BrD 
 
Ani 
 
 BY 
 
 Son iKark Croum 
 
 Iroabmag 
 dampattg, 
 
 fork 
 
Copyrighted, 1902, 
 Copyrighted, 1905, 
 
 DON" MARK LEMON. 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
As one who for a season has been confined 
 In some dense city, at whose brazen gate 
 Delight, and Love and Beauty rarely wait, 
 
 And song breathes never on the smoky wind, 
 
 At last, rejoicing, leaves those scenes behind 
 Of cheerless trade and commerce, and, elate, 
 Hies him toward the country's green estate 
 
 With willing heart and newly sweetened mind: 
 
 So leaves the Bard the dusty paths of prose 
 And hastes to his beloved Muse again ; 
 
 Leaves unmelodious writings to compose 
 Songs liquid sweet as springs Pierian; 
 
 And as he sings of summer and the rose 
 Joy holds the Poet's hand and guides his pen ! 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Little People 297 
 
 A Lying Press 245 
 
 A Memory 358 
 
 A Moral Tale 241 
 
 A New Pleasure 302 
 
 A Prayer 236 
 
 A Prelude 323 
 
 A Statistical Poem 340 
 
 Adeline 300 
 
 Alice 258 
 
 An Evil Book 321 
 
 Big Game 339 
 
 Call Him a Poet 213 
 
 Can This Be Home, Sweet Home? 355 
 
 Clara O'Dee 306 
 
 Columbia 335 
 
 Drifting 233 
 
 Duty 251 
 
 Enough! Strike Deep and Let Me Go 343 
 
 Eros Seeking 203 
 
 Fancy's Bark 356 
 
 Fate 267 
 
 Florence 138 
 
 Fortune Sick 379 
 
 Four Books . . 224 
 
iv Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Gladness 367 
 
 Gone is a Strenuous Spirit 315 
 
 Gone, One More Faithful Friend 311 
 
 Hannah Moore 240 
 
 Hate 243 
 
 Her Beauty is a Climbing Rose 342 
 
 Her Fortune 271 
 
 Her Step is Music 227 
 
 Honor 200 
 
 How soon a Nation can Forget, O Lord 277 
 
 Hypocrisy 221 
 
 Dreamt the Stars are Characters 257 
 
 Know, I Know 281 
 
 Know Where the Sunbeams Go 361 
 
 Like to Think This Best of Worlds 247 
 
 Love My Country Not the Less 329 
 
 Loved You for Your Beauty First 285 
 
 Saw Her Lovely Face But Once 388 
 
 Think: I Know 330 
 
 Thought to Write My Name in Gold 249 
 
 I Would Not Hurt Her Little Hand 286 
 
 If 327 
 
 If Genius were but Catching 296 
 
 If Half the Riches Spent on War 351 
 
 If She Should Die To-Night 266 
 
 Ignorance 313 
 
 In These, Our Times 209 
 
 lone 4 
 
 Isabel 172 
 
 Keats 170 
 
 Kiss Me, Dear, and Let's Forget 290 
 
 Lake Tahoe 322 
 
 Laughology 204 
 
 Lenore 354 
 
 Liberty Lives : Her Soldier is Dead 368 
 
 Life's Failures 281 
 
 Lines 294 
 
 Live On, Old Tree 206 
 
 Love , . . . 369 
 
Contents v 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Love's Pyrography 2;">6 
 
 Luther at Wartburg 248 
 
 Make Room for Youth 217 
 
 Mammon 346 
 
 Marriage 348 
 
 May Such Books Perish 243 
 
 Motley 201 
 
 My Heart is with My Bees To-Day 269 
 
 My Life was a Round of Golden Days 314 
 
 My Love a Constant Beauty is 223 
 
 My Love is Full of Pretty Ways 264 
 
 My Sweet Thoughts are My Daughters 307 
 
 My Queen 370 
 
 Not Always 287 
 
 Nothing Comes of It 279 
 
 Now Morn upon the Rosy Hills 288 
 
 O Darken the Window 220 
 
 O Don thy Kerchief 338 
 
 O For a Sparklins: Bowl of Laughter 246 
 
 O Ghost, I Have Thee Now 295 
 
 O God, if Ever We Had Cause for Fear 215 
 
 O Lass of the Land of the Listed Lance 229 
 
 O Poet, Build for Me a Splendid Home 202 
 
 O Poet, Open Wide the Gate of Dreams 318 
 
 O Set a Window 205 
 
 O She is a Poem 299 
 
 O She is Fair to Look Upon 387 
 
 O Sing Me a Song of My Native Land 331 
 
 O Take that Picture from the Wall 214 
 
 O That Good Ink 245 
 
 O Thou Who Art Divinely Gifted 234 
 
 O When Shall Dawn that Splendid Day?.. 237 
 
 Ode to Liberty Bell 238 
 
 Ode to the Airship 353 
 
 Of Many Fools, I Loathe the Most 289 
 
 Old Dan Miller 261 
 
 One of the Millions 381 
 
 Out of My Brain the Music Has Fled 304 
 
 Over the Hills to the Poorhouse 374 
 
vi Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Palmistry 284 
 
 Phoebe 319 
 
 Pluck and Luck 231 
 
 Put Money in Your Purse 177 
 
 Rhyme 360 
 
 Rosabell 115 
 
 Rosa Lee 198 
 
 Scandal 360 
 
 Shall Lovers Dwell Apart? 270 
 
 She Has Her Faults Like Other Maids 312 
 
 She Wears a Starry Crown of Deeds 342 
 
 So Deep in Love Am 1 210 
 
 Somewhere 390 
 
 Take Back These Honeyed Songs 250 
 
 Take Down Those Gifts " 227 
 
 The Billionaire 251 
 
 The Book of Yosemite 211 
 
 The Column 218 
 
 The Divorcee Dinner 291 
 
 The Hours 278 
 
 The Human Tongue 230 
 
 The Land of Washington 363 
 
 The Loving Couple 332 
 
 The Moral Poet 255 
 
 The Old Folks Are Growing Old, Old 362 
 
 The Other Half 337 
 
 The Pen 295 
 
 The Poet 226 
 
 The Poet is a Deity 264 
 
 The Poets' Queen 392 
 
 The Present 268 
 
 The Prophet 272 
 
 The Rose That Bloomed in Eden 310 
 
 The Song That Lives for Aye 328 
 
 The Spirit of War 207 
 
 The Storm 283 
 
 The Two Voices 222 
 
 The Wheel of Child Labor 235 
 
 There Are More Ways of Pleasing God than One.. 305 
 They're Training Boys to Murder 197 
 
Contents. vii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Tired 298 
 
 'Tis Better Far 216 
 
 To Trade 309 
 
 Truth 359 
 
 Two Friends 276 
 
 Viola 
 
 War 324 
 
 War .375 
 
 What Dreams Unto the Rich Will Come 376 
 
 What Though the Garden of the Muses Yield? 317 
 
 When Beauty Builds Beneath the Stars 354 
 
 When I Consider 324 
 
 Where is My Little Girl To-Night? 389 
 
 Why? 378 
 
 Will He, Nill He 326 
 
 Woman 335 
 
 Your Beauty Left Me Marveling 306 
 
OF THE 
 
 (' UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 *Lir' 
 
 1ONE, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 THE POETS' QUEEN. 
 
 She sprung from Beauty's immemorial line, 
 And was herself the fairest of her race; 
 And ever to her stately dwelling place 
 
 The minstrels came, like palmers to a shrine. 
 
 Where Hesper is the evening star in June, 
 Westward she dwelt amid an island estate; 
 There Neptune's steed champed at her sea-girt 
 gate 
 
 And regal palms shook to the silver moon. 
 
 Beneath her latticed casement, sweet with balm, 
 The narcissus and the rose first heaved the sod, 
 And Love the poets sung awaked a God 
 
 Amid her garden of perpetual palm. 
 
2 lone, 
 
 Her beauty was of earth as roses are 
 
 Mortal, but nothing that might lead astray : 
 The glory of her eyes held sovereign sway, 
 
 But blasted none, like some bright, evil star. 
 
 A splendid pride was softened in her mien- 
 She bended as the stately lily bends 
 When silver dew upon the field descends, 
 
 And bows that flower low, but not to stain. 
 
 Her eyes were bright as stars set for a sign 
 In heaven, and in her soft-clustering hair 
 The Spirit and the Love that made her fair 
 
 Had left the fragrance of its breath divine. 
 
 Forever open and forever bright, 
 
 Her sculptured gates looked out upon the sea; 
 
 Fit entrance to her halls where Poetry 
 Dwelt like a Presence all compact of light. 
 
 Queen of the Poets and Olympus' Nine, 
 
 Oft would she walk at twilight's pensive close 
 Where silver fountains like young palms uprose, 
 
 And hark unto bright ^Bolus in the pine. 
 
 Or with the morn, soft-op'ning as the rose, 
 And with the rose's vermeil flush and light, 
 She took her harp and bid adieu to night, 
 
 While chord by chord the stars sunk to repose. 
 
And Other Poems. 
 
 But, lo ! long seasons she has been at rest, 
 And no more shall inspire the minstrel brood, 
 And given are her isles to solitude 
 
 Like a dead Orion within the west. 
 
4 lone, 
 
 IONE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Through the red and three-forkt levin 
 Flaming o'er the troubled heaven, 
 Cold and pallid, like a spirit, 
 Looks the moon upon the deep. 
 There a merchant bark is riding 
 That the hand of Death is guiding, 
 And her timbers are colliding 
 With the jagged rocks that leap 
 Like Destruction from the waters, 
 Like a demon sent to reap 
 All the vessel hath in keep. 
 
 HarTc ! It is the sailors calling, 
 Calling down the winds appalling 
 Where the lightning points Disaster 
 Riding on the blast o'erhead! 
 Hark! The sheathed mast is riven, 
 Goring at the cruel heaven, 
 And the merchant bark is driven 
 
And Other Poems. 
 
 Where Destruction lifts its head, 
 And her splitted timbers tremble 
 For that setting deep and dread 
 To the stormy ocean's bed ! 
 
 Hark! The blow hath been delivered, 
 And the oaken bark is shivered; 
 Every ebb gives up a spirit, 
 Every flow a 'human core ! 
 O'er the rocks the lightning burneih, 
 (Whence a corpse alone returneth!) 
 And each ruffian billow spurneth 
 Some dead body to the shore; 
 Heaps its dea_d- along the surf-line 
 And retreats amain for more, 
 Lashed into a maddened roar. 
 
 From the rocks a bell is tolling, 
 But the hour is past controlling, 
 Death has taken up the hour-glass 
 And each life he calls his own. 
 No, not all ! one soul is clinging 
 To that bell the winds are ringing, 
 And the distant shore is bringing 
 Help to him and him alone: 
 He hath met with Death and wrestled 
 And 'tis Death that's overthrown 
 On the bell's foundation stone. 
 
lone, 
 
 He, among an hundred blasted, 
 Lives, whose life hath still forecasted 
 Sorrow for the gentle lone 
 Dreaming by the troubled deep. 
 Him the Destinies of sorrow 
 Bear from forth the tempest's horror 
 That upon the bitter morrow 
 He shall make fair lone weep, 
 Take the sunlight from her waking, 
 Take the love-light from her sleep, 
 And make way for Death to reap. 
 
 Him they bear unto the landing: 
 Bruised and faint, but still commanding, 
 He demands of those around him 
 Where the lady lone dwells : 
 "I have letters I must give her, 
 And a message to deliver 
 Be it o'er yon raging river 
 Like a gulf between two hells, 
 Be it where yon bell is ringing, 
 I will hasten where she dwells 
 While the love I bear impels." 
 
 "If ye seek the lady lone 
 Ye must pass the river Lion, 
 Ye must face a death by waters, 
 Face the Death within his home. 
 
And Other Poems. 
 
 By the lightning that is streaming 
 Ye can see the castle gleaming 
 Where the lady now is dreaming, 
 Couched within the marble dome; 
 But ye better seek the Lorelei 
 With her golden hair and comb 
 Than seek lone o'er the foam." 
 
 But the stranger passes the Lion 
 For the love of gentle lone, 
 For the love he bears the maiden 
 As a father bears his child; 
 Passes o'er the river Lion 
 For the love of gentle lone, 
 Though the wave is not yet dry on 
 His gray hair and forehead mild : 
 Passes to the massive portals 
 Where sweet lone is exiled, 
 With a dream of hope beguiled. 
 
 "Lo, a face is at the portals 
 Be it ghost's or be it mortal's, 
 It shall never have admittance!" 
 Cries the Master of the grange. 
 "By the lightning that is leaning 
 From the skies, we know its meaning, 
 And the harvest it is gleaning, 
 
8 lone, 
 
 And the love it would exchange!; 
 Know a fiend stands at the portals 
 And its presence nothing strange 
 In this night when Hell hath range. 
 
 "Back, ye foul and evil spirit, 
 To the doom that thou inherit ; 
 Back, ye fiend, unto thy torments 
 While the lightning points the way ! 
 Back, ye fiend, for here is sleeping 
 One whom angels have in keeping, 
 And upon whose head are heaping 
 Blessings for which angels pray. 
 Ye have followed Fear too closely 
 And ye cannot now betray 
 Though thy head be old and gray." 
 
 "I am human, not a spirit/' 
 Thus the Stranger; "if ye fear it, 
 Bring the maiden from her chamber 
 Whom you love and I adore: 
 She will greet me at the portal 
 As a friend and as a mortal, 
 N"or her gentle spirit startle 
 Though the lightning plays me o'er. 
 I adore her as a kinsman, 
 Nor her father loves her more; 
 Open then thy heart and door. 
 
And Other Poems. 
 
 l 'I am human., not a spirit: 
 
 Were I such I would inherit 
 
 But the blasts that breathe from Tophet, 
 
 Not the blasts of nature too. 
 
 By this coldness that congeals me, 
 
 By this faintness that o'ersteals me, 
 
 By each frailty that reveals me, 
 
 Judge me man and judge me true ; 
 
 One that nature touches wholly 
 
 And hath touched with loss anew 
 
 Of a noble ship and crew. 
 
 "Ye can see the lightning flashing, 
 Ye can hear the wild waves dashing, 
 But ye cannot know the sorrow 
 That it brings to other men! 
 Ye can hear the rolling thunder, 
 And the shock the deep leaps under, 
 But the heavens do not plunder 
 Thee in darkness stygian, 
 Tor the forked tongues of lightning 
 Leap into thy maddened ken 
 O'er the grave of ship and men !" 
 
 "Enter in, and speak my pardon; 
 I have been too harsh a warden." 
 Here the Master, hasting forward, 
 Takes the Stranger by the hand. 
 
io lone, 
 
 "Enter in, now I recall thee; 
 By the hearth I will install thee, 
 And no evil shall befall thee 
 That my power can withstand. 
 Enter in : hast thou a message 
 From my Lady's native land, 
 From Hispania's far-off strand ?" 
 
 "I have letters for the maiden, 
 And a message that is laden 
 With the sighings of a father 
 Dying in a prison hole. 
 I, that fain would die to gladden 
 This sweet maiden, come to sadden 
 Her bright spirit yea, to madden 
 And convulse her gentle soul ! 
 I, that hoped to bear Joy's message, 
 Come with Horror's fearful scroll, 
 Which myself I must unroll!" 
 
 "Christ, have mercy!" cries the Master: 
 
 "What unmerciful disaster 
 
 Hangs above this gentle spirit 
 
 Whom the angels all adore? 
 
 Hath all prayer been unavailing? 
 
 Is the love of heaven failing, 
 
 That the good are left bewailing 
 
And Other Poems. n 
 
 For a light that is no more? 
 If this be the free-heart's portion, 
 What then is the guilty' s store ? 
 Christ, have mercy, I implore !" 
 
 "Judge not Heaven in the hour 
 Of the wrong, but when God's power 
 Hath brought light from out of darkness, 
 Out of evil hath brought good. 
 Judge it not at all were wiser, 
 Since we cannot be adviser 
 To our Lord and our Chastiser 
 Though we have all sin withstood." 
 Thus the Stranger softly answers 
 With the lips of ripe manhood, 
 And his words are understood. 
 
 "Yet inform me," thus the Master, 
 "Of this sorrow and disaster 
 What was it befell the father? 
 What must now befall his child? 
 Christ, her noble father dying 
 In the gaol where he is lying ! 
 'Tis a time for work, not sighing, 
 To be cunning and not wild; 
 'Tis a time to turn to Heaven, 
 That its love be reconciled, 
 Not to doubt and be exiled." 
 
12 lone, 
 
 "In Hispania thus 'tis stated 
 Lived a noble who was hated 
 By the father of sweet lone 
 For his evil life and heart: 
 He was foul past all detraction, 
 Cruel as death in his exaction, 
 False in faith and false in faction, 
 Schooled in evil as an art: 
 One who bore* a name of honor 
 But in honor bore no part 
 Formed without a blush or heart. 
 
 "Long he lived, but one dark morning, 
 
 Seemingly without forewarning, 
 
 He was murdered in a meadow 
 
 Eastward bounded by the sea. 
 
 There was gladness in each village, 
 
 For he nevermore would pillage 
 
 Labor of its honest tillage, 
 
 Of the fruits of husbandry: 
 
 And 'tis said that morn the oxen 
 
 Knelt upon the stormy lea 
 
 Dumbly thankful they were free. 
 
 "On that fearful Sabbath dawning 
 While the tyrant's grave was yawning 
 lone walked across the meadow 
 All alone in confidence. 
 
And Other Poems. 13 
 
 Sudden at her feet upstarted 
 Him she loved, and wildly darted 
 From her presence with distorted 
 Pale and bloody countenance! 
 This she told unto her father 
 In a secret conference, 
 Sick at heart with love's suspense. 
 
 "Deeply was the father troubled, 
 But his fearfulness was doubled 
 When 'twas bruited that a murder 
 Was enacted with the dawn; 
 But his silence was unbroken, 
 And he gave his friends no token 
 Of the things his child had spoken 
 Or the face she looked upon. 
 Much he loved the youth suspected 
 Trusted him, to him was drawn 
 As a father to a son. 
 
 "Then the father rose in sorrow 
 And upon the bitter morrow 
 Gave his child into thy keeping 
 Till the ax of justice fell : 
 But the youth was unsuspected, 
 And the guilty undetected, 
 And the very crime neglected, 
 
14 lone, 
 
 Till it reached the Cardinal ; 
 Then the sleeping law awakened 
 And all Eome stands sentinel 
 O'er an innocent man's cell! 
 
 "Lo, behold ! look where 'tis written 
 How the hand of Eome hath smitten 
 Tone's father for the murder 
 That sweet Zone's lover did! 
 Hasten then and waken lone 
 She must pass the river Lion 
 Though the tears be yet not dry on 
 Her warm cheek and drowsy lid: 
 She must hasten to her father 
 Witnessing what hath been hid, 
 As her father here hath bid. 
 
 "Better that her lover perish 
 Than the father she should cherish; 
 Better perish a false lover 
 Than an aged, guiltless sire. 
 Yet, in spite of Tone's admission, 
 And the father's deep suspicion, 
 And the youth's unkind position, 
 Were I Rome I would enquire 
 Deeper than these circumstances, 
 Though enough they seem and dire 
 To commit the youth to fire. 
 
And Other Poems. 15 
 
 "For I think the youth is gentle 
 And this death was accidental, 
 Though no man's above suspicion 
 Till the Tempter hath been bound I" 
 Now the Stranger ceasing slowly 
 Kneels the Master meek and lowly 
 Like a pious man and holy 
 Kneels upon the flinty ground, 
 And to God commends his spirit 
 And of heaven's love profound 
 Asks that patience may abound. 
 
 Now, uprising, leads the Stranger, 
 
 Who hath faced a sea of danger, 
 
 To a high and spacious chamber 
 
 Ever ready for a guest. 
 
 "Rest ye here until the breaking 
 
 Of the dawn, and loner's waking, 
 
 Then, in this deep undertaking, 
 
 We will act as ye think best 
 
 Though there's one way, one way only, 
 
 Which is God's way manifest, 
 
 And that way ye did suggest." 
 
 Now a sleep falls on the Stranger, 
 Sleep too deep for dreams of danger, 
 And the Master seeks the chamber 
 Where sweet lone lies at rest. 
 
1 6 lone, 
 
 At the threshold dim delays he, 
 And no call or speech essays he, 
 But in love and silence prays he 
 That the heavens guard his guest, 
 Guard the pure and gracious lady 
 In the name of Christ, the Best, 
 And all spirits pure and blest. 
 
 Deep she sleepeth though the lightning 
 O'er the moated grange is brightening, 
 Deep she sleepeth though the thunder 
 Rolls above her bosom bare. 
 From her dream she doth not borrow 
 Sadness for the dawning morrow 
 One she is that hath known sorrow 
 But hath never known despair; 
 One that hopeth ere the evil, 
 Hopeth after it doth snare; 
 Born to suffer, schooled to bear. 
 
 In the footsteps of bright Pleasure 
 Sorrow follows with full measure 
 Drinking deep the wine of gladness 
 We must drink the dregs at last; 
 So unto this maiden dreaming, 
 With the lightning o'er her gleaming, 
 And her virgin fancy teeming 
 
And Other Poems. 17 
 
 With, the memories of the past, 
 Sorrow comes like some foul spirit 
 Borne before the midnight blast, 
 Treading Pleasure's steps full fast. 
 
 Sorrow comes to wake the Sleeper 
 And be made her silent keeper, 
 Like a guard placed o'er the guilty, 
 Like a watch placed o'er the doomed. 
 From her prison it shall be given 
 Her to still espy in heaven 
 Gladness from her presence driven, 
 But her spirit shall be entombed, 
 And the past can be remembered 
 But, ah nevermore resumed ! 
 Like a vestment long consumed. 
 
 One she is that hath known sorrow 
 But from certain griefs we borrow 
 Kindly hope that leads and cheers us 
 Till our griefs no more annoy: 
 So with lone to her gladness 
 She has borrowed hope's sweet madness 
 And the present has lost its sadness 
 In the future's promised joy. 
 But, alas! the hour is coming 
 That forever will destroy 
 Hope, the dearest of employ. 
 
i8 lone, 
 
 Tenderly, with maiden yearning, 
 Every thought of evil spurning 
 Still she loves the noble Bertrand 
 Who, indeed, is innocent; 
 And through all her separation 
 Still her heart with sweet elation 
 Beats her lover's vindication, 
 Deep and true and eloquent: 
 Still she trusteth in his honor 
 With a faith all confident, 
 And her faith is not misspent. 
 
 Now she dreams of when they parted, 
 She all faith, he broken-hearted ; 
 She, the weaker, raised by patience, 
 He, the stronger, bowed by woe: 
 And her gentle heart is beating 
 As it did at that last meeting, 
 When her lover brought his greeting 
 And she told him she must go 
 Go across the frowning mountains, 
 For what cause she must not know 
 Since her father willed it so. 
 
 "By that God that bends above thee," 
 Low he answered, "I do love thee, 
 And my love shall teach me patience, 
 And my patience make thee mine. 
 
And Other Poems. 19 
 
 Since it must be, I'll not grieve thee 
 With my sorrow, but will leave thee 
 Till that day when I receive thee 
 From thy father, to inshrine 
 Thee within my distant castle, 
 Where the climbing ivy vine 
 Roots itself in limpid Rhine." 
 
 Then he kist her hands and vestment, 
 And one moment in caressment 
 Touched her hair and added gently, 
 "Heart of heart, till then farewell !" 
 So these hapless lovers parted, 
 Trembling, if not broken hearted, 
 All their plans and gladness thwarted 
 By that vision that befell 
 lone walking through the meadows 
 Rapt in love's all-dreamy spell 
 That had seen, but seen not well. 
 
 Now she dreams of that sweet meeting 
 
 In the future and its greeting 
 
 When her lover, vindicated, 
 
 Shall again look on her face, 
 
 Kiss her hands and flowing vestment, 
 
 Touch her hair in sweet caressment, 
 
 And one moment in redressment 
 
20 lone, 
 
 Hold her in his pure embrace, 
 Saying, "Love, the time was dreary, 
 Yet Timers footsteps I'd retrace 
 To live o'er this moment's grace." 
 
 And all love and faith she calleth 
 From her sleep "Whate'er befalleth, 
 I will never leave thee, Bertrand, 
 Surely, never leave thee more! 
 I believed thee, Bertrand, ever; 
 I will doubt thy honor never; 
 Nor my father now can sever 
 Thee from me, though him I adore ! 
 I will follow where thou leadest, 
 Though the lightning hurtles o'er 
 And the deep beneath doth roar I" 
 
 At the threshold kneels the Master, 
 
 Like a form in alabaster, 
 
 Like a cold and marble figure 
 
 In the attitude of prayer; 
 
 But a living heart is beating 
 
 In his bosom, still repeating, 
 
 "Christ have mercy !" and entreating 
 
 Him to hearken and to spare 
 
 Spare the gentle lady lone, 
 
 In His mercy and His care, 
 
 Of a woe too great to bear. 
 
And Other Poems. 21 
 
 But the silence being broken 
 By these words in deep sleep spoken, 
 To his feet the Master rises, 
 Troubled, like a father moved. 
 "She is with him in her dreaming, 
 With her Love ! her mind is scheming 
 Of a better day, and teeming 
 With his innocence approved ! 
 All her being bends toward him, 
 All her thoughts are interwoved 
 With this Bertrand whom she loved ! 
 
 "This is wormwood to the bitter ! 
 Gall to wormwood ! 'twill unfit her 
 For all hope and consolation, 
 For all trust in heaven's grace! 
 With his love she is infected 
 Deeper than my mind suspected, 
 Deeper than her heart reflected, 
 Mirrored in her gentle face: 
 He is dearer than her father, 
 Dearer than her whole dear race, 
 Since she loves him in disgrace ! 
 
 "Christ, prepare her for the morning 
 By prophetic dreams of warning, 
 In a dream prepare her spirit 
 For the bitter waking time!" 
 
22 lone, 
 
 But all night she dreams of gladness, 
 Of sweet music charming sadness, 
 And of laughter without madness, 
 And of wedding hells that chime; 
 And she dreams not she is dreaming, 
 As she smells the dewy thyme 
 In her own warm native clime. 
 
 Now the Stranger hath uprisen, 
 And the castle seems a prison 
 To his eager restless spirit, 
 Still impatient to be gone. 
 "Haste," he whispers to the Master, 
 "Break to her this sad disaster, 
 Though thy story must o'ercast her 
 And make midnight of the dawn: 
 We have little time to linger, 
 But by noon must be withdrawn, 
 Though we've much to think upon. 3 
 
 "I will join you," thus the other, 
 "On this journey, as thy brother 
 In the cause of gentle lone, 
 As thy friend in every need. 
 Have ye patience, for 'tis better 
 That I school her ere the letter 
 Is surrendered that must fetter 
 
And Other Poems. 23 
 
 Her to sorrow cruel indeed 
 I will school her gentle spirit, 
 Calm her heart that fain must bleed, 
 Then leave her alone to read. 
 
 "All alone, for it is better 
 That alone she read this letter 
 Which was written by her father 
 In an hour of deep distress: 
 And I'll also be attorney 
 To prepare her for this journey, 
 For this unexpected journey 
 To her fa-ther, comfortless. 
 Stay ye here, and pray the heavens 
 Smile upon my cause and bless 
 What we ask with all success/' 
 
 lone, at her casement standing, 
 
 Hears a footstep on the landing, 
 
 Hears the Master whom she honors 
 
 Hasting to her chamber door. 
 
 At the threshold now she meets him, 
 
 And with subdued welcome greets him 
 
 Humble welcome and entreats him 
 
 Enter in her greeting o'er. 
 
 To her window now she leads him, 
 
 Looking out upon the shore 
 
 She shall look on but twice more. 
 
24 lone, 
 
 "Look," she saith, "a hope hath perished, 
 One, perhaps, that still is cherished." 
 Here she points unto a vessel 
 Wrecked upon the stormy reef. 
 "Yea, dear lady," thus the Master, 
 "Now ye look on stern disaster ; 
 But unkinder, deeper, vaster, 
 Than the sea is human grief ! 
 Yet the tempest troubled ocean. 
 Is but as a whirling leaf 
 Unto Him who gives relief! 
 
 "Let it teach thy gentle spirit 
 That thyself must pain inherit, 
 Since these lives were not exempted 
 That the storm hath overthrown: 
 And, if thou hast ere known sorrow, 
 From this wreck the lesson borrow 
 Schooling thee through pain and horror 
 That thyself art not alone 
 In thy grief, but others suffer, 
 At their hearts a weight of stone, 
 Heavier with every groan." 
 
 "I perceive it," saith the maiden, 
 "And my heart is heavy laden; 
 Yea, that sorrow is most common, 
 This indeed I understood/' 
 
And Other Poems. 25 
 
 "So the heavens have ordained it," 
 
 Thus the Master, "Yet have strained it 
 
 Through God's mercy, and have rained it 
 
 On our spirits for our good, 
 
 For 'tis sorrow more than gladness 
 
 Teaches men a brotherhood 
 
 Closer than the ties of blood." 
 
 Now the Master, turning slowly 
 
 From the casement, utters lowly, 
 
 "lone, since thou hast known sorrow, 
 
 Thou may knowest how to bear; 
 
 To be patient, not contending 
 
 With thy soul, nor apprehending 
 
 That the evil is past mending, 
 
 Or is reason for despair; 
 
 To abide in faith and meeknesi, 
 
 As becoming in an heir 
 
 To yon Heaven's love and cart. 
 
 "Knowing those that lose not Heaven 
 Lose but that which hath been given 
 For a few brief fleeting seasons, 
 'And that Death eventually takes." 
 Here the Master meekly ceases, 
 But no hope his bosom eases, 
 And his fearfulness increases, 
 
26 lone, 
 
 For a pallid dread awakes 
 In the face of gentle lone, 
 'And her startled bosom quakes 
 !As the blood her brow forsakes. 
 
 Pale she looks upon her teacher, 
 Whose gray lifted eyes beseech her 
 To have patience, hope and courage 
 'Gainst the sorrow that has come : 
 Pale she looks upon the ocean, 
 On the wreck in restless motion, 
 And a sad and stern prenotion 
 Leaves her fearful spirit dumb: 
 Pale as cold forsaken marble 
 Has fair lone now become 
 'Gainst a time of martyrdom. 
 
 "Courage, lone ; half our sorrow 
 From our fearful hearts we borrow; 
 Courage, lone, for the noble 
 Need fear nothing but their fear ! 
 ? Tis not death that now assails thee 
 In this hour when gladness fails thee, 
 And a bitter duty hails thee, 
 In which thou must persevere; 
 But that error is triumphant 
 Over him thou dost revere 
 With a daughter's heart sincere.* 
 
And Other Poems. 27 
 
 Now the Master, meek and lowly, 
 Tells the Stranger's story wholly, 
 And to lone, pale and trembling, 
 Gives the letter he hath by; 
 And from fearful apprehension, 
 From a sad and stern presension, 
 lone passes cold with tension 
 To the truth without a cry ; 
 Learns her father's cruel position, 
 Which, to mend, her Love must die, 
 And in cold obstruction lie. 
 
 "I am ready ; thus bespeak me 
 To this friend that fain would seek me/' 
 Answers lone, and the Master 
 With these words his leave doth take. 
 Now pale lone reads the letter, 
 Reads the loving, pleading letter 
 From her father, which must fetter 
 Bands that angels cannot break, 
 Fetter bands about her spirit, 
 For her aged father's sake, 
 That love's angels cannot break. 
 
 Now upon her knees she bendetH, 
 Asking that her breathings endeth, 
 Craving that which every spirit 
 Hath once craved of heaven death! 
 
28 lone, 
 
 That one prayer that ceasas never, 
 But forever and forever, 
 Though a thousand creeds dissever, 
 Rises upward without death; 
 Prayer of all and prayer for all time 
 While this mortal frame holds breath, 
 The eternal prayer for death ! 
 
 Now she rises from her kneeling, 
 
 Shame's hot blush upon her stealing, 
 
 Saying, "Father, forgive me, 
 
 I must live to rescue thee ! 
 
 Unto me alone is given, 
 
 By that mercy lodged in heaven, 
 
 Power to make these great odds even 
 
 And to work thy liberty ; 
 
 I alone can charm back honor 
 
 On thy gray hairs, and to me 
 
 Hath been given life's one key! 
 
 "But, Bertrand, my lover, 
 
 It is I that must discover 
 
 That wild vision of the meadow 
 
 Point thee out to death and shame ! 
 
 Thou, that used to love and prize me,- 
 
 And thy love did still suffice me, 
 
 Now must evermore despise me 
 
And Other Poems. 29 
 
 And adjudge me not the same; 
 Thou must think me false, inconstant, 
 When I publicly exclaim 
 'Gainst thy ever-gracious name ! 
 
 " 'Twas not thee I saw that morning 
 
 But a vision of forewarning; 
 
 With thine own blood thou wast dabbled, 
 
 Blood that I myself must spill ! 
 
 Not thee, Bertrand, but a vision, 
 
 And I merit all derision 
 
 That, in trembling indecision, 
 
 And in weakness of the will, 
 
 I made known unto another 
 
 That I saw thee near that hill 
 
 Where assassins had wrought ill ! 
 
 "Yet, Love, in my unfitness, 
 
 I must be my father's witness, 
 
 Swear I saw thee, Love, that morning 
 
 Where the murdered man was found ! 
 
 So it seemed yet 'twas but seeming, 
 
 But the folly of my dreaming 
 
 Of a dream past all redeeming, 
 
 Or a vision to confound ! 
 
 I must swear to an appearance 
 
 And leave Heaven to expound 
 
 That 'twas such to all around ! 
 
30 lone, 
 
 "Would to God I then had perished, 
 Or thy love I ne'er had cherished ! 
 Would thy hand had gathered flowers 
 For my grave, not for my breast ! 
 Would that lilies sprang above me 
 That thou, Bertrand, still would love me. 
 With that early love still love me, 
 While I lie at perfect rest ! 
 0, that I had died in summer 
 And thy gentle step had prest 
 To my grave among the blest !" 
 
 With these mournful words she ceases, 
 But no tear her sorrow eases ; 
 'Gainst the wall she leans her forhead, 
 Silent as a thing that's dead. 
 All her life before her rises, 
 All its joy and sweet surprises, 
 All its grief and sacrifices, 
 All, before her soul is spread: 
 All its shadow, all its beauty, 
 Pain that lingered, joys that fled, 
 Doubts that grieved, hope that misled. 
 
 Meantdme hath the Master carried 
 To that Stranger who hath tarried 
 In his chamber, Tone's message 
 And delivered it twice o'er. 
 
And Other Poems. 31 
 
 "If ye've gold, prepare to spend it," 
 
 Thus the Stranger, "or to lend it ; 
 
 Or, if ye cannot extend it, 
 
 Friends must stead thee from their store ; 
 
 For the sea. hath stol'n my fortune 
 
 On the reef beyond the shore, 
 
 And the sea doth not restore." 
 
 " 'Tis my time for exercising 
 Friendship's bounty, and devising 
 Means of travel/' thus the Master, 
 "And my fortune is not mean. 
 This much will I lend to heaven, 
 For to me much hath been given ; 
 More than I can e'er make even 
 Many times I have foreseen. 
 Be not fearful for this journey 
 We shall sail 'Hispania's Queeri.' 
 Ere the noonday sun is seen." 
 
 So 'tis wished, so prosecuted, 
 So the journey instituted; 
 Home sails lone to her father, 
 Leaving joy and youth behind ! 
 Homeward journeys with the Master 
 And the Stranger; fast and faster 
 Sailing on toward disaster, 
 
32 lone, 
 
 In the sails a mighty wind ! 
 Home by Lisbon and Gibraltar, 
 lone sails with fearful mind, 
 Led by Fortune false and blind ! 
 
 PAKT II. 
 
 In yon prison cell is lying, 
 Of dishonor slowly dying, 
 One whose name erewhile was noble 
 And thrice honored by the State. 
 Stone, beneath, above, around him, 
 Rears its columns to confound him 
 Where an evil time hath bound him, 
 Looking on with brow of hate. 
 All his honors have passed from him, 
 All his friends have proved ingrate 
 Save the few that strive and wait. 
 
 He is stript of Fortune's lending, 
 Naked with the blast contending ; 
 On his white hairs shame hath fallen, 
 Shame his neighbors' eyes have seen. 
 Age, that should have been a blessing, 
 Filled with honor's dear caressing, 
 Hath been cursed beyond redressing, 
 
And Other Poems. 33 
 
 Made ignoble, harsh, and mean: 
 And he breathes the air of dungeons 
 Who should breathe the pure serene 
 Of the meadows lush and green. 
 
 This is lone's father, dying 
 
 In the cell where he is lying, 
 
 Calling on his God to witness 
 
 That his soul is innocent: 
 
 And his mighty heart is broken, 
 
 And his painful words are spoken 
 
 In such whispers as betoken 
 
 That his life is almost spent. 
 
 Him the law is sacrificing 
 
 As a guilty instrument 
 
 In what seemed a foul event. 
 
 Veiled corruption hath pursued him 
 For a season and subdued him 
 To the law's blind inquisition, 
 To dishonor, grief, and shame. 
 By a friend he still mistrusted 
 One that for his life hath lusted I- 
 Charge of murder hath been thrusted 
 Secretly upon his name, 
 And the law hath sate in judgment 
 And on him affixed the blame 
 Who is guiltless of the same. 
 
34 lone, 
 
 Yet one hope there is remaining, 
 One dear hope his life sustaining, 
 And that hope is that his daughter 
 Will renew his liberty. 
 She was witness to a vision, 
 To a true, if damned vision, 
 Which must change the law's decision, 
 Change the law^s corrupt decree : 
 She will publish that young Bertrand 
 Slew the Noble by the sea, 
 And her father shall go free. 
 
 Now the old man falters lowly 
 To the stones, "The Lord is holy; 
 He will set me free in two worlds 
 In this one and in His own: 
 He will send my daughter to me 
 That those foemen who pursue me 
 And seek falsely to undo me 
 Shall be wholly overthrown: 
 In her hands He will lodge comfort 
 That shall presently atone 
 For this prison house of stone. 
 
 "Is there storm upon the water 
 That ye hear not of my daughter ?" 
 Now he whispers to his gaoler 
 Who hath brought him bitter food. 
 
And Other Poems. 35 
 
 "Thou hast more need of devotion 
 Than of question, for the ocean 
 From its center is in motion !" 
 Thus the gaoler in wild mood : 
 "Trouble heaven with thy questions 
 And not feeling flesh and blood: 
 Die, and ask it of hell's brood !" 
 
 "0, my God," the old man falters, 
 "Prison walls all nature alters, 
 Till the stones rise up against me 
 That are laden with my tears ! 
 And my daughter will forsake me 
 Hasten but to overtake me 
 Ere I pass away and make me 
 Cause for mockery and jeers! 
 All hath altered; e'en the heavens 
 Send a priest that doubts and sneers 
 And heaps curses on my ears!" 
 
 "Hush, ye fool !" the gaoler mutters, 
 " 'Tis thy madness now that utters 
 'Gainst the holy church such treason 
 As may some time cost thee dear. 
 See! the holy father's hasting 
 Unto thee the Lord is chast'ing, 
 And in treason thou art wasting 
 
36 lone, 
 
 Breath thou needst to set thee clear. 
 Fear the Lord and shut thy mouth then ! 
 Would that mouth were a third ear 
 That it could not speak, but hear !" 
 
 Now a cowled form enters slowly 
 
 Like a pious priest and holy, 
 
 But 'fore such a damned spirit 
 
 Cain had blushed and cried out "shame !" 
 
 'Tis no priest, but the betrayer 
 
 Of the pris'ner, and inveigher 
 
 'Gainst his honor; 'tis the slayer 
 
 Of the Noble: and his aim 
 
 Is to feed an ancient hatred 
 
 'Gainst the prisoner's fair name 
 
 Overtopping his in fame. 
 
 Once he sought a high position 
 Which might tempt a duke's ambition, 
 But the prisoner outplanned him 
 By his native strength of mind : 
 Crost in hope he sought to smother 
 All his hatred for the other, 
 Who had loved him as a brother, 
 Sought to make the victor blind 
 Till he found him in his power, 
 Then he purposed to be kind, 
 Kind as racks that rend and bind! 
 
And Other Poems. 37 
 
 As he enters like a presence 
 Of some higher, purer essence, 
 From the dungeon hastes the gaoler 
 And his footsteps die away. 
 "Prisoner," he saith slowly, 
 "Thou art stained, the Church is holy, 
 She is proud and thou art lowly, 
 Wilt thou longer then delay? 
 Wilt thou keep confession waiting 
 Till the Church shall cease to pray 
 For thy soul in its dismay? 
 
 "Rome awaits but thy repentance 
 And confession, then her sentence 
 Shall be lifted from thy spirit 
 And thy soul need fear no ills. 
 But, fool ! beware Rome's turning, 
 Fear the hour of her spurning, 
 She is patient with all yearning, 
 Patient as her seven hills, 
 But her patience hath an ending 
 As the patience of the hills, 
 And this ending is what kills. 
 
 "Kills the soul that would find heaven, 
 As the crooked bolts of levin 
 Kill the body and consume it : 
 Such hath Rome the power to do! 
 
38 lone, 
 
 Better thou wert not created 
 Than thy soul for aye be hated, 
 Cursed and excommunicated 
 By the mother Church and true ! 
 Rome stands waiting; in her bosom 
 There is lightning and is dew ! 
 Which, prisoner, choose you?" 
 
 "Cease thy counsel and chastising," 
 
 Thus the prisoner, uprising; 
 
 "I am greater than thy orders, 
 
 A free soul is more than Rome! 
 
 By that God that watches o'er me 
 
 I am guiltless! then restore me 
 
 To that peace from whence they tore me, 
 
 To the quietness of my home: 
 
 Every stone knows I am guiltless 
 
 That upholds this prison dome! 
 
 Then restore me to my home. 
 
 "Yet, holy father, listen 
 And that Rome herself did christen 
 Me in youth is not more certain 
 Than these things whereof I'll speak: 
 Certain as my own baptism, 
 Certain as thy Catholicism, 
 Certain as the holy chrism, 
 
And Other Poems. 39 
 
 Are these things whereof I'll speak. 
 But draw nearer, holy father, 
 For my voice is strangely weak ; 
 Draw ye nearer, cheek to cheek." 
 
 Nearer draws the false Corambis, 
 Nearer draws the cowled Corambis, 
 To the other saying sternly, 
 "Truth is coming ; let it come ! 
 Blessed, if, ere my departure, 
 I can free thee from this torture, 
 From this almost hopeless torture 
 Which has made thy spirit dumb; 
 Blessed, if my lips can ease thee 
 Ere thy body shall succumb 
 To its fearful martyrdom." 
 
 "There is storm upon the water 
 And ye may not see my daughter," 
 Thus true prisoner, "for lone 
 May be lost upon the sea: 
 Should this be, then I must borrow 
 From her death eternal sorrow, 
 For I fear upon the morrow 
 That my life shall cease to be, 
 And should lone die before me 
 Who will speak a word for me? 
 Who will set my good name free? 
 
4O lone, 
 
 "Who? unless before I perish 
 I should publish what I cherish 
 As a secret of my daughter's, 
 Which her love forbid rne tell. 
 Who? unless thyself will hear me, 
 And, in living after, clear me 
 That the world shall still revere me 
 And not deem my soul in hell; 
 That my good name shall live after 
 And my spirit's passing bell 
 Be not honor's fearful knell." 
 
 "Speak," Corambis answers lowly, 
 "I will serve thee, serve thee wholly; 
 Pour into my ear thy secret, 
 From my lips shall comfort fall. 
 What is this thou hast kept hidden, 
 And thy daughter hath forbidden 
 By her voiceless love forbidden 
 Ye to tell in part or all ? 
 Dost thou know who slew the Noble 
 By that meadow's flinty wall, 
 While the devil stood in call?" 
 
 "Yea ! and I have kept it hidden 
 As my daughter's love hath bidden, 
 Thinking that the law would free me 
 And the guilty not be found; 
 
And Other Poems. 41 
 
 But the hope hath passed probation 
 And hath failed: so Rome's legation 
 Shall undo my condemnation 
 And the guilty shall be bound. 
 I will suffer shame no longer, 
 Nor through idle hope compound 
 With an evil most profound. 
 
 "Draw ye nearer: I'll discover 
 In what manner lone's lover 
 On the morning of the murder 
 By my child herself was seen." 
 This he docs, moreover saying, 
 "Bertrand's guilty of the slaying, 
 Guilty of that Lord's betraying, 
 And, priest, my hands are clean; 
 He is guilty; let him answer; 
 I no longer choose to screen 
 Him from law, or come between." 
 
 "Ha!" Corambis cries, uprising, 
 "Thou deservest canonizing 
 For thy friendship and thy patience, 
 And I love thee for the same. 
 Come, rejoice ! for if thou perish 
 Both thy name and bones I'll cherish, 
 So thou needst not leave this garish 
 
42 lone, 
 
 Day of life with fear of shame; 
 Thou shalt leave a voice behind thee 
 To cry honor on thy name 
 And give thee enduring fame." 
 
 But behind his cowl he mutters, 
 "This is truth the old man utters, 
 And I'll publish it for profit 
 Should he die with it unsaid, 
 For, by heaven ! but this morning 
 I received a hint of warning 
 From Montero curse his scorning! 
 Laying this murder on my head, 
 And, unless his eyes be hoodwinked 
 And his cunning thoughts misled, 
 I'll be numbered with the dead." 
 
 Now he adds, aloud and cheerful, 
 "Prisoner, be thou not fearful, 
 I release thee and absolve thee 
 From all past and future crime ; 
 And I'll do as ye have bidden 
 Publish what thou still hast hidden, 
 Which concealment should be chidden,- 
 Give thee whole unto the time : 
 I will live to shield thy honor, 
 Lift thy name from scandal's slime, 
 And make it again sublime." 
 
And Other Poems. 43 
 
 With these mocking words he hurries 
 From the cell. The prisoner buries 
 His white hairs within his mantle 
 Moaning that his days are o'er; 
 And, upon the stones reclining, 
 Sees in thought the bright sun shining 
 On his home,, and sweet buds twining 
 'Round the lattice by the door; 
 Stands again upon the threshold, 
 In his ears the distant roar 
 Of the surf upon the shore. 
 
 Up the sunny path advances 
 lone with her tender glances, 
 Singing of the vales of Flora 
 Sweet in old Provengal lay : 
 After her, from field and bower 
 Washed at morn in golden shower, 
 Every April wakened flower 
 Bends the beauty of its spray, 
 And its fragrance wafts toward her 
 As if she were gentle May 
 Moving on her gracious way. 
 
