UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES ROBERT ERNEST COWAN SAN FRANCISCO : EDWARD BOSQUI & CO. PBINTEBS. Po EMS. BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. SAN FRANCISCO : A. ROMAN AND COMPANY. 1867. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year of our Lord 1867, By A. ROMAN & CO., In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Northern District of the State of California. TS . ^ A\ CONTENTS. Page. INVOCATION 9 *p OF NATURE o> At Point Lobos 15 be / Conference 20 IS y Through the Shadows 24 Tfo Gutter A City Idyl 26 Vespers ... 29 .6V /fo .Z?;wX' 31 Yosemite Sonnet 33 Ztojvfr 34 The Butterfly 36 In the Desert 1 38 In the Desert // 39 Summer Exodus 41 The First Rain Sonnet 42 Tamalpais 43 286306 6 POEMS. IDYLLIC AND LEGENDARY Page. At Anchor 49 Drifting 51 Singing Shells " 53 The Two Cleopalras 55 At the Spring 58 OF THE HEART Madrigal 63 My Little Lcrve 64 Sweetheart 65 A Proverb Proved. : 68 OF FANCY AND IMAGINATION The Secret Well 71 Cherries and Grapes 73 The Woodpecker 74 Nighi Song 75 Mars 76 The Comet 77 The Angel, the Wine and Pearls 79 Sanctuary 83 CONTENTS. 7 OF ASPIRATION AND DESIRE Page. Decrees 89 Fame 92 Desire 93 Compensation 95 Unrest 97 A Rhyme of Life 99 The Awakening . 100 OF MEDITATION My Friend 107 Seed-time 109 Penserosa 111 At Pollock's Grave 113 ' ' Drozvned "Drowned" 115 The Southern Cross 117 ' ' Dion ' ' (Lyman R. Goodman] . . 119 In Memoriam ..*.'. .121 INDEX TO ILLUSTRATIONS. Page. POINT LOBOS. (Original by Wm. Keith] 15 I cling to bumped rocks, that kneel On unswept sands, where breakers reel. TAMALPAIS. (Original by Wm. Keith) 43 The mountain softened in its shape, Its perfect symmetry attained. AT THE SPRING. (Engraved by Wm. Keith) 58 DECREES. (Original by Wm. Keith) 89 I ask what manner of strange ships are these Slipping adown the seas ! N": A MEMORIAL.. (Engraved by Wm. Keith} . 119 INVOCA TION. , Poesy ! exquisite gift, Thou art a magnet that shall lift My gold from out the drossy rift. Thou art my soul's refulgent beam My guiding star to ever gleam A flaming pillar in my dream. Thou art my drifting-cloud by day Whose bright pavilion-courts alway Allure me with their fair display. Thou art a Hebe that presents A chalice to my lips, and thence I drain the charmed, rich contents. i o POEMS. Delicious, bubbling nectars twine Their trickling tendrils as a vine Through all my being ; steept in wine And numb to any thought of earth I wrestle with my spirit's mirth In travail with a poem's birth. When chasing cares are wearying With all my life to thee I cling Believing I was born to sing. Lo ! thou hast taught me where to fly Escaping every ill ; for I, Transfigured by thy witchery, As Daphne in the laurel park Seem wholly shut in leafy ark, I feel beneath my rugged bark A nerved pulse that never cowers ; The turgid stream of sap hath powers That shall beget a thousand flowers. INVOCATION. 1 1 I quiver from my very root, I strive to doff my leafy suit And load my boughs with perfect fruit And lift my gnarled limbs to thee I writhe and struggle to be free Endowed with thy divinity. Thou art my fast and feast ; and true Thou art my sweetest twilight-dew, That grants me purer life anew. And as the llower unto the moon Returns its hoarded sweets full soon, I yield thee all, in verse and tune. OF NATURE A T POINT LOB OS. ( LEAR noon without obscurity. No flake of cloud 'twixt heaven and me No mist athwart the Golden Gate : The hearty sun doth wilfully His profuse beams precipitate. 16 POEMS. I cling to humped rocks that kneel On unswept sands, where breakers reel In splendid curves, and pile their foam In spongy hills, that slow congeal, And dulce and drift-wood find a home. We clasp the silver crescent set Within the hazy parapet That belts the horizon : in glee I count the fitful puffs that fret The eternal levels of the sea. I watch the waves that seem to breathe And pant unceasingly beneath Their silken coverings, that cringe, As flecked with swirls of froth, they seethe, And whip, and flutter to a fringe. Brown pipers run upon the sand Like shadows ; far out from the land Gray gulls slide up against the blue ; One shining spar is sudden manned By squadrons of their wrecking crew. AxPoiNxLoBos. 17 My city is beyond the hill ; I cannot hear its voices shrill : I little heed its gains and greeds : Here is my song, where waters spill Their liquid strophes in the reeds. And to this music I forswear Whatever soils the world with care : I see the listless waters toss I track the swift lark through the air I lie with sunlight on the moss. White caravans of cloud go by Across the desert of bright sky, And burly winds are following The trailing pilgrims, as they fly Over the grassy hills of spring. What Mecca are they hastening to ? What princess journeying to woo In the rich Orient? I am thrilled With spice and odor they imbue I feed upon their manna spilled ! i8 POEMS. I strip my breast with eager mind, To tarry and invite the wind To my embrace : by curious spell It quickens me with praises kind T is Ariel that blows his shell ! Invisible, and soft as dews Descending, he his love renews, Delighting daisy colonies That gloss them with the lustrous ooze Of meadows steeped in ecstacies. Until the homely, sunburnt Heads, The tumbling hills, in browns and reds, And gray sand-hillocks, everywhere Are buried in the mist that sheds Its subtle snow upon the air. And Prospero, aroused from sleep, Recalls his spirits from the deep They cross the wave with stealthy tread, Their shadows down upon me sweep And day is past, and joy is fled. AT POINT LOBOS. 19 I hear the dismal bells that shout Their warning to the ships without : The dripping sails are reefed and furled, The pilots sound and grope about The Gate is barred against the world ! IN CONFERENCE. F I could fly the hateful town, And flying, suddenly discover Some velvet valley, softly brown, With hills that elbow one another Those robust hills : so resolute And satisfied, with brawny shoulders Set close together, in their mute, Firm way, that startles us beholders, And gathered close about my vale, To nurse it, sitting still together, Its body-guard in autumn mail, Like Arabs in their cloaks of leather. I would dispose myself among Their surging waves of grain, beseeching Some brief translation of their tongue, Some knowledge of their healthful preaching. IN CONFERENCE. 