THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES MEMORIAL DAY AND OTHER POEMS MEMORIAL DAY And Other Poems RICHARD BURTON BOSTON COPELAND AND DAY M DCCC XCVII COPYRIGHT 1897 BY COPELAND AND DAY Contents MEMORIAL DAY Page I MATTERHORN QUESTS 6 IN TIME OF BATTLE 7 A FAITHFUL DOG 7 SO MUCH TO LEARN 8 THE LITTLE MOTHERS 9 THE PROLOGUE IO THE OLD TENOR 1 3 THE PHANTOM DRUM I 5 THE RACE OF THE " BOOMERS " 1 6 BALLAD OF THE EASTERN WOMAN 2O BALLAD OF THE THORNLESS ROSE 23 IRONY 25 MAD TOWN 26 MELODIES OF THE MONTHS 29 MARCH FIELDS 29 APRIL 29 MAY LURE 3O JUNE 3 I HAYING 3 I BIRD NOTES 33 THE LARK 33 THE CAT BIRD 33 THE MEISTERSINGER 34 THE HUMMING BIRD 35 THE BLUE BIRD 35 THE GROUND ROBIN 36 FROM THE GRASS 37 LOVE IS STRONG 38 LISRARf CLAIRVOYANCE MY UPPER SHELVES CONTRASTS DAY AND NIGHT MUSIC CLOWN AND KING OF MUSIC GREAT AND SMALL ANTICLIMAX PERSONIFICATION WINTER TWILIGHT THE RURAL PIPE THE RAIN ON THE ROOF A MYSTERY TO A MOUNTAIN BROOK DEMOCRACY LYRIC AND EPIC ON A FERRY-BOAT RECOLLECTIONS AS A VIOLINIST TRAGI-COMEDY THE MARSH FLOWER SAINTHOOD AN AUTUMN IMPRESSION CHARITY STREAM AND SINGER CRICKETS SEA WITCHERY IN A LIBRARY BROOKLYN BRIDGE A PALIMPSEST FROM A CITY WINDOW REMEMBERED SONGS PdgC 60 COLUMBUS 60 BEAUTY STILL WAITS 6 1 THE SOUL'S HOUR 6 1 ACROSS THE INTERVALE 6 2 HARMONY 62 A PRAYER 63 IN THE EAST 63 DISSONANCES 64 BETWEEN THE SUNS 64 THE PINES 65 MY POETS 65 TWO MOTHERS 66 SEA AND SHORE 6j USES 67 A SEASCAPE OF TURNER'S 67 PERMANENCY 68 ON SYRIAN HILLS 68 PERSONALITY 69 THE PRAYERS OF SAINTS 69 TREES IN WINTER JO THE PATH 71 A ROYAL PROGRESS JZ EPITAPH OF AN ACTOR J2 RECOMPENSE J2 RICHARD WAGNER J Z SUNRISE 73 RAIN AND SLEEP 73 TRANSFORMATION 73 THE POET HE'S not alone an artist weak and white O'er-bending scented paper, toying there With languid fancies fashioned deft and fair, Mere sops to time between the day and night. He is a poor torn soul who sees aright How far he fails of living out the rare Night-visions God vouchsafes along the air ; Until the pain burns hot, beyond his might. The heart-beat of the universal will He hears, and, spite of blindness and dis proof, Can sense amidst the jar a singing fine. Grief-smitten that his lyre should lack the skill To speak it plain, he plays in paths aloof, And knows the trend is starward, life divine. MEMORIAL DAY " By their great memories the Gods are known." GEO. MEREDITH. I. MAY is the firstling of the summer year, Bland month and beautiful beneath the sky ; An Elim where the water-wells are clear, When winter's bitter Marah is gone by. May faces toward the pleasance yet to be, The greenwood splendors, the maturity Of bloom, Hope's home is May and May is here. What semblance flashes so divinely clear Yet mystic to the dazzled eye as this Of Hope ? Not Youth alone, but manhood's cheer, Old age's desolation, sorrow's kiss Above a tomb, these all draw strength from her, Quenchless, the first, the final comforter, What Being utterly shall of her miss ? But kinsman proper unto Hope, the bright, Is Memory, elder, graver, wrapt in Time As in a mantle : mellow is the light She casts, obliquely : images sublime She conjures up, and barren were the days That missed the magic of her holy haze, Making old seasons seem a summer clime. Memorial Yea, not in Hope alone are mortals strong : Da y- They have their memories ; looking down the past, We do behold them, a most stately throng Of figures in a mould heroic cast : Recumbent, but all vital to arouse A nation, and to quicken a people's vows By proud ensample of the lives that last. If by their memories the Gods are known, So too are men and women, for they grow God-like in telling over all their own Emblazoned deeds ; heroes are nourished so, Idealisms spring, romances thrive Wherever those with heart and hope alive Draw solace from the great of long ago. Moved by this sense of dignity inurned In scenes historic and in moments great, Heart-touched by tender thoughts of knighthood earned On scarlet fields, each hero-mindful state Gathers around the graves of fallen sons, And covers up the flesh-scars and the guns With flowers, those soft effacers of old hate. II. May and the sunshine keen on everything ! But hark ! the martial music's solemn sound : Now, in the forefront of the plastic spring, Pause momently, and let the ancient wound . Quiver again, not for dark rancour's sake, 2 But only forever to keep wide awake Memorial Memories of deaths superb and courage-crowned. ^ a ^- Now is the cleavage deep of North and South Well closed, the years o'er-cover it, as grass Softens and sweetens some dry place of drouth When comes the blessed rain ; the requiem-mass Is chanted of the mood that shattered peace : Where common sorrows are, anger must cease : Sorrow and love remain, while passions pass. And if there come wild words of East and West, Let us invoke our mighty memories Even as the Gods again ; declare it best To sail together over tranquil seas, One ship, one helmsman, one ambition high : To show the world a strength that can lay by War, and the thought of war, and such as these. Yea, mingle prayers above the Blue and Gray, And be the paeans raised for patriot sires Who in that hour of Freedom' s yesterday Fought sturdily, and lit their beacon fires For what they deemed the Right. The victor shows Himself twice victor when his sometime foes Are hailed as brothers, even as Christ requires. How like cathedral chimes the names we know, Ringing above a leal united land : Bull Run, Antietam, Gettysburg, Shiloh, Sherman's grim march to reach the white sea-strand, 3 Memorial Lookout's cloud fight, The Wilderness, each bell D *y> Reverberating valor list! they tell How Lincoln and Lee are friends, and under stand. III. What is a patriot ? Not the man who swears : "My country, right or wrong;" nor he who claims That sacred thing, yet like a dastard dares To use her to his ends, to hide his shames ; Nor yet the weakling sore afraid to chide For fear he seem untrue : the gap is wide 'Twixt empty mouthings and high manhood's A patriot ? He should be a blend of faith And fealty and fear of any stain Upon his mistress' honor ; for the wraith Of mere Appearance many a man hath slain, Who reckoned that blind praise was Duty's all. Who loves, chastises ; at his country's call, Behold him valiant in the van again! He agonizes o'er the awful plight Of that disfeatured host that lacks for bread ; He watches Labor in her new-found might Strike at Monopoly's dire dragon head ; He lets the Time-spirit lead him towards the truth, That mind see clear and heart be moved to ruth For the land's children who are sore-bested. 4 O Country ! vast, dramatic, thrilled with life, Memorial O mother ! bountiful of womb and breast, Day. We may reproach thee, even use the knife For pain's release upon thy body, lest Fair growth be checked, but should an alien dare Befoul thy fame, a lion from its lair Each state shall spring, each burg prove loyalest. Into thy sinews enter Norse and Celt, The German and the Gaul, they westward steer : From the frore north and from the southern belt Of nations come the folk to fellow here : But under-bone is English, sturdy stock, Pliant to Fate, yet founded like a rock : Fraternal, ail, in Freedom's atmosphere ! For higher, holier than the will to war The will to love, now may the path of Peace Within our states be like the pilot star In the night sky, by myriads to increase As the millennium broadens, gleam by gleam : This is the prophet's word, the poet's dream : All nations living in love's great release. Call not this womanish, a sluggard's hope : When whilom brave men lay their swords aside, They still are brave : but they no longer grope In the earth -chambers where the beasts abide, But, feet firm-based, they lift their foreheads high Into the ample air, and from the sky Draw loftier inspirations, larger-eyed. 5 Memorial Nay, on this day memorial ne'er forget The visioned good, the revelation august Of Peace betwixt the peoples : may we let Our martial blood be cleansed of any lust Of war, and this America clasp hands Close with the parent English, two proud lands Before the world who let their weapons rust. Memories and hopes ! O mingle on this day Savored with flowers, made sacred by the tears Of mourners, musical with the far-away Sound of large doings from the vanished years ; And buoyant, midst the mus^d tenderness, Through the stanch creed that, slowly, Wrong grows less, The while our land, God guided, hath no fears! MATTERHORN QUESTS AS men essay the Matterhorn That peering peak of stone and snow To view, some matchless Alpine morn, The petty world stretch far below, Though after all their toil and pain They can but clamber down again ; So yearning souls essay the heights Of spirit, setting dangers by, And recking naught of low delights The flesh affords ; you ask them why, They know not ; some divine unrest Bids them to climb and do their best. IN TIME OF BATTLE IT is a seemly thing to die in battle, Ensanguined for the Right ; The sudden swoon, the ominous death-rattle, Mere phantoms in the fight Against the music and the Victor's cry ; 'Tis noble so to die. And if one fail, 'tis well in such disaster Like Saul to