 From this reverie awaking, 
 All his heart with sorrow aching, 
 Now the father in the darkness 
 Stretches out his yearning arms : 
 
44 lone, 
 
 "0, my God, thou'll not bereave me 
 Of my child, nor she deceive me 
 And in this cold dungeon leave me 
 Where no sunlight shines or warms ! 
 She was ever true and tender 
 And once more within these arms 
 I shall fold her, safe from storms! 
 
 "No, ah no; she's gone forever, 
 Gone forever and forever, 
 Lost upon the troubled waters 
 As these long delays attest! 
 And my arms shall ne'er enfold her, 
 Never, nevermore enfold her, 
 Nor my eyes again behold her; 
 She is gone where none molest! 
 I have outlived truth and honor, 
 And my child I loved the best 
 Is before me gone to rest!" 
 
 "No, my father, thou'rt mistaken 
 I'm not dead nor thou forsaken ; 
 I am living, I, thy daughter, 
 Living, and have brought thee peace! 
 So, dear father, be not daunted, 
 By no spirit art thou haunted, 
 Nor this dungeon is enchanted, 
 
And Other Poems. 45 
 
 I am real and bring release: 
 Lo, I touch thy hand, my father! 
 Let thy doubts and. tremblings cease, 
 I, thy daughter, come with peace." 
 
 As the silence now is broken 
 
 By these tender words outspoken, 
 
 To his feet the father rises 
 
 With a startled, broken cry. 
 
 In his arms he clasps his daughter, 
 
 Clasps his faithful, gentle daughter, 
 
 Dearer than he ever thought her, 
 
 Bright as love may glorify; 
 
 Clasps her to his straining bosom, 
 
 Saying, "Lord, now let me die 
 
 While my daughter is still by!" 
 
 "Dear, my father, on the morrow 
 
 Thou shalt bid farewell to sorrow, 
 
 Yet not bid farewell, father, 
 
 Or to life or liberty. 
 
 Thou art talked of now in heaven 
 
 By good angels that are given 
 
 Power such as oft hath riven 
 
 Gates of brass and set men free: 
 
 Seraphs are this night impatient 
 
 For the gracious morn to be 
 
 When from hence they shall lea.4 ttiee," 
 
46 lone, 
 
 "0, my child, thou little knowest 
 How I'm numbered with the lowest, 
 How my works are all forgotten, 
 And my patience made my shame: 
 Little knowest how detraction 
 Hath set in with harsh exaction, 
 How the forked tongue of faction 
 Hath envenomed my good name; 
 Little knowest how I'm fallen, 
 Fallen without guilt or blame, 
 Fallen and who shall reclaim!" 
 
 "Yet, my father, I can reason 
 Of the cure, if not the treason 
 Of the remedy I've knowledge 
 Though not knowledge of the wrong. 
 Yet I partly am acquainted 
 With thy fall : my heart hath fainted 
 Many times since it hath painted 
 Thee so deeply grieved and long. 
 0, believe me, I have sounded 
 All the fearful depth of wrong 
 Since I came these stones among." 
 
 "0, sweet lone, kneel ye by me 
 And with comfort fortify me: 
 I will thank the stones beneath me 
 thou talk of being free. 
 
And Other Poems. 47 
 
 Shall I see the sun in heaven 
 
 Once again ere I am given 
 
 Unto death? Shall shame be dr'vea 
 
 From my sight, rebuked by thee ? 
 
 Shall they clothe me with that honor, 
 
 With that former dignity 
 
 Which fell off with liberty?" 
 
 "Dear, my father, do not tremble 
 Thinkest thou I would dissemble? 
 Thou shalt see and seeing answer 
 'It is good good as can be '* 
 I have come upon this journey 
 As thy witness and attorney, 
 (Heaven be my own attorney!) 
 And I bring thee liberty: 
 Surely, father, they'll believe me, 
 Though, indeed, I'm kin to thee, 
 And, believing, set thee free." 
 
 Thus they whisper, one the other, 
 Never dreaming that another, 
 That Corambis at the threshold 
 Listens to their every word; 
 Never dreaming that their meeting, 
 That their happy, sacred greeting, 
 That their very pulses' beating, 
 
48 lone, 
 
 By a foe is overheard: 
 Thinking that the heavens only 
 Know how deeply they are stirred, 
 Not a foe by hatred spurred. 
 
 Now, beside the pallet kneeling, 
 lone, with her soft hand stealing 
 Through her father's, whispers lowly 
 Words of love and comfort sweet. 
 Of her journey o'er the ocean, 
 Of her spirit's deep emotion, 
 Of her hopes and her devotion, 
 Whispers lowly at his feet; 
 But, as yet, speaks not of Bertrand, 
 In whose cause she shall entreat 
 With a woman's fervid heat. 
 
 To her words her father listens, 
 
 And each sunken eye now glistens 
 
 With the kindling light of gladness, 
 
 Hope, and waking ecstasy. 
 
 O'er her face he still is bending, 
 
 His cold breath and her warm blending, 
 
 Trusting still, still apprehending, 
 
 That her love shall set him free; 
 
 Hanging on her words intently 
 
 As if they were that decree 
 
 Giving him his liberty. 
 
And Other Poems. 49 
 
 Thus conversing, lone slowly 
 
 Leads to that which claims her wholly 
 
 To the vision of the meadow 
 
 And her lover's part therein: 
 
 Saying, "Father, for that vision 
 
 Which must change the law's decision, 
 
 Why, indeed, 'twas but a vision, 
 
 To remembered dreams akin; 
 
 But a dream except in outcome, 
 
 Such as idle fancies spin 
 
 Or in fear have origin. 
 
 "Once before at early morning, 
 
 Suddenly, and without warning, 
 
 I perceived the noble Bertrand 
 
 Struggling in the very ground; 
 
 But when I had wildly hurried 
 
 To the spot where he seemed buried, 
 
 Upward to his shoulders buried, 
 
 'Twas an idle dream I found, 
 
 For it faded as a vision, 
 
 And I fell into a swound 
 
 With accustomed sights around." 
 
 To his feet her father staggers 
 As if she had spoken daggers; 
 To his feet he feebly rises 
 From his face a brightness fled, 
 
50 lone, 
 
 Like when some rude spirit dashes 
 Waters on bright fire that Hashes 
 And one moment all is ashes, 
 Cold and still and dull and dead. 
 For a while he feebly swayeth, 
 Then, with one hand to his head, 
 Sinks upon his narrow bed. 
 
 lone, to her feet uprising, 
 Marks this change past all disguising, 
 Comprehends the fearful reason 
 And continues, wrung with pain: 
 "Father, dost thou fear this vision 
 Will make light the other vision, 
 That the law in its decision 
 Will receive me with disdain 
 Will adjudge that I am troubled 
 By some sickness of the brain 
 And my testimony vain?" 
 
 "Thou hast said : I'm ruined forever," 
 
 Thus the prisoner, "and never 
 
 Shall I look upon the morrow 
 
 Or go forth to liberty ! 
 
 There is naught but death remaining 
 
 Since my good name's past regaining, 
 
 And my freedom past attaining; 
 
And Other Poems. 51 
 
 Naught but death as ye may see! 
 Thou'll be judged an idle dreamer 
 In the currents of decree, 
 And thou canst not set me free !" 
 
 "Yea, my father; and I tremble, 
 For my soul dare not dissemble 
 Hiding from the law this vision 
 That the other be not vain. 
 It were murder to conceal it, 
 For thou knowest not to reveal it, 
 But within my heart to seal it, 
 Would give credit to my brain, 
 And that vision of the meadow 
 Then would seem a flawless chain, 
 Not an idle dream profane." 
 
 Now the father knows temptation: 
 (Let his wrong be palliation!) 
 lone must conceal that vision 
 Of her lover in the ground. 
 "I have suffered for this other," 
 Thinks the prisoner; "a brother 
 Not more freely nay, a mother 
 Not more freely had been bound: 
 Let him, then, in like repay me, 
 In like suffering compound 
 For this deep and grievous wound. 
 
5* lone, 
 
 "lone," thus begins the father, 
 
 "There's a third way" "Yea, I rather 
 
 Choose the third way," answers lone, 
 
 "And perchance 'twill set thee free. 
 
 There's a third way and a better, 
 
 Not set down within thy letter, 
 
 And, for which, I am the debtor 
 
 To mine own anxiety; 
 
 And that third way is, my father, 
 
 That I take the guilt on me 
 
 Of that murder by the sea. 
 
 "Swear that I myself committed 
 This strange murder and outwitted 
 One that sought to wrong my honor 
 As I crost that meadow wide: 
 Swear that on that fatal morning, 
 Dastardly, and without warning, 
 This dead Lord all honor scorning 
 Sought to shame me and my pride, 
 And I plucked his weapon from him 
 Thrusting it into his side 
 So he sinned and so he died!" 
 
 At this plan so unexpected, 
 Deeply is the heart affected 
 Of that father whose intention 
 Was to wrong a guiltless man. 
 
And Other Poems. 53 
 
 Shame comes o'er him and amazement, 
 Shame at his own heart's debasement, 
 And amazement, deep amazement, 
 At his daughter's daring plan. 
 With dim eyes he looks toward her, 
 But he scarcely now can scan 
 Her fair features, cold and wan. 
 
 "Yea," continues lone lowly, 
 "This is best and almost holy, 
 For that Lord has left no kindred 
 And we cannot harm his name. 
 Herein thou wilt be acquitted, 
 Nor shall Bert rand be committed, 
 While, for me, I but outwitted 
 One that sought to work my shame, 
 And what law will hold me guilty, 
 Or what tribunal will blame 
 That I struck what would defame?" 
 
 Down upon his pallet sinking, 
 
 Now the father takes to thinking, 
 
 With a mind subdued by sickness, 
 
 Of his daughter's daring plan. 
 
 It were possible in reason, 
 
 And, though false, it were not treason; 
 
 It might free him for a season, 
 
54 
 
 To his life might add a span; 
 And the heavens would o'erlook it 
 Since 'twould lift a thrice-false ban 
 And set free a guiltless man. 
 
 Meanwhile lingers that foul traitor 
 
 Named Corambis: violater 
 
 Of a privacy that's sacred 
 
 And betrayer of his friends! 
 
 In the darkness he is slinking 
 
 And his evil mind is thinking 
 
 Of that daughter's plan, and linking 
 
 Thought to thought as serves his ends; 
 
 And he swears that Tone's purpose 
 
 Shall be crost, for it offends 
 
 And endangers his own. ends. 
 
 "Who/- 5 he schemes, "will think this maiden 
 Slew that mighty Lord of Vedin? 
 I, with all my strength and cunning, 
 Barely 'scaped Death's fellowship. 
 Should she then this plan discover 
 And be doubted, all is over, 
 For that vision of her lover 
 Will lose credit with one slip; 
 And, naught being sure, Montero 
 May in time my secret strip 
 Naked as confession's lip." 
 
And Other Poems. 55 
 
 "Nay, my child, we must not borrow 
 Earthly joy to Heaven's sorrow; 
 Speak the truth as thou hast found it, 
 Leave the shaping to the Lord: 
 For although a plan bring gladness 
 It may yet be near to madness, 
 For hath God not willed that sadness 
 Shall be ours, though 'tis hard? 
 And in serving joy though pleasant 
 We may therein cross the Lord, 
 Should we aught of truth discard." 
 
 "0, my father, thou art nearer 
 
 Than the heavens, and art dearer, 
 
 And I know of heaven, nothing, 
 
 But much of this love within! 
 
 Do not fail me through thy reasons 
 
 Truth hath manifold, love, all seasons; 
 
 And a gentle spirit's treasons 
 
 Oft are higher laws 'gainst sin : 
 
 By this heart that feels there's heaven, 
 
 I do feel this deed's akin 
 
 To that heaven, and not sin!" 
 
 Thus these two resume communion, 
 But their minds are at disunion: 
 lone pleads the cause of feeling 
 And her father that of truth. 
 
56 lone, 
 
 For a while they are divided, 
 And the question undecided 
 Which shall be the one that's guided 
 By the other age or youth; 
 Yet not long, for gentle lone 
 Wins her father o'er to ruth, 
 O'er to mercy if not truth. 
 
 Wins him o'er and wins his blessing 
 By her mild words and caressing, 
 Wins him to support her purpose 
 Half in reason, half without. 
 Smooths his forehead now and leaves him 
 As a dreamless sleep receives him, 
 Sleep wherein no sorrow grieves him, 
 Free as infancy from doubt: 
 Leaves him and retires slowly 
 Shadowed by a form devout 
 That doth darkly leer and flout! 
 
 PAET III. 
 
 By yon sea a youth is riding 
 And, with rein and knee, is guiding 
 'Gainst the tide his mettled stallion, 
 Fearful of the spumous wave. 
 
And Other Poems. 57 
 
 In the rider's face is seated 
 Strength and courage undefeated 
 And a heart that ne'er retreated 
 From his eyes, warm, deep, and grave: 
 Gold-brown hair around his temple 
 Frames a forehead pure and brave, 
 Such as is not passion's slave. 
 
 This is Bertrand, Tone's lover, 
 O'er whom evil fate shall hover, 
 Though the airs be tempered for him 
 By the purple fires of love. 
 Of his lady love's returning 
 He hath heard, and now is yearning 
 All his heart within him burning 
 But to touch that lady's glove ; 
 But to touch the- flowing vestment 
 Of fair lone, far above 
 Every painting of a love. 
 
 But his lady love is hidden 
 
 From his sight, though he hath ridden 
 
 To her garden gate and lingered 
 
 Full an hour by his heart. 
 
 She is nowhere to be greeted, 
 
 And he feels that he is cheated, 
 
 Feels his love has been mistreated 
 
lone, 
 
 By her keeping thus apart: 
 Yet he thinks upon her sorrows, 
 And her sorrows now exhort 
 Him to patience 'spite his smart. 
 
 Now a while he idly listens 
 To the surf that falls and glistens, 
 Lapping at his stallion's forefeet 
 Firmly planted in the sand: 
 Now he turns about and passes 
 From the sea the sunlight glasses 
 To the banks of waving grasses, 
 Thence to firm, dry, level land. 
 He will post unto his lady 
 And beside her wicket stand 
 With young flowers in his hand. 
 
 But, behold ! a hedge is parted 
 To his right, and tender hearted, 
 Trembling lone stands before him, 
 Seen too plainly to retire. 
 Instantly the hot blood rushes 
 Through the rider's heart and flushes 
 To has brow ; his right hand crushes 
 In its grasp the whip of briar. 
 Swift he wheels his mettled stallion 
 And with heart and brain on fire 
 Comes to her in sweet attire. 
 
And Other Poems. 59 
 
 For a moment lone glances, 
 Trembling, backwards; then advances, 
 Giving one white hand to Bertrand, 
 Saying lowly, "Is it thou?" 
 To his lips the lover presses 
 That white hand he now possesses, 
 And with welcome words addresses 
 lone 'neath a branching bough; 
 And he marks that she who left him 
 But a maiden with sweet brow 
 Is a ripened woman now. 
 
 "Dearest lady, let my gladness, 
 
 Let my deep and new-found gladness 
 
 Be thy welcome not my speeches, 
 
 But the formal part of me. 
 
 Losing thee, I lost that even 
 
 One as dear as life and heaven, 
 
 Yet to me that hour was given 
 
 Thy most gracious memory: 
 
 This Fve cherished next thy presence 
 
 As the dearest thing to me 
 
 But how very far from thee !" 
 
 "Next to my dear father's greeting 
 Thine is dearest, and this meeting 
 I shall cherish/' answers lone; 
 "Unexpected, yet most dear. 
 
60 lone, 
 
 But, Bertrand, I am grieving 
 For my father, deeply grieving ! 
 For, although not past reprieving, 
 He's past much I greatly fear; 
 Past all joy though not past honor, 
 Past the old accustomed cheer, 
 Past all faith in friends sincere! 
 
 "True, he hath in thee and others 
 Friendship closer than a brother's, 
 But the faith is dark within him 
 That did once so brightly burn! 
 And I'm told he speaks unkindly 
 Of his dearest friends, and blindly 
 Judges all ; but ah not blindly 
 Should they judge him in return: 
 He hath suffered through misjudgment, 
 Suffered more than we can learn, 
 And his suffering makes him stern." 
 
 "0, dear lady, though unkindly 
 
 He hath judged his friends and blindly ,- 
 
 I amongst them, yet our pardon 
 
 Like a suitor seeks him out. 
 
 Thou hast said: He is mistaken 
 
 In our love and not forsaken, 
 
 Nor are the roots of friendship shaken, 
 
And Other Poems. 61 
 
 And 'tis suffering makes him doubt; 
 But his suffering and his sorrow, 
 Not our action from without, 
 Nor his own heart, true, devout. 
 
 "Yet ye spoke of his reprieving 
 As a thing not past achieving 
 Has the guilty been discovered? 
 Have they found some certain clue? 
 Tell me, can ye loose this fetter 
 That hath made the law his debtor? 
 0, so be it; this were better 
 Than a blessed dream come true. 
 'Twere another bond 'twixt gladness 
 And my heart, if it be true, 
 And such bonds are very few !" 
 
 "It is true that I can free him," 
 
 Answers lone: "Thou shalt see him 
 
 In his garden ere the Sabbath, 
 
 For I surely do not err. 
 
 On this very day I'm bidden 
 
 To make known what I've kept hidden 
 
 Let my silence be not chidden 
 
 And set free the prisoner. 
 
 What I'll publish shall find credence 
 
 And to me the law'll defer, 
 
 Which should greatly please thee, sir." 
 
62 lone, 
 
 "Had I but one prayer with Heaven 
 I would pray that this be given, 
 Granted for thy sake, dear lady, 
 Since 'tis very dear to thee. 
 May I greet thee in that garden, 
 When thy father hath his pardon, 
 Or acquittal, and his warden 
 Shall his own kind daughter be; 
 May I greet thee there, sweet lone, 
 In that hour thy father's free 
 There to tell my love to thee?" 
 
 On the ground her sweet eyes bending, 
 Her full heart with love contending, 
 lone one fair hand surrenders 
 And surrenders it entire; 
 For a moment gives it wholly 
 Into Bertrand's hand, then slowly 
 Turns away, and sweet and lowly 
 Passes through the hedge of brier; 
 Sweet and pallid passes homeward, 
 While with heart and brain on fire 
 Bertrand watches her retire. 
 
 Ardently the youth regards her, 
 With the eyes of love regards her 
 Till she's lost beyond the meadow, 
 Then he dreams of her fair form. 
 
And Other Poems. 63 
 
 But, alas! the air is broken 
 By such sounds as now betoken 
 Some near horseman, and a spoken 
 Harsh command breaks up the charm: 
 'Tis Corambis, who, dismounting 
 From his steed that took alarm, 
 Grasps the lover by the arm. 
 
 "Ha, good Bertrand, thou'rt a lover 
 And a dreamer, I discover, 
 For thy horse stands idly pawing 
 Whilst thou gaze on empty air. 
 Thou'rt a lover by thine action, 
 By this look of deep abstraction, 
 And the thin air hath attraction 
 But to those in Beauty's snare. 
 .Come, attend me; I have matter, 
 Matter worthy deepest care 
 As ye'll presently declare!" 
 
 "True, Corambis, I'm a lover," 
 Answers Bertrand, "yet discover 
 What deep matter brings thee hither 
 Surely at thy leisure's cost. 
 Yet thou canst not bring me sadness, 
 For I've ventured faith and gladness, 
 Hope and peace, love deep as madness, 
 
64 lone, 
 
 On one heart, and that's not lost; 
 And though earths four corners crumble 
 Nothing, I may say, is lost 
 Till this heart I love is lost!" 
 
 "Hast thou ventured on a maiden 
 All thy wealth ? As well have laden 
 Jewels on the backs of dolphins 
 Swimming in the open sea ! 
 Yea, good Bertrand, thou'rt mistaken 
 In these hopes as yet unshaken, 
 And thou. shalt full soon awaken 
 To learn how it is with thee; 
 Learn thy judgment has been sleeping, 
 Not that sharp-toothed enemy 
 Woman's foul inconstancy! 
 
 "Yet to each man under heaven 
 Comes that hour when 'tis given 
 Either to forget some woman 
 Or to throw away his soul I" 
 Thus Corambis to the lover 
 Speaks as one who can discover 
 Treason black as clouds that hover 
 O'er the pit of sin and dole; 
 But the other is not fearful, 
 Standing near Love's perfect goal 
 With a faith divine and whole. 
 
And Other Poems. 65 
 
 "No, Corarabis, thou'rt mistaken 
 
 And my love is still unshaken," 
 
 Answers Bertrand ; "yet thou errest 
 
 Through thy brain, not through thy heart. 
 
 Wish me well, yet by some action 
 
 Other than to voice detraction 
 
 'Gainst this lady, whose infraction 
 
 Is a dream upon thy part. 
 
 As thou lovest me, speak no further, 
 
 For ye speak in such a sort 
 
 As will draw on rude retort!" 
 
 "Let it come," replies the other; 
 "Though I love thee as a brother 
 Better that I lose thy friendship 
 Than that thou become a fool ! 
 For to lose thee through just reason 
 Is to lose thee but a season, 
 Since I'll win thee back when treason 
 Proves my words were just and cool ; 
 But thou'rt lost to me forever 
 When thou'rt made this woman's tool 
 For I cannot love a fool! 
 
 "Lend thine ear and I will shake thee 
 To the center, and awake thee 
 From this sleep wherein fair lone 
 Would betray thee with a kiss. 
 
66 lone, 
 
 Mark me, and, when I've concluded, 
 Judge not me that have intruded 
 Here upon thy dreams secluded 
 But my message judge ye this; 
 Which, if doubted, go disprove me, 
 And not linger here to hiss 
 One who showed thee an abyss." 
 
 "Speak right on," jeplies the lover, 
 
 "And I'll mark all ye discover, 
 
 For, in friendship, I do lend thee 
 
 Both mine ears yet not my heart. 
 
 I reserve all but my hearing 
 
 In this cause, and nothing fearing, 
 
 In my faith still persevering, 
 
 I shall doubt all ye impart. 
 
 Speak right on, to ease thy conscience 
 
 Freely mayest thou exhort, 
 
 But thou canst not make me start." 
 
 "Where wast thou that fatal morning 
 When some foe all honor scorning 
 Slew the noble Lord of Vedin? 
 Tell me this, my steadfast friend." 
 Thus Corambis, drawing nearer, 
 Questions Bertrand, and austerer 
 Grow his features and severer 
 
And Other Poems. 67 
 
 Flows his question to its end. 
 "Wast thou passing through that meadow 
 Where Lord Vedin did contend 
 With that foe we'd apprehend?" 
 
 "No, Corambis, I was riding 
 Southward where the sea is chiding, 
 Half a league beyond that meadow 
 Which Lord Vedin crost to die." 
 "Canst thou prove it to Eome's legation 
 To thine honor's vindication?" 
 Thus with seeming agitation 
 Asks Corambis in reply: 
 "Canst thou prove it by some witness 
 Meet within a judge's eye 
 Both to swear and testify?" 
 
 "No, Corambis, I've no witness; 
 But why question my unfitness 
 To make good mine own assertions 
 As if honor hung thereon? 
 If in secret thou dost reason 
 That I did this deed of treason, 
 Know thy words are out of season 
 And thy doubts are folly's spawn : 
 And thou must for why, Corambis, 
 Dost thou look so strangely on 
 As if faith in me were gone?" 
 
68 lone, 
 
 "No, by heaven, let me perish ! 
 When thy truth I cease to cherish!" 
 Cries Corambis: "Thou dost wrong me 
 With these very doubts of thine. 
 Judge me not so rude beseech thee 
 As to think I would impeach thee; 
 I am here, good friend, to teach thee 
 Of another's charge not mine, 
 Of that charge that tender lone 
 With some damnable design 
 Brings against thee : this, in fine ! 
 
 "Learn, good Bertrand, that fair lone, 
 Ere thy kisses shall be dry on 
 Her white hand, will rise in judgment 
 And impeach thee with this deed. 
 Swear that as she walked in study 
 On that morn with face all bloody 
 And apparel cut and muddy, 
 Thou wast fleeing o'er that mead: 
 Swear enough to draw damnation 
 Down upon thee who must bleed 
 That her father may be freed !" 
 
 At these words the lover blanches, 
 Grasping hard the hanging branches 
 In whose shade fair lone granted 
 Sweet assurance of her truth. 
 
And Other Poems. 69 
 
 But his heart is soon collected 
 Which so deeply was affected, 
 And each rising doubt rejected 
 As unworthy love and youth: 
 From his heart, with faith all glowing, 
 Now he plucks the serpent's tooth; 
 Yet ere long 'twill work him ruth ! 
 
 "Take this dream back to thy chalice/' 
 
 Thus he speaks, "and, without malice, 
 
 Drown it in some cooler claret 
 
 Than begot it in thy brain. 
 
 Yet I thank thee for thy trouble; 
 
 And, since vain, my thanks are double; 
 
 Vain I say vain as a bubble 
 
 In that wine cup thou didst drain! 
 
 For this lady would not wrong me 
 
 Nor a moment cause me pain 
 
 Though it prove her father's gain." 
 
 "Go thy way, then," thus the other, 
 " 'From the smoke into the smother/ 
 I have warned thee, but my warning 
 Is to thee a drunken dream. 
 Let the quicksands close above thee 
 Where this maiden's hand will shove thee, 
 While thy friend who'd save and love thee 
 
70 lone, 
 
 Turns away in sad extreme: 
 Shut thine eyes and call it honor, 
 Stop thine ears and calPt esteem 
 Woman nerver yet did scheme !" 
 
 Deeply Bertrand is astonished 
 
 That his doubts are thus admonished, 
 
 That his friend remains so steadfast 
 
 Where all seems of folly born. 
 
 Can it be that lone imposes 
 
 Such a price for love's sweet roses ? 
 
 Doth she hope that for love's roses 
 
 He will wear this crown of thorn? 
 
 Must he suffer and be silent 
 
 Or expect his lady's scorn 
 
 Ere the breaking of the morn? 
 
 "Had her own sweet lips but tasked me 
 I had borne what she had asked me/' 
 Thus he thinks in pain and silence; 
 Then aloud unto his friend : 
 "How came ye to know what's hidden 
 That thon hast so harshly chidden? 
 Say, Corambis, wast thou bidden 
 Thus to speak, yet not offend? 
 Did my lady send thee hither 
 With thds message ye extend, 
 Or is't thine unto the end?" 
 
And Other Poems. 71 
 
 "Wilt thou hear Death's raven croaking," 
 Thus Corambis, "and, fast cloaking 
 Up thy head, swear 'tis the turtle 
 Bringing thee the olive bloom? 
 "Tis my message and each letter 
 Makes thee my eternal debtor, 
 And than scorn it thou hadst better 
 Go alive into thy tomb! 
 Hadst thou eyes r-ot shut and blinded 
 Thou wouldst hide thee with the gloom, 
 And not wait the whirlwind's doom ! 
 
 "More than this I'll not reveal thee, 
 
 Yet I promise to conceal thee 
 
 There where thou may'st hear this maiden 
 
 Charging thee with that foul deed. 
 
 Then, indeed, thou shalt awaken 
 
 Knowing that thou art forsaken, 
 
 Yet, ere thou art overtaken, 
 
 May fly hence with instant speed; 
 
 I've a vessel in the harbor 
 
 Which I'll lend thee in thy need 
 
 If thou'll only turn and heed. 
 
 "0 that I could but persuade him 
 To fly hence ere they degrade him," 
 Now in silence thinks Corambis, 
 "Then his guilt would seem confest. 
 
72 lone, 
 
 Should he flee it would awaken 
 Suspicions not to be shaken, 
 And as soon as overtaken 
 He would suffer death at best: 
 So should I be safe in future, 
 For this crime, 'tis manifest, 
 Still upon his head would rest." 
 
 "Thanks, Corambis, for thy kindness 
 Shown me in my seeming blindness," 
 Thus young Bertrand calmly answers, 
 "But thou canst not serve me, sir. 
 True it is thou'd not deceive me, 
 True this lady would not grieve me, 
 But not true, good friend, believe me, 
 That mistakes do not occur ! 
 Therefore I'll continue steadfast 
 And believe though ye demur 
 That thou art mistaken, sir." 
 
 With these words this best of lovers 
 His accustomed calm recovers, 
 And, into his saddle springing, 
 Questions, "Whither goest to-day?*' 
 But Corambis, deeply sighing, 
 Looks aside without replying, 
 So the lover, gratifying 
 
And Other Poems. 73 
 
 His own fancy, turns away. 
 Horse and rider soon are hidden 
 'Mong the trees that yet display 
 No green shoots or bloomy spray. 
 
 Meanwhile lone, with the Master 
 And that Captain whom disaster 
 Touched so deeply, stood conversing 
 Close beneath a sandy mound, 
 lone hath made known that vision 
 Which might mar the law's decision, 
 To these friends made known that vision 
 Of her lover in the ground; 
 But hath told her plan of action 
 Which will free her father bound 
 Nor her guiltless Love confound. 
 
 Modestly, without distraction, 
 She made known her plan of action 
 How she purposes to publish 
 That she slew the murdered lord. 
 For a while both friends objected 
 To this plan that lone selected, 
 Fearing it would be suspected 
 And all things made doubly hard ; 
 Then they bowed to her decision, 
 Taken from their better ward 
 By her pleas and their regard. 
 
74 lone, 
 
 Thus essentially won over 
 Still to shield sweet Tone's lover, 
 Now the Master and the Captain 
 Take their leave and go their way. 
 lone marks their steps retreating 
 Mingling with her heart's loud beating, 
 And those footsteps seem repeating, 
 "All is well: fear no dismay!" 
 And her heart takes up the burden 
 When the footsteps die away 
 "All is well : fear no dismay !" 
 
 Now upon the gray sand kneeling, 
 
 O'er her brow a warm blush stealing, 
 
 lone thinks upon her lover 
 
 And upon the coining years. 
 
 No prophetic sorrow chills her, 
 
 But the golden sunlight fills her 
 
 With a gentle calm, now thrills her 
 
 Till she's flattered unto tears. 
 
 She is happy, very happy, 
 
 And she almost dreams she hears 
 
 That far music of the spheres! 
 
 But, alas! the charm is broken 
 By a greeting sternly spoken, 
 And Corambis bends o'er lone 
 And her features coldly scan. 
 
And Other Poems. 75 
 
 Rising up the maiden faces 
 This rude traitor, and some paces 
 Draweth backwards, as she places 
 Little trust in voice or man. 
 She knows both, yet guesses neither, 
 For Corambis 'tis his plan 
 Seems disguised another man. 
 
 "My fair maiden, do not wonder 
 How that name thou goest under," 
 Thus Corambis, "grew familiar 
 To these stranger lips of mine; 
 Marvel not that I'm acquainted 
 With thy thoughts so deeply tainted, 
 Nor be awed when I have painted 
 Every hope and fear of thine; 
 But put all such wonder from thee 
 And attend my every sign 
 For I come with warning fine ! 
 
 "In this land thou hast a lover 
 And thou couldst a tale discover 
 Which might bring this lover sorrow 
 But would set thy father free. 
 This I know, and know, moreover, 
 That ye think to shield this lover, 
 Yet in that same hour recover 
 
76 lone, 
 
 Thy good father's liberty : 
 Thou dost purpose through a falsehood- 
 Setting by thy modesty 
 To corrupt the law's decree! 
 
 "But beware, for if thou swearest 
 To this falsehood as thou darest, 
 I'll impeach thy testimony 
 And thou'll lose thy foolish pains! 
 Take not on thyself, false maiden, 
 That strange murder of Lord Vedin, 
 Or ere night thou shalt be laden 
 With a perjurer's close chains; 
 And, once swearing false, the judges 
 Still will doubt thee : so remains 
 Thy good father in his chains ! 
 
 "But bear witness to that vision 
 Which shall change the law's decision, 
 To that vision of young Bertrand 
 On the morn when Vedin fell. 
 Swear thou saw him pale and bloody, 
 With his vestment cut and muddy, 
 As thou walked in early study 
 In the field where Vedin fell. 
 While, as for that other vision 
 Where this youth seemed in a well, 
 'Tis a dream ye must not tell. 
 
And Other Poems. 77 
 
 "Thus I charge thee, and my power 
 Next the King's is chief this hour, 
 And herefrom thy only safety 
 And thy only hope shall spring! 
 Therefore scheme not to deny me 
 Or by silence to defy me, 
 Nor with riches seek to buy me 
 Or my heart attempt to wring; 
 Thou canst move a dead man sooner 
 Than this spirit which I bring, 
 Long since past all altering." 
 
 Like to one entranced or dreaming, 
 
 lone marks the gray eyes gleaming 
 
 In the brow of false Corambis, 
 
 Nor could speak though she should try. 
 
 So the dove amid the grasses 
 
 Marks the snake's eye as it glasses, 
 
 With a charm mesmeric glasses, 
 
 And can neither move nor cry ; 
 
 But with lone 'tis amazement 
 
 More than some mesmeric eye 
 
 That enchains her dumbly by. 
 
 Having done all in his power 
 To corrupt love's sweetest hour, 
 Now Corambis leaves the maiden 
 And triumphant goes his way. 
 
78 lone, 
 
 Down upon the gray sands falling 
 Hapless lone still recalling 
 That strange warning and appalling 
 Hides her face from the bright day, 
 And her blanched lips are silent, 
 And her hands, though joined are they, 
 Are not joined to plead or pray. 
 
 Thus some moments she continues, 
 
 All the strength gone from her sinews, 
 
 Overcome in heart and body 
 
 Though her mind is active still. 
 
 But once more the sound comes stealing 
 
 O'er her ear of far bells pealing, 
 
 And she rises up, revealing 
 
 In her face the griefs that kill 
 
 Pale despair and tearless sorrow, 
 
 And a noble, tender will 
 
 Helpless in the hour of ill. 
 
 To the west she turns and passes 
 Through the tall and clinging grasses, 
 Staggering like one in sickness, 
 Falling thrice upon her knee. 
 Up the wind deep bells are swinging 
 And her call to court are ringing; 
 Deep-mouthed bells that now are bringing 
 
And Other Poems. 79 
 
 Judge and clerk to hear her plea: 
 'Tis the hour for testimony 
 And pale lone holds the key 
 To her father's liberty ! 
 
 "I am coming, father, coming; 
 
 Be thou patient; I am coming!" 
 
 Now she cries and onward hastens 
 
 To the tower of her trial. 
 
 At the gates of alabaster 
 
 Pale yet firm she greets the Master, 
 
 But speaks not of that disaster 
 
 Agonizing her the while. 
 
 This she locks within her bosom 
 
 And moves up the marble aisle 
 
 Deep into the prison pile. 
 
 To a chamber where tall torches 
 Dimly light the hanging arches 
 lone comes, but here the Master 
 Cannot enter so returns, 
 lone comes: a clerk perceives her 
 And with formal hand receives her; 
 To that spot he guides and leaves her 
 Where the brightest taper burns, 
 And each eye is on the maiden 
 And the dullest eye discerns 
 That her heart with sorrow yearns. 
 
8o lone, 
 
 Pale she looks, and yet not daunted, 
 Though by evil spirits haunted, 
 Pale and sad; yet in her bearing 
 Strength there is and much of pride. 
 But that strength comes near to failing 
 And her pride seems unavailing 
 As into the judgment railing 
 Comes her father with his guide: 
 Pity melts her gentle bosom, 
 And she now can scarcely tide 
 Tears that down her cheeks would glide. 
 
 She would weep ! but ah for weeping 
 
 Time and place are out of keeping, 
 
 So her pride congeals the waters 
 
 That arise unto her eye. 
 
 She would weep ! but now the dial 
 
 Points the hour for the trial, 
 
 And she must not weep the while 
 
 But be calm and testify ; 
 
 She may weep when all is over 
 
 And no judge or jury by, 
 
 But till then her eyes be dry! 
 
 On her right a clerk now rising 
 His commission exercising 
 Swears her in to be a witness 
 And, so swearing, bids her speak': 
 
And Other Poems. 81 
 
 Speak the truth unbiased by feeling, 
 Nothing adding, naught concealing, 
 Speak the truth of every dealing 
 For whose facts the law shall seek. 
 This he formally commands her, 
 And sweet lone grows faint and weak 
 With sick heart and blanched cheek ! 
 
 Faint she grows and near to falling 
 
 With an agony appalling, 
 
 Thrice essaying and thrice failing 
 
 To find speech to testify: 
 
 But she thinks upon the morrow 
 
 And her father freed from sorrow, 
 
 And from such full thought doth borrow 
 
 Strength and courage to reply 
 
 To bear witness 'gainst young Bertrand, 
 
 And one moment gratify 
 
 Her wronged sire ere he die! 
 
 Word by word her lips discover 
 That last vision of her lover, 
 But no vision lone calls it 
 Nor casts doubt upon its truth. 
 Shade by shade, as she confesses 
 'Gainst her guiltless Love confesses! 
 In the chamber's far recesses 
 
82 lone, 
 
 Grows the image of that youth, 
 Grows the image of young Bertrand, 
 In his features naught uncouth 
 Deep amazement mixed with ruth. 
 
 "Tis a vision to the maiden, 
 
 Fraught with shame, with horror laden; 
 
 Such an insubstantial vision 
 
 As she witnessed twice before. 
 
 Yet she gives the court no token, 
 
 Or by whispered word or spoken, 
 
 That its privacy is broken 
 
 And a wraith stands at the door; 
 
 But her pale, thin lips continue 
 
 In their charge as heretofore, 
 
 While a cold dew bathes her o'er. 
 
 On the wraith her fixed eyes bending, 
 Through a time that seems unending, 
 Still her lips beat out the story 
 Of that vision of the mead. 
 Still she speaks, and still that spirit 
 Standing in the door, or near it, 
 Listens to her speech, to hear it 
 With a heart that still can bleed. 
 With a human heart and breaking 
 Still the lover gives her heed 
 As her fatal words proceed ! 
 
And Other Poems. 83 
 
 But an end comes to the story 
 Of her Love all pale and gory 
 Fleeing on that fatal morning 
 From the mead where Vedin fell ; 
 Yet pale lone is not seated, 
 Though her tale is now completed ; 
 Still she stands, all power fleeted 
 'Gainst that vision to rebel, 
 For the countenance of Bertrand 
 Draws her like a mystic spell 
 Which she has no strength to quell. 
 
 Still into the shadows peering, 
 Nothing hoping, all things fearing, 
 lone stands, and while thus standing 
 Comes the judge's formal strain : 
 "That this honored court's decision 
 By no insubstantial vision, 
 By no idle, gross misprision, 
 Be corrupted and made vain, 
 Let the witness testifying 
 Answer and so we constrain 
 This one question, then refrain. 
 
 "Has this witness ere been haunted, 
 Like unto a soul enchanted, 
 By some insubstantial vision 
 Such as judgment puts to flight? 
 
84 lone, 
 
 Has she seen in earth or heaven 
 With the morn or noon or even, 
 Or in waters under heaven, 
 Any visionary sight? 
 Has the presence of this Bertrand 
 Haunted her by day or night 
 While the youth was absent quite ?" 
 
 Deep into the shadows peering, 
 Nothing hoping, all things fearing, 
 lone stands, and slowly, lowly, 
 Comes her answer, fraught with pain 
 "No, my lord, I ne'er was haunted, 
 By no empty presence haunted ; 
 Nor, like some rapt soul enchanted. 
 Have I looked on visions vain. 
 Nay, my lord, so rest my spirit, 
 Never yet did vision chain 
 Mine eyesight, or vex my brain !" 
 
 Thus pale lone, falsely swearing, 
 Answers, while her eyes are staring 
 Hard against the face of Bertrand, 
 That a vision seems to be. 
 But yet Tone's not enchanted, 
 Nor the secret chamber haunted 
 It is Bertrand pale and daunted 
 
And Other Poems. 85 
 
 Standing there so silently ! 
 By an accident he entered 
 At the door, to hear and see 
 -What he vowed could never be! 
 
 Now, as lone ceases speaking 
 Still her eyes those shadows seeking, 
 On her right a clerk uprises 
 And calls on her father's name. 
 Twice the summons is repeated, 
 Twice the prisoner is greeted, 
 But the old man still is seated, 
 Deaf, it seems, or lost in shame ; 
 Still is seated, and no motion 
 Stirs his aged, weary frame, 
 Lighted up by fitful flame. 
 
 "Cease thy summons; he is stricken 
 Whom ye think by words to quicken !" 
 Thus a dark robed priest makes answer, 
 Standing in the fitful light. 
 "Lo, behold, his heart was broken 
 Ere the witness yet had spoken ; 
 Yea, he died ere yet one token 
 Eeached thine ears to set him right ! 
 He is gone where is no error 
 And now walks in Honor's sight 
 With meek spirits and upright!" 
 
86 lone, 
 
 "Dead!" the judge repeateth slowly, 
 "Dead!" the walls re-echo lowly; 
 "Dead!" and with one cry to heaven 
 lone sinks on dusty stone ! 
 "Dead!" a hollow sigh replieth 
 Prom cold lips that none descrieth, 
 <f Dead!" and where the torchlight dieth 
 Fades a form that stood alone. 
 "Dead! my lord; but stay thy session 
 Till this Bertrand shall atone 
 For his guilt so clearly shown V 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 IB yon lonoly field and barren 
 
 Long ago a noble's warren, 
 
 But since blasted by the tempest 
 
 Stands a thatched and lowly cot: 
 
 From its door no light is streaming 
 
 Though 'tis dusk and few stars gleaming, 
 
 Dusk, and all the waste seems dreaming 
 
 Melancholy and forgot; 
 
 Dusk, and no sound save the complaining 
 
 Of the owl from secret grot 
 
 And the winds that sweep that spot. 
 
And Other Poems. 87 
 
 To this shelter, dark and lowly, 
 Lo, a woman struggles slowly, 
 Through the waste of snow new-fallen, 
 Faint, exhausted, struggles on ! 
 Now she sinks to earth, betraying 
 Wild despair, yet not delaying ! 
 Now she kneels, and, dumbly praying, 
 Creeps the icy ground upon ! 
 By no clasp her hair is gathered, 
 And her hood and cloak are gone, 
 Torn away by gusts of dawn. 
 
 Still the bitter winds pursue her, 
 
 And it seems they will subdue her, 
 
 But at last she gains the threshold 
 
 Of that shelter dark and lone. 
 
 Thrice in vain she knocks then, kneeling, 
 
 Her faint brain with horror reeling ! 
 
 Calls aloud in voice appealing 
 
 That some charity be shown; 
 
 But the silence is unbroken 
 
 Save by icy winds that moan 
 
 O'er that shelter of rude stone. 
 
 Eising now, she looks behind her 
 At the snows that daze and blind her; 
 Now she turns and, lo, kind mercy 
 Hath the door wide open thrown ! 
 
88 lone, 
 
 In she enters, saying lowly, 
 
 "God reward thee; thou art holy!" 
 
 But no answer comes, and slowly 
 
 She perceives that she's alone, 
 
 That the door wherethrough she entered 
 
 By the wind was open blown, 
 
 And no other welcome shown. 
 
 Though no thanks to man he given, 
 Deepest thanks are due to heaven, 
 And most humbly they are rendered 
 With meek heart and bended knee : 
 "For this strength I have remaining, 
 God, I thank thee, uncomplaining; 
 I have asked, and all-sustaining 
 Thou hast shown much grace to me : 
 Let it grow till I have finished 
 That which brought me o'er the sea 
 And that drew me near to Thee." 
 
 Ceasing now, she looks around her, 
 Trembling,, for the cold winds wound her. 
 And the darkness makes her fearful 
 Hiding what she does not know; 
 But full soon the shadows lighten 
 And her thoughts no more affrighten, 
 For the hearth begins to brighten, 
 
And Other Poems. 89 
 
 Fanned by winds that inward blow; 
 And, behold, the room is lighted, 
 As the bright flames come and go, 
 By a warm and ruddy glow ! 
 
 Closing now the door, and kneeling, 
 
 With the firelight o'er her stealing, 
 
 She gives way to dreams and slumber 
 
 At worn nature's heavy call : 
 
 But not long, for something haunts her, 
 
 Something left unfinished haunts her, 
 
 Some great work that grieves and daunts her, 
 
 Yet which she cannot recall; 
 
 And she wakens from that slumber, 
 
 Resting on her like a pall, 
 
 With her pulse in fever's thrall. 
 
 Suddenly she looks with wonder 
 
 At a sword the mantle under, 
 
 And a passionate cry escapes her 
 
 As the firelight plays it o'er. 
 
 Pale she grows with deep emotion, 
 
 Pallid with a strange prenotion, 
 
 And she kneels as in devotion 
 
 Down upon the rush-strewn floor. 
 
 Something in the sight hath stirred her 
 
 As perhaps no sight before 
 
 Ever stirred her bosom's core. 
 
90 lone, 
 
 "Bertrand, Bertrand, have I found thee ? 
 
 Though despairing, have I found thee? 
 
 Dost thou dwell in this far valley? 
 
 Do I kneel where thou abide? 
 
 'Tis thy sword ! to thee 'twas given 
 
 By my father now in heaven, 
 
 And, although our love be riven, 
 
 Thou hast cast it not aside ! 
 
 'Tis thy sword ! and here I'll linger, 
 
 Though thy love hath long since died, 
 
 Till I ,hear thy step outside ! 
 
 " 'Tis thy sword ! I'm not mistaken, 
 Nor I dream, and shall awaken : 
 See, ah see, thy name is graven 
 Here upon the fretted guard ! 
 Ay ? 'tis thine, and soon returning 
 Thou wilt find a bright fire burning, 
 And I'll kneel, that not with spurning 
 Thou wilt hear me false, abhorr'd! 
 And I'll tell thee how Corambis 
 Hath confessed he slew that lord, 
 And is gone to his reward ! 
 
 "Surely, surely thou wilt hear me, 
 Though I've wronged thee thou wilt hear me, 
 For I've searched the wide world over, 
 But to publish this to thee! 
 
And Other Poems. 91 
 
 Much I've suffered, still abjuring 
 Every joy; all things enduring; 
 Through all seasons still assuring 
 My sick soul that thou'd hear me; 
 And thou wilt not spurn me, Bertrand, 
 Till I speak and set thee free 
 From that haunting infamy!" 
 
 Thus pale lone, lowly kneeling, 
 With the fire light o'er her stealing, 
 Touched with hope and stirred by passion, 
 Lays her fraughted bosom bare. 
 But her heart now shakes with terror, 
 With a fell and sudden terror: 
 All, she fears, may be an error 
 And her heart must needs despair; 
 Bertrand may be dead or distant, 
 And a stranger fallen heir 
 To his weapon hanging there. 
 
