail, While the timbers echo the strident tale, The north wind is crying, Is sighing Of death. A breath Through the deep, With a rising sweep. Till the wave looms high with a hissing dash; Till it staggers down with a snarling crash; While the ship lies shuddering 'neath the lash. The wild sea is booming. Is dooming Its death. Walter Richardson. 129 ELIZABETH I HEARD thy name long ere we met, Twas sweet as though the words were set To music, and the soft refrain Rang in my soul and through my brain Like phantom thoughts of wild regret. 1 saw thee; with the sight the debt That life owed me was fully met, My heart leapt up with Love's sweet pain, Elizabeth. We danced the graceful minuet, Thy boon to me, a violet, I treasure still; its purple stain Dyed in the book where it has lain. Dyed in my heart that can't forget Elizabeth. 130 PASSIO XL MARTYRUM DRAMATIS PERSON.^ CHRISTIANS FIENDS CRISPUS THE RENEGADE TWO SOLDIERS CENTURION WATCH ANGELS First Soldier . See how the sparks fly snapping down the wind! The brazier glows bright red, and yet I freeze. Second Soldier Would that the gods who blow the embers so Breathed not on me! 1 love not Scythia. First Soldier Aye, give me station near the vine country! This herding fools at midnight on the ice Is bitter business. Where the sun is warm, 131 PASSIO XL MARTYRUM Men know the worth of life, and seek not death In stubborn, aimless conflict with the laws. Second Soldier Where else for love of gods, or man, or maid. Would forty such be found as wait for death Stark naked in this air? Men say the lake Each winter freezes to the very springs; And we that huddle o'er our little fires Beneath the sheltering banks are cold enough. How red their bodies gleam against the dark! First Soldier Sum Christtanus! Forty sturdy men That for a dead and buried Jewish prophet Affront the governor and welcome death! Sum Christi anus! Hercle! Till the gods Rain more than water, let them ask me not Such service! Second Soldier At the torment, how the crone Bade her own son endure without complaint, 132 PASSIO XL MARTYRUM Lest he, forsooth, lose place among their heroes ! They all are mad. — But soft, here comes the round. First Centurion Let none escape. If rescue be attempted, Alarm the others. Bring me any one That offers to recant. Be vigilant. Second Soldier We are not like to sleep here on the ice. They say that in the tribune's tent are baths Of heated water, fleeces, spice and wine, To remedy the deadly chill. Their songs Are like their lives, a fretful dreary whine. Christians We thank thee, Lord, that we may lay aside The clogging garb of sin, Put off the former man, instinct with pride, And share the anguish of the Crucified, At last to enter in. 133 PASSIO XL MARTVRUM Winter is bitter, Paradise is sweet; We change one night of pain For joys no earthly king can give; the feet That burn with cold shall press the heavenly street; These trembling hands shall reign. O comrades, falter not, but put to rout The ancient ghostly foe; Hell's hungry legions press us close about, And snatch and thrust, and strive with frantic shout To drag us down below. Fiends There is time! There is time! Come quickly, the baths! Let the warm blood course With new life through its paths! New life! Warm life! Why should man seek for death? Is it pleasing to God? Know ye not how Me saith If they persecute here Ye shall flee away there, 134 PASSIO XL MARTY RUM Lest the guilt of your blood Should fall to their share? Christians Lord Jesus, to the ordeal we are come, Forty — and forty still may we be crowned As victors in Thy kingdom. From that sum May none be wanting! Angels, guard us round ! Fiends Doth He hear? Do ye think That when Life gives her best And ye will not, that pain. Self-imposed, brings a rest In the grave? Fools! Fools! Take Life, when she offers Her bountiful breast. Take love and wine, And when the shine Of passion in a woman's eyes Makes pulse leap fast, Forget the past And all this folly of sacrifice! J35 PASSIO XL MARTY RUM Crispus My spirit weakens with this cruel pain. Christians Forty are we, O Jesu, and dread is that number! Forty the days that Moses abode on the mountain, Bringing to Israel's sons the tables of stone; Forty the days of the fast of Thy servant Elijah, Him that would look with the eyes of the flesh upon God-head; Forty the days in the wilderness when Thou wast tempted, By that temptation we pray Thee to succor Thy servants; May we be crowned still forty in Heaven before Thee ! Crispus 1 cannot bear it, save nu-! 