end the day ; Philistine spears fly fast and blood flows faster, The leader falls, but they, His dauntless sons, fall with him, all the three Under a tamarisk tree In Jabesh ! And it is a fate full splendid To win a funeral song Like David's, love and leonine sorrow blended All passionate and strong ; The King made moan for Saul, his Mighty One ; But most for Jonathan. A FAITHFUL DOG MY merry-hearted comrade on a day Gave over all his mirth, and went away Upon the darksome journey I must face Sometime as well. Each hour I miss his grace, His meek obedience and his constancy. Never again will he look up to me With loyal eyes, nor leap for my caress As one who wished not to be masterless ; And never shall I hear hi? pleading bark 7 ' A Outside the door, when all the ways grow dark, Faithful Bidding the house-folk gather close inside. "**' It seems a cruel thing, since he has died, To make his memory small, or deem it sin To reckon such a mate as less than kin. O faithful follower, O gentle friend, If thou art missing at the journey's end, Whate'er of joy or solace there I find Unshared by thee I left so far behind, The gladness will be mixed with tears, I trow, My little crony of the long ago ! For how could heaven be home-like, with the door Fast-locked against a loved one, evermore ? SO MUCH TO LEARN SO much to learn ! Old Nature's ways Of glee and gloom with rapt amaze To study, probe, and paint, brown earth, Salt sea, blue heavens, their tilth and dearth, Birds, grasses, trees, the natural things That throb or grope or poise on wings. So much to learn about the world Of men and women ! We are hurled Through interstellar space awhile Together, then the sob, the smile, Is silenced, and the solemn spheres Whirl lonesomely along the years. 8 So much to learn from wisdom's store So Muck Of early art and ancient lore. To Learn, So many stories treasured long On temples, tombs, and columns strong. The legend of old eld, so large And eloquent from marge to marge. So much to learn about one's self: The fickle soul, the nimble elf That masks as me ; the shifty will, The sudden valor and the thrill ; The shattered shaft, the broken force That seems supernal in its source. And yet the days are brief. The sky Shuts down before the waking eye Has bid good-morrow to the sun ; The light drops low, and Life is done. Good-by, good-night, the star-lamps burn ; So brief the time, so much to learn ! THE LITTLE MOTHERS STRANGE mockery of motherhood ! They who should feel the fostering care Maternal, and the tender good Of home when fondling arms are there, Must, ere their time, in mimic show Of age and sacred duties, be Thus wise to guide, thus deep to know, The artless needs of infancy. The The little mothers ! Will they win Little T ne bitter-sweet of elder years ? Mothers. wm loye protect them from the sm> And faith gleam dauntless through the tears ? God grant some guerdon for the loss Of childly joy : and when they come To woman- ways and woman's cross, Give them a fate more frolicsome. THE PROLOGUE Scene, a theatre. The audience is crowding its way in ; the play is Dekker* s " The Pleasant Comedy of Old Fortunatus." ist Spectator. HEY ! how they push ! The pit is crowded now ; A family man must come in season, sooth, If he would see the play. On Saturdays The folk, work finished, bring their wives and all, Hoarding each penny through the thrifty week. And look ! an actor comes, 'tis curtain-time. id Spec. Nay, 'tis but Master Prologue, he that struts About the stage and mouths to please himself, Speedily making way for the real stuff, The kings and queens and all the quality That sit at banquet in the regal hall. ^d Spec. Thou liest, fool, see where they pantomime ; There's more than one ; faith, 'tis the very play. IO id Spec. God's love, it is a zany. Proper The plays Prologue. Have each their fore-piece ; so it is to-day. \st Spec's Wife. Peace, dolt ! They speak; only the gallants talk, The yeomanry should hearken, look and learn. [The play begins without a prologue. 1st Cobbler in audience. How handsomely they give the lines. Methinks There never was a scene since I was got So brave in carriage, nor by half so grand, As this of Fortunatus and his purse. 'Twas well for him he chose the chink of gold Afore aught else as, wisdom, beauty, health. zd Cob. I heard but now good Master Prentice there (Him yonder with his dame) affirm it roundly That he had sometime seen this famous piece, And how these incidents are all aside From the grave acts that make the tragedy, The true main action that will come erelong ; This a mere farce to make us laugh withal. I trow he has it right. isf Cob. Th'art drunken, man ; The actors sweat as though ' twas serious ; And mark you that the stage is gallant-full, Which would not be unless the act's begun. II The ^d Cob. Yet, by my awl, 'tis hardly six o' Prologue. the C 1 OC 1 C) And he says true, the fore-piece comes the first ; Mayhap it is new-fangled, Spanish, French, To speak the prologue by more mouths than one. Nay, Hodge is right, 'tis surely not the play. zd Cob. Ye silly knaves, I prithee prate no more ; I know the playhouse, and if this be not The prologue, nothing else, I'll buy and burn Ten tapers for the church come Candlemas. [The play is enacted, and, being finished, the people jostle their way out of the pit. \st Citizen. 'Twas handsome-done, but still a parlous trick, This giving of the plot with ne'er a word Of fore-speech, when one looked for something such ; Though I have heard it said 'tis often so, This showing of the play sans anything To gloss it. Well, I would that I had known ; So would I not have chattered with my mates, Thinking the best to come, but bent my mind On Fortunatus and his fortunes great. I lost full half the lines, by our lady, yes. 'Twould fetch the tears another time. Ah me, Had I but known ! A play's a mocking thing ! So is it with us men. We watch the stage, And cannot deem that what is playing there 12 (Bespite the fuss and fustian and the roars The Of laughter that Sir Cap-and-Bells provokes) Prologue. Is still the one brief tragedy that we Spectators ere shall gaze on ; that the time Is only hours few, one afternoon Snatched from a grim eternity of days. Secure in a false ease and thinking, fond, How 'tis the fore-piece that but ushers in The five-act story, lo ! our life is lived ; The lights go down, and we, half blinking still, Must elbow out into the night and cold, Uncertain whether, as we stumble on, Of all the friendly press whose smiles and tears Made company about us just before, One voice shall hail us, or a fellow hand Stretch forth to touch us in the silent dark. THE OLD TENOR A MONOLOGUE DID you say the singing was only fair ? Sir, if the chance was given me To change from him on the stage up there Straight to a spirit symphony Well, it might stagger my poor old brain, But I think, on the whole, I back should come To hear these worn sweet notes again, And see yon form that is cumbersome. The why of it all ? It fell, my friend, A matter of forty years ago. 13 The A certain man was nigh his end, Old Lying wracked in a fever glow, Tenor, And a fine young star, in his flush of fame, Stept to his bedside, took his hand, And strove to kindle life's spent flame By singing songs of the lovely land. Ah, how he sang ! till the sick man turned His face from the wall, and took deep breath, And said, as his eyes with new light yearned, That life ran sweeter far than death If one might hearken to strains like this ; And he swore he would live in death's despite. Then sleep dropt down on him like a kiss, And he woke with his blood all cool and right. Perhaps you can fancy who was the man, And who is the singer there on the stage, And why I listen and sob, and can But love his faults and his hints of age. Some folks will say, when they pay their coin, The perfectest singer is their choice, Where youth and art and genius join ; But I like a man behind the voice ! THE PHANTOM DRUM A LEGEND OF CASTINE THE old fort stands on the sightly hill Engirt by bays and the wide salt sea ; Its earthworks soft with the grass a-grow And the gold of flowers, its bastions low. How tranquil Time doth work his will On the stormy heights of history ! Of yore the British ensconced them here, Old battle dogs in their rig of red ; But the Yankees came, and who might cope With the men afire with freedom's hope ? A vanquished foe, with a victor's cheer At their very heels, the red-coats fled. In a pit deep dug in mother earth, In a transient prison nigh the wall, Left behind was a drummer lad ; Clean forgotten him they had, And his petty fault and his ways of mirth ; No comrade stayed for to heed his call. Buried alive there, he and his drum ! Tireless he beat it, a reveille Would wake the dead, but no living wight Was near to succor by day or night ; He prayed that even the foe might come Before he had starved himself away. The In vain : when the patriot band marched there Phantom j n a f ter d a y S) an d the rampart scaled, urn. rphgy f oun d his drum -head broken through With the hapless blows, and the drummer too Life-spent ; what once was strong and fair Shrunk to a thing whereat men paled. 