PILGRin KINGS 
 
 THO/AAS - WALSH 
 

THE PILGRIM KINGS 
 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO DALLAS 
 ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED 
 
 LONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. 
 
 TORONTO 
 
THE PILGRIM KINGS 
 
 GRECO AND GOYA AND OTHER 
 POEMS OF SPAIN 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS WALSH 
 AUTHOR OP "THE PRISON SHIPS" AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 fork 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 1915 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
COPYBIGHT, 1915, 
 
 BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1915. 
 
 NortoaoU 
 
 J. 8. Gushing Co. Berwick & Smith Co. 
 Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
EDWARD LOUGHBOROUGH KEYES 
 
THE Author acknowledges with pleasure the 
 permission to include in this collection the dra 
 matic pieces that have made their first appearance 
 in the Century and Berliner s Magazine, as well 
 as the shorter contributions originally printed in 
 the British Review and the Poetry Magazine (Eng 
 lish), Harper s Weekly, Harper s Bazar, Harper s 
 Monthly, The Messenger, The New Age, The Book 
 man, The Churchman, The Bellman, Poet Lore, the 
 Ave Maria, The Independent, America, The Rosary, 
 the Catholic World, and the Ecclesiastical Review. 
 
 vii ] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE PILGRIM KINGS 1 
 
 INVASION 4 
 
 IN OLD TOLEDO 6 
 
 GRECO PAINTS HIS MASTERPIECE .... 8 
 
 CCELO ET IN TERRA 18 
 
 LOVE S CODICIL 21 
 
 SUNSET BALCONIES 22 
 
 HOLY WELLS 23 
 
 To FRAY JUNIPERO 24 
 
 GRECO S LAST JUDGMENT 26 
 
 THE BIRTH OF PIERROT 39 
 
 ALHAMBRA SONGS: 
 
 Morning in Granada 41 
 
 The Rider of the Snows . . 4,3 
 
 On the Margin of a Koran 44 
 
 Alhambra Feast 45 
 
 The River Song 46 
 
 In the Street of the Dancers 47 
 
 THE AUTUMN KINGS 40 
 
 ROAD SONGS FROM THE ARMENIAN .... 51 
 
 A WREATH FOR SHAKESPEARE 52 
 
 THE COLLOQUY OF BRIDE 54 
 
 [IX] 
 
PAGE 
 
 MAID MARION WEDS 56 
 
 AT THE MANGER S SIDE 57 
 
 EGIDIO OF COIMBRA 59 
 
 THE WHITE RIDER 67 
 
 IN THE VICEROY S GARDEN ..... 68 
 
 AFTER THE RAIN 70 
 
 GEORGETOWN REVISITED 71 
 
 LA PRECIOSA 73 
 
 THE PARTING 76 
 
 THE HIDING OF THE GRAAL 78 
 
 THE FORGES OF THE SUN 79 
 
 THE MAIDS OF HONOR 80 
 
 THE EMBARKMENT FOR CYTHERA .... 92 
 
 ZITHER SONG 93 
 
 To A SONNET ON THE SONNET 94 
 
 THE BOOK OF RIGNALD 95 
 
 THE CANTICLE OF FONTEBRAS 97 
 
 To FRANCISCO GOYA 99 
 
 GOYA IN THE CUPOLA 100 
 
 THE FOUNDLING 110 
 
 JUNGLE DANCE Ill 
 
 THE LARKS OF GLENDALOTJGH 112 
 
 SISTER GREGORIA, TO A BIRD AT SUNSET . . . 114 
 
 ANTIETAM . 116 
 
 ODES FROM THE SPANISH OF FRAY Luis DE LEON: 
 
 To the Licenciado Juan de Grial . . . .119 
 
 The Heavenly Pastoral 121 
 
 To Felipe Ruiz 123 
 
 To Our Lady 126 
 
 [X] 
 
THE PILGRIM KINGS 
 
THE PILGRIM KINGS 
 
 THREE vagrants out along the wintry way 
 As night is falling fast ; 
 "And who are ye, O strangers gaunt and gray, 
 
 With eyes to heaven upcast?" 
 "Three Eastern Kings they called us ; brother, pray 
 
 Didst see the Star go past ? " 
 "The Star ! and look ye for a star to-night 
 
 Through all these blinding snows ! 
 Come, take ye shelter here ; no more that Light 
 
 The sky of Bethlehem knows ; 
 But see, how out against the roadway white 
 
 Some wounded footprint shows I" 
 " Nay, doubter, we must on ! Twas ancient time 
 
 Yet once we saw that Star, 
 And left the thrones our minions called sublime 
 
 To trace its path afar. 
 Wouldst see a monarch boast of rags and grime ? 
 
 Behold me Balthasar ! 
 Yea, these are mortal eyes, yet they have gazed 
 
 Upon the Manger s state, 
 Then homeward hastening from that glory dazed 
 
 I cried, Throw wide the gate ! 
 Alas, to hear within the wassail raised 
 
 Where on the high throne sate 
 [1] 
 
My first-born with the gold and vine-leaves crowned. 
 
 King Balthasar alive ! 
 
 He paled, Some madman mocks us ! Seize the 
 hound, 
 
 And ere the dawn arrive, 
 Go, pelt him from the realm ! That night profound 
 
 I, still a king, survive." 
 "And I" the second ancient in a voice 
 
 As drear and wintry cries 
 " I Gaspar, from a Magian throne, made choice 
 
 Of guidance of the skies ; 
 On my return they bade the hills rejoice 
 
 With flame and sacrifice. 
 But when I whispered of the mystic lore 
 
 The Starlight had enshrined : 
 Its Peace surpassing Peace, its doom of war, 
 
 Its love for all mankind 
 They tore me down, proclaimed me evermore 
 
 To banishment consigned." 
 " Then he, he too was king ? yon wight that seems 
 
 Unsteady as with wine 
 His eyes ablaze as one who stalks in dreams 
 
 Some dismal street malign ? " 
 " Nay, brother, hold, thy hasty tongue blas 
 phemes 
 
 A madness half -divine ! 
 [2] 
 
For as at dawn from Bethlehem Town we stole, 
 
 We spied him where he lay, 
 His crown and sceptre in the gutter hole, 
 
 With none his name to say, 
 Or tell the empery he bore the goal 
 
 His aimless feet would stray. 
 So doth he trudge to find the Star with us 
 
 Half mocking what we seek ; 
 They throw Life s tavern lees to stain him thus 
 
 But see, his eyes bespeak 
 The Star ! The Star of promise glorious 
 
 That calls the blind and weak ! 
 Ye vaults of heaven that sound with prayers and 
 vows, 
 
 Keep compact with our soul ! 
 See, they are clearing, yonder starry boughs 
 
 Proclaim our kingly goal 
 Yea, see st thou not already round our brows 
 
 The furtive aureole !" 
 
 [3] 
 
INVASION 
 
 fTlHE blast came down with ribald hand 
 
 -*- And wrenched the autumn arrases apart, 
 
 The weavings of the bronzed oak, 
 
 The scarlet maple s broidered art, 
 
 Threw back the sumach s royal pall, and broke 
 
 The chrismed seals of summerland. 
 
 Ye chantries of the drowsy day, 
 
 With what a cry ye fled away, 
 
 As icy breath and clamor swept 
 
 Your golden crypts and chancels dim 
 
 Where crowns and croziers rusting kept 
 
 Their tryst of prayer and hymn ! 
 
 What barefoot patter on the leaves, 
 
 As through their desecration ran 
 
 The waif and ruffian days ! What crumbled eaves 
 
 And finials, what drench and tear 
 
 Of banner, and of sanctuary veil, 
 
 From out the cloister glens what wail, 
 
 As through their birchen grates foul hands began 
 
 To snatch at chalice, plate, and talisman, 
 
 And red mouths sputtered with the hallowed wine ! 
 
 Then great winds booming there ! 
 
 And the seraphic windows crashing to the pave, 
 
 Their morns and sunsets dispossest 
 [4] 
 
Save when a gust from out the jealous West 
 Scooped the spilt frondage of their red and gold 
 To frame a jewel for his shaggy breast. 
 Hark ! the invader s trumpets down the nave : 
 " Lo, the great Anarch of the year divine, 
 Winter unconquerable ! tremble, and behold ! " 
 
 [5] 
 
IN OLD TOLEDO 
 
 Toledo, citadel 
 
 Where the outlawed visions dwell 
 On the mitred crags of Spain, 
 What grim earthquake heaved you high 
 Out to brave the sands and sky, 
 Gothic sphinx, for Time s disdain ? 
 
 From your stronghold yet looks down 
 Spain s old challenge in your frown, 
 
 Though in dust are scimitars, 
 Crowns, and croziers ; and by night 
 Greco s visions, ghosts of blight, 
 
 Pace your alleys from the stars. 
 
 Here the sandalled feet have trod 
 In their anarchy of God ; 
 
 Here was seen His aureole ; 
 Violence of heaven at heart, 
 Here they scourged and prayed apart 
 
 In seraglios of the soul. 
 
 Sultans, Kings, and Primates gone, 
 Crescent, Cross, and gonfalon 
 [6] 
 
Shine but down a sunset world ; 
 Yet the chimes of hope and love 
 Murmur round your slopes above 
 Where the poppies are unfurled, 
 For Louis Vernon Ledoux. 
 
 [7] 
 
GRECO PAINTS HIS MASTERPIECE 
 
 SCENE : the Cigarral de Buenavista, Toledo, 1588. 
 
 DOMENICO THEOTOCOPULI ("El Greco") : 
 
 A T last that red orb drops away there goes 
 ** The Angelus ! Ave Maria ! Hear 
 The ringing of your sacristan, Senor 
 That bell of yours, I tell you, is too large 
 For Santo Tome s beams ! 
 
 You found our songs 
 
 Of Crete too sad the other day ; perchance 
 Ibn-Ezra has some lighter tunes. Make haste, 
 Lad, bring your lute into the garden-house, 
 And try that Moorish snatch the laughing one 
 The Senor Cura of Illescas sang. 
 As for myself I choose severer chants, 
 Stern dirges piercing as an icy blade 
 Remember, Don Andres, I am "the Greek"; 
 Tis this I d have my masterpiece reveal 
 Where Don Gonzalo Ruiz, Orgaz s Lord 
 Is seen entombed, the Paleologue he is, 
 Amid our group of Greeks and humanists. 
 I love your ghostly dawns, your tumbled hills, 
 Toledo s walls and alleys ere the mists 
 Are wholly routed by the noon, a friend 
 [8] 
 
Or two for converse, some good monk returned 
 
 From India or the lands of heretics 
 
 With stories of strange tortures, beasts, and fruits, 
 
 And devilries in regions where the name 
 
 Of Jesus never woke : or, stranger still, 
 
 The wonders of the cells and cloisters here 
 
 Within the city, when some friar or nun 
 
 Is marked with Christ s own wounds of hands and 
 
 feet, 
 Raised from the ground in prayer, or scourged all 
 
 night 
 
 By angry demons. Then on summer eves 
 To stroll with Tirso or Hortencio 
 Along the orchard steeps, among the urns 
 And marbles our great Cardinal bequeathed ; 
 Discussing the last treasure-trove from Greece, 
 Some coin or broken torse, some palimpsest 
 Sent by the Rabbi s hand to be confirmed 
 By Covarrubias ; then home again 
 To read my Valdivielso and to watch 
 Geronima and Jorge at their play, 
 Here on my terrace, where my nightly cup 
 Of good esquibias awaits. I trust 
 The dry wine pleases Your Paternity ? 
 Your health, Don Andres. Now to business ; 
 They say you ve won your suit ? 
 [9] 
 
DON ANDRES NUNEZ DE MADRID, CURA OP SANTO 
 TOME: 
 
 At last ! There came 
 An order by the Primate s courier 
 This morning ; the bequest holds good ; therefore 
 The Chancellor declares Orgaz must pay 
 Its Lord s demise as though twere newly made 
 And not some hundred years ago, and pay 
 The arrears. We now can count our maravedis 
 To match with any canon in the town ; 
 So, what with fowls, and wines, and grain, and wood 
 In annual tithings from those granite fists, 
 The Orgaz peasants, now our little church 
 Can be restored ; besides we are prepared 
 To pay your ducats. 
 
 GRECO : 
 
 Then tomorrow morn ; 
 But tis no sale, remember : you advance 
 The appointed sums, and hold the work so long 
 As I do not demand it and repay. 
 
 DON ANDRES: 
 
 Your usual terms ; we do agree to all. 
 [10] 
 
GRECO : 
 
 I ll have them set it on the terrace here ; 
 This twilight takes a like effect of gray 
 As Santo Tome s nave. Tobal ! Gaspar ! 
 Bring out the canvas-frame "The Burial 
 Of Don Gonzalo" Careful, too; the top 
 Is wet. You blockheads ! careful there, I say 1 
 Nay, you Ibn-Ezra, keep your lute a-tune ; 
 Don Andres loves the old Galician school, 
 So play Manrique s song, "The Penalties 
 The Absent Know." There, lads; now turn it 
 round 
 
 DON ANDRES: 
 
 Santisima! but tis a miracle ! 
 Gonzalo in his Flemish steel I The saints, 
 Augustine ! Stephen ! in their cloth of gold 
 Come down from heaven to lay him in the tomb ; 
 The Bishop silver-bearded like a star ; 
 And Stephen with his amber-cherry cheeks ; 
 Your Jorge pointing in his velvet coat ! 
 And I with book and cope of Requiem ! 
 Our Pedro Ruyz surpliced ! And our cross ! 
 The caballeros too ! Well pleased they ll be 
 To live forever pictured in our church I 
 
 tin 
 
Poor Santo Tome cannot lack again 
 
 For patrons ! Ne er, I vow, did mortal brush 
 
 Create such blacks and gold, such damascene 
 
 GRECO : 
 
 The heavens? The heavens, Paternity? Your 
 
 thoughts 
 
 Of them, Maestro-theologue that shone 
 In the Trilingue of Alcala ? 
 Or are you fain to avoid the theme I gave 
 The Inquisitor Don Nino when he came 
 This morning prying wherefore did I paint 
 My angels wings so large ? or did I doubt 
 That seraphs were pure spirits ? yea or nay ? 
 Or did I lean to Scotus and opine 
 Their nature held some sort of matter, so, 
 Perchance, I feared that smaller wings might fail 
 To bear their beings up ? I gave him back 
 Some queries like his own : Were those angelicals 
 Held pure by the Aquinas ? Spanish schools 
 Of old said no, with Scotus and Bernard. 
 Tis " certain faith," the Lateran fathers held, 
 "Angels are bodiless" that much at least 
 Is dogma ; then what need to give them wings 
 At all, Senor Inquisidor f With that 
 He hied him off, and I heard tell it made 
 [12] 
 
Great chatter at the Carmelitas where 
 This afternoon they brewed the chocolate 
 New-come from their Manila mission-house. 
 But none can put me in the wrong ; my creed 
 Is paint ; let them keep theirs in words. 
 