21 O ! pleasure for a spirit vext, A listening, after introduction, To whispered echoes of their text, And volumes of their pure instruction ; While ever from the valley's rim The wind peeps over as it passes, And merrily and mild for him, Blows silver clouds across the grasses ; Brings down an apple with his hail Plump skin was ever apple riper? And frights, in hasty whirr, a quail That was my musical chief piper. Full-bosomed quail in mottled casque And plume, and silken bib to cover Your panting throat, I only ask, Return again unto your lover ! Now swoops an inky cloud of birds Into the valley's deepest dimple ; They storm me with their teasing words, Yet please me with their gambols simple. 22 POEMS. I wish those five in epaulets Of rose would quell the boisterous greeting ; But I suppose each one forgets He interrupts my quiet meeting. Their little hearts with song-delight Are over-full sufficient reason ; The pretty things are pardoned quite For only singing out of season. Was that a sprinkle on my face, Descending from this sky of blueness? Baptism in this holy place Is fitting ; for a sense of newness Pervades these vestibules of earth Sacristies, most securely hidden These halls, appropriate to new birth, Where all unto the feast are bidden. How silent has the valley grown The birds have hushed their playful riot ; A mutter, as a bee's dull drone, Is all that stirs the perfect quiet IN CONFERENCE. 23 Transparent curtains of the rain Are sweeping down to me, delighting The dusty trees ; where I have lain The broken grasses now are righting. The swarms of blackbirds lift away ; The most demoralized of creatures Myself will be, if I delay So now, farewell, my wholesome preachers. With your broad foreheads in the mist, You cannot show a sign of sorrow ; But you are honest, keep the tryst I'll worship with you on to-morrow. THROUGH THE SHADOWS. A LL in a dream i' the twilight, Glimmering stars in their glee, List to the murmur of far-off Ripples of tropic sea. Low in the westward bleeding The sun slowly sinks in the wave Staining and tinting with crimson The corals that fashion his grave. Out through the mist and the vapor, The cloudy wreaths and the rings, Sunlight has flown like a butterfly Brushing the gold from its wings. Quiet is coming and folding Our troubles away; and our woes Are hushed in the cool, fragrant shadows, Like bees in the heart of a rose. THROUGH THE SHADOWS. 25 Come on little stars all silver, For the terrible sun has gone, And out of the eastern shadows The moon setteth sail for the dawn. Pale are the stars for the morning Is blooming fresh as the May ; So through the shadows we wander, Seeking the perfect day. I THE GUTTER A CITY IDYL \/OU are welcome, dusky cloud, With your bosom swelling ; And your tears their 'patter cheers All my dusty dwelling : And the gutter sudden wakes In a thousand voices ; O, the song that rings along Where the rill rejoices ! I am happy for the sight, Joining your carouses, Brook and I go laughing by All the dripping houses. You'll excuse us for the noise, And our haste and flurry? We must fly, for soon we die, That is why we hurry. THE GUTTER A CITY IDYL. 27 I am here because I like / Just this sort of weather ; Brook takes me for company Down we go together. Ha! this life's a merry one, Though a thoughtless scorner Cries, "The tomb is full of gloom, Down upon the corner." What if all its life is brief Born of such a shower Running through a block or two, Dying in an hour ? There is something still beyond Death is nothing surer Brook will flow, and ever grow Softer, sweeter, purer, Till the sun doth draw it hence, T'wards its quenchless taper ; It will rise into the skies As a silver vapor. 28 POEMS. As it floateth in the air Merciful its slumber Then again is born the rain Of that cloud of umber. But the brook is growing still Is the rain abating ! In a breath will sudden death Take it at the grating. You would hardly know it now For its faintest mutter A shriveled tongue that laps among The cobbles in the gutter. VESPERS. PHE poppies nod their sleepy brows, And reel adown the opiate air ; The somber lilies slowly rouse, And fold transparent hands in prayer. The climbing roses whisper soft Sweet messages ; the four-o'clocks Are drowsy now but far aloft I see the watchmen-hollyhocks. The Moslem-lilacs seem to call On ' ' Allah " through the red sunset ; They rise upon the turret-wall Of every leafy minaret. The stately tulips at this hour Forget their pride. With good intent The haughty dahlias yield their dower The dusky peony-queens relent. 3o POEMS. A thousand lights are swung in view From heaven's dome. I leave the fair Meek violets kneeling in the dew ; It is the evening hour of prayer. BY THE BROOK. across the hill's low brow- A slender, silver fillet Nothing is so musical As my little rillet. Ah ! that laughing song of yours ! Delicately trill it. Shall I fret you, hasty brook ? Shall I mar your paces Weaver, weaving silver threads Into silver laces, Round about and in and out The sunniest of places? Loose your tresses in the chase, Slip about the border Of yon garden wall, and catch A blossom, gay marauder ! What shall please my love of ease As vour sweet disorder ? 32 POEMS. While the world goes jogging on, Presently I miss you ; Life is made of other stuff Than your limpid tissue. Turn a mill, you lazy rill, While I wait the issue. Let the beetle while away The Summer with its drumming, Foam you at the whirling wheel, And babble to its humming. Toil away the livelong day It is more becoming. Creep beneath the sweeping bough, While each ripple twinkles, Starlike, in a sky of leaves, And your frothy crinkles Form a leathern apron there, Full of creamy wrinkles. When the bald and brazen day Hath donned his dusky visor, Still you flow a-down apace, While night's myriad eyes are Watching you ; for what they view No one is the wiser. YO-S EMITE. INNUMERABLE lessons to relate And myriad voices rushing to baptize These chosen lips, which send into the skies Their oracles, to awe and elevate. The world's chief mouth-piece is this marvelous gate, That lavish nature wholly sanctifies With majesty and beauty. Here my eyes Some revelation seem to penetrate ; For God, begetting mysteries from the first, All glorified, stood down upon the rock, And smiting through, the curious earth was riven A thousand silver arteries were burst The mountains staggered from the fearful shock, With heart laid bare to the soft eyes of Heaven. D US K. CMOLDERING in heat Beyond the blue hill, His mission complete, At the Deity's feet, When the evening is still, The Sun, prone and lowly, At Angelus kneeling ; But partly revealing, Yet not hiding wholly A shrine and Christ crucified, Borne aloft tenderly, With lovers side by side Telling a rosary. In the violet East, All dripping with dew, Above the long, high, Purple mountains, that lie DUSK. 35 By the vail of the night And the valley of dreams, Half dark and half light, With a flood of bright beams, The moon steals in view. The murmur has ceased In the field and the forest ; The bee and the bird No longer are heard ; The flocks are not bleating ; My cares that were sorest My pains that were fleeting, Are gone, or at rest ; As blessings entreating, I linger repeating My "Ave Maria" so happy, so blest, With cross on my forehead and cross on my breast. THE BUTTERFLY. 