'Twas in March it fell : a century's tide Flows full between ; but the legend claims, Whenever the windy month comes round, You shall hear by night as doleful sound As ever rose o'er the ocean wide Or frightened the children at their games. 'Tis the phantom drum's tap-tapping drear Up in the fort ; for he cannot rest, That drummer boy in his dungeon place ; You never see him or know his face, But the tap-tap-tap comes sharp and clear Above the sea, when the wind blows west. THE RACE OF THE "BOOMERS" THE bleak o' the dawn, and the plain is a- smoke with the breath of the frost, And the murmur of bearded men is an ominous sound in the ear ; The white tents liken the ground to a flower- meadow embossed By the bloom of the daisy sweet, for a sign that the June is here. 16 They are faring from countless camps, afoot or The Race ahorse, may be, of the The blood of many a folk may flow in their bounding veins, But, stung by the age-old lust for land and for liberty, They have ridden or run or rolled in the mile- engulfing trains. More than the love of loot, mightier than wom an's lure, The passion that speeds them on, the hope that is in their breast : They think to possess the soil, to have and to hold it sure, To make it give forth of fruit in this garden wide of the West. But see ! It is sun-up now, and six hours hence is noon ; The crowd grows thick as the dust that muffles the roads this way : The black-leg stays from his cards, the song-man ceases his tune, And the gray-haired parson deems it is idle to preach and pray. Now thirst is a present pain and hunger a coming dread, Water is dear as gold, as the heat grows fierce apace : 17 The Race Theft is a common deed for the price of a bit of f the bread, And poison has played its part to sully the morning's face. And over the mete away the prairie is parched and dry, A creature of mighty moods, an ocean of move less waves ; Clean of a single soul, silent beneath the sky, Waiting its peopled towns, with room for a host of graves. The hours reel on, and tense as a bow-cord drawn full taut * Is the thought of the Boomers all : a sight that is touched with awe ; A huddle of men and horse to the frenzy pitch upwrought, A welter of human-kind in the viewless grip of the Law. Lo ! women are in the press, by scores they are yonder come To find a footing in front ah, how can they gain a place ? Nay, softly, even here in the rabble are harbored some Who think of their mothers, wives, who re member a fairer face ; 18 For the black mass yawns to let these weak ones The Race into the line, f//^ ITTI -i r 11 i i > i i i j '''Boomers, While as many men fall back : tis knighthood nameless and great, Since it means good -by to a claim yea, the end of a dream divine, To be lord of the land, and free for to follow a larger fate. High noon : with a fusillade of guns and a deep, hoarse roar, With a panting of short, sharp breaths in the mad desire to win, Over the mystic mark the seething thousands pour, As the zenith sun glares down on the rush and the demon's din. God ! what a race : all life merged in the arrowy flight ; Trample the brother down, murder, if need be so, Ride like the wind and reach the Promised Land ere night, The Strip is open, is ours, to build on, harrow and sow. There comes a Horror of flame, for look, the grass is afire ! On, or it licks our feet, on, or it chokes our breath ! Swift through the cactus fly, swift, for it kindles higher ; '9 The Race Home and love and life or the hell of an of the awful death. "B-oomers." So, spent and bruised and scorched, down trails thick-strewn with hopes A-wreck, did the Boomers race to the place they would attain ; Seizing it, scot and lot, ringing it round with ropes, The homes they had straitly won through fire and blood and pain. While ever up from the earth, or fallen far through the air, Goes a shuddering ethnic moan, the saddest of all sad sounds ; The cry of an outraged race that is driven other where, The Indian's heart-wrung wail for his hapless Hunting Grounds. BALLAD OF THE EASTERN WOMAN (In Turner's " History of England " is told the story of a Mahometan woman who fell in love with an English mer chant, the father of Thomas & Becket, and followed him all the way to England, although she knew but the word London, and the word Gilbert, the name of her lover.) IT was an eastern woman Who hailed from over seas, And she met an English merchant, And sought his heart to please. 20 She met an English merchant Ballad All in her native land, "R*** r Who kissed her there and called her fair, Woma t And plighted her his hand. But merchant men are fickle : Anon he took him home, With cargo heavy-laden ; He would no longer roam : He left the eastern woman To weep if so she would, Nor weened to stay another day If but the wind held good. The eastern woman hoarded What moneys to her came ; She knew his city, London, She knew his Christian name, And this was all her knowledge ; But with a faith sublime She journeyed far by sun and star, Nor recked of tide or time. O'er half the world she travelled Until (for God above Had pity on such trusting, Had marvel at such love) Unto the isle of England She came in her emprise, A lonely one whose eastern sun Was in her hair and eyes. 21 Ballad of the Eastern Woman. And one bleak day the good folk Who thronged upon the street Were stricken still a moment To see a sight full sweet : A soft-lipped orient woman Repeating o'er and o'er Her lover's name and whence he came, Two words, and nothing more. But, lo! her Gilbert passing ! He meets her face to face And all his heart is molten Before her hapless grace ; A mighty cry she utters, And then looks dumbly down. Oh, love will lead and give good speed, Though strange be tongue and town ! So merchant Gilbert took her, And swore that she was true, And wed the eastern woman Ere yet the moon was new. And she was well-requited For stress by land and sea, And lived her life as glad a wife As ever did ladye. 22 BALLAD OF THE THORNLESS ROSE ASSISI town had a garden once With roses set of a wondrous kind. And Francis, monk, was the gardener (The world is still with his name astir) To shield them from the wind. For they grew and blew in that peaceful spot With never a thorn to prick the hand Of one that plucked them, if but he Loved Christ and trowed on his sovereignty, Or fought with a believing brand. But there came a maid of noble race Once on a time to the garden fair, And saw the monk and loved him well, As he loved her, for she drew the spell Of her beauty round him there. But she was a heathen in her faith, And he was a man to Mary vowed ; Yet, fain to show her a tender sign, He plucked a rose with a heart like wine And gave to this lady proud. Whereat she took it with gracious smile, And knew that it meant a love untold ; Blusht and put it beside her breast (A place, I ween, for a rose the best) In that garden sweet and old. Ballad Then she turned away and rode her home : of the g ut w hen it was come to harvest-tide She loved a Iord of her kin and creed > Forgot the monk and his true love deed, And soon was a stately bride. And, wotting well that it shamed her truth, She called a vassal and bade him go Back to the monk with the withered rose, Back to the empty garden-close Wherein no flowers blow. And lo ! when Francis unrolled the silk That wrapt the flower all bruised and dead, And touched the stem, sharp thorns had grown About the bloom of that rose alone Of all in his garden-bed ! Then Francis, monk, said never a word, But kissed the petals, and soft at night Stole him out to a secret place And buried the flower, and hid his face In prayer till the morning light. 'Twas the woman's heathen hand, write some, But the peasants have it another way : The thorns grew out of her faithless love (The same is a sin all sins above) And girt the rose that day. 24 IRONY A LOVER sued for his lady's hand, But her heart was stone, and he went his way And served the flag of his native land And fought and wounded fell one day. And the tidings came to his lady love As a sudden stroke from an open sky ; Till she knew she held, all men above, Yon stricken one who was like to die. So she rose, with the message blindly read, And breathed a prayer for a kindly fate ; " I will go to him," she palely said, "And tell my love ere it be too late." When she reached the field and sought for one To say in sooth how her hero fared, She deemed her earthly sorrows done, And joyed for all she had dreamed and dared, For the wound, they said, was healing fast And the doubt and danger now were o'er. Ah, the woman's tears dropt down at last, While her heart kept singing more and more. She bent above him as white he lay, Nor held it wanting in womanhood To bare her soul to his gaze, and say The word she felt he would reckon good. 25 Irony. But a look of pain to his sick face stole And wonder sat on the weary brow, As, truth for truth, he told the whole Simple story of Then and Now. After days of a long despair He had found another whose eye confessed She held him dear, and her lock of hair Nestled now on his bandaged breast. Then the lady rose with the story heard, And murmured not at the turn of fate, But looked to heaven and spake this word : " Even so, I have come too late." MAD-TOWN DID you ever hear of Mad-Town, A town I wot of well ? How once men called it glad-town, And what the folk befell ? Of yore, the place was like to other towns, Where old and young and seemly men and clowns Lived out their lives ; and maidens smiled or broke Deep hearts, or were bespoke. Where tiny children sported midst the downs, Weaving of flowers or bringing in the May, Merry the live-long day, And matrons most demure, with upbound hair, Did household tasks and wept betimes for care ; 26 While Shrunken-shanks sat still and took their Mad- sunning, Town. And watched the younkers running. Until, one morn, just as the night-lorn East Turned into rose that wine sheds at a feast, A stranger came, bearing an instrument With carvings strange besprent, And stood and played : the lordliest and the least About the streets, afield, or housed at home Stopt, and might not roam. Stopt, and light ran over all their faces, Yea, blest them in their places. And as the minstrel, playing soft and sweet, Waxed loving in his work, lo ! many feet Kept rhythmic time, and bodies swayed, and hands Were claspt for dancing-bands. And e'en the little ones, too wee to beat The perfect dance-time through its cadences, Were rhythmic in their glees ; One old man, too, albeit bent with eld, Rose up in raptures never to be quelled And cast afar his staff, to hobble gayly, As he had done it daily. The player played right on, tune chasing tune, Until the clocks rang out, high noon ! high noon ! Then sudden vanished, sprang into the air, Or sank through earth ere any were aware : And oh ! the change, the sorry, woeful swoon From joyance that was rife erewhile he went 27 Mad- And ceased his blandishment ! Town. Each face grew stony first, then vacant-eyed, And gibberish loud laughter rose and died To silence worse, like damned spirits striving Against their Fate's contriving. And though this happed full many years ago, And one might deem they had forgot it so, Forgot the minstrel and his coming-time, As one forgets a rhyme : The good folk of the town forever show This strange wild grieving after what is dead In what the music said. Until men call them mad : they neither reap Nor sow, nor buy nor sell, but only sleep ; Or, waking, roam with head aside, as trying To catch some sound a-dying. This is the tale of Mad-Town, A town I wot of well ; How once men called it glad-town, And what the folk befell. 28 Melodies of The Months MARCH FIELDS NOW shrink not from me for shamefacedness, O sober fields of March beneath the sky ! Your brown and gray, your russet robes, may bless With deep delight a lover's loyal eye ; And lover such and always fain would I Be reckoned, who in all my blood to-day, Long winter-sluggish, feel a mighty wine, The wind of spring that sings along its way, And makes a music that is festal-fine. O sober fields of March, your mood is deep, divine ! APRIL THE lyric tremor and lift Of the renascent earth, The teeming birth Again, the indescribable gift Of Spring, a-throb with everything That's wonder- worth. Let us have eyes to see The new-old miracle! If it befell We viewed for the first time such wizardry, Each budding leaf were past belief, Ineffable. 29 April. But custom films our eyes Unto the marvellous sight, And April bright Is not a magic-maiden from the skies, But an earth-girl of pout and curl And manner light. Ah, no ! not so : She is God's daughter, and her airiest mood Is deep with Love and wise with ancient Good. MAY-LURE HOW the heart pulls at its tether In the magic warm spring weather! How the blood leaps in its courses When the deep ebullient forces Break the bosom brown of earth! It is worth All a man can scrape or squander Just to idle, just to wander Forth from trade, away from duty, Revelling in all the beauty And the glamour of the May. Who to-day Cares a fig for any other Thought save this : The earth, great mother, Has turned kind, has banished gloom and dole ; Music, that audient outlet for the soul, Comes in, and grief goes out, and Life is whole. 3 JUNE JUNE in the grass! Daisies and buttercups, lo, they surpass Coined gold of kings ; and for greendom, the rose, Bloom of the month, see how stately she goes ; Blow, winds, and waft me the breathings of flowers : June's in her bowers. June overhead! All the birds know it, for swift they have sped Northward, and now they are singing like mad ; June is full-tide for them, June makes them glad. Hark, the bright choruses greeting the day Sorrow, away ! June in the heart ! Dormant dim dreamings awake and upstart, Blood courses quicker, some sprite in my feet Makes rhythm of motion, makes wayfaring sweet ; So, outward or inward, the meaning is clear ; Summer is here. HAYING A RUSTIC idyl of the ardent days In middle summer. When the sun is new The scythes go swishing all the wet grass through, Making a music down the meadow ways ; And as the noon draws on, in fields ablaze 31 Haying. With heat, the rows are gathered trig and true, To simmer there beneath the cloudless blue, And spill keen fragrance. In the twilight haze, Behold ! the high-piled wain along the road Creaks cumbrously, the hayers spent and brown Seated a-top ; so huge their precious load They brush the bushes, well-nigh topple down ; The field stands stript ; a gust of evening rain, And all its face is odorous again. Bird Notes THE LARK I STOOD knee-deep within a field of grain, And felt a sudden flash of facile wings That off the ground rose straight into the blue. And looking, saw it was the lark, a wight In all my days I had not glimpsed at home, And now must find beyond the foam-white seas For the first time. This child of ecstasy Shook down roulades of song, and clove the air Up, up and ever up towards very heaven, A speck of buoyant life against the sky, And bird-kind's one embodiment of soul In God -aspiring flight. Across my mind Rushed Shakespeare's hymn and Shelley's heav enly lay, Wherein this bird, etherealized, becomes More beautiful, and less of mortal mould ; Until half-dazed I stood, nor hardly knew Whether I heard the descant of the lark, Or those dear singers of the human race Make subtle music for my brooding ear. THE CAT-BIRD A SKULKER in a thicket, loud and harsh His note, his message so unbeautiful It does belie his bird shape, cheat the sense. But hark ! All suddenly a wondrous lay 33 The Cat- And from the self-same throat. 'Tis now a Bird - thrush Uttering its nunlike spirit on the air ; And now a robin, cheery-sweet and plumed For morning minstrelsy that wakes the day ; And now a mingled rapture of them both With Somewhat superadded. A strange bird, Yet in his fashion not unlike to man, Who often hides a music-potent soul Under some uncouth semblance of a song That strikes the ear but lamely, till some stress Of life, some lyric impulse, bids him break His custom, and the world is blessedly Enthralled, the melody is so divine. THE MEISTERSINGER THE magic moment of the eve has come, When keen behind the hill the after-glow Makes gold and flame of heaven, too soon to change To mother-of-pearl ; and hark ! the hid thrush sings His master-song, wee Walter of the wood, So silvery and sweet that one is sure He'll win his Eva, put to shame for aye All rivals, prove himself a knight indeed At minstrelsy, and live by music's might So long as men have ears and Time a tongue. 34 THE HUMMING-BIRD IS it a monster bee, Or is it a midget bird, Or yet an air-born mystery That now yon marigold has stirred, And now on vocal wing To a neighbor bloom is whirred, In an aery ecstasy, in a passion of pilfering ? Ah ! 'tis the humming-bird, Rich-coated one, Ruby-throated one, That is not chosen for song, But throws its whole rapt sprite Into the secrets of flowers The summer days along, Into most odorous hours, Into a murmurous sound of wings too swift for sight ! THE BLUEBIRD IN the very spring, Nay, in the bluster of March, or haply before, The bluebird comes, and, a-wing Or alight, seems evermore For song that is sweet and soft. His footprints oft Make fretwork along the snow When the weather is bleak ablow, When his hardihood by cold is pinched full sore. 35 The Then deep in the fall, Bluebird. j n ^g I nc ji an -summer while, in the dreamy days, When the errant songsters all Grow slack in songful ways, You may hear his warble still By field or hill ; Until, with an azure rush Of motion, music hush ! He is off, he is mutely whelmed in the southern haze ! THE GROUND-ROBIN FROM a low birch-tree just outside my win dow, Here in the wind-fresh green New Hampshire country, All through the day, and even at the nightfall, Cheery, distinct, his heart a home for hope, His throat full swollen with desire of music, A little ground-robin sits and sings, Symbol of summer, neighbor dear to me. I never hear his note in other places ; But when June comes, and I return to live Among the birches and memorial pines, Lo, faithful to the tryst, alert and buoyant, His strain familiar greets my welcoming soul, And seems the type of all time-keeping things, Rebuking chance and change. Illusion sweet Uprises with the sound : of all the birds 36 I know, this songster speaks most plain to me, The Making impermanence a very myth. Ground- Robin . So carol on, ground-robin ! each green year I listen for you, and 'twould be a grief Beyond mere words, some June, some fragrant morrow, To sit and hearken by the open window In vain ; for in a flood of fond regret Would come a sense of loss, of unrequited Love, of faith broken at length, of fickle Friendship, and joy too beautiful to last : Sing on, ground-robin, sing ! FROM THE GRASS NOW, for a moment, all is well : The eye looks out on lovely things Midsummer's facile miracle Of sky and field and bird-swift wings. Hush, heart, deep fellow feeling all The world-pain ; haply this may be A symbol of some good to fall, Come homing-time, for me and thee. The old illusion ? Nature's art To cozen us of Life's keen smart ? Nay, life is love ; love lasts, O heart. 