THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 POEMS 
 
 M. E. W. S.
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 M. E. W. S. 
 
 (MRS. JOHN SHERWOOD) 
 
 COMPILED AND ARRANGED 
 BY 
 
 EVELYN BAKER HARVIER 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEO. M. ALLEN COMPANY 
 
 BROADWAY, COR. 2IST ST. 
 1892
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY 
 GEO. M. ALLEN COMPANY 
 
 THE ALLEY-ALLEN PRESS 
 NEW YORK
 
 PS 
 2.S 
 SSS2.KH 
 
 \ < 3^?, 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION ............... 9 
 
 SKETCH OF MRS. SHERWOOD'S LIFE ........ n 
 
 THE NEW YEAR .............. 19 
 
 HORSE AND RIDER ............. 22 
 
 To ROBERT ELSMERE AND His WIFE ....... 26 
 
 ADIEU, MON CCEUR ! ............. 31 
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSES OF THE WORLD ........ 40 
 
 UNLIKE, YET LIKE ............. 43 
 
 THE SCULPTOR'S VISITORS ........... 46 
 
 CARCASSONNE ............... 55 
 
 ON SEEING BOOTH, BARRETT AND BANGS IN " JULIUS 
 
 CAESAR " . . . , .......... 59 
 
 SONNET TO PRESCOTT ............ 60 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF JOHN A. Dix . . . 61 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD A, WASHBURN . . 64 
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER ............ 67 
 
 TWILIGHT TALK .............. 70 
 
 THE QUESTION ............... 74 
 
 ENVOI .................. 77 
 
 762977
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 A SKETCH of Mrs. John Sherwood seems hardly 
 necessary, for who does not know her ? If not 
 personally, through her many prose articles that 
 have appeared from time to time in our leading 
 journals and magazines ; but in the hope that 
 this little book may reach out and beyond the 
 personal friends of this gifted writer, as the 
 poems deserve, the following is written. 
 
 E. B. H.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 MARY ELIZABETH WILSON was born at Keene, 
 New Hampshire. She was one of several chil- 
 dren and was the daughter of General James 
 Wilson, a man of great distinction in his native 
 State of New Hampshire and of the nation at 
 the time of Daniel Webster and Henry Clay, 
 both of whom were his friends. He was of 
 Irish descent and, allied to a good education, he 
 possessed the wit, the eloquence and the ele- 
 gance of manner which belong to that race. 
 Mrs. Sherwood's mother was Mary Richardson, 
 a great beauty, possessed of the sad Madonna- 
 like style of face, made more so by the death of 
 several of her children. Her portrait is one of 
 Mrs. Sherwood's most cherished possessions. 
 These domestic afflictions overshadowed the 
 young life of Mary Elizabeth, or Lizzie Wilson, 
 as Mrs. Sherwood was known in her girlhood, 
 and she found relief in the use of her pen. At 
 this time she frequently met many of the great 
 men of the day, who came to visit her father ;
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 being naturally of an observing nature and 
 possessing a retentive memory, these associations 
 of her girlhood left their impress on her future 
 life and did much towards forming her mind 
 and character. 
 
 Later, General Wilson was elected to Congress 
 and the family removed to Washington. Soon 
 after this event Mrs. Wilson died, leaving Miss 
 Lizzie Wilson not only to guide and care for her 
 younger brothers and sisters, but she was at the 
 head of her father's household and entertained 
 the many distinguished people who came to 
 visit General Wilson. She was a great beauty 
 and became one of the leading members of the 
 gay but dignified life which was then the charm 
 of Washington society. Allied to her beauty of 
 face, her many attributes of an intellectual 
 character made her the desired companion of 
 such men as Bancroft, Prescott, Washington 
 Irving, Longfellow, and many others, with 
 whom she held for years a correspondence. 
 
 It was during the height of her social tri- 
 umphs that Mr. John Sherwood, a young law- 
 is
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 yer, met Miss Lizzie Wilson ; they were married 
 not long after, removing to New York, where 
 Mrs. Sherwood has always been a power both in 
 fashionable and literary life. Indeed, to her 
 must be accredited much of the popularity 
 which literature and intellectual pursuits have 
 reached in New York society. 
 
 Mrs. Sherwood began writing for publication 
 at seventeen and only laid down her pen when 
 the care and joy of her children took her life 
 into a different channel. It was but natural 
 that at a later period she should resume the writ- 
 ings in which she experienced so much pleasur- 
 able work. Hers was not a nature to be idle, 
 and her articles have found place in all the lead- 
 ing journals and periodicals of the day, making 
 her name known from Maine to California. 
 Her poems have been signed M. E. W. S., many 
 of them becoming famous before their authorship 
 was known. 
 
 Mrs. Sherwood a few years ago began giving 
 literary afternoons at her own residence for the 
 benefit of the Mount Vernon Fund ; they 
 
 13
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 proved so remunerative for the charity that she 
 was induced to continue them. The most fash- 
 ionable people, winter after winter, gathered in 
 her drawing-room to listen to her accounts of the 
 many distinguished people she had known both 
 abroad and at home. They had included such 
 men as Lord Houghton, with whom she corre- 
 sponded for sixteen years, the Due d'Aumale, 
 Sir Frederick Leighton, Sir John Millais, Rob- 
 ert Browning, Gladstone, and many others 
 equally well known. 
 
 In all Mrs. Sherwood writes there is a strong 
 individuality, both in her wit, of which she has 
 abundance, and her pathos, which, allied to her 
 personal magnetism, holds the listener and 
 made these drawing-room readings a feature of 
 social New York during their continuance. 
 
 Three portraits of Mrs. Sherwood are in her 
 possession, all of which made fame for their 
 artists ; the picture accompanying this sketch is 
 from the portrait of Mrs. Sherwood painted 
 recently by Mr. Stephen Hill Parker. 
 
