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V k' THE PRISON SHIPS AND OTHER POEMS THE PRISON SHIPS AND OTHER POEMS BY THOMAS WALSH BOSTON SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 1909 Copyright, 1909 SHERMAN, FRENCH &* COMPANY Certain numbers in the present collection are reprinted through the courtesy of the Editors of Ainslee's, The Atlantic, The Ave Maria, The Bookman, The Century, The Cosmopolitan, The Critic, Every- body's, The Forum, Harper's, The Inde- pendent, Lippincott's, The Messenger, Munsey's, The Reader, The Smart Set, and Scribner's Magazine. 43540.1 CONTENTS PAGE THE PRISON SHIPS .13 AD ASTRA 20 THE BLIND .21 EXPIATION ( . 22 ENDLESS SPRING .23 JOHN MILTON 24 SEAGULLS IN NEW YORK HARBOR ... 25 DIVINATION 27 THE EPITAPH OF A BUTTERFLY .... 28 AT NAZARETH 29 SNOW FUGUE 31 INVOCATION OF THE BUTTERFLIES . . 32 ON LAKE TRASIMENO 33 THE HILL PEOPLE 35 THE HEART OF THE ROSE 36 DAYBREAK 37 CHARLES WARREN STODDARD .... 38 LITTLE PATHWAYS 39 VIGILIA 41 BLACK JOHN'S WAY 42 WHERE DREAMS GO BY 43 WORLD RUNES 44 GETTYSBURG 46 DIS PLACIDIS 48 ON A NIGHTINGALE AT AMALFI .... 49 FROM AVIGNON TO TARASCON 50 ON THE VERANDA .... 52 PAGE ALHAMBRA SONG 53 IN A FRIEND'S GUIDE-BOOK 54 LARGESSES 55 ON A GATE-STONE AT GRANADA .... 56 THE CHANOINESSE 59 THE UHLAN 61 PENITENTS . 62 IN MEMORY'S GARDEN 64 SONGS 65 STAR-TRYSTS 66 IN THE TWILIGHT OF LOVE 67 THE VOICE 68 THE HAIL 70 DREAM ELOQUENCE 71 A SIGH FROM ALHAMBRA 19 IN THE HOUSE OF AUGUSTUS 73 IN THE CLOISTER OF SAN JUAN .... 77 THE LEVANTINE 80 AFTERGLOW 81 THE HOURS S2 RUSSIAN SPRINGSONG AFTER MINAIEV . 84 ON THE PIAZZA DI SPAGNA, ROMfl . . 85 MATINS 87 GROVER CLEVELAND 88 WITH THE SHEPHERDS 89 NO SPRING TILL NOW 91 A GARDEN PRAYER 93 THE NOEL OF ST. ELOI 97 NIGHT IN THE SUBURBS 99 RAVELLO . . 101 PAGE SEVILLANA 104 TO FRANCIS THOMSON 106 THE CATHEDRAL, BURGOS,1006 107 THE TARDY SPRING . 109 THE POOL OF THE HAZELS 110 NOEL OF STE. ANNE DE CHICOUTIMI, QUEBEC ... HI A PANEL AFTER TURNER 113 TO AN ENGLISH SETTER 114 HOW LIKE THE ROSE . 115 AD MATREM CATHERINE FARRELL WALSH IN DEDICATION THE PRISON SHIPS ODE READ AT THE DEDICATORY EXERCISES OP THE PRISON-SHIP MARTYRS' MONUMENT ON FORT GREENE, WASHINGTON PARK, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 14, 1908. NOT here the frenzied onslaught here no roar Of victory no raucous cry of hate From the red surge of war ; Here crowd no Caesar's myrmidons of state Lest for some hasty-fading laurels he be late And night annul his place ; But solemn is the tread of feet that come Around this hallowed mount with drum Concordant with the clarion Of youthful hearts that throb for deeds sub- lime Here where no stain can e'er deface This columned beauty out of Parthenon, This glory surging pure beyond the clouds of Time. Here on our fortress hill Where Freedom's gathering vanguards took their stand, O sacred relics ! how serene ye lay, How patient for this day Whose rites we now fulfill! Thousands of dusks and dawns have trembled on These portals of your tomb ; Ye heard the tread of discord shake the land, The trumpetings of doom ; Yea, through your sleep ye knew the orphan's cry, The broken hearts' far clamoring, And the pale heroes plucking deathless wreaths From fields o'ershadowed by the buzzard's wing ! Oh, in what direful school Learned ye the iron rigor of the mind Your memory bequeaths? Was it in plague and famine ye did find Such right divine to rule Such hope in God and man that double stay Of commonwealths to-day? For here, the sponsors for all ages, Ye gave as solemn gages Not blood alone But very flesh and bone ! Nor pledged ye only for the strong and brave, But for the generations yet unborn By every strand remote that greets the morn, For the pale despot shackled to his throne As for the serf and slave. O stalworth dreamers in the dust, That God who took your young hearts' trust, Your pangs, the issue of your patriot cause, Still sways the stars and souls of men [14] With th' ancient seals and laws ; Nor did He turn and mock your anguish when Ye cried His password through eternity And died in fetters so ye might be free. O martyrdom of hope ! to lie In youth and strength and die 'Mid rotting hulks that once by every sea And star swung carelessly To die becalmed in war's black hell, Where in the noon's wide blaze your hearts could soar With gull and eagle by each cherished shore Of home where ye had sworn to dwell The fathers of the free. Doom like to this the Lydian victim bore Who clutched at feasts divine only to starve the more. Well might the blue skies and the breeze Which once perchance swept Delphi o'er, Well might the star-eyes question : " What arc these Heaped holocausts on Freedom's shrine? Not even the dullard ox unto our altars led Of old, but walked 'mid reverent throng Anoint and garlanded ! What rite of hate or scorn of law divine Strikes down its victims here With not a funeral song Nor poor libation of a tear? w [ 15] To-day give answer ye, who 'mid the battle's roar Have known the rapture of a patriot's death, Ye, who have seen the aureole trembling o'er Your brows as anguish clutched at Life's fond breath, Blessed and radiant now ! look down In consecration of the solemn deed Which here commemorates this iron breed Of martyrs nameless in the clay As the true heroes of our newer day World-heroes patterned not on king and demi-god Of charioted splendor or of crown Blood-crusted but on toilers in the sod, On reapers of the sea, on lovers of mankind, Whose bruised shoulders bear The lumbering wain of progress all who share The crust and sorrows of our mortal lot Lamps of the soul The Christ hath left behind To light the path whereon He faltered not. Yea, now the boom of guns, The scarlet bugles, faint from off the world ! Lo, o'er the loftier brows of man, unfurled The purer banners of the dawning suns ! Banners of God in godlike minds of hope Of faith, to daunt the crafty hordes of greed, The venomed remnant of the dragon's seed [ 16] Along the gutters of the world ! No more men grope Up Life's black chasms but free they swing along Their spacious levels in the noon's full flow'r And strike to earth the barricades of wrong. They have torn down the tyrants of an hour, Think not that they shall hear the deeps of shame Foredoom them likewise with the despot's name ; Nor doubt this glorious vessel of our state, This visioned bark, whereof in martyr dreams From death's grim hulks they caught the hal- yard gleams, No feud can seize it, nor the grip of hate Turn back its prow into the slime For scorn to overwhelm With name so cursed on the lips of Time As " prison-ship " for men who would be free ! High God, Thy hand was on another helm When every tide and breeze Brought the hope-lighted argosies From out the ports of hunger and of wrong ! And Thou alone hast number kept Of that indomitable throng Who gained this harbor portal, From out their house of bondage crept And sought the north, the south, the west, [ 17 ] Armies of thrift and faith with hearts that blessed These graves immortal! To-day from far their Freedom-lighted brows Turn hither musing on their happy prows That met the tides of sacred waters here And touched a lustral shore whose shrines unto the skies uprear. And ye, O sailors faring buoyant forth, Bear ye the tidings of this joy-swept main Where round the coasts of Celt or Dane Ye brave the sleet-mouthed north Or track the moon on some Sicilian wave Or lonely cape of Spain ; Take ye the story of these comrades true Whose prison hulks sank here Where now such tides of men are poured As never surged o'er crag or fiord To stay the gulls with fear Who yet such quest of glory knew As never Argonaut of old Seeking the shores of gold As never knight from wound and vigil pale Tracing o'er sunset worlds his Holy Graal ! And lo ! to all the seas a pharos set In sign memorial! Through the glooms of Time 'Twill teach a sacrifice of self, sublime [18] O'er lash of storms as through corroding calms. Nor e'er alone shall shine Its love-bright parapet; But every star shall bring a golden alms ; The seething harbor line Glow 'neath its star-fed hives, its swing and flare Of Bridges ; while with pilgrim lamps from sea Shall grope the dreadnought fleets ; while end- less prayer Of dawns and sunsets floods the faces far Uplifted, tear-stained, to this Martyr shrine, Whose sister torch shall greet what Liberty Holds back to God, earth's brightest answer- ing star. [ 19] AD ASTRA LOVE, you are late, Yea, while the rose leaves fall In showers against the moonlit garden-wall, My firm hand bars the gate. The nightingale Has worn himself with pleading ; The fountains' silvered tears are interceding, But what is their avail? Love, you are frfr late, Long stood the postern wide With all my morning-glories twined; inside Bird called to bird for mate. Noon and the sun, The loves of bees and flow'rs ; With folded hands unclaimed I marked the hours That saw my youth undone. Then evening star And coming of the moon ! Ah, not too soon, my soul, ah, not too soon Broke their soft grace afar ! All consecrate, I chose my white path there, And took the withered roses from my hair. Love, you are f$flate, too late ! [ 20] THE BLIND AT midnight, through my dream, the signals dread From star to star, brought word the sun was dead. It seemed as though 1 entire creation heard Yet gave no answer, neither call of bird Nor low of cattle ; but the townsfolk crept In silence to their roof-tops. No man slept, But merchant, bondman, prince and scribe and priest, Their faces haggard, searched the fateful East. Down from the hillsides to the city gates No market wains came rumbling with their freights ; No sentry's voice along the citadel Announced the hour ; no matin peal or knell From dome or campanile; not a sail Stirred in the harbor offing ! Then a wail Despairing swept across the roofs, a sigh O'er land and sea, as slowly on the sky The sun's black bulk between the stars uprose One sigh of astral grief, and at its close Came silence once again more terrible ! 