 DON ANDRES: 
 
 And yet, Domenico, meseems you teach 
 Theology 
 
 GRECO : 
 
 And wherefore not ? Are words 
 To be the only signs of thought ? if sounds, 
 Then why not, with our lights and shades, denote 
 Distinctions, entities of soul and mind, 
 As well as mere corporealities ? 
 Thus see you the intent I here pursue : 
 No master of Valencia or Seville 
 In craftsmanship has ever matched the brush 
 Wherewith I paint the scene the lower half 
 As actual as when the miracle 
 Was wrought in Santo Tome as they brought 
 The corpse for burial, whereon appeared 
 The saints, and solemnly composed its bed 
 With their own hands. But how, so scorning words, 
 Interpret well the scene, except I show 
 [13] 
 
Wherefore Toledo s priests and notables 
 Bear so resigned a grief ? are gazing up 
 With such a trust in heaven? What though your 
 self, 
 
 Don Pedro, Don Diego, wise Antonio, 
 The knights, myself, and Jorge, and the friars, 
 Are here portrayed to life, were there not such 
 As we assembled thus some eight score years 
 Ago, whose faith was in the skies, who saw 
 With eyes of flesh that miracle performed ? 
 Yea, I myself have caught such visionings, 
 And here display with emphasis and shade, 
 Foreshortening this at will and lengthening that, 
 Troubling the line or smoothing it as seemed 
 By rapture warranted, for every Greek 
 Is something of a rhapsodist at heart. 
 See how my torches point all eyes and thoughts 
 Toward heaven. The crucifer lifts up the Sign 
 Of Our Redemption till it cleaves the bound 
 Between us and our goal. A seraph wing 
 Denoting love-entire is cleaving through 
 The cloud that is half-winding-sheet, to bear 
 Gonzalo s soul new-born to perfect bliss ; 
 That cherub intermediate, who speaks 
 Of reason-joined-to-love, would usher-in 
 The Cross, whence flock the roundel cherubim 
 [14] 
 
As though, like swallows darting from its eaves, 
 
 To greet the eternal day. Here uppermost 
 
 Sits Christ upon the clouds imperial ; 
 
 His body real, as He rose from death ; 
 
 And at His knees, Our Lady also real, 
 
 As you behold, since also she in heaven 
 
 Holds a perfected flesh. Doubtless you now 
 
 Surmise from this philosophy why here 
 
 The Baptist, though in glory, shows a mien 
 
 So crude and so elongate with the light 
 
 Half -frosted on his being incomplete, 
 
 As well as the Apostles and the Elect, 
 
 Who must await till Resurrection bring 
 
 Their natural union with their bodies back ; 
 
 But look, what solid keys old Peter swings 
 
 Across the gulf twixt heaven and man ! How all 
 
 Take form and being only as the light 
 
 From Christ plays through them ! Tis my firm 
 
 resolve 
 
 Some day to paint them with less earthly dross 
 Than clogs them here, Don Andres 
 
 DON ANDRES: 
 
 Verily 
 
 Thou preachest an evangel, yet I fear 
 Our humble folk of Santo Tome s church 
 Will find your heaven is cold 
 [15] 
 
GRECO : 
 
 That well may be ; 
 
 But think you, Senor Cura, that I left 
 My flowery schools of Venice and of Rome 
 To gather warmth and color in Castile ? 
 Let others use such vulgar splendors 
 
 DON ANDRES: 
 
 Nay, 
 
 Good friend Domenico, take no offence. 
 We wait your picture and your hand to mark 
 Its place upon our walls. (Aside) The arch is 
 
 dim, 
 
 And few will mind his dismal bit of heaven. 
 It hardly matters now. (Aloud) The air grows 
 
 chill; 
 
 Our bells for Animas will shortly ring, 
 I must make haste, Maestro, into town 
 To-morrow, then ? 
 
 GRECO : 
 
 Before your mass is done 
 The lads shall bring the canvas-roll, and I 
 Myself shall stretch it on the wall. Be quick, 
 Tobal, and Santiago, torches, swords, 
 And cloaks ! Escort the Sefior Cura home 
 
 [16] 
 
Across the Juderia ! Until morning, 
 Don Andres 
 
 DON ANDRES: 
 God be with you. 
 
 GRECO : 
 
 Go with God. 
 For William Rose Benet. 
 
 [17] 
 
CCELO ET IN TERRA 
 
 T71ARTH is a jealous mother; from her breast 
 "^ She will endure no separation long 
 From aught she bore ; 
 So one by one 
 She claimeth evermore 
 The parent and the friend 
 The loveliest and best, 
 The meek, the faithful, and the strong, 
 Till, link by golden link undone, 
 The very tomb that seems 
 To youth the dismal gulf of all that s fair, 
 Becomes the chosen hearthstone of our dreams, 
 The wonder-house of all most rare, 
 Most deathless, and most dear ; 
 Where the bereaved heart, 
 Life s exile held apart, 
 
 Would turn for love-warmth and abiding cheer. 
 Yea, earth can be so kind. 
 Then ye that rule the wind, 
 Are ye of less appeal ? 
 Ye spirits of the stars 
 And regions where the suns 
 Themselves as atoms wheel 
 Beneath your thundering cars ? 
 [18] 
 
Cerulean ones ! 
 
 Or goddesses, or saints, 
 
 Or demiurge, or Trinities, 
 
 Wherewith heaven highest faints ! 
 
 Are ye less kind than these 
 
 Dim vaults of clay, 
 
 Ye boasts and fathers of the ancient day ? 
 
 Thou god Avernian, Dis I behold 
 
 What timid form and old 
 
 Adown thy purple gulf descends 
 
 Unto the arch of Death (Grim friend of 
 
 friends I 
 
 Be thou placated !) Tis a mother, see, 
 Takes her first step a child into eternity ! 
 Leave her not fearful there 
 Who was of love entire, 
 So gentle and so fair ! 
 Thy majesty and dread withhold 
 For the high head and bold, 
 Imperial Death, mock not thyself with ire ! 
 Nay, then it was not fear 
 That stayed her foot the while ; 
 For now her lovely eyes, 
 Unclouded, brown, 
 
 Are lighted with their greeting smile 
 The Hand awaited through the gloom 
 [19] 
 
Is seen ! her whitened forehead lies 
 Upon the Shepherd s shoulder down 
 Yea, her own Jesu comes, to lead 
 Unto the meadows where is Peace indeed 
 
 [20] 
 
LOVE S CODICIL 
 
 TTTHAT though my name may sound no more 
 Across the laughter of your days, 
 
 What though our little paths of yore 
 You may forsake for other ways, 
 
 Though other radiant eyes you see 
 When glory s morn is round you blowing 
 And brighter smiles to yours are glowing, 
 
 When you are sad, remember me. 
 
 Twill e en be gladness should you know 
 
 A faithful love and share a dream 
 Wherein no part is mine, but oh, 
 
 There is a torment most extreme 
 Will rack the very ghost I ll be, 
 
 Should you despair, or think me sleeping 
 
 If sorrow s vigils you are keeping, 
 When you are sad, remember me. 
 
 [21] 
 
SUNSET BALCONIES 
 
 TT10R me no winter twilight falls 
 
 *- But brings a dream of gold, 
 
 Since well I know their dear white walls 
 
 Are gleaming as of old ; 
 I know that down arcaded square 
 And narrow street they still are there, 
 
 Dolores, Pilar, Mercedes, 
 
 Reclining in the balconies. 
 
 Mercedes, who belies the name 
 Of her sweet patroness renowned 
 
 As Queen of Mercies, shrined in flame, 
 At Barcelona crowned ; 
 
 And Pilar, little face of rose, 
 
 Whose Virgin on the pillar glows 
 At Saragossa ; there they rest, 
 Their dark eyes golden with the west. 
 
 Though seven swords of silver press, 
 There in Granada s shrine, 
 
 Her velvet-mantled patroness 
 Of Mother-Grief divine, 
 
 Dolores only smiles to scan 
 
 The sunset on her spangled fan, 
 Whose sparkle lights again the grace 
 That memory treasures of her face. 
 [22] 
 
HOLY WELLS 
 
 TTTE are the eyes of the waters under the earth ; 
 ^ Peer down, little worldlings, and learn what 
 
 your beauty is worth 
 In our moss-lidded gaze that is troubled by never 
 
 a wind, 
 Where winter is mellowed, where even the daystar 
 
 is kind. 
 
 Here framed in a mirror of wonder your image behold, 
 A shadow twixt day and the waters eternal that rolled 
 Out of chaos ! Come, whisper your grief or your 
 
 gladness, and hear 
 How your sob shall be laughter, your laughter 
 
 delirious cheer. 
 Ask not are we lonely, when full in the spite of the 
 
 noon 
 The stars come to woo us ; nor seek to interpret the 
 
 croon 
 We forever shall murmur whilst Earth is the babe 
 
 of our breast. 
 We are daughters of Chaos, and trothed to the words 
 
 of the Blest ; 
 Our eyes are the eyes of the oceans that earth has 
 
 o ergrown ; 
 Peer down, little children of Time, whilst to-day is 
 
 your own. 
 
 [23] 
 
TO FRAY JUNIPERO 
 
 The Bi-Centenary of Padre Serra, San Francisco, 
 California, 1713-1913 
 
 that in Palma paced the cloister paving 
 And taught the Subtle Doctor in the schools, 
 Yet left your tranquil isle, the tempests braving 
 To face the tomahawks and jeers of fools, 
 
 Junipero, ha ! ha ! you wept and shouted 
 And tore your bosom with a jagged stone, 
 
 When the poor Indians at your sermons doubted 
 The clearest things philosophy had shown, 
 
 You lashed your shoulders and to blazing torches 
 Laid bare your breast to make "the brutes" 
 believe ; 
 
 Junfpero, you limped to heaven with scorches, 
 But took their souls, like scalps, upon your sleeve ! 
 
 I wonder would you try your syllogisms 
 
 From Scotus, if you came unto the tribes 
 That fill the air with fads and frills and schisms, 
 Or with your scourge and torches meet their 
 gibes? 
 
 [24] 
 
You may be certain many would debate you 
 Among the learned sachems of to-day, 
 
 Though few are likely now to emulate you 
 
 And hurt themselves to bring their tribes to pray. 
 
 For Charles Phillips. 
 
 [25] 
 
GRECO S LAST JUDGMENT 
 
 SCENE : The Refectory of Santa Maria de la Sisla in 
 the Mountains of Tokdo, 1604. 
 
 THE FATHER PRIOR LUPO: 
 
 Nay, patience, patience, Fathers ! You will see 
 How Don Domenico will settle him 
 
 FRAY JUSEPE DE PAMPLONA: 
 The little rogue 
 
 FRAY POMPONIO DE REGLA: 
 
 I warned you not to trust 
 His angel face 
 
 PRIOR LUPO: 
 Pomponio, enough ; 
 
 Where is he now ? 
 
 FRAY LEANDRO DE CADIZ: 
 
 Below with Brother-Cook, 
 Railing against us in the scullery 
 Calling us niggards, misers of the gold 
 The Emperor and Don Philip heaped on us 
 [26] 
 
Swearing to shame us throughout all Castile 
 Unless we pay the ducats. 
 
 PRIOR LUPO: 
 
 M ed culpd ! 
 
 I should have made some bargain with the lad 
 When first he entered here. Who could foresee 
 His impudence ? I wished a bit of art 
 To decorate my cell ; twas fine enough 
 Before, as Fray Pomponio sees fit 
 To hint abroad ; yet, as it is the wont 
 Of prelates and grandees to visit us, 
 And to receive them there is left to me, 
 My cell, it seemed, might with decorum boast 
 Some sacred canvas from El Greco s brush 
 "A Francis on La Verna," just enough 
 To show we had not always overlooked 
 Toledo s greatest painter, we the monks 
 They call the "wealthy Hieronymites." 
 But he refused, alleging his frail health 
 And broken age, complaining that our house 
 So oft misprized his work when he was young 
 That now we were too late ; he proffered us 
 Luis Tristan his favorite, the best, 
 He said, of all his pupils. Half constrained, 
 I gave the youngster the commission. 
 [27] 
 
FRAY CAETANO DE UCLES: 
 
 Then 
 
 We had this impish village brat sent here 
 To laugh at us, his lip but hardly dark 
 With manhood 
 
 FRAY POMPONIO: 
 
 A mere urchin here to paint 
 The Assisian s Vision for La Sisla s friars ! 
 There, Father Lupo, there you see exposed 
 The old Greek s venom in his little snake ! 
 
 PRIOR LUPO: 
 
 Misjudge not Don Dom6nico. What fault 
 Had we to find with Tristan ? Brother-Cook 
 Indeed w r as guilty when he served him bread 
 Hot from the bake-house at forbidden hours. 
 True, he was sleepy-headed serving Mass, 
 And scratched Pomponio s profile on the back 
 Of the pet turtle a mere boyish prank 
 
 FRAY ISIDRO DE GUADALUPE: 
 
 Moreover he has wrought a masterpiece 
 Of rapture of the soul ! El Greco s self 
 Could scarce do better ! 
 
 [28] 
 
FRAY JUSEPE: 
 
 But the price he claims ! 
 These stories of the Emperor and King 
 I fear will be our ruin. There be some 
 That say our very cells are lined with gold ! 
 What have we coine to, when this artist tribe 
 Can scold for money ? when a peasant brat 
 Whom Don Domenico has scrubbed and combed 
 Sets up to bait us for two hundred ducats ? 
 
 FRAY CAETANO: 
 
 Virgin of Guadalupe ! After all 
 
 Our kindness toward the lad ! With so much gold 
 
 What harm might come to him! His youth s to 
 
 blame ; 
 
 We did but wish to encourage him to work, 
 But not to indulge his greed and vanity. 
 
 PRIOR LUPO: 
 
 His master will decide ; have patience, for 
 I know he ll come and set Tristan to right, 
 When once he hears the matter. It is time 
 Old Jose and the mules had fetched him here. 
 Go see, Leandro 
 
 [29] 
 
FRAY LEANDRO: 
 
 They are coming now 
 Around the hill. Tis Don Domenico ! 
 
 FRAY CAETANO: 
 
 And not a whit too soon ! For all his aches 
 And bandages, El Greco never fails 
 Where there is quarrelling on ! 
 
 PRIOR LUPO: 
 
 Then welcome him, 
 Brave Caetano ; you, Leandro, too, 
 Run down and greet the carriage. Let us show 
 The aged painter he has reverence here. 
 
 FRAY LEANDRO: 
 
 Seiior Maestro Don Domenico, 
 Be welcome to La Sisla ! 
 
 FRAY CAETANO: 
 
 Welcome here. 
 
 The Father Prior sends me out to say 
 Himself is coming forth to greet you 
 [30] 
 
PRIOR LUPO: 
 
 Prince 
 
 Of all the Arts and Glory of Toledo, 
 Welcome, you bring honor to our house ! 
 Let me assist you to alight (Aside) Go quick, 
 Leandro, have the Brother-Minister 
 Get out the royal plate and tapestries 
 
 DOMENICO THEOTOCOPULI ("El Greco") : 
 
 Greetings, good Seiior Prior, would my years 
 
 Might weigh less heavy. But your wise Jose 
 
 Drove slowly from the Cigarral. And you, 
 
 Fray Caetano, Fray Isidro, bloom 
 
 Like roses in this healthy mountain air ! 
 
 You, Father-Prior, you, Pomponio 
 
 Most reverend, look, meseems, but half your age 
 
 And now for that young scamp of mine 
 
 That causes all this turmoil among friends 
 
 PRIOR LUPO: 
 
 Nay, speak of him anon, when you have gained 
 Some rest and light refreshment in my cell ; 
 There you will find the painting he has made. 
 Go, Fray Jusepe, you, and summon him. 
 Leandro, take the Master s other arm 
 [31J 
 
There, now arrange the cushions at his back 
 So lay his staff and crutch beside his chair 
 
 GRECO : 
 
 Were I but younger, Father-Prior, I 
 
 Would come and paint the vista round your hill, 
 
 Toledo heaped upon her rocks, the foaming gorge, 
 
 The gray volcanic cliffs alack-a-day ! 
 