 Artists have been pleased to paint her por- 
 
 14
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 trait not only because Mrs. Sherwood is a hand- 
 some and striking subject, but because it is a 
 gain to them in prestige. 
 
 Mrs. Sherwood is as much at home in Paris 
 salons as at English country houses or New 
 York drawing-rooms or amid the gayeties of 
 Roman carnivals. She has traveled with her 
 eyes wide open and brain ever on the alert, and 
 has the most charming and at the same time 
 forceful manner of making others feel and see 
 what she has experienced. 
 
 Mrs. Sherwood's love for her children has 
 been an absorbing passion ; her eldest son, 
 named for her distinguished father, James Wil- 
 son Sherwood, was taken from her while yet a 
 boy ; later, the death of her son, John Philip 
 Sherwood, when he had just reached the portals 
 of manhood, cast an almost irretrievable sad- 
 ness over this fond mother which time has only 
 partially effaced. To the outside world Mrs. 
 Sherwood is the brilliant, witty, distinguished 
 literary woman. She does not carry her heart 
 upon her sleeve. 
 
 15
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Two sons are living ; the eldest, Mr. Samuel 
 Sherwood, the well-known artist, and Mr. Arthur 
 Murray Sherwood, a young business man, whose 
 wife is the distinguished artist, Rosina Emmet. 
 
 During her visit to Europe, in the summer of 
 1889, Mrs. Sherwood received an unusual honor, 
 particularly so for an American woman. She 
 was decorated with the Purple Ribbon, the insig- 
 nia of Officiers de V Academic, the honor conferred 
 by the French Minister of Public Instruction on 
 persons who have distinguished themselves in 
 literary or artistic pursuits. 
 
 For thirty years Mr. and Mrs. Sherwood and 
 their family occupied the same residence just 
 off Fifth Avenue, in a central location. There 
 have been entertained many of the great men 
 and women of our day, including many distin- 
 guished foreigners as well as our own country- 
 men. Mrs. Sherwood passes her summers in 
 traveling over Europe. 
 
 In addition to Mrs. Sherwood's many articles 
 for the daily press and magazines she has pub- 
 lished one or two novels, the more recent en- 
 
 16
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 titled "A Transplanted Rose." Her book on 
 etiquette, "Manners and Social Usages," is con- 
 sidered an authority and bears the additional in- 
 terest of being written in a bright, piquant style 
 that marks the strong individuality of the writer. 
 Mrs. Sherwood also wrote a two-act comedietta, 
 entitled "A Case of Conscience," which was pro- 
 duced at the Union League Theatre by ama- 
 teurs in behalf of the Woman's Centennial 
 Union Fund, Judge Barrett and his daughter sus- 
 taining the two leading roles of "Mr. Russell" 
 and "Miss Julia Fairlie." The play (I quote 
 from the daily papers) " proved to be a delight- 
 ful mixture of fun, wit and philosophy, showing 
 the interesting state a man finds himself in 
 when in love. The author of the play was loudly 
 called for at the close of the representation." 
 
 The lines to her son Philip were sent to him 
 while he was in Rome. He died August 4, 1883, 
 and the little poem was found among his most 
 cherished belongings. 
 
 The sonnet to Prescott was first published in 
 Ticknor's "Life of Prescott." 
 
 17
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 One cannot help feeling regret after reading 
 Mrs. Sherwood's poems that so few of them 
 have been preserved. They speak for them- 
 selves, as they have ever done, and, to those 
 who have known her, of the woman behind the 
 writer. 
 
 It has been my good fortune to put them 
 forth in book form, in which labor of love I 
 have found much pleasure. 
 
 EVELYN BAKER HARVIER.
 
 THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 I greet thee, brave and coming year ! 
 
 With thy unwritten snowy page, 
 And dash away the unshed tear 
 
 Would dim thee with its dull presage. 
 
 Hope dances from her dewy bower 
 Thy early footsteps to beguile ; 
 
 And Love, as fresh as Eden's flower, 
 Shall wave thee onward with a smile. 
 
 Why carry to thy record fair 
 
 The cares, the sorrows, buried past? 
 
 Let them float backward on the air, 
 And perish like the ocean blast. 
 19
 
 THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 Despair our speech has iron-bound, 
 The stoutest heart has often quailed ; 
 
 We've flouted Fortune as she frowned, 
 But was it Fate, or we, who failed? 
 
 Oft Destiny holds this surprise, 
 
 Fate, smiling slowly, drops her mask ; 
 
 Our pain was blessing in disguise, 
 And health was hidden in the task. 
 
 We weave but blindly at the loom, 
 Nor see the picture, save in parts ; 
 
 Not ours to mark the gleam or gloom, 
 But labor on with patient hearts. 
 
 When the bright angel overhead 
 The soul-wrought tapestry unfurls,
 
 THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 Perhaps the tears we slowly shed 
 May gleam amid the gold-like pearls. 
 
 The sorrow which has crushed the life 
 A lily blooms, on azure field ; 
 
 And daily care and toil and strife 
 
 In bud and flower may stand revealed. 
 
 One thing is left us undisturbed 
 We still can work and love and give, 
 
 No matter how the life's perturbed, 
 If, living, we learn how to live. 
 
 Then come thou young and sturdy year, 
 Come with proud port and step elate ! 
 
 If dawn is dark, noon may be clear : 
 Come, give us heart for any fate ! 
 
 21
 
 HORSE AND RIDER. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF GUSTAVE NADAUD. 
 
 My foot I have put in the stirrup 
 Go quickly my fleetest of steeds, 
 
 Thy master's best will and intentions 
 Are weak as the quivering reeds ! 
 
 No matter what highway thou takest, 
 The better, the farthest that leads. 
 
 She thought that she held me in bondage 
 So smiling that little blonde girl. 
 
 Fly ! Fly thee, away from the siren, 
 As back my defiance I hurl ! 
 
 Put the long, weary marches between us, 
 Else I yield to her fluttering curl ! 
 22
 
 HORSE AND RIDER. 
 