'Twas then, methought, a new-born infant cried ; And where the gates stood open gaunt and wide A blind man crouched and stretched his empty palms Into the darkness and moaned, " Alms ! Alms ! " [21 1 EXPIATION EARTH o'er her plains and mountains ha unrolled A royal carpet all of red and gold Whereon November on his exiled way Like some doomed sultan may bow down and pray. [23] ENDLESS SPRING fTlHERE comes a whisper through my heart A As night o'ertakes me on my way Where I would hold my cares apart And mourn the long autumnal day ; The paths I love await the snows, The boughs are bare of song and wing, Yet through my heart the whisper goes That somewhere somewhere there is spring. I care not whether near or far, I know through other lands it goes With drift of blossom, glint of star, And old-time message of the rose. I cannot ask that it should stay Lest hearts afar lack comforting ; Enough for me to know alway That somewhere somewhere there is spring. Beloved O where'er you be For whom my thoughts are caroling O answer, heart to heart, with me That somewhere somewhere there is spring. JOHN MILTON 1608 DECEMBER 1908 WHAT other tread is on Olympus now O vacant winds O hollow valleys where Of yore the Graces roved! What sightless stare Now awes the peaks that hailed blind Homer's brow ! " Great Pan is dead " so every crag and bough Bemoaned ; " Zeus, vanished from his high repair Apollo's darts unstrung ! " What foot hath there Dispersed that avalanche of gods but thou Who strode concurrent with the angel throng Of Sinai and of Tabor as the choirs Of Bethlehem hill caught up the scattered lyres And heaven's Far-Darting bow was made a Cross. O Milton, still doth thine epochal song Sound from life's peaks upon the vales of dross. SEAGULLS IN NEW YORK HARBOR WINGS of the north that speak of Viking days, What winter madness yearly brings you here To toss and scream upon the harbor ways Between the prows that whiten far and near! Yon seething heights and canons but deride The crags that nursed you in the isle'd sea ; Yon roar of human traffic speaks of tide More terrible than theirs and bids you flee. For soon no eye shall mark you, and the day Be swiftly heaped into the furnace west, That tranquil hour your northern sisters stay Their briny flights and wait you at the nest. Then through the vasty reaches of the night Shall vice and virtue range in ancient game Upon one living checkerboard of light ; Where bridges raise their diadems of flame. Yea, never waking in their midnight caves Your kindred find such splendor on the seas When the white hermit, North, his pennons waves ; Yea, never dream of witcheries like these. Think you that at the dawn the fiery eyes Which guard yon outposts shall be closed in sleep? That mid yon realm of gathering shadows lies Some eyrie like your old ones on the deep ? Nay, though the midnight hush the sullen streams That gloat like misers o'er the rests of light, Think not to find your haven here for dreams, But to the sea, O winter wings, take flight. [26] DIVINATION WHAT glory waits upon the rose Where light of more than earth delays? Some lineage of heaven betrays Itself, I know, in tint and pose. A starlight through the day it throws, Yea, all my nights are faint to praise What glory waits upon the rose. The spells I seek no wizard knows, No Mage for all his parchment says, But, Sweetheart, something in thy gaze And something on thy lips disclose What glory waits upon the rose. [27] THE EPITAPH OF A BUTTERFLY AS one by one she saw the leaves of red And yellow wafted slowly to the ground, Hope buoyed her heavy wings of flame and said That 'mong them still some comrade might be found. But when o'er all the autumn hills a pall Of gold was drawn before her glazing eye, Yon mirrored pool made ready for her fall A grave as lovely as her native sky. [ 28] AT NAZARETH BEYOND the blackened embers of the earth The west withdraws the sinking flames of day; So ends the seventh annual of My birth And see a star, to taunt our brazier gray! Dost thou remember how at hours like these Nay, mother, I was not too young to know Thou wouldst go meekly down upon thy knees And opening wide our rustic coffer, show The Magi's offerings fondly treasured there: The golden casket with its store of stones And coins and amulets and ciphers rare ; The incense lamps, the myrrh's be jeweled cones With wondrous hieroglyphs