1 recant! Quick, warm me, give me wine, before 1 freeze — 136 PASSIO XL MARTY RUM I hail thee, Caesar, God! This grateful heat — Take me away, my limbs have mortified, I perish! Fiends One soul, aha! We've trapped in sin, And dragged to share The dungeons where With horrid din The souls, aha! Lament their lost estate. One soul, aha! One child of grace We've reft from Him! The cherubim With tears efface One soul, aha! From the book at Heaven's gate. Centurion Poor Crispus ! Couldst thou not have stayed with them, Thy fellows? They at least rejoice to die, 137 PASS 10 XL MARTY RUM And thou hast perished miserably. This Christ Must touch men's hearts; the sword, the Hons, fire, And cold like this, cannot repress their zeal — What light, what voice is that above the lake? Angels Glory be to God on high ! Amen ! And praises to the Lamb his Son! Amen! The crown of life, the high reward of Him That sitteth on the throne, I offer thee; The palm of victory over sin and self, The recompense of toil, 1 bring to thee. Hail to thee. Martyr, witness for the truth, Thy loving Master calls thee to His side. Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us. To Thy name be the praise! Amen ! Amen ! Centurion What is this company? Mine eyes grow dim With the glory; and that music stirs my soul. .38 PASSIO XL MARTY RUM There stands one, silent, with bowed head; beUke He brought the regal crown and palm for Crispus. In battle, when a standard-bearer falls. The next brave man steps forward in his room, And leaves no gap along the line; so I Am minded to lay claim to Crispus' place . . . Sum Christianus! Here, my cloak and tunic. My sandals. Ah! — I pray you take me in, Ye Christians, for I feel the love of Christ. I know the Truth! O Christianus sum! Angels and Christians Glory to God! In ways unsearchable The number hath He kept, and him we mourned, Replaced, as Matthew followed Jude the cursed. Thou art baptized by faith, and not in water But in thy life-blood ! Christian soul, all hail ! Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, To Thy name be the praise! Amen! Amen! 139 passio xl martyrum Certain Christians How long, O Lord, how long? I yearn to be With Thee, sweet Jesu, in Thy Paradise. Other Christians The East grows bright ; we enter on a day That shall not end. Into Thy hands, O Lord! Last Christian I soon shall join with these my brothers, passed Before me. Ah, dear Christ, I follow Thee! First Soldier The sun is coming; our centurion Will ne'er again give orders. Second Soldier He was mad. The slaves are dragging trees across the ice To burn the bodies where they lie. At last The trumpet! and this cursed watch is over. A. E. Baker. 140 A BALLADE OF THE PROM EuLL of graciousness, full of grace, Bright and merry from top to toe, Fairy figure and f airiest face. Deep, soft eyes like a startled doe. Dusky tresses that wave and blow, Chaining our hearts in their silken net — Thus is thy likeness drawn, I trow, Modest maid of the violet! Grave Old Yale is an altered place; Gray walls answer thy laughter low — Eli's sons are a merrier race; Under thy glances they gladsome grow. Study and care to the winds they throw, Sigh for the smile of a coy coquette — Vogue la galere is comme il jaut, Modest maid of the violet ! Locked at length in a light embrace, ng to 1 flow — Swung to the swirl of the sound-waves' 141 A BALLADE OF THE PROM Lights that mingle and interlace — Rose-leaf blushes that come and go, Eyes that whisper to eyes that know — We shall remember — will you forget? What new dreams will the morrow show, Modest maid of the violet? l'envoi After the parting, amid our woe One consolation remaineth yet — Thou wilt return in a year or so, Modest maid of the violet! 142 DUTCH LULLABY The weather-brown windmill swings to rest; Its whimsical drone is o'er. The peat-smoke mantles a curling crest On the quay by the dyke-bound shore. While the Zuyder Zee sings low to thee, Murmuring " Kindje, sleep." The fancy-fairies have sailed away, 'Cross the twinkling moon-winked snow, In the steeple-hats of mynheer's array And his sturdiest wooden sabots. — Oh! for the streams of the land of dreams, Whispering " Kindje, sleep." So, quick, my sweet, ere the goblin-elf Peer out on thy blue-bright eyes, For swift he swoops from the pottery-shelf And dread are the dreams he plies. But never a fear, for the moon rides clear, Signaling, " Kindje, sleep." Howard A. Plummer. •43 A JAPANESE SERENADE Dim bluish mountains slowly flush In the lingering glow of a rich harvest sun; Over the rice fields steals a hush, And sleepy stars peep one by one. Yuki, come; Yuki, come. Ere the