 Every day I have ridden so gaily 
 To meet but her laughter and scorn. 
 
 Take care ! thou art finding the pathway 
 That leads 'neath the blossoming thorn ! 
 
 Thou knowest it well but avoid it, 
 Go seek me a desert forlorn. 
 
 Her cheek like the palest wild roses, 
 Her voice like the wave on the shore, 
 
 Those eyes like the heaven above us ! 
 False Gods ! Whom in vain I adore. 
 
 Such love-songs my fancies are singing, 
 Go quickly, my steed I implore ! 
 
 My soul is resuming its courage. 
 
 Brave horse ! Thou hast gallantly sped. 
 Anathemas fly from me freely, 
 23
 
 HORSE AND RIDER. 
 
 But my heart is as heavy as lead. 
 My lips which I laden with curses, 
 But whisper " I love her " instead ! 
 
 Ah ! Beauty, capricious and cruel, 
 Disdainful, yet keeping from me 
 
 The power to love others as truly 
 As now I am sighing for thee. 
 
 If but we had hearts without feeling 
 How easy a lifetime would be. 
 
 My steed, mend thy faltering paces. 
 
 Each evening she watches alone. 
 Thou must run from these dangerous places 
 
 Where the nightingale utters her moan. 
 A tear may drop down on thy fetlock, 
 
 Why lingerest thou like a drone? 
 24
 
 HORSE AND RIDER. 
 
 Thou seest the lane 'neath the branches 
 Where the sunbeams but enter and die ? 
 
 Ha ! There is the turf gemmed with daisies, 
 And the road we attempted to fly ! 
 
 Oh, feeblest of horses and riders 
 Who cannot get lost if they try ! 
 
 But on ! We must on with our journey. , 
 Ah no ! Wait a moment and see, 
 
 Perhaps the white hand at the window 
 Is waving a signal to me. 
 
 We must make our adieus my brave courser, 
 To-morrow our journey shall be. 
 
 25
 
 TO ROBERT ELSMERE AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 These dogmas serious, fine for contemplation, 
 
 Will all give out ; 
 They killed the flowers of Calvin's generation- 
 
 What followed ? Doubt ! 
 
 It is a fact which needs no dull negation 
 
 That Life is hard ; 
 That problems stir the soul's deep meditations, 
 
 Sings every bard. 
 
 The pastor's sermon has its brave pretences, 
 
 But makes us nod. 
 The flowers we gather near the humblest fences- 
 
 These are from God. 
 
 26
 
 TO ROBERT ELSMERE AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 It is His hand that makes the flower so beauteous; 
 
 Her rich perfume 
 Will kiss the senses of the daughter duteous, 
 
 And cheer her gloom. 
 
 What can we make, with all our moralizing, 
 
 So sweet as she ? 
 No stern amount of grim philosophizing 
 
 Grows one green tree. 
 
 Let's stop a moment pat the baby's dimples 
 
 He is so sweet ! 
 Or look at Rose's pretty gown, and wimples 
 
 Her dainty feet. 
 
 27
 
 TO ROBERT ELSMERE AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 To take of music, flowers, luxurious living, 
 
 One little share, 
 Is but to gather in the gracious meaning 
 
 Of summer air. 
 
 It is not best, e'en with a grave intention, 
 
 The soul to squeeze ; 
 That pilgrim was a man of fine invention 
 
 Who boiled his peas. 
 
 Let's stop a moment on the road to virtue, 
 
 And pluck the daisies. 
 
 We need not fear that good things always hurt 
 you; 
 
 Love, gifts, and praises. 
 
 a8
 
 TO ROBERT ELSMERE AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 In all humility our thoughts should clamber 
 Above this world and time ! 
 
 Let us remember one renowned death chamber, 
 And one great scene sublime. 
 
 When little Edward, King and Saint together, 
 Took the last wine and bread, 
 
 While useless lay imperial crown and sceptre, 
 What were the words he said ? 
 
 The Bishop, kneeling, asked for his "confession," 
 
 In noble words that live, 
 
 He murmured clearly, through cold Death's op- 
 pression, 
 
 " Jesus ! Forgive ! " 
 29
 
 TO ROBERT ELSMERE AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 And when we stand at England's proudest altar, 
 
 Or bend our knees, 
 
 Making our plea in humblest prayers that falter, 
 Say, can we find in sermon, creed or psalter 
 
 Two words like these ?
 
 ADIEU, MON CCEUR ! 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 How gracefully the young Bertine 
 With Jacques, her lover, dances ! 
 See how like sunbeams 'neath the trees 
 She flies, and then advances. 
 
 And yet she sings in a minor key, 
 The old Proven$al melody 
 " Tais-toi, mon coeur ! Adieu, mon cceur ! 
 As if some sadness came to her, 
 With love's dear smiles and glances. 
 
 The Sieur de Courcy comes that way, 
 And 'neath the walnut lingers. 
 31
 
 ADIEU, MON COEUR! 
 
 He marks her instep, clean and high, 
 Her white and dainty fingers. 
 
 He hears her sing in a minor key, 
 
 The old Provencal melody 
 
 " Tais-toi, mon coeur ! Adieu, mon cceur," 
 
 And thinks as he looks at her, 
 Of the lays of the Minnesinger. 
 
 But hark ! the call ! The conscript drawn, 
 
 And Jacques the number chosen ; 
 No wonder that Bertine is dumb, 
 The blood in her bosom frozen. 
 
 Brave Jacques strikes up in a stronger key, 
 The old Provengal melody 
 "Tais-toi, mon coeur ! Adieu, mon cceur ! " 
 And looking fondly back at her, 
 He said, " Dear love, be true to me ! " 
 32
 
 ADIEU, MON C(EUR! 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 The King said, gaily, " Je m'ennuie " ; 
 
 Nor heard if the people grumbled. 
 What cared that gallant majesty 
 If some plain lives were humbled ? 
 The next age sang in a different key, 
 The old Provengal melody 
 "Tais-toi, mon coeur ! Adieu, mon coeur ! " 
 Of Pompadour and the Pare aux Cerfs ; 
 And greeted the great with a bitter laugh, 
 When heads in the basket tumbled. 
 