engraven o'er. These wouldst thou lift into My baby hands Until My breast and arms could hold no more ; Then wouldst thou pour the precious incense sands Upon our little fire and all the room Grew white with clouds of perfume undefiled ; Then wouldst prostrate thyself amid the gloom, Sweet mother, all alone before thy Child. To-night hast thou no incense for thy Son? [29] The night wind finds our brazier black as death? Nay, do not kneel here, here My breast upon, The stars shall show the vapor of thy breath. [80] SNOW FUGUE fTlHE moon, the mouldering moon, is out A Amid the ashes of the years, Ere with his straggling hosts in rout Day from his Moscow disappears. And hark ! the blasts' white finger beat The mountain drums in long accord Out where the cypresses entreat Green tongues that ceaseless praise the Lord. O Night that falls upon the earth, Be gracious unto them who weep ! Soothe thou the pangs of death and birth, And flood embittered hearts with sleep ! C 31] INVOCATION OF THE BUTTERFLIES PUEBLO INDIAN SONG BUTTERFLIES! Butterflies of daybreak glancing O'er the yellow fields and blue, White wing, red wing, gold wing, glanc- ing In the sun motes, whence got yoi That apparel so entrancing? O what gardens came you through, Butterflies? Golden, pollen-tousled lovers Of the corn-hearts and the sun ! Lilac-petalled tribe, that hovers Near the skies from whence it won Shimmer of the light that covers Fields afar when day is done ! Butterflies, Hither crimson-cheeked O wander From the happy lands afar, Down the rainbow pathway yonder Where the clouds of water are ! Haste the showers of pollen squander, Scatter rains from stalk and star, Butterflies ! ON LAKE TRASIMENO COLD gleam the furrow pools with shreds of day On Trasimeno's marge ; and far away The moon o'er Sanguineto's huts is seen The year's first crescent like a crown serene Upon the brow of some averted face Whose lineaments no mortal eye may trace. There unto God the orchard trees lift high Their leafless boughs like palsied hands and sigh, " We are too old, O winds of winter, spare ! " " Too old ! Too old ! " the gray hills' answer- ing pray'r ; " Have we not borne the ploughs of bronze and steel Seen proud Etruria fall, writhed 'neath the heel Of Hannibal, and drenched our thirsting loam With blood the richest in the veins of Rome ? We are too old ! The pigmy despots pass Finding our beauty sterile ; yea, the glass Of Time is emptied of its mightiest grains And no strong hand to turn it back remains. Therefore, your pity! newly gathering year Ask you no springtime, no more harvest here!" [33 ] But hush, there breathes from where the islands He Melodious remonstrance in a sigh Across the water, " O beloved shore, Art thou so soon forgetful how we bore Together here the pulse of ancient Mays When I, poor brother Francis, trod thy ways From dear Assisi, whilst the song of birds Scourged us with rapture and the south wind's words Marshalled the brotherhoods of clouds and flow'rs In white processions through the sunlit hours? Hast thou forgotten these, sweet Umbrian shore And all our Perfect Joys? Are they no more?"- Then silence falls and o'er the hills afar Drift incense flakes of blossoms such as are At Whitsuntide beneath the evening star. [34] THE HILL PEOPLE OVER the shoulders of hills where the great clouds huddle around us, With eyes half averted we gaze out afar on the plain Where trudges the infinite herd the low-hung heads that confound us Under the rose-dust haze of the canon's limit- less chain. Herd unreturning that swarms, numberless, slumberless, over Wastes in the blaze of whose noon not a shadow nor respite arrives ; Age upon age do they trudge, yet never can vision discover End to the flock and its range nor the face of the herdsman that drives. Far in the cloud-laden hills we are lulled to their treading of thunder, As under the zenith ablaze they pass without signal or word Stay ! on our throats there's a hand ! The Rancher ! His brow, O the wonder ! He drives^down through the gorge where his white steed rounds up the herd ! THE HEART OF THE ROSE WHAT are the joys of the rose? The silence of night at the shrine Where it lies in a rapture divine ; The exquisite moment it knows On the breast of a bride ; its last sighs On the lips of a poet who dies ; These are the joys of the rose. What are the griefs of the rose? To lie in the clasp of the dead While the tears of a mother are shed ; To symbol a passion that goes, To fade on bosom unkind; To perish unplucked on the wind; These are the griefs of the rose. [36] DAYBREAK T \ 7HILE low before the throne of pearl there VV bend Acclaiming seraphs in majestic throng, And whirlwinds of Laudates without end Shake God's far-shining citadels with song ; Against the half -veiled lattice of the morn A truant