sunset's last gold glimmer Fades before the pale moon's shimmer, Yuki, come. Pale cherry blossoms tint the dale, Running rampant through meadows and over the hills; Low on a branch a nightingale Is floating its silvery trills. Yuki, come; Yuki, come, 'Mid a thousand pink-white petals, Falling, while the twilight settles, Yuki, come. Sorcerous moonlight traces faint The shadowy gnarling of all the trees — •44 JAPANESE SERENADE Fairy tracings, queer and quaint, That waver in the shifting breeze, Yuki, come; Yuki, come, Come, and all the night we'll wander Where the wind is sighing yonder, Yuki, come. W. RuMSEY Kinney. '45 GARDEN SONG A GRAY cloud covers the coming morn With the hush of a haunting dread. The cold wind bites hke the blast of scorn And the dawn lies dead — . And the joy of the dawn lies dead — But the lord of day hath rent his way And flooded the fields with a golden glow, And the wraith-white mists are captive borne, And the tall bright lily laughs "No, no — Life yet is life while the breezes blow." The great sun throbs in a purple sky To the tramp of the marching hours, And the bright bees labor and strive and die O'er the hot, faint flowers; O'er the hot and thirsty flowers; But the calm brown pool is dark and cool Where the brooklet ripples its laughter low, And under the moss where the shadows lie 146 GARDEN SONG Shyly the violet breathes: "Ah, no — Love yet is love while the breezes blow." The dim hills blush in the rosy gleam At the gates of the wondrous west, And the night comes down like a sick girl's dream Of long sweet rest — Of love and joyous rest ; But a chill wind flies from the fading skies With a shiver of fear and a wail of woe. And the hemlock branches writhe and stream And the blood-red poppy sighs: "Not so, Still death is death while the breezes blow." W. B. Hooker. '47 MEED OF SORROW Upon the nearer bank of that dark shore, Where, still and full, Lethean waters pour Like greatening darkness and a deepening sleep That makes a sobbing child forget to weep, And lulls its beating eyelids, and compels Erasure of the sorrow, and foretells A sweet awakening by a morning breeze That scatters flickering sunshine through the trees, I saw a woman wander, all alone. Her long, straight robe with dullest white- ness shone Like to the blank, sad blindness of a wall Between us and our freedom; the light fall Of her brown hair, baffled in loveliness, Yearned for an evermore denied caress; And her smooth, twilight-pale, grief-sickened brow Shamed with its blessed breadth the fire that now 148 MEED OF SORROW And now anew glowed dully in her eyes; Consuming all the hopes of glad surprise Or unsought joy. She would not now impart In one clear glance for her deep-moving heart Any half satisfaction in a love That gives itself to what it cannot move, But rather, shaken and bruised by blow on blow, Too frightened to be calm, too weak to know. She waited for an ending of her soul — Never to come. Toward her Lethean goal Over that shadowy, old rough-heathered waste She stumbled with slow steps too tired to haste. Her pitiful white fingers at her breast Clutched at her sorrows, as if yet her quest For something fine and beautiful and still Moved her in vain to grapple and to kill The longings torturing her. She hardly breathed, Else had her tense-held woe to weeping seethed, 149 MEED OF SORROW And smitten with sudden tears iiad found relief — A thing that could not be. In pure, whole grief She reached that silent stream, and, bend- ing low, She saw its blackness and desired it so That sorely trembling, she leaned o'er the brink And lifted one sweet handful. Ere the drink Had touched her patient lips, a strange regret Grew in her eyes, as if a moment yet She held some lonely, sweet pain to her heart Close as a child, afraid lest it depart. Then trembled joy o'er pain, as when the moon Swells wondrously above some distant dune, Creeps spirit-like across uncertain seas. And blazes splendor on the fantasies Of midnight tenor. Slowly she let fall The potion black that would have hidden all. And, in whole knowledge of her deep distress, She smiled a smile of utter tenderness. George H. Soule, Jr. 150 THE EYE OF MY LORD THE KING Keen as the point of the steel-shod lance At his silver saddle-bow, Black as the hair of a stripling born Where the lotus lilies blow. Stern as the roar of the wind-swept sea When the gulls are skimming low; And there's never a peasant did not pale, Nor ever a lord that did not quail. Nor a henchman's heart that did not fail 'Neath the Eye of My Lord the King. "Hoho!" laughed the