 For when the sun lay on the vines, 
 
 Bertine the grapes was tying. 
 The tendril round her brow entwines ; 
 
 The summer days were flying. 
 33
 
 ADIEU, MON CCEUR! 
 
 Well may she sing in a minor key, 
 The old Provengal melody 
 "Tais-toi, mon coeur ! Adieu, mon coeur ! 
 For the news was coming back to her 
 Of the fields where Jacques lay dying. 
 
 What then was history but a page 
 
 Of romance, love, and glory? 
 Chimeras of the golden age, 
 When life was worth the story. 
 Woman still sings in a minor key, 
 The old Provengal melody 
 "Tais-toi, mon coeur ! Adieu, mon coeur ! 
 That is the tale time tells to her, 
 And will till he is hoary. 
 
 34
 
 ADIEU, MON CCEURl 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 The Sieur de Courcy came to woo, 
 
 His voice was low and tender ; 
 He drove the wolf and the King away 
 " Let me be thy Defender ? " 
 And when she sang in a minor key, 
 The old Provengal melody 
 " Tais-toi, mon cceur ! Adieu, mon coeur ! 
 The gentleman knelt down to her, 
 And kissed her fingers slender. 
 
 " Who is my rival ? " laughed the King, 
 His gallant, gay eyes lighting, 
 
 " Now I will do a graceful thing 
 To show I bear her slighting. 
 
 35
 
 ADIEU, MON CCEUR! 
 
 We'll change that mournful monody 
 The old Provengal melody 
 ' Tais-toi, mon coeur ! Adieu, mon coeur ! ' 
 And life shall not be spoiled for her 
 Because my love is blighting." 
 
 So went he forth to take the air, 
 
 His perfumed locks were streaming. 
 His brow was gay as if no care 
 Could blight that face so beaming. 
 He sang as he rode, in a minor key, 
 The old Provencal melody 
 " Tais-toi, mon cceur ! Adieu, mon coeur ! 
 But took the road which led to her : 
 The courtiers guessed his seeming. 
 36
 
 ADIEU, MON CCEUR! 
 
 " I came," said he, as they bent the knee, 
 
 "All doubts and cares to banish. 
 Leave chains of rank and cares of state ; 
 For one day let them vanish. 
 And dear Bertine, sing now for me, 
 The old Provencal melody 
 'Tais-toi, mon cceur ! Adieu, mon coeur ! 
 And then he lightly told to her 
 A drama from the Spanish. 
 
 " Rise, my proud subject ! " said the King. 
 
 " Rise, Marquise St. Aulaire ! 
 I give the title and the ring, 
 
 To this, thy consort fair. 
 
 37
 
 ADIEU, MON CCEUR ! 
 
 Now all my courtiers sound the key 
 Of the old Provengal melody 
 ' Tais-toi, mon coeur ! Adieu, mon coeur ! 
 And one and all bow down to her, 
 The new court Lady there." 
 
 All gratefully the sad Bertine 
 
 'Neath her long lashes glances. 
 How much the tear that steals between, 
 The eyes dark gleam enhances. 
 And yet she sings in a minor key, 
 The old Provengal melody 
 " Tais-toi, mon cceur ! Adieu, mon cceur ! 
 The King gives Courcy's hand to her, 
 Who, lover-like, advances. 
 
 38
 
 ADIEU, MON CCEUR! 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 O'er castle walls, with banners hung, 
 
 The crescent moon is peeping, 
 And on the ground, in sadness flung, 
 A mournful man is weeping. 
 On a white cross what words to see 
 He reads the sad old monody 
 " Tais-toi, mon cceur ! Adieu, mon cceur ! ' 
 He breathes his last farewell to her, 
 For there Bertine lies sleeping.
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSES OF THE WORLD. 
 
 " Could a Christian community exist and stand erect in 
 the family of civilized nations and shroud its shores in utter 
 darkness ? For what do we see when we look around us ? 
 The British Islands blazing with three hundred lights, 
 France with more than one hundred and fifty ; the Baltic, 
 the Mediterranean, the Euxine, all illuminated, and even 
 in the frozen North, Imperial Russia lighting the American 
 mariner on his pathway through the White Sea out to the 
 Polar Basin. The whole globe, from North to South, from 
 East to West, is encircled with these living monuments of 
 humanity and civilization." 
 
 (Duty of the American Union to Improve its Navigable 
 Waters.) 
 
 Darkness descends and gives the spirit wings ; 
 The eye emboldened claims imperial right ; 
 And, lying grandly at my feet, I see 
 The world at night. 
 
 Behold the vision ! How sublimely fair ! 
 For myriad lights illuminate the sea, 
 40
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSES OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Encircling continent and ocean vast 
 In one humanity. 
 
 Perchance some habitant of far-off star, 
 Born to the heritage of loftier powers, 
 Although we cannot see his glowing world, 
 Yet looks on ours, 
 
 May see these patient sentinels of night, 
 
 May read their language, eloquent and grand, 
 As, shining coldly 'neath the Arctic light, 
 They warning stand. 
 
 Or, beaming through the still and fragrant air, 
 Where coral reefs the vexed Bermoothes guard, 
 O'er freight of human life may see the Lamp 
 Keep watch and ward. 
 41
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSES OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Or, streaming from Leucadia's haunted cliff, 
 
 Where fiery genius sleeps beneath the wave, 
 Touching with light the waters surging o'er 
 A lonely grave. 
 
 Or, blazing bright amid Atlantic storm, 
 
 While bending masts are quivering with fear, 
 The guardian Light upheld by sea-girt tower, 
 Aloft and clear. 
 