cherub peeps across the dark And 'neath the straggling clouds and stars out- worn, Strains his pink ear to list the rising lark. [37] CHARLES WARREN STODDARD THE POET OF THE SOUTH SEAS 1843-1909 THINE exile ended, O beloved seer, Thou turnest homeward to thine isles of light, Thy reefs of silver, and palmetto height ! Yea, down thy vales sonorous thou wouldst hear Again the cataracts that white and clear Called from young days oh, with what lov- ing might ! That from our arms and this embattled night Thou break'st away and leav'st us weeping here. Vain the laudation ! What are crowns and praise To thee whom Youth anointed on the eyes? We have but known the lesser heart of thee Whose spirit bloomed in lilies down the ways Of Padua ; whose voice perpetual sighs On Molokai in tides of melody. [ 38] LITTLE PATHWAYS NOT by the highways and the streets, dear friend, Where kings and merchants and their minions wend, But by the little pathways let us go Lone ways that only humble footsteps know. No dawdling feet upon the world's parade Made yonder tracks that wind across the glade Where slyly from the flooded haunts of men Life trickles back into the wilds again. See, here anon and there the ways divide Some to the brook and some to the pasture side, Glancing sweet invitation as they turn To draw us with them through the beds of fern. For each though lowly in its crude design Leads somewhere somewhere, mystery benign ; And where the trail seems beaten hard and brown Perchance the woodsmen turn from out the town; And where yon slender course but seems to stray Some meadow lies or else the secret way A timid lover hastens to his sweet. Ah, look, another half o'er-grown we meet, But still memorial of old travellers. 'Twas death, perchance, or fault, alas, of hers. If now the grass has crept its footprints o'er ; Perchance it led to home a home no more. [ 89] 'Tis ours, old friend, to treasure signs like these Wherein are written rarer histories Than chronicles of kings and empires tell ; For on the scrolling of the hill and dell Life with a finger delicate and sure Sets for our eyes its heart's own signature. Soft to these hollow footways steal the leaves When autumn turns to threaten; winter heaves His warning breath of snowflakes earliest here ; Each in its little pulse reports the year. Here when the golden dulcimers of spring Strike to the forest chords' awakening, Here are the primal leaf and grasses stirred In answer with Amens of brook and bird. Thus sweetly intimate with tender moods Our pathways greet us from the solitudes ; Here from the past such fond reminders flow As bid the future its vast claims forego, Though by yon paths that by the thicket wind The scythe of Time may other harvest find, Though Life exult as in its proudest veins And Empire course, where now are mountain rains. [40 ] VIGILIA STILL let me dream of her, O winds of summer tangling rose and star ! Night, let your witcheries but minister New harmonies to echo her afar ! Still let me dream of her, Though e'en at noon Fame's banners white be furled ; Though joy and laughter cease, the little purr Of cities and the frothing of the world ! Though trumpets rend my ears With Titan strife of passions, though the hours Crush me like chariot wheels, the gathering years Beat all earth's weeping on my head in show'rs ! Yea, though Life fall away Into a shadowy haunt of things that were, Though Night be heaped in chaos on the Day, Still let me dream, still let me dream of her ! [41 ] BLACK JOHN'S WAY THERE came a Merry-man down the lane (Heigh-ho and a linkum-laddie) And tapped with his bells at the ale-house pane Whilst under the hill stole a sail from Spain. (Fol-de-rol and a f ol-de-raddy .) Never came sound or a torch to light (Heigh-ho and a linkum-laddie) Black- John the Papist's house that night ; But the dawn heard spurs and the gallop of flight (Fol-de-rol and a f ol-de-raddy). By Saint Cuthbert's Well Nat Tinker dreamed (Heigh-ho and a linkum-laddie) That a shaven pate 'neath the torches gleamed As a bride Black- John's fair daughter screamed. (Fol-de-rol and a f ol-de-raddy. ) There's Spanish gold in the holy well, (Heigh-ho and a linkum-laddie) There's a Roundhead youth has cursed its spell! There's a cheek like snow at the court of Spain, But never a Merry-man down the lane. (Fol-de-rol and a f ol-de-raddy .) [42] WHERE DREAMS GO BY OVER the hill there's a roadway turns Through the fields of barley, wheat and hay; The moonlight paves it, the noontide burns, The clouds trail over it all the day. It is the road where my dreams go by O'er velvet thresholds to the dawns ; It tells me where the hamlets lie, The silver spires, the pasture lawns. " Put by," it signs me, "your cloak of care, And think no more on the old worlds gone ; Here are ;0)e Hesperides more