'T^HOU little beauty, wafted by Upon the summer's gentle sigh ; What art thou ? Tell me, pray ! A sunbeam wandering from the sky, That earthward found its way? A gorgeous flower, too rudely blown? A beautiful bright birdling, flown From some enchanted coast A winged mosaic, that hath known More art than man can boast? Spring's sudden flying brought to view Thy form, among the moss that grew Along the garden wall; I saw thee as thou didst renew The fleeces of thy pall. THE BUTTERFLY. 37 And from the homely commonplace Of thy crude life I now can trace Thy fair and wondrous powers ; I learn the secret of the grace That brightens my dull hours. When folded in the noiseless gloom Lo ! the shut portals of thy room At last were opened wide Sunlight had cleft the sealed tomb Where beauty did abide. May not the homely thought we find Among the rudest of our kind Yet serve an end complete, If chance it be but choicely lined, As was thy winding sheet ? For so a poem will forsake Its little hiding cell, to wake In life's delicious pain, When sunshine of the heart shall break The chrysalis of the brain. IN THE DESERT. BEDOUIN IN AMBUSH. hawks, in dismal disarray, Across a sky of slaty gray, Now dusking wifh the dusking day. The sun low down, and almost hid Beneath a vapory, dull lid, Over against a pyramid. One cluster of incessant green, Three slender palms that tower and lean- A crouching sentinel between. No hissing breath upon the lip No stir in poised knee and hip No quiver from the finger tip ; 39 But, pointing from the fatal lair, The lithe wrist glued about the bare, Dull-gleaming rifle's livid glare. And slow, with wearisome slow limb, A caravan approaching him With fringe of shadows long and slim. II. BEDOUIN ABROAD. A sky of glimmering, cool steel, But barely serving to reveal The desert where the camels kneel. An awkward buzzard on the wing ; Above one star in filmy ring ; While lower ranks are hovering By pots of delicate, spiced flesh ; Abundant fruits in silken mesh ; And jars of oil, and olives fresh ; 40 POEMS. And costly vestments of the Kahn, Despoiled with bloody mare and man The remnants of a caravan. Against the sky-rim, silver)', One motionless, tall cocoa-tree ; The pyramids in angles three. And yonder, where the morning lowers, The fleet-winged flying-horseman scours T'ward Ghizeh and her shining towers. IDYLLIC AND LEGENDARY, TAMALPAIS. T_J OW glorious thy dwelling place ! How manifold thy beauties are ! I do not reckon time or space I worship thy exceeding grace, And hasten, as a flying star, To reach thy splendor from afar. The first flush of thy morning face Is dear to me ; thy shadowless, Broad noon that doth all sweets confess ; 44 POEMS. But fairer is thy even fall, When seem to cry with airy call Thy roses in the wilderness. Thy deserts blithely blossoming, Decoy me for the love of Spring. With all thy glare and glitter spent, Thy quiet dusk so eloquent ; Thy vail of vapors the caress Of Zephyrus, right cool and sweet I cannot wait to love thee less I cling to thee with full content, And fall a dreaming at thy feet. Anon the sudden evening gun, Awakes me to the sinking sun And golden glories at the Gate. The full, strong tides, that slowly run Their sliding waters modulate To indolent soft winds that wait And lift a long web newly spun. I see the groves of scented bay. And night is in their fragrant mass; TAM ALPAIS. 45 But tassel-shadows swing and sway, And spangles flash and fade away Upon their glimmering leaves of glass And there a fence of rail, quite gray, With ribs of sunlight in the grass And here a branch full well arrayed With struggling beams a moment stay'd Like panting butterflies afraid. Lo ! shadows slipping down the slope And filling every narrow vale, The shining waters growing pale The mellow-burning star of Hope And in the wave its silver trope. A slender shallop, feather-frail, A pencil-mast and rocking sail. The glooms that gather at the Gate ; The somber lines against the sky, While dizzy gnats about me fly, And overhead the birds go by, Dropping a note so crystal clear, The spirit cannot choose but hear. 46 POEMS. The hollow moon, and up between An oak with yard-long mosses, green In sunlight, now as dull as crape ; The mountain softened in its shape, Its perfect symmetry attained And swathed in velvet folds, and stained With dusty purple of the grape. SUMMER EXODUS. PURNS Summer hence her queenly feet, That early spring the daffodils To kiss, and martial grasses greet, While every flower a tear distills. I cross the stubble fields, all sweet With shining stalks ; a longing fills My heart, to warble and repeat The robin in his liquid trills. I am, too, happy when I meet The meadow, where the mountain spills, So lithe and musical and fleet, Its limpid tress of brawling rills ; But stay my solitary beat And start, as sudden odor thrills My brain, of spice and tropic heat Lo ! Autumn on her brazen hills. THE FIRST RAIN. T^ETWEEN the ranks of thistle, down the road, The phantom flocks of sunbeams hastily, With gilded feathers of the butterfly, Disperse away; anon a weary load Of grain, wild scented, being freshly mowed, Comes smoking on ; as from the brooding sky There fall deliberate, still showers of shy, Big rain-drops all around. The teamsters goad The swaying oxen, steaming, to a shed For covering. The brown and dusty trees Are whispering, as eagerly they spread Their branches in the rain, and stand at ease, And listen, yonder in the clover bed The happy buzzing of ten thousand bees ! A T ANCHOR. A SAILOR by the green home shore, When seas are ebbing from his view, Doth all his early joys renew : He sings the songs he sang of yore ; He spies his little cot, he smiles With a full joy ne'er felt before He holds that one bare prospect more Than all the summer of the isles. The quiet home is his ; the trees Sprang from the seeds his grandsires laid Among the mold ; within the glade The myrtles rustle in