 Burn on with inextinguishable fire ! 
 
 Companions of the silent stars above! 
 Resplendent types amid a world of strife 
 Of deathless love.
 
 UNLIKE, YET LIKE. 
 
 There is a blue which paints the sea at morning, 
 
 When skies are bright and treacherous 
 breezes fair ; 
 
 There sea-gulls sail the snowy wavelet scorning, 
 And cut with tireless wing the fragrant air ; 
 
 A darker hue in solemn distance warning 
 Where gallant lives have grappled with despair. 
 
 How like the eye of Woman, sad and tender, 
 Revealing, hiding all her heart profound ; 
 
 Telling of storms from which no walls defend 
 her, 
 
 Or of some trust the tempest has not found, 
 
 Flashing in Love's bright morn with burning 
 splendor 
 
 Or darkening where some mighty hope went 
 down. 
 
 43
 
 UNLIKE, YET LIKE. 
 
 There is a blue the distant mountain folding 
 When autumn sunsets linger on the height ; 
 
 The craggy outline all to beauty moulding, 
 As, slowly robing for the coming night, 
 
 A solemn court the giant monarch holding, 
 Above the world, in lone, majestic might. 
 
 So looks the eye of him whose patient seeking 
 Beholds how all things in their order stand ; 
 No idle vengeance on the sinful wreaking, 
 
 He strives to find what mighty Love has 
 planned ; 
 
 To him the earth in myriad voices speaking, 
 Tells of a glorious thought in structure grand. 
 
 But looking upward from the waters glancing, 
 And from the mountain, solemn and at rest, 
 
 44
 
 UNLIKE, YET LIKE. 
 
 Above the clouds in golden radiance dancing, 
 Behold a blue, the beauteous and the best ! 
 
 A sapphire path o'er which the coursers prancing 
 Bear Phoebus onward to the glowing West. 
 
 O eyes of childhood ! With thy blue supernal 
 Fair countless worlds are in thine azure deeps 
 
 As spring hides summer 'neath her vesture 
 vernal, 
 
 As skies hold stars and suns while Nature 
 sleeps ; 
 
 What promise fair, what gleams of hope eternal 
 The gazer finds and choice the vision keeps. 
 
 45
 
 THE SCULPTOR'S VISITORS. 
 
 A sculptor was moulding the amber-brown clay 
 As he sat in his innermost room. 
 A cloud like a wing had come sailing that way, 
 And deepened and darkened the delicate gloom 
 Which the vine leaves and orange trees made 
 
 in the room, 
 
 And cast its soft shadow which followed the ray 
 O'er three lovely angels three angels in clay 
 The dream of the sculptor, the work of his hands, 
 In the Roman deposit, those world-renowned 
 
 sands, 
 And the soil of the mountains, the sculptor's best 
 
 clay 
 Which Tiber brings down in his world-renowned 
 
 way. 
 
 46
 
 THE SCULPTOR'S VISITORS. 
 
 And he mournfully mused as the spatula wrought 
 
 " Alas ! Is my labor but play ? " 
 
 In saddest sincerity Angelo sought 
 
 To put his great soul in the clay. 
 
 Here stand my three angels, my dream and my 
 
 thought ; 
 Unworthy these daughters of Dreamland they 
 
 seem, 
 
 Unworthy the soil of our Tiber's rich stream, 
 Unworthy the richness of amber-brown clay 
 Which Tiber brings down in his world-renowned 
 
 way. 
 
 And he thought of old Angelo, saddened and 
 
 poor, 
 Who watched the proud world turn away from 
 
 his door ; 
 
 47
 
 THE SCULPTOR'S VISITORS. 
 
 And he wondered if Gratitude were but a name 
 Or if there was life-blood in what we call Fame ; 
 Then he said to himself half in fear, half in 
 
 shame : 
 " I shall call these three Angels, Ambition, and 
 
 Love, 
 
 And Gratitude she the most stately of all 
 For she is the Angel who surely bears sway 
 At the great gate of Heaven which opens above 
 When we shall be angels and cease to be clay. 
 Ambition may lead us to climb up the height, 
 And Love may enwrap us in worldly delight ; 
 But Gratitude brings us to kneel and to pray, 
 The kind deed to utter, the soft word to say. 
 I would I could mould her in amber-brown clay 
 Which Tiber brings down in his world-renowned 
 
 way." 
 
 48
 
 THE SCULPTOR'S VISITORS. 
 
 A sunbeam came stealing the orange boughs 
 
 through, 
 And filled the whole room with a joy that was 
 
 new, 
 
 And it fell on the brow the most stately and pure. 
 He looked at his hands that were stained with 
 
 the clay, 
 And he wished that two hands which were 
 
 whiter than they 
 Would come down and straighten that line of 
 
 the brow ; 
 
 A nimbus of glory encircled it now. 
 And the mouth which had been what a bee loves 
 
 to sip, 
 
 Seemed to open with goddess-like smile on the lip; 
 And he saw that two hands (which were whiter 
 
 than they 
 
 49
 
 THE SCULPTOR'S VISITORS. 
 
 That had built up the statue) were touching the 
 clay 
 
 Which Tiber brought down in his world- 
 renowned way. 
 
 And soft steps were moving, as winds whisper 
 
 o'er, 
 
 Then he heard a low voice, disregarded before 
 The light came and went, there was rustling 
 
 of wings, 
 Like a breath of the twilight when nightingale 
 
 sings, 
 And the rich, Roman landscape his casement 
 
 denned 
 
 Before his stunned senses was sharply outlined. 
 The soft voices sang, disregarded before, 
 
 50
 
 THE SCULPTOR'S VISITORS. 
 
 And they said : " Go and work for the blind and 
 
 the poor ; 
 
 Go visit the sick in their infinite need 
 Care not for the world with its gilding and greed; 
 Care not for Ambition, it lasts but a day, 
 And hope not for Love, for she comes not to 
 
 stay ! 
 