fair, Here lovelier vales than Avalon ! " [43] WORLD RUNES HOAR are the cloud-peaks when the day is done In druid conclave round the mystic sun ; Night's silver eloquence of star and moon, The tides, the seasons, and the winds in tune, Would, were their vast significance not vain, Solve the enigma of our joys and pain With words majestical as those the trees Heave from their breasts unburthened by the breeze. Ah, 'tis not utterance of theirs at fault ! Hath not the earth, and earths that star the vault, A kindred language ? This the heart of man Instinctive fathomed when his race began, Though now with soul left fallow, and grown cold, No more interprets he those voices old. Not so when down Cumsea's mountain ways The leaves were scattered for the Sybil's gaze ; Not when the wizards on the isles of old Bartered the fair winds for the Vikings' gold. Deem you that secret perished? Nay, though worn With bearing fruitless message, night and morn Old Earth, as one in mortal travail, cries For hearts to take her wisdom ere it dies. [ 44] Thus when by night beneath some harvest moon Her vales seem gathered in ecstatic swoon Of mystery and sadness ; when the wind Trumpets the morning; or the heavens are signed For battle, fain again would she essay The ancient word that holds our souls at bay ; Her lips eternal, anguished, seem to part Ah, is it only silence fills our heart? [45] GETTYSBURG WHO sleep at Gettysburg sleep well ; A peace beyond the dreams of glory Laps them in sunshine where they fell. The very winds that croon them tell Of hatreds like a drowsy story ; Blue look the skies on where they dwelL Ah, blanched with peace are Blue and Gray Who come to tread these uplands slowly Lest in the merest piece of clay That holds a flower or lines the way, Some vestige of a heart-pulse holy Some comrade's heart be stirred to-day. But of that myriad host, ah, where Are they the young, the loved, th' un- daunted, The warring brothers marshalled there, Defiance in their seraph air, Their eyes with death's white beauty haunted, Their hands to do, their souls to dare? Hush, song ; among these storied flow'rs, These pallid shafts and waving grasses, Wake not such little plaint as ours ; See with what calmness nature dow'rs The silence of these meadow passes In chastened sunlight, softened show'rs. [ 46] Not here their sole memorials But where th' eternal rainbow quivers Athwart the rush of waterfalls ; By gleam of lakes and canon walls, By north and southland swirl of rivers, Where eagle wings or bittern calls. DIS PLACIDIS T PRAY the gods to spare me JL From this dire love of mine Whose sorrows rend and tear me, Whose joys are poisoned wine ! Yea, gods, take back your pleasures, Take back your gifts divine, And from your hearts' own treasures Grant peace at last to mine ! [48] ON A NIGHTINGALE AT AMALFI THERE'S an old, old tree of the orchard hangs over the cliff in the moonlight Where now is a nightingale come to sob, and sob, to the breeze ; All the sorrows of proud, lost worlds seem voiced in that desolate bosom, With a cry to my heart that has turned from the young world over the seas To clamor alone of its griefs boyish griefs that are naught to these. O ye who sang through the ages poets of Araby, Athens, And Rome, were ye deadened to woe, were your bosoms so strong, Vast hearts, that ye hearkened this voicing of youth and of sacrifice thwarted, Of loves into mockery fallen, of shrines where no suppliants throng, Of empires and cities in briars and ashes, and called it a song ! [49] FROM AVIGNON TO TARASCON FROM Avignon to Tarascon Psalms have died away in laughter ; Spire, and turret, and donjon Echo but some rigadon Careless of the Great Hereafter. Never more reflects the river Tonsured head or plumed one, Pope and monk and prince are gone, Troubadour and hearty-liver From Avignon to Tarascon. Yet to-day the Rhone goes singing Quite as though no Papal John With his huntsmen's clarion Ever set its woodlands ringing ; Quite as though no rogue in iron Jousted here, nor amazon In severity or fun Proved half -deaconess, half siren, From Avignon to Tarascon. Sun and vineyard still betray man Chateau-Neuf's red juices run Brigand still is Cupidon To many a lass and godless layman From Avignon to Tarascon. Ah what rosy sacrileges, [50] Broken vows, we've left upon Lips like Jeanne's or Marthe- Yvonne ! Floating past the blossom hedges From Avignon to Tarascon ! ON THE VERANDA ON the veranda while the waning moon Flooded the vineyards and the glens of June, We gathered, singing softly in the shade The sighful branches of the trellis made. The elders listened silent as our song Passed from each well-loved melody along : Through sweet plantation tunes, and hymns of war, And simple glees and ballads loved of yore. They sat apart, their thoughts