the breeze. Above a treasured little grave, His early lost, his first deep woe ! Not any land that he may know Beyond the purple of the wave 50 POEMS. Hath such a jewel in its breast. He loves each rock and stream and dell 'Tis only here he cares to dwell, 'Tis ever here he longs to rest. This is his home of joy and ease : And better is the myrtle tomb Than all the heavy dusks that gloom The groves of spice beyond the seas. DRIFTING. A LARK'S song rippled in the air, With liquid trill that smote the dawn, He hastened down the dewy lawn And found the morning breezes fair ; And half the anchor-cable in, And half the sails were loosed, and full Of salty winds ; with steady pull He bade the frothing eddies spin And whirl about his dripping oar, As on he sped and joined the bark ; Then from the deck he leaned to mark The wondrous beauty of the shore. They seemed as falling scales, his tears, From blinded eyes, that would not see How comfort in that home could be, Though comfort kept him all his years. 52 POEMS. High on the yard a sailor sang : " O ! dusky love beyond the sea ! O ! dusky love that longs for me " "And thee," the mocking echoes rang. "There is a glory in the gale An idle dream will suit the calm, And talk of leafy thatch and palm Shall fill the watch with song and tale. "Lo! yonder is the star that guides The mariner ; we lift our hands About the world, in many lands ; For what are winds, and what are tides, "But spirits luring us abroad? Rise fragrant isles before our eyes A pyre for passion's sacrifice, Where pleasure is our only god ! " ****** A hundred trilling songs of larks A hundred blooming dawns may greet, But who shall stay the wanderer's feet, And call his spirit from the dark? SINGING SHELLS. ONG ago ! long ago ! 'Twas Orpheus caught a pale-pink shell, With deep, dim chambers neatly twined, And pearly lined, and pearly lined, And blew the wind In music through its hollow halls, Till all the Echoes of the shore Cried out with joy, and sought a shell, And caught the faintly lingering tones Of Orpheus' music- low as moans And drew them in each tiny cell, While rosy walls of all the halls Grew merry then ; and quickly fell A murmurous song from every shell. Long ago ! long ago ! 'Twas Orpheus tuned the shells to voices ; And all along the pebbled shore Was music, where was none before, 54 POEMS. And now each little one rejoices ; And every shell a tale doth tell How music came with them to dwell ; And all along the pearled shore, Though winds do rave and toss the wave, And bitter spray is on the land, He guards them well, each little shell, Who holds the waters in His hand. So, all along the pearled shore, 'Mid sighing waves, or ocean's roar, They sing, and sing, forevermore. THE TWO CLEOPATRA.S. TVT IGHT is the shadow of that Ethiop queen, With brow as dark as Night, as richly jeweled In barbarous ravishment of luxury ; The enchantress of the Cydnus, in her toils Seeking new pleasures, slaying joys with sighs, And drowning mirth with her full tide of tears. Night is the shadow of that Ethiop queen, In rapturous witchery of beatitude ; Who drank a hundred pearls, immaculate In their white gloom of glory, and of rare And fabulous richness. Lo ! the haughty queen Heaped the all-immeasurable wealth Of treasures rare within a vessel, where, Breathing a mist of filmy radiance A seeming vapor woven of gemmy rays, That lurked in nebulous folds about the latent, Limpid, and viewless confines of the vessel The copious fund, the teeming store of treasure 56 POEMS. Was straight dissolved and lost in the crisp bubbling And all-devouring properties of acids. Then, after this accomplished, did she mingle With added juices, spice, and redolence Of various tinctures, a most savory draught. Her folded fingers held the jeweled verge Of the clear goblet, from pure ether hewn, Or some most lucent crystal, delicate, And laid the gleaming halo of the goblet Against the amorous volume of her lips, Where broke the violent fever of her love In turgid crimsoning, deepening the ripe tint O' the silky curtains hung about the proud, Voluptuous tower of her enticing feature. So, staying the hot current of her blood In the drowsy syrup, clotted here and there, And crusted in pearl-ices, glittering pastes, And frosty miracles of rich congealment About the invisible limits of the vessel ; Drank she the all incalculable value Of crystalizing dregs, and hurled the cup At a dumb serving slave, a fawning eunuch, Black as hell's border, crouching close along, The swelling curvature of her fair barge THE Two CLEOPATRAS. 57 Heading the vast armada, as it lay Becalmed among the silver of the Cyndus. The dense aroma of their several freights Had quite embalmed the zephyr, and they lay Beating the silver bosom of the Cyndus, Like prisoned birds, with fretful throb of wings, Beating the bosom of the silver Cyndus, Close upon Tarsus, where reveled Anthony. Night is the shadow of that Ethiop queen : She strews the seas with stars innumerable The bubbly sea with stars which are as pearls ; And when the wave is like to stiffen, or burst Its dusky rind for too great store of rare And gleaming treasure, Night ! lo, haughty Night, The very shadow of that Ethiop queen Dips at the borders of the teeming sea And drinks the richness of the winy flood, Leaving the world as empty of the dark And cloudy turbulence of Muscadine As was the crystal chalice that was drained By the proud daring of old Egypt's queen. A T THE SPRING. \ KNEW a cumbrous hill, From whose green breast did daintily distill A throbbing rill. This is the artery, And further on the crystal heart must be, Thought said to me. All other I forsook, To follow every twist and curious nook Of this wild brook. Ax THE SPRING. 59 Among deep mosses set, I found the glimmering fount that did beget The rivulet. No other eye had known Its secret, nor ear heard, for it made moan Always alone. I quaffed its waters clear : Its limpid music babbled to mine ear With voice sincere. Then such a silence fell Upon me, mantling me, as where a spell Is wont to dwell. Yet fled I from the place At a rude rustling : and fear gave me chase In my disgrace. 