37 LOVE IS STRONG A VIEWLESS thing is the wind, But its strength is mightier far Than a phalanxed host in battle line, Than the limbs of a Samson are. And a viewless thing is Love, And a name that vanisheth ; But her strength is the wind's wild strength above, For she conquers shame and Death. CLAIRVOYANCE THE worldling sat and cursed his empty fate, His haggard, hopeless days, the cruelty Practised upon his fellow-men by powers Pitiless, inscrutable. And then he turned And saw beside him sit the quiet nun In garb of meek-worn black touched soft with white About the neck, and from a purple string Pendent the Christ upon a cross of bronze. His fevered pulses cooled and calmed before Those faithful eyes, the peace across the brow, The pallor of long vigils and the joy Of sacrifice, that made a lambency Of the plain features. Of a sudden then He knew his vision blurred, his bitterness Misuse of dear-worth hours ; what he called sight, Purblindness of the flesh, now he beheld The crystal-clear clairvoyance of the Pure. 38 MY UPPER SHELVES CLOSE at my feet in stolid rows they sit, The grave great tomes that furnish forth my wit ; Like reverend oaks they are of Academe, Within whose shade broods science, thought- adream. I honor them and hearken to their lore, And with a formal fondness view them o'er; As ever with the wise, they have the floor ! But high on top, all other books above, The precious pocket volumes that I love Forgather, in a Friends' Society Whose silences are pregnant unto me. The poets be there, companions tried and true On many a walk, for many a fireside brew ; The golden lays of Greece, the grace urbane Of Roman Horace ; or some later strain From lyre Elizabethan, passion-strong ; From minnesinger or from master-song ; And down the tuneful choirs of nearer days, The chants of Hugo, or the soulful praise Of Wordsworth, tranced among his native fells ; The orphic art of Emerson ; the wail Of Heine, ever slave to Beauty's spells ; The voice of Tennyson in many a musing tale. These and their fellows poise above my head, And at their beck imperious I am led Through all delights of living and of dead. 39 My Upper Less weighty, say you ? All aerial things Shelves. That float on fancies or that fly on wings Are small of bulk, and hence soar heaven-high ; They have all manner of wild sweet escapes From bonds of earth, and so they do not die As die these grosser, more imprisoned shapes. My upper shelves uphc d a mystic crowd, Whose lightest word, though scarcely breathed aloud, Will all outweigh a million folios That groan with wisdom and with scholar-woes, So long as love is love and blooms a sole red rose ! CONTRASTS STRANGE, that we creatures of the petty ways, Poor prisoners behind these fleshly bars, Can sometimes think us thoughts with God ablaze, Touching the fringes of the outer stars. And stranger still that, having flown so high And stood unshamed in shining presences, We can resume our smallness, nor imply In mien or gesture what that memory is. DAY AND NIGHT MUSIC THE multitudinous murmurings of Day ! The jocund motions that are in the trees, The flecks of sunshine tossing in the breeze, The meadow music that is miles away, 40 The volant birds that cannot stay from song, Day and The sound of woods and waters, spirits strong, Night T-U 11 r u Music. T. hese, all of these, Are of the light, and to the Day belong. Nor less, the populous breathings of the Night : The vast and vocal rhythms far and near Of the cicadas, and the tree-toads' clear Exalted answer from their leafy height ; The bats that haunt the air with dusky whir, The myriad nameless things that are astir, These all appear As myrmidons of Night and parts of her. CLOWN AND KING HOOP-LA, hey ! cried the clown in the ring, (Weep, weep, said his heart). Alack a-day ! sighed the stately king, (Leap, leap, said his heart). The clown's dear daughter lay a-dying, And so his painted face was trying To veil an anguished mind. The king's chief rival lay a-dying ; His grief was mock, for he was trying To make the big world blind. Whene'er I fear there is no God, But blindest force in star and sod, A whisper says : There must be One To read beneath what things are done And grasp the doer's will ; 4 1 Clown The clown's wrung heart, and King. The kmg s co ]d art> Life's woven good-and-ill. OF MUSIC THE miner delves in caverns of the earth Away from God's dear light, from everything That breedeth joy and hope and wholesome mirth. Ah, heaven, how fair the change, how good to spring Into the open, after dark and dearth ! The sailor gasps upon a sullen sea, Shipwrecked, half mad for water, dying there ; Yet all the brine is but a mockery, And devils leer along the burning air. Then, rain ! how all-divine that drink must be ' One, a world wanderer, drifts from strand to strand For heedless years, but then is fain to roam No more ; he longs to clasp some kinsman's hand, To sleep in sacred chambers of his home. How blest the day he hails the loved, lost land ! But neither light, nor drink, nor home ways stir Such rare delight, such infinite keen bliss In them, as comes to me, a worshipper Of music, when I hear it yearn and kiss : Life thrills, grows luminous-large, smells sweet with balm and myrrh. 42 GREAT AND SMALL THE highest hills Are wrinkles in Time's transitory dust ; The tiniest rills Are seas at birth that mould the earth's huge crust; There is nor great nor small, our fumbling eyes Confuse the Essence with mere shape and size. ANTICLIMAX I WALKED a city street, and suddenly I saw a tiny lad. The winter wind Howled fitfully, and all the air above The clear-cut outline of the buildings tall Seemed full of knives that cut against the face : An awful night among the unhoused poor ! The boy was tattered ; both his hands were thrust For show of warmth within his pocket-holes, Where pockets had not been for many a day. One trouser-leg was long enough to hide The naked flesh, but one, in mockery A world too short, though he was monstrous small, Left bare and red his knee a cruel thing ! Then swelled my selfish heart with tenderness And pity for the waif: to think of one So young, so seeming helpless, homeless too, Breasting the night, a-shiver with the cold ! Gaining a little, soon I passed him by, My fingers reaching for a silver coin To make him happier, if only for An hour, when I marvelled as I heard His mouth was puckered up in cheery wise, 43 Anti- And in the very teeth of fortune's frown climax. jje w histled loud a scrap of some gay tune ! And I must know that all my ready tears Fell on a mood more merry than mine own. PERSONIFICATION MAKE Him a name, a something vague, enskied, You win cool heads, perchance, to cool assent ; Make Him a babe unwitting, open-eyed, All mother hearts enclasp the Innpcent ; Make Him a man, careworn and crucified, And straight men love Him, knowing what is meant. WINTER TWILIGHT A LITTLE while ago and you might see The ebon trees against the saffron sky That shifts through flame to rose ; but now a calm Of solemn blue above, a stilly time, With pines that peer and listen, while the snow Gleams ghostly and the brittle sound of ice Tinkles along the dumbness, strangely loud, Since all the air is tranced. Housed-in, the folk Close-gather at the ingle, and the hour Of fireside cheer and homely talk of kin Is welcomed, as the big, vague world beyond Moves nightward, merges into mystery. 44 THE RURAL PIPE (THE RUSTIC POET SOLILOQUIZES) NAY, chide me not because my pipe oft sings Of country doings and of common things : Of sun-steeped fields where men forestall the day To gather up in mows the winter's hay ; Of kine called musically at the bars, And swaying home beneath the early stars ; Of woods divinely cool, where moss and fern Do haunt the pleasant places of the burn ; Of berry pickings, and of harvest fun Beneath the moon when day-work all is done ; Of fall forgatherings, when nuts are thick, And boys beat out the burrs with lusty stick ; Of storm-bound labors and of snowings-in, When water lacks, and low is every bin ; Of cutting ice upon the waveless lake, Where skaters whirl and frosty music make ; Of these, and more, the happenings manifold, Whereby the countryside's full tale is told. Nay, chide me not, for these are things I see And know and love the very heart of me. So did Theocritus, and still we hear His airs Sicilian and his message clear. 