 But while you are giving, we'll work at the clay 
 Which Tiber brings down in his world-renowned way." 
 
 He left for a season all dreams of his art 
 He took of the burdens of life his full part ; 
 He sought out the weary, he sped on his way 
 The poor fallen brother ; the woman who weeps 
 He raised from the cauldron which poverty 
 
 steeps. 
 
 And with one little hand of a lame beggar boy 
 
 51
 
 THE SCULPTOR'S VISITORS. 
 
 Held fast in his own, he entered with joy 
 His garret again, to resume his loved sway 
 Over graver and rule, and to touch the dear clay 
 Which Tiber brings down in his world-renowned 
 way. 
 
 What sight met his eyes as he opened the door ? 
 
 A sunlight so brilliant, that never before 
 
 E'en in sunlighted Rome, where Apollo still 
 
 beams, 
 
 Had a glory so golden brought life to his dreams. 
 His statues were finished the angels had 
 
 wrought 
 To give the poor sculptor his dream and his 
 
 thought, 
 And he knew that a purpose had moulded the 
 
 clay 
 
 52
 
 THE SCULPTOR'S VISITORS. 
 
 Which Tiber brings down in his world-renowned 
 way. 
 
 A moment of silence before he could speak. 
 These angels were mighty, the sculptor was 
 
 weak ; 
 But the beggar boy questioned : " She's sweetest 
 
 of all 
 
 What call you that lady, so calm and so tall, 
 So like the Madonna, who stands by the wall ? " 
 " That, boy, is Sweet Gratitude ; this one is Love; 
 They, boy, are the angels who surely bear sway 
 At the great gate of Heaven, which opens above 
 When we shall be angels and cease to be clay ! 
 The other, Ambition, so proud and so wild " 
 " I like not her face," said the questioning child ; 
 
 53
 
 THE SCULPTOR'S VISITORS. 
 
 " But when you first taught me to kneel and to 
 
 pray 
 
 Sweet Gratitude came to my bedside and smiled, 
 Stretched her arms to me, then, as she does from 
 
 the clay ! 
 Which Tiber brings down in his world-renowned 
 
 way."
 
 CARCASSONNE. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF GUSTAVE NADAUD. 
 
 " How old I am ! I'm eighty years ! 
 
 I've worked both hard and long ; 
 Yet patient as my life has been, 
 One dearest sight I have not seen, 
 
 It seems almost a wrong. 
 A dream I had when life was new. 
 Alas, our dreams ! They come not true 
 
 I thought to see fair Carcassonne, 
 
 That lovely city Carcassonne !" 
 
 "One sees it dimly from the height, 
 
 Beyond the mountains blue. 
 Fain would I walk five weary leagues, 
 I do not mind the road's fatigues, 
 
 55
 
 CARCASSONNE. 
 
 Through morn and evening's dew. 
 But bitter frost would fall at night, 
 And on the grapes, that yellow blight ! 
 
 I could not go to Carcassonne ; 
 
 I never went to Carcassonne." 
 
 "They say it is as gay all times 
 
 As holidays at home ! 
 The Gentiles ride in gay attire 
 And in the sun each gilded spire 
 
 Shoots up like those of Rome ! 
 The Bishop the procession leads, 
 The generals curb their prancing steeds - 
 
 Alas ! I know not Carcassonne ! 
 
 Alas ! I saw not Carcassone." 
 
 " Our vicar's right ! He preaches loud 
 And bids us to beware ; 
 56
 
 CARCASSONNE. 
 
 He says, 'O, guard the weakest part 
 And most the traitor in the heart 
 
 Against Ambition's snare ! ' 
 Perhaps in autumn I can find 
 Two sunny days with gentle wind ; 
 I then could go to Carcassonne, 
 I still could go to Carcassonne." 
 
 "My God, my Father! Pardon me 
 
 If this my wish offends ! 
 One sees some hope more high than his 
 In age as in his infancy 
 
 To which his heart ascends ! 
 My wife, my son have seen Narbonne ; 
 My grandson went to Perpignon ; 
 
 But I have not seen Carcassonne, 
 
 But I have not seen Carcassonne." 
 
 57
 
 CARCASSONNE. 
 
 Thus sighed a peasant bent with age, 
 Half dreaming in his chair. 
 
 I said, " My friend, come, go with me ; 
 
 To-morrow, then thine eyes shall see 
 Those streets that seem so fair." 
 
 That night there came for passing soul 
 
 The church-bells low and solemn toll. 
 
 He never saw gay Carcassonne, 
 
 Who has not known a Carcassonne?
 
 ON SEEING BOOTH, BARRETT AND 
 
 BANGS ACT IN "JULIUS CAESAR" 
 
 IN 1879. 
 
 Rome, mother of all symbols, one great hour 
 
 with thee 
 
 Is worth a decade of our common life ! 
 Strange that a people calling themselves free 
 Have but preserved thy luxury and thy strife ! 
 Not ours the virtues of that earlier day, 
 Not ours the courage to be right and slay 
 First the usurper, then the outraged wife ! 
 Thy purple pageants make our visions tame. 
 A world sufficed thee ! Nothing else were worth 
 Thy blood, thy sons, thy cruelty, thy grasp, 
 Thou monstrous mistress of our little Earth ! 
 That we forget thee is our modern shame. 
 
 Oft from my spirit this ideal fades 
 Then comes great Shakspeare, painting it in 
 
 flame 
 
 I thank thee, noble art, for these heroic shades ! 
 59
 
 PRESCOTT. 
 
 The great Historian composed many of his most brilliant 
 chapters while walking beneath a wide-spreading tree on 
 the lawn near his seaside villa. His footsteps had worn a 
 circle in the turf. 
 