'Twas a slim water-snake Slipt like an arrow through the shivering brake, And left no wake. 60 POEMS. But cleft the placid spring And waved its flaming sword, its forked sting, In a charmed ring. So was the fountain spoiled, Within its lucid walls a devil coiled- My trust was foiled. OF THE HE ART MA D RIG A L . A MAID is sitting by a brook, The sweetest of sweet creatures : I pass that way with my good book Yet cannot read, nor cease to look Upon her winsome features. Amid the blushes on her cheek Her small, white hand reposes : I am a shepherd, for I seek That wilful lamb, with fleece so sleek, Feeding among the roses ! MY LITTLE LOVE. AACHEN my little love at purple dusk, Trips out upon the lawn among the flowers, The blushing roses quiver in their musk, Love-smitten through : the feathery, fragrant showers Of snow-white blossoms drift upon the grass, Kissing her whispering footsteps as they pass. When my little love at evening's hush, Goes dancing down the dell with laugh and song, The slumbering echoes waken, and a gush Of silvery voices greet her, and along The dewy clusters of the trailing vines In music mingles, murmurs, and repines. When my little love hath sought her cot To dream of angels, as the stars grow clear I homeward plod alas! unhappy lot Yet turn again I'd long to tarry near Till slowly wandering, thinking of her still, I meet the blue night coming o'er the hill. S WEE THE AR T. C\ j THIS love of mine ! Never artist's dream Was as fair as she : Jetty locks, that seem Glossy as can be Night before the day Hath streaked it through with gray. O ! this love of mine ! Brow as white as sands On a tropic shore ; Eyes as deep as seas And darker than before Dawn hath turned them blue ; Cheeks of richest hue, Pink as pinkest shell That ever mermaid bore From enchanted lands 66 POEMS. Home where she did dwell. Sometimes, if I please That she blossom more, Her beauty is so fine Rosy as red wine. O ! this love of mine ! Mouth a ripened fruit, If the maid is mute, Tempting me to sin In delicious greed ; If a smile I win, Then with charming speed It is cleft indeed, Showing pearly seed. O ! this love of mine ! Such a witching curl, Such a cunning chin, Like a single pearl With a dimple in; Parian carved throat All of curved lines SWEETHEART. 67 Such as Psyche shows, When she sad reclines In some isle remote Mourning Cupid's boat Fading out of view ; Is the picture true? Then her bosom's snow In twin drifts, but hush ! All that I have shown Could not bid her blush : If you are a maid, Since never was a pair, Quite too much is said Unless you are as fair ; If you are a man, Mate her if you can ! A PROVERB PROVED. ILL rny love's so truthful eyes Ever fail me, though I please From their depths to draw supplies That could waste the seas ? Will those pure, delicious springs Ever fail me? Wretched day When my heart no longer brings Its life-draught away! Do they nourish my desire But to break the golden bowl : At their margin bid expire My all-thirsting soul? No ! a voice forever tells That my love's so truthful eyes Are th' unfathomed crystal wells Where within truth lies. OF FANCY AND IMAGINATION THE SECRET WELL. KNOW a well so deep and cool And hid, the crystal-hearted pool Hath never thrilled a swallow's throat Or sweetened one lark's note. No fainting stag, though perishing, Hath ventured to disturb this spring : No leopard with its fiery breast This fountain dares molest. No cunning, silver-cased trout The sheltered source can e'er find out- No tongue but mine may ever tell The secret of this well. I build about its guarded rim With added stones ; I know the dim, Still twilight of its mossy cell Where the sweet waters dwell. 72 POEMS. For spirits go between us two With flasks ; they brim with softest dew. I drink and am refreshed, and seem As living in a dream. This well, that is alone for me, Is but a fount of memory : And every year that I have known Is but an added stone. My willing thoughts, as spirits, haste To draw the draught I love to taste. There is an ever full supply Yet who may drink but I? CHERRIES AND GRAPES. 1VT OT the cherries' nerveless flesh, However fair, however fresh, May ever hope my love to win For Ethiop blood and satin skin. Their luster rich and deep their dye ; Yet under all their splendors lie That which I cannot tribute grant Their hateful hearts of adamant. I love the amber globes that hold That dead-delicious wine of gold ; A thousand torrid suns distill Such liquors as these flagons fill. Yet tropic gales with souls of musk Should steep my grapes in steams of dusk And orient Eden nothing lacks To spice their purple silken sacks. THE WOODPECKER. A BUSY woodpecker ! What would you call This monk of a fellow, tapping a tree With little cells like a catacombed hall, To bury his acorns in what would you call Such a curious monk as he? Tucking his acorns away in their tomb To feed upon, by and by, at his will Does he ever think of the hidden bloom In the acorn's heart? Though shut in a tomb There is life cherished there still. Time is a woodpecker, crowding the cells Of the catacombed earth with holy dead ; But there 's a bud of life that swells In the oak tree's might and it shatters the cells As the soul when the life has fled. NIGHT SONG. S it a corse embalmed in state? Was it a princess pale in death, White in her bridal vail? All of the roses held their breath And the dews fell very early and late, I thought that they never would fail While the night went out and the morn came in, And the drowsy world awoke with a din, And the fading stars fled with a wail. Never a corse in its bleachen shroud, Never the daughter of a queen Under sarcophagus bars; But the fairest face that ever was seen, Hid i' the misty hem of a cloud Softly the night wind jars The nebulous texture asunder, and soon The angel of midnight bore the moon Over a flood of stars. MA R S . TVT OW Mars steals over the water ; He is marching down from the sky Great Mars with his golden helmet And the golden flame in his eye. The sea is still, for the ripples Are hushed at the god's slow tread ; And a line of light is trailing The wave like a burning thread. Sad Mars ! he is wearied with marching, And wandering off is he, While he nods his yellow helmet And thrusts his lance in the sea. Faltering Mars ! with his marching Wearied he seems to be ; While he tips his helmet and merges His golden lance in the sea. THE COMET. it a star, Or was it a pearl, Loosed with a jar From its setting I' the coronet moon, And begetting, As it fell with a whirl Whirling far A splendor that faded too soon ? Was it a dream Of some splendid star born, That glowed with a gleam And a quiver That startled the night? Like a river That flowed to the morn It did seem, In its luminous, lustrous light. 