 Yet not long is she affrighted 
 By these doubts her fears excited, 
 For she finds upon the table 
 Bertrand' s ring that bears his seal. 
 Near it open to her glances 
 Lies a volume of romances 
 Prose and verse that time enhances, 
 
92 lone, 
 
 And to sorrow most appeal : 
 Bertrand's name is on the margin 
 By the verse that cannot heal 
 His sad heart, yet may reveal. 
 
 "He will come again/' she whispers,- 
 To the volume lowly whispers; 
 " 'Tis his writing on thy margin,, 
 Next his voice and face most dear! 
 He will come again, and, kneeling, 
 Nothing in that hour concealing, 
 I will bring his spirit healing, 
 Though he loathe my presence here: 
 I will tell him of Corambis, 
 And he shall no longer fear 
 For his life or freedom dear. 
 
 "He will hate me, loathe, revile me, 
 And for evermore exile me, 
 Yet 'twere better, ah far better, 
 That he hate me than forget! 
 He will loathe my name forever, 
 Yea, forever and forever! 
 Or, perchance, the years will sever 
 Memory's bonds that bind him yet, 
 And in some brief fleeting seasons, 
 Though I wronged him, he'll forget 
 That we parted, or e'er met !" 
 
And Other Poems. 93 
 
 Thus laments pale lone, believing 
 Bertrand's scorn is past retrieving, 
 Thus laments above the volume 
 That shall shed a different light 
 O'er that volume of romances, 
 At which she but merely glances, 
 Till through better fate it chances 
 That some verses meet her sight, 
 Verses where the book lies open, 
 And which Bertrand ere the night 
 Read with sad heart and contrite. 
 
 "Here he read the page is holy !" 
 She continues, rapt and lowly; 
 "Here his eyes have lately rested, 
 And I'll dare to read it o'er. 
 Since I charged him with the slaying 
 Of that lord, all love betraying! 
 And he fled, no hour staying 
 Wherein I had told him more, 
 I have nothing read, and haply 
 It may blunt my pain to pore 
 O'er these verses of 'Elnore.' " 
 
 
94 lone, 
 
 ELNOKE. 
 
 Deep I loved with love all holy, ere the demon 
 
 Melancholy 
 O'er my soul had cast its shadow to be lifted 
 
 nevermore ! 
 For I loved as loves a spirit, such as without grief 
 
 inherit 
 Aidenn or the regions near it, where no cloud ere 
 
 brooded o'er 
 Loved as spirits love in Aidenn, where no cloud 
 
 ere brooded o'er 
 
 Loved the radiant Elnore. 
 
 Ah, she walked in light from heaven, ere our an- 
 cient love was riven, 
 
 Ere my spirit rushed into eclipse upon a foreign 
 shore, 
 
 Eadiant as the star of morning that the angels 
 are adorning; 
 
 Star of love and sad forewarning that my spirit 
 doth adore, 
 
 Eadiant as the star of morning that my spirit 
 must adore, 
 
 With its memories of Elnore. 
 
And Other Poems. 95 
 
 Then my days were all of gladness, and my nights 
 
 were without madness ; 
 Music followed close behind me and her image 
 
 went before: 
 Every rose that blew to heaven, when we met at 
 
 golden even, 
 Blew again in sweet dreams given, to a Presence 
 
 brooding o'er 
 Blew in blessed dreams of midnight to a Presence 
 
 brooding o'er 
 
 The bright Presence of Elnore. 
 
 But a change came o'er her brightness, and her 
 
 heart took on a lightness 
 Such as told her spirit wearied of the passionate 
 
 love I bore; 
 Such as whispered of another, dearer than a friend 
 
 or brother, 
 One whose lightest word could smother all my love 
 
 that went before 
 One whose lightest word was dearer than my love 
 
 that went before, 
 
 One beloved by lost Elnore. 
 
 And I cast away all gladness to believe it in my 
 
 madness, 
 And the roses withered in my dreams to blossom 
 
 nevermore : 
 
96 lone, 
 
 All the light went out of heaven, when our an- 
 cient love was riven, 
 
 Save the bolts of fitful levin naming o'er the 
 troubled shore 
 
 Save the red and maddened levin naming o'er 
 the troubled shore, 
 
 And the form of lost Elnore. 
 
 Spurning love and love's last prophet, far I fled 
 into a Tophet 
 
 Where the shadow of the cypress hung fantas- 
 tically o'er: 
 
 Spurning her that love had painted as beyond all 
 women sainted, 
 
 With the demon Hate acquainted, soon I fled my 
 native shore 
 
 With a demon in my bosom soon I fled my native 
 shore, 
 
 And the love of lost Elnore. 
 
 Under some fantastic heaven whence the wraith 
 of hope was driven, 
 
 Long I searched for Lethe dim to feel that death 
 is not its shore. 
 
 There one crescent moon of sorrow awakes mor- 
 row unto morrow, 
 
 And the pools a silence borrow from that planet 
 hanging o'er 
 
And Other Poems. 97 
 
 Silence deep as death they borrow from that 
 planet hanging o'er, 
 
 Pale and wan as lost Elnore. 
 
 By a dim titanic alley, leading to an ultimate 
 
 valley, 
 Whence the Dead alone return return to haunt 
 
 whom they adore, 
 By dim sheeted figures haunted, such as might 
 
 have madness daunted, 
 Long I dwelt as one enchanted by that planet 
 
 hanging o'er, 
 By that changeless, silent, wan and ghastly planet 
 
 hanging o'er, 
 
 With its dreams of lost Elnore. 
 
 Dwelt until a spirit lonely whispered that my star 
 
 was only 
 As a planet in eclipse, to dawn upon a fairer 
 
 shore, . 
 Dwelt until with sweet insistence, haunting me 
 
 without resistance, 
 From the ultimate dim distance flowed the voice 
 
 that I adore, 
 Flowed the sweet, the sorrowful, the tender voice 
 
 that I adore 
 
 The spirit voice of lost Elnore 1 . 
 
98 lone, 
 
 Sweeter than a voice from Aidenn was her sing- 
 ing, sorrow laden, 
 
 And I cast my heart beneath the spirit feet that 
 pasi me o'er! 
 
 Fearful was my soul and shaken that her love I 
 had mistaken 
 
 That in scorn I had forsaken One that angels 
 might adore, 
 
 One that angels, happier for an earthly love, 
 might well adore, 
 
 And that One the lost Elnore. 
 
 Yet I gave the night no token that my spirit had 
 
 been broken, 
 Though all Tophet had no tongue to tell the 
 
 agony I bore; 
 ISTeither lingered I till breaking of that moon that 
 
 fiends were waking, 
 But, the instant way betaking, came unto my 
 
 native shore, 
 Like a spirit from enchantment came unto my 
 
 native shore, 
 
 And the feet of lost Elnore. 
 
 As the angels change in Aidenn, she had changed 
 
 with sorrow laden ; 
 Yea, she had become a spirit for whom death could 
 
 do no more : 
 
And Other Poems. 99 
 
 All of earth that clung around her were the roses 
 pale that bound her, 
 
 And the roses' scent that wound her in a fragrance 
 evermore 
 
 In a fragrance that shall cling around the mem- 
 ory evermore 
 
 Of the meek and lost Elnore. 
 
 She was sleeping by a fountain where the red 
 
 earth meets the mountain, 
 And the moonlight lay upon her eyes, and on the 
 
 wreath she wore: 
 She was sleeping was she dreaming? dreaming 
 
 of the fountain gleaming? 
 Dreaming of the moonlight streaming? dreaming 
 
 One was bending o'er, 
 One who loved her dearer than the dead are loved 
 
 was bending o'er 
 
 Bending o'er his lost Elnore? 
 
 She was sleeping was she sleeping? all my 
 
 pulses in me leaping, 
 Down beside her form I knelt, and from her heart 
 
 the flowers tore: 
 Surely I was not mistaken,, surely she would soon 
 
 awaken ! 
 She had swooned with sorrow shaken, but the 
 
 night was passing o'er, 
 
ioo lone, 
 
 All the bitter, bitter night of sorrow then was 
 passing o'er, 
 
 Giving back my lost Elnore. 
 
 So I kissed those eyes that borrow a fixed light 
 from fleeting sorrow, 
 
 Softly breathing Night was far behind and Morn- 
 ing just before; 
 
 And my heart drank deep of madness from the 
 spirit's cup of gladness, 
 
 While my pulse o'erran the sadness that its ruddy 
 current bore 
 
 While each pulse o'erran the sadness that its ruddy 
 current bore, 
 
 As it set to lost Elnore. 
 
 Then a darkness fell around me, and a coil of 
 horror boimd me, 
 
 And a growing light went out of heaven to re- 
 turn no more! 
 
 For God she did not waken ! All the angels 
 had forsaken 
 
 Me, the madman, and had taken that bright spirit 
 I adore; 
 
 Heaven, with my coming, stooped and took that 
 spirit I adore 
 
 Took the meek and lost Elnore. 
 
And Other Poems. 101 
 
 Ah, the coldness of her ashes, whence no light of 
 
 spirit flashes! 
 Ah ? the silence of her allies that shall stir 
 
 nevermore ! 
 Ah, the paleness of the roses that her sopulcher 
 
 incloses ! 
 Ah, the tears upon the roses springing from her 
 
 marble door, 
 Springing from her vaulted sepulcher, and from 
 
 its marble door, 
 
 And the dust of lost Elnore ! 
 
 Like the lightning sudden flashing, 
 Startling, daunting, and abashing, 
 Are these verses unto lone 
 Laying bare her lover's heart. 
 And unto her bosom pressing 
 That sweet volume and redressing, 
 Much divining, still more guessing, 
 She looks up with pallid start ; 
 And her lips with passion tremble, 
 And a moment lose all art 
 To cry out or aught impart. 
 
 "Can it be God in heaven! 
 That the wrong is all forgiven, 
 And this verse is as a message, 
 Though not sent me, yet received? 
 
IO2 lone, 
 
 Is his pardon in these verses, 
 And my sin no more accurses? 
 May I hope this book disperses 
 All the shadow that so grieved, 
 And that he was drawing nearer 
 In the dark, while I believed 
 He had left me, tmreprieved ? 
 
 "Was I blind, or is it blindness 
 
 To believe in so great kindness 
 
 To belierve in perfect pardon 
 
 By that heart that should reprove? 
 
 That the old love which abounded 
 
 Has been blessedly refounded, 
 
 And the evil all redounded 
 
 To my pity and my love; 
 
 All the wrong and scorn inverted 
 
 Till my sins perhaps now move 
 
 More than once my guiltless love? 
 
 "Ah, no, no; it were but madness 
 To look forward to such gladness, 
 For he surely will not pardon 
 One that struck so harsh a blow ! 
 Or perhaps he hath forgiven 
 Since he deems my soul in heaven, 
 For the dead are soon forgiven 
 
And Other Poems. 103 
 
 But the living hardly so, 
 And he will retract that pardon 
 When in time he comes to know 
 That I have not been laid low !" 
 
 Thus sweet lone 'twixt joy and sorrow 
 Trembles, while her features borrow 
 Now the grayness of the ashes, 
 Now the scarlet of the flame. 
 But again she reads the verses 
 And their mystery rehearses, 
 While their tenderness immerses 
 Her bowed face in tears of shame 
 And the verses seem to lone 
 Her forgiveness, though the same 
 Bear another maiden's name. 
 
 "Ye reflect his present feeling 
 More than spoken words revealing," 
 Now she whispers to the verses, 
 And her heart with faith leaps high. 
 "But ah wherefore still delays he? 
 In the darkness whereat strays he? 
 Does he wait the moon, or stays he 
 Till the bitter wind shall die? 
 Has he gone toward the ocean, 
 Or toward the hills that lie 
 Northward, with their weight of sky? 
 
104 lone, 
 
 "Yet, Bertram!," she continues, 
 "Though it crack my heart's tense sinews, 
 I'll have patience till thy coming, 
 Be it one hour hence or four." 
 But wild fears arise to grieve her, 
 Deepened by her pulses' fever, 
 And in some brief moments leave her 
 Eestless as she was before: 
 Horrid fears that shake her bosom 
 And that drive her to the door 
 Where the cold wind chills her o'er. 
 
 In the snow are footsteps leading 
 From the threshold, but proceeding 
 Where she knows not, though she guesses 
 On toward the beating tide. 
 Seeing which her heart is shaken 
 With the dread that she's forsaken 
 Bertrand may perhaps have taken 
 Farewell of that warren wide, 
 With the day his farewell taken 
 And gone elsewhere to abide, 
 Lost to her without a guide ! 
 
 Or a cruel death may threat him, 
 And with fearful odds beset him 
 On the snow he may lie helpless 
 By the bitter cold subdued ! 
 
And Other Poems. 105 
 
 Yea, while she was lowly kneeling 
 
 By the firelight warm and healing, 
 
 Death's deep sleep may have been stealing 
 
 O'er his eyes with mists bedewed, 
 
 And his spirit may have yielded 
 
 To Death's angel that pursued 
 
 Him down that white solitude! 
 
 Yet, in following some distance, 
 She may be of true assistance, 
 And she dares to seek her lover 
 For her heart is filled with doubt. 
 Though the evening has grown colder 
 She is warmer now and bolder, 
 And she throws across her shoulder 
 Bertrand's cloak and ventures out; 
 Out into the snow she ventures 
 On her mission most devout 
 And the night wraps her about. 
 
 Frozen waters lie before her 
 And a frozen sky is o'er her, 
 In the east the moon is leaning 
 Hard against the frozen hills. 
 All seems frozen save the ocean 
 With its never-ceasing motion ; 
 All ! and now a cold prenotion 
 
io6 lone, 
 
 Seizes lone's heart and chills, 
 Chills its deep and warm pulsations 
 Like an icy hand that stills 
 What it touches, and then kills! 
 
 Strange forebodings of a danger 
 Unto which she seems no stranger, 
 For she feels that she has suffered 
 All its threatened pains before! 
 Where, she knows not, yet she guesses 
 Searching memory's recesses 
 In some dream, and fear oppresses 
 Her cold bosom more and more; 
 More and more her heart is troubled 
 As she hears the increasing roar 
 Of the surf upon the shore. 
 
 She hath trod in dreams that warren, 
 
 Dim, forsaken, cold and barren, 
 
 She hath heard in dreams the beating 
 
 Of yon surf upon the strand! 
 
 She hath felt this night around her, 
 
 Felt in dreams the winds that wound her,- 
 
 Heard those cries that now confound her 
 
 Coming o'er the waste of land! 
 
 And God hath she not witnessed 
 
 Him that struggles in quicksand, 
 
 With one vain, uplifted hand ! 
 
And Other Poems. 107 
 
 Like to one whose heart is daunted 
 In a dream by horror haunted, 
 And can neither cry nor struggle, 
 loner's rooted to the ground. 
 There before her some few paces 
 Whence no foot its path retraces 
 In the quicksand's fell embraces, 
 Is her Lover lost, though found! 
 And his eyes are turned toward her, 
 And there comes a bubbling sound 
 From his lips by waters bound. 
 
 For some hideous moments seeming 
 
 As an age pale lone stands dreaming, 
 
 Then she shrieks the name of "Bertrand !" 
 
 "Bertrand, Bertrand, speak to me!" 
 
 But no answer from her Lover, 
 
 For the rising waters hover 
 
 At his bubbling lips, and cover 
 
 All his mouth as she may see; 
 
 But as yet his lifted forehead, 
 
 And his eyes and nose are free 
 
 Of the quicksands and the sea. 
 
 In the presence of this vision, 
 Helpless in her indecision, 
 lone reels some fearful moments- 
 Now leaps forward with wild cry; 
 
lone, 
 
 Now leaps forward, vainly thinking 
 She can save her Love from sinking, 
 But she feels the quicksands linking 
 Her own feet, and she will die, 
 Die a death too quick and fearful 
 Should she further madly try 
 To free him imprisoned by. 
 
 So she pauses and looks 'round her, 
 But the level snows confound her 
 Nowhere is there bough or cordage, 
 She may cast to Bertrand's hand; 
 And she cannot bring assistance 
 From the cot far in the distance 
 There is naught to make resistance 
 'Gainst the treacherous quicksand: 
 She must watch the salty waters 
 Rise along the fatal strand, 
 With no power to command. 
 
 Yea, upon the loose sands kneeling, 
 With white face to God appealing, 
 She must watch the consummation 
 Hidden by no kindly cloud! 
 Watch the waters unretreating 
 'Gainst her Lover's lips still beating, 
 'Gainst those lips shut from repeating 
 
And Other Poems. 109 
 
 Prayers beneath their wat'ry shroud ! 
 Watch the tide as it comes creeping 
 To his forehead, once so proud, 
 Now to dark oblivion bowed! 
 
 No! her love than fear is stronger, 
 And she hesitates no longer 
 Starting up she flings her body 
 O'er the deadly stretch of strand, 
 And a moment more is bending 
 O'er her Love with death contending, 
 While her woman's arms are lending 
 All the strength at their command! 
 Strength that drags her Lover upwards 
 Some few inches in the sand, 
 And sets free his lips and hand. 
 
 "Bertrand, Bertrand, let me save thee, 
 Since I wronged thee let me save thee; 
 Drag me down and tread upon me, 
 And escape unto the shore! 
 Look, the tide is rising o'er thee, 
 But the shore is just before thee 
 Drag me down, oh I implore thee, 
 And escape ere all is o'er! 
 I have wronged thee past all pardon, 
 Shamed that honored name ye bore, 
 And am fit to love no more J" 
 
i ro lone, 
 
 "lone !" Bertrand cries in horror 
 In his face not hate but sorrow, 
 "0, my God, thou canst not save me, 
 And thyself must perish too! 
 Quick ! I'll cast thee to the ocean, 
 And perhaps the sea in motion 
 Will sustain thee, and that motion 
 Bear thee from this awful slew: 
 Thou art to thy knees in quicksand 
 Yet I have the strength of two 
 And will save thee. Thou wast true !" 
 
 But he cannot, though he borrow 
 
 Strength from every pulse of horror, 
 
 For pale lone clings about him, 
 
 And his labors are in vain: 
 
 Vain, too, is the passionate pleading 
 
 Of his heart with sorrow bleeding, 
 
 Vain, quite vain, for still, unheeding, 
 
 lone chooses to remain ; 
 
 Neither prayers nor force can move her 
 
 To forsake her Love in pain, 
 
 And the living shore regain. 
 
 "Cease, cease thy vain endeavor, 
 For Fll never leave thee never! 
 Here lies death, but there lies madness, 
 And I rather choose to die. 
 
And Other Poems. in 
 
 Let me be: since thou must perish, 
 Here I also choose to perish; 
 Thou art all I love and cherish, 
 And I care not Death is by. 
 No, no, no, thou shalt not free me ! 
 If thou dost I'll come and lie 
 Here when thou canst not defy." 
 
 " 'Tis too late for prayer or endeavor ; 
 Too, too late: thou'rt lost forever!" 
 Bertrand moans in fearful answer 
 Straining lone to his face. 
 "0, my God, I have no power 
 To defend thee in this hour ; 
 I am down and now must cower 
 Till Death strike me from my place! 
 Ah, I feel like some false coward, 
 Or a low born slave and base, 
 And would hide me from disgrace!" 
 
 "Hush!" pale lone answers lowly, 
 
 "I am now encompassed wholly 
 
 And 'tis no dishonor to thee 
 
 That thou canst not set me free. 
 
 0, but say that I'm forgiven, 
 
 And thou hast done more than striven, 
 
 Thou hast answered a prayer for heaven, 
 
112 lone, 
 
 And what more can chivalry? 
 
 Say I'm pardoned though 'tis selfish 
 
 That I ask so much of thee 
 
 In this hour of agony." 
 
 "Ah, sweet lone, if 'twere given 
 I should be accurst of heaven, 
 For 'tis I that needs be pardoned, 
 Pardoned both by God and thee. 
 I have wronged thee, for that vision 
 Which so changed the law's decision 
 Was a strange, prophetic vision 
 On thy part of times to be; 
 'Twas no falsehood as I deemed it, 
 But indeed ye spoke of me 
 As one speaks in prophecy. 
 
 "On yon warren I was halted 
 
 By a robber and assaulted; 
 
 So I slew him there receiving 
 
 Wounds thou hadst described before! 
 
 All my face was pale and bloody, 
 
 And my clothing cut and muddy, 
 
 Even as thou saw in study 
 
 On Hispania's far-off shore; 
 
 And God I knew thee guiltless 
 
 When I saw the form I bore 
 
 In a pool I bended o'er !" 
 
And Other Poems. 113 
 
 "Bertrand, Bertrand, then thou knowest, 
 
 And I'm lifted from the lowest !" 
 
 lone cries, and, softly weeping, 
 
 Touches Bertrand on the brow. 
 
 "Then thou knowest 'twas not all treason 
 
 Which I spoke in that sad season ! 
 
 Yet I wronged thee, but my reason 
 
 Was subdued by frenzied woe; 
 
 0, I swore it was no vision, 
 
 Yet 'twas sorrow and a foe 
 
 That made me to stoop so low !" 
 
 "Hush!'' her lover whispers lowly, 
 
 "I will trust thee, trust thee wholly; 
 
 Through my doubt ings of thy honor 
 
 I have suffered, not through thee. 
 
 Had I trusted thee erewhile 
 
 I had never fled my trial, 
 
 Nor become a weak exile, 
 
 Nor had perished by this sea. 
 
 I am weighed and am found wanting 
 
 In the truth of constancy, 
 
 And the Lord hath punished me !" 
 
 lone bends her lips to answer, 
 Words of humbleness to answer, 
 But the waters dash against them 
 And forever they are sealed. 
 
H4 lone, 
 
 Now her eyes with startled motion 
 
 Turn toward the beating ocean, 
 
 And her hands as in devotion 
 
 Are uplifted and revealed : 
 
 Now she lays her face to Bertrand's, 
 
 And her pallor is concealed 
 
 In his face all cold and steeled. 
 
 Night, and no sound ! save the beating 
 
 Of the sea its dirge repeating, 
 
 Save the voice of winds that wander 
 
 Down the lonely, barren strand: 
 
 Night, and no stars ! save one gleaming- 
 
 Like a frozen taper gleaming 
 
 O'er the waste that now lies dreaming 
 
 Dreams that none may understand: 
 
 Night! and these are joined forever 
 
 In the quietness of the sand, 
 
 Face 'gainst face, and hand in hand ! 
 
And Other Poems. 115 
 
 ROSABELL. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 O dales of Arcady, adieu ! 
 
 I've looked upon a fairer land: 
 
 An air comes to me from its strand, 
 
 An echo from its mountains blue. 
 
 May brings her roses here and dreams; 
 June comes upon the laden air, 
 Unclasps the jewels in her hair 
 
 And revels by the limpid streams. 
 
 The undulating meads of gold 
 Are newly washed in freshest dew, 
 And milder winds than ever blew 
 
 In Tempe warm the leafy mold. 
 
u6 lone, 
 
 Far off the deep-starred western sea, 
 Dyed by unnumbered sunsets bright, 
 Sends back a silver shaft of light 
 
 To Phoebe o'er the greenwood tree. 
 
 The gates of morning in the east 
 Are founded by a crystal lake, 
 Wherein a second morn doth break, 
 
 And light and beauty are increast. 
 
 The gates of evening sweep the sea 
 And open outward on the deep: 
 Here Day goes forth and balmy Sleep 
 
 Comes in with spirit company. 
 
 Sweet land, thy light is on my page; 
 Thy name is like a woman's name 
 Beloved! And he that dare defame 
 
 A wrestling spirit shall engage. 
 
 But 'tis of Rosabell I sing, 
 
 Chiefly of her, bright land and free ; 
 
 So breathe her name again to me, 
 And I will touch a sweeter string. 
 
 Of Eosabell and Theodore! 
 
 Ah, Muse, forget not his dear name, 
 And with the gold of summer frame 
 
 Phis constant pair forevermore. 
 
And Other Poems. 117 
 
 Ere yonder budded tulip sprung, 
 Where sucks the summer-nourished bee 
 A bark lay dancing on the sea, 
 
 The blue and sunny waves among. 
 
 The gentle winds that kist its side 
 And bore it to yon silver strand 
 Brought Summer also in the land, 
 
 And clothed the valleys as a bride. 
 
 At twilight from this white-winged bark 
 A little maiden stepped ashore 
 And danced along the pebbled floor 
 
 Of ocean, with eyes all dewy dark. 
 
 Then upward passed from those moist sands, 
 Her soft eyes closed in balmy rest, 
 The sweetest dreamer at the breast 
 
 Of Sleep, long waiting with stretched hands. 
 
 Where is the mother there is home. 
 
 And quietly through the night she slept, 
 Nor opened her dewy eyes, nor wept 
 
 That she had crossed the ocean's foam, 
 
 And breathed no more her native air; 
 Nor smelt the fragrant heliotrope 
 That used to climb her casement ope 
 
 And turn to her its petals fair. 
 
n8 lone, 
 
 Then morning came with rosy hand 
 And waked her to the Southern change, 
 And all was novel, all was strange : 
 
 Ah, so unlike her native land ! 
 
 But shade hy shade it passed away 
 The wonder and the novelty, 
 And dancing by the sunny sea 
 
 Or with her gentle mates at play, 
 
 Her distant home became a dream 
 And was forgotten with the year, 
 Forgotten with the childhood tear 
 
 That fell at parting in extreme 
 
 Of tender sorrow. So the rose, 
 Transplanted to a warmer bed, 
 Wooes but the zephyrs overhead, 
 
 Nor of its native bower knows. 
 
 Then gentle Spring led Summer on, 
 And each led Beauty by the hand, 
 And there was fragrance in the land 
 
 From thyme and lind and new-mown lawn. 
 
 Then golden Autumn flushed the west, 
 And faded like the setting sun; 
 But Winter scarcely had begun 
 
 Ere Spring returned with flowered vest. 
 
And Other Poems. 1 1 
 
 Twice seven times the golden spring 
 Rekindled then the firmament, 
 Twice seven Summers came and went, 
 
 Such as the skies of Cashmere bring: 
 
 And Rosabell walked through the vale 
 And gathered flowers for her hair, 
 And knew that she was very fair 
 
 With scarlet lips and forehead pale. 
 
 And gracious pride was in her heart; 
 A lovely thing seen through the sphere 
 And depth of woman's eyes, when clear 
 
 And large, and lustrous to impart. 
 
 And love she knew, and wreathed her hair, 
 By bright reflection in the brook, 
 With starry buds and bells that shook 
 
 Their dews upon her shoulders fair. 
 
 A lover's footprint in the vale, 
 
 A lover's footprint on the hill ! 
 Ah, was it not enough to fill 
 
 Her life with romance, and prevail 
 
 While Summer still was in the bloom 
 Against her heart, though fortified 
 By virgin modesty and pride, 
 
 And every foreign thought entomb ! 
 
120 lone, 
 
 From Love s bright casement she had ta'en 
 Her first sweet glimpses of the world, 
 While 'round her lustrous forehead curled 
 
 The passion flower, unprofane. 
 
 And dear those glimpses to her heart, 
 And trebly dear young Theodore, 
 Who made her then and evermore 
 
 The Eros of his life and art. 
 
 "Ah, it is kindness to be fair, 
 
 'Tis kindness passing dear," she said, 
 As o'er the running stream was spread 
 
 The beauty of her loosened hair. 
 
 Dark hair, dark-clustering and fine, 
 The hair of Miranda in her youth, 
 Half veiling eyes of liquid truth 
 
 Dark, deep, and sacred to the Nine. 
 
 "But to be loved is more than kind, 
 Is more than beauty !" Here she looks 
 To heaven, glancing from the brooks, 
 
 And heaven seems of equal mind. 
 
 "Why tarriest thou, my Theodore? 
 
 O what excuse mak'st thou thy heart? 
 
 And dost thou play the laggard's part 
 Who split the moments heretofore 
 
And Other Poems. 121 
 
 "And vowed each half eternity 
 
 When thou wast absent from my side? 
 The laggard's part! woe betide, 
 
 'Twere better that thou ill shouldst be ! 
 
 "0 sweet to nurse a lover ill, 
 
 But death to nurse a sickened faith! 
 
 Ah, better to look on thy wraith 
 Than on thy love, dead, cold, and still ! 
 
 "The roses dream at twilight' s gate 
 pluck them, Love, and come to me: 
 The sun broods o'er the sunset sea 
 
 share its beauty ere too late. 
 
 "Blue hills have kissed the bluer sky 
 And bid 'Good night!' The silver bow, 
 New bent in heaven, 'gins to glow, 
 
 And, Love, the hour of rest draws nigh. 
 
 "The mocking-bird is in the thorn 
 Ah, let him mock thy sweet 'Good night !' 
 Until the morning's golden light, 
 
 Then all day long mock thy 'Good morn !' " 
 
 She paused, and footsteps filled the space, 
 The footsteps of young Theodore. 
 "Sweet Love/' he smiled, "they should adore 
 
 Who cometh late with warmer grace." 
 
122 lone, 
 
 "Ay me!" she said, with eyes withdrawn 
 And fixed upon the senseless ground, 
 "Time lost in love is never found; 
 
 'Tis lost 'tis lost, 'tis mourned; quite gone! 
 
 "Hast thou another love than me 
 That thou didst linger in the vale? 
 Or was it hut the nightingale 
 
 That held thee spellbound o'er the leaP 
 
 "Xay, Love, no other love is mine, 
 Or if another love there be 
 I love that other love for thee, 
 
 Which is Olympus' sacred Nine. 
 
 "As winds a brook through garden ways 
 Reflecting heaven's image fair, 
 Thou knowest that this love I bear 
 
 r A linked light winds through my lays." 
 
 "Thou lovest numbers more than me," 
 Fond Rosabell made low reply: 
 " 'Twere better that thy Muse should die 
 
 Than steal thy love away from thee. 
 
 "Bright summer and the fragrant spring, 
 The morning and the evening star, 
 Thou lovest not for what they are 
 
 But that of them thou mayest sing. 
 
And Other Poems. 123 
 
 "And losing me thou wouldst not faint 
 That thou hadst lost a living love, 
 But something worshipped far above 
 
 A subject for thy Muse to paint !" 
 
 "Honor the verse which honors thee," 
 Thus Theodore with tender mien, 
 "And where thou glean'st delight glean 
 
 Forbearance for some frailty." 
 
 "Alas!" fond Kosabell replied, 
 
 As heaved her breast with stifled moan, 
 "How shall thy honeyed lines atone 
 
 For bitter absence from my side ? 
 
 "Than linked verse or stately prose 
 Thy voice more pleasant is and bland, 
 And one sweet primrose from thy hand 
 
 Were more than Fancy's scentless rose. 
 
 "Then cease to sound Parnassus' spring 
 And sound a loving woman's heart ! 
 The lover's not the poet's part 
 
 Be thine, ere all's past altering." 
 
 "0, Love/' thus Theodore in pain, 
 "What though I tarry from thy side 
 And make the wind or beating tide 
 
 An hollow ear to mark my strain? 
 
124 lone, 
 
 "Thou art my song and what inspires, 
 Thou art the music of my lines ; 
 And thou the Heart my verse enshrines, 
 
 The spring of all my best desires. 
 
 "Thou art the white light of my soul, 
 The pole-star of my spirit's bark ! 
 Ah, Eosabell, thou dost not mark, 
 
 Nor judge me fair, nor judge me whole !" 
 
 And so these gentle lovers met, 
 And, meeting, quarreled without cause, 
 And drew apart, and there was pause, 
 
 A pause, it seemed, without regret. 
 
 But lovers' quarrels beneath the moon 
 Are neither madness nor are sin ; 
 They're something, nothing; all akin 
 
 To idle dreams when no hearts swoon. 
 
 So music fled back to their lips, 
 
 And love and gladness shared their speech, 
 
 And either softly did beseech 
 Forgiveness for his love's eclipse. 
 
 And it was twilight ! O'er the sea 
 The march of golden stars began, 
 And gentle winds arose to fan 
 
 The new-blown musk by vale and lea. 
 
And Other Poems. 125 
 
 'Twas twilight, and bright Phoebe moved 
 Toward her throne with gentle pace : 
 The deep looked in her lustrous face 
 
 And kindled like a thing that loved ! 
 
 'Twas twilight, and the distance seemed 
 
 To empty into visions wide 
 
 Of mystic mountains swilled by the tide, 
 Such as in childhood we have dreamed. 
 
 0, Nature, from my halting hand 
 
 Take thou the pencil, for I feel 
 
 My inability to reveal 
 The beauty of this twilight land. 
 
 Take thou the pencil and paint on! 
 
 But chiefly paint this loving pair, 
 
 In colors that thou only dare 
 To mix and mingle, and anon 
 
 Thy poet shall resume his part, 
 And follow thee as one who knew, 
 And, knowing, wrought e'en to the dew 
 
 Dim hidden in the rose's heart. 
 
 Paint thou. the parting low and sweet 
 
 Of Eosabell and Theodore ; 
 
 Paint thou bright Phoebe bending o'er, 
 And waters shining at their feet. 
 
126 lone, 
 
 Great Artist, paint thy tender face 
 
 Soft listening to their sweet "Good night !" 
 And mingle with thy warmth the light 
 
 Both thine to radiate and trace. 
 
 Paint thou these lovers gone to rest, 
 And close the first part of my dream ; 
 One touch by thee will half redeem 
 
 The verse, and give it interest. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Wake not the dreaming Hours, Morn, 
 Upon their heads is Sorrow's crown, 
 While wreathed about their foreheads' frown 
 
 The wormwood twines the nettle thorn ! 
 
 Withhold thy flame, ye golden sun; 
 
 Thou light' st but Sorrow to her thorns, 
 For Hope's sweet wreath no more adorns 
 
 Fair Rosabell, the lovely One! 
 
 At midnight, by the silver sea, 
 Where poets love to walk and dream, 
 Young Theodore, in love's extreme, 
 
 Addressed bright Phoebe, ardently. 
 
And Other Poems. 127 
 
 Bright Phoebe, Queen of love and night, 
 That was with Beauty from the first ! 
 And all his spirit was athirst 
 
 And hungered, e'en in love's despite. 
 
 Hungered for that which many name 
 But only Spirits comprehend, 
 So far its fineness doth transcend 
 
 Man, to his sorrow and his shame. 
 
 They call it "Ideality," 
 
 Who call it wisely, "Ideal love !" 
 
 Which lifts the spirit far above 
 The passions of humanity. 
 
 At midnight, by the silver sea, 
 
 Young Theodore, communing, walked, 
 When from the deeper shadows stalked 
 
 Three strangers, speaking sullenly. 
 
 With straining thongs they bound his hands, 
 With bitter goad they prest him on, 
 And ere the breaking of the dawn 
 
 Bore him away for foreign lands. 
 
 In Cyprus he remained a slave! 
 They counted o'er their gains as gain 
 These evil Three, nor felt they pain, 
 
 And crost again the ocean's wave. 
 
128 lone, 
 
 Weep, weep, ye starry buds and bells, 
 Turn all your silver dew to tears; 
 And pour from out your hollow spheres 
 
 The light of dawn, ye asphodels ! 
 
 And, awake, ye mocking-bird, 
 Awake, awake, for Sorrow wakes ! 
 And mourn with Kosabell, who aches 
 
 With horrid fear, and dreads each word 
 
 As tidings of a stricken Love, 
 
 Since, living, he would not delay 
 Upon his promised bridal day, 
 
 But hasten swift as homing dove. 
 
 "He cometh not I" she softly said : 
 
 "He cometh not !" her maidens sighed. 
 "He is delayed ; let us not chide I" 
 
 "Absent, but coming : lift thy head I" 
 
 But Night and not the Bridegroom comes, 
 And Sorrow leads the Bride apart : 
 Alone, and with a broken heart, 
 
 Almost her gentle life succumbs. 
 
 But hope dies not within a night, 
 And when the golden morning broke 
 She smiled, as though her lover spoke, 
 
 And passed into the growing light. 
 
And Other Poems. 129 
 
 She looked upon the albatross, 
 The albatross looked on the sail 
 That bore young Theodore, all pale, 
 
 Down love's horizon and across. 
 
 'Mid hyacinth and geraniums 
 
 She walked, and wreathed her tresses dear : 
 "It would delight him were he here, 
 
 It will delight him when he comes," 
 
 She said, and kist the flowers hard 
 That fell about her shoulders fair : 
 And afterwards she spread her hair 
 
 Above the brook with sunlight barred. 
 
 Her image from the waters smiled, 
 
 And softly she began to sing 
 
 A roundelay of love and spring, 
 And thus the morning hours beguiled. 
 
 Then twilight came, and o'er her face 
 
 A shadow not of evening fell ; 
 
 A shadow morn would not dispel, 
 Nor noon-day soften, nor spring efface. 
 
 "0 God, how near is life to death !" 
 
 She moaned "For I must think him dead ; 
 The glory from his eyes quite fled, 
 
 And from his lips the loving breath. 
 
130 lone, 
 
 "A step in darkness and he sank 
 
 Into the river's risen tide ; 
 
 Xo hand to aid, no light to guide, 
 It bore him swiftly from the bank ! 
 
 "The seaweed clings about his breast 
 In cold embraces, while my arms 
 Are empty. Given to rude storms, 
 
 I may not mourn above his rest. 
 
 "Nor look again upon his face, 
 
 Nor touch his gentle brow though dead 
 Nor teach the cypress how to spread 
 
 Its shade above his resting place. 
 
 "I have nowhere to greet him dead 
 Love is denied me and love's grave ! 
 The Hand hath taken that once gave, 
 
 And taken all with life's shorn thread! 
 
 "0 God, I knew that I must bear 
 And I am willing to submit, 
 But ah, not this! I am unfit 
 
 And cannot live through such despair. 
 
 "Give me to blindness and disgrace 
 But let me touch his hand again ; 
 Bring me into the viper's den 
 
 But let me look upon his face. 
 
And Other Poems. 131 
 
 "Uncrown me of all human trust 
 But give him quick into my arms ; 
 Let Death awake his rude alarms 
 
 But give his spirit back or dust. 
 
 "Ah, any anything but this ; 
 All evil that is felt or feared 
 Be mine to bear, uneased, uncheered, 
 
 But give back the face I miss!" 
 
 She ceased, and loving friends drew near 
 Who sought to comfort and sustain, 
 But idle was their love and vain, 
 
 Nor wiped away one cadent tear. 
 
 Hope had no healing for her heart 
 And sweet religion had no balm, 
 Yet meek she was and strangely calm, 
 
 But sought to be alone, apart. 
 
 The second evening came and went 
 But without tidings of her Love, 
 Though twenty searched the hills above 
 
 And twenty to the vales were sent. 
 
 Day followed day, but brought no hope, 
 Night followed 'night without surcease, 
 And Kosabell pra}^ed for release, 
 
 And darkling for Death's hand did grope. 
 
132 lone, 
 
 She peered into the crystal stream 
 To mark her beauty, ah, no more ! 
 She searched for her dead Theodore, 
 
 With upturned face as in a dream! 
 
 She hastened to the summer vale 
 To gather flowers, ah, no more! 
 She searched for her dead Theodore, 
 
 With glazed eye and forehead pale ! 
 
 One handful of his dust in vain 
 
 She craved, to plant the rose above, 
 Who late asked Heaven for her Love, 
 
 Warm, living, without hurt or stain. 
 
 But growing humble with the year 
 She asked but knowledge of his grave 
 Whether 'twas on the land or wave, 
 
 Though she might never draw more near. 
 
 Neither her Love nor yet his dust 
 She asked of Heaven, but to know 
 Where her Love's body was laid low, 
 
 And Heaven's silence seemed unjust. 
 
 Then from the heavens passed a light 
 As from a casement some loved face, 
 And Winter shut the skies a space 
 
 Shut as a casement for a night. 
 
And Other Poems. 133 
 
 Then Spring once more with glowing hand 
 Baptized the rose in dew and flame, 
 And to that sweet baptism came 
 
 Hope, with the almond in her hand. 
 
 She took the aloe from Love's brow 
 And set a crown of roses there, 
 And in Love's gentle hand, all bare, 
 
 She placed her budded almond bough. 
 
 "It cannot be that he is dead/' 
 Thus Rosabell amid the field, 
 "Or else my searching had revealed 
 
 Where death prepared my true Love's bed. 
 
 "It cannot be that he is dead, 
 Or else his spirit would return 
 From where the newly dead sojourn, 
 
 And hover o'er the bridal bed. 
 
 "Immortal Spring her roses gave 
 For him to paint, not for his bier, 
 And Summer stoopt but to endear 
 
 His sunny verse, not deck his grave. 
 
 "He was an instrument apart, 
 
 For Beauty's touch and Beauty's hand 
 Kept sacred; and death could not command 
 
 Nor crack the lute strings of his heart. 
 
134 Ion > 
 
 "'The stately lilies spring and glow 
 Like tapers on the twilight lea, 
 Tall tapers lighting Faith to me, 
 
 Within her hand the hawthorn bough. 
 
 "Hope, like the winter bird, returns, 
 That buildeth at. my open door, 
 And all the day doth sing and soar, 
 
 Nor ceases till bright sunset burns. 
 
 "Xo, no, I cannot think him dead 
 
 Though weakness trusts 'tis madness doubts; 
 And ere in sweet and purple routs 
 
 The violets come, his gentle tread 
 
 "Shall press the lawn beside my door, 
 His eager hand be on the latch, 
 And from that moment I shall snatch 
 
 A light to guide me evermore !" 
 
 "He comes !" she whispers to the rose ; 
 The rose looks upward in her face 
 Thanking bright June with tender grace 
 
 Is bending o'er, and warmer glows. 
 
 "He comes, ye stream ; comes as of old : 
 Prepare to see his face again: 
 Leave thou the lowlands and the fen 
 
 And make thy bed on sands of gold! 
 
And Other Poems. 135 
 
 "He comes, ye stars of summer night ! 
 Kiss ye dark places with the new& 
 And make them glow. He comes, ye dews; 
 
 His path is o'er ye as the light ! 
 
 "Ye hills that see my Love afar, 
 
 Whisper his coming to the vale 
 
 In twilight waits the nightingale 
 And trembles like a quiring star 
 
 "To hymn his return. And thou sweet lark 
 That drink'st the dew at heaven's gate, 
 Unto two worlds with song elate 
 
 Publish the coming of his bark !" 
 
 Informed by hope as some sweet wine 
 
 Fair Rosabell gave way to joy 
 
 That knew nor surcease nor alloy, 
 But deeper grew and more divine. 
 
 The current of her thoughts had turned 
 
 And into brighter channels passed ; 
 
 No more her spirit was o'ercast 
 But glowed with every light that burned, 
 
 So turns aside a stream that flows 
 Through channels of a darkened fen, 
 And glides o'er fields Elysian 
 
 With light upon it from the rose. 
 
136 lone, 
 
 Once more she wreathed her loosened hair 
 With flowers of the middle Spring, 
 And taught sweet Echo how to sing 
 
 And wake soft laughter in the air. 
 
 Once more above the running stream 
 Her beauty flushed with gentle pride? 
 She hung enamoured, as if she spied 
 
 Reflected there her dearest dream. 
 
 But, ah, no visionary light 
 
 Transfixed her. but her own face, 
 
 Her own sweet eyes and forehead's grace, 
 
 And sloping shoulders smooth and white. 
 
 And why she gazed thus earnestly 
 Was partly that her face was dear 
 To Theodore, and partly fear 
 
 That grief had wrought deformity. 
 
 And partly that the human face, 
 Divine, is dearer to the heart 
 That hath known sorrow ; and in part 
 
 'Twas naught but play and maiden grace. 
 
 Thus Spring returned and with her Hope, 
 And Summer met them in the dell, 
 And bid the gentle Spring farewell 
 
 But parted not with gracious Hope. 
 
And Other Poems. 137 
 
 And flowers sprung at Summer's feet 
 And little children played in the beam, 
 And all the land became a dream 
 
 Of color and of childhood sweet. 
 
 So leave the gentle "Rosabell, 
 
 With childhood laughter in her ear, 
 Bright waters at her feet and clear, 
 
 And in her hand the asphodel. 
 
 A hark is dnnoing on the sea 
 
 And leads through golden floods her Love, 
 
 Her Theodore; while far above 
 T!r.> lark pours forth its melody! 
 
138 lone. 
 
 FLORENCE, 
 
 PAET I. 
 
 I. 
 
 By the Tiber dwelt a maiden, nobly born 
 
 Ah, fair she was as a rose by Fancy's spring ! 
 
 Dwelt in a garden where the golden morn 
 Winged music from the palace of the king; 
 
 Sweet prelude to the huntsman's silver horn 
 Shaking the drowsy dew from falcon's wing; 
 
 Sweet prelude that the Prince aloft did wake, 
 
 Touching the morning harp for Music's blessed 
 sake. 
 
 II. 
 
 She wore the purple in her lovely eyes, 
 
 Twin stars of vesper 'neath her morning hair, 
 
 And ruled with song, with laughter, and with 
 
 sighs 
 A little kingdom wonderfully fair, 
 
And Other Poems. 139 
 
 A pleasant garden seat 'neath perfect skies, 
 High walled about and open to the air, 
 Where sweet birds sang and fragrant flowers grew, 
 And love came early, and sorrows not at all, or few. 
 
 III. 
 
 Florence, they named her in this garden seat, 
 And sweeter to the mother faint and wan 
 
 Than "roses" spelt in roses at her feet 
 
 That name became; but ere the summer's dawn 
 
 The mother faded with the drowsy heat 
 
 Of Phoebus brooding o'er the sloping lawn, 
 
 And left sweet Florence to the loving care 
 
 Of hands that smoothed back that dying mother's 
 hair. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Twilight in heaven, morn within her hair, 
 Morning in heaven, dusk within her eye, 
 
 Sweet Florence grew ah, dear above compare ! 
 And moved amid the flowers of splendid dye 
 
 Bright as a Naiad of the fountain there, 
 
 Or looked at morning from her lattice high 
 
 Like a high-born maiden looking o'er the sea 
 
 From casement set in the gold of olden poesy. 
 
140 lone, 
 
 V. 
 
 Within the garden, like a spirit bright, 
 A fountain clomb to heaven with its dew, 
 
 Ever to fall to earth inweaved with light 
 And star the flowers that around it grew. 
 