upon the days And voices silenced while the moon's pale rays Transformed the orchard to a dreamlike place Hung round with light and shadow as with lace. And when the youthful chorus wearied grew And to the house they pensively withdrew, There in the shelter of the silvered vine My fingers taking courage stole to thine. [52] ALHAMBRA SONG WOULDST thou be comrade to the rose, Yet of the thorns complain? Wouldst pine for rarer pearls than those The diver seeks where Aden flows, Yet fear to tempt the main ? See where upon the twilight hills Zuleika's lamp awakes ; There's not a nightingale that thrills These vales with song so sweet as fills The heart that sings and breaks. Yet should thy panting lips refuse In love's fond lists to vie With nightingale, thou else must choose Within yon lamp thyself to lose A moth and give no sigh. [58] IN A FRIEND'S GUIDE-BOOK A FLOWER of Spain a yellow rose of Se- ville That graced of old some gypsey's lustrous hair The spoil, I fancy, which the lucky devil Bore off in memory of his folly there. A flower of Spain some gracious senorita Has thrown at carnival amid the ball Or bashful token of some Mariquita With fan, mantilla, and embroidered shawl. A flower of Spain ah, not his last memento Of Moorish gardens seen by honeymoon Left in his guide-book indiscreetly lent to Another tourist in the month of June ? A flower of Spain yes, Time prepares to blot it To rust and ashes, all its fragrance flown ! 'Tis evident the rascal has forgot it But I shall add some others of my own. [54 ] LARGESSES WHAT silver largesses are these That scatter from the almond trees,- O beggars, cease your mirth, and say What little bride hath passed the way? " 'Tis April, April," they replied, " The villagers have hailed as bride, Whose silver largess glads us more Than aU the Autumn's golden store." ON A GATE-STONE AT GRANADA TT ERE stood the little garden where J. J. Of old when joy was mine, Over her cheeks' two roses rare Her eyes, twain stars, would shine. They say her beauty flaunts its flower Within the courts of kings afar ; But see how thorns enmesh the bower, And never comes a star ! [56] TO ED. AND EMMA THE CHANOINESSE WITH vinaigrette, and purple robe, and fan, Madame Mathilde would take the morning air; Adown the formal paths her old sedan Goes gravely moving round the bright par- terre, By gravelled walk and grotto, with their gleam Of marble nymph and satyr, row on row ; By storied oak, cascade, and glen, that seem The shepherd haunts of Boucher and Wat- teau. Her faithful Jacques and Joseph, as of yore, Go drowsing with her chair ; they too can see The vision of old days alas, no more That steals her from her jewelled rosary. 'Tis fair Versailles she sees, the masques, the plays, Pavanes and minuets ; she hears beguiled The horns of St.-Germain's far hunting-days When beauty crowned her, when Great Louis smiled. [ 59] And hark, another horn ! Before her eyes There comes her lover scarcely more than boy ; She sees him pass in proud and martial guise ; Her dry eyes melt, she weeps o'er Fontenoy. Bright days of conquest, bitter memories That break her spirit ! till the old command Lights in her eyes, as down the path she sees Her dear cure approaching hat in hand. [60] THE UHLAN YOUNG Hugo's an Uhlan, An Uhlan so fine; His horse is the Kaiser's, But Hugo is mine. To the cry of the clarion rides he away ; 'Tis with softest of whispers I make him obey. Though sunlight flash bravely from sabre and lance, I feel that he trembles in meeting my glance. But fearless in battle my Hugo can be ; As fierce as the f oeman, as tender to me. Ay, flutter light pennon away to the strife ; On my tiniest finger I balance his life. For Hugo's an Uhlan, An Uhlan so fine; His horse is the Kaiser's, But Hugo is mine. [61 ] PENITENTS WHITE -fingers tapping on the pane Through all the ghostly day, White faces down the orchard lane Where gusts and snowdrifts play, My heart would hear the message* Your lips are fain to say! We are the myriads whom men Have loved from olden time ; The spectre train of Magdalen Through every age and clime, The winds of fate are tossing us Before their scorn sublime. By times upon the lonely wastes Where trail the city lights, We taunt the traveller as he hastes Across the troubled nights; Or 'neath the moon we nestle down On some cathedral's heights. The mountains know our coming well Far pilgrimage to make ; The salt seas scourge us with their swell ; The winds our wild prayers take ; The sunlight and the starlight strive Our fevered hearts to slake. [ 62 ] Till when upon our calmed souls The peace of mountains creeps, Our trembling sisterhood unrolls Into the valley deeps, And clusters 'mong the thatch and vines Where some pure maiden sleeps. White pilgrims down the orchard lane, See, night comes on