 But now Tristan is that his painting frame ? 
 
 PRIOR LUPO: 
 
 Nay, not before you sip our Santo grown 
 In our Escorial vineyards. Serve the cakes 
 Of cinnamon, Isfdro 
 
 GRECO : 
 
 Precious wine ! 
 
 Stay, let me see the tray tis kingly too ; 
 None else save Benvenuto models thus ! 
 Alas, good Fathers, all too ill am I 
 For other food than prayers. The picture now 
 Where is my lad ? 
 
 Luis TRISTAN: 
 
 Here Don Domenico. 
 [32] 
 
GRECO : 
 
 Be not afraid ; stand up and answer me. 
 What was my bidding when I sent you first 
 To do the painting for the Father-Prior ? 
 
 TRISTAN : 
 
 To rule my conduct as you would your own ; 
 To paint as though I were yourself when young, 
 
 GRECO : 
 And this you did ? 
 
 PRIOR LUPO: 
 
 His work is excellent. 
 
 GRECO: 
 
 But yet the Fathers have complained you take 
 Advantage of their goodness. 
 
 TRISTAN : 
 
 When I asked 
 
 Two hundred ducats they would pat my head 
 And tell me I am young, and promise me 
 Some other work. When I demand the price 
 Then Fray Pomponio calls me arrant rogue, 
 And Father-Prior sighs but will not pay 
 D [33] 
 
GRECO : 
 
 They have done well, perhaps, to put a curb 
 
 Upon your vanity. But these complaints 
 
 About your grave infractions of the rules 
 
 Burning your taper every night in bed 
 
 To read the "Lazarillo" ! pilfering 
 
 The hot fresh bread from out the oven doors ! 
 
 TRISTAN : 
 
 Such rules are made but for their novices. 
 At first, I know, I had my fill of cakes, 
 But now I get but angry words and looks 
 And kind old Brother-Cook does penances. 
 
 PRIOR LUPO: 
 
 Tis quite the truth, good Don Domenico ; 
 We have indulged the lad too much, I fear, 
 Finding him whimsical and bright-of-eye ; 
 But when he took into his head to ask 
 Two hundred ducats for his task and he 
 A mere apprentice without works or fame 
 Why then we did refuse. Twas his demand 
 To send for you to be the arbiter ; 
 But knowing your infirmities, we feared 
 To give you trouble. 
 
 [34] 
 
GRECO : 
 
 Trouble do you say ? 
 First let me see his picture. So, ha ! ha ! 
 You scamp, you ask two hundred ducats, eh ? 
 My stick ! My crutch ! Nay, let me at him 
 there ! 
 
 TRISTAN : 
 Mercy, have mercy ! 
 
 GRECO : 
 
 Let him not escape 
 
 Hold him, Pomponio ! Bring him here to me. 
 Now let me see the work again. My Luis ! 
 You painted this this rapture of the heavens 
 Francis with Christ s own wounds of hands and 
 
 feet, 
 
 The winged Crucifixion in his eyes ! 
 You painted this and yet, you little knave, 
 You would disgrace our craft and steal the bread 
 From honest mouths ! 
 
 PRIOR LUPO : 
 
 Nay, Master, strike him not I 
 The boy is young we wish him well 
 [35] 
 
FRAY POMPONIO: 
 Next time he may know better 
 
 FRAY LEANDRO: 
 
 You forget 
 He would submit the judgment to your word. 
 
 PRIOR LUPO: 
 Come, the poor lad s in tears ! 
 
 FRAY CAETANO: 
 
 Which show at least 
 There is some good in him. 
 
 GRECO : 
 
 He has brought shame 
 Upon my school and me ! To rob the poor I 
 
 FRAY POMPONIO: 
 He s but a novice 
 
 GRECO : 
 
 Novice, do you say ? 
 In faith he is ! to spoil the artist s price 
 And ask a mere two hundred ducats, when 
 His work is worth five hundred! Come, you 
 scamp, 
 
 [36] 
 
Five hundred ducats is your price, you hear, 
 And not a maravedi less, or back 
 To town Saint Francis goes with us at once ! 
 Roll up the canvas 
 
 PKIOR LUPO: 
 
 Don Domenico ! 
 
 FRAY POMPONIO: 
 
 He ll make us laughing-stocks ! I told you so. 
 
 There s not a convent in Toledo where 
 
 I ll show my face this many a day to come I 
 
 FRAY ISIDRO: 
 
 Lose not a moment, Father Prior ; pay 
 The ducats down at once. 
 
 GRECO : 
 
 The Brother knows 
 
 A bargain ; I commend your sense, Isidro. 
 Be sure, not all La Sisla s eminence 
 Will match through future ages with the fame 
 My little Luis Tristan s prentice work 
 Will bring your house. 
 
 [37] 
 
PRIOR LUPO: 
 
 We ll close this business ; 
 Let Brother-Bursar fetch the gold. 
 
 TRISTAN : 
 
 Your hand, 
 
 Maestro, blesses when it strikes ! I kneel 
 To kiss it - 
 
 GRECO : 
 
 Nay, my Luisito, come 
 
 To my embrace ! my blessing and my pride ! 
 For Joyce Kilmer. 
 
 [38] 
 
THE BIRTH OF PIERROT 
 
 TTTAS it a bird that sang ? was it the plash 
 Of silvery water that awakened me ? 
 It seemed that at the dark wood s edge, some flash 
 
 Of moonlight set my soul from prison free ; 
 And all the grim primeval memories 
 
 Of cruel strife, of loveless hearts that groped 
 In caves and gloom, shook off some long disease 
 
 And, springing forth, my heart took flower, and 
 
 hoped. 
 Now down the world I run a fugitive, 
 
 Tapping in snows upon your window-pane, 
 Or laughing in the sunlit showers that give 
 
 The April blossoms to the hills again. 
 I am half faun, half angel, butterfly ! 
 
 The lover sees me flitting o er the hill 
 Ah, well he knows it is no flower but I, 
 
 Pierrot the springtime with its thrill ! 
 She at her casement leaning hears my song 
 
 A- whisper down the trellis, rose to rose ; 
 I am the moonbeam there that lingers long 
 
 To light his face in dreams to her repose. 
 Yea, I am all the wit and laughter faint 
 
 Of all the world ! the gleam of life and art, 
 Prince Fantasy the sinner and the saint, 
 [39] 
 
The child-philosopher in every heart ! 
 Passing, I yet remain in memory 
 
 So all I touch again grows glad and young ; 
 My blossom-wand I wave ! again shall be 
 
 The dance of youths and maids, and music sung ! 
 For Mrs. Morton Mitchell. 
 
 [40] 
 
nn 
 
 ALHAMBRA SONGS 
 
 (1) 
 
 MORNING IN GRENADA 
 HOU that art covered, rise, and magnify 
 
 Thy Lord, and purge thy garments of all stain, 
 And from thy spirit put uncleanness by - 
 Thou that art covered rise !" Hark, tis the cry 
 Of morn across the mountain and the plain ! 
 
 Among the hills Granada takes the glow 
 
 Of love s first blush as on some lovely breast ; 
 Alhambra green against the pillowed snow 
 Hears from the minarets in town below 
 Muezzins calling, "Allah, Allah blest I" 
 
 Bells through Granada, bells that jangle down 
 
 With pattering of mule-hoofs from the peaks 
 Bearing the snows ere yet the misty town 
 Awakes, to cool the spiced wines, and drown 
 
 The city s thirst when noon its vengeance wreaks. 
 
 Bells through Granada where the market train 
 From off the Vega through the gateway pours 
 With melons green and gold, and sacks of grain, 
 And noisy poultry on each creaking wain, 
 And swarthy herdsmen leading in their stores. 
 [41] 
 
Throughout the Zocatin the merchants start 
 To drape the booths with damasks, rugs, and 
 
 lace; 
 
 Ranging their sweets and scents with subtle art, 
 Their potteries and brasses, till the mart 
 Gleams in the sunlight with its festal grace. 
 
 There old Mosaden from the Syrian lands 
 
 Outspreads his gems; black Kassim from Tan- 
 
 giers, 
 
 His dirks and spurs ; there trading gipsy bands 
 From Malaga and Ronda range their stands, 
 
 And match their horses gainst some proud 
 Emir s. 
 
 Now through the fevered crowd the Cadi rides 
 
 In search of pearls to grace Jarifa s breast ; 
 Now for some Berber chief the throng divides, 
 Now for some santon, or the Agha s brides 
 
 Swathed in their veils upon some childish quest. 
 
 Pilgrim and priest and silk-screened litter pass, 
 And horsemen galloping careless through the 
 
 throngs ; 
 
 Beggar and slave whose sad eyes speak. "Alas;" 
 Merchant and thief and cut-throat, in the mass 
 That struggles round to hear the snake-girls songs. 
 [42] 
 
Till hark, o er all the City of the Kings, 
 From Bibarrambla to Genii s last shores, 
 
 Once more the noontide "Allah, Allah!" rings; 
 
 And as the spirit cry to heaven upwings, 
 Granada in a sudden hush adores. 
 
 (2) 
 THE RIDER OF THE SNOWS 
 
 As through Alhambra s silvered garden floats 
 A serenade that stills the nightbird throats, 
 Zorayah, stealing from the Sultan s breast, 
 Dreams at the lattice of a voice loved best. 
 
 " Out o er the mountains, Sultana, haste ! 
 
 Fond arms shall clasp thee neath my cloak of 
 
 snows ; 
 Kisses of fire thy lips and mine shall taste, 
 
 Beyond the mountains ere the dawn shall close" 
 
 Down through Granada, hark, there comes the beat 
 Of hurrying hoofs along the sacred street, 
 Where, mid the lamps like stars at Allah s throne 
 Pale Abu-Edriz guards the mosque alone. 
 
 " Out o er the mountains, holy sheikh, be gone, 
 So thou mayst find thy fountain of desires ; 
 [43] 
 
The snows shall breathe their peace thy soul upon ; 
 The stars console thee with anointed fires." 
 
 Now turns that midnight rider swift and keen 
 Among the alleys of the Zocatin ; 
 But none of all the merchants hears him call 
 Save old Soleiman huddled in his stall. 
 
 " Out o er the mountains, hoarder , ere the day 
 Shall set the sapphire minarets agleam; 
 
 Seal up thy little booth, cast scrip away, 
 At dawn I lead thee to the golden stream." 
 
 And ere muezzin-call three shadows gray 
 Haste out the gate upon the mountain way, 
 Till by the well their shrouded guide takes breath, 
 Brushing the snows from off the stone marked 
 "Death." 
 
 (3) 
 ON THE MARGIN OF A KORAN 
 
 At dawn and twilight angels pure ascend 
 To Allah ; thronging up the outmost sky 
 
 Their myriad wings of rose and azure blend 
 
 Beneath the Emerald throne of Him Most-High. 
 [44] 
 
At morn they bear the night s dread reckoning ; 
 
 Its sins of rapine, blood, and mad delights ; 
 Its meed of mercy, prayer, and suffering, 
 
 On pinions shimmering up the eastern heights. 
 
 And when the sun is vanished and the day 
 Of man s desert and blame is harvested, 
 
 Silent with burthened breasts they soar away 
 In sunset fire to Allah s Scales of Dread. 
 
 So, saith the Prophet, are the sins forgiven, 
 The doom ordained, for Allah s foes and friends. 
 
 O Angels, Angels ! ere ye fade in heaven 
 
 Bear up this prayer my heart for Leila sends. 
 
 (4) 
 ALHAMBRA FEAST 
 
 What little shrine keeps festival to-day 
 That to Alhambra all the town makes way? 
 For since the dawn the clink of harness bells, 
 The hum of lutes, the spice and flowery smells, 
 And trail of silks go by. Good passer, say 
 What mosque, what shrine keeps festival to-day ? 
 
 No mosque, nor shrine, thou of sightless eyes ; 
 Twas Leila passed, Ibn-Yussufs lovely prize, 
 For whom this morn his royal feast is spread. 
 [45] 
 
Twas she whose gold thine outstretched hands hath 
 
 fed, 
 
 Who bent to soothe thee with her gentle sighs 
 Thrice-blessed hadgi of the sightless eyes ! 
 
 Nay, wherefore then was Allah s light erased, 
 And His blind slave so near Alhambra placed ? 
 For hark, beyond the songs of stream and bird, 
 The castanets, the silvered timbrels heard ! 
 Close to Thy bounty s threshold have I traced,^ 
 Yet wherefore, Allah, was Thy light erased ! 
 
 (5) 
 THE RIVER SONG 
 
 There came as tribute out of far Bagdad 
 
 Unto Alhambra once a minstrel lad 
 
 Who all day long touched softly on the strings 
 
 The river song the Tigris boatman sings. 
 
 A sun-bronzed slave who toiled among the flowers 
 
 O erheard a sob from the Sultana s bowers, 
 
 And whispered, " Minstrel wake that note no 
 
 more; 
 
 She too in childhood knew our Asian shore ; 
 Fair is Alhambra, but by pool or dome, 
 Sing here no more that song of youth and home." 
 [46] 
 
(6) 
 IN THE STREET OF THE DANCERS 
 
 Not a lamp in Leila s tower 
 By the stream of Darro glows, 
 
 Though the firefly gloats in power 
 Through Granada o er the rose ; 
 
 Days and nights have feasters sought her 
 
 But her gate beside the water 
 
 Heeds not songs, nor pleas, nor blows. 
 
 And they say the proud Vizier 
 
 In Alhambra s halls above 
 Counts each absent day a year, 
 
 Stricken down with rage and love ; 
 That the poet Giaffir, sighing 
 Vainly, at her lattice trying 
 
 Sends his message-laden dove. 
 
 Vainly waits her idle lute 
 
 At the dancing booths of yore ; 
 
 Drum and cymbal, gong and flute, 
 Know her twinkling feet no more ; 
 
 All along the Street of Dancers 
 
 Not an echo wakes but answers 
 To the watchers at her door. 
 [47] 
 
Hark, the Lord of Tunis sings 
 From the bridge beneath her wall, 
 
 While his slaves on gittern strings 
 Strike a Bedouin madrigal : 
 
 " Shall the thorns that wound the lover 
 
 Ne er the hidden rose discover 
 Are the wounds of Love its all?" 
 
 Soon the reddening minaret 
 Wafts afar the prayers of morn ; 
 
 But she waits one voice that yet 
 Keeps her weeping, pale and worn, 
 
 His, the shepherd-chief who flies her, 
 
 Whose proud comeliness defies her, 
 Who destroys her with his scorn 
 
 For Charles Seidler Adams. 
 
 [48] 
 
THE AUTUMN KINGS 
 
 fTIHERE sweeps a haughty wind amid the trees 
 -- With blare as when imperial brows are crowned 
 In lofty sanctuaries ; 
 
 And as the bannered legions shout on high, 
 So the deep forests cry 
 Acclaim portentous back to heaven 
 And fling their golden largess to the ground. 
 Phantoms mysterious surge by 
 Amid the sumach s gusty levin ; 
 Some cloaked as if in dreams profound, 
 Some with their brows enshrined with a star 
 To match the pearly plummet gainst the sky. 
 Adown the orchard-scented air 
 They trail with purple wear 
 Madid as with the vineyards gore 
 And maple drips afar. 
 