 No more, alas ! the soft returning spring 
 
 Shall greet thee walking near thy favorite tree, 
 Marking with musing tread the magic ring 
 
 Where pageants grand and monarchs moved 
 
 with thee. 
 Thou new Columbus, bringing from old Spain 
 
 Her ancient wealth to this awaiting shore, 
 Returning, stamped with impress of thy brain. 
 
 Far richer treasures than her galleons bore. 
 Two worlds shall weep for thee, the old, the new, 
 
 Now that the marble and the canvas wait 
 In vain to cheer the homes and hearts so true 
 
 Thy immortality made desolate ! 
 While angels on imperishable scroll 
 Record the wondrous beauty of thy soul. 
 
 60
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF 
 JOHN A. DIX. 
 
 STATESMAN, HERO, SCHOLAR, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 What was the secret of this ample life, 
 The long success which followed eighty years ? 
 
 Why came to him such honor and renown ? 
 Well may the nation ask it 'mid her tears. 
 
 Was it great genius? That but rarely wins 
 Save a poor laurel wreath beset with thorn ; 
 
 Was it a mastery of the statesman's art? 
 What has that brought but envy, wrath and 
 scorn ? 
 
 Was it his scholarship, profound and deep, 
 That had brought peace and joy, but not 
 renown ? 
 
 61
 
 ON THE DEA TH OF JOHN A. DIX. 
 
 Was it his manner, courteous and refined, 
 Which won the nation while it charmed the 
 town? 
 
 Was it his courage and that ringing phrase 
 Which struck the Northern heart and found 
 it true? 
 
 Or fervent piety or, unknown, unsung, 
 Some talent rare, some combination new? 
 
 Men thought he had too much, as one by one 
 
 All unsolicited the honors came ; 
 Perhaps they scoffed as still the changes rung 
 
 And titles gathered 'round one simple name. 
 
 But he with greater honor filled each place, 
 Returned still better the unasked-for trust ; 
 62
 
 ON THE DEATH OF JOHN A. DIX. 
 
 Marched with a soldier's spirit to the front, 
 To-day obeys the mandate Dust to dust. 
 
 Was it humility, unselfish life, 
 
 A love of Nature and of innocent joy 
 
 That kept his heart at such a healthful beat, 
 Left him the pulse and laughter of a boy? 
 
 There was no grudging- envy in that mind. 
 
 He liked to help, to utter words of praise ; 
 There was no avarice in his generous hand, 
 
 Stretched not to injure, but to help, to raise. 
 
 Brave as his sword ! A true Damascus blade, 
 Blazoned in fire, the brighter for the fray ; 
 
 'Tis usage tries the temper of the steel, 
 Life proved thy temper, hero of to-day. 
 63
 
 EDWARD A. WASHBURN. 
 
 DIED FEBRUARY 3, l88l. 
 
 Go, great Crusader ! Now thy lance is lowered, 
 Leave us to bear the burden and thy loss ; 
 
 Fold thou thine arms upon thy trusty sword, 
 Its gleaming hilt a cross. 
 
 Thine the Crusader's temperament, to fight 
 The Paynim, Error, where his tents were found ; 
 
 Did there come need for help of Christian knight, 
 Thy white cloak swept the ground. 
 
 Strong were the notes thy clarion voice rang out, 
 Fierce was the onslaught from thy vigorous 
 
 arm, 
 
 And idle ease and comfortable doubt 
 Took sensible alarm. 
 64
 
 EDWARD A. WASHBURN. 
 
 Yet in that eloquence a sad refrain, 
 A passionate wit, a delicate, tender thought ; 
 
 These were the gems that sparkled on the chain 
 Thy splendid genius wrought. 
 
 Like the Crusader turning toward the East, 
 Those learned eyes (which saw what others 
 sought) 
 
 A pilgrim often at the sacred feast 
 Where knelt Sir Launcelot. 
 
 They should have placed thee in that ancient 
 
 church 
 At Cyprus, where the Christian knights are 
 
 lain ; 
 
 Or in that sunny square where sparrows perch 
 On bust of Charlemagne. 
 65
 
 EDWARD A. WASHBURN. 
 
 Filled with their names, our later sands of Time 
 Mark thee as worthy to have grouped with them. 
 
 No nobler hero known to book or rhyme 
 Marched to Jerusalem. 
 
 For thou wert of that company the men 
 Born to be leaders, knowing not doubt or fear, 
 
 Who, when the Angel called, or now or then 
 Could answer, " Here ! " 
 
 Great dreams, great sorrows were thy bread and 
 wine, 
 
 God o'er hot deserts led thy suffering feet ; 
 The sepulchre is won, the victory thine, 
 
 Go thy old comrades meet. 
 
 66
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 TO C. M'C. 
 
 No flower has painted on its face 
 A legend sweet and sad as thine ; 
 
 Thy starry petals interlace 
 
 And hold above a screen so fine, 
 
 Hiding the Cross from sun and shower, 
 
 O weird and mystic Passion flower ! 
 
 In tropic lands I saw thee twine 
 Thy endless branches round and round. 
 
 Thy fruit, and leaf and flower combine 
 To scatter blessings on the ground, 
 
 Like that dear love whose grace and power 
 
 Was while on earth our Passion flower. 
 67
 
 THE PASSION FLO WER. 
 
 Now in our colder clime we trace 
 The emblems of His Passion there ; 
 
 Alas, the cruel wounds have place, 
 
 The Crown of Thorns weighs down His hair ; 
 
 The drops of blood a sullen shower 
 
 The seven spears O Passion flower ! 
 
 Yet on that Cross He gently gave 
 To mother, sister, kneeling there, 
 
 A message read beyond the grave. 
 He gave a vital force to prayer 
 
 He dignified our love and loss 
 
 And twined the flower around the Cross. 
 
 So must we in this darksome hour, 
 
 While sorrow rends the inmost soul ; 
 But take a lesson from the flower 
 
 68
 
 THE PASSION FLO WER, 
 
 And from a part must learn the whole ; 
 " It is their gain which was our loss," 
 We, flower-like, must embrace the Cross. 
 