 In twilight's front the Bird of love and night 
 Thrilled the dim foliage of the avenue; 
 
 And here the morning lark rose up elate, 
 
 And found the earthly love it sung at heaven's 
 gate ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Twilight in heaven, morn within her heart, 
 Sweet Florence prest the dewy leaves among: 
 
 A tender kinship was her utmost art 
 
 Who trained the flowers as on threads of song 
 
 To climb above the fountain and impart 
 
 A fragrance such as hanging walls prolong, 
 
 A fragrance and a light that led the Prince 
 
 Unto that garden the dews of song have watered 
 since. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Back from the chase at break of golden ere 
 The Prince with revelry and consort came: 
 
 A favorite falcon clung unto his sleeve, 
 Veiling its drowsy eye 'gainst sunset flame; 
 
And Other Poems. 141 
 
 Before him went two heralds to receive 
 
 With gates wide thrown and sovereign acclaim 
 The Nobles coming from the morning chase, 
 And Heir to Italy's throne and Heaven's tender 
 grace. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Past tower, moat, and grange the Prince rode on: 
 Afar the bright imperial palace shone 
 
 Like adamant hewn from the golden sun 
 Throned on a starry eminence, alone ! 
 
 But soon, upon the upland's verdant lawn, 
 
 The Prince and consort came unto the stone, 
 
 The sculptured stone and column of the gate 
 
 That led unto the gardens where sweet Florence 
 sate. 
 
 IX. 
 
 She sate within the dusk of hanging walls 
 Singing a ditty of delicious glee: 
 
 Melodious as the blind Philomel calls 
 Unto the Rose he nevermore shall see, 
 
 It came o'er the Prince's ear, whose marble halls 
 Flushed never with such dulcet harmony; 
 
 And hushed was the revel of his train, 
 
 So sweet the roundelay, so tender the refrain. 
 
142 I6ne, 
 
 X. 
 
 The lark hath not one feather tipped with gold, 
 
 Philomel, midst the dew,, no silver wing; 
 The lyre-bird doth the April bow enfold, 
 
 Yet in despite its beauty cannot sing 
 But the painting of a song which we behold 
 
 Limned on the bloomy spray of azure Spring : 
 Only in maidens doth the kinship dwell 
 
 Both wondrous beauty and the voice of Philo- 
 mel. 
 
 XL 
 
 So thought the list'ning Prince, and deemed her 
 
 fair 
 
 Who sate in twilight and sung up the dusk, 
 The dewy dusk, when on the blinded air, 
 As fleeting as the trodden violet's musk, 
 All splendid dyes dissolve which flowers wear, 
 
 Leaving bright buds as dull as winter's husk; 
 But woman's beauty, glowing through the night, 
 Fades not at shut of eve when fade the flowers of 
 light. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Within the dusk of hanging walls she sate 
 
 Singing a ditty of delicious glee, 
 But soon the silver moon at twilight's gate 
 
 Shot lustre through its cloudy canopy 
 
And Other Poems. 143 
 
 As though a star should suddenly dilate 
 Into bright Phoebe o'er a silver sea, 
 Sweet Florence glowed upon the Prince's soul, 
 And Love, like Aidefm's rose, sprung into perfect 
 whole ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The silver moon looked in her happy eyes 
 Back to her lustrous hair a glory came 
 
 Like morn of Italy when perfect skies 
 
 With amber burn, and rose and golden flame; 
 
 Imbued with rose-bloom and hyacinthine dyes 
 The virgin snows returned to her fair frame: 
 
 The silver moon looked in her happy eyes 
 
 Kindling her face and breast with light from Par- 
 adise. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 "She is a spirit, and the night is charmed; 
 
 Look not upon this Dian, or ye die I" 
 "She is a spirit, yet be not alarmed 
 
 Whom Dian slays hath life by her fair eye!' 7 
 But 'gainst their argument the Prince was armed 
 
 And answered on the burthen of a sigh: 
 "Ah, she is human with her length of hair! 
 Ah, she is human with her virgin bosom bare !" 
 
144 lone, 
 
 XV. 
 
 "She is a spirit and a woman too- 
 
 A nymph to sing, a maiden fond to glow ! 
 
 But haste, sweet Prince, and bid the night adieu 
 From off thy starry battlements, for lo ! 
 
 The sun is brighter on Atlanta blue 
 
 Than on yon Mediterranean's lulled flow: 
 
 And look, my gentle Prince, the silver moon 
 
 Hath veiled its glimpses sweet in dim and cloudy 
 swoon." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 "Thou counsel'st well, my Lord; lead on to rest: 
 'Twere rude to linger here with laggard feet." 
 
 And, turning from the gate, the Prince addrest 
 Himself and consort to the castle seat. 
 
 Sweet Florence lingered like a parting guest 
 In the dim twilight of her hushed retreat, 
 
 Then smiled a virgin at her garden gate 
 
 But blushed a Princess in the secret glass of Fate ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 "Love, like the rose, may blossom by the throne 
 And princes wear it on coronation day: 
 
 Love, like the rose, by cottage gates hatli blonrn. 
 And like the fragrant rose on bloomy spray 
 
And Other Poems. 145 
 
 Hath been transplanted to the sculptured stone 
 Where kings have sate and ruled with gentle 
 
 sway: 
 
 To love, alike as to the summer rose, 
 Enough is morning dew and light that comes and 
 goes. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 "Upon the forelock of the warrior's steed 
 Love rides invisible and guides the rein: 
 
 Within the hollow of the minstrel's reed 
 Love shapes to ecstaey the tender strain: 
 
 Upon Love's honey dew the poets feed, 
 Till life is but an echo and refrain 
 
 Of silver rnusic to the west-wind sung, 
 
 Of song and verse composed the pleasant hills 
 among." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Thus eloquently, touched by lyric fire, 
 
 The Prince soliloquized in pleasant grove; 
 
 And in the stilly night he waked the lyre* 
 
 Of passion, while bright Venus shone above, 
 
 Xor left one string un jar red. The golden wire 
 Shook with the full diapason of a new love ! 
 
 Tie seemed compact of music and sweet fire. 
 
 With lids that did not weary, hands that did not 
 tire. 
 
146 lone, 
 
 XX. 
 
 "Come o'er Rome's seven pleasant hills, Miorn, 
 And look upon the waters lulled in sleep ! 
 
 Come through the silver moon's inverted horn 
 And hang thy herald in the azure deep ! 
 
 Come with thy forehead bright and locks unshorn 
 And light the temples dim upon the steep ! 
 
 Come thou, golden Morn, and plant the throne 
 
 Where Day shall sit in beauty when sable Night 
 hath flown ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 "Come up the pleasant vales, rosy Morn, 
 Thy sure foot planted in the silver dew, 
 
 And from the eglantine and white hawthorn 
 Loose thy caged larks to sing in heaven blue ! 
 
 Come to the stately lilies that adorn 
 
 The hills of twilight, bidding Night adieu ! 
 
 Come thou, rosy Morn, and ope the gate 
 
 That leadeth to those gardens where my Soul doth 
 wait! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 "Come from the champak to the rose, Morn, 
 From India's plain to vales of Italy! 
 
 Come from the silver palm to white hawthorn. 
 From banks of poppy to banks ol narcissi ! 
 
And Other Poems. 147 
 
 Come with thy dewy fingers and adorn 
 
 The gardens of Tiber, and thou shalt be to me 
 A brighter morn than ever yet hath sprung 
 In Tempe, or the purple peaks of song among 1 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 "Lo, like a cherub standing in the sun 
 
 In the full splendor of his wings unshorn, 
 Love shines upon me to Love's rituals won! 
 And welcome, ah thrice welcome, thou bright 
 
 Morn 
 
 Whose light shall lead me, ere thy sands are run, 
 Down all the pleasant fields to that sweet 
 
 bourn 
 
 Where sate the maiden, bright above compare, 
 With Hero's length of tress and Hero's bosom 
 bare!" 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Thus passioned from his starry battlement 
 The enamoured Prince, and eyes of lovers still 
 
 Best herald the dawn .... With morn sweet 
 
 Florence bent 
 Her happy footsteps through that gate at will 
 
148 lone, 
 
 Which downward led to gardens sweet with scent 
 
 And splendid with bright buds as Fancy's hill, 
 
 Where Florence spent, shut from all envious view, 
 
 A youth untroubled, sweet, and born each morn 
 
 anew. 
 
 XXY. 
 
 A little wliile she lingered by the fount 
 That tempted thrice the new-fledged laik to 
 
 soar, 
 As nigher and still higher it did mount, 
 
 And wetted flowers bowed them to acjore: 
 A little while she lingered by the fount 
 That tempted thrice the new-fledged lark to 
 
 soar, 
 
 Then 'gan she to tremble like a rose awaked 
 By Zephyr, and her heart with sudden passion 
 ached. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Some say the lily trembles 'gainst that hour 
 A lover's hand shall ravish it away: 
 
 Some say the roses feel the coming shower 
 Though heaven still is blue and no clouds stray 
 
And Other Poems. 149 
 
 Perhaps 'twas so with .Florence as with the flower 
 
 Of purity, or rose? on leafy spray, 
 Perhaps like these she felt a sweet approach 
 And shook like asphodels when lover's hands en- 
 croach. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Perhaps a Presence went before the youth 
 That Love was leading to the garden gate 
 
 And shook the Rose of Tiber. Ay, in sooth, 
 'Tis sweet to fable that love did agitate 
 
 Her maiden bosom, and not passing ruth: 
 Nor shall I question this, nor make debate 1 ,- 
 
 No poet questions beauty but to find 
 
 A greater beauty, and no greater is behind. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Then, as a gust of summer faints and dies 
 And troubled waters take their native calm, 
 
 The passion passed from Florence, and her eyes 
 As dark as twilight 'neath a budded palm 
 
 Resumed their converse with the morning skies, 
 That newly to her heart brought peace and balm, 
 
 Her lips grew tender, and she 'gan to sing 
 
 A ditty light as air, wed to one silver string. 
 
150 lone, 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Stol'n to the sculptured gate the garden's seal 
 'Neath shade of purple flowers, such as twine 
 
 The pulses of the wandering winds and feel 
 The heart of Summer through them heat divine, 
 
 The Prince, unseen, a little while did kneel 
 Like palmer at the foot of holy shrine, 
 
 Then, rising up, looked full on Florence there 
 
 And craved a cup of water as her utmost care. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 By noble and ingenuous youth the dew 
 
 Of courtesy is never strained, and with a cup 
 
 Of water asked youth gives its friendship too, 
 So deemed the ardent Nobleman, and up 
 
 The garden path came Florence and withdrew 
 The single severing holt that he might sup 
 
 The waters of the fountain, as he sued: 
 
 A youth right noble, sooth, and with all grace 
 imbued ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 He entered in! No bright imperial crown 
 
 Shot golden lustre through the crown of youth 
 
 Encircling his fair forehead. One whom Renown 
 Had touched but lightly yet had touched for 
 truth, 
 
And Other Poems. 151 
 
 For truth and chivalry, he seemed; and down 
 The garden path, right courteously in sooth, 
 Fair Florence led him onward, undismayed, 
 To where the fountain rose and cast a pleasant 
 shade. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Deep drank the Prince. "Does Tiber taste so 
 sweet ? 
 
 Is Tiber, then, so delicate at's head? 
 Ah, blessed Tiber !" " 7 Tis thy journey's heat 
 Hath made it delicate," fair Florence said. 
 "A charmed fountain and a charmed retreat!" 
 
 The Prince responded then : "And may I tread 
 This pleasant path, and rest a wanderer's eye 
 Upon the rose that springs a home and haven by ?" 
 
 xxxm. 
 
 Ah, wherefore did fair Florence turn away? 
 
 Ah, wherefore did she tremble like a star? 
 Was it with anger that he chose to stay 
 
 And with rude presence on her spirit jar? 
 Ah, no, not anger, for from bloomy spray 
 
 She plucked the fragrant rose he praised afar, 
 
152 Ions, 
 
 And begged him keep it till the Tiber drew 
 Him unto greener fields where sweeter flowers 
 blew. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 "Sweet to the wanderer is the rose," he said, 
 "That springs with light upon it from the home ; 
 
 Upon its leaves a brighter dew is shed 
 
 Than falleth ever on fields wherethrough we 
 roam! 
 
 Yet not with wandering spirit am I led 
 
 To journey o'er the fields and spumy foam, 
 
 I seek a blessed shrine but newly found 
 
 Where once a Seraph stood, and now 'tis holy 
 ground." 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 "Farewell!" sweet Florence said, and then it 
 
 seemed 
 She had waked a chord she did not mean to 
 
 wake, 
 r An impassioned chord of which she had not 
 
 dreamed 
 
 That shook her heart and made her being ache. 
 "Adieu !" the Prince replied : "I had not deemed 
 The morn so high in heaven ; yet ere I take 
 
And Other Poems. 153 
 
 My leave of Tiber thrice this way I ride 
 Though not to rest again by this cool fountain's 
 side/' 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 A question 'twas within whose answer sweet 
 A wiser maid had crowded all her heart, 
 
 But Florence guessed not that he did entreat 
 A triple audience ere they should part; 
 
 Yet ignorance in her worked no defeat 
 
 Nor made the Prince with trepidation start, 
 
 For courteously she welcomed him to rest 
 
 Though from the east he came or from the dewy 
 west. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Ah, brief their meeting, swift their parting fond, 
 
 As transitory as a morning dream, 
 Yet Love found time to knit the subtle bond 
 
 That bound their spirits to a single scheme! 
 Home from the fountain starred like diamond 
 
 Keturned the gentle Prince in sweet extreme, 
 Communing with his spirit as he went, 
 For love, though no ear listens, waketh eloquent. 
 
154 lone, 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 While for sweet Florence by the gate apart 
 A dawning in her tender eye and glad 
 
 She first knew love, and to her happy heart 
 The morning rose another meaning had ! 
 
 Immortal love she knew and love's best art, 
 Which virtue is in sweet simplicity clad : 
 
 Then 'gan she to sing and through her singing 
 ached 
 
 A chord untouched before, a string but newly 
 waked. 
 
 PAKT II. 
 I. 
 
 Now on their love, alike as on the rose, 
 Another morn hath risen. At the gate 
 
 The Prince again did crave the sweet repose 
 And waters o' the garden, cool and delicate ; 
 
 Again fair Florence by the fount uprose 
 And loost the bolt and welcomed him elate : 
 
 Again they bade adieu and turned away 
 
 He to his harp addrest, she to the rose of May. 
 
And Other Poems. 155 
 
 II. 
 
 Then twice the golden sun rose on their love 
 To set upon their parting dim and sweet, 
 Ah, twice the fading sun brought home the dove, 
 And either stayed though neither did entreat; 
 Then twice the tender gloaming from above 
 Came down and trembled 'round their happy 
 
 feet 
 
 A book by sunlight and a harp by dusk 
 Held them together till the glow-worm breathed 
 the musk. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then came the seventh day, the perfect day, 
 Such as in June the poets search and sing; 
 
 It came unto the rose on bloomy spray, 
 Then to the risen lark with dewy wing ; 
 
 Then to fair Florence came with golden ray 
 And lingered in her hair. It was in Spring, 
 
 One echo slept upon an hundred hills 
 
 The song of Philomel among the morning rills. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It came, and found the lovers with a book, 
 A book of verse beneath the lilac tree, 
 
 Rare verse of May, of dale and sunny nook, 
 Of hedges sweet with lind, where sucked the 
 bee; 
 
156 lone, 
 
 Of thyme -linked glimpses of the running 
 
 Of purple bloom and dews of Arcady : 
 And love was there, and grew from bud to leaf, 
 From bud to leaf it grew into the perfect sheaf. 
 
 V. 
 
 "0, Florence, Florence, by his cunning art 
 
 This bard hath stolen so rarely doth he sing 
 
 Light from thine eyes and sweetness from thy 
 
 heart 
 And builded up a dream of love and Spring ! 
 
 Ah, Florence, Florence, these shall never part, 
 Linked by the golden rhyme the bard dotH 
 bring, 
 
 And thou and I forevermore shall be 
 
 Like these two lovers joined for aye in poetry !" 
 
 VI. 
 
 "This be my story then," the answer came: 
 "Into thy keeping here I give my heart: 
 
 Thou taught me love ere others taught its name 
 Farewell, sweet garden, thou and I must part!" 
 
 "0 may confusion seize me and hot shame 
 If ever, Love, my love should wing this dart ! 
 
 Look up, bright Florence, here thou still may'st 
 dwell, 
 
 These hanging walls thou lovest shall echo not 
 'farewell !' 
 
And Other Poems. 157 
 
 VII. 
 
 "My state is noble, noble is my race, 
 
 And here beside these pleasant walls, sweet one, 
 
 I'll build thee a palace home." But in the face 
 Of Florence was a light not in the sun, 
 
 But something that is born of human grace, 
 Of finer substance than the day is spun : 
 
 "Ah, no," she softly said, "that must not be; 
 
 This garden were a love to steal my love from 
 thee." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "Nay, gentle heart, the bird of sweetest lay, 
 
 The leafiest tree, tho brightest flower that blows 
 Within these gardens, decked by darling May, 
 
 Shall be transplanted where thy sweet self goes, 
 And thou shalt parted be ah scarce a day; 
 Then come, dear heart, and bid the fragrant 
 
 rose 
 
 Beside thy father's door a long farewell, 
 I have a distant home where thou and I shall 
 dwell." 
 
 IX. 
 
 "0 may I dream the early dream to-night 
 Which knows no sad ( i arewell !' Abide till morn, 
 
 Then, questionless, I'll act this heavy rite 
 And bid farewell to flower and to thorn. 
 
158 lone, 
 
 But, lo ! when morning comes with golden light 
 And far away I hear the huntsman's horn, 
 Ah, tell me, Love, where wilt thou lead my feet 
 Hast thou a home for me, a pleasant garden seat?" 
 
 X. 
 
 "0, Love, I ne'er had stol'n away thy heart 
 
 Without some haven for thy weary feet ! 
 Believe my passion is the better part 
 
 Integrity and honor; and I entreat 
 Thee not to question me in any sort 
 
 To make the rare more rare, the sweet more 
 
 sweet, 
 
 I've 4 veiled from thee thy pardon set me right 
 From whence I come at morn and whither go at 
 night. 
 
 XI. 
 
 "Yet know, and let it be thy surety, 
 Within my father's halls there is no stone 
 
 But once hath echoed without disloyalty 
 
 Thy father's name; and now it shall be shown 
 
 How dear he was, whose name shall ever be 
 A silver echo given by the throne 
 
 Back to the lips of Honor without blame, 
 
 Of Rome, for Rome, and unto Rome, an immortal 
 name! 
 
And Other Poems. 159 
 
 XII. 
 
 "0, then, leave not my grace at question, Dear, 
 But think that where thy father's name hath 
 been 
 
 And lingers as great music on the ear 
 His daughter happily may enter in, 
 
 Without the shadow of a doubt or fear, 
 And dwell in honor as befits his kin. 
 
 trust me, I've a home within the North, 
 
 The rose is at its gate and myrrh upon its hearth." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 "There is a tomb beside the sounding sea 
 
 They taught me to call 'f ather/ " Florence said : 
 
 "Alas, he never lived to christen me! 
 The painting of a mother by my bed. 
 
 They taught me to call 'mother/ and to be 
 A daughter to, the gentlest of the dead. 
 
 Yet I am happy, Love, for thou art near, 
 
 And when thou goest hence thou leadest me from 
 here." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And then the twilight came with gentle hand 
 And parted these two lovers side by side: 
 
 Home went the Prince with tender heart and 
 
 bland, 
 And Florence to her rest with maiden pride. 
 
160 lone, 
 
 After, the moon came down upon that land 
 
 Of gardens, wherethrough crystal waters glide, 
 And Philomel saw that the night was fine 
 And sung across the dews a hymn of love divine. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Then paled the stars hefore the bridal morn 
 That rose from seas ^Egean without stain, 
 
 And from lush covert of untrodden thorn 
 The lark uprose, and sweeter was his strain 
 
 Than that of fabled birds such as adorn 
 Apollo's tree, and poets love to feign. 
 
 But, ah, it was not day, not perfect day, 
 
 Until the Bride arose and stood mid dewy spray! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Mid dewy spray she stood at sweet repose, 
 Adorned by nature with so much of fair 
 
 That poetry shall only add a rose 
 
 And with a sapphire pin it in her hair. 
 
 Mid spray of hyacinth at sweet repose 
 
 Fair Florence stood, and charmed the list'ning 
 air 
 
 With those sweet bursts that rather seem to be 
 
 The language of a heart than scheme of harmony. 
 
And Other Poems. 161 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But soon her singing ceased, for at the gate 
 A stranger stood, and in the Prince's name 
 
 Craved gently that he need no longer wait 
 But enter in and speak wherefore he came. 
 
 He bore the countenance of royal state, 
 
 A throne's reflected light and golden flame; 
 
 And courteously he crost the garden's marge 
 
 And knelt at Florence's feet and spoke his honored 
 charge. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 "Fair lady, from thy sovereign Prince I come 
 The Throne in one mind with its royal Heir 
 
 To publish in this garden that thy sum 
 
 Of grace and beauty, and a name most rare, 
 
 Have moved the bravest Prince in Christendom 
 To choose thee Consort to his state and share 
 
 His present honors and prophetic reign, 
 
 The grandeur of his throne and grace that doth 
 sustain. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "Thou art a Princess, chosen from beyond 
 The royal line but not the royal grace: 
 
 And art thrice blest in cherishing this bond 
 Blessing ,thyself, the Prince, and populace ! 
 
162 lone, 
 
 But, lo ! with pageantries that correspond 
 
 With his great intent, to this pleasant place 
 The Prince with all his train is now addrest: 
 Throw wide thy heart and entertain the royal 
 guest !" 
 
 XX. 
 
 Was it with woman's longings for royalty 
 
 That Florence^ brow grew pale and cold as 
 
 death? 
 Was it the thin air of high sovereignty 
 
 Oppressed her heart and stole away her breath? 
 
 Ah, no, not these though these it well might be 
 
 Paled her fair brow and stole away her breath : 
 
 'Twas that she never dreamed the Prince her 
 
 Love, 
 
 And now had come divorce she could not rise 
 above. 
 
 XXL 
 
 Or so it seemed; for should the Prince decree 
 Her as the Consort of his royal state 
 
 Her marriage with another could not be, 
 
 And knowing this she thought she knew her 
 fate. 
 
 "Alas!" she said, "Fm chosen for misery; 
 Waiting for gentle love I do but wait 
 
 For rude divorce : and in Love's name they post 
 
 Who steal away my Love and widow me almost ! 
 
And Other Poems. 163 
 
 XXII. 
 
 "0, thou sweet garden, unto thee I turn, 
 Then comfort me in sorrow, or I faint. 
 
 Ah, thou wast ever gentle, nor wilt spurn 
 Me in the heaviness of rude complaint: 
 
 My hopes are ashes, never more to burn 
 With colors warmer than the poets paint ! 
 
 0, teach me, is it thus in human fate 
 
 That lovers' hearts must break in Spring when 
 sweet birds mate? 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 "A Princess and prophetic Queen to be! 
 
 then shall grief and wrong be lifted high, 
 And, hooped by golden bands of royalty, 
 
 This heart must break while Grandeur stand- 
 
 eth by ! 
 0, Love, hear my complaint and haste to me, 
 
 And thou and I from Italy shall fly 
 In the sweet-bitter steps of frightened Love 
 To where our hearts are whole though skies be 
 rent above!" 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Then Florence wept ! But in this lyric song 
 There are no tears but that are wiped away : 
 
 All swift affliction and all seeming wrong 
 Which she shall ever know is but a way 
 
164 lone, 
 
 To make the sweet more sweet, as shadows throng 
 
 The forehead of the morning and the day 
 Seems brighter and more welcome after shade, 
 More golden on the hill, more tender in the glade. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Then on her ear sweet music rose and fell 
 And down she knelt as for a sacrifice ; 
 
 But nature in the gentlest dare rebel 
 
 'Gainst power that would blind Love's tender 
 eyes 
 
 And him into the thongs of bondage sell, 
 
 Barred from the golden warmth of freedom's 
 skies : 
 
 So Florence rose, unconquered it would seem, 
 
 Save but her vesper eyes down bent as in a dream. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Meanwhile the eager Prince had stayed his train 
 Hard by the garden walls, and through the 
 gate 
 
 Alone he came. Fair Florence with sharp pain 
 Felt that approach which needs must agitate 
 
 Her tender bosom,, and a moment drain 
 Heaven of balm and youth of joy innate. 
 
 That golden light that shines from Providence 
 
 Has passed into eclipse and all is now suspense ! 
 
And Other Poems. 165 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 "Fair lady," thus the Prince, "a courtier 
 
 Hath been before and herald' my approach: 
 
 His chosen words no doubt did minister 
 
 To honor more than love, yet my reproach 
 
 Shall nothing injure, for what reverend sir, 
 In Love's uneasy livery set abroach, 
 
 Can put to fitting words a young man's heart, 
 
 Paint what he feels not, what he doth not dream, 
 impart ? 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 "I am thy Prince, and thou shalt be my bride : 
 'Tis so decreed and that decree shall stand. 
 
 Thy spirit hath been ever by my side 
 
 And now, indeed, I take thy corporal hand. 
 
 This kiss be at my judgment to betide 
 Me weal or woe as to its faith I stand- 
 
 Thy royal husband and thy loyal love, 
 
 As constant to thine eyes as fate to stars above !" 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Then down fair Florence knelt, and at his feet 
 Poured out in supplication her sad heart. 
 
 The Prince, confounded, heard his Love entreat, 
 And saw the actor, yet guessed not the part, 
 
i66 lone, 
 
 But soon her pleading ceased, so bitter-sweet, 
 So far from forethought yet so near to art, 
 And looking down upon her sunny hair 
 The Prince in sorrow found the source of her de- 
 spair. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 "0 good, my Lord, thou hast not seen behind 
 This high decree, or else thy lips had stayed 
 
 To bless it with approval. Thou dost bind 
 An innocent love in constancy arrayed 
 
 And set a sorrow free ! 0, most unkind 
 That, guiltless, I am guiltlessly betrayed. 
 
 sad, my Lord, the sun hath stooped to bless, 
 But, blessing, hath consumed me in my lowliness ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 "My love is to my fortune as a vine 
 
 That climbs no higher than that cottage eave 
 
 Whereneath 'tis planted, for this love of mine 
 Hath climbed no higher than my state gives 
 leave. 
 
 1 looked unto that kingly throne of thine 
 But to obey, my Lord, not to receive ; 
 
 Elsewhere I looked for love, elsewhere 'twas found, 
 Nor sprung so high as thine yet sprung from holy 
 ground. 
 
And Other Poems. 167 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 "I love a youth, a noble youth, my Lord, 
 
 Who, with the morning, greets me at the gate, 
 
 And here upon this green and pleasant sward 
 We linger till the twilight doth abate 
 
 Light on the pages of that gentle bard 
 Who found love sweet and found it adequate ; 
 
 And good, my Lord, thou canst not surely mean 
 
 To blast that love which flowered ere thy love was 
 green !" 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 "0, Florence, Florence, hast thou been deceived 
 So far beyond the period of intent? 
 
 Hath expectation failed, and art thou grieved 
 By circumstances in all kindness meant? 
 
 Dear heart, hast thou some threatening gloom per- 
 ceived 
 In heaven, where Love's golden bow was bent? 
 
 then kneel not amid the weeping dew, 
 
 1 am thy royal Prince and, sweet, thy lover too !" 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Drawn up by these strange accents to her feet, 
 She opened wide her veiled, affrayed eye: 
 
 The wonder of it all was near complete, 
 And ignorance was taking wings to fly 
 
lone, 
 
 Then sudden to her neck and forehead sweet 
 
 The warm blood mantled like a painful dye, 
 And darkling for the well of speech she groped, 
 Saying, "Art thou a prince indeed past what 
 I hoped! 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 "0, pardon me, my Lord, I knew it not, 
 And in my ignorance I was not bold ; 
 
 But now I see my love is overshot 
 
 Beyond my fortune and the tale is told !" 
 
 "Sweet Love/' the Prince replied, "there is no 
 
 blot 
 But love may better wear than lust for gold; 
 
 Thy veins are noble and thy heart is great, 
 
 And thou shalt be the Consort of my royal state. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 "Nay, lead thy doubts aside to perish, sweet, 
 And follow faith unto its perfect goal: 
 
 I saw this hour coming, nor defeat 
 
 Was in its train, but victory and whole. 
 
 entertain me, now our love's complete, 
 Both with a lifted eye and perfect soul: 
 
 Or say, bright Florence, wilt thou bid farewell 
 
 To these sweet flowers that blow where thou no 
 more shalt dwell?" 
 
And Other Poems. 169 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 "It is my wish/' she said, "my dearest bent; 
 
 And as a Princess I command at will !" 
 Then through the garden hand in hand they went, 
 
 While music rose and fell to soothe or thrill. 
 The flowers throng their steps with fragrant scent, 
 
 And as these lovers by the gate stand still 
 And bid the rose 1 farewell on leafy spray, 
 Bid them adieu and let the music die away. 
 
Ion, 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 He was the darling of blue Olympus, 
 
 The loveliest of them all; 
 And the way of his youth was Beauty's way 
 
 And never shall weary or pall. 
 
 He hung a silver moon in the heavens, 
 And that moon shall never fade; 
 
 But lovers shall look on its face forever, 
 As bright as when Madeleine prayed 
 
 He fled with Philomel into the wood 
 Where numberless shadows throng, 
 
 And into that wood half the world hath stolen 
 And listened to Philomel's song. 
 
 He bathed the ieasoni in myitic light 
 I can fee that light on th* hill! 
 
 An hundred years his eyes are closed 
 But the world looks through them still. 
 
And Other Poems. 171 
 
 Death shall lie down with the fairest of earth 
 
 But not with the fairest of his, 
 For the lovely daughters of his mind 
 
 Each one immortal is. 
 
 Greece is dearer for his dear "Urn/' 
 
 And Italy bluer for him; 
 And Arcady is nearer to us 
 
 Because of his lovely hymn. 
 
 The only nightingale thousands have heard 
 
 He loosed from his tranced heart, 
 In sweet embalmed darkness to sing 
 
 To sing, and never depart. 
 
 His music hath passed into Beauty's face, 
 
 Her smile is one with his hymn : 
 And if there's a thought in the heart of the rose 
 
 'Tis a thought of him. 
 
1 72 lone, 
 
 ISABEL 
 
 'Tis midnight, and a spirit in my feet, 
 
 Past many an upland lawn by Eros prest, 
 Eastward hath led me to where the violets sweet 
 
 Yet bear the impress of her twilight rest. 
 Here, where through flowers dim and fragrant- 
 eyed 
 The wandering airs of heaven breathe and die, 
 
 On pleasant sward, at shut of golden eve, 
 She knelt within my arms, a promised bride ; 
 The twilight lingering in her azure eye, 
 
 The night upon the curls that 'round her 
 forehead cleave. 
 
 II. 
 
 The wild bee sleeps in star light with the rose, 
 The dews are blown abroad, the silver moon, 
 
 Making night beautiful, conies down and glows 
 Upon the waters from her queenly noon. 
 
And Other Poems. 173 
 
 The mocking-bird hath caught a lyric note 
 That fell from heaven with the twilight dim, 
 And all the night hath stayed awake with 
 
 song- 
 Like some rapt poet wandering remote, 
 And shaping with his lips a golden hymn 
 From voices that around his haunted spirit 
 throng. 
 
 III. 
 
 Where broods bright Hesper o'er yon silver steep 
 
 And Summer lays her flowered mantle by, 
 My Lady sleeps a golden-visioned sleep, 
 
 Soft-fanned by airs that climb the azure sky. 
 Exhaling fragrance from each pearled brim 
 
 Beneath her casement sweet buds faintly gleam, 
 
 Such as in Arcady first sprung and blew; 
 The rose looks upward to her lattice dim 
 
 Upon the sloping lawn the tranced night 
 
 through, 
 
 And lends a perfume to the rose within her 
 dream. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Her youth lies open to the golden light 
 
 And moves through beauty like a mountain 
 brook ; 
 
 Her heart is tender as a summer night, 
 
 And twilight meets the morning in her look. 
 
174 lone, 
 
 The mocking-bird is singing up the dawn, 
 And sweeter birds shall sing the morning in, 
 But not the risen lark sings sweet as she 
 Climbing the steep blue o'er a poet's lawn, 
 Nor Philomel, to songs unsung akin, 
 Singing from dewy thyme in olden poesy. 
 
 V. 
 
 As shakes a new-blown rose in Summer's front 
 Before the winds that breathe from meadows 
 
 wide, 
 Here where the air is cool with swaying fount 
 
 My Isabel became my promised bride. 
 With something of that early proud repose 
 And something of that late and sweet unrest, 
 
 She knelt within my arms with meek embrace ; 
 Her blush down-mantling to the fragrant rose 
 {That shook its conscious dews upon her breast, 
 Her eyes, half veiled with love, upturned unto 
 my face. 
 
 VI. 
 
 for the wand of Morpheus to fill 
 Her dreams with visions that arise in me, - 
 
 To visit her in balmy sleep at will 
 And shake her heart with this deep ecfctaty ! 
 
And Other Poems. 175 
 
 for an hour to be old Somnus' heir 
 And guide athwart yon azure fields of light 
 
 The winged and viewless chariot of dreams I 
 So should I hang the dim and spacious air 
 Wherein she moves in dreams of summer night 
 Even with yon bright star that on my fore- 
 head streams. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yea, seat her on this pleasant hill in dreams 
 
 And cool her hands in flowers dim and sweet, 
 Within her ears the sound of falling streams, 
 
 The wandering airs of heaven 'round her feet. 
 Nor should my voice be hushed until the dawn, 
 But sometimes, falling through the verdurous 
 
 gloom, 
 
 Come o'er her listening ear as sweet and far 
 As spirit calling unto spirit; anon 
 
 Risa at her feet from dewy hawthorn bloom : 
 Yet I should not be found beneath the even- 
 ing star. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Aye troubled in her dreams she would awake, 
 Awake, arise, and come into the night ; 
 
 Come out into the night for love's sweet sake 
 And seek me by yon heaven's tender light. 
 
1 76 lone, 
 
 Like some bright flower borne unto my feet 
 Upon the waters of a running stream, 
 
 Troubled, but not o'ercome, past brook and 
 
 fall, 
 
 Past pools where Phoebe dreams, through mead- 
 ows sweet, 
 
 O'er dewy lawn, in shade and blended beam, 
 My Bride would come to me, and love be all 
 in all! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ay me ! some sweetness is too sweet for dreams, 
 
 Some buds too bright to ope on fancy's air, 
 Some stars too golden for the night which streams 
 
 Around the dreamer bright above compare ! 
 Ye stars of summer night, this may not be ! 
 Enough to touch her hand at break of dawn, 
 
 Enough our lips shall meet at dewy dusk; 
 Too sweet, too rare, too wrought with ecstasy, 
 To calm my Love at midnight, all forlorn, 
 And take her to my heart, soft-fanned by the 
 blown musk. 
 
 X. 
 
 The lake has lit the mocking-bird to rest, 
 Midst purple spray and ever-flowering green, 
 
 The bright, soft-pacing moon hath newly drest 
 The falls bevond the wood in silver sheen ! 
 
And Other Poems. 177 
 
 One star hath lit me to this pleasant seat, 
 Streaming upon my path with rosy light, 
 
 One star shall light me down unto my rest ; 
 One light is on my dreams, one 'round her feet, 
 Yon star of Love hung pendulous in night, 
 Shaking its golden splendors from the stead- 
 fast West! 
 
 PUT MONEY IN YOUR PURSE. 
 
 MONEY, however got, is money still, 
 
 The greatest thing that serves the human will; 
 
 Earned, found or stolen, borrowed, begged as well, 
 
 'T will move all spirits and all men compel. 
 
 Get money, then, and get it as you may, 
 
 For everything is his who has the means to pay. 
 
 Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
 In health ? t will feed you and in sickness nurse: 
 Affection wearies; love grows weak and cold, 
 Not so that blessed angel yellow gold ! 
 Fame! Glory! all the bright, immortal host 
 Cannot attempt what gold does lightly boast; 
 Lo ! Genius cannot ease one labored breath 
 But money oft can stay the hand of death: 
 The tongue of Burke shall parch with fever's 
 
 heat 
 While Midas cools his throat with vintage rare 
 
 and sweet! 
 
178 lone, 
 
 Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
 'T will ease, if not subdue, the primal curse; 
 For death itself is easier for gold 
 Which keeps out summer's heat and winter's cold. 
 Get money, then, and get it as you may, 
 For everything is his who has the means to pay. 
 
 The poor may neither choose nor have their 
 
 fill, 
 
 The rich choose freely, freely where they will; 
 The poor are food for famine and for wars, 
 For cold and pestilence; they bear the scars 
 Of yesterday, and fear to-morrow's wound, 
 And, dead, are oft interred in potter's ground: 
 The rich are guarded like a sacrament 
 Up from the cradle till their breath is spent, 
 Then, borne in splendor from their castle walls, 
 E'en as they lived they sleep in marble halls. 
 
 Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
 This is the wisdom of all prose and verse, 
 The wisest maxim that was ever told, 
 The truth that grows in youth while other truths 
 
 grow old. 
 
 Whoever has a dollar has a part 
 Of what is nearest to his neighbor's heart, 
 And, having that, his neighbor is his friend, 
 Or, if his enemy, himself he can defend. 
 Whoever have a dollar more than you 
 Holds in their hands your liberty, to do 
 
And Other Poems. 179 
 
 According with it freely as they please 
 Or lift you to a throne or bring you to your 
 knees. 
 
 You have a daughter: look unto your purse, 
 Its emptiness shall prove that daughter's curse; 
 She shall be tempted for her daily bread 
 And set her honor 'gainst starvation's dread. 
 You have a son with genius in his brain; 
 The rich shall prostitute it for their gain; 
 His spirit shall put on a livery 
 And lackey to the golden powers that be. 
 
 Play fast and loose with every law of love 
 But guard your purse like treasures from above: 
 Who worship now the gods that Caesar had? 
 But Caesar's gold will keep you warmly clad. 
 Thus pass the great divinities of old 
 And teach us there is nothing true but gold. 
 
 Go to, get gold ; behold ! on Sinai's mount 
 Was never given truth of such account! 
 Suppose you do not, then another will, 
 Treading you down when you are poor and 
 
 ill: 
 
 What then shall honor* love and beauty be, 
 And all religion, all philosophy? 
 What then, when there is nothing in your purse 
 And those dependent on you share that curse? 
 
 Get money, and more money, and still more, 
 As did the crafty who have gone before, 
 
180 lone, 
 
 And now their issue rule this ancient earth 
 And live in wealth, in leisure and in mirth. 
 They neither steal nor beg from door to door, 
 And, having much, give something to the poor; 
 Their bodies are not warped with toil and sin, 
 An insult to the spirit hedged within; 
 And the}' alone are free to come and go, 
 With opportunity to see, leisure to know. 
 
 Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
 Wealth has no stings but poverty has worse. 
 Wine ! Women ! Song ! Would you partake of these ? 
 Who have the money choose where'er they please. 
 Travels and leisure! Do these suit your mind? 
 Then money is your friend and more than kind. 
 A palace with attendants at each door ! 
 How often fall such wonders to the poor? 
 A yacht in summer and blue skies in winter time ! 
 Your gold will get them though itself be got by 
 crime! 
 
 Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
 No man does better, thousands daily worse: 
 Though money may not bring you happiness 
 Its lack will ever bring you dire distress. 
 
 You have religion! Will it keep you warm, 
 Or thrust aside necessity's stern arm ? 
 What use or value is your little creed 
 At which ten thousand mock, for which scarce one 
 will bleed? 
 
And Other Poems. 181 
 
 Think you that your religion is the truth? 
 Nay, so the Roman thought as much, forsooth; 
 He was as certain that his faith v;as right 
 As you are certain of your creed to-night: 
 He worshipped Jove, another god have you; 
 To still a third, perchance, your son will sue. 
 Then be not eager to deceive yourself 
 And for an uncertain god lose certain pelf. 
 
 Perchance you labor for a deathless fame, 
 The glory of a bright, immortal name! 
 All wealth that Cscsar in his life possest 
 Bright gold will purchase, making you as blest; 
 And, Cassar dead, what comfort can he find 
 In that immortal name he left behind? 
 The dead in their own glory have no part ; 
 Fame cannot stir a clod though once a human 
 
 heart! 
 
 Nay, when indeed you have paid nature's claim 
 Though honor crown your grave you shall not 
 
 know 't from shame! 
 Get money; nor in getting be too nice, 
 For yellow gold is cheap at any price: 
 ? T will buy you friendship and 7 t will find you 
 
 love, 
 
 And serve you freer than the gods above. 
 7 T were better that your children wish you 
 
 killed 
 That they possess your money-bags, well-filled, 
 
182 lone, 
 
 Than that your children wish you dead and gone 
 Since you have nothing left to live upon. 
 
 'T is money that 's respected, not the man ; 
 'T is money that ? s the soul of every plan! 
 All under heaven, be it what it may, 
 Love, virtue, honor, meets bright gold half- 
 way : 
 
 Whenever virtue does refuse to yield 
 And honor will not cast aside his shield, 
 ? T is not they are impenetrable stuff 
 But only that your price is not enough: 
 Hold forth a little more, and each will come 
 And yield his crown up for that larger sum ! 
 Get money, then; all hell cannot delay 
 The march of money, nor all heaven stay! 
 
 Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
 'T will heighten every pleasure, lighten every 
 
 curse. 
 
 Wealth's counterfeit is more than virtue's self, 
 An angel's presence less than shadows cast by 
 
 pelf. 
 
 Who steals your purse has stolen all your wealth, 
 Your liberty, your comfort, and your health; 
 Your honor, too, for how shall that remain 
 When hunger fills your body with sharp pain? 
 Who steals your money steals your daughter too, 
 To do with her as money choose to do, 
 Leaving you bound and helpless to pursue. 
 
And Other Poems. 183 
 
 Cease reading this and go abroad and see 
 How sterner than its story is want's reality: 
 Rhyme softens still the tale and meter part re- 
 fines 
 
 But poverty itself has no such pleasing lines; 
 'T is hell, stern hell, unchastened, unrelieved; 
 No art has smoothed it and no poet sieved. 
 Like beasts pursued, and crowding each on each, 
 The poor are huddled close in Mammon's reach : 
 If you have money go amidst them there 
 And choose a mistress from the young and fair, 
 Or choose the hardiest to be your slave, 
 Make smooth your path in life, in death make 
 
 smooth your grave. 
 Go to, I say; put money in your purse, 
 Or your own self shall bartered be, or worse. 
 Bright gold a kingdom is, and he is chief 
 Who has possession, though an arrant thief: 
 The tongue of genius he can loose or bind 
 And stay the thinker's pen and starve the 
 
 thinker's mind. 
 
 Where money ends there slavery begins, 
 And hunger, and with hunger half our sins: 
 And where your money ends leave off all hope 
 Those gates are shut upon you that gold alone 
 
 can ope! 
 
 Prate not of heaven's help or virtue's arms 
 The poor dwell in a city of alarms, 
 
184 lone, 
 
 And, waiting for death to set their spirit free, 
 They suffer all things, all injustice see: 
 Their very virtues eke their patience out 
 And patience longer bears the scourge and knout. 
 
 Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
 No matter how; for poverty is worse, 
 Yes, poverty is worse a thousand fold 
 Than the losing of your soul by the getting of 
 
 your gold! 
 
 Get money; money suffers no delays, 
 And where there's gold there are a thousand ways. 
 
 So many creeds, and nothing sure but gold; 
 So many visions, and, when all are told, 
 We find ourselves with nature as before 
 Well fed, if rich, but hungry if we're poor ! 
 Eeligions rise and fall; great poets sing; 
 Philosophies, like hidden waters, spring; 
 New customs die, the old are born again; 
 Sometimes the sword shall rule, sometimes the 
 
 pen; 
 
 Greece yesterday, America to-day, 
 To-morrow, what ? Ah ! who can surely say ? 
 But whether Shakespeare sings or CaBsar reigns, 
 Or Nero binds the slave or Lincoln rends his 
 
 chains, 
 
 Gold ever is the same life-shaping tool 
 And, changing oft its name, has never changed 
 
 its rule. 
 
And Other Poems. 185 
 
 Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
 There are no losses but 'i will reimburse, 
 Or, if there are ten thousand ten times o'er, 
 Will they be less in number if you're poor? 
 Nay, poverty will make the bad still worse, 
 To every evil add a greater curse; 
 There 's naught so sad but it will sadder make, 
 Nor broken but that once again 't will break: 
 It kills the little comfort that remains 
 And hope, already thin, still thinner strains: 
 The body sick, it sickens then the heart, 
 And leaves the faint and hunted no resort: 
 It adds a toil unto the widow's grief 
 And of the merely hungry makes the damned 
 
 thief: 
 
 O'er simple failure throws a complex spell 
 And digs a deeper pit in deepest hell! 
 Get money, then, and, having much, get more; 
 'T is not enough alone not to be poor, 
 Be also richer than your neighbor is 
 Or what is yours right shortly shall be his. 
 Get money ; having got the smallest store 
 You'll never need persuasion to get more: 
 Faith, truth and beauty need the wisest laws, 
 An angePs tongue to win us to their cause, 
 But money, which none question, none deny, 
 Speaks for itself and wins both heart and 
 
 eye. 
 
1 86 lone, 
 
 Your wants perhaps are simple and are few 
 Plain food to feed your body and renew, 
 Three suits a year and every month a book, 
 One day in seven by a running brook, 
 A little leisure and a little song, 
 A loving friend who does the heart no wrong, 
 And naught, save thought, intense, and naught, 
 
 save labor, long: 
 
 But though your wants are simple and are few 
 With other men this finding holds not true; 
 Their wants are legion who can comprehend 
 Their multiplicity, or find their end? 
 They tax all nature and exhaust all art, 
 And in their satisfaction you must play a 
 
 part. 
 
 You shall be forced to labor 'gainst your will 
 With ax or loom, with shovel or with quill: 
 'T is gold will set the task and hour, too, 
 Wherein that labor must be done and through, 
 And, being poor, you shall do certain things 
 Nor 'scape that task though heaven lend you 
 
 wings. 
 
 'T is gold decides the labor and the man, 
 Appoints the hour and designs the plan, 
 Sets on its forces as it best agrees, 
 Then stands hard by and sternly oversees. 
 Get money, then, or else the rich will make 
 A vassal of you for their passions' sake: 
 
And Other Poems. 187 
 
 Though homely fare contents you and invites, 
 The rich have more capricious appetites: 
 When your own toil has earned a simple dish 
 Of lentil, fruit, or wheaten bread, or fish, 
 And you are satisfied, then will the rich 
 Stir you abroad to delve in sand and ditch, 
 Scour all the plain and drag the viewless air, 
 To load their tables with a richer fare. 
 Nay, being poor, you shall be poorer still 
 And serve the wealthy ere you have your fill; 
 Right fortunate if after they shall sup 
 Enough remains to fill your plate and cup. 
 Before the rich have risen from their bed 
 You shall have sweated for your daily bread, 
 And hours after they have gone to rest 
 The burning sweat of toil shall fall upon your 
 
 breast ! 
 
 Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
 No matter how; the lack 's the greater curse: 
 He has indeed no friend who has no pelf 
 And, having naught, he shall despise himself: 
 The heart of him who can possess no gold 
 Is like some wretched weed that we behold 
 Bitter while young and poisonous when old. 
 Get money, then; possess it as you may; 
 No matter how 't is gotten it will pay. 
 
 The rich man's profit is the poor man's war, 
 And, being poor, you cannot fly so far 
 
1 88 lone, 
 
 But gold, that yellow loadstone none escape, 
 Will draw you back again and all your actions 
 
 shape. 
 
 You shall be listed in the ranks of war 
 To fix the bayonet, or guide the car, 
 To meet the advancing, charge the retreating foe, 
 Here ride upon, iron-shod, there overthrow; 
 O'errun the greatest length of bloody ground, 
 Slay where you can, and where you cannot, wound ; 
 Eetreat a cripple, or perish in a ditch, 
 And all for Home for Country and the Rich ! 
 Get money, then; with money you can buy 
 A substitute to strike for you and die! 
 Get money, and more money, and still more, 
 And take your leisure 'long a pleasant shore, 
 Nor die a soldier in a foreign bog, 
 Nor sweat your face away to keep another's dog. 
 Put by your music and your brush and pen 
 And follow in the steps of moneyed men: 
 You are just so much poorer for your verse, 
 And, painting beauty, you but paint a hearse! 
 Go to, I say ; put by these little tools ; 
 They're but the playthings of we easy fools, 
 They serve nor devil, angel, God, nor man, 
 And though of nature not in nature's plan. 
 Get out; get gold: write verses on a bill, 
 Those verses shall be scanned on Zion's highest 
 hill. 
 
And Other Poems. 189 
 
 Go to, I say ; put money in your purse, 
 And, having more than others, fear no curse, 
 Not guiltless, murdered blood can cry so loud 
 From haunted sepulcher or damned shroud 
 But money's music can subdue that cry 
 And buy out justice though it fall from yonder 
 
 sky! 
 
 Get money, then ; and money can be had 
 Ten thousand ways, and not one way is bad: 
 Earned, found, or stolen from your neighbor's till, 
 Possessed by rapine or by labor's skill, 
 Robbed from the needy, from the wealthy tricked, 
 By usury got, or from a gutter picked, 
 An almighty dollar is a dollar still, 
 The greatest thing that serves the human will. 
 
 Some people say, and moralists acquiesce, 
 That riches cannot bring us happiness 
 While all about us thousands suffer dire distress; 
 The sight of others mourning, so they say, 
 Will take our appetite for joy away. 
 But we know better, we who look around 
 And are not cheated by an empty sound: 
 Do we not daily in this world of ours 
 Behold the wealthy look from hall and towers, 
 Laughing and feasting, on the poor below, 
 Nor feel remorse nor shudder at their woe? 
 Nay, as sweet music oft is sweeter found 
 By frequent contrast with discordant sound, 
 
190 lone, 
 
 So wealth seems sweeter for the poverty around. 
 
 Trust not the pen, nor what it testifies, 
 
 The pen is mighty often but in lies; 
 
 Trust your own natural passions and your eyes: 
 
 Look not into a book upon the shelf 
 
 But, if you'd truly know, look to the thing itself. 
 
 The bards know naught of money save its lack 
 
 And that being painful straight they damn it 
 
 black ; 
 
 Believe them never; gold is more than kind, 
 Ay, gold is golden even to the blind. 
 
 Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
 Nor trust in rhyme nor reason, prose nor verse: 
 Yon gilded fool can stutter genius down 
 And damn his inspiration with a frown; 
 Yon puppet, be he worked by golden strings, 
 Shall sit with princes and consort with kings 
 And cherubim shall fan him with their wings. 
 
 The dirty work must needs be done by some, 
 Therefore get gold, or numbered with the scum, 
 You'll pack the offal, swill and tend the hogs, 
 Or fetch and carry for a rich man's dogs : 
 Your very sons shall loathe you for your grime 
 And wish your squalid toil were gilded crime. 
 
 Each act of poverty is questioned still, 
 But riches, without question, does its will; 
 The pauper's hour of prayer is not his own, 
 The rich man's orgies still are left alone. 
 
And Other Poems. 191 
 
 Go to, I say; put money in your purse, 
 And earth's denunciation and heaven's curse, 
 The church's clamor and the state's reproof, 
 Shall turn like warded lightning from your 
 
 - roof : 
 
 Your hands can juggle with that holy fire 
 That plays 'twixt heaven and the church's spire, 
 The laws shall lackey to you, and the pen 
 Drip incense sweet as gums Arabian. 
 Therefore get gold, nor for your soul delay; 
 Riches knock once, then hasten on their way, 
 But Christ's salvation may be had on any day! 
 
 Look here upon this honest man, then here 
 Upon his neighbor! One has naught a year, 
 The other, thousands nay, a million has; 
 One treads in Truth's, the other Mammon's 
 
 paths ; 
 
 The first is honest, but the other not : 
 So far the first is happier: then^what? 
 Why, soon the honest man has lost his health 
 Or that position that was all his wealth, 
 And falling lower and still lower yet, 
 Betrayed by evil times and growing debt, 
 Himself and all his family are compelled 
 To get by squalid toil what Mammon has with- 
 held: 
 
 His daughters on an evil world are thrown 
 To slave for that which heaven made their own. 
 
192 lone, 
 
 To face temptation, oft to be subdued 
 
 By hunger stronger than their fortitude, 
 
 To marry far beneath them and beget 
 
 Degraded young, whose young is lower yet. 
 
 His sons, uneducated, leave their home 
 
 To labor dully, or in squalor roam, 
 
 To bear the heavy burdens and to freeze, 
 
 The heirs of accident and foul disease, 
 
 Or, lower still, be driven into crime 
 
 And toil in villainies like toads in slime 
 
 His wife a weary household drudge becomes 
 
 Without a thought beyond the kitchen crumbs! 
 
 Not so the rich man nor his family; 
 
 In city home, or cottage by the sea, 
 
 His happy sons and daughters gather 'round 
 
 And make of mirth one sweet, continual sound; 
 
 And, Fortune's favorite, his wife is there, 
 
 Still wiser than her sons and than her daughters 
 
 fair! 
 
 Get money, then, or there may come a time 
 When poverty will drag you in its slime, 
 And all your honesty shall end in pain or crime. 
 
 Go to, I say ; put money in your purse ; 
 Toil, beg or borrow, swindle, steal, or worse: 
 Were it not better to defile your hands 
 By robbing others' tills and others' lands 
 Than that, for lack of nourishment, your wife 
 Should bear you children sickly all their life,, 
 
And Other Poems. 193 
 
 Anemic, imbecile, and ricket brood 
 Whose only sin a mother's lack of food? 
 
 Dishonesty may make your name reviled 
 But poverty can damn your helpless child! 
 Get out; get gold: who cheats his neighbor 
 
 first, 
 His children shall not hunger nor shall thirst ! 
 
 The land is sweet with orchard and with vine, 
 The press is overflowing with its wine, 
 The cattle low across the grassy lea, 
 You sink in fragrant clover to the knee, 
 The bees are droning in the warm sunshine 
 And o'er the walls the morning-glories twine, 
 But, without money, you shall starve and pine: 
 Peace, beauty, plenty, shelter, everywhere, 
 But, if your purse is empty, only toil and care! 
 
 Get money; nature will not question you 
 As whether it was gotten false or true, 
 By honest toil or shameful villainy, 
 And, having millions, neither will society. 
 Get gold; dismiss your conscience from your 
 
 breast. 
 
 So many men and every one possest 
 With something called a conscience for its name, 
 But never yet two consciences the same! 
 
 Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
 'T will ease each greater, overcome each lighter 
 curse : 
 
194 
 
 Never too young to get it nor too old; 
 Turn everything you touch to yellow gold; 
 'T is better that you blush for treasons done 
 Than hunger, thirst and slave from sun to sun. 
 
 Stolen glimpses of the great through stately 
 
 doors, 
 
 Kich hanging tapestries, long, level floors, 
 Broad oaken stairways leading up and on 
 To splendid halls and gilden suites withdrawn, 
 These cannot comfort you when you are cold, 
 Forsaken, poor, and miserable and old; 
 But, having money, all of these are yours, 
 With pleasure knocking at an hundred doors. 
 
 The poor have poor and miserable ways 
 Beset by strife and trouble all their days: 
 Their lives are like some wretched ship a-leak 
 Whose wretched crew dare scarcely pause or speak, 
 But labors in the hatchway or the hold 
 Bereft of hope; its food and water doled, 
 All comforts thrown into the vasty deep, 
 All pleasures sacrificed, with scarcely time for 
 
 sleep. 
 
 They battle daily 'gainst a thousand odds, 
 All men against them, often all the gods, 
 Nor for some splendid prize or trophy strive 
 But merely that they still may keep alive! 
 
 Look there upon that poor abandoned wretch 
 Between yourself and him, ah, what a stretch; 
 
And Other Poems. 195 
 
 So poor, besotted, miserable and foul 
 
 The very devil would not buy his soul ! 
 
 He shuffles on and leaves the spirit sick, 
 
 His supper with abandoned dogs to pick. 
 
 To such a being and to all his sort 
 
 Kind hearts than mile posts further are apart. 
 
 Yet there no broader line or chasm is 
 
 Dividing off your destiny from his 
 
 Than money and the cursed line it draws 
 
 'Twixt man and man and man's unequal laws: 
 
 Lose but your fortune, then your health can 
 
 fail 
 
 And you may struggle on without avail 
 To sink into the like and damnable detail. 
 Get money, then ; though riches may have wings 
 Black poverty has her ten thousand stings. 
 
 Eiches can purchase, poverty is bought; 
 Riches are courted, poverty unsought; 
 Riches have leisure, poverty must sweat; 
 Riches can spend, but poverty must get; 
 One dwells in palaces with golden ease, 
 The other in a hovel with Disease! 
 
 Riches are noble, poverty depraved; 
 Riches go free, but poverty's enslaved; 
 Riches can laugh, while poverty must plan; 
 Riches mock God, but poverty fears man: 
 Get riches and your daring can go far 
 All things save poverty forgiven are! 
 
196 lone, 
 
 Eiches can bathe the calendar in blood 
 And be forgiven, but not Jordan's flood 
 Can cleanse the pauper of a little stain, 
 For with his poverty so shall his fault remain. 
 
 Whoso has money has the only good, 
 A truth oft spoken, ever understood: 
 Get money, then ; get it by rack and screw 
 Nor fear that bugbear end of Shakespeare's Jew 
 Your Shylocks never fall in actual life 
 But only in the play and its inverted strife. 
 
 Get money, and more money, and, then, more, 
 Ingot and nugget, bullion, coin and ore, 
 Deed, bond and mortgage, warrant, note and 
 
 bill, 
 
 For money is the engine of the will; 
 It shakes all heaven and it moves all earth, 
 Draws down the angel Death and shapes our very 
 birth! 
 
 Get money, and more money, and still more, 
 For damned be he who shall continue poor ! 
 Remember, whatsoever you shall get 
 Get money, and more money ; still more yet : 
 When you have millions you have not enough, 
 You only have begun to get the precious stuff; 
 Get on and on; amass ten millions more, 
 Then bury that beneath a greater store. 
 Like Alexander you shall never mourn, 
 For money's conquest has no end or bourn; 
 
And Other Poems. 197 
 
 This ancient earth can conquered be, but gold 
 The more its conquests are the more it shall be- 
 hold. 
 
 Go to, I say ; put money in your purse ; 
 The lack of money is life's greatest curse ; 
 Nor think this satire, for you'll find it truth, 
 And gold will rule your age though beauty sway 
 your youth! 
 
 THEY'RE TRAINING BOYS TO MURDER 
 DOWN ON ARMY STREET. 
 
 They're training boys to murder down on Army 
 Street ! 
 
 Throw up your window wide and hear their tramp- 
 ing feet. 
 
 They're training boys to murder in the name of 
 God; 
 
 They're breaking them for soldiers with an iron 
 rod. 
 
 Each bears a deadly rifle in his boyish hands, 
 
 And now the captain calls aloud his stern com- 
 mands ; 
 
 They kneel they load take aim you hear the 
 triggers click 
 
 And they have learned to slay! and oh, the heart 
 grows sick. 
 
198 lone, 
 
 The little children follow, mimicking it all, 
 Held by the awful scene as by some magic thrall; 
 Then back unto their mother hasten from the drill 
 And beg for sword and rifle that they, too, may 
 kill. 
 
 They're training boys to murder down on Army 
 Street! 
 
 Throw up your window wide and hear their tramp- 
 ing feet. 
 
 They're training boys to murder in God's name, 
 who are? 
 
 Why, you and I, and all apologists of war ! 
 
 ROSA LEE. 
 
 Rosa Lee was sweet of face 
 
 As one of heaven's angel race, 
 
 Blue-eyed as Fancy's youngest heir 
 
 As blithesome and as debonair; 
 
 With golden curls around her brow 
 
 And lips as sweet as swaying almond bough. 
 
 As rose-buds wear their beauty, she 
 Her beauty wore unconsciously; 
 Nor dreampt how fair and full of grace 
 Her. maiden form and lovely face, 
 
And Other Poems. 199 
 
 Her look, her smile, her lightest glance, 
 Her sweet refusals, sweeter complaisance. 
 
 She dwelt beside an inland sea, 
 This gracious child of liberty: 
 The very flowers she walked between 
 Took on a lovelier scent and sheen, 
 And brighter ran the babbling brook 
 That caught the beauty of her darling look. 
 
 For her, I think, the dews were made, 
 And golden light and spangled shade; 
 And well I ween the poets came 
 Into the world to praise her name: 
 And hearts were made to throb and beat 
 And cast themselves beneath her gentle feet. 
 
 A mighty lord came from the east, 
 Whose riches daily were increast, 
 And courted her, as rich men do, 
 With jewels clear as morning dew, 
 With gold and silk and linen fine, 
 And castles numerous as whisp'ring pine. 
 
 An humble youth came out the west 
 Who loved her only and loved best; 
 Whose riches were a simple cot 
 Where honor was, though glory not, 
 
2OO lone, 
 
 An upright heart and constant mind, 
 
 Bright hopes before him and bright deeds behind. 
 
 Rosa Lee was true as truth 
 
 She's wedded to that humble youth, 
 
 And this forever be her praise, 
 
 Lengthening and sweet'ning through the days 
 
 She might have ruled from south to north 
 
 But chose, instead, to rule one true man's hearth ! 
 
 HONOR. 
 
 life is much, and love is much, 
 
 And beauty all adore; 
 And sweet a maiden's gracious touch, 
 
 But honor, friend, is more. 
 
 glory leads unto the height 
 Where but the great have trod, 
 
 And riches lead to power and might. 
 But honor leads to God. 
 
 diamonds and pearls are brave, 
 
 And rubies never rust, 
 But honor shines within our grave 
 
 And dazzles from our dust. 
 
And Other Poems. 201 
 
 genius makes the kingly bard 
 Whose fame the ages span, 
 
 And linkage makes the mighty 
 But honor makes the man. 
 
 MOTLEY. 
 
 We make too much of farce in this, our time, 
 Too much of jest ; a dearth of serious things. 
 We stoop too often, and instead of wings 
 
 Wherewith to soar to solemn heights sublime 
 
 We wear the jester's cloak, and play the mime 
 On all occasions. Ay, our very kings 
 Are clothed in motley, and when the poet 
 sings 
 
 His verse is nothing if not. jesting rhyme. 
 
 Is heaven won, or sorrow's tears aye stilled 
 That there is nothing sober to attempt? 
 
 Are all the myriad mouths of hunger filled 
 That half our time for humor is exempt? 
 
 Is there no later news from heaven or hell 
 
 For poets' ears to catch and poets' lips to tell? 
 
2O2 lone, 
 
 POET, BUILD FOR ME A SPLENDID 
 POEM. 
 
 Poet, build for me a splendid poem 
 Wherein my soul may dwell, 
 
 And, in the sure supremacy of truth, 
 All doubts of God repel. 
 
 Build me a high, unconquerable hope 
 
 That atheists cannot shake: 
 Build me a moated castle of true faith 
 
 That doubt shall never take. 
 
 clothe me in the golden mail of faith 
 
 'Gainst engines of despair, 
 And furnish me against the siege of doubt 
 
 With living waters there. 
 
 worker in the spirit stuff of thought, 
 
 Build me this citadel, 
 Build me this moated, heaven-kissing seat, 
 
 And there my soul will dwell, 
 
 And living faiths shall like tall sentinels 
 
 Cry down, Who goeth there? 
 And naught shall enter that abode of light 
 
 Save who is heaven's heir. 
 
And Other Poems. 203 
 
 EROS SEEKING. 
 
 The golden sunshine broods o'er fairyland, 
 The crystal waters meet, and kiss, and part; 
 
 The purple mountains rise on either hand 
 Far-distant like some magic dream of art; 
 
 The heavens with odorous airs are fan'd, 
 But Love goes searching on with anxious heart, 
 
 Goes searching through the tender, livelong day, 
 
 Aye putting by the flowers from his onward way. 
 
 All night among the fairy hills he sought, 
 Nor rested when the morning star grew dim; 
 
 And often was his trailing mantle caught 
 On thorn and brier and overbranching limb. 
 
 All night, and all the eve before he sought 
 Aye by the pale light of the moon's cold rim; 
 
 And still he hastens on with anxious heart, 
 
 And still his troubled breast his weary wings ex- 
 hort. 
 
 Ah ! where is Psyche, his immortal Queen ? 
 
 He cannot find her anywhere no more: 
 Not in all fairyland hath she been seen 
 
 Since last the golden tide set from the shore: 
 Gone as a bright star from the blue serene 
 
 Leaving an empty space to tremble o'er; 
 Gone as splendor out of fairyland, 
 Evanishing in heaven like a mist thrice fan'd. 
 
204 lone, 
 
 Poets, searching in a land of dreams 
 For Beauty with the red rose in her hair, 
 
 Have ye seen Psyche by Olympus' streams 
 Eesting her wings upon the haunted air, 
 
 Or in the white light of the moon's bright beams 
 Sleeping forgetful of her love's despair? 
 
 if ye have, then hasten with the news 
 
 Back where young Eros weeps amid the silver 
 dews. 
 
 LAUGHOLOGY. 
 
 There's palmistry, phrenology, 
 
 And old astrology, 
 
 And other "sciences" manifold 
 
 To tell your fate and get your gold. 
 
 There 're many who can "see 
 Your fate in leaves of tea," 
 Or in crystal spheres 
 Foretell the coming years. 
 
 But, ah, my friend, were I 
 The least inclined to spy 
 Through keyhole small or great 
 In Time's three-barred gate, 
 I'd do it otherwise 
 Than by reading of the skies, 
 
And Other Poems. 205 
 
 Or human hand or head, 
 Or leaves of tea outspread,, 
 Or gazing in a sphere 
 Of crystal, smooth and clear. 
 
 The human laugh would be 
 
 My chart of destiny, 
 
 And they who laughed the 
 
 Would lead the rest 
 
 In everything that ? s good 
 
 For woman- or man-hood; 
 
 While they who never laugh at all 
 
 A merry ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Ho! ho! ho! 
 
 For them I'd prophesy a fall, 
 
 And failure and despair, 
 
 And wretchedness and care, 
 
 An empty bosom and a fortune bare, 
 
 SET A WINDOW. 
 
 O set a window in thy soul 
 And let it face the True, 
 
 And plant the rose of Beauty there 
 And water it with dew. 
 
206 lone, 
 
 cut a door within thy heart 
 And give to Love the key, 
 
 That only Love may come and go, 
 Aye debonair and free. 
 
 build a highway to thy brain 
 
 Wide as Eternal Truth, 
 That angels, four-abreast, may come 
 
 To thee in age and youth. 
 
 clear the waste-lands of thy life 
 And plant great thoughts and true, 
 
 Which, like tall cedars, will draw down 
 Sweet heaven's rain and dew. 
 
 LIVE ON, OLD TREE ! 
 
 Live on, old tree, 
 
 And cast thy pleasant shadow o'er the ground! 
 Be thou a shelter to the dove's white wing, 
 A living choir where sweetest birds shall sing: 
 Let all thy branches be one sober green 
 Till autumn comes; then hap'ly will be seen 
 A veil of saffron, aureate and warm, 
 Cast over thee, as by some magic charm 
 
And Other Poems. 207 
 
 Of air or heaven : then come winter down 
 
 And robe thee in warm ermine snow, and crown 
 
 Thee king of maples. 
 
 0, thou faithful tree, 
 If brutes inherit immortality, 
 Shalt thou not also ? Surely thou shalt be 
 Among the risen, and forever stand 
 A tall, green angel in the Holy Land. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF WAR. 
 
 I am the Spirit of War, and inherit 
 One-third of this earth for my own; 
 
 And millions unborn in my name shall mourn 
 And bleed at the foot of my throne. 
 
 I ride on the blast, and my wings overcast 
 
 Temple and church and home; 
 And I sweep to their doom tall cities that bloom 
 
 With a splendor never on Rome. 
 
 I fill the earth with a ghastly mirth, 
 With the revels of drunken men, 
 
 With the mob's wild shout and the licensed rout 
 Of the pillager broke from his den. 
 
208 lone, 
 
 I kill the bride at the bridegroom's side; 
 
 I slay the babe at the breast; 
 I glut the grave with the fair and the brave; 
 
 I torture and burn the best. 
 
 As under an arch, the nations march 
 
 Under my wings outspread; 
 And Death, with the Fates, in my shadow awaits, 
 
 And Horror uprears her head. 
 
 Oh, I am the same as the Fiend but in name, 
 Yet the preachers call me sublime, 
 
 And the poets bring unto me as a king 
 Their tribute of stately rhyme. 
 
 I sicken the moon with corpses strewn 
 
 By glade and by field and by flood : 
 I fatten all hell with powder and shell, 
 
 And gorge all her furies with blood. 
 
 To my lips I hold up as a chalice or cup 
 
 The skull of the innocent child; 
 And ravish the maid that I have betrayed,. 
 
 And flay her when she is defiled. 
 
 I have come and gone, with bloody sword drawn, 
 
 Wherever the blue sky domes, 
 And have dragged an iron net with heart's blood 
 wet 
 
 Through every bright land of homes. 
 
Kn'd Other Poems. 209 
 
 With cannon and shell and the banners of hell 
 
 I lead my myriads on, 
 And where at dusk was a land of musk 
 
 Is the vale of Hinnom ere dawn. 
 
 Oh, I am the sorrow of earth, and I borrow 
 The pangs and the torments of hell, 
 
 And I rack not alone the flesh and the bone 
 But I torture the soul as well. 
 
 Oh, I am that Shape that few shall escape, 
 And Death has built me a throne, 
 
 And I shake the earth like an earthquake's birth, 
 And bind it with bloody zone. 
 
 And whenever men make an excuse for my sake 
 
 The devil then laughs aloud, 
 And for every plea in favor of me 
 
 Death weaves another shroud. 
 
 IN THESE, OUR TIMES. 
 
 In these, our times, when time is everything, 
 There 's time for all things either new or old : 
 Time without end for gaming and for gold, 
 
 For fashion, nettle-like of bloom and sting, 
 
2io lone, 
 
 For news and gossip of the throne and king; 
 
 For novels, plays, and players manifold; 
 
 For sports unnumbered: time, when all is told, 
 To harp a thousand tunes on folly's string: 
 
 Time for all things, save poetry alone, 
 
 Save rhyme and rhythm and their melodious 
 
 scheme : 
 Save Beauty girded round with jewels of tone 
 
 Soft-pacing by the bright Aonian stream: 
 Save distant glimpses of the dim Unknown 
 Through poetry's casement opening on the 
 Dream ! 
 
 SO DEEP IN LOVE AM I. 
 
 could I sing but one more song, 
 
 One song before I die, 
 I'd sing of love to thee, my Love, 
 
 So deep in love am I. 
 
 had I but one other dream, 
 
 One dream before I die, 
 I'd dream thy face was shining, Love, 
 
 My open casement by. 
 
And Other Poems. 211 
 
 had I but one other wish, 
 
 One wish before I die, 
 I'd wish thy path through roses, Love, 
 
 Though I beneath them lie. 
 
 could I take one treasure hence, 
 
 One treasure when I die, 
 Fd take a kiss of thine, my Love, 
 
 So deep in love am I. 
 
 THE BOOK OF THE YOSEMITE. 
 
 Have you read from that Book that was written 
 
 of old, 
 When the heavens were young, and the planets 
 
 new hung 
 On hinges of diamond and gold ? 
 
 Have you read from that volume, that wonderful 
 
 tome, 
 
 With the light of the ages a-glow on its pages, 
 That Book with the West for its home? 
 
 Have you read its great metre, its marvelous lines, 
 With a wonder of thought that puts Shakespeare 
 
 at naught 
 As brambles are dwarfed by tall pines ? 
 
212 lone, 
 
 It is bound in the purple of heaven convex, 
 And its characters are each fresh as a star, 
 And God has illumined the text. 
 
 ',T is a lyric by morn, and an epic by night, 
 
 A bright drama by noon, and beneath the soft 
 
 moon 
 An anthem to beauty and light. 
 
 thou Book of Yosemite, Heaven writ thee, 
 And thy verses are sung in bright Heaven's own 
 
 tongue, 
 And run through all harmony. 
 
 In the glory of noon I have read thy great lines, 
 And re-read thee at night by the silver moonlight, 
 O'ershadowed by whispering pines. 
 
 1 have read thee by twilight, and read thee by 
 
 dawn; 
 And re-read thee at dusk, when the earth was all 
 
 musk, 
 And all the sweet night have read on. 
 
 thou Book of the Soul, oh, thou Volume su- 
 pernal, 
 
 You run into song that our pulses prolong, 
 And glow with a freshness eternal. 
 
And Other Poems. 213 
 
 And millions unborn shall be charmed by thy 
 
 And when Homer is not, and great Milton forgot, 
 Thou still shalt be read of the ages. 
 
 CALL HIM A POET. 
 
 Horny his hands and uncouth is his speech, 
 
 And the pen unfamiliar to him; 
 Born to the soil as an ox to the plow, 
 
 With the strength of an ox and the limb. 
 
 Ah, but his soul is a true poet's soul, 
 And the work of his brain and his heart 
 
 Heaven has weighed and the angels have praised 
 As the bright consummation of art. 
 
 Not as a closeted singer he sings 
 
 Till the heat of his frenzy grows cold, 
 
 Nor as a poet who writes and writes on 
 For the guerdon of honor or gold; 
 
 But as a human who loves and is loved, 
 Who has taken a fatherless child, 
 
 Nurtured it kindly and made it a home 
 And has kept its young life undefiled. 
 
214 lone, 
 
 Taught it to honor the good and the great, 
 
 And forever beware of deceit: 
 Shaped its young soul as a poet his dream, 
 
 Immortal and rounded and sweet. 
 
 Call him a poet who labors like this, 
 Though he never has written a line; 
 
 Not a mere maker of idle-sweet lays, 
 But a builder of beauty divine. 
 
 TAKE THAT PICTURE FROM THE 
 WALL. 
 
 take that picture from the 
 
 And cut a window there, 
 And let the golden sunlight in 
 
 Upon the scholar's chair. 
 
 take that battle scene away, 
 That work of blood and death, 
 
 And let the blue of heaven in 
 And summer's gentle breath. 
 
 Take down that painting, take it down, 
 
 Unfix that bloody scene, 
 And let in visions of the sky 
 
 And meadows sweet and green. 
 
And Other Poems. 215 
 
 Make way for heaven's fragrant air, 
 
 For glimpse of lambs at play, 
 For scent of ro^e and song of bird, 
 
 And waters far away. 
 
 O God, we've had enough of war, 
 
 Of blood and death and fear; 
 Of manhood bleeding at the front 
 
 And dying at the rear. 
 
 Then take, oh take, that painting down 
 
 Upon the schoolroom wall, 
 That cruel, bloody scene of war 
 
 With death-dew over all. 
 
 For Christ's sweet sake, oh take it down 
 
 And cut a window there, 
 And let the golden sunlight in 
 
 Upon the scholar's chair ! 
 
 GOD, IF EVER WE HAD CAUSE FOR 
 FEAR. 
 
 God, if ever we had cause for fear, 
 For deep solicitude and anxious care, 
 If ever we had need of wakeful prayer, 
 
 This is the season, this the solemn year ! 
 
216 lone, 
 
 The fatted Time has turned away its ear 
 Deaf to Thy chiding whispers on the air, 
 To dance lasciviously to the snare 
 
 Of luxury, and lust, her foul compeer! 
 
 A storm is sweeping up to-morrow's shore, 
 
 Already are the heavens overcast; 
 The true, far-seeing prophet shakes before 
 
 The future like a reed before the blast ! 
 What can we hope for when these times are o'er, 
 
 These times that, conscience whispers, cannot 
 last? 
 
 'T IS BETTER FAR. 
 
 'T is better far to be unknown 
 
 Than 't is to be forgot: 
 To never have achieved a name 
 
 Than know oblivion's blot. 
 
 'T is better to have gone one's way 
 
 Unnoticed and unsung, 
 Than after splendid days to be 
 
 Forgot of old and young. 
 
 From out the book of glory struck. 
 From memory's tablet razed, 
 
 A looker-on where once you shone, 
 Forgot, unsought, unpraised! 
 
And Other Poems. 217 
 
 MAKE ROOM FOR YOUTH. 
 
 Make room for Youth, ye gray-haired sires, 
 
 Make room for Youth and daring; 
 Make room about your council fires 
 
 For Youth with kingly bearing. 
 
 He comes with knowledge on his tongue 
 
 And courage in his heart, 
 And courage never is too young 
 
 To play a god-like part. 
 
 Make room beside your eldest chief 
 
 And by your wisest too 
 Who banish Youth must welcome Grief 
 
 And all her retinue. 
 
 Make room for Youth, for kingly Youth, 
 
 Make room, I say, for him 
 Afar he shall discern the truth 
 
 When your old eyes are dim. 
 
 He comes through time's star-blazoned door 
 
 With eager strength and laughter, 
 With Promise pressing on before, 
 
 Fulfillment hasting after- 
 
218 lone, 
 
 THE COLUMN. 
 
 Those stones itand longest whereon truths ar 
 writ! 
 
 Let Justice then be graven in the base 
 Of yon bright column, which we have seen fit 
 
 To rear to heaven in this time of grace 
 
 When good comes to all men and comes apace: 
 Justice, not "Liberty"; Justice and Law! 
 
 That cycle which the sure and coming Race 
 Shall run without illusion, and shall draw 
 All kingdoms to its sphere, as Christ of old fore- 
 saw. 
 
 We live for sterner and for deeper truth 
 
 Than that for which our fathers bled and died, 
 
 And not to "Liberty" yet without ruth 
 We rear this column by the beating tide. 
 And when its corner-stone has fallen aside 
 
 Its sentiment shall still be sweet and strong! 
 Yea, Justice shall endure and be our guide 
 
 When "Liberty" shall have become a song, 
 
 A closet-passion that the bards alone prolong. 
 
 To Justice and not "Liberty" we build 
 This stately column by the sounding sea. 
 
 Another, brighter morn than ours shall gild 
 Its crowning arch and fretted masonry, 
 But from yon blue, eternal canopy 
 
And Other Poems. 219 
 
 The sun shall never shine on monument 
 Reared to a nobler cause and destiny 
 Than this we dedicate, without dissent, 
 To Justice and to Law the voice and instrument. 
 
 We know that "Liberty" is not the whole 
 Of that high destiny whereto we're led, 
 
 Nor yet the noblest part, though poets enroll 
 "Freedom" and "Liberty" the fountain-head 
 Of grace unto the living and the dead. 
 
 Our chief concernment it has ceased to be, 
 And has become a name less heard than read, 
 
 More often met with in past history 
 
 Than where men dare and suffer or on land or sea. 
 
 Ah ! not that "Freedom's" stars less brightly shine 
 
 Do we to Justice dedicate this stone, 
 But that in heaven has been seen divine 
 
 A brighter star than o'er our fathers shone. 
 
 Ah ! not that "Liberty" has been outgrown 
 And no more can delight us or invite, 
 
 But that "Liberty" is not enough alone 
 To lead us onward. We need another light 
 Than that which was our fathers though pleasant 
 in their sight. 
 
 The spirit of our fathers is put by 
 
 Ah! not because our kindnesses transcend 
 
 Our fathers' kindnesses, but that we descry 
 A glory that they could not comprehend: 
 
22O lone, 
 
 We work not nobler, but to a broader end, 
 We are not sterner, but the truth is more; 
 
 We're not the braver but we apprehend 
 A deeper meaning than has been before; 
 We look beyond the stars and see a further shore. 
 
 Our fathers flashed a sun to light the world 
 And lo ! it shows us fairer worlds beyond 
 
 Whereto we move with "Freedom's" flag unfurled, 
 But Justice now the spirit and the bond 
 Of man's best feelings which shall not de- 
 spond ! 
 
 Our fathers made us fine with liberty 
 
 And we are finer for the truth; more fond 
 
 Of justice since they fought to make men free: 
 
 Raised by their works we grasp a broader phi- 
 losophy. 
 
 DARKEN THE WINDOW AND DARKEN 
 THE DOOR. 
 
 darken the window and darken the door 
 And take this red rose from my hair: 
 
 go from my presence and vex me no more; 
 leave me alone with despair. 
 
And Other Poems. 221 
 
 let me forget that the heavens are blue, 
 
 let me forget it is June: 
 let me forget that you vowed to be true, 
 
 let me forget or I swoon! 
 
 this is the morning when we were to wed, 
 
 this is the day of all days ! 
 And now you avow that your passion is dead, 
 
 And we must go opposite ways. 
 
 well for your soul that you find this is so 
 
 Before 't is forever too late! 
 well for your soul ! Fare you well now, and go, 
 
 To her whom you love and not hate. 
 
 go to the woman that stole you from me, 
 
 go to her side and rejoice ! 
 She casteth the spell of the wanton o'er thee, 
 
 And shame lures you on through her voice! 
 
 HYPOCRISY. 
 
 A poet writing with a stolen pen, 
 Imparting honesty to youth; 
 
 A harper harping on a pilfered harp, 
 Singing of truth; 
 
222 lone, 
 
 A robber giving alms of stolen wealth; 
 
 A parricide toasting his murdered sire's health ! 
 
 Can foul hypocrisies 
 
 Strike deeper root than these? 
 
 Ay, when a public trust 
 
 Is used to glut a private lust: 
 
 When war is forced upon a land 
 In Liberty's bright name, 
 
 That some official's bloody hand 
 The proper moment and the hour 
 May grasp the mane of power 
 And mount to wealth and fame 
 And cheat an injured people of a patriot's acclaim ! 
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 The sun of Liberty has sunk to rest, 
 
 Gone down in depths abysmal, dark, and vast, 
 As sinks Hyperion into the west, 
 
 Its last hour loveliest but ah, its last, 
 And Tyranny comes forth like stormy night 
 When wild beasts stalk abroad and howl from erery 
 height! 
 
And Other Poems. 223 
 
 No glow of Freedom's golden sun remains 
 Save that reflected by the poet's line; 
 
 Gone is its glory from the level plains, 
 
 From wood and mountain, home, and fount, and 
 shrine ; 
 
 And we who watched the setting of that sun 
 
 Shall never, never see its dawning! No, not one! 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 Who can call back the morning, or bind fast 
 The golden sun that sinks into the sea? 
 
 Nor man nor angel ! But from forth the vast 
 Shall dawn another morn right gloriously: 
 
 So shall the sun of Freedom once again 
 
 Flame in the zenith, and burn from Ind to Darien ! 
 
 MY LOVE A CONSTANT BEAUTY IS. 
 
 My love a constant beauty is 
 A constant joy and wonder; 
 
 Nor artful plot nor evil league 
 Can part us 'twain asunder. 
 
 She dwells along a flowery way 
 
 Where sorrow visits never: 
 I've loved her since the roses came 
 
 And I shall love her ever. 
 
224 lone, 
 
 She wears one jewel on her breast, 
 But in her heart an hundred. 
 
 Ah ! how I lived ere yet we loved 
 I've often vainly wondered. 
 
 FOUR BOOKS. 
 I. 
 
 This book is like a little sun 
 As warm and bright and golden 
 
 And gildeth all it treats upon 
 Of modern times or olden. 
 
 Dear God ! it shineth in my face 
 
 Whene'er I turn its pages, 
 All warmth, all cheerfulness, all grace. 
 
 So may it shine for ages. 
 
 II. 
 
 This book is like an hermitage, 
 Where I may pass at even 
 
 A quiet hour with poet and sage 
 And spirits kin to heaven. 
 
And Other Poems. 225 
 
 Where there is much to speak about 
 And more to love and rev'rence; 
 
 Where never cometh darker doubt 
 Nor life and God are at severance. 
 
 III. 
 
 This book is like a good old man 
 With frosty heart yet kindly; 
 
 The leader of a little clan ; 
 Decided, but not blindly. 
 
 One who has traveled and seen much, 
 Yet holds the world discreetly; 
 
 And though with but a few in touch 
 In touch with those completely. 
 
 IV. 
 
 This book is like a mighty world 
 In the firmament suspended, 
 
 From forth the hand of genius hurled, 
 With its own sun attended. 
 
 A world eternal and sublime, 
 With life and matter teeming; 
 
 With its own mountains, seas and clime, 
 And gods above them dreaming. 
 
226 lone, 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 Nobly he writes of what was nobly done, 
 Building great verses on from sun to sun : 
 Now paints a god, now limns the hand of Fate, 
 And makes his verses like his subject, great: 
 Now hears the thunder rolling far along 
 And echoes back its voice from peaks of song: 
 Now clashes mighty verses till they rock 
 Like war's confusion, or an earthquake's shock! 
 He looks upon the sunrise, then in rhyme 
 Reflects its chastened glory for all time: 
 He sees the gates of evening open wide 
 And the silver moon come forth like heaven's 
 
 bride, 
 
 Then makes it evening once again in song, 
 And from his verses, bright and clear and strong. 
 As from another east there doth arise 
 A poet's moon that climbs the azure skies. 
 He adds great verse to verse like star to star 
 And with his hands the gates of truth unbar. 
 He looks on lovely summer like the stream 
 Reflecting all the glory and the dream. 
 Like some charmed, silent household Nature ileepi 
 Until the poet comes and laughs and weeps, 
 Then Nature through her myriad halls awakes 
 A living thing, that breathes and joys and aches ! 
 
And Other Poems. 227 
 
 When all the gods are dumb he bravely speaks 
 And Beauty's end and not his own he seeks! 
 In crystal verse he sets a crystal thought, 
 Or tools a sonnet like a gem inwrought. 
 His lovely verses cluster 'round their theme 
 Like roses 'round their stem. He wakes the Dream 
 That sleeps with Silence and sends it forth to be 
 A glory and a light eternally ! 
 
 HER STEP IS MUSIC AT MY DOOR. 
 
 Her step is music at my door, 
 Her knock is sweetest song; 
 
 And when she speaks a gladness leaps 
 Somewhere my heart along. 
 
 Her face awakes the man in me, 
 Her touch awakes the god: 
 
 I am no longer since she came 
 A dull and selfish clod. 
 
 TAKE DOWN THOSE GIFTS. 
 
 Take down those gifts you've brought for me 
 
 Those costly gifts, I pray, 
 And hang a dream upon the tree 
 
 This holy Christmas day. 
 
228 lone, 
 
 Take down those gifts so rich and rare 
 
 Which you in love bestow, 
 And hang upon the branches there 
 
 One dream of long ago. 
 
 Hang me a dream of darling youth 
 
 Upon the Christmas tree, 
 A dream of glory, hope and truth 
 
 Such dreams as used to be! 
 
 little need have I this day 
 Of gifts of pearl and gold; 
 
 My hair, you see, is turning gray 
 And I am growing old. 
 
 But, oh, for one bright dream of youth, 
 One dream of boyhood pride, 
 
 When life seemed honor linked with truth 
 And love walked at my side. 
 
 Then take those costly gifts away, 
 
 And on the Christmas tree 
 Hang me one dream of boyhood's day 
 
 Such dreams as used to be ! 
 
And Other Poems. 229 
 
 LASS OF THE LAND OF THE LISTED 
 LANCE. 
 
 lass of the land of the listed lance, 
 maid of the tilt and the tourney, 
 
 Send me a glance 
 
 From old romance 
 And my heart will go on a journey, 
 
 Back to the days of amour and armor, 
 Of herald and knight and esquire; 
 
 The days of chivalry, 
 
 Love and revelry ; 
 Days of the lute and the lyre. 
 
 Days of the joust ere armor in rust 
 Hung on the wall unregarded: 
 
 To times romantic 
 
 By shores Atlantic, 
 When bards like kings were rewarded. 
 
 There, there to kneel at thy feet and feel 
 The power of love and its magic; 
 Of love unacquainted 
 With days that are tainted, 
 
 With days that are tainted and tragic! 
 
230 lone, 
 
 THE HUMAN TONGUE. 
 
 The tongue has parted more friends than death, 
 
 Has blasted more hopes than war; 
 The tongue is sharper than the adder's fang 
 
 And it leaves a crueler scar. 
 
 The tongue can heal when medicines fail, 
 
 And under the human tongue 
 Is the balm of Gilead which bringeth peace 
 
 Whenever the heart is wrung. 
 
 The tongue is a flaming sword of truth, 
 
 Or a serpent coiled to sting : 
 The human tongue is a poisoned well 
 
 Or an angel-haunted spring. 
 
 The tongue is a fiend forever at home, 
 
 A scorpion hid in its nest; 
 A foul tarantula shut in its hole 
 
 And woe unto they who molest ! 
 
 The tongue is love's baptismal font; 
 
 The wing of eternal truth : 
 The surest, keenest weapon of God; 
 
 The armor of age and youth. 
 
And Other Poems. 231 
 
 The tongue is a trumpet that 's keyed in hell 
 
 To summon the fiends from below : 
 The tongue is a harp from heaven's bright choir 
 
 And its music makes heaven to glow. 
 
 never a witch's broth is brewed 
 
 In the foulest depths of hell 
 But a human tongue is cast therein 
 
 To treble the damnable spell. 
 
 never a drama of love is played 
 But the chief and the crowning part 
 
 Is enacted by the human tongue 
 Whose cue is a loving heart. 
 
 the human tongue is an angel bright, 
 
 Or a devil a-smoke with hell; 
 And over all life has power to cast 
 
 Its blessed or evil spell! 
 
 PLUCK AND LUCK. 
 
 Now gold is where you find it, lad, 
 
 But friends are where you make them ; 
 
 While opportunities are had 
 Wherever you awake them. 
 
232 lone, 
 
 Sometimes our dearest friend is gained 
 Within the f oeman's castle ; 
 
 And Fortune, bravely entertained, 
 Can oft be made our vassal. 
 
 Then never talk of "luck" and "chance"; 
 
 They have no sure existence. 
 Away with "happy circumstance" 
 
 Naught's certain but persistence ! 
 
 Mere luck is like the flowers that grow 
 Upon an untilled heather 
 
 A little while they bloom and blow, 
 Then die in frosty weather. 
 
 While pluck is like the apple tree 
 That bears in cold November, 
 
 Whose fruit you pluck right merrily 
 And roast in golden ember. 
 
 And true pluck has a luck its own 
 That luck alone has never; 
 
 And you will leave all luck alone 
 Save pluck-luck, if you're clever. 
 
And Other Poems. 233 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 
 I'm further away from the old home-light 
 And away from my father's door, 
 
 And further away from heaven to-night 
 Than I was ever before. 
 
 I'm further away from Honor's side, 
 
 And further away from God, 
 And further away from my mother who died 
 
 And the paths she blessed and trod. 
 
 I'm further away from mercy to-night, 
 
 Yet nearer unto my grave: 
 I'm drifting away from the kindly light, 
 
 Drifting on sin's dark wave. 
 
 I'm nearer than ever before to shame, 
 
 And nearer to evil resort ; 
 And nearer to staining my father's name 
 
 And breaking my sister's heart. 
 
 Fm further away from heaven to-night 
 
 Than I was ever before ; 
 And further away from the old home-light, 
 
 And a mother who comes no more. 
 
234 lone, 
 
 THOU WHO ART DIVINELY GIFTED. 
 
 thou who art divinely gifted 
 With the bright genius of song, 
 
 Yet who never, oh never, have lifted 
 Thy voice against wrong: 
 
 singer of a thousand sweet lays, 
 
 builder of beautiful verse, 
 Yet who never, oh never, once flays 
 
 Sin, or its curse. 
 
 turn from the paths of beauty, 
 wake from thy dreams of delight ; 
 
 Gome into the arena of duty 
 And smite for the right. 
 
 Come forth with thy magical numbers, 
 Come forth with thy star-pointed pen: 
 
 Shake off the dream that encumbers 
 And mingle with men. 
 
 the lily needs not thy adorning, 
 And the rose is lovely enough; 
 
 But the vicious need thy warning 
 And the proud thy rebuff. 
 
And Other Poems. 235 
 
 Let the little poets and the narrow 
 Sing sweetly of beauty and youth ; 
 
 Be thou a swift-flaming arrow 
 In the quiver of Truth. 
 
 THE WHEEL OF CHILD LABOR. 
 
 the wheel of labor, the wheel of child labor, 
 
 It turneth 'round night and day, 
 And oh brother, oh sister, oh friend, and oh neigh- 
 bor, 
 
 'T is wearing young lives away. 
 
 For ever and ever it whirleth around; 
 
 No pause, no cease, no rest : 
 It crushes our little ones unto the ground, 
 
 It dashes the babe from the breast. 
 
 Oh a wheel of fire is the wheel of child labor, 
 
 And it burns to the very brain; 
 ? T is crueler than either the sword or saber; 
 
 'T is dark with a bloody stain. 
 
 It smokes with sacrifice through the long years, 
 It smokes with the blood it has spilled : 
 
 'T is a wheel turned 'round by a river of tears. 
 God, the young lives it has stilled ! 
 
