hxrfdfi IS^iHil ESI a ii i lHi.,i,tt Vv, >w 3537 M675 F5 THE FINAL STAR The Final Star POEMS By MARION COUTHOUY SMITH NEW YORK JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 1918 ACKNOWLEDGMENT Many of these poems are re-printed from The Century, Harper s Magazine, The Outlook, The Na tion, the New York Times, the New York Tribune, The Youth s Companioin, The Stratford Journal, and Contemporary Verse, by the courteous per mission of their editors. Others are selected from previous volumes. COPYRIGHT MARION COUTHOUY SMITH 1978 ASCRIPTION TO THEODORE ROOSEVELT TO HIM WHOSE COURSE NO TYRANT FEAR CONTROLS; LEADER, INSPIRER, FRIEND OF NOBLE SOULS. CONTENTS THE FINAL STAR n THE INTERPRETER 12 THE RUSSIAN COMPOSERS 12 THE CITY AND THE SEA 13 THE FLIGHT OF MAN 14 THE CHARM INVINCIBLE 15 THE LIGHT-BEARER 16 SONG OF THE FLIERS 17 MOTHERHOOD 18 YOUTH SPEAKS TO AGE 19 AGE CALLS TO YOUTH 20 LARGESSE OF THE MOON 20 THE FLIGHT AND THE PASSING 21 A TOAST 23 THE EYES OF LOVE 24 THE CRY OF THE WOMAN 25 THE LETTER 26 THE DREAMS DENIED 27 A MOTHER 28 PEACE 29 THE RESURRECTION 30 VERDUN 31 THE CATHEDRAL 3Z AMERICA TO BELGIUM 32 THE VICTORY 33 ENSLAVED 35 THE ANSWER 36 THE FLAG is UP 37 EDITH CAVELL 39 A THANKSGIVING 40 GERMANY 42 IN NO-MAN S LAND 43 THE AIRMAN 44 A REPLY TO ENGLAND 45 BELGIUM 47 SALUTATION 48 THE JESTERS 49 SAINTE JEANNE OF FRANCE 50 OLD TREASURES 51 BY ORDER OF THE PEOPLE 52 THE SONG 53 To THE MOTHERS 56 THE POETS 57 A ROOM 58 A DEATH 58 THE FIRST LOVE 59 THE WIRES 60 THE CORAL BUILDERS 61 INTERPRETED 63 THE CALL SUPREME 62 IN A HOSPITAL WARD 63 LOVE S REFUGE 63 THE HUNTING-CALL OF SPRING 64 NIGHT SONG 65 A PORTRAIT 67 ON EXHIBITION 67 NEW YORK 68 THE WATERFALL 70 A SONG OF KINDRED 71 WITHOUT INTENT 72 THE SONG OF THE GUNNER 73 IF WORDS COULD REACH THEE 75 ON THE PLAINS 76 "To WHOM SHALL WE Go?" 76 THE LION CAGED 77 THE HERMES OF PRAXITELES 79 Nor IN THE HAND I LOVE 79 THE KITTEN 80 A PRAYER 81 RHYMES OF AN OLD HOME 82 NOCTURNE 84 THE AWAKENING 8, THE CONQUERING THRUST 87 IN OLD HAUNTS 87 OUT AT SEA 88 ON THE RIVER: AN IMPRESSION 89 THE NIGHT FLOWER 90 A GUARDIAN SPIRIT 91 SONG OF THE SOULS THAT FAILED 91 THE BRIGHT EYES OF DANGER 93 To ONE YOUNG AND FAIR 9f THE FIRE ENGINES 95 THE FIRE-FLY 96 THE CITY IDEAL 97 WITHOUT END 98 THE CLOSING YEAR 99 THE NEMESIS OF GERMANY 100 You THAT HAVE WINGS 100 THE LEGION OF DEATH 101 THE VIOLIN-PLAYER 102 ON THE RIVER AT NIGHT 102 LOVE Is DEAD 103 THE LIGHT SUPREME 103 THE NIGHT MOTH 10.4. PRISONER OF LOVE 105 THE PORT OF LONELINESS 106 MY LOVE Is THE SEA 107 THE NEMESIS 108 THE LURE 109 THE WIND IN THE TREES no THE WOOD SPEAKS.. no THE FINAL STAR THE FINAL STAR MEN, holding mastery over steel and stone, Dreaming of gain alone, Raise giant towers in challenge to the sky, And set proud lights on high. Beauty they seek not; but her royal sway Returns like conquering day. On cold, dark shafts, where shrouding vapor clings. Her iris veil she flings, Giving them tender outlines, many-hued, In the air s solitude. Those mighty temples, set for sordid power, Wait on her changing hour, And wear, in pageants of the day and night, Her variant robes of light; They worship, as at heaven s very bars, Her priestly, marching stars; And in her velvet darkness musing stand To guard her magic land. Time is her friend, and wills not to destroy Her morning gleam of joy. Ruin itself reads laughter in her eyes, And finds a fairer guise. All crafts, all projects, but her vassals are, And she their final star. 11 THE INTERPRETER YOU being gone, how should I find your mate For gentle thought and brave imaginings Insight, and subtle fancy, to translate The speech and soul of pure and tender things? How should the forest set its music free, Lacking the wood-thrush with his silver call? So should I miss the fair earth s minstrelsy Without your song, your heart, to voice it all. THE RUSSIAN COMPOSERS THESE are the sorcerers, who in one song s space Can bring the ancient wizardry of the earth Dim, savage, primal, passionate to rebirth In sinuous, thronging shapes of violent grace. Old war-cries waken as the march goes by; New paths are riven by those storming feet; And through the thunders, mounting high and sweet, Love sends the magic of its tender cry. Their soul is of a people fierce and bowed, A great dumb spirit struggling into song, With uncouth joys, with moan of age-old wrong, And hope a wild star flaming from a cloud. These are the sorcerers, who with lifted hand Can show the new earth s promise, in one gleam- The forward striving and the beckoning dream ; The red dawn stealing on a night-bound land. THE CITY AND THE SEA STRUCK like a blur of gold across the night, A stretch of quivering light, Shines the gay city by the sombre sea, Flaunting her splendor to the very edge Of that dim, pulsing, far-spread mystery; Cutting the darkness with her gleaming wedge, And flinging to his vastness, face to face, The futile challenge of her insolent grace Her tawdry crown, her fleeting sovereignty. Round her bright robe his swirling waters spin, And crouched in mockery, fain to rend or greet, With leonine murmur the strong tides creep in, As fawning to her dancing, glittering feet. Ever to pierce his changing mood she strives, His scornful, turbulent pride, his soul indrawn; She, foster-mother of uncounted lives, He, guardian of life s dim portentous dawn, Hoary, yet ever young; Mate of the ancient midnight, lord of days Past memory unimagined and unsung 13 When the vast waters parted from the lands In hissing trails of mist, and through the haze Eyes of stupendous creatures shone like stars. There, vaguely, with her shifting brood, she stands, Wistful, behind the bars That shut her soul from his; and he, at play, Touches her shores with long white wandering hands, Then draws them back along the shining sands, Musingly, day by day; Or, answering to the sudden tempest, breaks In spume of giant wrath, and rearing, shakes Around her trembling pageantry of light The thunders of his old unconquered might. THE FLIGHT OF MAN LO, on the bare and pathless sky is cast The shape of mighty wings; in spaces bright The air yields place to man s Titanic flight, Companion of the cloud and of the blast. Oh, for the eyes that watched the skylark spring From earth to heaven, a line of song and fire; Oh, for such lips of tuneful power, to sing The starward flash of man s supreme desire! 14 THE CHARM INVINCIBLE T TPHOLD me on the danger-crest of life, {-s O Mother City! Clasp me in thine arms; Enthral me with thy wild compelling charms; Sting me with rapture, buffet me with strife. Lure and repel me; snatch my heart to thee; Fling me the challenge of thy restless eyes; Now let me hate thee then with swift surprise, Love thee again, and nevermore be free. Through the pure quiet of the great still nights Thy life breaks out, thy harsh reverberant songs, The pulsing cadence of thy tramping throngs, The opulent glitter of thy myriad lights. My heart is lifted on thy buoyant tides, Thrilled by thy cries of revelry and woe. The far hills call me, but I may not go; The woods invite me, but thy spell abides. So let me know thy blessing and thy ban, And find my soul reflected in thy face; For all the secret of thy passionate grace Is but the magic of the heart of man. 15 A LIGHT-BEARER HIS eyes are wide with scorning Of all ignoble things; His soul is like the morning, Astir with lifted wings. His feet are slow to leaving The dream-paths of the boy; His heart is quick to grieving, His lips are tuned to joy. The tender wind that lingers Where April buds are wrought Has touched with loving fingers The harp that is his thought; And, though no voice may name hirr With hint of fame or power, The soul of Spring shall claim him Lord of her loveliest hour. God send that time s unfolding Steal not his valiant youth, Nor dim his clear beholding Of stern and radiant truth; Grant that he keep the scorning Of all ignoble things, And hold, till life s last morning, The sense of lifted wings! 16 SONG OF THE FLIERS WE who play with the strong winds of heaven May be shattered by their fearful mirth; We who for their comradeship have striven May be tossed, like vagrant leaves, to earth: Yet we ride, to still our mighty yearning, On the changeful billows of their breath; Pledge us, lest at some ethereal turning We may meet the mist-white face of Death. Few may hear the siren voice that calls us; Few may follow on our perilous path, Know the whispered menace that appals us, When the gale s wild laughter swells to wrath. Frail, too frail, the buoyant wings upbearing Hearts that face the hazard of the flight. Greet us, as we snatch our day of daring From the very threshold of the night. From the clasp of earth like gods upspringing, Rapt in the wide wonder of our dream, In our ears the shrill wind-voices singing, In our eyes the void s supernal gleam: We have dared the eddying storms to bear us, Plunged within the vortex of their strife; Victors then, though Death himself should snare us, We have touched the flaming verge of Life. 17 MOTHERHOOD FLESH of my flesh, and made of me, Surely forever must you be Mine mine alone! Drawn from my being, fathoms deep, On the dark surface of my sleep Your spirit shone. Look on me, look! What questions come To which your tender lips are dumb, What burning doubt! I feel your calm eyes- challenge me, As from your new life s sovereignty Your soul looks out. The years will lure you from my day; I cannot follow on your way, I faint and fail. Flesh of my flesh, yet brought from far, I trace to some great alien star, Your being s trail. Oh, lean to me, still weak and dear! For this brief space I hold you near, A flickering light. Till from these arms your life is drawn, And once again your radiant dawn Breaks from my night. 