apace; And one far casement lights the plain From my love's dwelling-place. Oh, grant her there, when comes the moon, Your silvery embrace. IN MEMORY'S GARDEN THERE is a garden in the twilight lands Of Memory, where troops of butterflies Flutter adown the cypress paths, and bands Of flowers mysterious droop their drowsy eyes. There through the silken hush come footfalls faint And hurried through the vague parterres ; and sighs, Whispering of rapture or of sweet complaint Like ceaseless parle of bees and butterflies. And by one lonely pathway steal I soon To find the flowerings of the old delight Our hearts together knew when lo, the moon Turns all the cypress alleys into white. [ 64] SONGS WOULD God, some little song might come To hearts of men, as in the spring The birds confide to branches numb At April's earliest blossoming ! Till lips, like stone no longer dumb, With life's melodious floods might ring Would God, the song might come ! But gone is boyhood from the heart ; For all the bright dream-army fades The knights, the troubadours depart The shepherd swains, the lily maids. Ah, minstrel, where thine oldtime art To flood with tender serenades The windows of the heart ! Hark ! through earth's cities runs a cry Proclaiming new appointed days Of beauty Hark ! " Old hates shall die And craft shall yield the soul's due praise, The High Fates put their terrors by And man walk chainless on Life's way ! " Song ! Song, take up that cry ! [65] STAR-TRYSTS rilHE pool of the lilies yearns and sighs A All night long for its starry skies ; The skies look down through the lily floats And pine all day for their ivory throats. Winds of the morning clarion far Their taunt at the heels of each laggard star ; There is flit of wings where the boughs hang over, Arrows of sunlight breath of clover. But ah ! when the twilight beetle goes With droning whir o'er the sleepy rose, There comes one perfect hour of peace When skies, and waters, find surcease; When the lotes grow fond to the day's embrace And the stars bend down o'er the pool's wan face ; One perfect hour ere night comes on, And day from his lily loves is gone ; One perfect hour, ere the moon recalls The loitering stars to her silver halls. IN THE TWILIGHT OF LOVE IF years ago you told me, dear, That on a day our dreams would fade To these half-hearted fancies drear, I should have grieved and felt dismayed. But yet so softly has the rain Of dead years' ashes settled on Each passion- jewel that the pain Is smothered ere all light has gone. Ah, be it thus with love's decease ! Its day is done ; its shrine, too high To brave Time's destined tragedies ; Let us steal down ere night comes by. [67] THE VOICE OVER the fields and the sea To where on the hill I was sleeping There whispered a Voice unto me, " Arise ! " and I caught the sun creeping In under the door of the room, And my eyes still sore from old weeping Looked up, and saw 'twas a tomb. Then I remembered it all ; The hush of loved voices ; the token Of roses ; the tears you let fall ; The sobs half smothered and broken. Ah, long did it seem since my breast, With the farewells only half spoken, Had heaved its last sigh into rest. In dust fell the wreath from my head As I broke through the cobwebs that bound me. Still, still the Voice Beautiful said, " Arise ! " and I felt all around me, Till on the mildewy floor Standing atremble I found me, And softly I opened the door. [ 68] Oh, the vast surge of the light, And the warmth, and earth-gladness! The singing Of birds through the blossom-drifts white, And the far bells' silvery ringing! All my strange robe, as I stood In the sunlight, grew pure ; the lark winging Shook music o'er pasture and wood ! Out on the glittering lands A great white army went slowly With branches of palm in their hands Mid the silence seraphic and holy; Went over smooth fields near the sea Whence that Voice came murmuring lowly, " Arise and come unto me ! " Rapturous thrill of those words ! As I felt all their meaning awaken, My heart leaped up with the bird's, All thoughts of old sorrows forsaken ! Out o'er the fields and the sea I stole till the throng was o'ertaken And sighed, " Unto Thee ! Unto Thee ! " [69 ] THE HAIL is an army marching JL Across the straining roof; And roused from sleep I hear the sweep Of sabre, drum, and hoof. And every chattering window Is trembling as in fear While on the blast the horde goes past And leaves the storm-path clear. [ 70] DREAM ELOQUENCE IN dreams of thee I feel the eloquence That floods the souls of poets half divine ; Earth blooms anew ; and music takes a sense Of glorious pain ; and thought gives warmth like wine. Oh, to give this to language ! To distil With wizardry this heavenly vapor fleet! And in a word, a gem, a flower, at will, Cast all my trembling passion at /