crow from the ivied wall, "For a pair of eyes to conquer all — 'Tis a wondrous silly thing," True as the hearts of the hundred knights That fly his pennons free. Soft as the perfume-laden breeze That wafts o'er a Southern Sea, Kind as the soul of our gracious queen When she prays on bended knee; 151 THE EYE OF MY LORD THE KING And there's never a maid in the broad realms nigh, Be she castle-born or shepherdess shy, That did not gaze to earth and sigh 'Neath the Eye of My Lord the King. "Hoho!" laughed the crow from the moat below, " For a pair of eyes to witch them so — 'Tis a passing foolish thing." Cold as a link of the drawbridge chain At the purple tinge of day, Dull as the mien of a mountain pool When the mist hangs thick and gray, Still as a mouldering donjon keep Where crawling lizards play, And there's never a lord to bend him low, Nor even a maiden's cheek to glow. For the flame has died with a broadsword blow From the Eye of My Lord the King. "Hoho!" laughed the crow as he perched near by, "Not all birds dine on a kingly eye. 152 THE EYE OF MY LORD THE KING — 'Tis a wondrous lucky thing! Here's a royal feast for a year and a day. Now where is a feather of reason, pray, In the terrible things the people say Of the Eye of My Lord the King?" E. Lyttleton Fox. '53 i.^n VA) t^- THE BALLAD OF KING GRADLON The sea still sweeps to Brittany, But once, in Gradlon's reign, It swept the land jar a double league As it never has again. The wave had won the peasant's door, It groped at his roof-tree, And what was once the low broad land Was now the broad gray sea. On his castle walls King Gradlon watched; "God pardon us," he cried, "Some witch hath paid the devil well For power o'er the tide." Then Gwenole, the priest, spoke up, " Tis ill that we should stay. With the sea waist-high upon the road, And the hills a league away. " For I shall carry the great gold Cross, And the sacred Host take you; Borne high above this tide, they will Its soul-bought power subdue." •54 BALLAD OF KING GRADLON King Gradlon knelt before the Host, But his daughter whispered low. The Host he left, but he took the maid Clasped tight on his saddle bow. They rode out on the drowned highway, And the sky hung low and black. The sea on their plunging horses' flanks Shone white in the lightning's track. Then Gwenole, the priest, spoke up, "'Tis ill you should not know, The girl that clings behind you there, 'Tis she hath done this woe. The sacred Host was yours to take: Thy daughter now must go. "O cast her down from your saddle-tree! Devils to devils pray; She has called on the sea, let it take her now — It is God's word: Obey!" King Gradlon looked upon the skies; They swirled down wrathfully. "God strike me if 1 do a wrong." And "Ay," said Gwenole. '55 BALLAD OF KING GRADLON The old King groaned, "My girl, my girl • God's will be done," he said, And clenched his teeth and thrust her off: She fell as one falls dead. The lightning, like the sword of God, Leapt sudden to the sea . . . Thereafter no man saw the King Nor the false priest, Gwenole. Lowell C. Frost. 156 THE LAST VAGABOND Oh, we swung out of the courtyard gate, And into the sunny road. That ran so crooked, that ran so straight, Our goal, and ever our goad. The road lay beautiful, blinding white, And the world was very young, Or young it seemed to our fresh young sight And a careless song we sung: "Oh, He is wed to his dulling toil, And He to his fireside. And He to the sodden sweat of the soil; And a captive He in chance's coil; But I — the road's my bride." Yet one dropped under the noonday sun; And we left him lying still. We wanted to see where the road would run, What lay behind the hill. '57 THE LAST VAGABOND And one dropped out at the little inn — Oh, the wine was very good — But we laughed at him, cooped up within, Atramp through the good God's wood. And one dropped out when the rain swirled down, And the wind chilled to the bone, And turned to the sheltering nearest town; While we swung on alone. Oh, we were young and the world was young And all the world our friend. When out of the great gray gate we flung — And you are at journey's end. Your path stops short, half up the hill, At a vinegrown home; but I Shall follow the beckoning long road still. Old man, good night, good-by! "Oh, He is wed to his dulling toil, And He to his own fireside, And He to the sodden sweat of the soil; And a captive He in chance's coil; But I — the road's my bride." J. N. Greely. 