 And if from Nature's bosom springs 
 
 A pictured lesson like to this ; 
 Does it not breathe of higher things 
 
 We yet may learn in realms of bliss ? 
 When earthly ties have loosed their power 
 We may grow upward like the flower. 
 
 Bearing, indeed, the scars of life, 
 The broken heart, the stain of tears, 
 
 The bleeding wounds of cruel strife, 
 The burden of our lonely years. 
 
 Still may there grow from out the moss 
 
 Our Passion flower twined round the Cross. 
 69
 
 TWILIGHT TALK. 
 
 He speaks : 
 
 My love, I weary of these books and all their 
 
 lore. 
 
 I'd listen to thy choice, impassioned words : 
 Pour out thy dreams with fancy running o'er ; 
 With voice more wildly sweet than singing 
 birds. 
 
 Come, talk to me, my own ! 
 
 She speaks : 
 Dearest, what can I give which thou hast not? 
 
 Thou art my library wherein I cull 
 
 The brightest flowers from the field of thought ; 
 
 And, after thee, all written books are dull. 
 
 Come, talk to me, my own ! 
 
 70
 
 TWILIGHT TALK. 
 
 He speaks : 
 My love, thou knowest not a woman's worth. 
 
 Thine, the Alembic, whence the metals flow. 
 Man, sordid man, can dig them from the earth ; 
 But in thy brighter soul they fuse and grow. 
 Come, talk to me, my own ! 
 
 She speaks : 
 Dearest, have I, like thee, the power to deftly 
 
 draw 
 
 The ears of listening senates to my speech ? 
 Can I defend the Right build up the Law ? 
 A nation listens, dear, if thou but teach. 
 Come, talk to me, my own ! 
 
 He speaks : 
 
 My love, dost know the very best I do, 
 
 71
 
 TWILIGHT TALK. 
 
 The world's dull business or my deepest 
 
 thought 
 
 Has thee within its folds ? Thy 'presence true 
 
 Informed my life, my inspiration wrought. 
 
 Come, talk to me, my own ! 
 
 She speaks : 
 These answers from the full-voiced Past, 
 
 Sweet Eloise by her Abelard's knee. 
 Did she not say, " My learning is so vast 
 That it hath taught me this I know but 
 thee." 
 
 Come, talk to me, my own ! 
 
 He speaks : 
 
 My love, now I will quote my pedant fair. 
 Without his Beatrice, where were Dante's 
 song, 
 
 72
 
 TWILIGHT TALK. 
 
 Was Pericles alone, or was Aspasia near? 
 On Laura's name doth Petrach float along. 
 Come, talk to me, my own ! 
 
 She speaks : 
 Dearest, I love thee, 'tis my only word, 
 
 'Tis all my eloquence, and wit, and power. 
 Better to die than live with that unheard. 
 O ! take it, 'tis my heritage, my dower. 
 Come, take it all, my own ! 
 
 He speaks : 
 My love, I fold thy slender hand in mine, 
 
 And know, my Beatrice, and my Laura thou- 
 Aspasia's wit and Helen's beauty thine, 
 Keeping, like Eloise, thy loving vow. 
 Come, to this heart, my own. 
 
 73
 
 THE QUESTION. 
 
 AUGUST 4, 1883. 
 
 Oh, dear pale lips ! Oh, lovely, silent face ! 
 
 Has death been here and stolen thy dear life ? 
 Speak, then, and break the silence of this place ! 
 O God, some sign, some signal of Thy Grace ! 
 Give me some comfort writ in words of light, 
 Did Jesus watch with thee this vigil night ? 
 
 And I who watched and loved thee did not stand 
 By thy dear side when the dread summons came, 
 Did not in mine fold the familiar hand 
 To lead thee tenderly to spirit land ! 
 But let the angels come with faces bright, 
 Did Jesus watch with thee that vigil night ? 
 
 74
 
 THE QUESTION. 
 
 Pure was thy life, thy quest of virtue rare ; 
 A Red-Cross knight self consecrate thy shield 
 
 (And dear to thee as vital breath) was prayer ; 
 Thy spurs were won in silent battle-field, 
 Whose dreary sands no blooming laurels yield. 
 
 But none the less thine was a goodly fight 
 
 Did Jesus watch with thee that vigil night ? 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 Be silent, aching heart, and find again 
 That cross of Calvary borne aloft for thee, 
 The Jewish soldiers had no spears for me. 
 What is thine agony to Mary's pain ? 
 The wounds, the thorn, the insult to the slain. 
 I lived and loved, believed, and angels bright 
 Came with my Lord, and watched that vigil 
 night. 
 
 75
 
 THE QUESTION. 
 
 Wine steeped with gall was given me to drink, 
 For I was mortal, and my flesh weak 
 
 With pain and anguish lingering on the brink. 
 Earth still was dear and Heaven far to seek. 
 
 My hour was called, my sentry-ship was o'er, 
 
 And saints and martyrs led me to the shore. 
 Pale Death at last ! Nor filled me with affright, 
 For Jesus watched with me that vigil night.
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 TO JOHN PHILIP, WITH A KISS. 
 DECEMBER, 1882. 
 
 My best loved critic ! Son ; and friend of mine, 
 Lend thy dear eyes, and gentle soul to me ! 
 
 Some day when I am gone, these words may twine 
 An airy unseen bridge from me to thee. 
 
 Perhaps we have not told our deepest thought, 
 Nor always breathed the love our hearts 
 
 have filled ; 
 
 Perhaps we shall know better what we sought, 
 When Death shall consecrate, and Life be 
 stilled.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Form L9-100m-9.'52(A3105)444
 
 Sherwood 
 
 231U Poems. 
 S552U7 
 
 1892 
 
 PS 
 28114 
 
 1892 
 
 UCLA-Young Research Library 
 
 PS2814.S552 A17 1892 
 
 L 009 598 088 4 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 001 224 405 9