78 POEMS. Was it a gem Transfixed with a ray From the burning, bright hem Of the wondrous, Terrible sun, or the moon ? Over us, under us, Nor night, no, nor day Hath its equal, bright gem Fair feather of light, flown too soon. THE ANGEL, THE WINE, AND PEA R L S . AN ALLEGORY OF THE YEAR. I. SAW a tiny flask of wine An Angel held, 'twas rare and fine. A little golden round of light, With every dainty picture dight. Upon its sculptured sides I found Both joy and woe, close linked around. I wondered at the goblet fine, The gleaming gold, the little wine. The Angel said; "This flask I hold Is more to man than simple gold, 8o POEMS. V "Or rosy nectar; here are found Within its fair and golden round "Great drops of blood that yield a life With every dainty pleasure rife ; "Nor lacks it woe at times ; and here Are stored the secrets of a year. ir. "These pearls" the Angel's delicate hand A dozen radiant pearls it spanned "Are months, that will the goblet load Until the rim is overflowed : "The crimson flood is crowded up Until the year's end fills the cup." And having said, the Angel spilled A single pearl, the inner gild THE ANGEL, THE WINE, AND PEARLS. 81 Was deeper buried in the hue Of crimson. Said the Angel : "View! "A pearl is dropped, a time has flown, The secret of a month is known." Then fell another; others still Close followed this, and this, until The crimson flood rose bubbling up Each pearl-drop deeper filled the cup And rosily just brimmed the top. But one more pearl was left to drop. in. I looked. Her fingers loosed, it falls The round of golden-gleaming walls Are sunk below the crimson line The buried pearl has spilled the wine. 82 POEMS. The Angel set the cup aside; I asked : ' ' Why this ? " and quick replied The radiant spirit, reaching up To clasp another ready cup : "Each pearl-month i' the goblet falls, The life-blood climbs the golden walls "Until the rim is reached, and here Is broke the bubble of the year. "The gems have run the goblet o'er, The wine is richer for the store : "The pearls are spilled, the months have flown, The secrets of a year are known." S A NCTUA RY. some sacrilegious hand Hath robbed the temples of their store Of relics, up and down the land And hurled the altars o'er, And strewn the treasures all among These quiet valleys. As I walk I find a pearly rosary hung Upon this lily stalk. Hath timid maid, or tearful nun Bethought her of this lone retreat Yet, with her "Ave" scarce begun, Her prayer-beads at her feet, Intruders bid her quickly fly, And flying, frighted, she forgets That where she knelt in secret lie Her glittering amulets. 84 POEMS. Alas ! how poor, how desolate The place where man strode rudely by, The pink no more shall elevate Its chalice to the sky. And here are bleeding roses shorn Along the hedge by shearer vext, Rare antique rubrics roughly torn From that quaint leafy text. And thistle-aspergills bestrew Meek buds that nestle at their side With holy drops of luscious dew That night hath sanctified. The morning-glory's fragile cup A lucent honey-drop could boast ; Fair monstrance it is broken up, And vailed is the Host. And what is this that greeteth me, The Calla, that I prize above All lilies? so I mention thee, O ! lily of my love SANCTUARY. 85 A perfumed satin altar cloth With one tall, golden candlestick ; A velvet butterfly 's the moth That frets thy rosy wick. Thy spotless napkin doth enfold Such balm and costly frankincense, As shrouds the swinging censer's gold In clouds that struggle thence. But now I hear the vesper call Of floating air-bells, deftly tipt ; The dove 's at her confessional The monk-mole in his crypt. And flowery fields my eyes engage ; The rivulets, the winding ways A missal, whose illumined page Is given up to praise. So if none false hath donned the gown And sought the votive priest to play, Then thrown the sacred altars down And hid the charms away 86 POEMS. Dear Nature is the saint that rears This sanctuary to our God And still renews through all the years Where hateful feet have trod. OF ASPIRATION AND DESIRE. DECREES. SIT in sorrow by the watery gates, A questioning the Fates. I ask : ' ' What manner of strange ships are these Slipping adown the seas? ' ' Slipping adown the slanting seas what sail Is yonder calm and pale ? ' ' Then the Fates answer me : ' ' That goodly bark Braving the waters dark 90 POEMS. ' ' So fearlessly the cross upon her mast Is Trust, come home at last. ' ' Yon quivering craft that veers and puts about, Is the long-cruising Doubt. ' ' This dancing galley that the waters mock, Shall strike upon the rock ; " 'T is Chance, a pleasure yacht; her ribs shall bleach Upon the blistering beach." Yet still I see a flamelike, shining cloud, And eager cry aloud : " That other sail that waits upon the wind What is her name and kind ? ' ' To me the Fates : ' ' Though lying still and wan She shall approach anon ; ' ' So nobly manned with any gale to cope Behold the trusty Hope" DECREES. 91 "Quicken the winds, I pray you, worthy Fates, In her are stored my freights ! 1 ' Nor am I fit for life of any sort, Till she shall reach the port." FAME. WHE charmed him \\iih her charming eye; To know its luster was to die, Or feed forever on its light. She bore him to her mountain height ; With wine-sweet lips she kissed to rest The thousand longings in his breast. She ringed him with her glittering coils ; Her flattering words were soft as oils, All swam before his drunken sight ; He felt his beauty and his might, And cursed the darkness as he hurled Defiance at the crouching world. He did not know her treachery ; But thought her tightened grasp to be The clasp of love O ! heavy fate ! She thrust him in the face of hate With all the venom in her born, And slew him with her tongue of scorn. DESIRE. WOULD the Fates were busier A shaping out my name and story. It seems not like a haggard Fate To hesitate, and hesitate ; But they '11 demur if they prefer, And far away is fame and glory. Perhaps delay is profiting, And disappointments shape a moral ; But age cares not for sweet applause, For age is wise with "says and saws. 1 With merry spring I love to sing And with my youth I seek my laurel. I cannot choose experience To lead me faltering and jaded, While all the blossom of my life Is wasting in the fretful strife, Till reaching hence that height intense I find the myrtle plucked or faded. 94 POEMS. No wreath of honor dignifies The silver hairs, nor all endeavor Finds any mark of royalty However rich the trophy be. Now I would rise and seize the prize, Then rest forever and forever. CO MP EN SA TION. AX 7 HAT if my tender roots may haply coil In a deep mellow soil, Wherein is found no weed That killeth all things with its harmful greed, But only there is nourished mine own reed To rear its slender crest In every hue of richest blossom dressed ? If in the sunny mazes of my leaves The crafty spider weaves Or in my fairest bloom Some worm hath stole, where in delicious gloom It lies and fattens in its honeyed tomb What shall it profit me, . The outward show so fair, the prize I seem to be? Still, I may 'scape the worm, the spider's net; No cursed blight may set Its dangerous touch anew 96 POEMS. Upon my frailest buds, in vile mildew ; My faded flowers the Autumn winds may strew ; But, after all the strife, If I have borne no fruit, or seed, what use was life ? UNREST. VESTAL lilies, white and still, Thy golden cressets newly trim ; O ! wine-tipt tulip globes now spill Thy orient oils upon the flame; My heavy woe I may not name, But woe were less if thou wouldst fill Each golden cresset's rim For I may burn within the fire All bitterness, but what is true Endures the ordeal of the pyre, And swathes itself in gossamer dew. O ! summer wind return again And sing my little ills to rest ; Distill thy balm, delightful rain, Through various currents of the air ; The cross is heavy that I bear ; But thou mayest lull the vexing pain And breathe a quiet in my breast. 98 POEMS. Peace, weary heart ! O ! tongue be mute ! Voluptuous goddess, prithee, weep Thy golden tears, and soft salute Yon star, my soul desireth sleep. A RHYME OF LIFE. T F life be as a flame that death doth kill ; Burn little candle lit for me, With a pure spark, that I may rightly see To word my song and utterly God's plan fulfill. If life be as a flower that blooms and dies ; Forbid the cunning frost that slays With Judas-kiss, and trusting love betrays : Forever may my song of praise Untainted rise. If life be as a voyage, or foul, or fair : O ! bid me not my banners furl For adverse gale, or wave in angry whirl, Till I have found the gates of pearl And anchored there. THE AWAKENING, T TOUCHED the shore in other climes Encompassed by warm leagues of sea ; I breathed the spicy breath of limes The sauntering gales bore down to me. A hundred palms with feathered tips Displayed their fair pavilion screens Upon the yellow sandy slips ; Beyond the beating barks were seen. And as the barks were blown across The summer-blue of ocean's breast, My thoughts were borne about to toss Among the currents of unrest. My hammock swung within a shade, I loosed my thoughts where they would rove, Then sounds were hushed, the ships did fade, I slumbered in the musky grove. THE AWAKENING. 101 I dreamed, and all my thoughts returned Across the far-dividing deep, And that dear land for which I yearned I seemed to find in fevered sleep. In dreams I reached my native shore, I found the year in deep decline, The desolate, dull landscape bore No hopeful look to answer mine. I faltered then and prayed for hope And hope is his whoever wills ; With half a hundred doubts to cope I strode across the bronze-brown hills. Then seeking with impulsive haste Some phantom that my brain had wrought, Old, dear familiar streets I paced, But missed forever what I sought. Where were the faces that I knew? Where were the hearts that I could trust? Below the dark and lonely yew Was heaped away their hallowed dust. io2 POEMS. "O Christ!" I cried, "who died for us That we might live ; one only kiss From those mute lips ! " " Why sorrow thus ? There is another life than this " A mellow voice of heavenly calm With its annunciation spilled Soft chrism oils, and straight a balm Fell on me, and my pain was stilled. But then I pleaded : ' ' Take me hence To glorify thee and adore, For what are actions or events With kindred gone forevermore ? ' ' The voice replied: "No action dies Although forgotten long, it still A sure conviction shall arise A spirit working good or ill." Then shame smote crimson down my face, I hastened from the place of tombs, A lighter heart bespoke me grace, I doffed my dismal cloak of glooms. THE AWAKENING. 103 I cried: "I will rejoice to do Such deeds that nothing ill shall dare To stand erected in the view Of the new legend, fresh and fair. ' ' Then swinging in my hammock, hung In arbors filled with fine perfume, My pulses quickened as they sung : "We shall anon this task assume." And swaying with the swaying boughs, With odors of the fruit and flowers X About me, tempting me to drowse Forever in the scented bower, There came a voice from out the waves, It was not as the voice of men : "All they that lie in loathed graves, They shall arise and live again ; "And whether urns with precious mold, Or whether acts long since forgot, A new shall come of every old, There is no death in any lot." IO4 POEMS. f I could have turned as adders turn To slay themselves in misery, That I had lived my life to learn So late the worth of life to me. O ! foolish lips that were content To sup the honey of soft song ! O ! silly heart so sweetly blent With harp-like music trilled too long O ! heavenly oracle divine That rilled my heart with holy flame, What new delight of life is mine ? What miracle of hope and aim ? OF MEDITATION MY FRIEND. HAVE a friend who is so true to me, We may not parted be. Though I have strayed, on to the uttermost, Yet is his voice not lost. If I am madly-deaf for having erred, Still may I hear his word. If sin hath slain mine honor, straight appears, The river of his tears, Wherein I find redemption ; tenderly He woos my fear away And searches out some star of hope, above, So boundless is his love. io8 POEMS. When from the loathed grave I shall arise, He'll hail me from the skies. Who else would seek me in corruption's dress With a so kind caress ? Though I am weak, there is a hope of power ; He is my mighty tower ; Like as a flame to fright the gloom away ; He is my perfect day. I am the homely bulb that tops the reed He is the precious seed. I am the rudest shell the vext- waves whirl He is the priceless pearl. Thou art indeed my friend while ages roll, O, thou, my deathless soul ! SEED-TIME. is a rain, to fall Upon us, one and all, Like needful showers that make the dry earth mellow ; For autumn days will come The root of love is numb, Its sweetest blossoms all are sear and yellow. And then a quick regret Will harshly seem to whet The ploughshare of misfortune, while it burrows Along its cruel way ; And glossy locks grow gray And lusterless beside the new-turned furrows. Old Time comes on amain A farmer with his grain, Experience he sifts between his fingers, As up and down he goes. Search, Time, along the rows ; Lest in thy path a weed of evil lingers ! no POEMS. His cunning skill is such He seeks with careful touch The seeded groves with softest soil to cover ; Yet, Time, thou hast not art, But in some bruised heart Long traces of thy husbandry will hover ! O, busy husbandman, How perfect is thy plan ! Behold the harvest ! for thy careful flinging Of little curious seed Shall come a crop indeed ; Lo ! peace, and trust, and every virtue springing ! P ENS ERO S A. T S it sin to deal with sorrow ? Looking upward through our tears, All the breadth of sky is clearer, And twice beautiful ; and dearer Seems the coming of the morrow As we wrestle with our fears ; Wherefore should we comfort borrow, While the woe may come again ? For our little life is brief; And though never joy shall light it, Truly not our tears shall blight it ; For the Christ once suffered pain, And He was acquaint with grief He, the blessed Christ, did deign Himself to weep. What matter whether Smile or sigh ? The fairest bow, H2 POEMS. Where the sun the spray hath kissed, There it blossoms in the mist Till it withers in fair weather. Beautiful is grief! I know Peace and tears may dwell together. ' AT POLLOCK'S GRAVE. E seared leaf quivering down From the green choir that wails thy brief renown This is the poet's crown ! Where is thy skillful lute, That could provoke the birds to sweet dispute? Alas ! forever mute ! The hand that drew the balm Of ravishing music from tuned strings is calm ; The worm feeds on thy palm. Not the majestic sweep Of subtle melodies thy nerve could keep From out the dusty heap. The eager sun-rays dart Through silken grasses, searching for thy heart, Of perfect gold a part. ii4 POEMS. The frail vine mantling Thy undeserved nakedness doth cling About thee, perishing. Though no cut altar-stone Is set to tell these ashes are thine own, Thou art not all unknown. Nor dost thou, voiceless, wait ; A thousand whispering tongues shall penetrate The Heaven's pearly gate : Singing thine unsung songs, Chanting thy praises out of tuneful throngs, And righting all thy wrongs. I would some song dispense, But falter in my homely utterance, For music is flown hence. "DROWNED! DROWNED!" ^ IS said when drowning, snatched from life and light When drowning in sad waters deep and wide When drowning, that the waters and the wave Do moan most musically, and singing, sigh In tenderest tones, and witching wild refrains, That enter at the ear and fill the brain With music, quieting ; and that the soul Is fraught with harmony, and urged to leave Its transient habitation i' the clay, And seek that far-beyond, we know not of. The body's tenantless sleep is all a-cold ; And coming tides slow bear it to the strand, Among the rushes ; and the fingers close In icy clasp among the rushes, while The ripples, each in turn, slip up the shore, And kiss the feet, and close about the hands, And twine the hair among the roots, and trail n6 POEMS. The long sea-grasses over all the form In slimy ribbons. Then the tides recede And leave the body, pale, and lank, and cold. All in the silence of night, upon the strand Sad waters moaning for the still, dead form, The soulless body sleeping on the strand. And after A bleachen skull, outstaring the bold sun The mystery of birth, and age, and name The secret of the soul's flight, and the blank And wordless story of a shattered life ! ***** The rattling reeds, and the salt-odored sea In tireless waves the hollow autumn wind Tossing among the rushes and one star Dropping pearl shadows in the empty bowls That held the eves once in this withered skull ! THE SOUTHERN CROSS. V\7^HENE'ER those southern seas I sail, I find my eyes instinctive turning Where, pure and marvelously pale, Four sacred stars are brightly burning. A star is set above the thorns ; Two mark the bleeding palms extended ; And one the wounded feet adorns In four the potent cross is blended. One only hand had power to place The symbol there, and that immortal ; Those fair, celestial fires may grace And beautify the heavenly portal. Whatever danger I may meet Upon the wild, disastrous ocean, Still turn my trusting eyes to greet That flaming: cross with true devotion. 1 1 8 POEMS. Nor cease, my willing heart, to give Thy prayers, and every just endeavor ; For only by the cross I live, And by the cross I live forever. " D I O N. ' (LYMAN R. GOODMAN.) "V/^OU sang too early in the spring Of our uncheerful year of song ; You felt the bitter chill of wrong, And on a sudden ceased to sing. And on a sudden sang no more In skillful measure to our needs ; But there is One who ever heeds Your numbers on the farther shore. I 2O P O K M S . I picture you as one who lies Among the palms, with harp and crown. A silver, quivering thread, let down From crystal walls of Paradise, Is the sweet echo of your voice That thrills me. In your vineyard's throng I taste your purple grapes of song, And in their honey-blood rejoice. IN MEMORIAM. L. C. B. OB. MDCCCLXIV. ^Et. XXVI. now the chrysalis ; Only now the mortal clay, Cold and breathless, utterly. What may wake him ? Not a kiss On the purest brow I know, O ! so pallid ; not a kiss On the listless, closed eyes ; They can look beyond the skies At the white throne. Not a kiss On the hollow cheek of snow. What shall wake him ? Not a kiss On the bloodless, sealed lips, For an angel's finger-tips Ever-silence there have prest ; And the quiet of his breast Is a holy sepulcher ; 122 POEMS. And the sleeping Christ within, Is his heart immaculate, Purged of every blight and sin. Death the ashes did inter With the odor and the balm, Nourished in the long increase Of the Christ-man's perfect calm, And his soul's eternal peace. Faith and Hope sit at the gate Of the sepulcher, and wait For the dawning judgment day ; At the portal while I weep. At the portal while I pray, Kneeling at the silent tomb Who will break the awful gloom ? W T ho shall wake him from his sleep ? Who can roll the stone away? Slumber on and take thy rest ; Peace forever will abide With thy memory at my side, Dove-like ; and upon my breast Falls thy spirit sanctified ! IN M E M O R I A M . Only here the chrysalis, Only here the mortal clay, Cold and breathless utterly. Naught may wake him ; not a kiss ; Not a kiss or prayer for aye Shall recall him out of bliss ! Only here the chrysalis, With the spirit flown away ! 123 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY This book is DUE on the last date stamped "below FormL-9 20m-12, '39(3386) PS ?3Q Al Poems . 1867 UCLA-Young Research Library PS2930 .A1 1867 L 009 603 735 3 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 001 231 411 8 PS 2930 Al 1867