45 THE RAIN ON THE ROOF T TNDER the eaves is the haunt I love ! \^J With the outer world a myth, With the cloud-sea drowning the stars above, And the day work over with ; To lean me back with my thoughts in tune, To feel from my cares aloof, To hear o'erhead in a soothing rune The rain on the roof. 'Tis a magic realm, where I am king ; I can live a whole life through In a transient hour, and my dreamings bring Delight that is ever new ; And the cries without of the weather wild Seem all for my sole behoof ; And it makes my heart the heart of a child, The rain on the roof. My wonder-book it is nigh at hand, The drip-drip lulls me to rest ; 'Tis a music soft and a spirit bland, And a comrade whose way is best. So I see but the fair, smooth face of Life, Forgetting its cloven hoof, As I lie and list to the wind's wild strife, The rain on the roof. For old-time voices and boyhood calls, Laughter silver and tears, All float in as the evening falls And summons the vanished years. 46 Though the warp be sombre that binds me round, The Rain Yet a sweet and shining woof " tf f Is woven in with that winsome sound, The rain on the roof. A MYSTERY WHY should a fir-tree stark against the sky- Arouse old thoughts and times of long ago ; Yea, blind with tears a careless passing eye That chancewise looks for signs of rain or snow ? I do not know, I only feel that any joy or pain May live afresh in any sight I see, By field or nook, by path or windy plain. And so the world a wonder is to me, A mystery. TO A MOUNTAIN BROOK BEAUTY and health do companion thee, friend, Boons evanescent and rare ; Daytime and night-tide in loveliness bend Over thy flight that is fair. Rarer boon still : It is given to thee Far from the fret that is mine To hark thine own music, and know it to be Born of an impulse divine. 47 DEMOCRACY KINGDOMS and crowns have been from storied years ; But older, sager, that Democracy As wide as life, as sure as human tears And smiles, that ever is and e'er must be. Our great Republic of the common woe, The common joy ; no marks nor metes of man Confine its borders, and no rivers flow Splitting its people into tribe and clan. One nation, breathing in the selfsame air, All freedmen in the privilege of pain ; Each soul holds franchise in the right to dare The altitudes, to fall, and dare again. LYRIC AND EPIC A LITTLE lyric the sunset gleamed At eve, a heart-song warm with love, Light-drenched gold, and a pink that dreamed ; Shot with life and the sweet thereof, Yet inly, deeply calm it seemed. At morn an epic filled the eye, Moving grand with a hero's gait ; Rain that raged in a wide, gray sky, Winds that moaned disconsolate, An elemental clash and cry. 48 ON A FERRY-BOAT THE river widens to a pathless sea Beneath the rain and mist and sullen skies. Look out the window ; 'tis a gray emprise, This piloting of massed humanity Onsuch a day, from shore to busy shore, And breeds the thought that beauty is no more. But see yon woman in the cabin seat, The Southland in her face and foreign dress ; She bends above a babe, with tenderness That mothers use ; her mouth grows soft and sweet. Then, lifting eyes, ye saints in heaven, what pain In that strange look of hers into the rain ! There lies a vivid band of scarlet red With careless grace across her raven hair ; Her cheek burns brown ; and 'tis her way to wear A gown where colors stand in satin's stead. Her eye gleams dark as any you may see Along the winding roads of Italy. What dreamings must be hers of sunny climes, This beggar woman midst the draggled throng ! How must she pine for solaces of song, For warmth and love to furnish laughing-times ! Her every glance upon the waters gray Is piteous with some lost yesterday. 49 On a I've seen a dove, storm-beaten, far at sea ; Ferry. And once a flower growing stark alone Boat. From out a rock ; I've heard a hound make moan Left masterless : but never came to me Ere this such sense of creatures torn apart From all that fondles life and feeds the heart. RECOLLECTIONS I SEE a lad deserted by his mates, Because his ways were little to their mind, Turn sick at heart, shed tears to make him blind ; So sad, that never have the after-fates Brought pain that pinched more close, a day more dark, Though many since have sullen been and stark ; And yet we call our childhood soft and kind ! Again I see him, stretched along the floor, Reading with bated breath and blue eyes keen Of her the mystic maiden called Undine ; Of how she won a knight beside the shore, With looks that stirred his heart to nameless fears. The reader burst into a storm of tears That day she sank beneath the waters green. Now, older grown, but still a very lad, He stands beside a woman, strokes her hair And touches timidly the love-locks there, Laying his soul before her beauty glad, 50 Though she be twice his years. He draws his Recollec- breath tions - More worshipfully than to his hour of death He will again a lad's first love is fair! One night, he lies abed in wakefulness, The while his mother plays and sings below Some dim sweet melody of long ago, And sad withal, beyond his saddest guess ; Until the childish heart swells big with pain. Through all the years it sounds for him again, That mother's voice, that music sobbing so ! And last, one day stands out from those gone by, And those that followed, as a single tree Stands out, a creature lonesome utterly, Upon a desert 'gainst a flaming sky. 'Twas when his father died ; he made no sound, But in a secret place upon the ground They found him dazed and dumb that such could be. Ah, recollections, how ye throng and set Time's dial back, until the by-gones teem With potent doings ! How the child-days seem As dewy as a spring-time violet, Sad as the flower, too, when night-tide comes, Yet sweet with all the sweets her bosom sums ; Yea, bitter sweet a message and a dream ! AS A VIOLINIST AS a violinist bends a loving face Down to his fiddle, down to the singing bow, So the poet bends down his soul to Beauty's place For to hear her voice, and her very heart to know. As the player looks aloft and thrills the strings, So the poet looks to God, and yearns and sings. TRAGI-COMEDY I SIT a mute spectator in the pit, And watch the tragi-comedy of Life : The buffoon's laughter, and the flash of wit, The love that leavens, and the assassin's knife. And just because an act is yet to come (The fifth, that evens all, and dries our tears), My foolish thoughts are dark and troublesome, And over-sad the tangled plot appears. But if I still remain, as others do, Trusting the playwright, sitting with my friends, Methinks the story will prove sweet and true, And I shall read its meaning as it ends. THE MARSH FLOWER DOWN in a marsh by the water's brink I found a bloom of the palest pink ; And I watched it oft and loved it well, For it touched my heart with a mystic spell. 52 Till at last I plucked the flower fair And bore it home, and summoned there A friend, to give me its proper name, Its habitat and its right to fame. And he told me then. But it sounded harsh ; In my ignorance by the lonesome marsh I had called \tChild-of-my-Soul, and smiled To think of its beauty growing wild. And he told me more ; but every word Was wisdom such as I wished unheard. And lo ! when the story all was said, The bloom in my hand lay shrunk and dead. SAINTHOOD AN angel came and plead with tuneful voice Before a maiden fair in youth's demesne : " Now, daughter, seize the right and make your choice Of God forever, spotless to be seen. " So shall you live your life, and die in peace, And as the years flit by in noiseless flight, You shall be sainted, and your name increase, Your deeds be inspirations day and night." The maiden kneeled, awe written on her face, And said : " Ah, holy spirit, how can I That am not fair, that have no touch of grace, That am as other maidens dwelling by, 53 Sainthood. <* Be like to those great pictures that I see Of saints long worshipped, wrapt in sinless rest ? Dear angel, surely such is far from me ; Dear angel, show me how I may be blest." Then smiled the spirit : " Daughter, trust my word ; You cannot see how such a sainthood came. Nor can you measure how men's souls are stirred, Nor how old Time makes magic of a name. " Live out your maiden life, I tell you now, And it will all suffice, great deeds apart : For just a smile and just a tender brow Are sainted by the hungry, human heart." AN AUTUMN IMPRESSION A FROST came over night. Then all the day The leaves fell groundward, fluttered down in shoals, With sound of sober music, from the trees, Until foot-farers ploughed through russet waves That rustled crisply, fresh with scents of earth ; All day the air was yellow with the flight. The sun at noon was mystic-large and seemed To faint in smoke, but when it sank and set It left the West a miracle, a place Where sombre autumn tints waked suddenly Into an ecstasy of vivid lights And trembling fires, that passed to mortal calms. 54 Then came the eve and with her lovely eyes An Soothed all the sunset passion, made the sky Autumn . , c . j , c Impression, A haunt for spirits and a home for stars. CHARITY PORTIA with silver tongue hath spoken of The quality of mercy, long ago ; There is no human thing more deep than love ; Ask any soul and it shall tell you so. And Paul, large-hearted, spake with golden words And said the same, foreseeing days to be, His speech more sweet than any sound of birds : " The greatest of these all is Charity." STREAM AND SINGER THE stream has a steady voice, And some will listen and say : "Ah ! look how her waves rejoice, A-leap through the night and day." But bend you close, if you may, And soon you will feel and know How her cry is a sorrow-throe That yearns for the far away. The singer is glad betimes, But his under-thought is a tear. He will ripple along in rhymes That speak of the springing year ; But stand you beside, and hear The beat of his heart, and soon 55 Stream There will sound a sob in the tune and That is full of the dim and dear. Singer. But the sorrow is ne'er for naught Of the stream and the poet's cry, For they tell of a treasure sought, And they moan that it is not nigh ; Till the folk who are passing by Are moved with a deep desire To strive and to still aspire, Though the dawns and the day-tides die. CRICKETS I HEARD the crickets on the summer hills, The wights whose shrill and intermittent voice, In multitudinous chorus, makes the day Seem interplight with ceaseless sound, the night A sleep-begetting time, because their cry Is constant still. And then I thought, how soon The autumn's breath would blow and blight their cheer, And sift above the grass the heartless snow Of winter, while the bleak wind howled a jest Above those minstrels buried in their prime. And then I longed to know if, one and all, These little bards, so strenuous in their chant, Could look beyond December e'en to May, E'en to another year at summer-tide, When once again the hills should vocal be With their swart brotherhood could compass this Crickets. Prophetic hope, and so take heart of grace To shrill and fill the air and pleasure me, Until I loved them and their quest of song. SEA WITCHERY YON headland, with the twinkling footed sea Beyond it, conjures shapes and stories fair Of young Greek days : the lithe immortal air Carries the sound of Siren-song to me ; Soon shall I mark Ulysses daringly Swing round the cape, the sea-wind in his hair : And look ! The Argonauts go sailing there A golden quest, shouting their god-like glee. The vision is compact of blue and gold, Of sky and water, and the drift of foam, And thrill of brine- washed breezes from the west : Wide space is in it, and the unexpressed Great heart of Nature, and the magic old Of legend, and the white ships coming home. IN A LIBRARY A WEALTH of silence, that is all. The air ^^^ Lacks life and holds no hint of tender spring, Of flowers wholesome-blowing, birds a-wing, Of any creature much alive and fair. Perchance you guess a murmur here and there Among the tomes, each book a gossip thing, And each in her own tongue yet slumbering Seems more the bookish fashion everywhere. 57 In a But ah, could but the souls take flesh again Library, That wrought these words, their hearts all passion- swirled, What companies would flock and fill the stage, Resuming now their old imperious reign ! Knight, noble lady, priest, the saint and sage, The valor, bloom, and wisdom of a world. BROOKLYN BRIDGE I READ of marvels in removed lands, Of old fabricians deft, of structures vast : The world knew seven wonders in the past, And all upreared by cunning mortal hands. But he who on this mighty creature stands And sees the sun strike spire and dome and mast, Awe-struck, must say : This shall them all out last, Imperishable above time's shifting sands. But nay, all works of human-kind wax old, And e'en the stars we call eternal shine Less strong and die ; men pass beneath the sod ; All things are transient as the joys of wine ; Save that through all, the drifting years behold One changeless purpose in the mind of God. A PALIMPSEST I GAZE along the frore, dim fields, and, io ! By dint of gazing, or by witchery Beyond my ken, I sudden seem to see The Summer, odorous, warm, and all aglow With bounties of the earth, with skies that glow 58 In beauty with the day. There floats to me A The tinkle of the sheep-bells on the lea, Palimpsest. The plaining of the brook, the tree-tops' low And sibilant song. The Winter is effaced, That was the writing of a later hand, A gloomy screed ; and now mine eyes have traced The early, joyous message of the land When life was rife with roses east and west Have read the secret of God's palimpsest. FROM A CITY WINDOW AFTER a breathing space in quiet nooks, Sweet days of fellowship with Spring and Sun, Midst buds half blown, midst bird songs just begun, Midst greening meadows and rain-swollen brooks, How soiled and roiled the seething city looks ! Its roar of trade, its feverish tides that run Through channels choked, its legends, one by one, Of fates more strange than those in wonder-books ! And yet I feel a throb exultant, strong, About to breast this hoarse, tumultuous sea : "Ah, here is Life," I say beneath my breath ; " Here all ambitions jostle fitfully, Here saints and sinners mingle, sob and song, While far removed seems any thought of Death." 59 REMEMBERED SONGS I WALKED an autumn lane, and ne'er a tune Besieged mine ear from hedge or ground or tree; The summer minstrels all had fared from me Far Southward, since the snows must flock so soon. And yet the air seemed vibrant with the croon Of unseen birds and words of Maytide glee : The very silence was a melody Sown thick with memoried cadences of June. Shall we not hold that when our little day Is done, and we are seen of men no more, We still live on in some such subtile way, To make some silence vocal by some shore Of Recollection, or to inly play Soft songs on hearts that loved us, long before ? COLUMBUS I SEE a caravel of Spanish make That westward like a winge'd creature flies Above a sea dawn-bright, and arched with skies Expectant of the sun and morning-break. The sailors from the deck their land -thirst slake With peering o'er the waves, until their eyes Discern a coast that faint and dream-like lies, The while they pray, weep, laugh, or madly take Their shipmates in their arms and speak no word. 60 And then I see a figure, tall, removed Columbus* A little from the others, as behooved, That since the dawn has neither spoke nor stirred ; A noble form the looming mast beside, Columbus, calm, his prescience verified. BEAUTY STILL WAITS THE blent delight of summer ! Far and faint The hills, hard by the hayfield's fragrancy, And yonder bosky thicket whence to me Floated last night the thrush's mellow plaint, Fit sound to woo the moon. No cloud-flecks taint The crystal sky that is so calm to see ; The hey-day of the birds is come, the glee Of brooks is heard ; each tree stands like a saint In chastened meditation. When the bard Birth-claimed of seven cities oped his eyes (Not blind as yet) upon a world more young, Naught was more lovely. Here in fairest guise Beauty still waits upon the golden tongue To show her forth, for man's most fond regard. THE SOUL'S HOURS BETIMES I steal to some sequestered place, Some seldom-travelled spot by wood or lane, Or where the waters lift and lapse again At the moon's summons. There I turn my face Up to the sun or stars, while visions trace 61 The Their fawn-fleet way within my brooding brain, Soul's And my sick soul that dormant long has lain Hours. -p a j ces jeep delight in winds, and ample space. Men deem me drowsed in slothful revery : Not so : these be the sane and sacred hours When most I feel Life's duty, joy, and loss. Joy, for I rest amid unsullied flowers, Duty as well, for in the heavens I see Some cloud-formed adumbration of a Cross. ACROSS THE INTERVALE ALONG Life's lowlands, petty men Mix in a crowd with thoughts earth-tied And sympathies too narrow-eyed To peer beyond their little Then. They walk their ways, all unaware Of folk-moots in the upper air. But, few and far between, arise Great souls who overtop the small And local, who have range of all The inspirations of the skies ; Then each to each they cry Good hail, Like peaks across an intervale. HARMONY A STILL, ineffable harmony Unites to-day the land and sea ; Their colors blend, their mood is one, Upon them both the morning sun Makes magic, potent-strong to me. 62 May Life, that soon is overpast, Harmony. Merge in Eternity's dim Vast With this same harmony, this sense Of beauty under difference ; This brotherhood of First and Last. A PRAYER " In that day when I make up My jewels." IN that fair day and dawn divine That sees Thy crown complete, When radiant ones around Thee shine, And angels kiss Thy feet, Dear Lord, may she, my little one, Among Thy jewels be : Not flashing like a central sun, Not bold in brilliancy ; But white, and modest, as beseems A meek and simple girl For I behold her in my dreams A small yet perfect pearl. IN THE EAST YOU say the foliage is rich and strange, The houses quaint, the palms and temple-domes Bespeak another world another range Of hopes and fears within these Orient homes. And yet, I swear, the thought that pierces me Is not the new, the unfamiliar look ; But rather do I marvel it can be So like the homeland that we have forsook. 63 In the For over all the sky is calm and gray, East. An old-time friend ; and all the men I meet Look forth from human eyes, and seem to say Hail, brother ! as they pass along the street. DISSONANCES OFT in the midst of music rare Comes a break in the fluent air ; Seeming dissonances creep Into the chords once tedder, deep. But, as the deft musician plays On to the end, the music strays Back to harmonies that are meet, Making the whole a thing more sweet. So, from the strings of the harp of life Notes may be struck with discord rife ; But when the air is played, you see They were a part of the melody. BETWEEN THE SUNS ENGLOOMED between the cosmic flare of suns, There are vast spaces, cold and pitiless, Where nothing save an awful atom-dance Bespeaks of life. Yet will that -taper wee, 64 That peering little light called Faith, essay Between To pierce this night of eons, and declare *** Suns. Each atom, every inch of whirling void, Vital, yea, kind and luminous with God. THE PINES THE pines are solemn souls, now brooding o'er Their reverend past ; now filled with bodeful dreams Of their dim future, with its sorry change From long-while sequestration (peering up Into a sky of peace, and rooted fast In mother earth) to restless voyaging, To dumb unease above the shifty sea, As masts that men have fashioned ; to a fate That bids them wander, ne'er to find a home. MY POETS IS AW them in my dreams, a goodly band With lyre of gracious make within each hand, A laurel wreath upon each shining head, All young as youth and all fair-garmented. They swept the strings beside a magic sea That ever beat its waves in melody Upon a shore where blooms immortal sprang Between their feet, for solace while they sang. I waked, and saw them in the light of day : A motley crowd, for some were bent and gray, And some clothed on with rags and hollow-eyed, And others limped, as they had journeyed wide. 65 My Poets. And oftenwhiles they sang when racked with pain, Or spake of field and flower, of Love's domain, When mured about by sad and noisome sights And lacking air and space and May delights. And yet methinks I loved their motley more Than those dream-singers that I saw before ; And yet methinks they looked of heavenly race By some strange token on their brow and face ! TWO MOTHERS A WOMAN walking the street adown Saw at a casement glint the gown Of a mother, meek, whose little son Had died with his child-joys just begun. And it smote her heart, for well she knew What mother-love with a life may do ; And she said, "Poor soul ! how sad that she Should lose the child in his grace and glee ! ' ' For she thought of her boy that lived to-day, Though man-grown now and far away. But the woman there in the window-seat Looked with a smile, not sad, but sweet, And touched with pity, to the place Where she had marked the other's face ; And she said, " Poor soul ! her child is lost, For now he is only a man sin-tossed ! But the boy I watched in his bright young day, He bides in my heart a child for aye." 66 SEA AND SHORE HAVE you marked how the sea with foam At the kiss of the shore turns white ? She has found a love and a home ; Then why should she lack delight ? A thought lies cold at her heart, Till she pales all suddenly ; For she knows they must part, must part, When the tide sets out to sea. USES SWEET smells upsteal from the ground After the rain ; Sweet thoughts in the soul are found After long pain. Rain, with its dark and wet, Fathers the flowers ; Pain, on a mortal set, Saddens the hours, Only to gladder go After a span. Rain for the rose, I trow, Tears for man. A SEASCAPE OF TURNER'S I SEE the gulls and I smell the main, The wind goes shrieking shrilly by ; With cordage-creak and canvas- strain The good ship heaves to meet the sky. 6? A Sea- 'Tis wild and wet on the waters now, scape of ^ T^ oars must b enc j ere t h e y reacn tne land ; 7urnei s. tne His face means, Home and my baby's hand. Ah, brave to show us, within four walls, The Pulse o' the sea, her angry might ! Ah, brave to show us how deep love calls Across the waves like a harbor-light ! PERMANENCY A LOVER carved upon a bed of stone His lady's name, and set thereto a rhyme ; And on the rock were marks beside his own, Scratched by a glacier in primeval time. And yet the passion that his spirit stirred, The while he cut her fond and fleeting name, Methinks was more eternal than the word The ice age spoke time's snow against love's flame ! ON SYRIAN HILLS IT is said the Bedouins cry, on the Syrian hills, a clear Loud summons to War, and the tribes far distant hearken and hear, So wondrous rare is the air, so crystal the atmos phere. 68 Their call is to arms ; but One, in the centuries On long ago, Spake there for Peace, in tones that were marvel- -""" lous sweet and low, And the ages they hear Him yet, and His voice do the nations know. PERSONALITY IF I heard a voice in the upper air That sounded heavenly sweet and fair, 'Twould gladden me, my life would take A sudden leap for the music's sake. But gladlier far, O sweet, I stay Beside you here as you sit and play Soft dreamy things in the minor keys, Or major parts with their harmonies. For love is love, and soul seeks soul In the minor's sob or the major's roll ; And I know that back of the chords divine Are the hand and the beating heart of thine ! THE PRAYERS OF SAINTS Golden vials full of odors, which are the prayers of saints. REV. v : 8. NO fragrance of the early months, when earth Teems with the pledge of after-blossoming, No May day scents of bud and leaf, no morn Of June rose-regal none of these have worth 69 The For sweetness of the savor they do bring Prayers Compared with that rich incense swift upborne of atnts. gy sa j nt jy. p ra y ers un t o God's very face Soul emanations, odors mixed with grace, Perfumed and perfect for that heavenly place. TREES IN WINTER THROUGH a dumb-shifting veil of snow I mark the trees. The chestnuts bare, That reach black fingers up the air ; The beeches where, high branch and low, The leaves still hang in russet ranks ; The oaks, whose leaves are scanter, more Phantasmal-brown, mere ghosts of yore ; The elms, of shapelier tops and flanks. And then the pines : sole guests in green The summer does vouchsafe ; they stand Sedately, dropping from their hand The pungent cones ; dark, dark, I ween, Their thoughts, and deep and manifold. The winter grass seems doubly sere Beneath their vital boughs that fear No frost, that changeless front the cold. These stately creatures all I view As through an opal dimly ; then, Illimitable, mute to men, Above, a sky of hodden gray 70 That stretches on to that Somewhere Trees in Which bounds my ultimate land of dreams, Winter. Wherein the Ideal lures and gleams, Wherein the soul breathes native air. THE PATH FAR, far I've strayed me in the long endeavor To find the way of Truth ; All unfamiliar grow the paths, and ever I lose the step of youth, Until it seems I am foredoomed to wander In fruitless, weary quest, While strength and time and hope I do but squander, Seeking the final rest. Sometimes poor mortals, forest-bound, have plodded Along an unblazed trail, And felt strange fears and seen weird shapes em bodied, That made their courage fail ; Then suddenly have found they circled blindly, And were not far astray, Led by some hand invisible but kindly Into a wonted way. So, haply, I, sore spent with ceaseless trying, Too tired to longer roam, May sudden see the path before me lying, And just ahead my home. A ROYAL PROGRESS THE Summer is a queen who proudly makes A Royal Progress through the subject land : Whereat a festal look the highway takes, And e'en the byways, too, on every hand Turn gay with buds and birds and bloomy trees, The gracious Lady Sovereign for to please. EPITAPH OF AN ACTOR HERE lies a servant of the mimic art ; He pictured Life, its passion and its glee. Death bade him play, at last, a grim-faced part, His only make-up, man's mortality. RECOMPENSE FOR every man that dies, some little one Is born, they say, into this world of ours ; I wonder if, for every evil done, Some deed unfolds fair-hearted, like the flowers ? RICHARD WAGNER OLD deeds, old creeds, for centuries dead, rise out The grave and swarm beside the storied Rhine : The thunders of the heaven are girt about With silver zones of melody divine. SUNRISE THE broadening of the light is like a strain Of mellow music from a golden horn Set to the huntsman's lips, who now is fain To play hunfs up, and wake the drowsy morn. RAIN AND SLEEP IT is no marvel that the morn is fair And fresh, that Nature's mood is blithe again ; For all the night these blessed her unaware : The balm of sleep, the baptism of rain. TRANSFORMATION THE butterflies are buttercups, wind-blown, Bright, airy flowers upon the summer's breast ; The buttercups, thick in the meadows sown, Are butterflies flight-weary, seeking rest. 73 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. rin L9-25m-9,'47(A5618)444 THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OK CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES A 001 372 685 6 PS 1229 B6m [HOBBY SHOP!