236 lone, 
 
 Around and around for ever and ever, 
 
 And Death goeth 'round with it; 
 Around and around and the toiler, oh never, 
 
 Can pause till the worn heart split. 
 
 Around and around and, oh night and day! 
 
 How the faces of the toilers change; 
 How they change, how they fade, how they waste 
 away, 
 
 How awful they grow and how strange ! 
 
 the pity of it ! the sorrow of it ! 
 
 the shame ! the brutality ! 
 the crime of it ! the horror of it ! 
 
 the black inhumanity ! 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 Lord, give me for my fortieth year 
 
 A heart for any fate; 
 A spirit firm, yet not severe; 
 
 A body temperate. 
 
 A conscience free of guilty 
 A hand for charity ; 
 
And Other Poems. 237 
 
 A mind above the little creeds ; 
 A soul that dares be free. 
 
 My feet upon the solid ground 
 
 My head the stars among; 
 A depth that gold can never sound ; 
 
 A nature ever young. 
 
 Good health, good friends, good books, pure 
 thought ; 
 
 A mission worth the while; 
 A lin'age to be loved and taught; 
 
 A woman's wifely smile. 
 
 WHEN SHALL DAWN THAT SPLENDID 
 DAY? 
 
 when shall dawn that splendid day 
 
 When we of mortal race 
 Shall gravitation's anchor weigh 
 
 And sail the seas of space? 
 
 Leave earth, like some low coast, behind 
 And cleave towards the moon: 
 
 On! on! as bounding as the mind, 
 With all the man in tune. 
 
238 lone, 
 
 Beyond the winds, beyond the clouds, 
 
 Through meteoric storms, 
 To where eternal darkness shrouds 
 
 World-without-end alarms. 
 
 Past golden planets of the blest, 
 And dance of married spheres, 
 
 And moons all pallid with the rest 
 Of a thousand million years. 
 
 Past worlds that are but matter's ghost 
 And ancient track of suns; 
 
 Around that ultimate, dim coast 
 Where hoary Chaos stuns. 
 
 On waves of star-dust sailing fast 
 
 Beyond Orion's seas, 
 To make an anchorage at last 
 
 Among the Pleiades! 
 
 ODE TO LIBERTY BELL. . 
 
 Ring out, thou blessed Bell! 
 
 Ring out the King, ring in the State! 
 Ring out, and let thy music swell 
 
 To heaven's starry gate! 
 
And Other Poems. 239 
 
 Seraphs have thy tongue unbound, 
 Seraph faces throng thee 'round, 
 While in thy pauses sweet Heaven's deep organs 
 sound ! 
 
 Proclaim sweet Freedom's name! 
 
 Proclaim that blessed hour has come 
 To which the martyrs looked through flame 
 
 In holy martyrdom ! 
 Ring thou out o'er field and town, 
 And all other voices drown 
 Long hath Freedom been crushed down, 
 Weaving her tears like stars into the martyr's 
 crown! 
 
 Cease not that blessed note! 
 
 Cease not that holy harmony 
 Pouring from out thy brazen throat 
 
 Till kings shall bend the knee ! 
 Till each perished hope shall rise 
 From the tomb wherein it lies, 
 And clothe itself in living light 
 To lead a People through a revolution's night ! 
 
 Ring out, thou blessed Bell! 
 
 Ring out a glory hath been born ! 
 Ring out, and let thy music swell 
 
 Above the rising morn! 
 
240 lone, 
 
 All the air thou solemnize 
 And this hour immortalize 
 As o'er the sun of Europe a brighter sun doth 
 rise! 
 
 HANNAH MOORE. 
 
 I had a sweetheart, but we parted 
 At one sad evening's close; 
 
 Alas! we quarreled and broken-hearted 
 I left my sweet Irish rose. 
 
 She lives at cottage number ten, 
 Where drooping willows stand. 
 
 might I see her face again, 
 might I touch her hand! 
 
 I'm waiting, waiting, Love, 
 
 Until you smile again, 
 Until you welcome me 
 
 At cottage number ten; 
 
 The little cottage home 
 
 With roses o'er the door 
 But the sweetest rose within 
 
 My bonny Hannah Moore! 
 
And Other Poems. 241 
 
 I loved my Hannah ere we parted 
 
 Since then I've loved her more; 
 And night and day I'm broken-hearted 
 
 And wish our parting o'er. 
 
 I could not miss the sun from heaven 
 
 Like I miss Hannah Moore: 
 I could not miss the stars at even 
 
 Like her face gone from the door. 
 
 A MORAL TALE. 
 
 Now listen, friends, and I will tell 
 And tell you plainly how 't hefell 
 
 I got this grievous crack: 
 And sure, sweet friends, you cannot fail 
 To find a moral in my tale 
 
 If you but have the knack. 
 
 Look where my head is broke across: 
 A bitter wound! and, oh, the loss 
 
 Of good, red honest blood! 
 This morning, at the break of day, 
 As I was jogging on my way 
 
 I came to Silo's flood. 
 
242 lone, 
 
 The river it was wide and dank 
 I sat me down upon the bank, 
 
 And as I sat I thought, 
 Then came a robber after me 
 And fell upon me grievously; 
 
 And thus I him besought: 
 
 "Good friend, or if not friend, 'Good sir/ 
 Prithee, put up thy stick of fir, 
 
 Nor crack my pate across: 
 Why should'st thou break an old man's head, 
 As gray a one as e'er touched bed, 
 
 Or bowed to king or cross ?" 
 
 That villain answered: "God defend, 
 If I don't crack thy noddle, friend, 
 
 Some other robber will; 
 And I've a wife and family 
 Who need thy gold right grievously; 
 
 So, friend, I do no ill." 
 
 And then he broke my head across; 
 A bitter wound ! and, oh, the loss, 
 
 Of good, red honest blood! 
 And then he robbed me of my purse 
 left me there for dead or worse, 
 
 And ferried Silo's flood. 
 
And Other Poems. 243 
 
 HATE. 
 
 The quarryman, quarrying, sometimes findi 
 Deep in the heart of a stone, 
 
 A hideous, horrible, shriveled toad, 
 Aghast, agape, and alone. 
 
 So in quarrying into thy bosom to-day, 
 I found that thy heart is a stone, 
 
 And Hate, like a toad, is squatted within, 
 Agape, aghast, and alone. 
 
 MAY SUCH BOOKS PERISH. 
 
 may such books perish 
 Once and for all; 
 May no man cherish 
 Print them or scrawl! 
 They 're a delusion 
 Honest men know, 
 False in conclusion 
 Breeding confusion,. 
 Distraction and woe ! 
 Put them behind you, 
 Don't let them blind you; 
 
244 lone, 
 
 Hysterical, empirical, 
 
 Vain and chimerical, 
 
 Bare of amenity, 
 
 Truth and serenity; 
 
 Stript of humanity, 
 
 Lacking all sanity, 
 
 Honor, urbanity; 
 
 Heavy with vanity 
 
 And fulsome inanity! 
 
 the world's trouble 
 
 Forever's made double 
 
 By books like these; 
 
 They corrupt half our youth. 
 
 Demoralize truth, 
 
 And blight like disease! 
 
 They 're all for detriment, 
 
 Nothing for betterment, 
 
 Tools from the workshop 
 
 Of Satan and Sin, 
 
 Evil without and corrupt within! 
 
 Shame on their publication, 
 
 Stern be their reprobation, 
 
 Swift be their condemnation, 
 
 And damned be their preservation ! 
 
And Other Poems. 245 
 
 THAT GOOD INK. 
 
 that good ink 
 Which might make men think 
 Should curdle and blink 
 And thicken and stink 
 And be another link 
 'Twixt man and the devil 
 And all that is evil! 
 
 A LYING PRESS. 
 
 Hell has no torment like a lying Press, 
 Nor devils can devise a sharper rack: 
 No torture does it overlook or lack; 
 
 Cold, brutal, agonizing, pitiless! 
 
 It has no mercy, knows no sacredness; 
 An Inquisition of the soul, as black 
 As sunless hell ; a shape demoniac ; 
 
 A torture without hope, without redress! 
 
 Its type are scorpions and its ink, hell-fire, 
 Its staff are devils, and its editor 
 
 Another Legion ! 'T is a Beast of Hire, 
 Kept for the coward and conspirator, 
 
246 lone, 
 
 The tneak, the scoundrel, felon, caitiff, liar, 
 Th bribed judge and the faithless senator! 
 
 FOR A SPARKLING BOWL OF 
 LAUGHTER. 
 
 for a sparkling bowl of laughter 
 
 That bright, authentic brew 
 That leaves no sting or flatness after 
 
 Such as my boyhood knew ! 
 
 With gladness welling like bright bubbles 
 
 From out its depths of gold, 
 Cleansing the heart of all its troubles, 
 
 And loos'ning sorrow's hold. 
 
 for a goblet overflowing 
 With the bright, authentic stuff, 
 
 To lift to spirit lips all glowing 
 And drink till I cry Enough ! 
 
 once again to drown my sorrow 
 
 In a mead too sweet to last, 
 Drink, and forget the bitter morrow, 
 
 Drink, and forget the past! 
 
And Other Poems. 247 
 
 I LIKE TO THINK THIS BEST OF 
 WORLDS. 
 
 I like to think this best of worlds 
 
 Is going right ahead ; 
 That some new work is done each da)' 
 
 And some new thought is said. 
 
 "o 1 
 
 1 like to see old ways forgot, 
 Not sneered at but put by, 
 
 And everything brought up-to-date, 
 Beneath the dear blue sky. 
 
 I like to know machinery 
 
 Is doing half the work, 
 And men and women need no more 
 
 To slave like beast or Turk. 
 
 I like to smell the factory smoke 
 And hear the ring of steel; 
 
 In loom and forge as in the rose 
 God does himself reveal. 
 
 I like to know that thought is free, 
 
 Nor churches prisons are; 
 And men no longer cast their kind 
 
 'Neath bigotry's iron car. 
 
248 lone, 
 
 I like this pleasant time of ours, 
 
 This twentieth century, 
 When there 's enough to go around, 
 
 And most are fat and free. 
 
 Let others prate of other days 
 And sing their doleful rhymes, 
 
 It is their souls that are poor, I think, 
 And not these kindly times. 
 
 LUTHER AT WARTBURG. 
 
 Though pardon veils her face in brass 
 My soul shall suffer no affright: 
 Upon my forehead is a light 
 
 That falls through neither stone nor glass; 
 
 This marble where I come and pass 
 
 Smells sweet, and glows the livelong night 
 With angels' feet. This faith upright 
 
 Man cannot break, though he harass. 
 
 Thy prisoner, oh, Roman See? 
 Nay, I am free to follow Him 
 
 Not followed by dull feet of clay, 
 But by the spirit. And, ye see, 
 Although these castle walls be dim 
 There 's light enough to kneel and pray ! 
 
And Other Poems. 249 
 
 I THOUGHT TO WRITE MY NAME IN 
 GOLD. 
 
 I thought to write my name in gold, 
 Where all would see and praise, 
 
 Where neither time, nor heat, nor cold 
 Could blemish, blot, or raze. 
 
 I thought to seize the poet's pen 
 
 And never put it down 
 Till on from Ind to Darien 
 
 Had traveled my renown. 
 
 I thought to achieve a work of art 
 
 A poet's burning lay, 
 That would outlive the human heart 
 
 And be as young alway. 
 
 But ah! the master bards are few, 
 
 And art is fearful hard; 
 And I have failed and bade adieu 
 
 To art and its reward. 
 
 And now I turn but not in scorn- 
 To Duty's lowly cot 
 
 To die unknown as I was born ; 
 Content to be forgot 
 
250 lone, 
 
 Right glad at last that kindly deeds. 
 And love, and simple tasks, 
 
 Are all that manhood really needs, 
 And all that heaven askg. 
 
 TAKE BACK THESE HONEYED SONGS. 
 
 Take back these honeyed songs of love and youth 
 And give, oh give me youth and love again ; 
 
 Give me the workings of a boyish heart 
 And take the music of the poet's pen. 
 
 A primrose gathered in the May of youth 
 
 Smells sweeter than the queenliest rose of song; 
 
 Hope drinks its dew, while 'round its fragrant 
 
 brim, 
 Like painted butterflies, bright fancies throng. 
 
 Then take these honeyed song* of youth and love, 
 Take all their music and their garnered joy, 
 
 And give, oh give me love and youth again! 
 Ay, take the poet and give back the boy! 
 
And Other Poems. 251 
 
 DUTY. 
 
 Like some steep path that leadeth 
 
 Unto a verdant lawn, 
 The path that leads to duty 
 
 Still leads to beauty on. 
 
 Yet upward and yet onward 
 
 Until you gain the crest, 
 Then all around shall dazzle; 
 
 The footprints of the blest. 
 
 THE BILLIONAIRE. 
 
 "How did the billionaire 
 
 Amass his mighty hoard ?" 
 The People asked the Poet, 
 
 The Poet asked the Lord. 
 The Lord leaned out of heaven 
 
 And took the rich man's heart 
 And bared it to the Poet. 
 
 (Well might that Poet start!) 
 And this is how the billionaire 
 
 Amassed his piles of gold: 
 As sad a tale as ever yet 
 
 The saddest poet told! 
 
2$2 lone, 
 
 By cheat and deceit, 
 
 By guile and by wile, 
 
 By hook and by crook ; 
 
 By such deeds as would shame 
 
 The devil to name ! 
 
 By robbing and jobbing, 
 And gambling and scrambling, 
 And fining and combining, 
 And squeezing and freezing, 
 And flaying and slaying! 
 
 By hoaxing and coaxing, 
 And duping and stooping, 
 Eailroading and goading; 
 Now cheating a tenant, 
 Now bribing a senate! 
 
 By backing and sacking, 
 Impeaching, overreaching, 
 Contending, offending, 
 And sweating and betting, 
 And altering and paltering! 
 
 By checking and wrecking, 
 And luring and sluring, 
 And juggling and smuggling, 
 And driving and conniving, 
 And beguiling and defiling! 
 
And Other Poems. 253 
 
 By deluding, intruding, 
 Befooling, false-ruling, 
 Entangling and strangling; 
 Now watering stock, 
 Now "shearing the flock!" 
 
 By jewing and sueing, 
 And plotting and boycotting; 
 By hocus and pocus, 
 And ways insidious, 
 Deeds perfidious! 
 
 By hiding and dividing, 
 And shuffling and scuffling, 
 And shamming and damning, 
 And abusing and confusing, 
 And scarring and warring! 
 
 By pledging, then hedging, 
 And leasing and fleecing; 
 By the sweat of another 
 A friend or a brother, 
 A sister or mother ! 
 
 By bribing and proscribing, 
 
 And loading and toad'ing; 
 
 By bickering and dickering; 
 
 By every transgression and evil concession 
 
 And act unbecoming a Turk pr a Hessian ! 
 
254 lone, 
 
 By exchanging, arranging, estranging, 
 By winking and slinking and stinking, 
 And lending and amending and pretending; 
 By gambling in meat and in wheat and in flour, 
 False-voting, promoting; devoting to money each 
 hour! 
 
 By hurting, diverting, perverting, 
 Debasing, disgracing, out-facing; 
 By buying and lying, the law still defying; 
 By crushing and hushing never once blushing ; 
 And steering and queering, the small voice of 
 conscience ne'er hearing! 
 
 By corrupting the nation with bribed 'ministra- 
 tion, 
 
 Ward-heeling and stealing, concealing and squeal- 
 ing; 
 
 By great sins and little for tithe and for tittle ; 
 
 Time-serving, still nerving the heart to worse 
 crime, 
 
 Valuing nothing that 's sweet or sublime! 
 
 By annoying and decoying and alloying and de- 
 stroying, 
 
 And supplanting and granting and recanting and 
 covenanting, 
 
 And fighting and back-biting and enditing and 
 slighting, 
 
And Other Poems. 255 
 
 And feigning and paining and straining and stain- 
 ing, 
 
 And deceiving and grieving and thieving and be- 
 reaving ! 
 
 By taking and breaking and raking and forsak- 
 ing, 
 
 And waylaying and betraying and dismaying and 
 delaying, 
 
 And shaving and slaving and depraving and basely 
 behaving, 
 
 And trading and evading and persuading and 
 masquerading and ambuscading, 
 
 And hating and adulterating and baiting and slat- 
 ing and inflating and falsely legislating! 
 
 O this is how the billionaire amassed his piles of 
 
 gold, 
 The saddest tale that ever yet the saddest poet 
 
 told! 
 
 THE MORAL POET. 
 
 His poetry is a shaft shot at a mark, 
 A flaming arrow hurtled through the dark 
 To pierce the heart of Wrong and lay it cold and 
 stark. 
 
256 lone, 
 
 It is an engine terrible and bright, 
 
 Forever standing on the side of Right 
 
 To lay the evil flat and let in heaven's light. 
 
 Or is a deep, prophetic organ voice 
 That gives the listening soul of man no choice 
 But upright ways and pure. And conscience doth 
 rejoice. 
 
 He is an archer of the shafts of song, 
 
 Not for the dream or glory, but that Wrong 
 
 Shall die in all her towers the wide land along. 
 
 LOVE'S PYROGRAPHY. 
 
 She 's a picture on my heart, 
 Burned by Cupid's fiery dart, 
 Drawn by Love's pyrography, 
 And, behold, right gloriously ! 
 Golden curls to twine and kiss; 
 Eyes like stars where souls in bliss 
 Dwell forever; creamy brow; 
 Cheeks like peaches on the bough; 
 Lips like rose in dewy mist; 
 Veins like running amethyst; 
 Oval chin and swelling breast: 
 Lovely, lovely, I protest ! 
 
And Other Poems. 257 
 
 Though I may forget the sun 
 And the worlds that 'round him run, 
 Moon and star and lesser light, 
 Morn and noon and dewy night, 
 Summer, winter, autumn, spring, 
 Home and country, church and king, 
 I shall not forget her name, 
 Free as heaven of all blame, 
 Nor her picture on my heart, 
 Burned by Cupid's fiery dart, 
 Drawn by Love's pyrography, 
 And, behold, right gloriously ! 
 
 I DREAMT THE STARS ARE CHARACTERS. 
 
 I dreamt the stars are characters, 
 
 (0 heart, perhaps they are!) 
 And Wisdom taught me how to read 
 
 Them from afar. 
 
 Methought I read from Orion 
 
 Toward the Pleiades, 
 Read from the mighty scroll of God 
 
 His mysteries, 
 
258 lone, 
 
 Those hieroglyphics of the skies, 
 The countless stars of night, 
 
 I read their eternal argument 
 By their own light. 
 
 And waking from that dream, I said 
 heart, perhaps ? t is true; 
 
 Perhaps the stars are letters writ 
 In the steadfast blue. 
 
 And we shall some day ages hence 
 Make all their truths our own, 
 
 As learning once interpreted 
 The Rosetta stone. 
 
 ALICE. 
 I. 
 
 O'er yon grave the stone is broken 
 And the flowers withered all: 
 
 There no loving words are spoken 
 And no tears of sorrow fall. 
 
 There a stranger in God's acre 
 Sleeps beneath the withered grass, 
 
 Where no gentle mourner lingers 
 Though an hundred come and pass. 
 
And Other Poems. 259 
 
 O'er the grave a broken chalice 
 For no wreath collects the dew, 
 
 But beneath the sweet name Alice 
 Stand unfilled the long year through. 
 
 Alice! 't is a name for heaven, 
 
 For a soul among the blest; 
 'T is the sweetest name e'er spoken 
 
 Where young angels whisper "Rest !" 
 
 Alice! } i is a hope I've cherished 
 
 Through the long sweet-bitter years 
 
 Hopes have sprung and hopes have perished, 
 But this hope lies close as tears. 
 
 II. 
 
 She was fair and true and tender, 
 With a more than earthly grace, 
 
 And I think upon the lilies 
 When I think upon her face. 
 
 For we parted just at even 
 In a garden dim and sweet, 
 
 And the last bright beam of heaven 
 Crowned the lilies at her feet. 
 
260 lone, 
 
 Many times returning summer 
 
 Since that day hath waked the rose, 
 
 Many times the purple aster 
 Hath been gathered to the snows. 
 
 But though season follows season 
 Alice comes not, nor is led, 
 
 And I ask my heart the reason 
 And it whispers, "She is dead!" 
 
 Yet I hope that she is living, 
 Though I fear that she is gone; 
 
 And that fear is like the midnight, 
 But that hope is like the dawn. 
 
 III. 
 
 Can it be my Love is sleeping 
 Dust to dust beneath yon stone, 
 
 Where a graven form is keeping 
 Watch in silence and alone? 
 
 Have I found my long-lost Alice 
 Where Death's ivy ever drips? 
 
 Have I found her in God's acre 
 With life's welcome on my lips? 
 
And Other Poems. 261 
 
 ? T is the same sweet name of Alice 
 And the grave is just her length I 
 
 my God ! did Death's rude malice 
 Touch her in her youth and strength? 
 
 'T is that same far-distant country 
 
 To whose shore she turned her face 
 
 Here she journeyed and ere winter 
 I had lost her and all trace. 
 
 Lo! within yon broken chalice 
 
 I will plant a young rose tree 
 And beneath the sweet name Alice 
 
 Write, Beloved, is it thee? 
 
 OLD DAN MILLER. 
 
 Old Dan Miller was a rare old soul, 
 Rotund of paunch and heavy of jowl, 
 Fond of his pipe and fond of his bowl, 
 His laugh contagion and his walk a roll. 
 
 Old Dan Miller never went out 
 To mend the world or turn it about; 
 Stayed in his inn and swore that the gout 
 Is trouble enough for a heart that is stout. 
 
262 lone, 
 
 Smoked in his inn and vowed to his wife 
 That a quiet life is the only life, 
 That trouble and losses and sorrow and strife 
 Are the portion of travelers; and ate with his 
 knife. 
 
 Old Dan Miller was the king of hosts, 
 
 His signboard clattered between two posts; 
 
 He had his tales and he had his boasts, 
 
 Had been at nine weddings and seen three ghosts. 
 
 Old Dan Miller was merry of heart; 
 He held that to laugh is never an art, 
 Never a trick or a thing apart 
 But unto a man as the wheels to a cart. 
 
 He fattened his cattle and fattened his frau, 
 Fattened himself and his pot-boy Joe, 
 Fattened his mare till she hardly would go 
 Swore that good fat is salvation below. 
 
 Old Dan Miller was true as his word, 
 Slow to be moved and hard to be stirred; 
 Wanted the facts as the facts occurred, 
 And called it a lie when the truth was slurred. 
 
 Rare old fellow, in faith, was Dan, 
 
 Built on a rare if peculiar plan; 
 
 Pinched the children when their cheeks were tan, 
 
 Sighed when the children were peaked and wan. 
 
And Other Poems. 263 
 
 Held that a prayer will do its work, 
 
 But a prayer can't finish what the hands shall 
 
 shirk : 
 
 Smoked his pipe like an ancient Turk, 
 And directed his pot-boy with nod and jerk. 
 
 Old Dan Miller was known to dream, 
 Singular thing though it may seem; 
 Dream and nod and nod and dream 
 Over the kettle's singing steam. 
 
 Dream of a better land than this, 
 Somewhere over the dark abyss, 
 Where the little babe would never miss 
 Its mother's face or her evening kiss. 
 
 Where death would be but a memory, 
 And his own little boy would laugh on his knee : 
 Where Tartar and Turk would at last agree, 
 And all men be fat and all be free. 
 
 Old Dan Miller is dead and gone; 
 Green is his grave as a bowling lawn: 
 Lord, may I meet his spirit anon 
 Keeping an inn in the new white dawn ! 
 
264 lone, 
 
 MY LOVE IS FULL OF PRETTY WAYS. 
 
 My Love is full of pretty ways 
 
 As May is full of mallow. 
 (Her eyes are blue as mountain pools, 
 
 Her hair a golden halo!) 
 
 My Love is full of kindnesses 
 
 As June is full of clover. 
 (No sweeter lass has ever tripped 
 
 This golden, wide world over!) 
 
 My Love is full of constancies 
 
 As March is full of myrtle. 
 (She brings me sunbeams in her eyes 
 
 And pansies in her kirtle!) 
 
 My Love is full of every good 
 
 As Spring is full of grasses. 
 (The meanest flower knows her step 
 
 And sweetens as she passes!) 
 
 THE POET IS A DEITY. 
 
 The Poet is a deity 
 
 And shapes a world his own, 
 And rules it from his steadfast mind 
 
 As from a throne. 
 
And Other Poems. 265 
 
 He pours around it lucent floods 
 
 Bends o'er 't an azure sky, 
 And doeth all things lovingly, 
 
 Both low and high. 
 
 He makes the gentle rain to fall, 
 
 And sets the golden bow, 
 And builds the purple hills and crowna 
 
 Their heads with snow. 
 
 He brings the seasons in their turn 
 
 Mild autumn and bright spring; 
 And tilts the rose with morning dew 
 
 While sweet birds sing. 
 
 He dances forth the mountain brook 
 
 And weaves the fern-leaf there, 
 While piney odors rise and fall 
 
 Upon the air. 
 
 He hangs the heavens with new stars 
 
 Down all the zodiac, 
 And with his hand upbuilds the weit 
 
 With sunset rack. 
 
 He calls the forked lightning down 
 
 And hurls the thunderbolt, 
 And makes his heavens now to smile, 
 
 Now to revolt. 
 
266 lone, 
 
 He shapes a thousand human souls 
 
 Of high and low degree, 
 And puts them down upon his world 
 
 To dwell and be; 
 
 And gives them human hearts and minds 
 And human love and longing, 
 
 And sets the shapes of Destiny 
 Amidst them thronging. 
 
 IF SHE SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT. 
 
 If she should die to-night, 
 
 I'd call to mem'ry then, 
 With soul contrite, 
 
 All sad occasions when 
 I wronged that gentle heart of hers, 
 Which now God! so faintly, weakly stirs. 
 
 If she should die to-night, 
 
 How every wrong of mine 
 And petty spite 
 
 Shown her who gave no sign, 
 Would grow and wax upon my soul 
 And sting me with remorse past all control. 
 
And Other Poems. 267 
 
 If she should die to-night, 
 
 The few, few faults she had 
 Would seem how slight! 
 
 And I should deem me mad 
 To ever once have spoken ill 
 To her whose place not all this world can fill! 
 
 If she should die to-night, 
 
 then I would recall, 
 With heart contrite, 
 
 Those many seasons all 
 Wherein were means to testify 
 
 My love for her, but which I let pass by. 
 
 If she should die to-night, 
 
 How stained my soul would seem, 
 But hers how white! 
 
 How like a selfish dream 
 My past would then appear to me; 
 While hers how rich, how filled with charity! 
 
 FATE. 
 
 Thou stern, inscrutable, eternal Fate, 
 
 Like he who scourged the ocean in his hate 
 
 Thinking to punish, even so are we 
 
 Who in our weakness lift a voice 'gainst thee ! 
 
268 lone, 
 
 How futile, then, must all arraignment seem 
 Hurled 'gainst thy godhead ! Futile as a dream, 
 Or engine hurtled 'gainst the morning mist 
 Which, ere 't is troubled, ceases to exist. 
 Yet, agonized, tormented, full of pain, 
 Still shall humanity thy ways arraign ; 
 Still storm thy ear as some high citadel, 
 To take it never : nor shalt thou repel 
 Its vain advance. The desert sphinx art thou, 
 Humanity the wandering airs that blow 
 Forever 'round thee: still thou lookest down, 
 Unmoved, unriddled, without smile or frown! 
 
 THE PRESENT. 
 
 The Past is dead, the Future yet unborn ; 
 
 The Present Lo ! 't is with me this new morn, 
 
 An all-familiar spirit by my side 
 
 From which I gladly would yet cannot hide. 
 
 It follows me; by God, it mocks me now! 
 
 I'll speak; perhaps 't will fade away: 
 
 "0 thou 
 
 Familiar Spirit, wherefore vex me so ? 
 Thou wast a stranger but an hour ago ; 
 I neither knew thee nor didst thou know me ; 
 Then wherefore shouldst thou be mine enemy ?" 
 
And Other Poems. 269 
 
 "Thou never knew me ! Hast thou then forgot 
 Thou spurned me yesterday, thou foolish sot? 
 Hast thou forgotten and so soon forgot!" 
 "By Christ, I never spurned thee ! Nay, what 's 
 
 more, 
 
 I never looked upon thy form before. 
 Thou art a lying Present! Hence, Ingrate, 
 I hear the Future knocking at Time's gate. 
 She comes make way she comes, my queen, my 
 
 bride 
 Already I feel her presence at my side!" 
 
 "0 unprophetic, unrecollecting fool, 
 
 Thou novice in experience's school, 
 
 I am that Future knocking at Time's gate, 
 
 I am the spirit of the Past you hate, 
 
 And I'm the Present, too the awful Now 
 
 To whom the angels of the Lord do bow ! 
 
 Go cleanse thy heart, and come and honor me, 
 
 Then shall the Future be as a bride to thee, 
 
 And all the past a blessed memory." 
 
 MY HEAET IS WITH MY BEES TO-DAY. 
 
 My heart is with my bees to-day, 
 
 Across the summer lea, 
 For there the clover is in spray 
 
 And Nellie waits for me, 
 
270 lone, 
 
 Her hair a bank of sunshine is 
 And fragrant as the south: 
 
 I'd rather kiss its slightest curl 
 Than another maiden's mouth! 
 
 Her lovely voice is sweeter far 
 Than music in a dream ; 
 
 Her eyes are liquid as a star 
 That shineth in a stream. 
 
 I'd not exchange an hour with her 
 For heaven's longest June, 
 
 For Paradise without my Nell 
 Were a song all out of tune. 
 
 SHALL LOVERS DWELL APAET? 
 
 My happy heart goes on before, 
 My feet they hasten after : 
 
 Within my bosom is a store 
 Of undefiled, warm laughter. 
 
 I hear the blackbird's whistle clearly, 
 I hear the mock-bird's call: 
 
 I take the path I love so dearly 
 And skirt the garden wall. 
 
And Other Poems. 271 
 
 Beneath her roses she is waiting, 
 
 The Musk-rose of my heart! 
 say, while all the birds are mating 
 
 Shall lovers dwell apart? 
 
 HER FORTUNE. 
 
 "'Your face is your fortune/ my pretty maid; 
 'Your face is your fortune/ dear," he said: 
 "Your golden hair and your eyes of blue, 
 Your cheeks like 'roses new washed in dew/ 
 Your creamy brow and your dimpled chin, 
 Your Cupid's mouth and the pearls within: 
 'Your face is your fortune'; then come with me 
 
 To my castles three 
 
 Over the bright blue sea: 
 And tarry not, dear, for the nuptial troth, 
 For love is the wine and marriage the froth ; 
 And tarry not, dear, for the bright wedding ring, 
 But be you my queen and I'll be your king, 
 
 And over the dew, 
 
 All under the blue, 
 
 We'll hasten away to those castles three 
 Where Rapture is calling to you and to me!" 
 
2jz lone, 
 
 "Oh no, oh no !" cried the pretty maid, 
 "My honor's my fortune, ?ny ' she said : 
 "A stainless name and a plighted troth 
 These are the wine and beauty the froth: 
 
 And your castles three 
 
 Over the bright blue sea 
 Shall ne'er be the tomb of Honor and me." 
 
 THE PROPHET. 
 
 "Alas !" they said, 
 "Our hands are red 
 
 With blood of prophet slain ! 
 But ah, dear God, 
 Spare Thou the rod 
 
 And send Thy seer again. 
 
 "We did not know 
 W T ho struck him low 
 
 That he was seer of Thine; 
 We did not guess 
 He came to bless ; 
 
 We could not read Thy sign. 
 
 "The truth? he taught, 
 The deeds he wrought, 
 
And Other Poems. 273 
 
 To us, ah, what were they! 
 
 We called him fool 
 
 Both church and school, 
 And stoned him ! Woe the day ! 
 
 "But ah, dear God, 
 
 Put back the sod 
 That 's green above his grave: 
 
 Give him again 
 
 Into our ken 
 We know his lips can save. 
 
 "Give back the dead, 
 
 The seer that 's fled, 
 And we will homage do; 
 
 Low at his feet 
 
 We'll take our seat, 
 And learn of him we slew." 
 
 The good God heard 
 
 The people's word, 
 And did their prayer fulfill: 
 
 But lo! He gave 
 
 That seer from the grave 
 A broader wisdom still. 
 
 He raised that seer, 
 Dead many a year, 
 
2 74 lone, 
 
 And gave him back to men; 
 
 But gave his brain 
 
 A richer vein, 
 His hand a wiser pen. 
 
 From field and waste 
 
 The people haste 
 To catch this prophet's fire. 
 
 He speaks and lo! 
 
 With shock and blow 
 They tread him in the mire. 
 
 Then God in pain 
 "Why hast thou slain 
 
 This prophet of my soul? 
 Dost thou not know 
 Thou hast struck low 
 
 Thy seer again made whole ?" 
 
 "0 hear, dear God, 
 And spare the rod!" 
 
 The fearful people groan: 
 "Lo ! o'er that seer 
 Dead many a year 
 
 We reared a church of stone. 
 
 "The truths he taught, 
 The deeds he wrought, 
 
And Other Poems. 275 
 
 We made religion of, 
 
 And knelt we down, 
 
 Both king and clown, 
 And honored it in love. 
 
 "And he we stoned 
 To-day disowned 
 
 That holy church and law: 
 He said that we 
 In darkness be ; 
 
 Our best is only flaw. 
 
 "And this to us 
 
 Was blasphemous; 
 We stoned him ! Woe the day ! 
 
 But hear, dear God, 
 
 Spare Thou the rod, 
 And give him back, we pray. 
 
 "Give back the dead, 
 The seer that 'B fled, 
 
 And we will homage do; 
 Low at his feet 
 We'll take our seat, 
 
 And learn of him we slew/' 
 
276 lone, 
 
 TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 Two friends I had: Both went away; 
 I heard of them but yesterday. 
 One journeyed east, the other, west; 
 Both loved a song, both loved a jest, 
 And both were quick to understand, 
 Of open heart and warm of hand. 
 In height about the same, in face 
 Alike as brothers of one race 
 Though not one common parentage, 
 And equal, so I think, in age: 
 Their fortunes were about the same, 
 Ambitions much alike, and aim: 
 And so they went away, these two, 
 As friends have done and daily do, 
 One journeyed west, the other, east; 
 And which was greater, which was least, 
 In honor, manhood, heart, and head, 
 Not for my soul could I have said. 
 But now why now I hear it told 
 That one has bartered truth for gold, 
 Uncrowned himself of honor's crown, 
 Pawned all its jewels, and dashed it down, 
 And without turning, where he stands 
 Can touch a prison with his guilty hands ! 
 
And Other Poems. 277 
 
 While he, that other friend I had, 
 
 Has gone up higher: made the mother glad 
 
 That bore him, and a nation proud 
 
 To touch his hand and name his name aloud! 
 
 HOW SOON A NATION CAN FORGET, 
 LORD! 
 
 How soon a nation can forget, Lord, 
 
 How soon forget its troubled past, and sleep 
 
 In easy negligence, nor longer keep 
 At every door and gate stern watch and ward! 
 How soon a land is taken from its guard 
 
 When plenty smiles again and bread is cheap ; 
 
 How soon forgets it late had cause to weep, 
 When spoilsmen ruled and times were bitter hard ! 
 let us then remember ere too late, 
 
 That only yesterday grim hunger's ghost 
 Walked in the land and troubled all the state, 
 
 While knaves and spoilsmen ruled from coast to 
 
 coast. 
 And shall we sleep forgetful of such fate? 
 
 Call up the sentries ! Send them to their post ! 
 
278 lone, 
 
 THE HOURS. 
 
 We lightly speak of killing Time, 
 
 't is not Time we kill; 
 It is an angel in disguise 
 
 That serves God's will. 
 
 The Hours they are living things 
 
 Not marks upon a dial, 
 Tall cherubim that come and go 
 
 In single file. 
 
 And some are clad in sombre black, 
 
 And some in faded gray, 
 While others come in living gold 
 
 And bright array. 
 
 Some bear the hawthorn in their hands, 
 
 Some bring the bitter rue; 
 While others hold a red, red rose 
 
 All bright with dew. 
 
 They come ! No king can stay their march, 
 
 No hand turn them aside; 
 They move like stately angels, or 
 
 Like spirits glide. 
 
And Other Poems. 279 
 
 Not one is missing from his place, 
 
 Not one but passes on ; 
 A little while they are with us 
 
 And then they 're gone. 
 
 From whence they come or whither go 
 
 No mortal man can say, 
 But by their shining brows we guess 
 
 They 've passed His way. 
 
 Christ ! it were an awful thing 
 
 To harm the least of these, 
 For they are servitors of Him 
 
 Whom we would please. 
 
 They are His angels in disguise, 
 
 Bright shapes solicitous, 
 And as we measure unto them 
 
 So He to us! 
 
 NOTHING COMES OF IT. 
 
 I've tried and tried and tried again, 
 
 But nothing comes of it. 
 I've hoped and labored as few men, 
 
 But nothing comes of it. 
 
280 lone, 
 
 I've done the very best I could, 
 But nothing comes of it. 
 
 I have been faithful, as I should, 
 But nothing comes of it. 
 
 I've toiled on water and on land, 
 
 But nothing comes of it. 
 I've labored with both brain and hand, 
 
 But nothing comes of it. 
 
 Fve risen early, late retired, 
 
 But nothing comes of it. 
 I've often done more than required, 
 
 But nothing comes of it. 
 
 I've studied to improve my work, 
 But nothing comes of it. 
 
 And rarely, rarely do I shirk, 
 But nothing comes of it. 
 
 All told, I've done the work of three, 
 But nothing comes of it. 
 
 I've sweated blood, it seems to me, 
 But nothing comes of it. 
 
And Other Poems. 281 
 
 LIFE'S FAILURES. 
 
 Be not so rudely harsh with us 
 
 Though we are failures all, 
 Though we have fallen in the strife 
 
 And lower still may fall. 
 
 What though we wear no laurel wreath 
 
 And grasp no victor's prize, 
 We still have hearts that wrong can break, 
 
 Still tears can dim our eyes. 
 
 Still we are feeling flesh and blood, 
 
 Though humbled in the dust; 
 Still pray we to one kindly Judge 
 
 And labor still, and trust. 
 
 And Fate cannot so bar success 
 
 But God will leave a way, 
 That none may have so wholly failed 
 
 But shall succeed some day! 
 
 I KNOW. I KNOW. 
 
 I know, I know why the rose is so red, 
 
 Why the dews like a carpet of pearl are spread, 
 
282 lone, 
 
 Why the nightingale sings from the wood all 
 
 night, 
 And the moon is enthroned on a mountain of 
 
 light! 
 
 I know, I know why the poet is awake, 
 
 Why the mocking-bird calls from the hawthorn 
 
 brake, 
 
 Why Beauty is walking abroad to-night, 
 And the east is clothed in a mystic light ! 
 
 I know, I know why the silvery fall 
 Doth murmur and sigh and whisper and call, 
 Why the youngest flowers are awake to-night, 
 And Love's brightest arrow has sped on its flight ! 
 
 I know, I know why the stars are all gold, 
 Why the sweetest story is yet untold, 
 Why the mountain pool is astir to-night, 
 And heaven will not let the earth from its 
 sight ! 
 
 For Lydia, bright Lydia is coming at morn 
 Back unto the castle where she was born, 
 And nature is welcoming her all night 
 With beauty and fragrance and music and light ! 
 
And Other Poems. 283 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 A storm is sweeping through my heart 
 
 With lightning and with hail, 
 And I am beaten to the earth 
 
 Beneath its jagged flail. 
 
 My soul is shaken like a tree 
 
 And stript of all its bloom; 
 Borne down before the hurricane, 
 
 Aghast beneath the gloom. 
 
 Wild thoughts are surging through my brain 
 
 Like panic-stricken things ; 
 Like beast and reptiles, tempest-lashed, 
 
 And birds with blasted wings. 
 
 I hear the nearing thunders now 
 
 Of conscience and of fear; 
 They split my 'guilty soul in twain 
 
 And blast my wild career. 
 
 The storm of God is on my head, 
 
 His awful hurricane, 
 And crushes me unto the earth 
 
 In body, soul and brain! 
 
284 lone, 
 
 PALMISTRY. 
 
 What ! do I understand 
 
 My fortune 's in my hand 
 
 That here is writ 
 
 In the palm of it, 
 
 In lines that meet and cross, 
 
 All I shall he 
 
 Or do or see 
 
 My every gain and loss: 
 
 Life's history, 
 
 Death's mystery; 
 
 Each pleasure rare, 
 
 Each deep despair, 
 
 And all things whatsoe'er the future holds for me ? 
 
 It is a lie, 
 
 And but for coward souls would die! 
 
 I hold my fortune in my hand, 
 
 But hold it there at my command : 
 
 It rests with me 
 
 What I shall he. 
 
 And do and see, 
 
 And take and leave, 
 
 Adventure and achieve! 
 
 I am the master of my brain and brawn 
 
 And not necessity's ignoble spawn: 
 
And Other Poems. 285 
 
 I hold my fortune in my hand indeed 
 
 But not in fleshy lines that human art can read ! 
 
 Let knaves teach fools 
 
 The folly of the palmist schools, 
 
 And stoop their souls to shallow rules, 
 
 No fate embalms 
 
 My fortune in my palms 
 
 And turns a reverseless key 
 
 'Twixt what I am and what I'd be! 
 
 The future of a man is nowhere writ, 
 
 Nor yet in whole nor part, 
 
 And angels can but guess at it, 
 
 To miss or hit 
 
 By chance, not art. 
 
 The soul is free, 
 
 And ever was, and ever it shall be, 
 
 And can achieve the fortune that it dare, 
 
 And dare achieve all fortunes whatsoe'er! 
 
 I LOVED YOU FOR YOUR BEAUTY FIRST, 
 
 I loved you for your beauty first, 
 Then loved you for your mind, 
 
 Your gracious wealth of character, 
 Your spirit pure and kind. 
 
286 lone, 
 
 You have a manner all your own 
 
 I cannot well express, 
 And sweeter than the viol is 
 
 The music of your dress. 
 
 You wear your learning like the rose 
 That trembles in your hair, 
 
 Where half concealed amidst your curls 
 It makes you doubly fair. 
 
 could I seal my love to-night 
 Beneath the fragrant flowers, 
 
 Then how much sweeter were my rest 
 And all my waking hours! 
 
 I WOULD NOT HURT HER LITTLE HAND. 
 
 I would not hurt her little hand, 
 But my poor heart breaks she; 
 
 I'd die for her on sea or land 
 Yet she '11 not smile for me. 
 
 She dwells my father's fields above 
 
 Beside the old mill-stone, 
 This blue-eyed lass that I may- love 
 
 But never call my own. 
 
And Other Poems. 287 
 
 Yet though she loves another youth 
 
 I love the maiden still, 
 For love like mine, all trust and truth, 
 
 May not be changed at will. 
 
 NOT ALWAYS. 
 
 't is not always the golden pen 
 That writes the golden thought: 
 
 ? t is not always the richest men 
 Whose favors most widely are sought. 
 
 't is not always the fairest in face 
 We love the longest and best: 
 
 't is not always the first in the race 
 We ask to be our guest. 
 
 Not always our chiefest thanks are his 
 Who plays the chiefest part: 
 
 And the first in rank not always is 
 The first within our heart. 
 
 O 't is not always the king that rules; 
 
 Not always the mighty overcome: 
 Not always from forth the greatest schools 
 
 The greatest scholars come. 
 
288 lone, 
 
 't is not always the prince or the lord 
 
 Who plays the kingliest part: 
 And 't is not always the grandest bard 
 
 Who sings right into our heart. 
 
 't is not always the forwardest youth 
 
 That makes the foremost man: 
 And the plan that seems all virtue and truth 
 
 Is not always heaven's plan. 
 
 Then let the lowly take courage from this, 
 
 And let the exalted take care; 
 Let the faint look up and their fears dismiss, 
 
 Let the proud look round and beware. 
 
 NOW MORN UPON THE ROSY HILLS. 
 
 Now morn upon the rosy hills 
 
 Is looking o'er the valley 
 Unto that cot and pleasant spot 
 
 Where dwells my blithesome Sally. 
 
 Her lilies are the first to wake 
 
 And catch the sunrise-glory, 
 And now unfold such hearts of gold 
 
 As never were in story. 
 
And Other Poems. 
 
 Her apple wakes her cheery tree, 
 Her cherry wakes the clover, 
 
 And now is heard the note of bird 
 And earth knows night is over. 
 
 To be alive and be in love 
 
 In such a morn and season 
 Is as near to heaven as shall be given 
 
 To we of mortal reason. 
 
 OF MANY FOOLS, I LOATHE THE MOST. 
 
 Of many fools, I loathe the most 
 
 That muddled, puddled oaf 
 Who holds that life's realities 
 
 Are bed and drink and loaf. 
 
 That clod who has no place for dreams 
 
 Among the list of needs, 
 Who holds as real those things alone 
 
 On which his belly feeds. 
 
 To whom immortal verse is naught, 
 
 And fine, enlightened taste; 
 And beauty but an empty mist, 
 
 And fancy's field a waste. 
 
290 lone, 
 
 To whom all things are dreams save those 
 
 That he can eat or pawn, 
 Naught worthy second glance or thought 
 
 Save what he fattens on. 
 
 That earthly and besotted dolt 
 
 Who takes his narrow stand, 
 And blots from life's realities 
 
 What god-like souls demand. 
 
 Like one in total blindness born 
 
 Who bats his sightless eye, 
 And values far above yon sun 
 
 The stick he hobbles by. 
 
 Souls cannot live by bread alone 
 
 Hunger has deeper springs; 
 And beauty is a stubborn fact 
 
 And dreams substantial things. 
 
 KISS ME, DEAR, AND LET 'S FORGET. 
 
 Kiss nie, dear, and let 's forget 
 That our eyes were ever wet; 
 That our hearts were ever sad 
 With a world that 9 s mostly bad; 
 That our dreams come seldom true, 
 And are nothing when they do! 
 
And Other Poems. 291 
 
 Kiss me, dear, and let 's forget 
 Memory is all regret; 
 All our days are empty urns 
 Where the ash of promise burns: 
 All our actions end in thought, 
 And all thinking comes to naught! 
 
 Kiss me, dear, and let 's forget 
 All things save that we have met; 
 Save the skies are blue above 
 And we have an hour for love; 
 Save our lips may meet to-day 
 Come to-morrow come what may! 
 
 THE DIVORCEE DINNER: THE LATEST 
 FAD. 
 
 Have you heard of that dinner, that wonderful 
 
 dinner ? 
 