 "What ho !" we hail them, and in echoed flight 
 Our voices down the startled valleys pour, 
 "What ho ! ye stealthy majesties that take 
 The pathways of the shadowy brake 
 Whence none returneth more, 
 Stay, tis the fall of night !" 
 Hush, a voice waves back at last : 
 "Have not the shepherds passed?" 
 E [49] 
 
We can but answer, " Yea, the foolish wights 
 
 Would hear a singing in the nights 
 
 And so fared after ; though the air 
 
 Holds selfsame music everywhere 
 
 With our reverting springs. 
 
 But ye ? what Caesars or high lords 
 
 Are ye ? " Then thundering from far 
 
 Their voice as when the shields are lashed with 
 
 swords 
 
 "We are the Autumn Kings ! 
 Laggards have ye not seen the Star ? " 
 
 For T. J. Murray 
 
 [50] 
 
ROAD SONGS FROM THE ARMENIAN 
 
 (1) 
 TITHENCE art thou, Water? What melodious 
 
 spring 
 
 Hath sent thee murmuring ? 
 All through the vales thy rustling we o erhear 
 E en though thou disappear. - 
 How well I know ! thou art some amorous wight 
 Who sleepless day and night 
 Art wandering faint from land to land to trace 
 Thy loved one s hiding place. 
 
 (2) 
 Behold I gathered mine offences 
 
 And wept their weighty pack upon ; 
 The caravan is off for heaven 
 
 So I must take them and be gone. 
 "And whither goest thou so laden?" 
 
 The Angel asks me in disdain, 
 "Think st thou with such unwieldy bundle 
 
 The mart of Paradise to gain?" 
 
 [51] 
 
A WREATH FOR SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Read before The Shakespeare Club of New York, 
 April, 23, 1912 
 
 1 THIS an unweeded garden" yet it grows, 
 
 -- This world of ours to-day as other days, 
 Its wreath for you of an immortal rose, 
 Of faith, and love, great Shakespeare, and of praise. 
 
 To-day no ranker in its growth, than when 
 It gave you birth amid embattled gates, 
 
 And trumpetings of serfs who strove as men, 
 In face of greedy dolts, and scoffing fates ; 
 
 You the white flower of morning on that pool 
 Whose turbid waters drained the tears and slime 
 
 From out an age imperial whose rule, 
 For all its wrongs, yet gilds the peaks of Time ! 
 
 You the full rose of England s moulded heart, 
 Of Saxon stem, of Norman leaf and thorn, 
 
 Of Celtic petal, you, whose soul and art, 
 Though day wears on, are pure as at the morn I 
 
 They say the hawkers in our market-place 
 That you, outworn, are buried in the past ; 
 [52] 
 
That new evangels, newer forms, efface 
 The honest, human mouldings you have cast ; 
 
 That man has changed, his heart s desire is new, 
 That death and life to newer terms have come, 
 
 That health and right should count no more of you ; 
 They bid you to your niche amid the dumb. 
 
 Pity our chaos and our little scribes, 
 
 Calm Prospero ; we flounder on Life s tide, 
 
 Mistaking false and real, truths and gibes, 
 Mocking art s compass, yet without a guide ! 
 
 But ever, while there is a hand to hold 
 The reins upon the steeds of passion, while 
 
 There is a head to lift its temples cold 
 Amid the caldron fumes of pride and guile ; 
 
 While there be souls that gently love, strong men 
 Of tenderness unshamed, too wise, too young 
 
 For greed, shall you have wreaths and wreaths 
 
 again, 
 Prophet and Gospel of our English tongue ! 
 
 [53] 
 
THE COLLOQUY OF BRIDE 
 
 From "The Book of Kildara" 
 
 " (~\ YE that journey down the silent night 
 
 ^ Amid the grazing of the kine, make pause 
 And say how Bride doth keep the Whitsun Feast 
 Upon her hill of prayer?" It was the voice 
 Some lonely herdsman of the Curragh raised ; 
 She bidding her bright chariot stay, drew back 
 Her veil that silvered in the moon, and spoke ; 
 " Bride s heart holds feasting for the King of Kings ; 
 With Martyrs fair, and Hermits meekly ranged 
 At Jesu s side, with Maries Three, and Sons 
 Of Penance, Druids of the Gospels, Scribes, 
 And all who strike the strings and blow the reeds 
 Through heaven, Yea, herder of the Curragh 
 
 flocks, 
 
 She spreads them there the Viands of Belief 
 And sinlessness ; her vessels, Charity ; 
 And one great bowl of Meekness and Good- 
 Cheer" 
 
 He sighed ; "0 silken-spoken stranger, would 
 Mine eyes might see that feasting!" Yet was 
 
 Bride 
 
 Unheeding, for the dawn had touched the hills ; 
 " Again thou com st, thou silver tide of God ! 
 [54] 
 
Be glad," she called, "ye spear-ranged woods and 
 
 heights ! 
 
 Over the ancient tombs let knees be bent, 
 Over the chalices be trembling hands ! 
 Now turns the serf his furrows ; o er his scroll 
 The brehon ponders ; youths are at their feats 
 Of arms ; the chieftain enters down his hall 
 And bids the henchmen portion forth his alms. 
 Were I the lark, or e en the poorest flower 
 To hail thee, Light of Blessings " Then out-spoke 
 Her novice Dara : "Mother, stay thy joy ; 
 The herdsman s eyes are blind; and see, they 
 
 weep " 
 
 And sudden at the word a surge swept up 
 The heart of Bride ; her wild imploring hands 
 Were clutched to heaven. Then crying out, he saw. 
 
 For Mr. and Mrs. Wilfred Meynell. 
 
 [55] 
 
MAID MARION WEDS 
 
 From Tristan Klingsor, to the Music of Pierne 
 
 11/TESSIRE the King, upon your palfrey nearing 
 -*-*-*- Our hamlet-fold, would you the news be hear 
 ing? 
 
 At dawn will Marion the shepherdess 
 Put on her little bridal dress, 
 And to the call of pipe and string and reed 
 Unto Saint-Jean-o Woods will gay proceed 
 To wed the swineherd so they tell 
 Of Jean Monseigneur de Nivelle. 
 Make ready, pretty rustics, in your best, 
 All who would win our shepherd gallants dressed 
 In ribbon and in bell ! 
 But you, Messire the King, Monseigneur Jean 
 
 I pray 
 
 Within your turrets and your terracing 
 Afar delay ! 
 
 No tidings feign to know of it, 
 Spite of the flutes and blow of it, 
 That in the dawn our Marion 
 Is wedding neath the boughs of old Saint- Jean ! 
 Messire the King, upon your palfrey nearing 
 The hamlet-fold, ah, feign you are not hearing, 
 Messire the King ! 
 
 [56] 
 
AT THE MANGER S SIDE 
 
 T AM Balthasar, sovereign where the Nile 
 
 -" Winds over Egypt by the palms and sands, 
 Temples and sphinxes waiting Thy commands 
 
 Adown the ages in a deathless smile. 
 
 Thee would our priests with fire and bloodshed style 
 A "God of Terrors," yet the mummies hands 
 Held fast the scarab so that shadow-lands 
 
 Of death might know Thou didst but bide the while ! 
 
 Thus for Thy Kingship did I snatch the gold 
 
 From grim Osiris brow, that night the Star 
 For which Chaldea s sages pined of old 
 
 Proclaimed Thy birth ; and trusting in the sign, 
 Come I to seek Thee on the hills afar, 
 
 To yield Fear s broken sovereignty to Thine I 
 
 Behold me Gaspar of the Isles of Greece 
 Before Thy feet anointed I Thou didst call 
 Our souls to dream of Thee by waterfall 
 
 And snow-strewn mount, and purple vale of peace. 
 
 Out where our sea-flocks comb their silver fleece 
 Against a thousand isles marmoreal 
 We raised to Thee our temple columns tall 
 
 Where sacrifice and paean should not cease. 
 [57] 
 
What though the Phidian stone or ivory heard 
 The cry our barren hearts sent up to Thee, 
 
 Yet did we treasure every Delphic word 
 And ply the sibyls in Thine augury. 
 
 Such was our homage till yon pure Star stirred 
 Before me bearing incense o er the sea. 
 
 They crowned me Melchior where the Ganges 
 
 rolls 
 
 By gilded shrines and cities to the sea, 
 There where the death-pyres burn eternally 
 
 And saints and sages lacerate their souls. 
 
 Through scorn of love and hate their will controls 
 Earth s rebel senses ; naught of worth can be 
 Save full absorption in the life of Thee, 
 
 Their Lamp consuming o er the deeps and shoals. 
 
 Thou dost confound the dreaming of our seers, 
 
 Thou who in human guise, not flame, wouldst bring 
 Our world Thy message of its precious tears, 
 
 Its humblest service angel- winged with thought. 
 So hither unto Thee, O Saviour, King, 
 And Brother, lo, the myrrh adoring brought ! 
 
 [58] 
 
EGIDIO OF COIMBRA 1597 A.D. 
 
 rumor came to Frei Egidio 
 In cloistered Santa Cruz, that out of Spain 
 King Philip s secret courier had fared 
 With orders under seal suspending all 
 The Statutes of Coimbra that controlled 
 The contests for the professorial chairs, 
 And ordering the Faculty to grant 
 Padre Francisco Suarez primacy 
 Among the masters theological. 
 And Frei Egidio, whose ancient name 
 Fonseca was relinquished when at court 
 It shone its brightest, who had ceaseless toiled 
 His score of years in cloister and in schools, 
 Unravelling knotty texts, disputing long 
 With monk and doctor of the Carmelites, 
 Dominicans and Trinitarians, 
 Consulting with the students, visiting, 
 Fawning, and banqueting himself and all 
 His faction in the University 
 Now in the iron mandate from Madrid 
 Saw failure blight his hopes, and Santa Cruz 
 Eclipsed, through imposition unforeseen 
 Of Suarez de Toledo only half 
 A monk ! a fledgling doctor in the Schools ! 
 [59] 
 
And Frei Egidio unsleeping schemed 
 To check the rising of this Spanish star 
 Within Coiimbra, and his henchmen went 
 Stealthy and sure to sow malignant seed 
 To choke the Hapsburg s new autocracy. 
 Stately was Frei Egidio, robust, 
 Swarthy and smooth his cheek ; his raven locks 
 Piling about his tonsure in a crown. 
 Dark flashed his eye whene er he rose to cast 
 His syllogistic spear across the lists, 
 Where many a mighty crest Minerva-crowned 
 Was forced to yield, or learnt the rapier thrust 
 Of his distinguo and non-sequitur. 
 Still more he shone when in procession moved 
 The doctors, masters, and licentiates, 
 With tufted caps, and rainbow gowns, and stoles, 
 And ring, and book across the steeps and squares, 
 While gallant youths pressed round on horse or foot 
 Holding his robe or stirrup through the town 
 The Catedrdtico da Vespera. 
 But now this little shrivelled man sent out 
 From Salamanca, Philip s paragon ! 
 To rule Coimbra in theology ! 
 One of Loyola s strange and restless band 
 In the Collegio de Jesus, reproach 
 To every gorgeous doctor in the halls. 
 [60] 
 
Twas true he hid away within his house, 
 Came seldom to the festivals or Acts, 
 Nor oft asserted his high presidence 
 O er Frei Egidio in craft or scorn, 
 It mattered not for Frei Egidio 
 Would pluck him forth ; no signet of the King 
 Could serve him here ; the doctors of the Schools 
 Should learn how he, Fonseca, had been wronged. 
 With formal placards soon they smeared the walls 
 Of shrine and college, telling day and hour 
 And place, where Doutor Frei Egidio 
 Da Presentacao, of the Eremites 
 Of Sao Agostinho, titular 
 Da Vespera, would his conclusions hold 
 " De Voluntario et Involuntario" 
 Against all-comers, and imprimis there, 
 The Doutor Padre Sodrez, titular 
 Da Prima of Coimbra, theologue 
 Of the Collegia and Compama 
 De Jesijis. From near and far they came, 
 And took their stated rank, and filed 
 Into the Hall of Acts ; the Chancellor 
 And Rector in their robes of silk, and fur, 
 And velvet, and great chains and seals of state ; 
 The Bishop, and Inquisitor, and Dean, 
 And Chapter, in their purple ; Canonists 
 [61] 
 
In green ; and Jurists in their scarlet gowns ; 
 Frei Luiz of the Chair of Holy Writ, 
 In black and white of the Dominicans ; 
 Frei Manoel of the Chair of Scotus, garbed 
 In white and brown of Carmel ; titulars 
 In Peter Lombard and Durandus, sons 
 Of Bernard, Francis, and Saint Benedict. 
 When each in order of his ancientry 
 Was seated in the tribune, and below 
 Ranged the licentiates, and bachelors, 
 And, out beyond, the thousand students, gay 
 In plumes and ruffs, or rags and disrepair, 
 There entered Bacharel Frei Constantino 
 Citing the obligations; whereupon 
 Egidio began his argument 
 With exposition and arrangement clear, 
 And summary abrupt and crushing, as 
 His old experience in the courts had taught, 
 So free in tone and doctrine that the throng 
 Swayed on their benches, beating noisily 
 Great tomes together like the roll of drums. 
 Then silence for Suarez s quodlibet; 
 As half-reluctant, without emphasis, 
 His cold unwavering voice proposed the plan 
 Of his objection, when uproarious 
 Upon the instant, Frei Egidio 
 [62] 
 
In tones of thunder shouted o er the hall, 
 " Nego majorem ! " the scholastic world s 
 Unmitigated insult ! How would he, 
 Spain s boasted theologian, reply 
 To Portugal s ? The Jesuits around 
 Suarez s rostrum marvelled, whispered, turned, 
 And hid their faces, when they saw him bowed 
 Silent a moment, ere descending, calm, 
 He led them home across the jeering town. 
 Then the mad acclamations ; bells of shrine 
 And monastery on the hills ; the sweep 
 Of robes prelatical, the cavalcade 
 Of gorgeous nobles into Santa Cruz ; 
 The blare of trumpets, and the lanterns strung 
 Yellow beneath the moon ; the beggar throngs ; 
 The maskers down the lanes ; the nightingales 
 And river-songs of students wafted far 
 Across Mondego s Hills of Loneliness 
 And Meditation where Coimbra slept. 
 Thus triumphed Frei Egidio. But high 
 In the Collegio de Jesus the blow 
 Was red on every cheek ; the Rector rose 
 In the community and said : " Padre 
 Francisco, not in fifty years have we 
 In our Coimbra known such sore defeat ; 
 Tell me, I pray, had you no thought to save 
 [63] 
 
Your honor and the honor of our schools 
 You, boast of Rome and Salamanca s halls, 
 You, to whom all the dialectic arts 
 Have been as play could you not parry, feint, 
 Or bait Egidio until some chance 
 Or newer turn might save your argument?" 
 Suarez bowed and answered : " Better far 
 That we be humbled than a great man fall 
 To utter shame and ruin ! Had I told 
 Egidio there that in denying thus 
 My proposition he was challenging 
 A solemn canon, word for word, prescribed 
 At Constance by the Universal Church 
 Fetch me the Book of Councils he was lost." 
 Scarce was the secret spoken, ere it stole 
 In rumor through the novice-hall, and thence 
 Below to Santa Cruz, stole, like a doud, 
 Black, ominous, across the starlit dome 
 Above the proud mosteiro, where the moon 
 Revelled amid the sculptured lattices, 
 The marble ropes and palms memorial 
 Of old Da Gama and his caravels, 
 Upon the rose-paths and the trickling pools 
 Along the Cloister do Silencio. 
 There paced Fonseca, solitary guest 
 To catch the final crumbs, the laughter, far 
 [64] 
 
Adown the stream, of lutes that mourned his 
 
 feast, 
 
 When lo, a billet in his path ! "Awake, " 
 He read, "at Constance twas decreed. Thy 
 
 voice 
 
 Hath mocked the very words of Holy Church." 
 No more, yet in foreboding he made haste 
 To find his taper, fumbled through the stacks 
 In dust and chill, unclasped the folio 
 Liber Conciliorum, saw his doom 
 Perchance the rack and Secret Prisons writ 
 Upon the parchment ! Silence, mocking lutes ! 
 Come, rain! come, whirlwind! blot the lanterns 
 
 out! 
 