158 VILLON IN PRISON A WORD with thee, my friend o' the rusty keys! Didst think, perchance, I slept a moment since. So failed to note the fine, painstaking search Bestowed on my apparel; frayed, 'tis true, By over-frequent bouts with wind and worse. Yet whole enough to hide some paltry pence Whereof 'twere well to rid — nay, spare excuse! My course were thine, had I been turnkey here And thou mad Villon, doomed to hang at noon. So making late amends to angry God And cheating hell fire yet, to quote the priest. But hear me out! The coins may still be thine, With blessings added, all for one poor sheet — 159 VILLON IN PRISON Mark me, I ask but one — whereon to write Of pity and farewell; throw needful light On certain episodes for one who else — Dost catch my drift? Girls' hearts are such frail things. Thanks, friend! There, keep the pence, and leave me now To make, as best I can, my peace with God And her, if that may be. Wide, smooth and white! So smooth! So white! So fit to charm the pen To facile rhyme! — And leave poor Jehanne to starve Her heart out for the word that sets all right? No, never that, please God!— But ah, those lines That raced like wildfire through my brain last night! Bright fugitives; if 1 could grasp them now, What golden worth might they not yield, what hope 160 VILLON IN PRISON Of handing Villon's name to future years Blest, glorified, redeemed from sudden night By one triumphant burst of lyric dawn! How did the first line run? — Poor Jehanne, poor Jehanne! Howard Chandler Robbins. i6i THE LAST BALLADE Master Francois Villon Loquitur Snow — and still snow — and is night com- ing, Sister, Or just my eyesight failing? You have sent For the last unction? Set the casement wide That I may hear the tinkling of the bell When the good father comes along the street And all the people reverence the Christ. Come nearer, Sister, sit you by my side. I am afraid of I->ar. You do not know, Wrapped in your cloistered peace and sanc- tity, What Fear is — the gray awful thing that comes And clutches you all soundless from behind (When you are hot and full of meat or lust), To point the way that all men have to go. Death is not dreadful to a soul like yours. For you have known God's pity and God's love. 162 THE LAST BALLADE So have not I. Ever my joy hath cranked And twisted. Whirling in drunken dance At best I only caught a feverish glimpse Of that high, blinding light they tell me gleams From the half-open gates of Paradise — My Katharine — but she never understood. I could not make her see — she only laughed Her beautiful bright laugh — and passed me by. Oh, Sister, if the kind good Christ will take All that I meant, all that I had in mind To do and say. But that, too, is my curse, Ever to promise, never to fulfill — Christ, Christ, how can I die? What should I do In your fair mother's garden where the Saints Do walk in order, and the holy maids Cecily, Rosalys, and the rest? They'd stare To see poor light-pate Villon in their midst. Besides, there's no stewed tripe in Heav'n, 1 fear, Nor Beaune wine. There I'd have naught to say. 163 THE LAST BALLADE You see I only know the kind of life Where sinning men and women sweat and eat And laugh to hear the idle songs I make. All that I've done has borne its taint of sin. Myself alone I served — myself betrayed. Have mercy then; and thou, O Holy Queen, My last ballade to thee I here indite. (Help me up. Sister.) 1 will kneel to thee. Do thou enthroned hear and plead for one Poor Frangois Villon, poet, lover, thief, Take all my life and read it as a prayer Crying thee mercy. Pity a poor scribe Who has writ ill, nor matched his meter well. But here the song ends. Only do thou smile In kindness on me, and the awful things That creep and cling about me must take flight. Leaving my soul free, then, at last to climb Unto that Heaven I saw in my love's eyes. ******* Enne, how cold it is! The bones will creak On Mont Fau(^on to-night. Call in the priest 164 THE LAST BALLADE To give me bread and wine — my last on earth. Katharine — not here — pardon my folly, father; One earthly thought — now comes the last envoi. Thomas Beer. 165 THE INCENSE DANCE Through the dim hangings, slowly cleft in twain, The dancer glides, white-swathed, incarnate grace — Nor know 1 if that weirdly pulsing strain Inspire the trend of her consummate pace, Or be her footfall's airy-tuned trace. Poised o'er her head she bears the incense tray, A rapt, mysterious smile upon her face. Then flowerwise stoops in languorous delay Upon a pedestal the spicy grains to lay. Anon the stately treading dance she turns To drop in brazen jars at either side Her salvered balm with lissome hand. The urns Sudden exhale