18 YOUTH SPEAKS TO AGE YOU who forget, blind with the mist of years, The path you trod, whereon we follow after, Whose eyes no longer glisten with quick tears, Whose lips no longer laugh for love of laughter You to whom sorrow is a crown of pride, Who bear the scars of strife, the mark of fire, Think you that we, still groping and untried, Know not the anguish nor the lost desire? Ours is the burden of the languorous Spring, The spur of longing, and the nameless pain; Ours are the hopes that rend, the joys that sting, The age-long memories born in us again; The deep amaze, when love s great visions die, When faith s vast promise falters from the goal; Ours is the birth-pang and the human cry, The brand of life, that burns through flesh to soul. You who can see beyond the lessening years, You who are past the passion and the sorrow, Think how too oft a shrouding veil of tears Hides from our eyes the peace that dawns to morrow. Grudge not to us the sudden flash of hope, The morning dance of joy, the flame of flowers, Till those long rays that touch the darkening slope Bring to our hearts the calm of fading hours. 19 AGE CALLS TO YOUTH AGE calls to Youth With a low, longing cry: "Dear winged feet, Pass not so lightly by! Dear lips of laughter, Eyes of morning light, Flowers of life and love, Lamps of our coming night, Wells of remembrance Of our happier days, Turn to us, love us, Brighten to our praise!" And Youth stops the flying dance, Standing poised awhile, Just for one backward glance And a fleeting smile! LARGESSE OF THE MOON. E moon goes dreaming through the nighi -*- Nor ever seems to know Of that vast miracle of light Spread on the sea below, That path whereon all hearts may go, Each to its own delight. The dreaming moon seems not to know Her soul s gift to the night. 20 THE FLIGHT AND THE PASSING I HAVE risen to the verge of cosmic space; The infinite Light has touched the edge of my wing; I have looked over the round rim of the world, As it circled my magic flight. The fields and the rivers have vanished, And the cities have melted away beneath me; For an instant they sparkled like jewels, Then the white ocean of cloud rolled over them, Making a sea-path for my burning keel. The wind has struck me and stung me, And laughed, and sung in my ears, and flung away; Returning now in wrath, it buffets and rocks me, And eddies in whirls about my swaying flight. Eyes look out of the infinite waste of blue, And pierce me with mockery! The cold is a living thing, To cling about me, and press me, And drive the life in me back to my burdened heart. Lifting lifting I go from verge to verge, Till mists of mighty wings are beating around me, And I hear their music arise, a deep diapason, And feel the Presences of space. 21 The great angels are jealous! They who guard the flight of the eagles, And tread the paths where only the winds have run. They have drawn the air from beneath me. And made vast chasms under my fragile wings. .... I drop I fall! .... The eddies suck me down to the depths of air. . . . They are lifting, with giant hands, The soul away from my flesh. Lo now there are wings no longer, No longer the clamor of flight, Nor the rush of wind, Nor the terror Wings and body are flung like wandering leaves, Rocking and swaying through billows of yielding mist, To the cruel breast of the waiting earth! But I stay I lift I lift! Arms under me eyes above me Warm, warm and still I lie And drift and drift away Into infinite rest. A TOAST HERE S to the old Earth, and here s to all that s in her, To the soil of her, and the toil of her, and the valiant souls that win her; To the hope she holds, and the gift she grants, her hazards and her prizes, To the face of her, and the grace of her, and all her swift surprises. Here s to her mighty dawns, with rose and golden splendor; To the heights of her, and the nights of her, her Springs and their surrender; Her storms and her frozen seas, and the mystic stars above her, The fear of her, and the cheer of her, and all the brave that love her. Here s to her valleys warm, with their little homes to cherish; The gleam of her, and the dream of her, and the loves that flower and perish; To her cities rich and gray, with their stern life- chorus ringing, The noise of her, and the joys of her, and the sighs beneath the singing. 23 Here s to her endless youth, her deaths and her reviving; The soul of her, and the goal of her, that keeps her ever striving; Her little smiling flowers, and her comforting grass and clover, And the rest of her on the breast of her, when striving days are over. Here s to the old Earth, with all her countless chances; The heart of her, and the art of her, her frowns and tender glances; With all her dear familiar ways that held us from the starting; Long might to her I And good night to her, when the hour is struck for parting. THE EYES OF LOVE BLIND souls, who say that Love is blind! He only sees aright; His only are the eyes that find The spirit s inner light. He lifts, while others grope and pry, His gaze serene and far; And they but see a waste of sky Where Love can see the star. 24 THE CRY OF THE WOMAN MARY, Mother, hearken and heed! Heed thou the woman s cryl Thou who hast seen thy Dearest bleed, Looked on Him in His bitter need, Helplessly standing by! When our children plead and moan, When the small hands clasp our own, When to tender heart and brain Strikes our heritage of pain, And we strive in vain to share All their weaker flesh must bear Mary, Mother, hearken! When they tread the pathway sore Where our feet have toiled before; When the stress of storm and woe Lays their power and beauty low; When their lives are lost and spent, Stained with sin, and passion-rent Mary, Mother, hearken! When the tongues of strife give cry, And our sons go out to die; When the crucial hour must come 25 And the lips of love are dumb, And the touch of love is vain On the cold hands clenched in pain Mary, Mother, hearken! Mary, heed thou the woman s cry! Mother, listen and hear! Thou who hast seen thy Dearest die, Under the darkened noonday sky, Dauntlessly standing near! THE LETTER THIS is my message, that shall reach you, dear, When I have fled away. Now, in full life, Vibrant to joy and grief, to love and strife, I look toward death and dark, to bring you near. Some words there are, too tender and too deep For any speech or song that love may know; Borne are they from the spirit s underflow On those ethereal tides that move in sleep; Strange calm replies to some obscure demands Of love, not voiced by any lips that live; Light, pure caresses, which we long to give, Yet may not with the touch of fleshly hands. These would I send you when I stand arrayed In death s pale robing of auroral light, When my far speech falls like the dew of night Out of the silence where all songs are made; 26 When all my looks are stars; when my soul s word Is precious to your soul, then shall you hear Of all that made you great to me and dear, And know the waveless deeps your life has stirred. Then to your inmost vision shall be bared Our hidden nearnesses; the high desires That rose in each, and met in subtle fires; The wordless dream, the hope that we have shared. This is my message, framed with tenderest art To wait the magic of the coming night; And for my writing Death shall hold the light, And for your reading shall unveil my heart. THE DREAMS DENIED OUR lives are molded by the things we miss. Not by Love s answering eyes, not by his kiss, But by Love s hunger do we learn Love s bliss. Our growth must answer to the swell and strain Of thew and sinew toward the ultimate gain; The warrior s worth is measured by his pain. Upward our hopes are flung, like tongues of fire. The dreams denied unendingly aspire; The soul must take the shape of its desire. 27 A MOTHER SON, throned upon my knee Son, ruling in my heart! I am fulfilled in thee, Knowing no life apart. If on the rocking wave Thy little bark must drown, There must I find a grave There must my soul go down. Into thy being tossed, With thee I fail or win; Saved in thy strife, or lost, Mine is thy very sin. Thy nobleness, thy power, Shall lift me to their grace; My life is but thy dower, And thine my dwelling-place. Son, throned upon my knee, Thine am I to destroy; Oh, be thou great for me Build me a deathless joy! 28 PEACE A MAN wished for peace, And flung away the sword which was given to his hand; Then Evil came as if to smite him; But it smote him not. It smote instead the little children who had crept under his shadow, And the woman he had sworn to guard, The old, the helpless, the innocent. So the man stood alone among ruin and sorrow. He stood at peace; But war and bitterness were in his soul. A man wished for peace; And he held the sword before him As a pillar of cloud and fire; And as it moved it made light around him; And the little children crept into the circle of light. And when Evil came against him the man struck with all his power, And they closed in mortal strife. The sword drank blood, And Evil slunk away vanquished; But the man fell. Then the helpless ones looked on him with shining eyes; The Future looked on him in their eyes, 29 And love and hope and beauty were saved. And the man s soul went out in a deep peace. THE RESURRECTION ALIGHT comes up in the eastern sky: "Now what have we to do with day?" (The grief-struck Galileans say) "We who have seen the Master die. We cannot face the bitter morrow; Ah, let us sleep for sorrow!" The light is dim in the pallid sky: "Now what have we to do with sleep?" (The sad eyed women sigh, and weep) "We saw our Best-Beloved die; Let us go forth and meet the morrow, Who cannot rest, for sorrow!" The light grows in the reddening sky: "Now what hath He to do with death?" (Hear what the shining angel saith!) "Look not for Him mong those who die; Haste ye and see!" The dawn flames wide, He stands at Mary s side! 30 VERDUN VERDUN, city of sorrow! With her war-swept, blackened spaces, Her crumbled, poor home-places Whence all her children fled; With her streets that know no tread Save that of her worn defenders, City of mournful splendors, Stern and lovely and tragic, She shall be clothed with magic. Who bears her scars upon his breast Happy is he! And as a shrine forever blest Her walls shall be. Verdun, city of thunder, City of flame, As the sound of a host singing Shall be her name; The sound of a great host singing, The tread of a marching mass, The call of a great cry ringing "They shall not pass!" For through the strife that tore her The sword of France before her Lay like a golden bar; And in the night of the nations She is a star. 31 THE CATHEDRAL From the French of Edmond Rostand THEY could but grant thee more immortal grace, And endless life, the ghouls that ravaged thee; Ask Phidias, ask Rodin, if souls that see Thy ruins, shall not know thy radiant face. The shattered fort must perish from its place; The riven Temple lives more gloriously; And lifted eyes find heaven itself set free From prisoning stone, beyond the fretted space. We render thanks! We lacked what Greece had known, Her golden columns crushed and overthrown, But made more sacred by man s harsh intent. Thanks for the gift the insensate cannon won; Our foes dark skill has left a monument, For them a Shame for us a Parthenon! AMERICA TO BELGIUM YOU who are bound with dragging chains, Numbed and seared with a thousand pains, Flung in the trail of the foe s mad lust, Pressed by the goad of his dark desire; You whose sword was a lightning thrust, You whose heart was a shield of fire By your broken blade, by your shining deed, Pity us, pray for us, you who bleed! 