 Now knew he their insidious subterfuge 
 The slippery pharisees to undermine 
 Coi mbra s last bright paragon, they claimed 
 Another victim ! But his rage gave way 
 To grief; his scorn was all to blame; no 
 
 scheme 
 
 Was theirs ; Suarez spoke the Council s words 
 As duty bound him. With the break of day 
 Came self -renouncement to Egidio ; 
 And in amaze to greet his ashen face 
 The sacristan laid out for him the alb 
 And chasuble of Requiem ; resigned, 
 F [65] 
 
Like some bowed reed the storm has swept by 
 
 night, 
 
 He took the chalice, veiled it gainst his breast, 
 And mid the first faint glimmer down the nave 
 Crept forth unto his mystic Calvary. 
 For Miss Elizabeth J. Farrell. 
 
 [66] 
 
"QADI 
 Olri 
 
 THE WHITE RIDER 
 
 SPEAKETH DEATH: 
 ADDLE me forth the great white steed 
 
 ride on a mighty quest to-day ; 
 A cavalier of the Spanish breed 
 Too long hath mocked my sway 1" 
 
 (Crash of hoofs as the drawbridge fell ; 
 
 Clank of dread through the courts and stair.) 
 "Stand back, thou monk, leave Cross and spell 
 
 And let him meet me fair !" 
 
 "Don Roderick, Master of the Sword 
 
 Of Santiago, bend the head 
 You that put down so many a lord, 
 
 Yield to the lance of dread ! " 
 
 SPEAKETH THE GRAND MASTER: 
 
 "Nay, Death, thou menial, com st thou here 
 
 To play the haughty foe with me ? 
 Throw off that visor have no fear, 
 
 Old Roderick breaks no lance with thee 
 
 "But speak thy message, nor delay 
 
 To bear my carcass to the clod ; 
 Whilst thou art trudging on the way 
 
 My soul shall spur to God." 
 [67] 
 
IN THE VICEROY S GARDEN 
 
 Penha Verde, Cintra, 1911 
 
 ONE is he who bore the thunder 
 
 Of Braganza s kings afar ; 
 Down the Indus worlds of wonder 
 
 Lit their sceptre with his star ; 
 Gone so Day s last pageant moulders 
 Gone the swarthy, bleeding shoulders 
 
 Golden-laden round his car. 
 Moonlight on his pools and basins, 
 
 And the shadow of a rose. 
 Down the cypress cliffs there hastens 
 
 Water glamorous as those 
 Cynthia loosed from off the mountains 
 Here where mosses hushed the fountains 
 
 For Endymion s repose. 
 Nightingales, whose breast remembers 
 
 Loves so rare as these, 
 Round the roofless temple embers, 
 
 Tiled kiosks, and druid trees, 
 With a wilder sob are shaken 
 Where the Viceroy s halls forsaken 
 
 Echo still his far decrees. 
 All his spices, plumes, and treasure, 
 
 Could they match the sheathing moss 
 [68] 
 
O er his threshold ? could they measure 
 
 Aught to put this rose to loss ? 
 Where his carven trophies glory 
 Tn their crumbling, Sanscrit story, 
 And its petals fall across. 
 
 [69] 
 
AFTER THE RAIN 
 
 A LL day the rain came ceaseless down, 
 *"* But now tis evening soothes the town ; 
 The skies and little streets are clear, 
 The lamps and stars seem strangely near. 
 
 It seems as though some lovely face 
 Has brushed away the old tears trace, 
 And sweeter grown than e er before 
 Returns to guard our lonely door. 
 
 [70] 
 
GEORGETOWN REVISITED 
 
 On the 125th Anniversary, 1914 
 
 TT7E too in those old years agone 
 Took sword and countersign 
 For Camelot and Ascalon 
 
 And Compostela s shrine ; 
 Your loving scrip, and last behest, 
 
 Your eyes to guide our way, 
 Your scapular upon our breast, 
 
 Mother, as these to-day. 
 
 The white plumes on the field sink down 
 
 Mid battles half-begun ; 
 The chimes fall faint from the pilgrim town 
 
 Beyond the setting sun. 
 What shall the morrow bring ? what shrine, 
 
 What laurel or what grave ? - 
 Nay, speak once more your charge divine, 
 
 Mother, and make us brave. 
 
 Mother, our Mother, Georgetown, see 
 
 Your elder sons return 
 With scars of toils and victory 
 
 Against your breast to learn ! 
 We greet you by your ancient gates, 
 
 O brows more silvery fair ! 
 [71] 
 
And find your eyes still dreaming fates 
 
 And promise holier there. 
 One arm enclasps us, one leads forth 
 
 Your younger sons, new-shod 
 For hallowed ways of south and north, 
 
 Mother, by grace of God ! 
 
 [72] 
 
LA PRECIOSA 
 
 the marches of Pamplona out to sun and 
 wind and star 
 
 Lift the airy spires and turrets of the kings of old 
 Navarre, 
 
 Where the endless dirge is chanted o er their alabas 
 ter tombs, 
 
 And the canons drowse in scarlet mid the incense 
 and the glooms. 
 
 Daily came the little goatherd Mariquita, lithe, 
 brown, 
 
 Through the dusty gates to jangle with her flock 
 across the town, 
 
 Lounging barefoot through the alleys and the squares 
 at milking hour, 
 
 Calling shrilly round the doorway and the cloister 
 by the tower. 
 
 There amid the ancient portal blazoned o er with 
 angels rare 
 
 Sculptured stands La Preciosa crowned upon her 
 dais fair, 
 
 Whilst upon her breast The Infant turns with smil 
 ing eyes to look 
 
 On the lesson she is reading in her graceful little 
 book. 
 
 [73] 
 
There the tousled country urchin used to come and 
 
 shout in play 
 "Mary, Mary, neighbor Mary, watch the Child 
 
 while I m away." 
 When so read the Chapter annals from the 
 
 stone would come reply 
 With a gentle nod of greeting, " Mariquita dear, 
 
 good-by." 
 Till the Canon Don Arnaldo, passing when his mass 
 
 was o er, 
 Heard that banter so unseemly at La Preciosa s 
 
 door, 
 Little knowing in his wisdom that the Virgin meek 
 
 and mild 
 Answered through the stony image to the greeting 
 
 of the child. 
 "When again you pray Our Lady, cease," he said, 
 
 "your idle sport; 
 Kneel as though the queen or duchess passed you on 
 
 her way to court ; 
 Clasp your hands and bend your forehead as more 
 
 humble words you say, 
 Such as Heavenly Queen and Empress, House 
 
 of Gold, to thee I pray " 
 
 Mindful of the solemn lesson Mariquita half- 
 afraid, 
 
 [74] 
 
Ever as the good old Canon taught her, clasped her 
 
 hands, and prayed ; 
 Bowed in rustic salutation, ended with a long 
 
 Amen, 
 But in stone the Virgin listened, never smiled 
 
 nor spoke again. 
 
 For Frederick S. Hoppin. 
 
 [75] 
 
THE PARTING 
 
 HP! HOUGH it was spring and in the land 
 -* Of roses and the sun, 
 Fate in a moment tore us hand from hand 
 And said the dream was done ; 
 
 Never to know the fullness of the year, 
 
 The sweet alternate burthens of the days, 
 
 To share no more in smile or tear, 
 
 We turned confused on unreturning ways. 
 
 You unto friends and comradeship afar, 
 
 To take and give what tenderness they knew; 
 
 And I to know what consolations are 
 
 With them who dream not what I was to you. 
 
 Through all the summertide, 
 
 Across the wastes of starlight and of noon, 
 It was for you my being cried 
 
 For want of you all life fell out of tune. 
 
 My arm unstrengthened by the thought 
 Of you went forth unto the gleaning ; 
 
 The laughter of the vineyards only brought 
 A joy unmeaning. 
 
 [76] 
 
Ask not my paths, if there shall be a morrow 
 
 Our eyes can meet ; 
 I have been far in caravans of sorrow, 
 
 Nor shall the tale repeat. 
 
 [77] 
 
THE HIDING OF THE GRAAL 
 
 "VTIGHT and the winter blast, and out afar 
 
 Upon the wastes a paladin grown gray 
 In rusted armor, seared with toil and scar, 
 Fared with a lagging bridle on his way. 
 
 His deep eyes fixed in space ; his only guide 
 The worn steed s search for herbage o er the plain ; 
 
 With pallid lips and fallen breast he sighed, 
 
 "The Graal ! The Holy Graal, I seek in vain ! " 
 
 "My dreams of youth, this faithful arm that 
 smote 
 
 The f oeman of the Cross, my body worn 
 With fast and pilgrimage by shrines remote, 
 
 My manhood withered on a quest forlorn !" 
 
 Then from the darkness one arose beside 
 
 His stirrup, stretching forth with empty palms. 
 
 " Alas, poor Leper, without purse I ride, 
 I seek The Graal, as thou art seeking alms." 
 
 " Sir Knight, we fare upon a holy quest, 
 But grant me water, for at last I fail " 
 
 He loosed his gourd ; against the Leper s breast 
 Sudden he saw it gleam, it was The Graal. 
 [78] 
 
THE FORGES OF THE SUN 
 
 The Grand Canon of Colorado 
 
 A S in the furnace depths of geni-land 
 ^ The molten sparks from off the anvils blow, 
 Adown the Canon now a brawny hand 
 Upon the bellows sets the days aglow. 
 
 Tis Autumn with his sledges welding gold 
 Of leaf and harvest, laughing loud and clear 
 
 At Vulcan and his magic shields of old, 
 And forging red the sunsets of the year. 
 
 [79] 
 
THE MAIDS OF HONOR 
 
 SCENE : the Studio of Velazquez in the Royal Alcazar 
 of Madrid, 1656. 
 
 DONA MARCELA DE ULLOA: 
 (Knocking and calling from the outside) 
 Senor Marshal, prithee turn the key ! 
 Her Highness the Infanta is at hand ! 
 
 VELAZQUEZ : 
 (Perplexed, putting down his brushes) 
 
 Where is my Juan Pareja ? What an hour 
 To be disturbed ! (Opens the rear door; in a burst of 
 sunshine enter the Infanta Margarita, Dona 
 Agostina de Sarmiento, Dona Isabel de Velasco, 
 Dona Marcela de Ulloa in nun s habit, a Guar- 
 dadamas or Lady s page, the Dwarfs Mari 
 Barbola and Nicolasico Pertusato, and the hound 
 Nodo. Tinkles are attached to the ladies high 
 heels.) 
 
 INFANTA : 
 
 Don Diego, I would see 
 
 How you make pictures. (Velazquez receives her 
 on one knee. She starts to take the leather arm 
 chair in front of his canvas.) 
 [80] 
 
VELAZQUEZ : 
 (Rises to prevent her) 
 
 Nay, Your Highness errs ; 
 None but his Majesty can seat him there ; 
 Tis so commanded. 
 
 INFANTA : 
 I ll keep standing then. 
 
 DONA AGOSTINA: 
 (First Maid of Honor) 
 
 Tis better so, Your Highness, for the hour 
 Of your siesta is begun. We should repose. 
 
 INFANTA : 
 No, I will stay and watch the Senor paint. 
 
 DONA ISABEL: 
 
 (Second Maid of Honor) 
 
 What love of art! (affectedly) Like her great 
 
 ancestors, 
 
 The Philips and the Charles, you see she grants 
 Full honor to your craft, good Don Diego. 
 
 VELAZQUEZ : 
 
 Twas in this very room of old the great 
 Antonio Moro painted, and likewise 
 [81] 
 
Sanchez-Coello for Don Philip Second. 
 Here daily too our own most-artist King 
 Reviews my tasks, instilling me with thought 
 As vast in art, as in affairs of state. 
 He is my world ; his the philosophy 
 I strive with here. I have no business 
 Nor converse for the crowd. (Aside to the Maids of 
 Honor) 
 
 This very hour 
 
 Their Majesties are coming. You must coax 
 The Infanta to depart. You know the rules 
 Of our Alcazar, as King s Marshal, I 
 At least must keep them 
 
 DONA AGOSTINA: 
 
 The court etiquette 
 Is also our concern ; but all day long 
 The Infanta has been restless ! dragging us 
 About the grounds and palace, rummaging 
 Each room and hidden passage-way. You know 
 We dare no force 
 
 DONA ISABEL: 
 
 The dwarfs are out of hand ; 
 Nicolasico is a very fiend, 
 Defeating every subterfuge of ours 
 [82] 
 
To tempt the Infanta home. They have indulged 
 In romps around the throne-room ; climbed the towers, 
 And visited the ponies in the mews ; 
 At every moment there s a new caprice ! 
 
 DONA MARCELA: 
 
 The Queen will have the child obeyed ; 
 Good Senor-Marshal, you must pardon us. 
 
 VELAZQUEZ : 
 
 I would consider you, for should the King 
 
 Be out of mood, his spleen will turn on us, 
 
 Not on the Infanta. Haste to get her forth; 
 
 He came upon the minute yesterday, 
 
 And should the Queen have kept him waiting now 
 
 Tis we shall answer for it ! I am bid 
 
 To tend them here alone, You see, my work 
 
 Is almost done. 
 
 DONA MARCELA: 
 
 (Turning with the others to mew his painting) 
 A marvel ! And most like 
 Of any you have made ! 
 
 DONA ISABEL: 
 
 The first to show 
 Their Majesties together ! 
 
 [83] 
 
INFANTA : 
 
 (Leaving the dwafs and hound) 
 
 Senor, 
 
 What pretty face you give the Queen ! And look, 
 Nicolasico, there s my father too 
 
 NICOLASICO : 
 (Drawing himself up proudly) 
 
 A mighty King say I ; when I am old 
 I shall be just like him ! 
 
 GUARD AD AMAS : 
 
 Be silent, dwarf ; 
 
 The King is close at hand. And do not tease 
 The hound when he is drowsy, you forget, 
 He sometimes knocks you down. 
 
 DONA MARCELA: 
 (To Marl Barbola) 
 
 Come, Mari, haste. 
 
 You ve seen the picture quite enough, I think ! 
 At home there s cinnamon and chocolate. 
 [84] 
 
MARI BARB OLA 
 (After a long stare) 
 
 Think you, sweet Dofia Agostina, now ; 
 Why should not I arrange my hair like that 
 
 (Pointing at Queen s portrait) 
 And be as pretty as the rest of you ? 
 
 DONA AGOSTINA: 
 (To Dona Isabel) 
 
 Let not the palace coiffeur hear her talk, 
 Or we shall be eclipsed ! 
 
 VELAZQUEZ : 
 
 Your chocolate 
 
 I know is waiting, then you ll play among 
 The flower beds where there are butterflies 
 Swarming to-day all gold and red and black I 
 
 INFANTA : 
 
 This morning we ran after them, but failed 
 
 (pointing to her Guardainfanta, or hoops) 
 To catch them ! 
 
 [85] 
 
VELAZQUEZ : 
 
 You should try the grotto then ; 
 This sultry day the fishpools will be cool. 
 