a musky, vaporous tide, That softly glows, here green, there violet dyed ; 'Neath the white veil upon her ebon hair 1 66 THE INCENSE DANCE Of clustered headdress. Lore above com- pare The incense god is whispering — so her eyes declare. She breathes the perfume, while the zither's strings In rippled sweeps of fuller joyance swell, And her lithe arms in mazy willowings Are wound, and many a supple-woofed spell. Potent all thoughts of more than this to quell. Is echoed sinuous to her finger tips. Surely from some scent-heavy lotus-bell She comes to shroud the heart in sweet eclipse — E'er with rapt mysterious smile upon her lips, She brings the magic of an Indian night Where smolder peacock-breasts of phospor- green. Ruffled by jungle zephyrs ne'er so light. The while their eyed trains in myriad sheen Sway 'gainst the lacy-fretted marble screen, 167 THE INCENSE DANCE That, blanching 'neath the moon in splendor pale, Girdles some Ranee's odorous demesne, Glints through the haze a wreathed pearly pride, Where echoes oft the bowered nightingale, In rosy Haidarabad or Kashmir's storied vale. T. Lawrason Riggs. 168 THE ROYAL MAIL Quick! ho, ye honest gentle-folk! Fling up your windows wide! Let fall your knives, ye busy wives! Lads, to the highway side! Come, tapster of the Bull and Boar, Put by that mug of ale! Let high and low enjoy the show. Here comes the Royal Mail ! With clang of hoof, and ring of horn, And blaze of kingly blue. In mighty swerve she rounds the curve And bursts upon the view! The postboys' whips are whistling high. Their mounts are panting free. From red to roan all dashed with foam. And racing gloriously! A merry company on top, A glimpse of more within, A brave array of kerchiefs gay That flutter 'mid the din; 169 THE ROYAL MAIL A hearty cheer that echoes long, A dust-cloud rising fast, — And now it's o'er. To work once more. The Royal Mail is past. E. Lyttleton Fox. 170 A SONNET TO JOHN KEATS Erom birds that pour their Hquid notes of song, At early morn, and late at eventide; From curious shells, that in the great deep hide, And flowers that maidens cull in happy throng; Erom deepest solitude of whole days long, And sculptured stone, of olive Greece the pride; Erom stars, the glistening tears of evening's bride, And waves, that whisper in a mystic tongue; Keats wooed his strains and with them passion blent. And as the chalice of a flower is bent With the sweet burthen of the morning dew, Yet in its drooping casts to earth anew A richer fragrance than it e'er hath lent Before, so seemed the life of Keats when spent. Irvine Goddard. 171 MATIN SONG Listen, my sweet, the great god Pan is call- ing. I hear his shrill notes trembling on the breeze, Hark to the piercing echo, — waning, falling! See how his hair gleams yonder 'mid the trees. Nor pain to-day, nor worry for the morrow, Let them not live before a strain so sweet ! And joys we lack, love, let us haste to borrow From him who pipes there on his grassy seat. E. L. Fox. 172 SAINT HUBERT Could St. Anselm's logic Make wine the less ruddy? St. George was too fiery, His dragon too bloody. Sing ho! for St. Hubert, The patron for me. When hunting horns wind Over heather and lea. The bell of his chapel Most merrily jingles; A mossy old chapel, In the dimmest of dingles. The fat priest, and merry, Holds short hunter's mass. We give him a pasty Whenever we pass. 173 SAINT HUBERT Your crabbed St. Peter, For all of his fuss, Would leave us in limbo, St. Hubert for us. Harry S. Lewis. •74 DEATH AND THE MONK Dead to a world that never saw my face, Dead to a world that never knew my heart, Dead to a world that never felt my love. Unloving, loveless, through the lonely night, I pace the cloisters paved with graven slabs That mark the bones and dust of monks long dead. Aye, dust and ashes in my mouth to eat My life is in this tomb of living men, This charnel house where corpses move and breathe, Life-shattered wrecks of what were mighty men. Strong men or learned, knights of noble house, Black-cowled, and silent as the flight of time. But from the day when I, the hated fruit Of man's desire and a woman's shame, Was brought without a name into this world. With all my patrimony Wine and Love And all my heritage the lust to live, "75 DEATH AND THE MONK I have been buried in this Hell of Hells; Cherished half loathly for the love of God By monks as passionless as the low stones That pave their wind-swept cloisters. Joy of Life, Childish affection, all, they battered down, And broke my boyish spirit; till in time. As years increased, I took the novice-vow. And