32 We who have seen and praised your power, Yet stayed our hand in your crucial hour; We who have lost, through sordid fears, The lifted spirit, the singing breath, The gift and guerdon of nobler years, The eyes that see beyond woe and death Your palm and crown have passed us by; Pray for us, pity us, we who die! We who have known the splendid dream, We who have watched its fading gleam, What shall bring us the kindling word, Free us from blindness, smite us with dread? Though, by your glory and anguish stirred, Humbly we bring you our dole of bread Greater the gift your soul can give; Cry to us, waken us, you who live! THE VICTORY THE great, broken Victory, With mighty wings and breast, Back-flowing robes, and light Feet that are touched with flight; The white, moving Mystery, Eternally storm-pressed Ah, what is she? 33 I watch her royal pose, Her strong wings backward beating, And her proud bosom, meeting A wind that harshly blows; And the heart within me cries For sight of those lost eyes! How all the might of her Would gather in their gaze, And all the light of her Flame in their morning-rays! But, as I watch, I see My dream take form! Above the wings wide grace, Against the burning blue, Grows dimly into view A white ecstatic face, With listening look intent In the deep heedful eyes, As one, with force unspent, Who hears wild thunders rise, And meets the storm! The great, living Victory, With mighty wings and breast, With passionate conflict stressed, And that high, visioned face Wrought in supernal space, Ah, who is she? 34 Steadfast, yet gracious; fleet, And magically strong, Hers are the venturing feet, Hers are the lips of song, And hers the starry glance The flaming soul of France! ENSLAVED WHO is enslaved? Belgium? Never She who stood to her soul s endeavor! The crown of her King is a light forever. Who is enslaved? Beloved France, With her steadfast heart and her upward glance? Her every son has a man s high chance. Who is enslaved? England? No! With her mighty gesture, strong and slow, And her face like flint to the savage foe. What of America? Slaves are we! Shackled on land and scorned at sea. O God of hosts! Set Thy people free Free to choose, and free to stand, Free to answer our soul s demand To strike with a swift, unfaltering hand! 35 Here is the sword, keen as of old, Straight as a beam of morning gold; Shall it fall away from our listless hold? Who but we should right the wrong Stand with the true, fight with the strong? Come, my Land, with a cry and a song! America! THE ANSWER T>HERE is one answer to all dreams of ease * Belgium! One answer to the Teuton s cunning pleas Belgium! One test and touchstone for all hearts that feel; One word that is a stroke of steel on steel, A stroke whose clangor sets a long note ringing That falls upon our ears like distant singing. One word for you who say the strife must cease- Belgium! Justice to her must hold the key of peace Belgium! And you who clamor that our cry should be Not love of country, but Humanity, Have you not heard it, as you pass unheeding? Humanity! In her the world lies bleeding! Not she alone the dark decree must know Belgium! The first in that great sisterhood of woe, Belgium! She speaks, my Country, with your own lost dead; She brings one answer to your shrinking dread; Draw now your sword, and set the clear stroke ring ing That falls upon our hearts like mighty singing! Belgium! THE FLAG IS UP THE flag is up! The symbol again of liberty, Again of justice, Again of power; O flag of mine, This is once more your hour! What have you been to me Within these bitter years? Flouted on land and sea, An outworn sign, a mockery, A thing of shame and tears! The dreamers have sung to you, Flaunted you as of old, Hailed you as a tale oft told Whose meaning is gone; Suddenly now in a new dawn 37 The hearts of millions of men Have awakened and sprung to you; O flag of mine, They know you again! / Under your very folds Little children have died, Whom you should have sheltered; Men and women have sighed In helpless despair, And you you have mocked them there! We took your glory away The sword of righteousness, Your old and dear companion, That only could shield and bless; We left you the sport and prey Of the winds at play The dupe and the hissing scorn Of men without truth or pity; And the blood that left a stain Was the blood of the innocent, slain In many a Belgian city, (Where every broken stone is a tomb of the brave), The helpless, that even your shadow O sword! O flag of mine! Would once have been strong to save. But now you are lifted up, The symbol again of mercy, 38 Again of justice, Again of power. You shall lead a host Against ruthless and bitter wrong, A host the ranks of God Millions on millions strong; And you shall defend a fortress, A fortress of right, Where a sword shall be lifted high In God s own light, Against a dark besieging mass; And where you fly Flag flag of mine They shall not pass! EDITH CAVELL ENGLAND, be glad of her, as she was glad Of life that ended so, in fullest bloom Of perfect giving. This at least she had The old-time splendor of heroic doom. Not to all women comes so rich a grace, To find at peril s height the ultimate good, And grant thus to their country and the race The fearless force of their strong womanhood. So, be her death remembered and not less Her life of ministry to friend and foe; Her soul shall be a song, to lift and bless The records of an immemorial woe. 39 A THANKSGIVING NOT for our harvest, Our fields increase, Not for our safety, Our vaunted peace, Our word-clad justice, Our light-flung gift, But for hearts that waken, For dreams that lift We praise Thee, O God! For Belgium s sword That faltered never, For the splendid woe Of her lost endeavor; For the great free peoples In grim advance, For the might of England, The light of France We praise Thee, O Godl For Italy s flower Of fearless youth; For Russia s waking From dream to truth; For the flame of Serbia That mounts in death, The fire that fails not With blood and breath We praise Thee, O Godl 40 For dull ease broken By sharpest dole, For the dart that is driven Through flesh to soul; For wrath made sterner By right s eclipse, For brave songs breaking From pain-wrung lips We praise Thee, O God! For faith that is born From the burning nest, For the spirit s flight On its starward quest, For peace that dwells At the heart of strife, For death that scatters The seed of life We praise Thee, O God! 41 GERMANY OLAND of music and of dream, Your songs are dead! O morning-rose, O twilight-gleam, Forever fled! Now, through your thunder-cloud of wrath, We see but frenzy s aftermath Stark ruin following every path Your legions tread. Was this your dream a baleful light In stormy space? Your soul a threatening shape of blight, With hate-wrung face? What madness moves you, to rejoice In women s woe in terror s voice? Is this the music of your choice, Your song of grace? Now from your shattered flutes we hear A long, harsh cry, The note of passion and of fear, That will not die; And ever, on the desolate sea, Your shamed and haunted ships must flee Child-faces, floating silently Under God s sky. 42 IN NO-MAN S LAND IN No-Man s Land, where every tree Is tortured from its gracious guise, In stark and twisted boughs we see Three phantom crosses rise; One is the cross of children slain, And one the cross where heroes died, And one the royal throne of pain Of Christ the Crucified. In No-Man s Land, where now no more To earth s scarred fields the grasses cling, Three thorn-boughs lie across that door That shuts us from the Spring; And one is blossoming pure and white As children s breasts; and one drips down With blood of heroes in the fight; And one is Christ s own crown. In No-Man s Land, where threatening night Is kinder than the dreadful day, Three roses yet shall bloom in light Along the desolate way; All white and red the twain shall spring, Of innocence and courage born; The third Lord Christ himself shall bring On Resurrection Morn. 43 THE AIRMAN I WAS born for open spaces, Which the wandering tempest fills; Not for me the secret places In the deep heart of the hills; Neither sea nor plain enthralls me, To a lonelier vastness vowed; Tis the upper air that calls me, And the white breast of the cloud. With the empty blue above me, With the gale beneath my wing, I must woo the void to love me, Teach the silent air to sing. As the wanderer knows the highways, As the sailor knows the sea, So the shifting, trackless byways Yield their mysteries to me. Where the great wind-currents hold me In their treacherous, chill embrace; Where the curling mists enfold me There my heart has found her place. As the wild air-tides are riven Where I press my burning flight, To their charge my life is given, And my soul to their delight. 44 A REPLY TO ENGLAND (A reply to a poem of Alfred Austin s, 1898) ON wings of a wind that sweeps The wild northeastern sea, Sounding over the vibrant deeps Where the great swift ships ride free, We have heard the song of a wakening hope, a glory that yet may be. We have challenged the welcome voice, And this is the word we hear: "Because you have made the nobler choice To all free peoples dear, To break the force of a tyrant-grasp, and end the rule of fear; "Because you have risen at length, In your old heroic guise, And thrown the shield of your love and strength Over a race that dies, Striving and bleeding before your gates, under your pitying eyes; "For this brave passion, we Who alone can understand, Because we are kindred souls and free We stretch you a brother s hand! And who shall face us, together, nor bend to our high command?" 