 (Yet surely you have, though a saint or a sinner !) 
 'T was given of late 
 In a middle-west State 
 By a lady in society of perfect propriety, 
 Whose fads are philanthropy, church-work and 
 piety. 
 
292 lone, 
 
 The fair hostess herself with her own hand indited 
 The prized invitations. The mansion was lighted, 
 
 The banquet was spread, 
 
 The wine glistened red, 
 
 The guests were thrice seven, the servants eleven: 
 The hostess was Madam Dean-Morgan-Hill-Nevin. 
 
 A three times divorcee, new wed in Dakota; 
 (Divorced in Ohio, New York, Minnesota!) 
 
 The guests at her board 
 
 Were her new-wedded lord, 
 Her three faithful lawyers Burke, Wilson and 
 
 Sawyers 
 Who won her divorces; forensic old warriors. 
 
 While seated between were the honorable judges 
 Who granted her freedom (which no man be- 
 grudges!) 
 
 And gave her respite 
 From marital delight, 
 
 And made her lords pony up good alimony. 
 (Ah, judges have hearts though their office is 
 stony!) 
 
 Still further along at the banquet were seated 
 Her three divorced husbands ; now royally feted : 
 
 While sleek and serene 
 
 Eight plain to be seen 
 
And Other Poems. 293 
 
 Were the four reverend pastors (though pious, not 
 
 f asters ! ) 
 Who wedded their hostess to marital disasters. 
 
 On the left, with their morals loose-fitting as 
 
 blouses, 
 
 Were the three divorced wives of her three divorced 
 spouses ; 
 
 While down at the foot 
 Of the table were put 
 Two sons and a daughter that marriage had 
 
 brought her: 
 Too youthful to sip of the wine without water. 
 
 And last, but not least t'other end of the table 
 Was seated her lover (a fact and no fable!) 
 
 The man she would wed 
 
 Ere the old year was dead 
 
 And divorce in the summer to wed a new-comer 
 A coachman or bishop, a lawyer or plumber. 
 
 And this is the dinner, the dinner-divorcee, 
 With a touch aristocratic and a touch that is 
 horsey, 
 
 Which the newspapers print 
 
 For all that is in 't; 
 
 The dinner select and the dinner correct, 
 The dinner which every good wife should affect. 
 
294 lone, 
 
 LINES. 
 
 A cat lay dying in the gutter, and 
 
 A little child was staring at it there: 
 The child drew nearer and with stick in hand 
 
 Poked at the creature, ruffling its dank hair; 
 Then, drawing nearer still, with baby feet 
 
 Trod on the moaning beast, and laughed to hear 
 The thing complaining, like a toy that 
 
 squeaks 
 
 When pressed in the middle. A butcher's boy, 
 with meat 
 
 And basket, loitering on his way, drew near 
 
 And watched the baby with the rosy cheeks, 
 Moist yet with mother kisses, take a stick 
 
 And poke the creature's eyes out one was 
 
 blind; 
 Laughing with baby glee. Then with a brick, 
 
 The largest and the roughest he could find 
 After some moments' search, the butcher's boy 
 Drove at the creature, shouting as with joy: 
 Then, taking up the brick, hurled it again, 
 
 And once again the cat not yet quite dead; 
 Then, whistling shrilly, went upon his way 
 The little child looked after him and then 
 
 Plucked off his bonnet from his curly head 
 And singing to himself returned to play. 
 
And Other Poems. 295 
 
 O GHOST, I HAVE THEE NOW. 
 
 say, thou foolish, fond and bow-legged ghost, 
 
 Since thou hast shuffled off the "mortal coil," 
 Why dost thou daily haunt this distant coast 
 
 Called Earth this scene of former strife and 
 
 toil, 
 And fright we mortals with thy spectral shape, 
 
 Thy chuckling laugh, and legs that seem to 
 
 yawn 
 As if aweary? 'Ncath thine ancient cape 
 
 What loves contend ? What passions still live on ? 
 
 Oft have I met thee in our cellar-room 
 
 Hard by the cider keg. With pensive brow 
 
 Thou seemed but a deeper shadow in the gloom. 
 And She was there ! 0, ghost, I have thee 
 now 
 
 Thou lovest that freckled red-haired lass of suds 
 
 Who weekly washes for us, and then scuds ! 
 
 THE PEN. 
 
 You may talk of the power of electricity, 
 That great science yet in its great youth; 
 
 But the PEN" is the lever that moves this old 
 
 earth 
 And the fulcrum it rests on is truth. 
 
296 lone, 
 
 And good steam is a puissance not to be scorned, 
 And bright fire is the father of force; 
 
 But the PEN in the hand of a scholar or bard 
 Can move this old world from its course. 
 
 You may talk of the power of powder and shell, 
 And of rifle and mortar and gun; 
 
 But the battles achieved by the might of the PEN" 
 Are the only battles that are won. 
 
 For who conquer by powder, by steel, or by fire 
 
 Must conquer again and again, 
 But they conquer forever who conquer but once 
 
 By the might of the almighty PEN. 
 
 IF GENIUS WERE BUT CATCHING. 
 
 If genius were but catching, sweet, 
 
 I'd catch the poet's malady, 
 And wake some splendid burst of song 
 
 And dedicate it unto thee. 
 
 If riches were contagious, dear, 
 I'd take the rich man by the hand, 
 
 Then thou couldst dwell in crystal halls 
 And be a lady of the land. 
 
And Other Poems. 297 
 
 If glory were infectious, love, 
 I'd go where glory brightest be, 
 
 Then millions would applaud my name, 
 And I I'd give that name to thee. 
 
 A LITTLE PEOPLE. 
 
 A little People o'er the sea 
 
 Have known themselves a year, 
 
 Have known themselves and will be free 
 To shape their own career. 
 
 The flower of liberty has sprung 
 
 On plain and hill and slope; 
 The dome of heaven has been hung 
 
 With a new star of hope. 
 
 The iron within their poets' blood 
 Has met war's two-edged flint: 
 
 The forehead of their young manhood 
 Has ta'en a new imprint. 
 
 They've cast their lead in sterner mold 
 
 That similitudes of kings: 
 They've found that commerce for their gold 
 
 From which a Nation springs. 
 
298 lone, 
 
 They battle for their living faith 
 What land has fought for more? 
 
 They snatch a glory from stern death, 
 They sink, but not implore. 
 
 They bind the tyrant's hands abhor'd 
 
 And his fierce spirit awe; 
 They go forth with a two-edged sword, 
 
 Returning with the law ! 
 
 TIRED ! 
 
 I'm tired, tired, tired, 
 Too tired to creep: 
 
 I'm tired, dead tired, 
 Too tired to sleep. 
 
 I'm tired, tired, tired, 
 Tired unto death: 
 
 Too tired almost 
 To draw my breath. 
 
 I'm, tired, sick-tired, 
 Tired of it all: 
 
 Too tired to stand, 
 Too tired to crawl. 
 
And Other Poems. 299 
 
 I'm tired, tired, tired, 
 
 Dead tired; fagged out: 
 Too tired to know 
 
 What it 's all about. 
 
 My heart is tired, 
 
 And my poor head: 
 And I'm too tired 
 
 To creep in bed. 
 
 I'm tired, tired, tired, 
 
 Too tired to sigh; 
 Too tired to live, 
 
 Too tired to die. 
 
 Tired, tired, dead tired; 
 
 Old, tired, and gray: 
 Too tired to rest, 
 
 Too tired to pray! 
 
 SHE IS A POEM! 
 
 she is a poem that angels have pen'd, 
 A poem of love without surfeit or end; 
 A poem forever delightful and new, 
 Eternal, supernal, and rounded and true! 
 
300 lone, 
 
 she is a verse from the song of the spheres, 
 A rhyme from the joy of the ultimate years; 
 A madrigal sung in bright paradise, 
 A pulse of the paeans that balance the skies ! 
 
 she is a song and awakeneth song; 
 A lyric that echoing poets prolong: 
 In music's anthology sweetest of all, 
 Awaking and taking each heart in her thrall! 
 
 maid with the large and luminous eyes, 
 You answer the Sphinx's immemorial whys, 
 You answer the riddle of life with your smile 
 And, lo, I have come to your palm-fronded isle! 
 
 ADELINE. 
 
 The miracle 01 flowers is undone, 
 
 The bobolink hath sought a brighter clime, 
 Dim clouds are driven o'er the darkened sun 
 And gusty winds bring in the winter time : 
 Big drops of rain are falling in the land 
 Drowning the meadows, where no fold is seen; 
 
 Leafless and cold against the barren moor 
 A single ash hath ta'en its blasted stand: 
 Hath faded from the lake a day serene, 
 
 A glory gone from heaven, a light passed 
 from the shore ! 
 
And Other Poems. 301 
 
 Beneath yon yew tree's shade, where no birds sing, 
 
 In linen scarf and faded mantle wound, 
 My Love hath slept since autumn's golden spring, 
 The earth high-piled above her dreamless swound ; 
 My Adeline hath slept a dreamless sleep 
 
 Nor knows the golden rod hath come and gone, 
 
 Nor knows the orchis lingered for her sake, 
 To perish only on the winter's steep; 
 My Adeline hath slept in death alone, 
 
 The bride hath slept the sleep the bridegroom 
 cannot break! 
 
 Above her head the morning rose shall blow, 
 The stately asphodel shall spring and wave, 
 The flower of winter star the sheeted snow 
 Tender and passionless upon her grave; 
 But in their beauty she shall not delight 
 Nor turn aside to gather them at morn; 
 
 She sleepeth now beneath the drooping yew 
 And hath no smiles sweet buds make doubly bright^ 
 No youth the stately lily may adorn, 
 
 No golden hair to bind with roses wet with 
 dew. 
 
 She came with summer like this morning rose 
 I plucked upon my casement, sweet and lone; 
 
 She passed with summer, at one twilight's close, 
 Like petals that around my feet are strown. 
 
302 lone, 
 
 Her death was as a golden fountain stopt 
 Upon a sudden in a morn of May 
 
 When birds sing sweetest 'round its crystal 
 
 well, 
 
 Or as a fragrant rose whose stem is lopt 
 Holding an hour of bloom e'en in decay, 
 The dew upon its leaves but death within each 
 cell. 
 
 While summer still was in the dream and gold, 
 
 And winged odors stirred the citron glen 
 My Love drew nearer, while I softly told 
 
 A story older than the poet's pen, 
 The story primal of the primal pair, 
 Forever new and oh forever dear! 
 
 When lo ! we heard a spirit footstep fall, 
 A fearful summons from the viewless air, 
 And Azrael rose in the twilight clear 
 
 And led my Love away toward Death's cham- 
 ber hall ! 
 
 A NEW PLEASURE. 
 
 ""0 for a new pleasure," the weary king sighed, 
 
 "A pleasure untasted before!" 
 And he turned from the revelers reveling wide 
 
 And passed through the golden-hung door. 
 
And Other Poems. 303 
 
 "0 for a new pleasure; a novel delight; 
 
 A joy and a gladness unstaled ! 
 Whoso shall discover it him I will knight, 
 
 For the pleasures of life have all failed." 
 
 The master of revels was there at the feast, 
 
 And heard the desire of his lord. 
 A greater magician ne'er came out the East, 
 
 And he thought of that master's award. 
 
 Up rose the magician and followed the king, 
 
 On hastened the king to the sea, 
 Where he envied the curlew his swift-flying wing 
 
 And sighed for the fisherboy's glee. 
 
 And envying and sighing sate down on the shore 
 And looked on the bird and the boy, 
 
 And, looking, he marvelled the more and the more 
 Whence came their pure spirit of joy. 
 
 Then a voice at his side and a presence recalled 
 The wandering thoughts of the king, 
 
 And spoke the magician "Since pleasure has 
 
 palled, 
 And shattered is joy's sweetest string, 
 
 "Learn you of the curlew who wingeth the shore, 
 
 And learn of yon fisherman's boy 
 This truth that has power to make the world o'er 
 
 A new heart is the only new joy. 
 
304 lone, 
 
 "You who seek a new pleasure, go find a new heart 
 That labors in meekness and love, 
 
 Then pleasures as many and perfect will start 
 As stars from the heavens above!" 
 
 OUT OF MY BRAIN" THE MUSIC HAS FLED. 
 
 Out of my brain the music has fled 
 
 And out of my life the dream; 
 The poet in me is cold and dead, 
 
 And beauty no longer supreme. 
 
 Gone is the heart that leapt up in me 
 
 At the magical name of song; 
 Gone is the charm of melody, 
 
 Ay, gone these seasons long. 
 
 Like a spirit I moved in a spirit land 
 And nothing was common to me 
 
 The sound of a voice or touch of a hand 
 Could shake me with ecstasy. 
 
 But the wonder has passed like a dream of night, 
 
 never to come again, 
 And the world grows stale, and common, and trite, 
 
 And I the dullest of men. 
 
And Other Poems. 305 
 
 The fame of a poet was nothing to me 
 
 But to feel as a poet was all; 
 I asked not the guerdon of melody 
 
 But to live in the poet's high thrall. 
 
 THERE ARE MORE WAYS OF PLEASING 
 GOD THAN ONE ! 
 
 There are more ways of pleasing God than one ! 
 
 More ways than building up His church for 
 Him, 
 
 And kneeling there beneath stained windows 
 
 dim 
 
 And praying to the Father through the Son. 
 The world is His, and all that 's kindly done, 
 
 Or nobly undertaken, is to Him 
 
 As dear as labor of those hands that trim 
 His altar candles at the set of sun. 
 
 He loves the merchant not less than the priest, 
 He loves the maiden dearly as the nun; 
 
 Blesses alike the home and church's feast, 
 And hath indeed in love no favorite one; 
 
 Oft prospering most what serves His church the 
 
 least, 
 For all that 's kindly done is godly done. 
 
306 lone, 
 
 YOUR BEAUTY LEFT ME MARVELING. 
 
 Your beauty left me marveling, 
 
 Your coldness left me grieved: 
 That one so fair could be so distant 
 
 I would not have believed. 
 
 Perhaps they warned you I am poor, 
 
 The poorest of brave men; 
 But Fortune's wheel has turned before 
 
 And it may turn again! 
 
 True love like mine has lifted some 
 
 Unto a kingly throne, 
 And the doors to-night they turn me from 
 
 To-morrow may be my own! 
 
 CLARA O'DEE. 
 
 One rose in your hair 
 Makes summer for me, 
 
 rare, sweet Clare, 
 Clara O'Dee! 
 
And Other Poems. 307 
 
 One smile from your lips 
 
 Brings back the lost June 
 With the tuberose scent 
 
 And the oriole's tune! 
 
 I pass the wine cup 
 
 And touch but your glove, 
 And my soul is caught up 
 
 In the white arms of Love! 
 
 Ah! the paths that lead 
 
 To paradise sweet, 
 Fd leave for the lane 
 
 That runs to your feet ! 
 
 MY SWEET THOUGHTS ARE MY 
 DAUGHTERS. 
 
 My sweet thoughts are my daughters, 
 My brave thoughts are my sons: 
 
 Such are the poet's children 
 And oft his only ones. 
 
 I love them for their mother, 
 Their mother who is Song: 
 
 She 's all the bride I've taken 
 And ah, I've loved her long. 
 
308 lone, 
 
 Her hair is more than golden, 
 And never shall be gray: 
 
 She came to me in beauty 
 And shall be young alway. 
 
 We dwell within a palace, 
 
 A palace of high faith, 
 Where sweet pipes play forever, 
 
 And charms the passion wraith. 
 
 Yet sometimes I am haunted 
 By a mortal maiden's face, 
 
 A countenance all beauty 
 A look all youth and grace. 
 
 And though to Song I'm wedded 
 And love her very much, 
 
 I hunger for the human, 
 I crave the human touch. 
 
 I feel the icy coldness 
 Of her, my spirit bride, 
 
 And long to clasp the maiden 
 That laugheth at my side. 
 
And Other Poems. 309 
 
 TO TKADE. 
 
 To trade: for a little baby's smile 
 And the touch of a baby's hand, 
 
 A lady's diamond pointed pen 
 And stock with golden band. 
 
 To trade: a silver inkwell, chased, 
 
 And a gold-bound blotting-pad, 
 For the uncertain sound of two little feet 
 
 In softest moccasins clad. 
 
 To trade: a lady's writing desk 
 
 And paper seven reams, 
 For the joy that comes to a mother 
 
 When her babe first smiles in its dreams. 
 
 To trade: a dictionary of rhymes 
 
 And Roget's Thesaurus, 
 For a baby's mouth at my breast 
 
 And a love idolatrous. 
 
 To trade: the thousand thoughts and fancies 
 
 That haunt a poetess' brain, 
 For the one pure thought of a mother 
 
 For her little babe in pain. 
 
310 lone, 
 
 To trade: a name in the magazines, 
 And a name in a book or two, 
 
 For my face caught up and reflected 
 In a baby's eyes of blue. 
 
 THE ROSE THAT BLOOMED IN EDEN 
 BLOOMS TO-DAY. 
 
 The rose that bloomed in Eden blooms to-day, 
 The nightingale that shut the primal eyes 
 To slumber and to dreams in Paradise 
 
 Still sings at even mid the bloomy spray: 
 
 The sun shines down with as elysian ray 
 As ever in that golden time ; the skies 
 Are not less purple; and yon heaven lies 
 
 No jot or league more distantly away. 
 
 It is our heart and not the world that ? s changed, 
 It is the heart the world is Eden still: 
 
 It is the spirit from its God estranged, 
 No change of wood or brook, or vale or hill. 
 
 Still are we living in bright Paradise, 
 
 Still, still in Eden 'neath edenic skies. 
 
And Other Poems. 311 
 
 GONE, ONE MOKE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 
 
 Our old clock died this morning, 
 
 Our beautiful old friend: 
 Death came without a warning 
 
 And no one saw the end. 
 
 We woke to miss his greeting; 
 
 We looked to find him dead; 
 His heart no longer beating, 
 
 Death's angel at his head. 
 
 At first we thought him sleeping 
 With tired hands folded o'er, 
 
 But ah! his heart was keeping 
 The sleep that wakes no more. 
 
 He took the silent hours 
 
 And rung them like sweet chimes, 
 And come sunshine or showers, 
 
 His ways were true all-times. 
 
 When our little son lay dying 
 
 And we thought o' the cold, cold sod, 
 
 His faithful hands were trying 
 To point right up to God. 
 
 Gone one my verse shall hallow; 
 
 Gone one more faithful friend: 
 Gone and when I shall follow 
 
 As peaceful be my end. 
 
312 lone, 
 
 SHE HAS HER FAULTS LIKE OTHER 
 MAIDS. 
 
 She has her faults like other maids, 
 
 Her foibles and her failings; 
 Her beauty has its little aids, 
 
 Her temper has its ailings. 
 
 She is not perfect, as I grant, 
 And, as I guess, quite mortal; 
 
 And neither learned nor ignorant 
 To that extent to startle. 
 
 Not always wrong, not always right; 
 
 A loved and loving human 
 Whom poets call an angel bright, 
 
 Philosophy, a woman. 
 
 Somewhere may be another maid 
 That artist might call fairer, 
 
 Whose hair is of a brighter shade, 
 Whose eyes and lips are rarer. 
 
 But nowhere is another lass 
 
 Whose love is all her dowry, 
 Can bring my heart to such a pass 
 
 As lovely Laura Lourie. 
 
And Other Poems. 313 
 
 IGNORANCE. 
 
 There's bigger game than bison, 
 Than moose, or wolf, or bear, 
 
 And though not seen by vision 
 'T is met with everywhere. 
 
 'T is fiercer than the tiger, 
 
 Or than the crocodile, 
 Than beasts that stalk the Niger, 
 
 Or shapes that haunt the Nile. 
 
 It preys upon no dumb thing, 
 Nor hind, nor hart, nor foal; 
 
 It is a fearful Something 
 
 That stalks the human soul. 
 
 The scholar and the teacher, 
 The scientist and the bard, 
 
 They hunt this hellish creature 
 And hunt him fast and hard. 
 
 They drive him far and farther 
 From human residence, 
 
 For lo! he is no other 
 Than bestial Ignorance. 
 
3 X 4 lone, 
 
 And greater than great Nimrod 
 That hunter-king of old, 
 
 Or those that after him trod 
 In emulation bold, 
 
 Is he, that dauntless spirit 
 
 Who hunts this brutish thing- 
 May he such fame inherit 
 As only brave deeds bring. 
 
 MY LIFE WAS A ROUND OF GOLDEN 
 DAYS. 
 
 My life was a round of golden days 
 When thou wast near me, Lucy; 
 
 But now I walk i i darkened ways 
 With naught to cheer me, Lucy. 
 
 My laugh is not the laugh of youth; 
 
 Its sound doth pain me, Lucy: 
 For distance is a serpent's tooth 
 
 And it hath slain me, Lucy. 
 
 My heart was a nest of singing birds 
 When I first kissed thee, Lucy ; 
 
 But now alas! I have no words 
 To tell how I've missed thee, Lucy. 
 
And Other Poems. 315 
 
 My dreams are not the dreams that were 
 When thou wast near me, Lucy; 
 
 Dark shapes about me move and stir, 
 And shadows jeer me, Lucy. 
 
 My days were sweet as summer flowers 
 
 That strew the heather, Lucy; 
 In those old times, those happy hours 
 
 When we dwelt together, Lucy. 
 
 But now I scarce dare think of then: 
 
 And the thought should start us, Lucy, 
 
 That ere our lips shall meet again 
 Death's hand may part us, Lucy! 
 
 GONE IS A STRENUOUS SPIRIT. 
 
 Out of the shadow of nature 
 
 Unto the glory of death, 
 Gone is a strenuous spirit, 
 
 Resigning a worker's breath 
 
 Not as a reaper but sower 
 
 Into the body he came 
 Harvests there were to be planted 
 
 To reap ere he sowed was shame. 
 
316 lone, 
 
 Loved less the harvest than furrow, 
 Loved less the rose than the seed; 
 
 His was the hand of a planter 
 Let others still reap the meed. 
 
 Knew that our doings abideth 
 States cannot live by a name; 
 
 Gave all his days to great action 
 And not one brief hour to fame. 
 
 Never, in fear of an error, 
 Did he step over the truth 
 
 Heard the full summons of spirit 
 
 And wrought with the faith of youth. 
 
 Held that chief truth of our finding 
 That the wide world is as deep 
 
 As we shall judge it in spirit, 
 And as we so judge we reap. 
 
 Left his pure footsteps to guide us 
 In the high places of truth; 
 
 Left his great faith to the weary 
 And unto the old his youth. 
 
And Other Poems. 317 
 
 WHAT THOUGH THE GARDEN OF THE 
 MUSES YIELD? 
 
 What though the garden of the Muses yield 
 But one sweet flower to my hand each day ? 
 
 Contented, come I from the bloomy field 
 And at thy feet that single flower lay. 
 
 Kich in the treasure of that only bloom, 
 But richer in the thought that 't is for thee; 
 
 For not, indeed, the flower but for whom 
 The flower is gathered most enriches me. 
 
 Then take this single blossom of my rhyme, 
 This everlasting of a poet's mind, 
 
 And make it doubly precious for all time, 
 
 Thrice precious by acceptance more than kind. 
 
 Take these, the single flowers of my song, 
 And day to day my toil shall add to them 
 
 Until they grow to be 't will not be long 
 A wreath, a garland and a diadem. 
 
 A chaplet sweet to crown thee queen of love, 
 Thou lovely spirit with thy human mouth, 
 
 Thou blue-eyed maiden precious far above 
 All sister-spirits of thy shining south. 
 
318 lone, 
 
 POET, OPEN WIDE THE GATE OF 
 DREAMS. 
 
 Poet, open wide the gate of dreams 
 And let our care-worn spirits in to rest; 
 
 Throw wide the hinges of the gates of Song 
 And none so poor but will be Beauty's guest. 
 
 Our hearts are cankered with the canker gold, 
 The World beats on us like a tropic sun; 
 
 Almost we have forgotten Beauty's name, 
 So fierce we slave, so fast the race is run. 
 
 Throw wide the everlasting gates of Song, 
 
 (So heaven's gates by seraphs are thrown 
 wide!) 
 
 And like young angeis we shall enter in 
 
 And with great truths, as with the gods, abide. 
 
 flush our hearts with the Pierian spring, 
 bathe us in the bright Aonian flood; 
 
 reach from out the dream and draw us back 
 That music heal this fever in our blood. 
 
 Builder of the Dream that is no dream 
 Worker in the spirit stuff of thought, 
 
 0Poet, open wide the gates of Song 
 We flee from Mammon, and would not be 
 caught ! 
 
And Other Poems. 319 
 
 give us shelter from the world's alarms; 
 
 Show us again in heaven Beauty's bow; 
 Lead us into the silences of God, 
 
 And crown us with a faith lost long ago. 
 
 PHOEBE. 
 
 Thou pleasant land of brooks and leaf-fringed 
 
 streams, 
 
 Thou Arcady of citron and of vine, 
 Untroubled vale, where aye bright Summer 
 
 dreams 
 
 Lulled in the coil of dewy eglantine, 
 What conscious spirit, by winged airs entranced, 
 Her breast soft-heaving with its burdened 
 
 musk, 
 Enamoured sleeps midst yonder depth of 
 
 thorn 
 
 Where never mortal nor yet spirit chanced, 
 Saving perhaps with golden rain or dusk 
 Some faery hasting by with silent horn? 
 
 She sleeps a spirit's sleep on rose-bloom prest, 
 Her hair half-loosened from a fragrant wreath ; 
 
 One white, soft-tapering hand upon her breast, 
 The other hid her crooked curls beneath. 
 
320 lone, 
 
 Upon her body is a splendid light, 
 
 A glory like around the summer moon 
 
 That sleeps upon the lakes of Thessaly; 
 Her watchers are the golden stars of night, 
 And, hanging with the lily o'er her swoon, 
 The nightingale pours forth its melody. 
 
 She sleeps a spirit's sleep, rose-bloom above, 
 
 O'erwoofed with oxlip and musk roses dear, 
 And dreams a spirit's dream, soft breathing love 
 
 Which only the rapt nightingale may hear. 
 Immortal bird ! Sweet-throated interpreter ! 
 
 Thy music is the cadence of her dream, 
 
 A dream prophetic of the golden morn 
 Bright vision that the hours will not blur 
 
 Into forgetfulness, nor orient beam 
 
 Dissolve away and leave her all forlorn! 
 
 She dreams of him long-seeking her through pain, 
 
 Only to meet in dreams of summer night, 
 Meet and embrace, embrace and part again 
 
 Like guilty things in the hierarchy's sight. 
 Of young Endymion she dreams of him! 
 
 For she is Phoebe, his immortal love ! 
 
 'T is evening ; they have met in Thessaly, 
 And in her dream she plucks the lily dim 
 
 That hangs her shut and sleeping eyes above 
 And lays it on her breast where he will see. 
 
And Other Poems. 321 
 
 Love's dreams are sweet, but sweeter is love's 
 
 waking. 
 
 Aye clasped in embrace to the other's heart! 
 then awake thy waking hath no sting ! 
 
 Awake, bright Spirit nor thy dreams depart! 
 Not o'er the threshold of thy dreams alone 
 Endymion comes, but o'er the threshold too 
 Of thy lush bower thatched with tender 
 
 shoot ; 
 
 Not only in thy dreams the Fates atone 
 But in thy waking also! O'er the dew 
 Endymion comes, and Philomel is mute! 
 
 AN EVIL BOOK. 
 
 There is no evil like an evil book, 
 
 And no infection half so quickly spread, 
 Since such has power to strike the conscience 
 dead 
 
 And rot the spirit, ere the flesh is shook. 
 
 Such evil tomes are each a golden hook 
 
 That, shining, snares and, snaring, lets not go 
 Until the devil has the soul in tow, 
 
 Jerked like a grayling from its native brook! 
 
 u 
 
 or THE 
 { UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 Va 
 
322 lone, 
 
 In writing then write holily or quit; 
 
 And every page for honor's sake left blank 
 Will shine in heaven with a splendid wit, 
 
 And angels and not men shall give you rank; 
 But whensoever an evil line is writ 
 
 Hell has another scribbling fool to thank! 
 
 LAKE TAHOE. 
 
 Beauty walks by Lake Tahoe 
 Her path is through the pine; 
 
 And Grandeur from eternal snow 
 Aye looketh down divine. 
 
 Here Solitude and Silence meet 
 
 In their unbroken love; 
 And day completes the earth beneath 
 
 And night the skies above. 
 
 Tall golden splendors bloom and shake 
 
 Where limpid waters lie, 
 And heaven's face glows in the lake 
 
 As in a conscious eye. 
 
 While from the hanging walls above 
 The stately pine looks down, 
 
 Aye carpeting the dewy earth 
 With needles smooth and brown. 
 
And Other Poems. 323 
 
 A PRELUDE. 
 
 I sing of Romance and the South, 
 
 Of meads that lovers' feet have prest; 
 A river flowing to the west 
 
 With sunset islands at its mouth. 
 
 I sing of beauty and of light, 
 
 Of truth and honor not in vain 
 The love that lifts me shall sustain, 
 
 The grace that wins me shall invite. 
 
 Of love amid a pleasant seat, 
 
 And of that pleasant seat I sing; 
 Though nothing new to song I bring 
 
 Save this new heart with love complete. 
 
 The golden Springtime needs be here 
 Ere I've attained my middle flight: 
 may the Spring's propitious light 
 
 Be ripened with my full career, 
 
 That from my labors I arise 
 
 And with the Springtime bid adieu, 
 To feel that I have flowered too, 
 
 And left a sweetness in the skies. 
 
324 lone, 
 
 WHEN I CONSIDER. 
 
 When I consider how the smallest thing 
 Can make or mar our human life divine: 
 How nothing is so trifling, frail, or fine, 
 But has the power, like a tyrant king, 
 To lift our feet to honor, or to bring 
 Our life to nothing and to hell consign 
 Our fondest hopes how trifles still combine 
 Mere trifles to overmaster every spring 
 Of human action ! When I think of this, 
 
 And look about and stern example see 
 On heaven's summit or in hell's abyss 
 
 Of the power of trifles, then to Destiny, 
 To fixed Fate I turn, and hold as flaw 
 Free Will which leaves our fate to hang upon a 
 straw. 
 
 WAR! 
 
 War! War! War! 
 Bring forth the iron car, 
 The cimeter and blade, 
 The cannon and grenade, 
 Mortar, rifle, sword and dirk, 
 Christian armament, or Turk; 
 
And Other Poems. 325 
 
 Powder, shot and shell, 
 Shrapnel as well: 
 Bring forth the bayonet 
 And let the blade be set; 
 Cartridge, bomb, and ball, 
 Ordnance great and small, 
 Then light the brand that lies at hand 
 And with War's bloody carnage sweep the troubled 
 land! 
 
 War! War! War! 
 
 War and blood! blood and war! 
 
 War anear and war afar! 
 
 Death in every form and shape, 
 
 Eack and ruin, murder, rape ! 
 
 Days of sorrow, 
 
 Nights of horror, 
 
 Bloody fields with corpses strewn 
 
 Smoking 'neath the torrid noon 
 
 Glist'ning ghastly in the pale light of the moon ! 
 
 War! War! War! 
 
 Foreign war ! internal war ! 
 
 War at home and war abroad, 
 
 War for lucre, war for fraud! 
 
 Ambition's war, 
 
 Sedition's war, 
 
 War in the name of Almighty God ! 
 
326 lone, 
 
 War and carnage, war and massacre, 
 War, the bloody-handed murderer, 
 War for every day on the calendar! 
 War! War! Christian war! 
 
 War! War! War! 
 
 Headlong, raging war, 
 
 Red-handed, rav'ning war, 
 
 Shuddering, revolting war, 
 
 Horrid wounds and ghastly accidents; 
 
 Brutish force and devilish intents! 
 
 Spitted babes and gutted sires, 
 
 Matrons roasted in circumfluent fires! 
 
 War and conflagration, 
 
 War and desolation! 
 
 War on land and war on sea, 
 
 War where'er two brothers be 
 
 War! War! Christian war! 
 
 WILL-HE NILL-HE. 
 
 I've cast my heart beneath her feet, 
 I've cast my fortune after: 
 
 No other lass has lips so sweet, 
 No other lass such laughter. 
 
And Other Poems. 327 
 
 Her eyes are heaven's baby stars, 
 
 Her lips are love's fresh fountains; 
 
 For her I'd tilt a lance on Mars 
 Or scale the moon's cold mountains. 
 
 I grant my love may foolish seem, 
 
 My actions well nigh silly; 
 But my poor heart has found his dream 
 
 And loves her, will he nill he. 
 
 IF! 
 
 If love were but a home, dear, 
 
 And kisses wine and cake, 
 Then we would never roam, dear, 
 
 Nor fear sharp hunger's ache. 
 
 If simple faith were gold, dear, 
 
 And true hearts silver were, 
 Then we would laugh at cold, dear, 
 
 And dress in silks and fur. 
 
 If father love were a tree, dear, 
 
 And mother love a toy, 
 Then Christmas would bring glee, dear, 
 
 Unto our little boy. 
 
328 lone, 
 
 But love is only love, dear, 
 
 And kisses but love's way; 
 And though we've a home above, dear, 
 
 We 're shelterless to-day. 
 
 And simple faith is much, dear, 
 And faithful hearts are more, 
 
 But they are graces such, dear, 
 As cannot clothe the poor. 
 
 And father love will cleave, dear, 
 
 And mother love be true, 
 But oh this Christmas eve, dear, 
 
 To fill Tim's little shoe! 
 
 THE SOXG THAT LIVES FOR AYE. 
 
 'T is not the polished phrase that makes 
 
 The song that lives for aye; 
 Nor perfect rhymes a poem are, 
 
 NOT measured beat a lay. 
 
 Though every rune should have its rhythm 
 
 And formal, studied scheme, 
 Each rounded, living poem must have 
 
 Its consecrated dream. 
 
And Other Poems. 329 
 
 The stately lines of poetry 
 
 Are broad, bright avenues 
 Down whose far vistas, like a god, 
 
 The poet's spirit moves. 
 
 And though these stately lines be set 
 
 With all the gems of art, 
 Unless the spirit moveth there 
 
 They have of life no part. 
 
 I LOVE MY COUNTRY NOT THE LESS, 
 DEAR FRIENDS. 
 
 I love my country not the less, dear friends, 
 But ah! I love humanity the more: 
 
 I would not see my country gain her ends 
 By means which leave the other nations poor. 
 
 "My country, right or wrong/' is not my creed: 
 Where honor ends there ends my country too: 
 
 Truth's cause is dearer than my country's need, 
 Love's banner higher than the Red-white-blue. 
 
 Too much I love my country and her call 
 
 To fight her battles when she lists with hell: 
 
 And he who to his soul is false at all 
 Is false unto his fatherland as well. 
 
33 lone, 
 
 Thrice dear my country or in peace or war; 
 
 Thrice dear yon starry banner waving o'er, 
 But let this truth be blazoned on each bar 
 
 I owe my country much, but owe God more ! 
 
 I THINK: I KNOW. 
 
 I think the hills were made for her, 
 And half the vales between : 
 
 I know the trees cast shade for her, 
 And all the land is green. 
 
 I think the rose is red for her, 
 New washed in morning dew: 
 
 I know the fields are spread for her 
 With buds of lovely hue. 
 
 I think that song was born for her, 
 
 The hills of joy among: 
 I know that naught has scorn for her, 
 
 Or heart, or eye, or tongue. 
 
 I think the heavens glow for her, 
 
 And set their golden bow; 
 I know the rivers flow for her, 
 
 And sparkle as they flow. 
 
And Other Poems. 331 
 
 Ah, yes! the blossoms burst for her 
 
 On hedge and vine and tree; 
 And every joy was first for her 
 
 And then, oh then for me. 
 
 I think the stars look down for her 
 
 And shed their golden light; 
 And summer wears a crown for her, 
 
 And winter takes its flight. 
 
 I know the days are long for her, 
 
 The skies are blue above; 
 The birds were given song for her, 
 
 And youth was given love. 
 
 I think the sun doth shine for her, 
 
 For her sweet sake alone; 
 And life was made divine for her, 
 
 My Marian! my own! 
 
 SING ME A SONG OF MY NATIVE LAND. 
 
 sing me a song of my native land, 
 In the dear old American tongue; 
 
 sing me a song of Columbia, 
 The sweetest song ever sung. 
 
332 lone, 
 
 sing me a song of the Stars and Stripes, 
 
 sing me a song of the West, 
 
 And take me back in my dreams again 
 To the land I love the best. 
 
 for an hour of the life I lived 
 
 In God's own beautiful land; 
 The home of the true, the home of the brave, 
 
 Where Freedom forever shall stand! 
 
 Ten thousand miles from America, 
 Ten thousand miles from home ! 
 And were I back in my own country 
 
 1 never more would roam. 
 
 THE .LOVIXG COUPLE. 
 
 Look here upon* this husband, 
 And here upon this wife, 
 
 Where they, in rhyme and reason, 
 Are painted to the life. 
 
 He married for that jewel 
 
 Respectability, 
 (Sure marriage is a blessing 
 
 And the height of policy!) 
 
And Other Poems. 333 
 
 And happily he got it, 
 
 As any friend can tell, 
 For marriage with the lady 
 
 Made her respectable. 
 
 In winning her in marriage 
 
 He lost his only friend, 
 For soon as she was wedded 
 
 Her friendship reached its end. 
 
 In wedding with her husband 
 
 She found a lover dear; 
 But 't was not in her husband 
 
 Let it be stated here. 
 
 He acts a shameful evil, 
 
 And she she points it out: 
 He has, indeed, no honor, 
 
 And this she does not doubt. 
 
 He is not wholly happy 
 
 Until he plays the fool, 
 Nor she is e'er contented 
 
 Until at scandal's school. 
 
 He swears she 's vain and foolish, 
 Tricked out in silk for show; 
 
 She swears before her children 
 Her husband made her so. 
 
334 lone, 
 
 There 're two sides to each question, 
 And why ? 't is plain as life 
 
 One side is for the husband, 
 The other for the wife. 
 
 Were he to swear the noonday 
 
 Was luminous or bright, 
 She'd have the heavens darkened 
 
 To prove he was not right. 
 
 To prove her wrong in judgment 
 He'd prove himself a fool; 
 
 Eat fire for disagreement 
 And swear that it was cool. 
 
 Yet both, indeed, are happy 
 
 As ever day was long 
 And each can prove the other 
 
 Has lately been in the wrong. 
 
 And, sure, they have religion 
 But still to breed dispute 
 
 Learned in their creeds and doctrines 
 To be in quarrels acute. 
 
 They '11 never move together 
 
 An hour in one course 
 Until they move together 
 
 For divorce. 
 
And Other Poems. 335 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 a man am a human, 
 But a woman am a woman; 
 An' dat am certainly true. 
 
 An' when de debil made sin, 
 He chucked a woman in, 
 
 So what am a feller gwine to do? 
 
 COLUMBIA. 
 
 As a river floweth downward 
 From the mountains to the sea, 
 
 O my Country, so each nation 
 Floweth ever unto thee. 
 
 As the ocean melts in vapor 
 That descends in gentle rain, 
 
 my Country, so thy bounty 
 Nourishes the furtherest plain. 
 
 Like the ocean thou receivest, 
 Like the ocean render back 
 
 Troubled waters flowing to thee 
 Changed to golden, sun-kist rack. 
 
336 lone, 
 
 Much receiving, more returning; 
 
 Like the ocean, world-begot: 
 Changing all that empties in thee, 
 
 But thine own self changing not. 
 
 All the stars are in thy bosom 
 And all lands lead down to thee: 
 
 Turns the bondman to thy shore 
 As turns the sailor to the sea. 
 
 Like the ocean, swayed by heaven; 
 
 Like the ocean, pure and deep; 
 With the ocean's .stored thunders 
 
 And the ocean's splendid sweep. 
 
 Golden years shall beat upon thee 
 As the stars beat on the sea, 
 
 Kindling it with golden splendors 
 Streaming from infinity. 
 
 In the beauty of thy presence 
 Like the beauty of the sea, 
 
 Stately thoughts and noble passions 
 Ever keep us company. 
 
 Columbia ! my Country ! 
 
 Fair art thou and beautiful 
 As yon evening sea, blue-heaving, 
 
 Glory-kist, star-sown, illimitable! 
 
And Other Poems. 337 
 
 THE OTHER HALF. 
 
 In wretchedness of body and of mind 
 Live half the wretched sum of humankind; 
 In ghastly poverty of blood and soul, 
 Oblivion their hope and death their goal ! 
 Their birthright stolen in their mother's womb, 
 Their hopes betrayed and damned this side the 
 
 tomb ; 
 
 The smile of God aye turned away from them 
 As if He, too, their spirits did condemn: 
 Puppets of Mammon, slaves of blackest chance, 
 Disease and crime their sure inheritance! 
 They live (0 God in heaven, how they live!) 
 Like souls foredoomed to hell, yet fugitive 
 A little season here upon this earth 
 To swell Gehenna's lists with other birth 
 Wretched as they, as lost to heaven's light, 
 As sunken in bestiality and night! 
 Like brutes they toil, like brutes rewarded are 
 With chain and lash, and galling yoke, and 
 
 scar; 
 
 While at each furrow's end a grave doth gape 
 Which, if they could, they scarcely would 
 
 escape ! 
 
 From sea to sea, from spanning zone to zone 
 The poor grow poorer still: ah! not alone 
 
338 lone, 
 
 In fortune, but in faith and hope as well; 
 Hope for that blessed time when each shall dwell 
 Beneath his own vine in some goodly land' 
 With Peace above and Joy on either hand! 
 The rich grow richer, not alone in gold 
 But pride and power ! All that they behold 
 They covet ; laying hands upon the dream 
 Of poets hands whose touches base blaspheme: 
 Placing their seals upon the seeds of time; 
 Possessing all things of all growth and clime! 
 Richer they grow, still adding more to more, 
 And more to more 2 till God himself seems poor ! 
 
 DOX THY KERCHIEF. 
 
 don thy kerchief, sweetheart mine, 
 
 And don thy hood of lace, 
 And come to me 'neath the lemon tree, 
 
 Our lovely trysting-place. 
 
 mark how swiftly time doth fly 
 
 And haste without delay: 
 Sweet looks like thine and a heart like mine 
 
 May not be young alway. 
 
And Other Poems. 339 
 
 BIG GAME. 
 
 Don't talk to me of panther, 
 Or moose, or grizzly bear; 
 
 There 's bigger game than either 
 And plenty everywhere. 
 
 I hunted it last season 
 
 And bagged it every day 
 
 I know what I am saying, 
 
 And, h 1, I '11 have my say! 
 
 It isn't tiger, either, 
 
 Nor elephant, nor whale; 
 
 While, as for alligators, 
 
 They 're only so much quail. 
 
 'T is bigger game than ever 
 Old Nimrod's shade will stalk: 
 
 This game of which I'm talking, 
 Why, h 1, it too can talk! 
 
 It sort of rhymes with trigger 
 You '11 surely guess by that 
 
 This game why, it is nigger, 
 And wears a shirt and hat! 
 
340 lone, 
 
 Don't talk of killing tigers 
 Nor brag about the same; 
 
 If you've never bagged a nigger 
 You don't know what 's big game. 
 
 I like to pot 'em settin' 
 
 A-high upon a roof, 
 And watch 'em come a-tumblin' 
 
 To earth head-over hoof. 
 
 They squeal to beat a rabbit; 
 
 But when the nigger 's dead 
 You feel you've potted something 
 
 And not been wasting lead! 
 
 A STATISTICAL POEM. 
 
 Suppose there be (just for argument's sake) 
 
 A billion of people on earth 
 A probable thing, and a reasonable thing, 
 
 And neither redundance nor dearth. 
 
 And suppose each body should live thirty years, 
 Each woman, each child, and each man 
 
 The average of life as statistics will tell 
 As well as statistics well can. 
 
And Other Poems. 341 
 
 And suppose each body should once in his life, 
 Just once, and no more and no less, 
 
 Do something that 's wicked say perjure or steal, 
 Or drink of the cup to excess. 
 
 Now figure that out: you will find it will come 
 
 To ninety-nine thousand per day, 
 To ninety-nine thousand offences per diem 
 
 'T is more than enough, you will say. 
 
 And ninety-nine thousand offences per diem 
 
 Makes sixty-nine every minute: 
 A crime for each second ticked off by the clock 
 
 Good Lord, but the devil is in it! 
 
 But now to my moral as quick as a trice, 
 Or quick as my meter will let me; 
 
 And should I not prove what I set out to prove 
 May the devil statistical get me. 
 
 And what I intended to prove from the first 
 Is listen and you shall all hear 
 
 This planet called earth is still peopled with 
 
 saints 
 Though millions do sin every year. 
 
 For a sin every second, when counted all up, 
 
 Is only one sin to each soul, 
 One sin in a life-time of thirty long years! 
 
 So Earth ? s not so bad on the whole. 
 
342 lone, 
 
 SHE WEAES A STARRY CROWN OF 
 DEEDS. 
 
 She wears a starry crown of deeds 
 
 Upon her angel brow: 
 She rules a world of lovely thoughts 
 
 The Lady of the Vow. 
 
 She moves as beauteous as a star 
 
 From good to higher good: 
 She is the bright consummate flower 
 
 Of Catholic sisterhood. 
 
 HER BEAUTY IS A CLIMBING ROSE. 
 
 Her beauty is a climbing rose 
 A-clambering o'er my heart, 
 
 A-swooning it in fragrances 
 Of every precious sort. 
 
 Her beauty is a golden dew 
 That falls upon my brain, 
 
 Till lovely buds of thought upspring 
 Like roses after rain. 
 
And Other Poems. 343 
 
 Her beauty is the evening star, 
 My soul the mountain stream 
 
 A-dream, a-rapture with that star, 
 A-tremble with its beam. 
 
 Her beauty is a new-blown rose 
 
 My heart a vase of light, 
 And should you take the rose away 
 
 That vase were empty quite! 
 
 ENOUGH! STRIKE DEEP AND LET ME 
 GO. 
 
 Enough ! strike deep and let me go : 
 
 My friends all, all are gone, 
 Only the foe 
 
 Live on. 
 
 What, man ! fear not ! strike sure and deep ; 
 
 My soul will take its flight, 
 Nor haunt thy sleep 
 
 To-night. 
 
 I have outlived my time below, 
 
 And now the law says, die! 
 And even so 
 
 Say I. 
 
344 Ione > 
 
 Strike deep, and part the cord of life! 
 
 I am aweary, friend, 
 Of hate and strife. 
 
 Let >s end ! 
 