 DONA AGOSTINA: 
 
 And there are pearly shells to play with, brought 
 From out the Indies shores 
 
 INFANTA : 
 
 We played with them 
 All yesterday until Nicolasico 
 And Mari took to throwing and I cried 
 
 DONA AGOSTINA: 
 Your Highness now will take your leave ? 
 
 GUARDADAMAS : 
 
 Beware, 
 Nicolasico, or the hound will snap ! 
 
 VELAZQUEZ : 
 
 Dona Marcela, as you hope for heaven, 
 
 Get them away ! The King must be obeyed ! 
 
 MARI BARBOLA: 
 I am so thirsty 
 
 [86] 
 
DONA ISABEL: 
 
 Quick then, come and drink. 
 (Takes the water jar from Velazquez side-table) 
 With your permission, good Senor 
 
 VELAZQUEZ : 
 
 Her health, 
 And wealth and a handsome husband ! 
 
 INFANTA : 
 
 No, let me 
 
 (Attempting to snatch the jar from Mari, who indig 
 nantly turns from swallowing the water to push the 
 
 Infanta) 
 
 DONA AGOSTINA 1 _ 
 
 Stop ! 
 
 DONA ISABEL 
 
 DONA MARCELA: 
 
 Stop, I say ! Touch not Her Royal Highness ! 
 Give me the jar 
 
 INFANTA : 
 
 But I am thirsty too ! 
 
 DONA AGOSTINA: 
 
 Within the Queen s Apartment, you will find 
 The fragrant water set for you to drink ; 
 Your Highness, shall we go ? 
 [87] 
 
DONA MARCELA: 
 (To Velazquez) 
 
 We hardly dare 
 
 To risk a drop or morsel out of course, 
 Lest she be taken ill. 
 
 DONA AGOSTINA: 
 
 Your Highness, come ! 
 
 INFANTA : 
 
 Mari can drink whilst I go thirsty ! No, 
 I will not stir until I have my share. 
 
 VELAZQUEZ : 
 
 (Aside) 
 Santiago ! it is well the King comes late ! 
 
 INFANTA : 
 Speak, Senor-Marshal, say that I may drink. 
 
 VELAZQUEZ : 
 
 Your Highness knows the Queen has given com 
 mand 
 
 That none should serve you food and drink except 
 At her appointment. 
 
 [88] 
 
(Dona Marcela is observed to whisper to the 
 Guardadamas who hurriedly disappears from 
 the room.) 
 
 INFANTA : 
 
 Then I ll go without, 
 
 And stay to see the pictures. Did you paint 
 Them all yourself, Don Diego ? lovely ladies 
 Bathing in the woods, and shepherds too, 
 And dogs and goats and flowers above the rest 
 
 VELAZQUEZ : 
 
 Your Highness, would that I could do so well ! 
 Great Rubens, whom your grandsire Don Carlos 
 Commissioned, painted their originals. 
 
 INFANTA : 
 
 Your new ones hardly are so pretty, yet 
 They look more like the pictures I myself 
 Can see when peeping through my fingers so 
 
 VELAZQUEZ : 
 
 A test that I approve. "The truth, and not 
 A picturing" that is my motto here. 
 (Aside to Dona Marcela) 
 
 Your messenger delays, the King will come ! 
 [89] 
 
DONA MARCELA: 
 Where is the man ? Stay, here he is at last ! 
 
 GUARD AD AMAS : 
 
 Quick, the King is on the secret stairs ! 
 
 (Guardadamas drops on one knee, presenting the 
 
 golden salver and red clay flagon to Dona Marcela) 
 The water for Her Highness. 
 
 DON JOSE NIETO: 
 
 The Queen s Marshal (entering the door and salut 
 ing Velazquez and the ladies) 
 
 I announce 
 The Royal Majesties of Spain ! 
 
 VELAZQUEZ : 
 (Aside) 
 
 Alas I 
 Then we are lost ! 
 
 DONA MARCELA: 
 
 (Bowing on one knee to Dona Isabel, and present 
 ing the salver and cup) 
 
 The water for Her Highness. 
 [90] 
 
DONA ISABEL: 
 
 Quick ! 
 
 (She bows on one knee to Dona Agostina) 
 The water for Her Highness. 
 
 DON JOSE NIETO: 
 
 Hush! 
 The King and Queen, 
 
 (The mirror at the back centre shows the reflection of 
 Philip IV and Queen Mariana, who otherwise do 
 not appear on the scene) 
 
 DONA AGOSTINA: 
 
 (On one knee offering the cup and salver to the 
 Infanta, as in the painting) 
 
 The water for Her Highness. 
 
 VELAZQUEZ : 
 
 (Stepping backward as though the monarchs were 
 in front of the stage, until he strikes his posi 
 tion before the easel, as in his painting, "Las 
 Meninas " ; then, as if suddenly inspired) 
 Your Royal Majesties, behold, I pose 
 My masterpiece alive before your eyes ! 
 
 For Benjamin R. C. Low. 
 
 [91] 
 
THE EMBARKMENT FOR CYTHERA 
 
 WHERE is Tircis, slender swain, 
 Now the petalled gloom is falling ? 
 Muscadin, and pale Syglaine, 
 
 Whom the zephyrs come a-calling 
 Down the vales and streams again ? 
 
 Are their silken sails in vain 
 Lifting for the sunset rivers ? 
 
 Daphne ! Armaryllis ! where 
 Now delaying ? Venus quivers 
 
 O er Cythera s rainbow stair 
 Whither must their barges fare ! 
 
 W T earied they of lute and masking, 
 Shepherd staff, and ribboned air ? 
 
 Wearied they of lights and tasking, 
 Rapier, plume, and saraband ? 
 
 "Belle marquise, thy little hand" 
 (Nay, tis but a lily swaying 
 
 Down the purple meadowland ! ) 
 "Cher abbe, (What old betraying 
 
 Shadows yonder cypress throws ! ) 
 See, on crimson gusts of rose 
 
 One and all away are hieing. 
 To Cythera like to those 
 
 Dearer shades that left us sighing 
 Where the stream of twilight flows. 
 For George Holberton Casamajor. 
 [92] 
 
ZITHER SONG 
 
 A LITTLE world we truly say 
 " While days are young and careless-hearted ; 
 From clime to clime we speed to-day, 
 
 Earth s paths are cleared and ocean s charted ; 
 But ah, how large a world we stray 
 
 When thou and I are parted ! 
 
 A fleeting world as in a dream 
 
 J Tis gone ere we have paused and wondered I 
 Life s span is but a firefly gleam, 
 
 A chance half -slept away, half blundered ; 
 But ah, how long the days must seem 
 
 When our two hearts are sundered. 
 
 [93] 
 
TO A SONNET ON THE SONNET 
 
 "VTAY, wouldst thou write a sonnet on the sonnet, 
 -*-^ Full of confectionery charms like those 
 
 The dimpled poets pin upon the rose, 
 Twining thy fancies as if for a bonnet, 
 And forcing the poor frowning muse to don it ? 
 
 Spare her, by heaven, thy nodding plumes and 
 bows ! 
 
 Thou sayst the sonnet like a lily grows, 
 Then, critic, scorn not, nor put rouge upon it ! 
 
 No jewels asks she for that perfect throat 
 But courtly airs wherein she may expand, 
 
 And sun the cheek that gods have dreamt upon ; 
 But gird thee, if wouldst serve her cause remote, 
 As one who in some alien, thankless land 
 Tears down the huts that hide a Parthenon. 
 
 [94] 
 
THE BOOK OF RIGNALD 
 
 "VTIGHT on lona, from the north the gulls 
 -* Come homing in upon the sacred coast 
 Where he who as a lad had cleaved the skulls 
 Of Vikings still has lingered like a ghost. 
 
 He that was Rignald now within the cowl 
 Of Colum s monks become an ancient scribe, 
 
 He that had stalked and plundered through the 
 
 howl 
 Of many a flame-swept burgh of clan and tribe. 
 
 From his white casement many s the year he heard 
 The springtime call him o er the tossing sea 
 
 Back to the oldtime glades of deer and bird, 
 And wassail hearths of kings that used to be. 
 
 Whilst on the parchment of the Gospel Book 
 
 His brush has scrolled the margin with strange 
 
 flowers ; 
 
 His thoughts on heaven, yet through the pig 
 ments look 
 
 Blue from fond eyes, and green of sea-mossed 
 towers, 
 
 And tints of petalled cheeks, and crimson caught 
 From lips long, long in dust ! Each whorl of gold 
 [95] 
 
Enshrines some childish tress ; each rubric, wrought 
 In blood, atones for that he shed of old. 
 
 Each great initial like some vestment clasp 
 The sea-marauders wrung from Orient lands, 
 
 Crusted with gems, gold-woven as an asp 
 Gleams from the parchment warm beneath his 
 hands. 
 
 But see, Amen half-written, down the sky 
 He sights a Viking sail that hawk-like veers 
 
 About God s dovecote isle ! his battle-cry 
 Hushed with a pang, he folds his hands, in 
 tears. 
 
 For Miss Marguerite Merington. 
 
 [96] 
 
THE CANTICLE OF FONTEBRAS 
 
 Among the nuns of Fontebras, they told young 
 
 Don Bivar 
 Was come a novice Juana, who was lovely as a star ; 
 
 And all the silver night she heard the lute implore 
 
 and sing ; 
 The casement trembled unto vows and breath of 
 
 blossoming ; 
 Adown the glen the fireflies lit the jewels of a king. 
 
 But at the grim portcullis Christ in stone hung 
 
 sentrywise ; 
 What though the gallant spread his cloak, she knew 
 
 its haggard eyes, 
 And trembling sank from out his arms despite of 
 
 pleas and sighs. 
 
 "O Thou upon the Cross " she moaned, "do Thou 
 
 renounce me now" 
 When bent the ancient stone, and smote her sharp 
 
 upon brow, 
 Imprinting there His pierced hand the token of 
 
 her vow. 
 
 H [97] 
 
Still in the crypts of Fontebras the golden censers 
 
 swing, 
 Still, still the lark and nightingale by spire and 
 
 valley sing; 
 
 But at the raptured moment when as to Suprem- 
 
 est Grace 
 Each cloistress lifts her forehead clear in Christ s 
 
 espousal place, 
 Alone the Sister Juana kneels, the veil upon her 
 
 face 
 
 [98] 
 
TO FRANCISCO GOYA IN THE GALLERY 
 OF MADRID 
 
 rnHEY fawned upon you, kissed your brawny hands, 
 -^- And laid aside their masks and veils, that you 
 Might paint their ivory pallor, veined with blue, 
 Their periwigs and jabots and their slight, 
 Deflowered waistcoats and bejewelled strands, 
 They laid their scorn aside in their delight. 
 
 You dreamed a parchment beauty from the soul 
 Of Venice, and revealed it deathless there 
 In spite of deadened eyes and lips despair ; 
 Then as illusion s very shadow died, 
 The brigand that was in you gained control 
 And with your peasant fist you slew their pride. 
 
 That daub of rouge upon a leering hag 
 
 Is where you struck your queen; that reeling 
 
 string 
 Of rogues and cripples wrongs your Spain, whose 
 
 king 
 
 You set, to mock her anguished, starving lands ! 
 An imbecile upon a bloated nag, 
 You struck them, Goya, yet they kissed your hands. 
 [99] 
 
GOYA IN THE CUPOLA 
 
 SCENE : the scaffolding in San Antonio de la Florida 
 at the gates of the Royal Casa de Campo, near 
 Madrid, June, 1799 
 
 FRAY FELIX SALZEDO : 
 (Prior of Aula-Dei at Saragossa). 
 
 TT1IS as the copla sings, "Mid flowers and shade 
 "* Thy Hermitage is set, O patron Saint 
 Of the Florida, to whose shade and flowers 
 Thou owest the sweet name, Antonio blest ! " 
 
 FRANCISCO GOYA Y LUCIENTES: 
 
 As keen in memory as in wind and limb, 
 
 My Father-Prior ; why you climbed as though 
 
 The scaffolding into our cupola 
 
 Were just the slopes of Fuendetodos, where 
 
 You caught me scratching pictures on the bam 
 
 FRAY FELIX: 
 
 And fine Court gossip make they of it now 
 That you had drawn an angel there, forsooth ! 
 Francisco, come confess, you might as well 
 Your earliest portrait was the pig ! 
 [100] 
 
GOYA: 
 
 Hush! Hush! - 
 
 Fray Felix, for the love of heaven ! This dome 
 Throws down an echo, wait, we ll be alone. 
 (Calling) Julio ! Julio ! drop your brushes, lad, 
 Lock fast the outer door, and when there comes 
 A carriage to the Fountain, bring me word. 
 Now, Padre, we ll talk freely, if I can 
 But see your lips, for spite all flatteries, 
 My ears are deaf as stones. Your prayers, amigo, 
 That God may spare my sight, else I, alas, 
 Shall be shut off from everything on earth. 
 I could not hear you as we drove 
 
 FRAY FELIX: 
 
 I praised 
 
 Your creamy-coated mules ; we ne er have seen 
 The like in Aragon 
 
 GOYA: 
 
 Their legs are good ; 
 Mine, since that jennet threw me, limp a bit. 
 
 FRAY FELIX: 
 
 It also seemed at San Vincente s gate 
 The Guards but half repressed their mirth, that you 
 [101] 
 
Should air your ghostly friar ; more gallant freight 
 No doubt they look for in your carriage seat. 
 Which minds me, now, Francisco, should it hap 
 These scornful gibers block your way to Court, 
 Send them to me at Saragossa where, 
 Your mother Dona Gracia s family shields 
 Were green with moss an age ere this Madrid 
 Was thought of as a cure for Carlos gout. 
 
 GOYA: 
 My paintings there in Aula-Dei 
 
 FKAY FELIX: 
 
 Peace, 
 
 Our friars have almost grown resigned to them I 
 After that fracas in Del Pilar s shrine 
 Who would have thought that I should ever find 
 My Goya in the cupola again ! 
 At least, no friar or canon scolds you here 
 A boudoir, so it seems half chapel, half 
 A lodge-house by the royal park, where maids 
 Come laughing down the Manzanares banks 
 To pray Antonio for a marriage ring 
 Where only the old sacristan bestirs 
 On Sunday morns to shake the cobwebs off, 
 And drive the bees, so some Intendant s wife 
 [102] 
 
Can hear convenient Mass, where prayer and rite 
 Are hushed and hurried if some courtier snore 
 
 GOYA: 
 
 True, but our good old proverb says " Of King 
 And Inquisition mum s the word I" Padre, 
 When have you known your Goya play the saint ? 
 And least of all with you ! What harm to paint 
 My lovely Duchess if she deign to come 
 To have me set the rouge upon her cheeks ? 
 Am I not artist in my studio 
 As any maid or valet in her house ? 
 You scold me for paramour or two ; 
 Your scamp Francisco to believe the town 
 Has hundreds both at Court and in the slums ! 
 I thrash some bully at the fair presto, 
 They say I kill my man a fortnight now ; 
 I use our broad-staff style of Aragon ; 
 Behold me wizard of the fence ! You know 
 How with the neighbors boys I d bait the bulls 
 Near Aula-Dei, now I take a seat 
 Beside Romero or the Costillares 
 And every stroller on the Alcala 
 Proclaims I am their rival with the dames 
 At Court, as in the arena with the bulls ! 
 Such idle chatter suits this idle town ! 
 [103] 
 
FRAY FELIX: 
 
 Lad, lad, but somebody must pay 
 For knavish tricks, such as that painted bruise 
 They say you wrought to keep the faithless wife 
 At home when her poor spouse must fare abroad ; 
 "Majas Undraped"! and "Draped" I they 
 
 have a leer 
 
 As though to tell the town your great one s name ! 
 And now what have we here ? In church again 
 You paint the only angels you have known 
 "Flesh of camellia white and eyes of fire" 
 Disquieting spirits, strangers in our Spain, 
 Carrying their pulsing bodies into heaven 
 In worldly bubble o er this frivolous shrine ! 
 