45 This is the voice that calls O er the track of the flying ships, Set to the tune of a song that falls Sweetly from poet-lips, The song of a living love and faith, long darkened by strange eclipse. And the heart within us leaps Till a burning word takes flight: Waken, O giant power that sleeps! O Star of Hope, give light! For the day when we two stand as one is a day that finds no night. Away with the "ancient wrong" With the "wornout tale" of hate! We have felt the touch, we have heard the song, For which the ages wait; We have read the rune of a royal dream on the shining roll of Fate. And we trace the message plain Which the Hand of God hath lined Never for lust of power or gain Be our splendid strength combined; Only for right, for law and light, and the Soul that guides mankind. Oh, song on the wind that sweeps The wild northeastern sea, Sound once more o er the vibrant deeps For a truth that yet shall be For the day when we two stand as one, guarding a world set free! BELGIUM HEART-struck she stands Our Lady of all Sorrows, Circled with ruin, sunk in deep amaze, Facing the shadow of her dark tomorrows, Mourning the glory of her yesterdays. Yet is she queen by every royal token, There, where the storm of desolation swirled; Crowned only with the thorn, despoiled and broken, Her kingdom is the heart of all the world. She made her breast a shield, her sword a splendor, She rose like flame upon the darkened ways; So, through the anguish of her proud surrender Breaks the clear vision of undying praise! SALUTATION FILL a cup to Belgium, *Hail ivas hail! She who found the hidden shrine Of the*Holy Grail. Drain a cup to Belgium, Drink drink hail! Nay, the cup is red within As the sunset s trail! Who can drink of Belgium s cup? Hail was hail! It is brimmed with blood and tears; Is not this the Grail? Lift the cup to Belgium, Drink drink hail! Nay, she drained it all alone She who dared not fail. For the Knight who is her King Hail was hail! Held it, smiling, to her lips, Eager lips, though pale. Bend the knee to Belgium, Drink drink hail! See, her cup is all alight, She hath found the Grail! * The ancient Saxon salutation, "was hail" "be well." Hence wassail. Also "trink haile," or "drink health." 48 THE JESTERS EV N he, the master of the songs of life, May speak at times with less than certain sound; "He jests at scars that never felt a wound," So runs his word. Yet on the verge of strife, They jest not who have never known the knife; They tremble who in the waiting ranks are found, While those scarred deep on many a battle-ground Sing to the throbbing of the drum and fife. They laugh who know the open, fearless breast, The thrust, the steel-point, and the spreading stain, Whose flesh is hardened to the searing test, Whose souls are tempered to a high disdain; Theirs is the lifted brow, the gallant jest, The long, last breath, that holds a victor-strain 49 SAINTE JEANNE OF FRANCE SAINTE JEANNE went harvesting in France, But ah! what found she there? The little streams were running red, And the torn fields were bare; And all about the ruined towers Where once her king was crowned, The hurtling plows of war and death Had scored the desolate ground. Saint Jeanne turned to the hearts of men, That harvest might not fail; Her sword was girt upon her thigh, Her dress was silvern mail; And all the war-worn ranks were glad To feel her presence shine; Her smile was like the mellow sun Along that weary line. She gave her silence to their lips, Her visions to their eyes, And the quick glory of her sword She lent to their emprise; The shadow of her gentle hand Touched Belgium s burning cross, And set the seal of power and praise On agony and loss. 50 Sainte Jeanne went harvesting in France, And oh! what found she there? The brave seed of her scattering In fruitage everywhere; And where her strong and tender heart Was broken in the flame, She found the very heart of France Had flowered to her name. OLD TREASURES OH, things once treasured, things that cannot die! Your mute appeal is sharper than a cry; From your light touch no force can set us free; Poor, frail, abandoned toys of memory; Wreckage of lives passed out beyond recall, By dear, lost hands once cherished, and let fall; Strewn sadly o er the ways our feet must tread; Viewed with keen pangs of tenderness and dread; Unused, inert; the dreariest ghosts are ye, Doomed to a lifeless immortality, Touched by vain kisses, watered by vain tears, Left stranded on the bitter verge of years, Till Time at last shall fling you, as he must, Into unmarked oblivion dust to dust! This be your word, poor drift of lives gone by: That only lives whose gift it is to die. 51 BY ORDER OF THE PEOPLE FOR what, in the sight of Heaven, do the young soldiers die The flower of France and England think you they know not why? On the stormy floods of battle like straws their lives are tost, That the rule of the just free peoples be not for ever lost. And we, who have wrought our freedom, see we no sign, no light? Shall the reek of carnage blind us to the white star of right? Where are the souls of our fathers, full statured men, who saw That Christ, Who died for the people, had left to the world a Law? This is the law to bind us, when sense and self go wild, That the sword be strong for mercy, that the shield be over the child, That the great eternal standards ride high above the strife, And the Soul of a mighty people be dearer than blood or life. 52 A 1 THE SONG LONG the misty beaches, where the great wind-voices cry, Where the sea s reverberant thunder sends its chal lenge to the sky, And its distant echoes lure us, from the countries where they die A song is sounding on. I can hear it, clear and urgent, over all the breakers rage; It is pleading for the memory of a noble heritage; Twas a woman s voice that sang it, in a lost heroic age Its call is sounding on. "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored. He has loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible siaift sword; His truth is marching on." It is calling with the sea-winds far across the troubled wave, Where Belgium in her beauty lies all one trampled grave, 53 And still her proud defenders lift the paean of the brave Her soul is marching onl It cries along the bloody fields, from Russia back to France, Where the great united nations hold the savage foe s advance. Where the stars above the trenches meet the sol dier s dying glance Its call is sounding on. "/ have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel; As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on." My country oh, my country! Clear-sighted once and strong, A shield for the defenseless and a flame against the wrong, True to the ringing echoes of that mighty marching song That still is sounding on 94 My country oh, my country! The dreadful fires are free! Their children died in burning homes, and ours upon the sea. By Christ who died for mercy, is it nothing unto thee, While God is marching on? "He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; lie is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on." 65 TO THE MOTHERS MOTHERS of men, do you not know What you gave to the world in your hour of woe? Born of courage, and doomed to stress, A man for the tasks of men no less! Mothers of women, can you not feel What all the signs of your life reveal? You have brought forth love, with its sword and fire, And love s high crown is the lost desire. Mothers of men, have you not known That the soul of the child is not your own? If God has sealed him for palm and cross, To hold him close were your bitter loss. Mothers, mothers, will you not see All that your gift to the world may be? These who must fight a wrong abhorred Are Michael s angels, who bear the sword. Mothers of men, then loose your hold! Love grants more than your arms enfold; Under the Cross you stand apart With Mary s sword in your dauntless heart. 56 THE POETS DEAR weavers of the unending song, Of the dream that shines forever, Follow me out of the weary throng To the fields of fair endeavor. Follow me where the pipers play That lure the wanderer s spirit, Into the land of laughing day That the ever-young inherit. Dear children of the undying light, Of the never-lost desire, Ye shall find the stars in the heart of night, Though the cloud may veil their fire. Out of your souls shall never die The wind-wrought spell of morning; The world shall watch your steps go by, Half wistful, and half in scorning. Dear lovers of the eternal dream, Of the fleeting fair endeavor, Follow me where the white stars gleam, And souls are young forever. 67 A ROOM T^HIS is the room: the void bleak space Where set the starlight of her face. Within it, life s persistent cry Drops to the echo of a sigh; Its few poor treasures shrink and pine Like wreaths on some forsaken shrine; And on its melancholy walls Coldly the morning radiance falls. Death s shadow drove its soul of light Far upward, beyond dream of sight, And left it here, in lonely state, Bare, silent, dim, disconsolate. A DEATH. I SAW a woman stand beside a bed Where lay her love of years, but one hour dead. She stood dry eyed, as one who finds no balm For an old grief, long held in bitter calm. The silence throbbed. At last her cold lips stirred, And through their whiteness crept one quiet word, Brought from the deep of some unuttered woe: "How should I weep? He died long years agol" 68 THE FIRST LOVE SHE is yours, without sigh or scorning, Your lady of youth and dream; She is lost, as we lose the morning But keep the dew and the gleam. She has given you song and laughter, She has opened the doors of pain, And whatever gift comes after Is rich with her spirit s gain. All loves that your life has cherished, All lips that your lips have kissed, Shall be sweet with the grace that perished, Shall be dowered with the charm you missed. She will flit like a wraith before you, As you look in your love s calm eyes, And the tempest of grief that tore you Shall seem as a wind that sighs. You shall hear her far-off singing In the rustling trees at night, And her by-gone laughter ringing In the children s young delight; For the notes that love has fluted When the years were sweet and long, To the being of life transmuted, Are held in every song. 59 THE WIRES WE are the nerves of the world, The threads of fate are we, Whether in coil and spiral curled, Or flung over land and sea; From hoards of the ages brought, The great rocks yield our life; With flame and force is our being wrought, With throes of toil and strife. Over the whole round globe Our mighty web is spun, Woven out, as a gleaming robe, In shimmer of snow and sun; Drawn from the clods of earth, By a mounting, hot desire, We come, to circle its utmost girth With meshes of prisoned fire. We span the bounds of space With burning, outstretched hands; The speech and soul of a wakening race Ride on our vivid strands; We start the viewless waves, Bearing their hidden song, And toss them down through our slender staves To the heart of a waiting throng. 