 My place is in death's chamber hall: 
 
 And may I be forgot 
 As my friends are all 
 
 Forgot. 
 
 Why dost thou pause and strangely stare 
 
 Nor whet thy cruel knife? 
 What ! would thou spare 
 
 My life? 
 
 Too late! they killed me long ago 
 
 When some unkindest one 
 In death laid low 
 
 My son. 
 
 time and time again he bled, 
 
 Yet labored bravely on: 
 But now he ? s dead 
 
 And gone. 
 
 He was the noblest of us all : 
 
 The last we had put by, 
 Yet first to fall 
 
 And die. 
 
And Other Poems. 345 
 
 I know not where his body lies; 
 
 And when I think of him 
 These old worn eyes 
 
 Grown dim. 
 
 Well, well, we all must sometime go, 
 
 Each race must needs be run; 
 And swift or slow, 
 
 Strike here, strike deep, and many thanks! 
 
 I see that life '& a game, 
 And we drew blanks. 
 
 Take aim! 
 
 What 's that you say ? Sit still, my heart ! 
 
 Our noble cause hath won, 
 And thou thou art 
 
 My son! 
 
 No, no ! it were a bitter jest 
 
 To fool an old man so. 
 Ah, it were best 
 
 I go. 
 
 How now, you seem to pity me! 
 . And you would still my fears 
 And set me free 
 With tears ! 
 
346 lone, 
 
 Gracious God, this is my son! 
 
 And these He makes amends 
 Friends, friends, each, one, 
 
 Dear friends! 
 
 MAMMON. 
 
 Mammon I am! with the power to damn 
 
 The born and the unborn too! 
 Supreme I rule over church and school, 
 
 Over Christian and pagan and Jew. 
 
 I am the king of the times, and can bring 
 
 Caesars to kiss my rod; 
 And the nations bend while I shape their end 
 
 Even as I were a god. 
 
 No power dare say my authority nay 
 Nor Republic, nor Kingdom, nor State; 
 
 And what I command I have forces at hand 
 To accomplish as surely as Fate. 
 
 The young and the old are alike in my hold 
 The infant, the youth, and the sire; 
 
 The tramp in the ditch, and the arrogant rich 
 In silken and purple attire. 
 
And Other Poems. 347 
 
 Under my heel I have ground the seal 
 Dividing the right from the wrong, 
 
 And corrupted the gauge of reward and wage, 
 And given the earth to the strong. 
 
 I come between the king and his queen 
 
 And the beggar and his drab; 
 And I set at strife the husband and wife, 
 
 And teach them to poison or stab. 
 
 I hold in my hand the laws of the land 
 
 And amend and interpret at will; 
 And I am the court of last resort, 
 
 And he who offends me, I kill. 
 
 I stand like Fate on the ship of State 
 
 And its wheel is in my hand. 
 And calm and wrack are at my back, 
 
 Minions of my command. 
 
 The poets obey whatever I say 
 
 Though angels are hymning near; 
 
 And I dictate their love and their hate, 
 And' force their laughter or tear. 
 
 I tower above the spirit of love 
 
 As the hawk above his prey; 
 I loosen and bind the thinker's mind, 
 
 And shape his thoughts like clay. 
 
348 lone, 
 
 'Twixt the wornb and the -grave each woman 's 
 a slave 
 
 Bartered and bought by me; 
 I appoint her place of shame or of grace, 
 
 Of honor or infamy. 
 
 With gloves of gold I knead and mold 
 
 The living hearts of men ; 
 And I direct what all project 
 
 Labor of loom or pen. 
 
 the preachers preach and the scholars teach 
 
 And book is added to book, 
 And philosophy weaves her gathered sheaves 
 
 And wears her momentous look. 
 
 But I am behind each book and each mind 
 
 As the cause is behind the effect; 
 And though fabrics rise till they kiss the skies 
 
 I am their architect. 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 She passed for twenty, he was twenty-two; 
 His hair was slightly red, her eyes were blue; 
 They met, and, meeting, saw the world in each, 
 And, meeting once again, found means of speech; 
 
And Other Poems. 349 
 
 From speech to kisses was a single stride 
 And, first he knew, the lady was his bride: 
 Indeed, he'd just begun to feel love's thrills 
 When he awoke to pay the lady's bills. 
 (Lord! marriage is a sudden thing at best 
 And all is lost before we can protest ! ) 
 
 But they were young, and though they won- 
 dered some, 
 
 Each at the other, yet they did not come 
 To words of anger till some months had passed, 
 When love gave place to apathy at last, 
 And, growing cold, they each grew critical 
 And questioned why they came to wed at all. 
 Too late they one another's faults espied; 
 Too late ! the bans were read, the knot was tied, 
 And now (0 not the last nor yet the first!) 
 They needs must make the best of still the 
 worst! 
 
 She looked before her wedding to those days 
 When, bondage-free, she went her maiden ways, 
 And wished to heaven she were back once more 
 And had her marriage business to do o'er, 
 Or, in her mind went o'er the wedding form 
 But 't was another man who held her arm! 
 While he since he had time to think it o'er 
 'T was strange he'd never thought of it before 
 He now remembered she had been as hot 
 To marry him as if it were a plot, 
 
350 lone, 
 
 As free of favors as a wishing ring, 
 As light to snare as bird without a wing. 
 And had she been as free with other men, 
 As liberal of favors had she then? 
 By heaven ! she was cheaper for the thought, 
 And if 't were so indeed, then she was naught. 
 Another month and they had quarreled out- 
 right, 
 
 He stirred by jealousy and she by spite; 
 Some things they told each other that 't were 
 
 best 
 
 That they had whispered in a serpent's nest. 
 Then 'gan the daily feud and hourly jar, 
 The open rupture and admitted war, 
 The cat-and-dog-life of the wedded state 
 When passion dies and love is turned to hate. 
 Their home became a place to keep their clothes, 
 To part as strangers or to meet as foes, 
 To leave the baby (when the baby came), 
 And had no other use, it seemed, or claim. 
 Then infidelity rose up unclean, 
 That scarlet shape long felt ere yet *t is seen 
 Her lover found her husband false as dice, 
 Whereat she sought a lawyer for advice. 
 A suit was then begun and truth let loose 
 To play the very devil without truce. 
 The wonder grew that things had gone so far 
 Before they brought their troubles to the bar; 
 
And Other Poems. 351 
 
 She charged, he charged; complaint and cross- 
 complaint 
 Till scandal held its nostrils and grew faint. 
 
 Then on a certain day the case was tried, 
 The knot that bound them legally untied, 
 She got the child, he paid her counsel fee, 
 And each, according to the law, was free. 
 He paid her alimony once or twice 
 Then, being shrewd, he took his own advice 
 And left his troubles and his state behind 
 For parts unknown and more unto his mind. 
 She found another father for her child, 
 An easy-going fellow, weak and mild: 
 They lived together twenty years or so 
 Then died or parted, which, I do not know. 
 
 IF HALF THE EICHES SPENT ON WAR. 
 
 If half the riches spent on war 
 
 Were spent upon the mind, 
 Then Heaven would not seem so far, 
 
 Nor Fate would be so blind. 
 
 If half the forethought given wealth 
 
 Were given to the soul, 
 Our brows would press the crown of health, 
 
 And millions sick be whole. 
 
352 lone, 
 
 If half the labor spent in dress 
 Were spent to banish grime, 
 
 Then Beauty would rise up and bless 
 The spirit of the time. 
 
 If half the money spent on drink 
 Were spent on cultured taste, 
 
 More men would be like men, I think, 
 More women would be chaste. 
 
 If half the watch from barracks kept 
 Were kept from Christian shrine, 
 
 The angels, though they sometimes wept, 
 Would weep from joy divine. 
 
 If half the prisons built for men 
 Were built for training youth, 
 
 Men would be nearer Honor, then, 
 And Law be nearer Truth. 
 
 If half that ? s spent on things that pass 
 
 Were spent upon the soil, 
 Then women need not slave like brass 
 
 Nor little children moil. 
 
 If half that 's wasted on the sword 
 
 Were spent upon the pen, 
 What living truths we should record, 
 
 What poets would be then. 
 
And Other Poems. 353 
 
 ODE TO THE AIRSHIP. 
 
 Thou rare soft-soaring car, wherein we feel 
 
 The waking-dream of wings v at last come true ; 
 Thou marriage-graceful of bright silk and steel 
 
 Climbing the highways of the steadfast blue; 
 Not rosy Bacchus nor his merry bards, 
 
 In Tempe or in Thessaly divine, 
 E'er urged pleasure-wards 
 
 Chariot one-half so luxurious as thine! 
 
 Rare is a mount upon a mettled steed, 
 
 Rare is a canter through the dewy morn, 
 Rare are all joys equestrian indeed; 
 
 Ah, rare the throne behind the saddle-horn! 
 Rare are the motions of a white-winged yacht 
 
 Parting the spindrift of the purple tide, 
 When days are sultry-hot 
 
 Save where the bright sea opens cool and wide ! 
 
 But thou, oh latest birth of speed and flight, 
 
 Intelligence of woven silk, and fire, 
 Thy spell is rarer still: thou dost invite 
 
 Entirely, and, inviting, never tire ! 
 The hand that grasps thy lever hath sure hold 
 
 Of Pleasure's silken girdle; and who ride 
 Thee up the morning gold 
 
 Sweep through bright gates elysian open wide! 
 
354 Ione > 
 
 WHEN BEAUTY BUILDS BENEATH THE 
 STAES. 
 
 When Beauty builds beneath the stars 
 
 A temple all divine, 
 The Poet is the architect 
 
 Who shapes the high design. 
 
 
 Before the doing is the dream, 
 
 Before the work, the plan; 
 Without the Poet what were then 
 
 The proudest artisan? 
 
 His pencil drew entempled Greece 
 
 Upon the hearts of men 
 A thousand years ere Pericles 
 
 Was Athen's citizen. 
 
 LENORE. 
 
 Lenore, was her name! 
 From worlds above she came: 
 She brought me Eden in her face 
 
 And heaven in her eyes, 
 And for a little blessed space 
 
 We dwelt in paradise: 
 
And Other Poems. 355 
 
 then the white-rose bloom, 
 
 Aslant her marble tomb, 
 Bar'd out the precious sight of her 
 And shut my heaven up in the voiceless sepulchre ! 
 
 CAN THIS BE HOME, SWEET HOME? 
 
 The hands that rocked me in the cradle 
 
 I have crossed for evermore; 
 The face that watched my homeward coming 
 
 Watches no more at the door: 
 She is dead, my darling mother, 
 
 And I wander through our home; 
 But the face I seek is sleeping 
 
 Underneath the grassy loam ! 
 
 Can this be home, sweet home, 
 
 With mother dead and gone? 
 Can this be that dear haven 
 
 That yesterday she called Sweet Home, 
 Where yesterday she sang Sweet Home? 
 
 Her touch could charm away all sadness, 
 
 Her hair was soft as sleep; 
 She brought a smile to crown my gladness, 
 
 She left me not alone to weep. 
 
356 lone, 
 
 I've had companions, but my mother 
 Was a friend before them all; 
 
 And I thought her most secure 
 When she heard the angels call! 
 
 Can this be home, sweet home, 
 With mother dead and gone? 
 
 Can this be that dear haven 
 That yesterday she called Sweet Home, 
 
 Where yesterday she sang Sweet Home ? 
 
 FANCY'S BARK. 
 
 bright Fancy, come to me 
 
 O'er the deep blue western sea, 
 
 Come upon the salt airs sweet 
 
 While the spray drifts 'round my feet; 
 
 Come, bright Fancy, be my guide 
 
 O'er the golden sunset tide! 
 
 Love was born beside the sea 
 
 Where I stand and call to thee, 
 
 But I seek not Love to-day, 
 
 Mocking me through driven spray 
 
 What is wanton Love to me 
 
 While my bark is on the sea, 
 
 While each chaliced wave shall hold 
 
 A star of trembling gold; 
 
And Other Poems. 357 
 
 While the sun shall sink to rest 
 On the sea's dark-heaving breast, 
 While the bright, soft-pacing moon 
 Shall attain her queenly noon 
 Right above a stately mast 
 Piercing to the starry vast? 
 bright Fancy, hasten then 
 From the shores of Darien 
 Must I sail the sea no more, 
 Ever chained to this bleak shore, 
 Who am drunk on driven foam 
 From my dark-heaving home? 
 
 Now you fade again, bleak shore, 
 Now I sail the sea once more! 
 Blow, ye airs, straight to my heart, 
 Fill, ye sails, and do your part; 
 O'er the mountains of the sea, 
 Down its valleys, blue and free, 
 I and Fancy, on and on, 
 Sail toward the gates of dawn. 
 Lo ! I hear the sea-bird's call 
 Like a voice from heaven fall, 
 Sweeter, sweeter, near to pain 
 Like a dead voice heard again: 
 While upon my lisfning ear 
 Fall those sounds I love so dear 
 
358 lone, 
 
 Sound of wind and sound of tide, 
 Of the waters flowing wide 
 'Bound the brow of Fancy's bark; 
 Sounds that but old sailors hark; 
 Sounds but to the sailor dear; 
 Sounds that sailors love and fear! 
 Oh, I hear and I rejoice, 
 And each sound is as a voice 
 Calling to its sister sound 
 That the sailor has been found, 
 That he hath come home again 
 Sailing on past Darien, 
 Sailing o'er the drifting foam 
 Of his dark-heaving home. 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 He puts aside his playthings all 
 His soldiers, blocks, and drum, 
 
 And holding out his baby hands 
 He begs his mother come. 
 
 I feel his arms about my neck, 
 His cheek against my cheek 
 
 So drowsy are his rosy lips 
 They murmur and not speak. 
 
And Other Poems. 359 
 
 I press him closer to my heart, 
 
 And smooth his curly hair, 
 Then lay him in his little cot 
 
 And leave him sleeping there. 
 
 He wakes and calls me back again 
 
 And begs some promised toy; 
 And I I grant him anything 
 
 My sweet, dead little boy! 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 The naked Truth was in the cold 
 
 The Poet took it in 
 And clothed it in bright mail of gold 
 
 As J t were his dearest kin. 
 
 And fed its lips on honey-dew 
 
 Distilled of freshest song; 
 Then led it forth where Error drew 
 
 Her python length along. 
 
 The youngest scholar knows the rest 
 How Truth smote Error cold! 
 
 But honor unto him who drest 
 The Truth in mail of gold. 
 
360 lone, 
 
 SCANDAL. 
 
 Scandal has quitted her perch as the falcon, 
 
 And flaps her cruel pinions above, 
 And hunteth the Dove of my passion that soareth 
 
 A-high in the heavens of love. 
 
 And Gladness is frightened away as the turtle 
 
 Is frightened away by the hawk, 
 And all the bright brood of sweet Pleasure is 
 silent 
 
 As linnets when hooting owls stalk. 
 
 RHYME. 
 
 What strange philosophies rhyme leads us to 
 Only the poets know the minstrel crew. 
 ? T was Samuel Butler once upon a ime 
 Said that the rudder of all verse is rhyme, 
 But nowhere has old Butler set it down, 
 (Perhaps he knew, but feared the church and 
 
 crown ! ) 
 
 How that in this wide world of yours and mine 
 Somewhere may be religions called divine, 
 And schools and systems and philosophies 
 And faiths that move the heart and bend the 
 
 knees, 
 
And Other Poems. 361 
 
 Born of a poet's thought, which thought sublime 
 \\as forced upon the poet by his rhyme, 
 And by him accepted for the rhyme at stake, 
 And not for truth's or inspiration's sake. 
 
 I KNOW, I KNOW WHERE THE SUNBEAMS 
 GO. 
 
 I know, I know where the sunbeams go 
 
 Whenever the day-star dies; 
 Into the face of my love they go, 
 
 To sparkle again in her eyes. 
 
 I know where the violets all have gone 
 
 When winter is in the grove; 
 Into the veins of my love they go 
 
 To pulse in purple and mauve. 
 
 I know, I know where the melody goes 
 When the harper doth cease to rejoice; 
 
 Into the throat of my love it goes, 
 To awaken again in her voice. 
 
 I know where the musk of the rose is gone 
 When the rose is withered in death; 
 
 Into the lips of my love ? t is gone, 
 And rises again in her breath. 
 
362 lone, 
 
 I know, I know where all kind thoughts go 
 When the thinker has given them o'er; 
 
 Into the heart of my love they go, 
 To dwell in that heart evermore. 
 
 THE OLD FOLKS ARE GROWING OLD, 
 OLD! 
 
 The old folks are talking of buying two graves, 
 Two graves on the hillside so cold; 
 
 Two graves side-by-side far out under the stars! 
 the old folks are growing old, old! 
 
 The old folks are talking of buying a stone, 
 A stone to be placed o'er their mold; 
 
 A stone that will mark where they sleep the long 
 
 sleep ! 
 the old folks are growing old, old! 
 
 The old folks were out in the graveyard to-day, 
 The sun was just setting in gold; 
 
 They walked hand-in-hand and they chose out two 
 
 graves! 
 the old folks are growing old, old! 
 
And Other Poems. 363 
 
 "Dear Mary," said Robert, "we'll sleep side by 
 side 
 
 Here under the dew and the mold, 
 And awaken together in the smile of the Lord!" 
 
 the old folks are growing old, old! 
 
 THE LAND OF WASHINGTON. 
 
 say where is the land of Washington, 
 The land of Franklin and of Jefferson; 
 That pleasant land along a pleasant sea 
 Where Freedom sprung, where laughed bright 
 
 Liberty, 
 
 Where honor shone more splendidly than gold 
 And manhood was not bought nor statehood sold? 
 
 1 cannot find it on the world's wide map 
 That lies outspread before me on my lap ! 
 "T is not in Europe! No; though Thessaly 
 The Beautiful is there; and Arcady, 
 Bright Arcady with all her lakes and rills, 
 Her verdant valleys and her wooded hills ! 
 But, stay, perhaps it northward lies by chance 
 Amidst the pleasant vales of sunny France, 
 Or southward in the land of Italy 
 
 Which dips an hundred cities in an azure sea! 
 Ah, no! the kindly land of Washington 
 Keposes not beneath Italian sun, 
 
364 lone, 
 
 Nor can I find it in bright Thessaly, 
 Nor yet in France nor sunny Arcady. 
 Then does it lie on the Castilian shore 
 By Biscay's Bay or by Gibraltar's door? 
 Ah, no, not here ! Nor northward on the isles 
 Where Briton rules o'er her enkingdomed miles. 
 'T is not in Europe ! Nay ; nor in Araby, 
 Nor Persia, nor along the Indian sea, 
 Nor in that Empire wintry as the moon 
 And one half hidden like the distant moon, 
 Russia the vast; nor yet in Egypt's land 
 Where Cheops looks forever o'er a world of sand ! 
 No, not in Africa can it be found 
 This land of Washington, this holy ground; 
 Nor in Australia ; nor the islands that surround 
 That larger Isle ; nor where the Great Wall runs 
 Sheer by the Tartar Empire with her myriad sons ! 
 So look I elsewhere on the world's wide map 
 Which lies outspread before me on my lap, 
 And search out every land aye, every one 
 To find the kindly land of Washington; 
 But nowhere can I find it, though I seek 
 From hot Brazil to Greenland cold and bleak! 
 Yet, stay, here is a country broad and vast, 
 The mightiest, the richest, and the last; 
 America! we call it on the map 
 America! a name for gods to clap! 
 
And Other Poems. 365 
 
 The States United and the States supreme, 
 
 Time's chief est work and history's noblest theme! 
 
 say, is this the land of Washington, 
 
 The land of Franklin and of Jefferson? 
 
 Can this, our Country, be that holy seat 
 
 Where darkness sank reproved and tyrants met 
 
 defeat? 
 
 That young Republic, lit with Freedom's star, 
 That loosed Religion's chain and broke the feudal 
 
 bar? 
 
 Ah, no ! it seems, but yet it cannot be 
 Too great, too wide, is the diversity ! 
 The land of Washington, though thousands fell, 
 Was not Oppression's seat, nor Mammon's hell; 
 It was not eaten with the golden-rot; 
 The hungry were but few those few were not for- 
 got: 
 
 It sweetened fifty years of history 
 And smells sweet yet ! So then it cannot be 
 That this, our Country, is that kindly land 
 Where Washington once stood and now his works 
 
 should stand. 
 
 Ah, no! though fondly we would have them one 
 This land is not the land of Washington! 
 Here Mammon rules ; Oppression has her hold ; 
 And woe to him who is both poor and old! 
 Here men, like vultures, in high places sit, 
 And, having gorged, gorge on and will not quit! 
 
366 lone, 
 
 Here Opportunity has closed her gate 
 And barred out thousands that on merit wait ! 
 Here nothing greater is than minted gold 
 Saving more gold ! Here honor 's bought and 
 
 sold 
 And rogues and caitiffs feast while Virtue shakes 
 
 with cold! 
 
 The very rich here fear the greater rich, 
 The poor fear all ! Here principle 's a ditch 
 Wherein to stumble and be trod upon, 
 But damned hypocrisy 's a level lawn 
 Where millions move secure though hell itself 
 
 should yawn ! 
 
 The land of Washington ! It is not here 
 In this, our Country; nor this country near! 
 In this, our Counhr, this, our native land, 
 With blue skies o'er, blue seas on either hand, 
 Eternal springs in her bosom and gold in all her 
 
 sand, 
 
 We rob the toiler in his mother's womb, 
 We rob him in his sickness, in his tomb, 
 We steal his widow's labor, and his orphans' doom ! 
 then, this cannot be the land I seek, 
 The land we often hear of, often speak, 
 The dear, the kindly land of Washington, 
 The land of Franklin and of Jefferson! 
 So putting from my hands the world's wide map 
 Which lay outspread before me on my lap, 
 
And Other Poems. 367 
 
 I write it down in sorrow yet in truth 
 
 The land of Washington, beloved of youth, 
 
 Of age thrice honored and thrice dear in song, 
 
 Has vanished from the earth these ages long: 
 
 Perhaps ere Plato's time, or Ptolemy's, 
 
 It sunk with bright Atlantis into the purple seas, 
 
 Or else, removed by centuries of time, 
 
 Long leagues of space, beneath some other clime 
 
 Far distant, say in yonder golden star, 
 
 It had its radiant seat and dazzled from afar! 
 
 GLADNESS. 
 
 Gladness has come as the robin returns, 
 
 And sings in my garden again! 
 The robin whose breast with her happy heart burns, 
 
 Eare lover of children and men. 
 
 Right under my window she turneth her note, 
 
 Her note which is sweetest of all, 
 And floods the bright heaven from one spirit 
 throat, 
 
 And comes to my hand at my call. 
 
368 lone, 
 
 And my heart like a mocking-bird mocks her all 
 day 
 
 And wakes through the night with her glee 
 For love is the measure and rhythm of her lay, 
 
 The burden, the chord, and the key! 
 
 LIBERTY LIVES: HER SOLDIER IS DEAD. 
 
 Rose of the Valley, 
 Rose of the Vale, 
 
 1 found thee all blushing 
 But left thee all pale. 
 
 I brought thee the story 
 
 Of war o'er the sea, 
 Of death on the waters 
 
 And death on the lea. 
 
 I brought thee Love's message 
 
 From over the wave, 
 A curl from his forehead 
 
 A flower from his grave. 
 
 He faced the baptism 
 
 Of fire and of lead 
 And liberty lives 
 
 But her soldier is dead ! 
 
And Other Poems. 3619 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Love makes the world over, 
 
 Love keeps the world young; 
 
 And love is the sweetest song 
 Sung or unsung. 
 
 Love is a sorrow, 
 
 And Love is a cheat: 
 Love makes us to hunger, 
 
 Then takes 'way the meat. 
 
 Love is a higher life 
 
 Lived in this one; 
 The only Elysium 
 
 Under the sun. 
 
 Love 's a contradiction 
 
 And Love is a fraud: 
 For Love we cast heaven by 
 
 And worship a gaud. 
 
 Love takes the man pris'ner, 
 
 Then sets his soul free 
 To soar in a higher world 
 
 With angel company. 
 
 Love wakes the thick dullard 
 
 And puts him to school; 
 Love sits the philosopher 
 
 On the dunce-stool. 
 
37 lone, 
 
 Love, oh what art thou 
 Angel or devil? 
 
 Brightest of bright things 
 Or blackest of evil ? 
 
 MY QUEEN. 
 
 Queen of the Isles of Perfume and Smiles, 
 
 Queen of those Isles and of me, 
 The air that blows from the sweet tuberose 
 
 Was never as sweet as thee, 
 Nor the dulcet note from the oriole's throat 
 
 Can match thy harmony. 
 
 Queen of the Isles of Perfume and Smiles, 
 With the airs of Heaven thou art fanned, 
 
 And the flowers they press the hem of thy dress 
 Whenever you walk in the land, 
 
 And like a flame of fire the rose climbs higher 
 Striving to touch thy hand. 
 
 Queen of the Isles of Perfume and Smiles 
 
 And arbiter of my fate, 
 
 Thou hast shaken all care from thy sun-bright 
 hair 
 
 And put off the girdle of state, 
 And I follow after the voice of thy laughter 
 
 And come to thy garden gate. 
 
And Other Poems. 371 
 
 We meet on the green, my Love and my Queen, 
 
 And the rose is between us two; 
 A red, red rose that swings and glows 
 
 Like a censer of perfume and dew; 
 While unbeholden from the distance golden 
 
 The oriole sings his adieu. 
 
 A moment you stand with outstreiched hand 
 
 And welcome me debonair, 
 Then all proud and pale thou drawest thy veil 
 
 Concealing thy brow so fair; 
 But ah the soft lace you draw o'er thy face 
 
 Leaves thy warm bosom all bare. 
 
 rose look away! heart look away! 
 
 oriole cease thy strain 
 Till my Queen shall veil her bosom all pale 
 
 With its purple warmth of vein; 
 Till the sweet unrest of my young Queen's breast 
 
 Is hid in her silken train ! 
 
 Quickly you turn and your sweet cheeks burn 
 
 With virgin modesty through; 
 Quickly you veil thy bosom now pale 
 
 Through all its veins of blue 
 Fate made thee a queen with stately mien 
 
 But made thee a woman too. 
 
37 2 lone, 
 
 my sweet girl Queen, what eye hath seen 
 
 The path that leads to thy heart ? 
 Not the eagle above nor the homing dove 
 
 Aught of that path can impart; 
 Nor the fleeting hind that path can find 
 
 With all her cunning and art. 
 
 For there :'s a path that the eagle hath 
 Seen never from the clouds above, 
 
 Nor the lark in its flight nor the bird of night, 
 Nor hind, nor hart, nor dove 
 
 The secret path, the wonderful path 
 That leads to a woman's love. 
 
 That path is known to brave men alone 
 
 Who do their honor no wrong, 
 And though I were blind that path I shall find 
 
 That leads to thy heart along; 
 Nor the gods shall say my spirit nay 
 
 As I take that path with song. 
 
 Ah, well I ween that thou art a queen, 
 
 gracious lady of mine, 
 Queen of the Isles of Perfume and Smiles, 
 
 And queen by a right divine; 
 As high and proud as yon golden cloud 
 
 Trailing its robes of sunshine! 
 
And Other Poems. 373 
 
 But the poet springs of a line of kings, 
 
 Born in the purple of song, 
 And I shall not wait for robes of state 
 
 Nor fear that 1 do thee wrong, 
 For this name of mine is as high as thine 
 
 And my kingly line is as long. 
 
 I have followed after the voice of thy laughter 
 
 And come to thy wicket gate;- 
 I have bribed the warden of this sun-bright garden 
 
 With a bribe that was passionate; 
 And now I wist to my love thou wilt list, 
 
 arbiter of my fate. 
 
 Often you hark to the sweet meadowlark 
 
 Singing from heaven blue, 
 
 And thine ear it hath heard the whistling black- 
 bird, 
 
 And the note of the oriole too: 
 Then need I to fear you ? 11 not lend an ear 
 
 Unto a love that is true? 
 
 the love of a man is more precious than 
 
 An anthem at heaven's gate; 
 Than whistling blackbird, or the music that ? s stir'd 
 
 In the oriole's heart by its mate: 
 J T is no fleeting note from a dumb creature's 
 throat 
 
 But a human cry passionate. 
 
374 lone, 
 
 Queen of the Isles of Perfume and Smiles, 
 
 Queen of those Isles and of me, 
 The grass lies sweet under our feet 
 
 And sweet is the lilac tree, 
 The red rose swings and the oriole sings 
 
 And my heart goeth out to thee. 
 
 Then lift the warm lace from thy queenly face 
 And soften this silence with a glance; 
 
 For my heart must ache and my heart must break 
 While you keep me in ignorance: 
 
 Say thou wilt be more than queen to me, 
 And swift be thy utterance. 
 
 Then this love I have nurst like the white rose 
 
 shall burst 
 
 And fill all thy path with light; 
 And my heart shall be a new kingdom for thee 
 
 To rule over day and night; 
 And the strength of my arm shall shield thee 
 
 from harm 
 Till heaven burst on thy sight. 
 
 OVER THE HILLS TO THE POORHOUSE. 
 
 Over the hills to the poorhouse 
 
 Love is going to-day, 
 And all the flowers are weeping 
 
 That bloom along his way. 
 
And Other Poems. 375 
 
 Over the hills to the poorhouse, 
 
 Over the hills of June, 
 And all the birds are silent, 
 
 And the brooks are out of tune. 
 
 Over the hills to the poorhouse, 
 
 Over the western hills, 
 Through the sweet forget-me-nots 
 
 And the yellow daffodils. 
 
 Over the hills to the poorhouse 
 
 Love is going to-day, 
 And Mammon is going before him 
 
 Showing him on his way! 
 
 WAR. 
 
 Of War, I sing; of bloody war and long; 
 War 'gainst the weak and war amongst the strong : 
 Red war, that runs the rivers thick with blood, 
 Wasting the nations like another Flood ! 
 War crimson, lurid, deep and damned as hell; 
 War, certain war where'er two brothers dwell. 
 Of war, that great prophetic war, I sing, 
 Whose vultures even now are on the wing; 
 The last, the worst, the blackest of all wars, 
 Whose smoke, ascending, shall blot out the stars! 
 
376 lone, 
 
 The hour was written and the hour has ooine 
 The world's four winds bring beating of the drum, 
 The blare of trumpet, and the sound of fife, 
 Foregathering all nations to the strife ! 
 Not Europe now alone, but all the earth 
 Comes forth to battle ! Like some monster birth 
 Of coil in coil and scale overlapping scale, 
 Blinding high heaven with its glist'ning mail 
 It issues forth ! God, but to behold 
 Would make the blood of Lucifer run cold! 
 
 WHAT DREAMS UNTO THE RICH WILL 
 COME ! 
 
 What dreams unto the rich will come! 
 
 I dreamt I dwelt within a slum 
 
 Where loathsome things in human guise 
 
 Slunk loathsomely 'neath loathsome skies; 
 
 A nefarious, accursed spot 
 
 That on hell itself would cast a darker blot ! 
 
 Hard by a city (thickly sown 
 With golden steeples) overgrown 
 With hovels as with blasted brake 
 It lay, and heaven seemed to ache 
 Above it, and the moon's dim flood 
 Changed in its thick and murky air to blood. 
 
And Other Poems. 377 
 
 Methought I came (nor came alone!) 
 From palace wrought in precious stone, 
 Down, down, (as one descends to hell!) 
 Into this slum where horrors dwell: 
 This noisome, dark, and damned place 
 With human horror for a populace. 
 
 Nor came alone ! My wife and child 
 
 Clung to me: bright their eyes and wild, 
 
 All pale their lips, and ah, they shook 
 
 Like slaves with cold; and in their look 
 
 Despair I saw in its extreme, 
 
 And, writhing, cursed God in my sleep and dream. 
 
 Shame first we met ! Shame face to face, 
 And shame's familiar, foul disgrace; 
 Then misery, then wretched want, 
 Then hunger hunger stern and gaunt! 
 Then came one tempting, tempting me 
 To traffic with my daughter's chastity! 
 
 God, how I wrestled in my dream 
 With that which was not, yet did seem: 
 How sternly did I struggle then, 
 All men against me, 'gainst all men: 
 liet in that hour of sleep learned more 
 Than e'er in all my waking hours before. 
 
378 lone, 
 
 I learned how millions daily dwell 
 
 In torment out-tormenting hell: 
 
 I learned what living costs the poor 
 
 When gold is to be had no more: 
 
 I learned the price that thousands pay 
 
 To keep themselves in bread day unto day. 
 
 Then, waking, bowed my fevered head 
 
 Ashamed of mine own wealth, and said: 
 
 God, this very dream has left 
 
 Me sickened and of peace bereft, 
 
 What then to feeling souls must be 
 
 The stern, the black, the damned reality! 
 
 WHY? 
 
 Why is her face so fair to me? 
 
 Why is her mouth so sweet? 
 Why is her smile so rare to me, 
 
 Her beauty so complete? 
 
 Why is she all divine to me, 
 A red, red rose, new blown? 
 
 Why is her kiss like wine to me? 
 Her voice like music's own? 
 
And Other Poems. 379 
 
 Why is she like the sun to me, 
 
 Or like the golden dawn? 
 Why is it darkness unto me 
 
 Whenever she is gone? 
 
 Why are her wants supreme to me, 
 
 My constant, one employ? 
 Why is she all a dream to me, 
 
 A wonder and a joy? 
 
 Why is her hair so bright to me, 
 
 All curls, all silk, all gold? 
 Why are her eyes a light to me 
 
 To guide me and uphold? 
 
 Why is her laugh so much to me 
 
 It sets me all astir? 
 Why are her glances such to me 
 
 That I would die for her? 
 
 FORTUNE-SICK. 
 
 I would open my heart as I open a door 
 And welcome the Angel of Death, 
 
 For I'm weary of being unhappy and poor, 
 Of drawing life's pain-laden breath. 
 
380 lone, 
 
 I am weary of toiling that others may rest, 
 Of starving that others may feast: 
 
 I am sick of a Fortune that makes me its jest, 
 Its gold-burdened, thistle-fed beast. 
 
 I am cut to the heart with the cheat of it all, 
 The shame, the unkindness and wrong: 
 
 With the height and the depth and the breadth of 
 
 that wall 
 Dividing the weak from the strong. 
 
 I am mad with a madness that y s not of the brain, 
 
 And surgery never can heal, 
 And I chafe at my thoughts as a man at a chain 
 
 That bindeth him unto the wheel. 
 
 I am sick of the mouthings and empty advice 
 Of those who have never known want 
 
 As they counsel the poor, o'er their wine and their 
 
 spice, 
 Their words are a blow and a taunt. 
 
 my God for a century, oh for a land 
 Where men in the sunlight might grow 
 
 Like the trees that touch heaven, and evermore 
 
 stand 
 Untroubled by shock or by blow. 
 
And Othej Poems. 381 
 
 ONE OF THE MILLIONS. 
 
 The stunted infant of a stunted pair, 
 
 In squalor bred, in sickness and despair, 
 
 His eyes first op'ning on a factory's red glare. 
 
 Untimely issued from his mother's womb, 
 Who e'en in childbirth labored at the loom 
 To earn the daily crust that kept her from the 
 tomb. 
 
 One limb was twisted, and an iron wheel 
 Glared on his bosom like an angry seal 
 The birthmark of this child crushed under Mam- 
 mon's heel. 
 
 A beast of burden born the self-same night 
 
 Had scarce so early quit its mother's sight 
 
 To bear the yoke of labor as this stunted wight. 
 
 With speech unformed and limbs unschooled in 
 
 play* 
 
 He quit the hovel of loose drift and clay 
 Which he called "home" because it kept the rain 
 away, 
 
382 lone, 
 
 And like a brute made in our human form 
 Went down to labor with that motley swarm 
 Which digs and delves the coal that keeps the 
 gentle warm. 
 
 (0 Poverty, thou art an hellish thing. 
 
 You widow every hope ; each bosom wring ; 
 
 Thy dullest barb is sharper than the adder's sting. 
 
 Betwixt the black earth and its nadir fire 
 Men slave like beasts to gain a meager hire, 
 And all because of thee, thou wolf who dost not 
 tire!) 
 
 He labored in the darkness of the mine, 
 This being born with human face divine 
 And in his heart the tracings of a high design, 
 
 Until his speech grew brutish and he spoke 
 Like brute to brute, and through the damp and 
 
 smoke 
 His face glared forth like some strange animal in 
 
 yoke. 
 
 (Nor call him "slave" the very word is shame; 
 Call him "a toiler, poor and without blame": 
 Yet slavery f s as bitter by any other name!) 
 
And Other Poems. 383 
 
 And he was numbered like a branded brute 
 By those who ruled his body absolute 
 Nor recognized his soul, a shriveled thing and 
 mute. 
 
 But wherefore should he rave? What boots a 
 
 name 
 
 To one whose only record is of shame, 
 A poor untutored beast but fit for gas and flame? 
 
 The sun in heaven seemed not made for him, 
 And Beauty mocked him as with twisted limb 
 He dragged himself from sleep to labors cold and 
 grim. 
 
 'T is labor that 's the father of the man 
 And damning that you damn the artisan 
 3 T was labor that had warped him from the nobler 
 plan. 
 
 A labor bestial-like ; toil terrible 
 
 That bodes for neither slave nor master well; 
 
 A daily hell of toil where wheels of brass rebel. 
 
 And so he sweated for his daily hire, 
 For that strained little which the poor require 
 To keep them at their toil and feed the living 
 fire. 
 
384 lone, 
 
 One of the millions, the countless multitude 
 Whom fortune shuns, whom all the joys elude, 
 Whose numbers daily failing, daily are renewed. 
 
 Nor Beauty's self, nor Beauty's name he knew 
 Ah, what to him were flowers midst the dew, 
 Who was denied the fruit that midst those flowers 
 grew ! 
 
 The starved flesh dies, but starve the human mind 
 And it grows rankly like some monster kind 
 And ranges wide as hell, corrupt and cruel and 
 blind. 
 
 And daily he was starved of every truth, 
 To grow in evil as he grew from youth, 
 His ignorance rankling in him like the rabid's 
 tooth. 
 
 From curses first he learned the name of God, 
 This wretched human, and he daily trod 
 All goodness underfoot as if it were a clod. 
 
 Some thought him damned ere his nativity, 
 As weeds are weeds and cannot other be 
 Though angels water them with tears of sanctity. 
 
 But he who slaves unceasing save when crime 
 Breaks through his labors for a little time 
 Rears all its serpent-aspect and aspires to climb, 
 
And Other Poems. 385 
 
 What can he know of sweetness or of light, 
 Of beauty's largess or of manhood's height; 
 What good can move him or what tenderness in- 
 vite? 
 
 The son of Caesar, by a she-wolf bred, 
 Upon all fours will go with wolfish tread, 
 His vision narrowed to prey, the godhood in him 
 dead. 
 
 And so perhaps less sorely but as sure 
 Did wolfish, bestial-like environ lure 
 The godhead from this man and every good ob- 
 scure. 
 
 His youth was scarcely over ere he slew 
 
 The overseer of his motley crew 
 
 And deep into a shaft the bloody body threw. 
 
 The deed was bitter, but the wages sweet 
 The dead man's hoarded gold lay at his feet 
 And blood is only blood, but gold is drink and 
 meat! 
 
 With eager hands he seized upon the gold 
 And left the murdered man all stark and cold, 
 With face upturned to God and frightful to be- 
 hold, 
 
386 lone, 
 
 Then westward fled before the rising sun, 
 The deed of murder pondered, plotted, done, 
 His own damnation sure, society's begun. 
 
 Now he, who for a season without toil 
 Has lived on stolen gold, no more will moil, 
 And sweat and slave, but like the tiger will de- 
 spoil. 
 
 So when this murderer's purse had emptied been 
 Of all the profits of his deadly sin, 
 He thrust still deeper in crime his hand already 
 in, 
 
 And if by chance there yet remained as guest 
 One spark divine within his brutish breast, 
 His second murder damned it blacker than the 
 rest. 
 
 (0 Muse, shall you record that awful crime 
 And make an instrument of verse and rhyme 
 To blazon down our shame into our children's 
 time? 
 
 May song forbid ! It was too damnable, 
 
 Too black for those black records such as tell 
 
 Of deeds delighting fiends and carried out in hell. 
 
And Other Poems. 387 
 
 Leave it to silence and the wiser wrath 
 Of Him who both an hour and angel hath 
 To flame the sword of heaven o'er the guilty's 
 path.) 
 
 Thus he, the wretched human of our song, 
 From brutish labor turned to brutish wrong, 
 And ever swifter, further, he was borne along. 
 
 Criminality he made his trade and jest, 
 And grew to love the darker life and quest, 
 His heart-latch ever out for crime to gain his 
 breast. 
 
 Nor damned himself alone, but turned to teach 
 Evil to all who came within the reach 
 Of that most filthy thing, his brutish human 
 speech. 
 
 SHE IS FAIK TO LOOK UPON. 
 
 she is fair to look upon 
 But fairer when you know her, 
 
 And though your knowledge may increase 
 You never shall outgrow her. 
 
388 lone, 
 
 Her beauty grows upon one's eyes, 
 Her goodness on one's feeling: 
 
 Her very step has that in it 
 
 Which brings the spirit healing. 
 
 Fll not compare her to a saint, 
 For she ? s too sweetly human; 
 
 Nor to an angel, tall and bright, 
 For she is all a woman. 
 
 I'll not compare this maid at all; 
 
 Suffice she 's fair and saintly, 
 And brightest words are dusty glass 
 
 And mirror her but faintly. 
 
 I SAW HER LOVELY FACE BUT ONCE. 
 
 I saw her lovely face but once, 
 
 Yet shall forget it never; 
 The curls that clustered 'round her brow 
 
 Shall haunt my heart forever. 
 
 I scarcely knew how fair she was 
 
 Nor how her beauty moved me, 
 Till she was lost amid the throng 
 
 Then all my heart reproved me. 
 
And Other Poems. 389 
 
 I stretch out yearning arms for her 
 
 But cannot draw her near me: 
 I breathe a message on the air, 
 
 But ah, she cannot hear me. 
 
 did I know her dwelling place 
 How soon Fd come unto her; 
 
 did I know her lovely name 
 I'd seek her out and woo her. 
 
 WHERE IS MY LITTLE GIRL TO-NIGHT? 
 
 God ! where is my little girl to-night, 
 
 The daughter of my home 
 Far, far beyond a father's aching sight 
 
 whither does she roam ? 
 
 My love for her was all idolatrous, 
 
 She was her mother's pride, 
 Until she fell and went away from us! 
 
 God, that she had died! 
 
 We hoped to marry her to some good man 
 
 To be his lovely wife, 
 And dear unto her mother was our plan, 
 
 And dear to me as life. 
 
390 lone, 
 
 But devils (0 that I had understood!) 
 
 In saintly raiment came 
 And she is fallen from her womanhood 
 
 And bears a nameless name! 
 
 God, where is she wandering to-night- 
 Down what great city's street? 
 
 What open doors, aglare with hell, invite 
 Her weary, wayward feet? 
 
 SOMEWHERE. 
 
 Though we are worn with wearinesa 
 And sick at heart and sad, 
 
 And life seems only dreariness, 
 Somewhere the world is glad. 
 
 Somewhere the clouds are lifting 
 And the winds have ceased to blow. 
 
 And the golden light is drifting 
 Upon the world below. 
 
 Though we have lost the feeling 
 
 And faith in God divine, 
 Somewhere there 's always kneeling 
 
 A soul at Christian shrine. 
 
And Other Poems. 391 
 
 Though the knell is tolling, tolling, 
 
 Over a love our own, 
 Somewhere are sweethearts strolling 
 
 And the rose is newly blown. 
 
 Somewhere a babe is waking 
 
 Within his little cot, 
 Though our own heart is breaking 
 
 For a lamb who waketh not. 
 
 Though all our nights are appalling 
 And our days are filled with care, 
 
 The smile of God is falling 
 Somewhere, always somewhere! 
 
 THE POETS' QUEEN. 
 
 She sprung from Beauty's immemorial line, 
 And was herself the fairest of her race ; 
 And ever to her stately dwelling place 
 
 The minstrels came, like palmers to a shrine. 
 
 Where Hesper is the evening star in June, 
 Westward she dwelt amid an island estate; 
 There Neptune's steed champed at her sea-girt 
 gate 
 
 And regal palms shook to the silver moon. 
 
392 lone, 
 
 Beneath her latticed easement, sweet with balm, 
 The narcissus and the rose first heaved the sod, 
 And Love the poets sung awaked a God 
 
 Amid her garden of perpetual palm. 
 
 Her beauty was of earth as roses are 
 
 Mortal, but nothing that might lead astray: 
 The glory of her eyes held sovereign sway, 
 
 But blasted none, like some bright, evil star. 
 
 A splendid pride was softened in her mien 
 She bended as the stately lily bends 
 When silver dew upon the field descends, 
 
 And bows that flower low, but not to stain. 
 
 Her eyes were bright as stars set for a sign 
 In heaven, and in her soft-clustering hair 
 The Spirit and the Love that made her fair 
 
 Had left the fragrance of its breath divine. 
 
 Forever open and forever bright, 
 
 Her sculptured gates looked out upon the sea; 
 
 Fit entrance to her halls where Poetry 
 Dwelt like presence all compact of light. 
 
 Queen of the Poets and Olympus' Xine, 
 
 Oft would she walk at twilight's pensive close 
 Where silver fountains like young palms uprose, 
 
 And hark unto bright J3olus in the pine. 
 
And Other Poems. 393 
 
 Or with the morn, soft-op'ning as the rose, 
 And with the rose's vermeil flush and light, 
 She took her harp and bid adieu to night, 
 
 While chord by chord the stars sunk to repose. 
 
 But, lo ! long seasons she has been at rest, 
 And no more shall inspire the minstrel brood, 
 And given are her isles to solitude 
 
 Like a dead Orion within the west. 
 
 VIOLA; 
 
 rare is the maiden, Viola, 
 And healing is her touch ; 
 
 And I feel the words I utter 
 But when I sing of such. 
 
 How gracious is her presence, 
 How fair her lovely frame, 
 
 My heart can never utter, 
 And poetry hath no name. 
 
 To the stars of bright midsummer, 
 
 With orient pearl anew, 
 The rose is linked, and its sweetness 
 
 Is blown abroad with the dew. 
 
394 Ione > 
 
 But there is a breath more fragrant 
 Than on the midsummer air 
 
 The breath of the Loves that linger 
 In the dusk of Viola's hair. 
 
 And were I not always a poet 
 I were a poet this once, 
 
 To sing of the maiden, Viola, 
 
 And the light of her countenance. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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