 GOYA: 
 
 Nay, Padre mine, but my Antonio, 
 
 Do I succeed with him, the Paduan mild 
 
 That wears your own Franciscan robe of brown ? 
 
 A moment, Padre, let me touch his face 
 
 Till it resemble yours the more ! 
 
 FRAY FELIX: 
 
 Nay, then, 
 
 If I must be the saint, let you in turn 
 Be pictured in yon dancer on the rope. 
 [104] 
 
GOYA: 
 Agreed. Now is my miracle performed ? 
 
 FRAY FELIX: 
 
 Let s say the saint is pleasing neither bold 
 
 Nor doubting, yet a bit amazed to hear 
 
 The dead man speaking. Do I see aright 
 
 Your father s face and Dona Gracia s 
 
 In those on either side with lifted arms, 
 
 Antonio s parents who have been accused 
 
 Of murder while the corpse, by chance unearthed 
 
 Within their garden, at the saint s command 
 
 Gives answer to relieve them of the charge ? 
 
 Legend or history, who shall say ? You know 
 
 How popular fancy has a way to make 
 
 Heroes and scapegoats ; if the carnal heart 
 
 Fashioned its knights and damozels, we too 
 
 Have had such chivalry of saint and monk 
 
 As decks our chronicles with fables still. 
 
 The scene is rendered well, as for your crowds, 
 
 They trouble my old soul 
 
 GOYA : 
 
 Was it not so 
 
 From art s beginnings, Padre ? Think you not 
 When Raphael took his peasant girls to make 
 U05] 
 
His high Madonnas there was none to carp ? 
 When the proud Veronese showed the lords 
 Of Venice banqueting with Christ, that none 
 Took scandal ? 
 
 FRAY FELIX: 
 
 Truly so it may have been ; 
 Yet in the earlier manner of the arts 
 The offence seems smaller ; beauty claimed a lift 
 Beyond the actual day ; but here, Francisco 
 
 GOYA: 
 
 Here, Padre, you would say, my rabble throngs 
 With life too common round a miracle ! 
 Should Spaniards make a pother at the thought 
 Of supernatural deeds ? A corpse is brought 
 To light our race has ne er been squeamish there. 
 The urchins clamber on the railings, nay, 
 There s no offence ; I ve seen them do the like 
 Even at Del Pilar s shrine the merry imps 
 Mind not the idle gossips, Padre, look 
 Yourself and see ! Where are the scandalous groups 
 They ve made such chatter of ? In all this dome 
 What see you but such faces as we know ? 
 Some touched with holy light, some with sur 
 prise, 
 
 [106] 
 
Some deadened to all wonder, some engrossed 
 On private themes that give no time to pause. 
 Amid our modern crowds where mark we now 
 Such splendor as the old Italians saw ? 
 Twas mostly fiction ; mine are honest crowds ; 
 I show their fascination grim ; for pomp 
 And grandeur look elsewhere ! A saint, you cry, 
 Performing at a fair, as though to draw 
 The crowd away from a funambulist ! 
 Yet each o ermasters nature s laws : the saint 
 By grace divine, the dancer on his rope 
 With skill that flouts our feet a marvel, yet 
 No contradiction nor denial of law. 
 You know how loath I ever am to speak 
 Of technicals ; my rules are deeds performed. 
 Give me a lump of charcoal, that s enough. 
 I know but sun and shadow, as for lines, 
 Where do we find them save in studios ? 
 My eye sees only masses ; things designed 
 And rendered for themselves to be undone 
 And merged to proper state to form the mass. 
 A brush or rag will do. Then, if you wish, 
 A test by day and lamplight, nothing more. 
 So if my lynx-eyed critics claim to spy 
 Manolas I have known among the crowds, 
 Martincho, or some picador s dark frown, 
 [1071 
 
Or, as the gossip goes, the Queen herself, 
 The Donas of San Carlos, Santa-Cruz, 
 Monti jo, and the radiant Alba, here 
 Smiling as angels, let them know the truth, 
 My memory acts not quite unlike my sight ; 
 It sums the charms and individual ways 
 Of each, till consciousness, obscured, becomes 
 But comprehension of them all. 
 
 FRAY FELIX: 
 
 There sounds 
 
 The mighty Goya ! Heaven had marked you out 
 For miracles, Alas ! your wasted years ! 
 
 GOYA: 
 
 Who knows, my hearing gone, but sight half- 
 spared, 
 
 God still may claim me for His holy cause ? 
 Padre, I bring but tainted Hands ; perchance 
 They yet can serve 
 
 FRAY FELIX: 
 
 As hers that loving brought 
 
 The ointment to the stranger s house ! Who knows 
 When we and many generations lie 
 In dust what men with newer minds shall come, 
 And hearing my dear Goya s name, be swept 
 [108] 
 
With thrill ecstatic, venerating this 
 
 Which now confounds me Hush, your Julio calls 
 
 JULIO: 
 
 (Shouting and gesturing from bekw) 
 
 The carriage, Excelencia ! awaits 
 Beside the Fountain of the Fan ! 
 
 GOYA: 
 
 Padre, 
 
 A whisper, tis the Queen herself commands. 
 Though deaf and lame I still am dangerous I 
 How seems my coat ? 
 
 FRAY FELIX: 
 
 That of perfect Don 
 Who breaks a heart, or head 
 
 GOYA: 
 
 Or fights them off. 
 Show Julio how to rein the restless mules ; 
 Josefa waits at home for chocolate 
 Among the children ; I shall come in time 
 To drive you to your cloister door myself. 
 Nay, you re the elder, Padre, take my arm 
 I know the steps. And now, my cloak and sword. 
 
 For Santiago Montoto de Sedas. 
 [109] 
 
THE FOUNDLING 
 
 T30RN of the flesh alone, no parentage 
 -*~^ Of mated souls had he ; the orphan child 
 
 Of joy, he took the husks of life defiled 
 And nursed his spirit on his wrong and rage. 
 Touch not his past ; it perished on the page 
 
 Where first a waif and foundling he was styled ; 
 
 As for his future, its lone path is piled 
 With such inheritance as none would gauge. 
 
 Out of your carven galleries look down, 
 
 But let him pass, ye children of the crown, 
 
 Nor bring your pity, purchased spouses, here ! 
 But oh, ye wedded hearts, ye mothers true, 
 Out on the road is one that doubts of you, 
 
 Let not his burden pass without your tear ! 
 
 [110] 
 
JUNGLE DANCE 
 
 GTRUMMING of banjos, pattering of feet 
 ^ Among the cabins where the moon is white 
 Upon the river, and the dancers meet, 
 And prance and caper all the torrid night. 
 
 Banjos and bones ; the old remembered whine 
 Of voodoo incantation ; petulant strum 
 
 Like cannibal tomtoms ; frantic intertwine 
 As when they battered the bamboula drum. 
 
 t 
 Stealthily prancing, with white eyes ashine 
 
 Now stiff as sculptures on Egyptian tombs, 
 Now sleek and haughty, cringing and malign 
 They glide like Afric tigers in the glooms. 
 
 Or loose and fluttering as some scarecrow blown 
 In idiot frolic (Hark, the cobra hiss I ) 
 
 They twist and twine some Dance of Death un 
 known 
 The blasphemy and mockery of bliss. 
 
 [Ill 
 
THE LARKS OF GLENDALOUGH 
 
 A LL night the gentle Saint had prayed, 
 ^*" And heedless of the thrush and dove 
 His radiant spirit still delayed 
 To hear the seraph choirs above. 
 
 So still he knelt, his arms outspread, 
 His head thrown backward from his breast, 
 
 A lark across the casement sped 
 And in his fingers built her nest. 
 
 And ere the music from his soul 
 
 Receded with the flood of day, 
 Through Glendalough the sunshine stole 
 
 And brushed the mists and dews away. 
 
 Twas then the Saint beheld the bird 
 
 Serenely nesting in his hand, 
 And murmured, "Ah, could st thou have heard 
 
 The matins in that seraph land I" 
 
 Then softly turned he back to pray, 
 Nor ever moved his arms, from close 
 
 Of eve or morn by night or day, 
 Until her nestlings voices rose ; 
 [112] 
 
Then as his heavenly trance was done, 
 Above the glen he heard them cry, 
 
 "O Kevin, Kevin I Loving One ! 
 We sing to God thy soul s reply." 
 
 For Thomas A. Daly. 
 
 [113] 
 
SISTER GREGORIA, TO A BIRD AT 
 SUNSET, SEVILLE, 1686 
 
 pNVYING a little bird 
 *"^ His flight to heaven my heart is stirred, 
 So hardy is the wing he finds 
 To breast the banter of the winds, 
 So lightly pulsing doth he fare 
 Enamored of the sunset there ! 
 Would I were with thee in thy flight, 
 Fair plaything of the breeze, to-night, 
 And from thy heart such impulse know 
 As speeds thy steadfast pinions so ! 
 For of The Sun Supreme am I 
 A love-delirious butterfly ; 
 By tender dawns I sip but claim 
 The blossom of that Noontide Flame. 
 Unto thy heart yon crimson tryst 
 Of sunset glory hath sufficed ; 
 Thy spirit glad and free of care 
 Doth to its golden lattice fare ; 
 But I who, knowing, love and pine 
 For One that is The Sphere Divine, 
 Of griefs my only wings can make 
 And flights alone on sighings take. 
 Do thou, far bird, on tireless wing 
 [114] 
 
Beyond the heavenly archway spring, 
 And breasting higher, higher, bear 
 This message of my fond despair : 
 To say that all my heart and soul 
 Aglow have passed beyond control ; 
 Annulled unto my limbs, that I 
 Live hanging on a single sigh. 
 Yet when, of visionings distraught, 
 My soul would seize the raptured thought 
 To mount away to its delight, 
 It finds no stirrup for the flight. 
 
 [115] 
 
ANTIETAM 
 
 FOR THE 39TH REUNION OF THE SOCIETY OF THE 
 ARMY OF THE POTOMAC 
 
 Read on the Battlefield, September 16th, 1910. 
 
 more the scythes and sickles on the hill ; 
 Once more the harvest morns, where sinewy 
 
 Peace 
 
 Swings with bright blade, and song upon the still, 
 Clear air grows sweeter as night s thunders cease. 
 
 Time on a summer breath has blown away 
 The funeral rains, the lightnings, and the cloud ; 
 
 Drenched in the silver dews, each break of day 
 Reveals the corn-fields waving plumes unbowed. 
 
 There is a bird in every orchard sings 
 With cadence softer than it knew till now ; 
 
 Tenderer the gleamings of these meadow springs ; 
 Richer the warm upturnings of the plough. 
 
 Here children s eyes with newer beauty glow, 
 And lovelier falls the laughter round the door ; 
 
 The nestlings twitter when the storm-clouds go ; 
 Peace is the sweetest first fruit after war. 
 [116] 
 
What mockery of heaven s eternal plan, 
 As here in gentle pasture, grove, and spire, 
 
 Ordained such morn of destiny for man, 
 And choked these skies with conflagration dire ! 
 
 What blighting sun gave signal for that day 
 Across these hillsides? bade the fields of corn 
 
 Their glint of lurking bayonets betray, 
 And the grim reaper Death arise in scorn ? 
 
 Here chariots of gods and fiends flamed by, 
 And thunders quaked across the shrieking gale, 
 
 Where bodies fell and souls went up the sky 
 As wheat and chaff unto the iron flail ! 
 
 O breast grown cold without them! lips that 
 
 wait 
 
 Their tardy trysting ! would ye more abide ? 
 Down broke the bloody dikes of hate ! 
 Day looked no more ! Earth gulped the greedy 
 tide ! 
 
 If there be flowers blood-precious in the sod, 
 Pulses still nobler hallow all this air, 
 
 Inspiritings of fatherland and God 
 That hush the thoughts of hatred or despair. 
 [117] 
 
Pure, too, the comrade hearts, who, doubly brave, 
 To-day face memories of youth and pain ; 
 
 Here victory from all defeat to save 
 From old defeat new victory to gain ! 
 
 These graves are bulwarks you, the nation s sires 
 Along bright Fame s horizon ! Sentry-wise 
 
 Upon the mountain heights, you tend the fires 
 That freedom signals back into the skies ! 
 
 For General Horatio C. King. 
 
 [118] 
 
ODES FROM THE SPANISH OF FRAY LUIS 
 DE LEON. SALAMANCA, 1528-1591. 
 
 (1) 
 TO THE LICENCIADO JUAN DE GRIAL 
 
 1VTOW is earth s loveliness withdrawn 
 
 Unto her bosom ; now the heavens are stoled 
 
 In vesture of the fading lawn ; 
 And from the branches lifeless hold 
 Leaf after leaf unto the ground is doled. 
 
 Now Phoebus turns on sunlit tread 
 Adown ^Egean shores ; the coursing day 
 
 Runs swifter ; noontide is bespread 
 With herding of the fleeces gray 
 Of ^Eolus upon his blustry way. 
 
 By dim horizons go the cranes 
 Of Ibycus migrating with their cry 
 
 Portentous ; now the bullock strains 
 Against the yoke his shoulders high, 
 Turning the patient furrows to the sky. 
 
 To noble studies would the hours, 
 
 Grial, convene us ; and the voice of Fame 
 Call upward to her sacred towers, 
 [119] 
 
Yea, to her summit bid us aim, 
 
 Where never yet the breath of passion came. 
 
 To her sure guidance bolder strides 
 The foot upon the mountain ; so it gains 
 
 That final peak whence purest glides 
 The fountain free as yet of stains ; 
 Drink there thy fill, so thirst no more remains ! 
 
 Then naught to thee is golden lure 
 That snares mankind upon a fevered quest 
 
 For that which can no more endure, 
 Than gossamer the zephyr s breast 
 Is wafting light and fickle without rest. 
 
 Doth God Apollo smile ? then write ; 
 Be peer with olden poets, take thy stand 
 
 Above our newer bards in might ; 
 But oh, dear friend, not hand in hand 
 May st hope to clasp me on that songful strand I 
 
 For I, whom whirlwinds have assailed, 
 And treachery from brave adventuring 
 
 Down to the very grime hath haled, 
 Find broken la wounded thing ! 
 My lyre beloved and my soaring wing. 
 [120] 
 
(2) 
 THE HEAVENLY PASTORAL 
 
 "D ESPLENDENT precinct of the skies, 
 ^ Fair sward of gladness neither snow 
 
 Nor parching breath of noonday tries, 
 Domain whose sacred uplands show 
 Its peace ungarnered deathlessly aglow ! 
 
 His brows in white and azure crowned 
 
 Athwart thy pastures softly wends, 
 O flock endeared, with thee around 
 
 Thy Holy Shepherd ; thee He tends 
 
 Unarmed with staff or sling where naught offends. 
 
 He leads, and happy sheep o erflow 
 
 Around Him in a loving feud, 
 Where the immortal roses blow 
 
 And verdure ever is renewed 
 
 Howe er the flock may graze, in plenitude. 
 