still too young to feel the fire, the cowl. 1 lay before the altar steps alone And over me was spread the cross-marked pall. And with a cadenced wail the brothers sang: "When Israel from out of Egypt land And Jacob's house from the strange people came, God turned the hard rock to a standing pool; He turned the flint stone to a springing well!" Then, as the silence fell again, I rose — My body grimed with cross of ashes strewn. Grave-naked, and all naked there I knelt, All unashamed — the dead are unashamed! The Prior clad me in the rough, coarse robe That has not left my body since — the dead 176 DEATH AND THE MONK Change not their raiment — so I took my vows Of Poverty. What other had I known, My boyhood closed within a ck>ister-wall? Of Chastity. What other had I known? I have not seen a woman's face except The image of God's Mother. To obey. Too weak was I, too coarsely fed for pride. My vows were words: words empty as my heart, As starved of meaning as was I of soul. Upon the altar lay a knotted cord, A rosary, and these the aged prior Bound on my boyish frame. "When thou wast young — " A mockery! I never had been young! — "When thou wast young thou didst begird thyself. And wentest, even where thou wouldst: but now Stretch out thine arms: thou older art, and one Shall lead thee where thou wouldst not." Then the Mass Was sung, and I received the Blessed Brq^d. '77 DEATH AND THE MONK And while 1 knelt the organ played a dirge. As all the brothers sang my requiem, Hailing the dead. Long years have passed away, And many since have lain upon that cross And many have been covered with the pall And many girded with the unloosening knot. David they called me then: David the Saint They call me for my watchings and my prayers. For in the course of days my nature grew And forced itself against the cord and cowl So that 1 craved for larger interests Than Lauds and Prime, or Book and Rosary. At first 1 prayed the Blessed Saints, and her, The Queen of Saints, to shield me from my- self; My prayers fell back and bore me to the earth. I tried to starve my mad desire down: But still my pulses beat and drove me mad. Three years agone, our abbot died, and me, Of all our order, chose they to his place. .78 DEATH AND THE MONK I dared not to refuse: Obedience Too long had cowed me, and 1 took tlie place. And now I loathe myself for my deceit. Yet cannot go, for all of my desire: I hate the brothers for their reverence, For their blind honor to my saintliness. 1, shame to say, despise the Blessed Saints For that they could not save me from my- self. And so I live an age of Hells in life — A life more awful than the very death. My girdle galls my flesh and calls me - "Monk." My rosary beats my knees and cries aloud: "Thou art but dead!" and thus I answer it: "Would God that Death would free me from this death!" Arthur E. Baker. 179 FATHER KILEEN 'Tis he that's the most controversial rogue, With a strong touch of wit, and a stronger of brogue. He'll sit down, and he'll prove that the notions in vogue — Frinzied finance and such — were known back in B. C. He can swing a shillaly, And drink poteen, r'ally; O'er his old dudheen, gaily (His small black dudheen). A prince among men at least. Father of fun and feast, Niver a fun'ral priest. Father Kileen! I swear by me hod that the Father is able To prove that you're on nayther or both sides the table, 1 80 FATHER KILEEN That the can is a candle, the bar-room a stable. That to-day is to-morrow, that young Mike is me! A fast one at serving mass, Smiles on the plainest lass. Kisses the brats that pass, Dirty or clean. Just try his stories here, And see him, o'er the beer, Give you the kindest leer, Father Kileen! Father Kileen, Father Kileen, Niver a word that is thoughtless ormean. Care for the whole of us. Body and soul of us, — Saints make him the goal of us, Father Kileen! Harry S, Lewis. i8i SONG FOR THE EVEN-TIDE The day is dropping off to sleep, And homeward lag the dusty sheep, Leaving the bars behind; The stars keep watch in the southern sky, With a cricket's song for a lullaby. And the voice of the vesper wind. Now, when the shepherds of the vale Were gathering for the evening tale. With sallies fancy-free, Bo-Peep lay watching the clouds above. She was dreaming of one she used to love, "And whether he dreams of me!" Paul T. Gilbert. 182 PASTORAL Look out, my love, across the quiet scene; The sun, just lost behind the purple hills. Makes rosy all the West; the soft pines lean Together whispering as the night breeze wills. Here in the lilacs by the cottage door The thrush's rippling love notes swell and cease; And drowsy bees, with day's last golden store. Hum off into the universal peace. The air that fans your cheek is redolent With all the honeyed breath of countless flowers. Turn now and look into my heart, content To lay your hand in mine, for Love is ours. R. M. Cleveland. 183 DAISIES Golden daisies in the meadow, Gently sway and nod and beckon; "Come and play," they seem to say. And a throng of laughing children Troop in answer through the grasses, Trample down the daisies gay. Pluck them, pelt them at each other; - Still they gaily nod and beckon. Softly saying, "Come and play." Carl H. P. Thurston. 184 MOON-FAIRIES Out in the garden and over the lawn — Everywhere, everywhere dancing; SHpping and gHding between the tall elms, Fair on the rivulet glancing — See where the moon-fairies play in the dark — Play till the dawning of day, Then over the meadows, and over the hills, Silently vanish away! They say every moon-fairy drops from her hair A diamond come from the sky; And when with the dawning the dancers depart, There on the grass they will lie. The sun will cast glory upon them at last; The blue-birds will carol anew; And bright in the garden, and fresh on the lawn. Will sparkle the fairy-dropt dew. E. K. Morse. 185 BALLADE OF THE DREAMLAND ROSE Where the waves of burning cloud are rolled On the farther shore of the sunset sea, In a land of wonder that none behold, There blooms a rose on the Dreamland Tree. It grows in the garden of mystery Where the River of Slumber softly flows. And whenever a dream has come to be, A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose. In the heart of the tree, on a branch of gold, A silvern bird sings endlessly A mystic song that is ages old, A mournful song in a minor key. Full of the glamour of faery, And whenever a dreamer's ears unclose To the sound of that distant melody, A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose. Dreams and visions in hosts untold le m 1 86 Throng around on the moonlit sea BALLADE OF THE DREAMLAND ROSE Dreams of age that are calm and cold, Dreams of youth that are fair and free, Dark with a loved heart's agony, Bright with a hope that no one knows, And whenever a dream and a dream agree, A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose. l'envoi Princess, you gaze in a reverie Where the drowsy firelight redly glows; Slowly you raise your eyes to me — A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose. W. Brian Hooker. 187 THE BALLADE OF THE GOLDEN HORN We were mariners long agone, Or ever the ages termagant Had sent the gold from the gonfalon. That flew at our fore-peak arrogant. And whenever the breezes hesitant Dropped and died in the silent morn, The bent oars swung to "Byzant! Byzant! Hark away for the Golden Horn." And when the last of the isles were gone, And the warm wind singing and odorant Through the silver channels bore us on, Stirring in mainsail and top-gallant, High on the ratline and spar aslant We climbed, and sang in the splendid morn; And oh, but our song was jubilant There in the light of the Golden Horn. The Soldan of Antioch hath won The city of silver and adamant, i88 BALLADE OF THE GOLDEN HORN And our high-venturing galleon Was burned with a fire excoriant, There by the sea-gates resonant. And we are wounded and wretched and worn And know the whips of the flagellant Beyond the curve of the Golden Horn. ENVOI Princes, ye whom the years enchant, Ye too will drink of the dregs of scorn. Ye will sell your souls for a new Byzant And die for a glimpse of the Golden Horn. Leonard Bacon. 189 A PARTING WORD We've worked a little, Jim, my boy, And thumbed our primers through, And walked a bit, and talked a bit. And smoked a pipe or two. I'll not deny we've made mistakes, — And noticed some too late. (It's better to be honest, Jim, In adding up the slate.) We've kicked our heels against the fence. And talked about the teams. And criticized the ways of Yale, About like most, it seems. We've had our glass with Louis, too And sung our little song. And ended with our hearts — I hope — About where they belong. The shoulder-rubbing has been long, But, if we've stood the test, It's taught us how to judge our friends By what sticks out as best. 190 A PARTING WORD And if we haven't learned to win, We've learned at least to try. We've lots to thank the place for, Jim, Before we say good-by. E. L. Fox. 191 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. W/6 Form L9-Serie8 4939 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY EACILITY AA 000 419 096 3