60 We lift the torch of light; We drive the wheels of power; Our careless force, through the day and night, Smites down the opposing hour; We make the shining way On which man s word may fare; He gives his hope to our vibrant sway, His dream to our paths of air. We are the harp of the world, The chords of life are we; Through us the song of the sphere is hurled In a storm of harmony; Forged in the sullen deeps, Strung through the void above, We ring with a note that never sleeps The note of a world-wide love. THE CORAL-BUILDERS POOR coral-builders, shall our work remain? Shaping an island in the eternal sea, Whose great tides sweep around our toil and pain With laugh and gleam, in baffling mystery. What vision moves us, striving mightily To weld our lives into the desolate strand? We see the sun and stars of years to be Pising in wonder on the living land! 61 INTERPRETED A WIND came shoreward, flavored with the sea; Herding the waves it came, Driving them trampling on, as they would flee Before the morning s flame. It woke them to the inarticulate song Of spaces wild and stark, Where spars of icy starlight trail along Cold stretches of the dark. It reached a stern old pine-tree, standing far Above the gleaming beach; And then I heard the call of sea and star Translated into speech! THE CALL SUPREME WE toil to the goal, strong-hearted, giving nor sight nor heed To Love, as he goes before us, flitting with careless speed; Sudden he turns in the pathway, smiling "How fares the day?" And naught is left for the striving only to go his way! 62 IN A HOSPITAL WARD THIS is the hallway to the courts of Death, Where mournful crowds besiege his inner gate; Here, prone in piteous rows, they rest and wait, And measure weary hours with long-drawn breath. Ah, house where none for pleasure entereth! Far from the clamorous cries of love or hate, Here Pain and Patience dwell in lonely state, And here the dumb soul learns its shibboleth, Password to unknown regions. Come, my heart, Steal in, and watch the battle fought and won; Look into wistful eyes, where no tears start; And in these silent victories, praised by none, Mark how the dauntless spirit plays its part, Though the spent frame be vanquished and un done! LOVE S REFUGE LOVE fled from Death on a summer s day, Lightly trod over fern and flower; "Ah, Death," he cried, "when the world is gay, Seek me not, but await thine hourl I am welcome wherever I go; Gladness follows my steps," said he; "For love hath not in the world a foe, But thee but thee!" Love came to Death on a winter s night, Knocked and cried at the cold, closed door; "Shelter me, Death, from storm and blight! Wilt thou forget me forevermore? Life pursues to a cruel end; Refuge only is here," said he; "For Love hath not in the world a friend But thee but thee!" THE HUNTING-CALL OF SPRING CLEAR wind the horns of Spring again, (Hark, forward hark!) O er mellowing hills they ring again, Farewell to cold and dark! Up, up! and brush the dew away; The sun comes laughing through the gray, To gild the flying robes of May; Hark, forward hark! The hordes of hope are out again; (Hark, forward hark!) Room for the merry rout again, Whose revels chase the dark! Their couriers are the dancing showers, And through the song-awakened hours The bright ranks follow flowers on flowers; Hark, forward hark! 64 Beside the hurrying stream again, (Hark, forward hark!) We ll find our last year s dream again, Where pipes the meadow-lark. Come, love of mine, earth s fairest thing, With eyes that shine and lips that sing, Haste to the ringing call of Spring! Hark, forward hark! NIGHT SONG COME, my soul, and to thy fastness Flee away; Close the shadowy doors of silence On the day. Come, and let all hope and passion Fall to rest; Let the sphinx of midnight fold thee To her breast: She whose ears nor moan nor murmur Ever reach, And whose lips are closed to question And to speech; She whose eyes are as the brooding Lights of fate, And whose silence to thy sorrow Answers Wait! Thou shalt iearn in that pure stillness What thou art- All the wonder and the wisdom Of thy heart. Not in dreams, for they are shadows; Not in sleep That is soulless: but in vision Clear and deep; In the rest nor pain nor longing Put to flight; In the sweet and cold Nirvana Of the night. Learn the power, the calm, the worship That shall be. Come, my soul! For in the darkness Thou art free. C6 A PORTRAIT NOT hers the surly tigress brutal grace, The leopard s rather; fairer to the view, Lithe, sinuous, deadly. If she smile on you Dreamily, with great eyes in that white face, Scarce can you tell if love or hate have place In your heart s tumult. But her gauge is true; She planned the moment when her fixed eyes drew Your soul to hers and bridged the dizzy space. Dread instincts guide her, and are quick to tell What art may serve her wish, to hold aloof, To fawn, to tempt, to strike. She fashions well Her net of soft allurements, warp and woof; And no man breaks from that pervasive spell Till heart and flesh and soul are put to proof. ON EXHIBITION A GOLDEN EAGLE SAW him, nobly poised, imprisoned there, In a poor place, housed in a narrow cage; That royal spirit, lord of the upper air, With great wings folded, mute in sullen rage. And all the luster of the golden noons, And all the splendor of the scattered stars, And the fair glory of unclouded moons, Met in that lightning glance, behind the bars. I 67 Those untamed eyes that answered to the sun, Now glittering in the dimness, turned on me; I shall remember till my race is run The still, proud anguish of that voiceless plea. THE MONKEYS I, who laughed at first at the little solemn sages, Quaint and smileless creatures, wrinkled as with years, Felt the sudden weight of the sorrow of the ages Saw the weird, small faces through a mist of tears. A BLACK PANTHER In dumb, unwearied protest, to and fro, He paces, pausing but for food and sleep. Oh, for a song to voice the hidden woe Of those wild souls that cannot plead nor weep! NEW YORK THE air and the wave enfold her, River and sky and sea; Cradled in light they hold her, Circled in mystery. With a tender touch they drape her, At morning and eventide, In a film of jewelled vapor Fit for a royal bride. 68 The stars of the night have crowned her, In pageant full o erhead; And far, to the verge around her, Her zone of light is spread. The subject seas have brought her All that their tides control; And the joy of the breathing water Quickens her inmost soul. Where is her peer in splendor? Whom shall she own as lord? Richest that earth can render Down at her feet is poured. Yet can no glories win her To deep and pure repose, For the strong, proud heart within her Aches with a thousand woes. She who was made to cherish Toiler and waif and slave, Weeps that her children perish, Spoiled of the hope she gave; Mourns for her freedom s dower, Lost in the strife for gold, While the sword of her sovereign power Drops from her listless hold. 69 Yet, as the tides sweep round her, Her mighty pulses thrill, And the chains that long have bound her Shake with her wakening will. Slowly the links are broken; Shall not she bear at last Only the solemn token Of pain and thraldom past? The air and the wave enfold her, River and sky and sea; Lo! in a dream behold her, Crowned as she yet may be! Still is she freedom s daughter, Noble in joy or dole; And the life of the great glad water Quickens her inmost soul. THE WATERFALL HERE, where the eternal waters fling themselves, Motion itself stands still. The flashing storm Of change has wrought itself in changeless form, Sculptured in white between the rocky shelves. Over this ledge the centuries are hurled, Fixed in one mighty instant; and all time Sounds in a single multitudinous chime, Here in a green cleft of the lonely world. 70 A SONG OF KINDRED HARK! how the strong seas shout To the pines on the mountainside; "Sing, brothers, sing! for the winds are out, And the path of their flight is wide! We leap, at flood of the tide, To the base of your rooted rock. Feel you the thrill as the deep caves fill? Hear you the breakers shock? Hail, brothers, hail! Send your song on the western gale. Loud is the wind in every tree, But you alone can voice the tone Of the full-throated sea. From you alone can our echoes ring; Sing, brothers, sing!" Hark! how the great pines cry From the inland forest places, Sending the mountain-land s reply Out to the wild sea-spaces, Where the mad wave swells and races Under the tide-wind s hand. "Hail, all hail! We swing to the gale, And shrill to your brave command. Rock, rock and chime! 71 Back we fling your iterant rhyme, In a rush of harmony! Loud is the wind in every tree, But we alone can harp the tone Of the deep-breasted sea. From us alone can your echoes fall! Call, brothers, call!" WITHOUT INTENT THIS is a truth, though it be strange to hear: One may shed light upon another s way All unaware. Some life-inspiring ray May shine from one who never held us dear; And some slight hand deliver us from fear Not knowingly stretched toward us. What we see Or feel, or dream another s life to be When by our love we bring its influence near Marks on the soul its secret, deep impress. Hope comes, unrecognized, and scarce desired, From some mere touch of truth or tenderness. So, without knowledge, heart by heart is fired; And yonder laughing child does more to bless Than priest or prophet consciously inspired. 72 THE SONG OF THE GUNNER SHE lies within her bracings, with her muzzle out to sea, She is sleeping, darkly sleeping, in the sun; She is waiting for the fiery touch that sets her thunders free, For the reckoning when her savage rest is done. Oh, my lady, oh, my pet! I shall hear your music yet, When the foe shall set his broadside to my gun! As I stroke her iron shoulder, heaving with the heaving deck, From her throat a hollow murmur seems to start; As I whisper, as I listen, with my arm upon her neck, Do I hear a sullen throbbing from her heart? Oh, my beauty, my delight! When you speak, by day or night, Earth from heaven soul from body strain apart. Watching mutely through the midnight, watching warily through the day, While a brooding blackness veils her eye of fire, As the tiger, crouching dumbly, waits to seize the gliding prey, 73 Holding leashed the secret force of his desire, So she lingers, set to stand To the motion of my hand. Till my summons wakes the tempest of her ire. When the call shall sound to action she shall tremble in her greed; She shall know me, for her heart and mine are one! I shall loose her rocking thunders, I shall fit the bolts that speed, Straight to rend, and strong to shatter, swift to stun; All her mighty thews shall thrill To the passion of my will, And my soul shall send the message of my gun! Still she lies within her bracings, with her muzzle out to sea; And I stroke her till her steely shoulders shine; And she slumbers without token of the fury that shall be When the foe shall set his broadside on her line. Oh, my lady, my delight! When I swing you round to sight, Death shall follow, and your triumph shall be mine! 74 IF WORDS COULD REACH THEE DEAR soul, if words could reach thee, What message should be thine 1 New readings of love s hidden lore, From this blind heart of mine; New wisdom wrung from living, By death alone made clear; Dear soul, if words could reach thee, Thou would st be glad to hear! Dear Love, if grief could touch thee, How well thy heart would know The passion of untold regret, The helpless tears that flow For days unblest and weary Through life s too stern demand. Dear soul, if grief could touch thee, Thy heart would understand! Dear heart, if Love can find thee, (He knows the larger way), Then must thou hear the broken song He brings to thee to-day, And with the old sweet welcome Give solace to his pain; Dear heart, if Love can find thee, He will not plead in vain! 75 ON THE PLAINS WORLD-wide space, and the sky above; Open light, that no shadow mars; Earth is a star with the other stars, And heaven is near enough to love. Waves of green on an endless sea; Streaks of bloom, that are tossed like foam; The sun and the wind are here at home, And here the cloud and the storm go free. Royal night, and the veil withdrawn, Blinding glitter of starry spears; Changing glory of days and years, Perfect splendor of dusk and dawn. Earth s clear breast, and the sky above; World-wide spaces, and full, free breath; Here life looks in the eyes of death, And God is near, for the soul to love. "TO WHOM SHALL WE GO?" ONE Hand alone, outstretched, unfaltering, Can reach us, where our broken lives were tost; Ye, who stand safe, may scorn us as we cling; But oh! the Hand is warm, and we were lost! 76 THE LION CAGED FOR hours, with furtive, forceful tread, He paces slow, in sad disdain; His limbs by formless longings led That thrill their giant thews like pain. Or, flinging full his shaggy length, Fronting the bars, inert he lies; The frenzies of his captive strength Flame up, and darken, in his eyes. What moves within his soul, who dwelt Between the naked earth and sky, Who with his strenuous pulses felt The swinging sphere in harmony? What anguish of his helpless state Stills his vast bulk to sullen rest? Till some blind impulse fierce, elate Strikes like a sting through brain and breast! Some arrowy gleam of tropic suns, That quickened once his splendid might, Through all his troubled being runs, And floods his yellow eyes with light. 77 The cold, sweet breath of forest streams, Wind-blown between the vengeful bars; The lusts of Spring; the savage dreams; The ranging hunt beneath the stars; Strange living memories, dumbly voiced, They rend him as he lies forlorn, The strong brute spirit, that rejoiced In unveiled glories of the morn! So with his leap the prison shakes; And as his mighty head he rears, From his wild bosom hoarsely breaks The passion of his wasted years. Then, slowly, as the vision dies, The narrow walls, with conquering stress, Constrain him and once more he lies, Dull, helpless, stricken, passionless! Yet who may flout him? Still he shows A shape of power, as he were free; And fear still guards him as he goes, And crowns his ruined majesty. 78 THE HERMES OF PRAXITELES THIS Hermes bears an aspect too divine For Zeus light-heeled and trick-brained mes senger; We cannot fancy those deep curls astir In breezy flight, nor those calm eyes ashine With scintillant mirth and madness. How benign Those straight still brows! So fair a minister Was princely Gabriel, as he bent to her Who asked him, awe-struck, "Can such grace be mine?" From those sweet lips what golden message came, Forever stilled! The Heavens are silent now, Or only speak in wind and whispering bough. Now dwells the Word within no rhythmic span Of song or rune, but in the heart of man, Divinely breathed, it kindles like a flame! NOT IN THE HAND I LOVE WHEN for my sin Thou chastenest me, O Lord, And man must be Thine instrument of woe, In the stern hand of some unvanquished foe Place Thou the power to smite me, and the sword! Not in the hand I love, oft held in mine, For joy or comfort, through the changing day; Or if that hand must wound me, let it slay! That from its lost clasp I may pass to Thine. 79 THE KITTEN SMALL, sinuous thing, sleek shape of grace, Within thy drowsy babyhood There dwells that smouldering spark of race Which flames forth in the jungle brood; In thy curled softness lies asleep The splendor of the tiger s leap. Thine eyes a jewel-gleam disclose, Where lurks that soul of fierce desire That through the tropic midnight glows In two bright spheres of baleful fire. So Nature, in some wayward hour, Draws in small lines her types of power. Thy velvet footfalls, as they glide, Recall the beauty and the dread Of that long, crouching, sinewy stride, That furtive, fierce, forth-reaching head; We feel that deadly presence pass, The dry, slow rustle in the grass. Since in thy lithe, swift gentleness Such hints of power and blight are shown, What kinship must the soul confess With forces mightier than her own? What beast, what angel, shall have sway, When we have reached our utmost day? 80 A PRAYER FATHER of all who live, Lord of our destiny, Choose from the ranks of the brave, I pray, The friend Thou giv st to me! From those who have striven with Thee, And have met Thee face to face, In the might of Thine awful Fatherhood, Thy stern, unsparing grace. From those who have fought and won, And lightly worn the crown, Counting praise as a boon unsought, Scorning the deed s renown. From those who have fought and lost, And have wrested joy and power From the very hands of the conquering foe, In the bitter, breathless hour. From those who, in lonely days, In darkness and defeat, Have stood to fate with a dauntless will, In the strong soul s last retreat. Giver of gracious gifts, Lord of the life to be! Choose, I pray, from the ranks of the brave, The friend Thou giv st to me. RHYMES OF AN OLD HOME I THE PASSER-BY TN a cold, drifting rain, * On a dreary night, I went hurrying by a house With windows all alight; Hurrying to my shelter At a strange fireside, I passed by the old home, Where my mother died. There was my own room, Where I dwelt for years, Harbor of uncounted dreams, Of unreckoned tears; Ah, from its every corner Shall not ghosts arise, Moaning low to alien ears, Frighting alien eyes? In the rain, in the night, Sped I past the place, The lights of a stranger s home Shining in my face; With me walked the dead days, The woes forever gone, And the old house seemed to sigh, As I hastened on. 82 II THE NEW HOUSEHOLDER Who sits under my roof-tree? One whom I have not known; He dug not the old foundations, He laid not a single stone; Where a thousand echoes greet me, He hears no word nor breath, And the walls that to me are lettered, To him are as blank as death. Here I come as a stranger, Faring at his behest; Here he rules as the master, Greeting a haunted guest; For. as I sit by his fireside, Faintly I see and hear The light of a by-gone presence. The call of an old-time cheer. Here I wept in the darkness, (Hark, how the old griefs cry!) Here she lay in her beauty, She who can never die. Aye, though he pay the purchase, I have the right divine! His is the shell the shadow, The soul of the house is mine. 83 NOCTURNE HOW cool, how spacious, how serene the night! How the great transports and wide destinies Of that unbounded life to which we tend Now show themselves in glimpses! Piercing bright Those quick looks of the stars between the boughs. Flashes of prophecy. The somber trees Are massed in denser dark against the void, Vast spheres of shadow, where all mysteries blend, With subtle movement and with deep-drawn sighing. My soul, thou sleeping Titan, prostrate lying, Lulled by the day, now stir as if to rise; Push back the hair from slumber-weighted brows, And gaze awhile, with bright bewildered eyes, Upon thy kindred stars. O blinding gleam! quickening breath of Night that clears my dream! Love, in a prison-house thou holdest me Of narrow longings and enthralling woe. For once I ll say: Unbar, and let me go, To breathe a larger air! This hour sets free The slave of light and time but yet to-morrow 1 would steal back to the old love and sorrow! THE AWAKENING DARKNESS silence scarce a breath; Love is lying marble-still. Is it sleep, or is it death? Can the full heart pause at will? She who loves sits desolate, Whelmed in midnight cold and deep; While her very pulses wait, Asking, is it death or sleep? (Still thee, Soul! Whate er it be, Quell the passion in thy breast. Questioned, Love must rise and flee; Keep thy vigil; let him rest. Stir not, while he slumbers on, Till he sigh and softly rise; Then shalt thou, who deemed him gone, Feel his kiss upon thine eyes!) Darkness! But her gasping breath Cuts the silence like a cry; She will know if this be death, Though her trembling gladness fly! On her lamp s rim breaks a spark, Waxes to a slender flame; And her white face, gainst the dark, Shows, a mask of fear and shame. 85 Slowly moves the fiery blot Over flower-traced wall and floor. (Wake him not ah, wake him notl Love awakened dreams no more!) Slips the light, at her command, O er the fair extended form, O er the listless, curving hand, O er the pure lips, breathing warm. Is it sleep, or is it death? Ah, she knows! The white lids rise, Now unveiling, in a breath, All the glory of his eyes! Love upsprings beneath her gaze, Fleeting, flashing through the night, Leaving all the air ablaze With the radiance of his flight! L ENvoi Keep thy vigil, doubting Soul; Still thee, till Love s sleep be o er; Wait thy doom of joy or dole: Love, so roused, is thine no more! 86 THE CONQUERING THRUST WHAT wound smote deepest to the mightiest Heart That ever knew earth s loving and earth s pain? The thrust of Judas, who for trivial gain Flung Heaven behind him, and bade hope depart? The surging crowd s mad rage? The aimless dart Of swift, unthinking mockery, light and vain? All these, in sooth, might that great Heart dis dain, While Love, though mute and helpless, bore its part. But when Love shrank and failed, and three times played The dastard, was not this the sorest blow? Oh, not the sordid spirit that betrayed, Not the stern captor, nor the taunting foe, But he who flinched the friend who was afraid Wrung from those kingly eyes the appeal of woel IN OLD HAUNTS HERE, in old haunts, your dear remembered graces, Like summer blooms returning, come to view; My heart builds shrines along the wayside places Where I have been with you. 87 OUT AT SEA T TNNUMBERED waves, and unshadowed light! *-s Limitless glory, that fades to sight With the dusk, and the star-inspired night! Through circles of light and dark she slips, Under the arch-ways of dawn she dips, The one most precious of all the ships. Whelmed in azure, twixt gulf and space, She holds in her narrow housing-place A little world, with its life and grace; A pearl held loosely in God s strong hand, A sphere whose course is at His command, Alone with Him, till she find the land. My soul is drawn in her gleaming trail; With her I harbor with her I fail. Oh, ship most precious of all that sail! J know no life, and I find no light, Save in the track of her wave-bound flight I feel her strain to the winds at night! For there, in her narrow housing-place Is held awhile between gulf and space The One whose soul is my star of grace. 88 ON THE RIVER: AN IMPRESSION A RIVER of silver and azure, ** With gliding ships afloat; On the farther shore a city, Golden, serene, remote; With one fair dome up-rising, Dim through the tender mist, Like a stately, pearl-built palace, With tracings of amethyst. A boat, with proud sails swelling; Swift as a dream, she slips Through vistas of liquid glory, Between the larger ships; And whither else is she headed, And whither could she fare, But straight to the mystical palace, To the foot of its shining stair? Whatever the crew that boards her, Or the freight she bears away, She was set afloat as a pleasure-boat, To carry my soul to-day! For me are her blue sails spreading, For me was she launched and manned; Though I journey away from the river, Through the slowly darkening land. 89 She never will reach the palace, Her sails will never be furled; She will always lie neath a reddening sky, On the verge of a wonder-world; And the palace shall vanish never; And the low sun shall not fail To light forever the silver river, The dome, the sky, the sail. THE NIGHT FLOWER THE sun hath many worshippers: all day What fair great flowers send incense to his shrine, Forever turning toward his face divine, And drooping straight when he withdraws his ray! What delicate morning blooms unfold and sway Upon their tender stems for his delight, But shrinking from the first cold touch of night, Upon their soft breasts fold their dreams away! So many lovers hath the royal sun: But night, the sad, fair sibyl, hath but one. One pure and wondrous flower is fain to know The lore of her stern lips and brooding eyes, And, stung by that strange passion, opens slow. Shines in white fire of ecstasy, and dies. 90 A GUARDIAN SPIRIT THE years affright me, love, for in their deeps May lurk an ambushed woe the loss of you! Grief cannot wound me, while your guard is true; And while your soul keeps watch, dark memory sleeps. But, like a ghost, along my pathway creeps That dream of evil which you hold at bay. What shall befall me, should you slip away From my life s clasp? The sudden terror leaps Upon my heart, as some wild thing alight, Whose clutch is death 1 Then were my soul laid bare To all the sullen hosts of storm and blight. But while I shrink from that unnamed despair, Your tender presence steals upon my sight, With blue eyes shining through the shadowed air. w SONG OF THE SOULS THAT FAILED E come from the wind-swept valleys, Where the strong ranks clash in might; Where the broken rear-guard rallies For its last and losing fight; From the roaring streets and highways, Where the mad crowds move abreast, We come to the wooded by-ways To cover our grief, and rest. 91 Not ours the ban of the coward, Not ours is the idler s shame; If we sink at last, o erpowered, Will ye whelm us with scorn or blame? We have seen the goal, and have striven As they strive who win or die; We were burdened and harshly driven, And the swift feet passed us by. When we hear the plaudits thunder, And thrill to the victors shout, We envy them not, nor wonder At the fate that cast us out; For we hear one music only, The sweet, far voice that calls To the dauntless soul, and lonely, Who fights to the end, and falls. We come outworn and weary The unnamed hosts of life; Long was our march, and dreary, Fruitless and long our strife; Out from the dust and the riot, From the lost, yet glorious quest, We come to the vales of quiet, To cover our grief, and rest. 92 THE BRIGHT EYES OF DANGER BRIGHT eyes that draw me on To the brink of flood or fire, Now flashing near now gone; Spurring to keen desire, Goading to mad endeavor, Charm me, allure me, forever! Now as the eyes of a maid, Drooping, and half-afraid, Searching, as veiled eyes can, The very heart of a man; Vanishing, fading and then, Drawing closer, closer again, With a sudden flaming grace, To stare me full in the face; Now, with a daring boast, Laughing all fear aside; Now as the eyes of a ghost, Haggard, and frozen wide, Fixed in horror and dread; Eyes, however ye gleam, Ye are the lights of my dream, Wild as the marsh-fires, Flitting and dancing ahead! So let me follow, follow, Over all lands of the world; The deserts, barren and hollow, Where the waste rocks are hurled; 93 The swirling floods of the sea, The fields of storm and strife; Wherever the soul rides free On a hazard of death or life; Wherever a man may go For chances of bliss or woe, Waiting the turn of the hour, Watchful, swift, debonair, Borne on the tides of power, Finding all fortunes fair; There let me roam or bide To stress and toil no stranger; There let me follow my guide, The soul-lit eyes of danger Let me woo, as a man may woo his bride, The great, wild heart of danger! TO ONE YOUNG AND FAIR AS yon dark pine tree, sad with memory, Looks down upon the violet-blooms that start Low at its feet, and hymns with loving art Their gentle grace, in old-world minstrelsy; So I look down, most dear, and sing of thee, And feel thy beauty nestling at my heart. 94 THE FIRE-ENGINES HARK! As with clang! clang! clang! the iterant bell Strikes its imperial note, "Make way! Make way!" It holds the clamorous city with its spell Of instant dread; and dominates the day. Now through the startled street The rattling ladders swing, thunder the galloping feet; And in one wave of force The bands of succor speed upon their course. A man sits there; the reins within his hold Are as the strands of fate; his watchful gaze, Tense and unswerving, fronts the dizzying maze Of moving life before his speed unrolled; While his strong shoulders sway as if in scorn Of that relentless peril to which his life is sworn. The fight is on! Man s soul against the fire, In hot, exultant ire, Flame against flame two giant powers at bay. Hark! how the distant clangor dies away! Hail to you, men, that hurtle to the strife! Whether in death or life, You win the day! or, THE FIRE-FLY T) RIGHT on the summer dark, * Fretting the silver night, Flashes thy trailing spark, Thou flower of light. Where the white day-stars sleep, Folded in fragrant sod, Gay vigil dost thou keep, Small torch of God. Infinite light, that wakes In the broad flame of day, Sparkles in thee, and breaks In starry spray. Jester of royal night, Sport of the festal moon, Thy glancing, elfish flight Passes with June. Brood that an hour destroys, Mocking the splendid sky, Type of a thousand joys, Flicker and die. THE CITY IDEAL OVER the white, shining river, out on its utter most rim, Rises a marvelous city, jeweled with fugitive gleams, Vested in silvery vapors, stately and silent and dim, City of shadowy towers, city of wonder and dreams. Darkness may dwell in the mazes under her spires and domes, Down in her inmost recesses evil may shrink from the light; Sorrow and struggle and toil may be rife in her manifold homes; Clamor and clangor and tumult may startle the day and the night. Yet in her beauty behold her! Silent, gigantic, serene, Set like a vast musing goddess, shrined by the sky and the bay, Fair with a splendor prophetic, strong with a pur pose unseen, This is her image immortal, this is the soul of her clay. 97 WITHOUT END AS in a vision I seemed to see That the earth was weary, and very old, And the tale of the ages well-nigh told; And hints of sinister prophecy Breathed of an end that soon should be. I saw the blight of a final change, When Spring came halting, sad and slow; When age was silent, and youth was strange. And the lights of hope burned low. Yet there, against cold twilight skies, On a pale space of rock and sand, Sat two alone, with shining eyes, And warm hand locked in hand; And with brave cadence, clear and strong, Broke from the lover s lips a song: Dearest, the world is all made new for us, Dreams of the ages all come true for us, Nothing is left to fear! Never, in all the days before us, Sang the birds with so sweet a chorus, Never was Spring so dear. Love, all mine, while the years roll over us. Mine, when the snows of death shall cover us, Mine, while the soul shall be! 98 Mine, though the last June yield her flowers, Dearest, through immemorial hours None have been loved like thee! So, as they sat, the immortal night Wrapped the old earth in still delight And in the blue deep, clear and far, Sparkled a new-born star. THE CLOSING YEAR NOW falters to its end a wondrous year, Crowned with strange lights of glory and of woe, Splendors of memory, and prophetic glow, And all that makes life terrible and dear. The flight of mighty spirits from our sphere Has quickened all the air. With what stern bliss They to whom death could never come amiss Went forth, and left their rich remembrance here! Theirs is the history now of star and sun; Creation s music with their songr makes rhyme: While we, who feel great movements scarce begun. Hear the deep hours struck out with fateful chime; Nor rest until the breathless age has won The hard-wrought guerdons of tumultuous time. 99 THE NEMESIS OF GERMANY WHAT years, what centuries, shall cleanse your name? What from the scorn of men shall set you free? You, who have built of black iniquity The dreadful pillars of your house of fame. Echoes of agony shall prolong your shame; Dead lips shall tell your deeds of infamy; And all your savage hopes, in days to be, Shall die like shrivelled leaves before the flame. The bitter fruitage of your monstrous art Shall cease not with the ceasing of the strife; Still shall men enter with a shrinking heart Sad places where your ravaging lusts were rife; And stern decrees shall set your soul apart From all the kindly brotherhoods of life. YOU THAT HAVE WINGS LIFE and love are abroad as the birds fly; Wingless helpless how shall I draw them nigh? How shall I cross your flight, sweet careless things? See, I offer dreams from my conscious heart, Words of love and fire for your wordless art, Flame that leaps to the light your joyance flings You that have wings you that have wings! 100 "THE LEGION OF DEATH" (The Women Soldiers of Russia) THEIR breasts are free to the sword, They have challenged the dark undoer; And Pain is their liege lord, And Death their chosen wooer. His fearful pledge they keep, By his grim shield defended; He guards their labor and their sleep Till the high quest is ended. They have smiled in the eyes of Fear, They have scorned the idler s dreaming; No hope have they held dear, Save for their land s redeeming. Under the iron rain, Where bloom and fruit are scattered, They lie like flowers on the torn plain, By a wild harvest shattered. These are the mothers who fall, The race that here lies bleeding; Theirs was a bitter call, Theirs was a deadly breeding. That freedom may have b:th, That souls may rise from sleeping, They have slain the love and the dreams of earth The bud and the long years reapingr. 101 THE VIOLIN-PLAYER F PRESS you to cheek and breast, * My flower-shaped thing of wonder; You tremble to the unrest Of my pulses beating under. The touch of my bow is light As moth-wings brushing the leaf; You send through the wistful night Far calls of rapture and grief. You tell me intimate things In a speech beyond all art, For your strings are the very strings Of my own living heart. ON THE RIVER AT NIGHT THE city writes, in hieroglyphs of fire, The story of her life, Her stress of toil, her passion of desire, Her ecstasy of strife. Each night, on either margin of the stream, Her page of flame unrolls; And all along the wave, with varied gleam, She draws her jeweled scrolls. Her soul s appeal is flashed upon the night; While, writ in mightier lines, With clustered stars, in characters of light, Some calm, great answer shines. 102 LOVE IS DEAD T OVE is dead, they say; Where is he laid away? I would see him, stark and fair, Cut a lock of his shining hair, Kiss his lips, however cold, Poor Love, sweet Love, Who lived not to grow old. Love? We laid him here, On a flower-strewn bier, Yet he s gone, we know not where. Lift the pall, was he ever there? When his soul is fled away, His form will never stay. THE LIGHT SUPREME ALL the beauty of dusk and star, All the glory of song and dream, All the sweetness of things that are, The magic of things that seem, Are gathered in one great shaft of love, Of light and of melody, When the still moon, listening, leans above The great harp of the sea. 103 THE NIGHT-MOTH MY night-moth, my white moth, out of the fragrant dark Blowing in and growing like a dim star-spark, So swift in the shifting of your elfin wings, So slight in your lighting, as a flower that clings, As a boat to ride the dew, with sheer up-bearing sails, Pulsing and breathing, rocked with delicate gales, You gleam as a dream, by my window s light, My white moth, my bright moth, my wandering wraith of night 1 From the velvet screening of a great gray cloud, The moon floats swiftly, white and open-browed, Flooding cloud and water with her shining trail, Till the night shrinks, sighing, behind the radiant veil; The night, with her shy soul, to the deep wood slips Her shy soul, her high soul, shrine of all the stars; And you fly, like the sigh from her tender Tips, Athwart the shifting shadows, beating the silver bars; You fleet in the meeting of the dark and bright, My light moth, my white moth, spark from the soul of night! 104 PRISONER OF LOVE T"\AWNS glow and sunsets burn, "- May comes with melody, Vision and light return, To the clear sea; Spring finds a way to spurn The shackled soul of me. Bird-soul, that flits and sings, Wind-soul, that moves and sighs, Moth-spirit, made of wings, And flower with eyes, All sweet and careless things, Laugh at love s sacrifice. Night s subtle hours release Fragrance and witchery; Clear light and vision cease On the dim sea. Only the stars bring peace; They know the soul of me. 105 THE PORT OF LONELINESS T SAIL for the Port of Loneliness, -* Under a narrowing sky, And I must forget the wide sea-fields Where the far horizons lie, And the changes wrought in the hollow world As night and day go by. I sail for the Port of Loneliness; Is it an island far Where a little rippling harbor dwells Behind the white sea-bar, And the land hangs on the blue void Like an uncompanioned star? Nay, but the Port of Loneliness Where I have lost my kin, Is the port where the giant city calls, With its harsh and wordless din, Where the green water laps the docks, And the ships go out and in. 106 MY LOVE IS THE SEA MY love is the sea; she is tender and fierce and gay, She is subtle and strong in her grace, as a leopard at play; To those who fear she is scornful and bitter and cold, But her lips are sweet and her breast is warm to the bold. My love is the sea; she is royally robed and fine; She is sphinx and queen, half brutal and half divine; Death is her friend, he calls through her loveliest hour; His sword is free to her hand in her day of power. My love is the sea; oh, mighty is she, and strange! She is fairer than fire; she is mistress of mood and change; She has read the dreams of the moon, and their tale unrolls To her misty verge, emblazoned in silver scrolls. My love is the sea; she has sent her challenge far, Her voice is flung to the void, as from star to star; The great winds run at her cry, through cloud and light, And her breath is the breath of the spheres in the open night. 107 My love is the sea; she calls through my nights and days, In the wind-swept pines, in the city s sounding maze; And out of the throngs who have borne her a lover s part, I fling this song to her vast and careless heart. THE NEMESIS YE who were cruel, by will or reckless deed, Ye shall learn what your searing brand hath wrought; They who have borne the scars shall scorn your need, Though you be humbled in heart, and changed in thought. Lo, ye have brought forth Fear, and it will not die; Love shall flee your touch, though your soul be shriven. As a beast, with stealthy step and with muffled cry, Fear shall follow you, even to the gates of Heaven. 108 THE LURE THE sea loves him, and spreads her lure, Greeting him when the dawn is new; She, so wary, and passion-pure, Lovely and fierce and true. The tale of her jewels was never told; Pearl and silver under the mist; Sapphire, opal, dazzle of gold, Beryl, and amethyst. The sea calls him her nights ablaze With tangled stars with their alien gleam, With lanes of light in a moony haze, Leading him past all dream. His soul loves her, and will not rest. Inland, he dreams of her royal wiles, Sighing vaguely, and ever oppressed, For lack of her breath and her smiles; For the mighty push of her salty spray Over his shoulders, cold and strong, Where, "Come, beloved," she seems to say, "Why do I wait so long?" He will fail at last, through her fearful charms, He will yield at last to her careless art; One moment s strife in her strangling arms, Then silence under her heart. 109 THE WIND IN THE TREES T^HIS is the echo of the mystic sea, * Sent inland over leagues of barren ground; The Presence in the forest minstrelsy The spirit of all silence, hid in sound. THE WOOD SPEAKS THE wind goes questing; the wood speaks In its own intimate ways; And every leaf and frond, half hidden, seeks Its small insistent phrase. There is no rhythm, and no song, The speech is quiet and deep, Only a whisper whisper all along, Softer than sleep. Not as the prophet sea, whose sound Is far-drawn and remote; This is a friendly stir across the ground, A tender, searching note. As if one, leaning, took your hand, And said, "Will you not hear? I bring you rest, if you will understand; Come near come near!" 110 DATE DUE CAYUORD rco IN us A. A 000 625 857