 And now upon the mountain ways 
 Of Bliss He guides ; now by the stream 
 
 To bathe them in His grace He strays ; 
 Now grants them banqueting agleam 
 Himself the Giver and the Gift Supreme. 
 [121] 
 
And when the orb of noon attains 
 The zenith of its fiery powers, 
 
 Amid His fondlings He remains 
 To drowse away the torrid hours 
 And cheer with voice serene the holy bowers. 
 
 He wakes the viol s melting tone, 
 
 And sweetness trembles through each soul 
 
 Unto such golden joy unknown ; 
 Enraptured then beyond control 
 It casts itself on Him, its only goal. 
 
 O Breath ! O Voice ! mightst Thou ordain 
 Some little echo for my breast 
 
 Till self-surrendering in that strain 
 
 To Thee twould be of Thee possest, 
 Love, and on Thy shoulder find its rest ! 
 
 And where thou lingerest at noon, 
 Sweet Spouse, oh, would my spirit knew ! 
 
 That breaking from this prison swoon, 
 Forever thy far flocks in view, 
 Twould stray no more, save paths Thou leadst 
 them through ! 
 
 [122] 
 
(3) 
 TO FELIPE RUIZ 
 
 r\ WERE it mine, Ruiz, to grow 
 
 The wings of heaven, and out of bondage 
 
 here, 
 
 Ascend beyond the life we know 
 Unto that outmost crystal sphere 
 Where Truth itself shines ever pure and clear ! 
 
 There portioned to my very soul 
 To witness in a light no shadow flaws 
 
 The sun and measure, part and whole 
 Of all that is, of all that was, 
 The prime beginnings, and the hidden cause ; 
 
 To know at last what sovereign hand 
 The framework of the universe made fast ; 
 
 How plumb and level it was planned, 
 How sure the anchor that was cast 
 To lodge our ponderous globe within the vast ; 
 
 The eternal pillars where of old 
 Earth was established, where the hollow bounds 
 
 Of seas were set, would I behold ; 
 What marks the waters from the ground, 
 Or hurls them surging back to their profound ; 
 [123] 
 
Wherefore the solid rock must quake, 
 Wherefore the deeps in tempest rage are stirred, 
 
 And whence the North his blasts can take ; 
 The ocean s tides, what potent word 
 Doth bid increase, and rise, and shrink unheard ; 
 
 The lordly channels of the winds, 
 What power supports in upper space ; 
 
 What mighty forge the lightnings binds ; 
 Within what hidden treasure place 
 God stores the snows ; His thunders, whence they 
 race. 
 
 Thou knowst the portents, when the air 
 Is sudden troubled mid the summer day, 
 
 How quickly darkness gathers there, 
 How from the north the blast makes way, 
 Tossing the dust to heaven in savage play, 
 
 As mid the clouds commotion dire 
 
 The darting chariot of God arrayed 
 Goes forth upon its wheels of fire 
 
 With lightning bolt and cannonade, 
 
 Till earth lies trembling, and mankind dismayed ! 
 
 Down beats the rain upon the roof ; 
 
 From off the hills the raging freshets pour ; 
 And for their labor s poor behoof, 
 [124] 
 
The hapless husbandmen deplore 
 
 The fields they tilled and planted, flooded o er. 
 
 On high beyond it all would I 
 
 Review the vast succession of the spheres, 
 The sudden conflicts of the sky, 
 
 The bland composure of the years, 
 
 The Fates, their causes, omens, hopes, and fears ; 
 
 Knowing what Power upon the stars 
 
 Hath set alight their lovely, faithful flame ; 
 
 And why the Ursine stellulars, 
 The Great and Little, with the same 
 Reluctance dip them when the oceans claim ; 
 
 Searching the eternal orb of gold 
 That is the fount of light and life, to wrest 
 
 The secret why the winters fold 
 Its beams so hurried in the west, 
 And Who, the night-long, cloaks it to His breast. 
 
 Then would I on the azure rim 
 
 Discern the unshaken mansions of content, 
 The house of treasures never dim, 
 
 The cenacles of glad ascent 
 
 Where blessed dwell the souls in wonderment ! 
 [1251 
 
(4) 
 TO OUR LADY 
 
 TTIRGIN, thou purer than the sun, 
 
 Glory of mortals, and of heaven the light, 
 Whose piteousness doth match thine high estate, 
 Unto the earth bend thy sight 
 And mark a wretched prisoner undone 
 Amid the grief and darkness of his fate, 
 And shouldst thou find no doom to mate 
 With his, nor judgment equal to the wrong 
 Wherein through guilt of others he remains, 
 With hand divinely strong, 
 O Queen of Heaven, strike off the heavy chains ! 
 
 Virgin, to whose predestined breast 
 The Godhead came and found a pure repose, 
 Wherein thy sorrows to thy raptures turned, 
 If meekly thou didst take the blows, 
 So now a breast serene canst manifest 
 From out the cloud-topped glories thou hast earned ; 
 Show forth the brows where love hath yearned, 
 The boast of heaven as well the adored of earth ; 
 Put by the mists and let the day shine clear ; 
 Thy dawning, Lady of high worth, 
 Shall put to flight my gloom and blindness here. 
 [126] 
 
Virgin and Mother joined in one, 
 
 Who bore thine own Creator as thy Child, 
 
 Thou at whose bosom Hope itself took flower, 
 
 Behold how sorrow hath defiled 
 
 And heaped my burthens till I lag undone ; 
 
 Abroad stalks hatred ; friendship sleeps the hour ; 
 
 If thou assert no more the power 
 
 Of Truth and Justice that took birth of thee, 
 
 What other shelter is there left secure ? 
 
 Yet thou art Mother turn and see, 
 
 And all is well with that which I endure. 
 
 Virgin, whose garment is the sun, 
 
 Whose brows are royal with eternal stars, 
 
 Whose foot sublime doth tread the crescent moon, 
 
 Lo, venomed envy mars, 
 
 And lures that mock, and webs of slander spun, 
 
 Unsparing hate, and lawless might are soon 
 
 Conspired to waste my every boon ! 
 
 To meet their horde accursed what avail 
 
 Such weak and meagre weapons as are mine, 
 
 If calling thee, O Mary, fail 
 
 To enlist thine aid amid tho strife malign? 
 
 Virgin, who triumphant bore 
 The raging serpent down to weep his loss, 
 His doom eternal, and defeated greed, 
 [127] 
 
Secure, full many gaze across 
 The river rushing by their placid shore 
 Where I am gasping out amid my need ; 
 Some well content to see the deed ; 
 Affrighted some ; no more can pity there 
 But raise afar his fruitless voice of woe, 
 Whilst I, mine eyes in tearful prayer 
 To thee, go floundering in the undertow. 
 
 Virgin, unto the Father spoused, 
 
 Sweet Mother to the Son, thou temple shrine 
 
 Of Love s immortal Spirit, thou shield of man, 
 
 Disasters haunt these eyes of mine, 
 
 For if I stay I am with dangers housed ; 
 
 To go means peril ; fate each step doth ban ; 
 
 No pity knows the hostile clan ; 
 
 Truth is stripped bare, and falsehood panoplied 
 
 With steel and weapons, till in misery 
 
 My life is to despair decreed 
 
 Save that I turn me with a sigh to thee. 
 
 Virgin, who at God s high behest 
 Returned assent as humble as entire, 
 Thou whom the heavens are gladdened to behold, 
 I am as target to their ire, 
 
 My shoulders bound, mine eyes of sight distressed, 
 With arrows hurtling on me hundredfold 
 [128] 
 
That aim to wreak me ills untold ; 
 
 I feel the wound though he that gives it hide, 
 
 From flight shut off, my hand without a shield 
 
 Thy Sovereign Child who ne er denied 
 
 His loving Mother my relief will yield. 
 
 Virgin, thou morning star benign 
 
 Across the sea of tempests shining down 
 
 With light of guidance so the winds are stilled, 
 
 The thousand billows are conspired to drown 
 
 A bark dismantled mid the gulfing brine 
 
 Without a ballast, sail, or oar, but spilled 
 
 And tossed as every whirlpool willed ; 
 
 The night comes down ; the airs with thunder quake ; 
 
 Now rearing gainst the skies, now plunging low, 
 
 The yards and tackle groan and break, 
 
 Help ! ere we strike upon the rock of woe ! 
 
 Virgin, unblemished with the stain 
 That is the common doom of humankind 
 Since that first disobedience was wrought, 
 Full well thou knowest how my hopes reclined 
 On thee from earliest days ; though sin hath ta en 
 My claim and left my erring life with naught 
 Deserving of thy saving thought ; 
 Yet be thy clemency so nobly shown 
 Till increase of its blessing shall extend 
 [129] 
 
To match the measure of my moan ; 
 
 The less my merit, thine the more amend ! 
 
 Virgin, the crush of sorrowing 
 Distrains my tongue ; the voice of my desire 
 No more can speak aloud its humble plea ; 
 Yet hearken thou the anguish dire 
 My soul unceasing opens unto thee ! 
 
 Printed in the United States of America. 
 
 [130] 
 
T 
 
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 large and discriminating following. 
 
 Rivers to the Sea 
 
 BY SARA TEASDALE 
 
 Cloth, I2mo 
 
 The author of this book is widely known, and favor 
 ably, through her contributions to the magazines, and 
 the publication of the present collection of poems will 
 be welcomed by all lovers of literature. The volume 
 opens with a sequence of love lyrics which, taken to 
 gether, unfold an interesting romance. Each lyric is 
 complete in itself and possesses a quaint simplicity and 
 human quality. Following the love lyrics come poems 
 on scattering themes and the work closes with a trilogy 
 called " Sapho." 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 
 
The Complete Poetical Works of 
 Robert Browning 
 
 New Globe Edition, with additional poems first published in 1914 
 
 Cloth, I2tno, $1.75; Leather, $3.30 
 
 There have been added to this standard edition of Browning s works those new 
 poems which were first published in a separate volume in 1914, together with a 
 number of other poems not hitherto included, as well as an introduction by Sir 
 Frederic G. Kenyon on the Browning Manuscripts and Robert Browning s An 
 swers to Questions Concerning Some of His Poems. These additions make this 
 the most complete and authoritative edition of Browning s writings ever published. 
 
 Six French Poets 
 
 BY AMY LOWELL 
 
 Author of " Sword Blades and Poppy Seed," " A Dome of Many-Col 
 oured Glass," etc. 
 
 Cloth, i2mo 
 
 Here Miss Lowell in a series of biographical and critical essays deals with 
 Emile Verhaeren, Albert Samain, Remy de Gourmont, Henri de Regnier, Fran 
 cis Jammes, and Paul Fort. This is the first English book to contain a minute 
 and careful study of these famous writers, who belong to the generation immedi 
 ately succeeding that of Verlaine and Mallarme". It is being realized by students 
 that the epoch just passing away in France has been one of the greatest poetical 
 epochs in French history. Six French Poets is a brilliant series of studies of 
 the principal poets of this period, themselves, their work, and their relations to 
 their times. Each essay is preceded by a portrait and facsimile signature, and is 
 illustrated by a number of poems in the original French, with translations in an 
 appendix. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 
 
NEW MACMILLAN PLAYS 
 
 The Life of Man 
 
 A Play in Five Acts. 
 BY LEONID ANDREYEV 
 
 Author of " Anathema," etc. 
 
 Cloth, ismo, $1.25 
 
 This powerful play by one of the most prominent of the modern school 
 of dramatists should be read by all who desire to keep pace with the spirit 
 and tendencies of present-day art and literature in Russia. For here is 
 truly displayed Andreyev s genius in the most characteristic manner. The 
 Life of Man has been translated by J. G. Hogarth. 
 
 The Porcupine 
 
 BY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON 
 
 Author of " Van Zorn," " Captain Craig," etc. 
 
 Cloth, J2mo, $1.25 
 
 In manner and technique this three-act drama "recalls some of the work 
 of Ibsen. Written adroitly and with the literary cleverness exhibited in Van 
 Zorn, it tells a story of a domestic entanglement in a dramatic fashion well 
 calculated to hold the reader s attention. 
 
 The Faithful 
 
 BY JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
 Author of " The Tragedy of Pompey the Great," " Philip 
 the King," etc. 
 
 Cloth, I2mo 
 
 Mr. Masefield s contributions to dramatic literature are held in quite as 
 high esteem by his admirers as his narrative poems. In The Faithful, his 
 new play, he is at his best. It is described as a powerful piece of writing, 
 vivid in characterization and gripping in theme. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New Tork 
 
IMPORTANT NEW WORKS 
 
 John M. Synge 
 
 A Few Personal Recollections with Biographical Notes 
 BY JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
 Author of " The Everlasting Mercy," etc. 
 
 With frontispiece. Boards, I2mo 
 Edition limited to 500 numbered copies, $1.00 
 
 An interesting little book is this in which one of the most distin 
 guished poets of the day gives his impressions of Synge. The matter 
 is very intimate in nature, narrating Mr. Masefield s relations with 
 the Irish writer, reproducing conversations with him and throwing 
 in this personal way new light on the character and genius of the 
 man. 
 
 The Art of the Moving Picture 
 
 BY VACHEL LINDSAY 
 
 Author of " The Congo and Other Poems," etc. 
 
 Cloth, i2mo, $T.^O 
 
 Mr. Lindsay s book is one of the first to be written in appreciation 
 of the moving picture. His purpose is to show how to classify and 
 judge the better films. He describes the types of photo plays, dis 
 cusses the likeness of the motion picture to the old Egyptian picture 
 writing, summarizes the one hundred main points of difference be 
 tween the legitimate drama and the film drama, indicates that the 
 best censorship is a public sense of beauty and takes up the value of 
 scientific films, news films, educational and political films. The 
 volume closes with some sociological observations on the conquest 
 of the motion picture, which he regards as a force as revolutionary 
 as was the invention of printing. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 
 
THE MACMILLAN MODERN POETS 
 
 Each volume leather, 12mo, $1.50 
 
 The Story of a Roundhouse. By JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
 The Faithful. By JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
 The Tragedy of Pompey the Great. By JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
 Philip the King and Other Poems. By JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
 A Mainsail Haul. By JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
 The Daffodil Fields. By JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
 The Everlasting Mercy. By JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
 Salt Water Ballads. By JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
 Spoon River Anthology. By EDGAR LEE MASTERS 
 
 The Congo and Other Poems. By VACHEL LINDSAY 
 
 Crack Dawn. By FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS 
 
 Fires. By WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 
 
 Daily Bread. By WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 
 
 Womenkind. By WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 
 
 Poems. By ALFRED No YES 
 
 Vision of War. By LINCOLN COLCORD 
 
 Rivers to the Sea. By SARA TEASDALE 
 
 The Pilgrim Kings. By THOMAS WALSH 
 
 The Song of Hugh Glass. By JOHN G. NEIHARDT 
 
 The work of the more popular of the modern poets is now 
 to be available in attractive leather bindings. A number of 
 the books included in the series are new publications this year 
 "Rivers to the Sea," "The Pilgrim Kings," "Vision of 
 War," " Crack O Dawn," " The Song of Hugh Glass," " The 
 Faithful," and " Spoon River Anthology," for example but 
 whether new or old they are all the work of established authors 
 warranting preservation in this more elaborate form. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 
 
*STTY OF CALF 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 AN INITIAL PINE OF 25 CENTS 
 
 WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN 
 THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY 
 WILL INCREASE TO SO CENTS ON THE FOURTH 
 DAY AND TO $1.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY 
 OVERDUE. 
 
 19 
 
 LD 21-100m-7, i 
 
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 MAR 14 
 M/4K 19 : 
 
 
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 $30 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY