NIVERSITY OF CA RIVERSIDE , LIBRARY 
 
 3 1210018389898 
 
 1 m 
 
 
 . 

 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 THE PERFUME HOLDER 
 and Other Poems
 
 THE 
 
 PERFUME HOLDER 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 CRAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS 
 
 /// 
 
 AUTHOR OF "SONGS FROM BERANGER," 
 
 "TALES OF A GARRISON TOWN," 
 
 "THE PROMISE, ETC." 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 JAMES T. WHITE AND COMPANY 
 1922
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922 
 BY JAMES T. WHITE AND COMPANY 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 TO THE NOBILITY OF ART 
 EVERYWHERE
 
 For permission to reprint various poems, the author 
 acknowledges the courtesy of the Independent, The Out- 
 look, Harper's Weekly, Puck and the New York Herald.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 3 
 
 MAJOR POEMS 
 
 Hymn to the Spirit of Beauty 39 
 
 Astrophel 45 
 
 Ode to Spring 50 
 
 " Autumn 55 
 
 " Winter 58 
 
 Diana and Endymion 68 
 
 Deformed 72 
 
 The Ever-growing Truth 77 
 
 Eugenie on the Death of Her Son 82 
 
 Resurgam . 86 
 
 In the Gloaming 91 
 
 Canadian Thanksgiving Hymn 94 
 
 The Hollyhocks 96 
 
 California 98 
 
 To the Poets 101 
 
 The Slumber 103 
 
 One Kin Are We 104 
 
 The Vision 106 
 
 The Birthplace of Freedom 109 
 
 The Golden-rod in 
 
 January 113 
 
 The Barren Fig-Tree 114 
 
 Questions of Life 115 
 
 To the Bumble-Bee 117 
 
 The Poor Apple Woman 119 
 
 Childless 120 
 
 My Three Friends 122 
 
 Thanksgiving Hymn 124 
 
 A Withered Rose 126 
 
 Betrayed 127 
 
 The Votive Rose 128 
 
 Society and Art 129 
 
 Lines on a Picture 130 
 
 "Just as High as My Heart" 131 
 
 The Prisoner of Love 132 
 
 In Memoriam 134 
 
 Robert Browning 136 
 
 To Sidney Lanier 138 
 
 vii
 
 viii CONTENTS 
 
 MAJOR POEMS Continued PAGE 
 
 Marlowe 141 
 
 Requiescat 142 
 
 Lines on Oliver Wendell Holmes 145 
 
 "Threescore and Ten" 147 
 
 To Richard Henry Stoddard 149 
 
 SONGS AND LYRICS 
 
 Hey, Ho, Robin ! 153 
 
 Written for a Canadian National Anthem .... 155 
 
 Love Leading 157 
 
 A Song of Summer 160 
 
 Saint Christmas 162 
 
 "The Springtime Lingereth Long, Love" 165 
 
 Fairies' Song 167 
 
 My Lassie with Your Eyes of Blue 170 
 
 Fair as Ceres Bearing Guerdon 172 
 
 A Song of the Dawn 174 
 
 Sea Song 176 
 
 Invocation to Love 179 
 
 My Lady from the Sea 181 
 
 My Sonneteer 183 
 
 Song for the Empire State 186 
 
 A Song of Hope 187 
 
 Cradle Song 188 
 
 FRENCH FORMS 
 
 French Forms 192 
 
 The Immortality of Song 193 
 
 The Renascence of Spring 196 
 
 The Coming Age 199 
 
 The Advantage of Love 202 
 
 Under Marlboro' 204 
 
 Ballade of the Sea-Serpent 1 206 
 
 Ballade of the Tailor 208 
 
 The Servant of the Muse 210 
 
 The Bogey of English Free Trade 212 
 
 Beranger's Songs 214 
 
 My Tricksy Muse 215 
 
 A Rustic Scene 216 
 
 A Perfect Friend * 217 
 
 The Heart's Voyage ' 218 
 
 O Sovereign Love 22r 
 
 The Vision of the Dis Debar .... 222 
 
 Triolets 22 , 
 
 QUATRAINS 
 
 The Quatrain . ,,* 
 
 .... IT- m m mm <J2O 
 
 The Universal Life 227 
 
 Standing-Room ....'.' . .' 227
 
 CONTENTS ix 
 
 QUATRAINS Continued PAGE 
 
 The World-Maelstrom of the West 227 
 
 Knowledge and Wisdom 227 
 
 Penuel 228 
 
 Evolution 228 
 
 Love 228 
 
 On Certain Academicians 228 
 
 Old and New Art 229 
 
 To Certain Critics 229 
 
 The Basic Force 229 
 
 The Conventional Parson 229 
 
 Midas and Company 230 
 
 Cave Canem ! 230 
 
 Pegasus at Pasture 230 
 
 Orthodox Liberalism 230 
 
 The Poets and Mammon 231 
 
 Sonnets and Sonneteers 231 
 
 The Shakespearean Sonnet 231 
 
 Poets and Poetasters . 231 
 
 On the Spiritual Barnum 232 
 
 Truth 232 
 
 To Some New Critics 232 
 
 Fancy 232 
 
 Self-Knowledge 233 
 
 True and False Fame , 233 
 
 Beranger 233 
 
 The Rule of Rapacity 233 
 
 The Profligate of Kindness 234 
 
 Traits of Women 234 
 
 The Invincible Sex 234 
 
 The Curse of the Coquette 234 
 
 Artificial Refinement 235 
 
 Woman's Heart 235 
 
 DOUBLE QUATRAINS 
 
 Life 235 
 
 The Iliad 236 
 
 The Press 236 
 
 The Years of Life 237 
 
 Human Existence 237 
 
 Truth 238 
 
 Shakespeare 238 
 
 The Humble-Bee 239 
 
 Hope and Despair 239 
 
 Faith and Love 240 
 
 Pleasure and Joy 240 
 
 BALLADS 
 
 Canada to England 243
 
 x CONTENTS 
 
 BALLADS Continued 
 
 The Bonnet Blue 2 4 
 
 Soldiers' Home 2 4 
 
 Good Saint Valentine 2 5 2 
 
 The Earl's Daughter 2 54 
 
 The Old Sabre 2 7 
 
 Lamond 2 
 
 On the Frontier 2 7 
 
 Devon and Drake 2 73 
 
 Mary Jane 2 j6 
 
 Blind Milton 2 7 
 
 Defence of the Long Saut 282 
 
 Goring's Ride 2 9i 
 
 Lady Maud 2 93 
 
 SONNETS , 
 
 Foreword 2 9 
 
 Out of the Darkness (3 Sonnets) 297 
 
 Britain and Her Colonies 299 
 
 England and the Armada 299 
 
 Belgium 3OO 
 
 Japan 300 
 
 Montenegro 3 O1 
 
 Switzerland 3 QI 
 
 Holland 302 
 
 A Warning to the Kaiser 302 
 
 The Lighted Liberty 303 
 
 The Half-Century Reunion at Gettysburg 303 
 
 Evening at City Point, James River, 1890 .... 304 
 
 Charlotte Corday 304 
 
 Shakespeare 305 
 
 Lincoln 305 
 
 Alfred and Charlemagne 306 
 
 Cromwell 306 
 
 Abdul Hamid, the "Shadow of God" 307 
 
 Garibaldi 307 
 
 Salvini 308 
 
 Othello 308 
 
 Irving 309 
 
 Booth 309 
 
 On Reading the Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini . 310 
 
 John Henry Boner 310 
 
 The House of Lords 311 
 
 Don Quixote 311 
 
 To the Moon-Flower 312 
 
 The Condor 312 
 
 Honor and Fame 313 
 
 Love and Truth 313 
 
 Wisdom and Knowledge 314
 
 CONTENTS xi 
 
 SONNETS Continued PAGE 
 
 Peace 3*4 
 
 Fortitude 315 
 
 The Unseen World 3*5 
 
 Humanitas 3*6 
 
 Personality 3 J 6 
 
 Duty 317 
 
 Science 3 1 7 
 
 The Tide of Time 318 
 
 Death 318 
 
 The Closing Walls 319 
 
 Life's Voyage 3 J 9 
 
 The Return 320 
 
 Grand Manan 3 2 
 
 The Water Lily (2 Sonnets) 321 
 
 Spring Morning 322 
 
 Summer Night in the Country 322 
 
 The Bather 323 
 
 Summer Noon 323 
 
 To a Friend 32.4 
 
 Love 324 
 
 The Conjunction of Love 325 
 
 The Security of Love 325 
 
 The Fortitude of Love 326 
 
 The Favor of Love 326 
 
 The Quality of Love 327 
 
 Devotion of Love 327 
 
 Immortality of Love 328 
 
 Constancy 328 
 
 To 329 
 
 To 329 
 
 The Ideal 330 
 
 The Ideal Found 330 
 
 To Astrea (8 Sonnets) 331 
 
 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 
 
 To Shakespeare 336 
 
 Homer 337 
 
 Chaucer 337 
 
 Tasso 338 
 
 Spenser 338 
 
 Marlowe 339 
 
 Shakespeare 339 
 
 Milton 340 
 
 Dryden 340 
 
 Pope 341 
 
 Burns 341 
 
 Scott 342 
 
 Byron 342
 
 xii CONTENTS 
 
 A GARLAND OF SONNETS Continued PAGB 
 
 Keats 343 
 
 Shelley 343 
 
 Coleridge 344 
 
 Wordsworth 344 
 
 Hood 345 
 
 Schiller 345 
 
 Goethe 346 
 
 Beranger 346 
 
 Hugo 347 
 
 Tennyson 347 
 
 Browning 348 
 
 Arnold 348 
 
 Bayard Taylor 349 
 
 Emerson 349 
 
 Longfellow 350 
 
 Lowell 350 
 
 Whittier 351 
 
 Whitman 351 
 
 Morris 352 
 
 Kipling 352 
 
 Mistral 353 
 
 L Envoi 354
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 A Persian Love Poem
 
 This poem is derived from a prose story, called Sehm 
 the Unsociable," by Arthur Kennedy and originally pub- 
 lished in Temple Bar.
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 PROUD Naishapur, two hundred years ago, 
 Inviolate from the galling Turkish foe, 
 Like a warm opal dropped from Allah's hand, 
 Lay glimmering on the green Khorassan land. 
 Girdling the South, the desert's sandy coil 
 Strangled the verdure and oppressed the soil; 
 But East and North the languorous noon-day breeze 
 Lifted the leaves of lime and tamarind trees 
 Over the hills, within whose broken row 
 The gleaming city watched the river flow. 
 Along the camel track from Ispahan, 
 Came tinklings of the nearing caravan, 
 Trailing its parched, dust-cumbered passage down 
 Into the market of the wealthy town. 
 Piercing the vibrant ether, bold to view, 
 A hundred minarets burned athwart the blue; 
 The purple roofs of mosques, like sunset isles, 
 Blazed all their panoply of porcelain tiles, 
 While from the walls the names of Allah shone 
 In many a scrolled and squared device of stone. 
 Color and light loomed everywhere; their glow 
 Burnished the booths and houses, row on row; 
 They flamed across the palace court-yard flags 
 And blazoned even the cringing beggar's rags. 
 The darkling ponds and fountains steely-cold 
 The sun's keen alchemy changed to shimmering gold; 
 And marble cupolas and awnings white 
 Flashed forth all splendid with reflected light; 
 While green pomegranate leaf and pregnant vine 
 
 3
 
 4 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 Gained prouder lustre from the teeming shine. 
 All earth was bathed in palpitating heat; 
 The sun-rays searched enclosure, lane, and street, 
 And streamed along the cream-white painted walls 
 Of gardens and the roofs of market stalls, 
 Spreading one glare of yellow radiance down 
 O'er hill and valley, desert, wood, and town. 
 
 High noon in Naishapur! the gay bazaars, 
 
 Heaped with their wares wrought under half the stars, 
 
 One ant-like, huge, conglomerate market made, 
 
 Coursed with a hundred throbbing veins of trade. 
 
 Yet the loud buzz of traffic even there 
 
 Sinks at the high Muezzin's call to prayer, 
 
 While so oppressive grows the blaze of day 
 
 That even the water carriers shirk the way. 
 
 A little longer swirls the busy bruit 
 
 About the coffee stalls and booths of fruit; 
 
 A moment longer does the merchant stop, 
 
 Claps-to the slender shutters of his shop, 
 
 Then in his flapping slippers homeward hies 
 
 To prayer, to pipe, to Fatima's dark eyes. 
 
 In the brass-worker's noisy, bright bazaar 
 
 Hushed are the chaffering and the hammer's jar, 
 
 And silence settling o'er earth's fevered face, 
 
 Soothes for an hour the throbbing market-place. 
 
 One man, a poor artificer in brass, 
 Stirs not as forth the hurrying vendors pass; 
 But soon as quiet breathes along the street, 
 Springs from his leathern cushion to his feet, 
 Lays by the lantern he had shaped that day, 
 Looks out along the cleared, deserted way, 
 Takes down the bowl of curds and loaf of bread 
 That stand upon the shelf above his head, 
 Hooks up a curtain o'er his small retreat
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 Which opens full upon the busy street, 
 Casts one more glance along the farther wall, 
 Then hides himself behind the portal-shawl. 
 
 One might have heard within that curtain soon 
 
 A tapping through the hot and quiet noon: 
 
 A strange man this mayhap for love of gain 
 
 He works mid-day when all for rest are fain ? 
 
 Such was his custom, and the passers by 
 
 Had ceased to scan him with a curious eye. 
 
 The gossips had no tale of him to tell; 
 
 They named him Selim the Unsociable. 
 
 Too poor for note of even the idlest there 
 
 Was he, and why he spent the hour of prayer 
 
 Behind his curtain, save for rest and shade, 
 
 None knew or cared; few were that sought his trade. 
 
 'Twould seem such anxious privacy and heed 
 
 Had little use; the street was bare, indeed, 
 
 Save vagrant dogs that strewed the shining track, 
 
 Like pious Moslems sleeping in a pack, 
 
 Snarling in dream, because the heated bricks 
 
 In poignant fancy smote them like the kicks 
 
 Of Allah's Faithful snapping jaws in pain, 
 
 Then stretching out their quivering legs again. 
 
 Who treads with silent pace the empty street, 
 Then halts and hearkens to that hammer's beat? 
 Well might you mark him by his furtive eye 
 A friend to Falsehood, grasping, shrewd and sly. 
 To Selim's booth he moves, he makes a stand, 
 The curtain raises with a stealthy hand 
 And peers within; the sudden shaft of light 
 Flashes a marvelous work upon his sight; 
 For lo, between the craftsman's bended knees, 
 Prouder than aught that Shah or Sultan sees, 
 With lines of purest arabesque enscrolled,
 
 6 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 A perfume-holder, rich as burnished gold, 
 Wrought all in brass, cut round with lace designs, 
 With mottoes graved between the flowing lines; 
 Of antique mould the base; superbly fair 
 The swelling bowl; and like a lily in air 
 The stem rose curving; and its feet were wrought 
 With cunning art from Indian carvers caught. 
 A miracle of rare and patient art, 
 Informed by genius ripening from the heart, 
 Such as might lift the incense at the shrine 
 Of Allah or of Mahomet the Divine. 
 One might forego all sense save that of sight, 
 The life-long master of that heart's delight. 
 
 You in the cloud-spanned, amethystine West, 
 Know not what ceremonious, prideful zest 
 The Persian in his mistless, azure air, 
 Brings to his perfume even as 'twere his prayer. 
 The perfume-holder, no effeminate whim, 
 Holds ever first and honored place with him ; 
 Drop on the powder but some glowing coals, 
 Lo, from its bowl the spiralled perfume rolls; 
 Dear unto Allah as the mingled breath 
 Of lovers passing through the gates of death. 
 
 To lie awake in one bliss-haunted dream 
 
 Where leaves are rustling and cool fountains gleam, 
 
 Within a vine-hung, lustrous colonnade, 
 
 While near, some large-eyed, love-enchanted maid 
 
 Leans, lily-crowned, against a marble jar, 
 
 Caressing languidly her light guitar, 
 
 Her fingers glancing o'er the shimmering strings 
 
 Like play of moonbeams on deep bubbling springs, 
 
 Wooing the soul of melody divine 
 
 From murmuring streams and groves of haunted pine, 
 
 Her bosom lifting to the waves of sound
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 That have in one delicious languor drowned 
 The outer sense, leaving the spirit free 
 To revel in one swoon-like ecstasy 
 And then to watch the pungent vapor curl 
 With man}' a slender and fantastic swirl 
 Swung through the vibrant music, till the air 
 Freighted with tinkling sounds and odors rare 
 Filters soul-deep within the fleshly mail, 
 Till, rapt, escaping from the body's jail, 
 The spirit issuing through its portal flies 
 To fairy realms of wonder and surmise 
 Such were indeed a taste of Paradise ! 
 
 Small thought of this had he, that sordid spy, 
 Who on the masterpiece cast curious eye. 
 He was a merchant, trained to every guile 
 Of trade, to fawn, to browbeat, and to smile; 
 Careful to hold, in every scheme he tried 
 Of fraud or rapine, law upon his side. 
 His talon fingers in their crawling clutch 
 Pulled forth the shadowing curtain overmuch, 
 And Selim, of his presence made aware, 
 Looked up and met the intruder's searching stare, 
 And frowning, marked the sordid ruthless trace 
 Of avarice on the man's ill-omened face. 
 Then spake the stranger with a smile compressed, 
 "Selim, has Allah made the time of rest 
 Too long, or given too brief a working day, 
 That thus you toil the noontide hour away?" 
 As some proud courser that with action grand 
 Tosses aside a strange caressing hand, 
 So Selim threw his head back at the word, 
 For hateful to him was the voice he heard, 
 And answered: "Surely little rest doth lie 
 With him, O merchant, who with delving eye 
 Looks either in broad noon or yet at night
 
 8 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 On that which others fain would keep from sight. 
 It naught concerns my business to attest 
 Wherefore I work at mid-day or I rest." 
 
 He set aside the wonder-work of art 
 
 And waited for the questioner to depart, 
 
 Whose sidelong, hovering glance was cast about, 
 
 Nor rested but to mark the vessel out. 
 
 He named a price, but Selim shook his head ; 
 
 "Why squander words? Tis not for sale," he said. 
 
 The other, following his practiced guile, 
 
 Answered with fawning, unbelieving smile: 
 
 "I have a friend, named Marco, from the North, 
 
 Dealer in finished brass, who ventures forth 
 
 From Venice even to the farthest East; 
 
 He'd give the price of many a lordly feast 
 
 For such a thing as this, would'st thou but sell?" 
 
 But Selim no persuasion might compel 
 
 To barter; wrathful to be thus addressed, 
 
 He locked his treasure in a cedar chest, 
 
 Then to the merchant lifted, one by one, 
 
 The simpler works of brass that he had done, 
 
 They were but few, till forth the chafferer went 
 
 And left him with his solitude content. 
 
 But he, the stranger, when he passed from sight 
 
 Of Selim's booth, his face set hard and white, 
 
 Halted, with fingers clenched and frowning brow, 
 
 And pondered deep, as one who frames a vow. 
 
 The swart Egyptian boy who lounged before 
 
 A rich brass-dealer's widely-swinging door 
 
 Watched with a keen and curious surmise 
 
 The wicked purpose in the crafty eyes, 
 
 For every gesture, every glance betrayed 
 
 The heart of greed whose hand would not be stayed.
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 A strident voice came, calling from afar 
 The hour of work; at once the clattering jar 
 Of hammers rose again athwart the air, 
 The seething throng poured back into the fair, 
 And through its alleys swirled the babbling flood, 
 Like buzzing bees a-swarm within a wood. 
 But Selim, through his resting hour intent 
 And keenly active, languid now, was bent 
 Above the brass-work, as though toil were grown 
 Distasteful to him since the noon had flown. 
 His hammer strokes, less eager, blow by blow, 
 Dropped on the brass, grew slower, still more slow, 
 And oft he clasped his brow and closed his eyes, 
 Bruised by the coarse discordant market cries; 
 Then with a start, as if in self-disdain, 
 Caught up the unfinished lantern once again. 
 
 It was a hot and glaring afternoon ; 
 Through the bazaar the hum like a bassoon 
 Surged constant; presently a clamorous throng 
 Came, booming with the beat of drum and gong, 
 While, blaring fitfully, the snorting blast 
 Of trumpets on the scorching air was cast. 
 The gathering scuff of many slippered feet 
 Came now low-rustling down the dusty street. 
 The loiterers left the shadow of the walls, 
 Lured by the shouts and boisterous trumpet-calls. 
 The hammer-smiths and chafferers paused as dashed 
 The flaunting pageant forth and by them flashed. 
 The last Shah's eldest son, 'twas bruited wide, 
 Was riding to the mosque to pledge his bride; 
 Next to the Shah, the first of Persian land, 
 And named The-Shadow-of-the-Sultans-Hand. 
 A royal graft on humble stock whose sword 
 Some daring day might make him Iran's lord.
 
 io THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 But Selim, hooded in one changeless thought, 
 Scarce heard the tattle that the gossips brought. 
 None sought to cross an easy word with him; 
 They deemed his silence but a surly whim. 
 He, caring little what was thought or said, 
 So that they left him quiet, with bowed head, 
 Blind to all else, held survey in his mind 
 One memory with his inmost soul entwined. 
 The incompleted lantern he let lie; 
 The words of rumor as they floated by 
 Blent with his dream: "The flower of Iran's land 
 Is his beloved." He sighed, looked at his hand, 
 Then from his ringer, slowly and in pain, 
 Unwrapped a narrow linen. He was fain 
 To draw still further backward from the sting 
 Of passing eyes. A tiny hammered thing 
 Of brass, close-twisted to a biting ring, 
 Around his finger showed, whose tissue, red, 
 Twinged to the pressure of the figured shred. 
 He wet the cloth, replaced it, while a chime 
 Of thoughts went swinging backward to the time 
 When she, pale lily of his heart, had stept 
 Across the doorway where his goods were kept, 
 And in a playful, blithely-mocking vein, 
 Had given him this circled pledge of pain. 
 Ay, he remembered, how upon that morn 
 He felt all wonder, joy his soul was born ! 
 How he had gazed upon her laughing eyes 
 As at a Peri wafted from the skies, 
 Fairer than houri to the bosom pressed 
 Of Mahomet in the regions of the Blest. 
 Except those eyes, each glittering like a star, 
 Hex face was veiled, as in the white cymar 
 She glided through the market; oft by chance 
 Caught the obeisance and adoring glance 
 Of Selim, sitting laboring in his booth;
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER n 
 
 And as she viewed the trembling rose of youth 
 Throw signal on his cheek, she smiled, again 
 Returned him salutation ; now and then 
 Loitered some moments at his little stall, 
 And then with innocent art by letting fall 
 Some corner of her veil, in hide-and-seek, 
 Revealed the sweet curved vision of her cheek 
 Of ripening olive, like the moon in mist, 
 And rose-red lips half parting to be kissed. 
 
 One day one of those few thrice happy days 
 That star perchance a lifetime his amaze 
 Burning his face, and hope still hopeless all, 
 Rallying his heart to Love's unreasoning call 
 She came to visit Selim and to buy 
 Some trinkets of his patient industry. 
 Lingering she stayed an hour; she bade him tell 
 The way he wrought the brass; with playful spell 
 Now drew from him the use of lead and pitch ; 
 Then took the die and punch and bade him teach 
 Her hand to cut the ductile metal through; 
 One little die she held, 'twas virgin new; 
 A tiny whorl the pattern was; she tried 
 To punch a strip of brass, while he, to hide 
 Her slender fingers from an errant blow, 
 Shielded them with his ampler hand, and so 
 As once the stroke she missed and still again, 
 Still he rejoiced for her he suffered pain. 
 At length she gave him back the die; he swore 
 With words of fire, no one should use it more 
 Except himself, nor he but on some gift 
 For her; then she, her laughing eyes uplift 
 To Selim's face, and with a doubting air 
 Mocking his earnestness, yet told him where 
 A kinsman dwelt, whose hand would duly take 
 The present he might fashion for her sake.
 
 12 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 Then did her mood to childlike humor pass; 
 Again she took a tiny shred of brass 
 And twisting it with pincers in a ring 
 Round Selim's finger tightly, tried to bring 
 Mischievously, across the strong man's face 
 A twinge of pain, and smiling left the place. 
 
 And Selim, never from that hour at rest, 
 Had shrined her lovely image in his breast; 
 A few more times she passed his open door 
 Seeking the market, but she smiled no more 
 Upon him, though his eyes with hunger sued; 
 That one brief meeting never was renewed. 
 
 Now his roused purpose to one issue ran: 
 
 Upon that day he straight for her began 
 
 A perfume-holder, lavishing his fond heart 
 
 Upon it; for it eased him of his smart 
 
 To feel he wrought her service, and to see 
 
 Its beauty heightening as some stately tree 
 
 Spreads in the desert when with the patterned whorl 
 
 He would its richly shining face impearl 
 
 With tiny insets glimmering to the view, 
 
 Fashioned to let the writhing vapor through. 
 
 One name for her. he had and only one: 
 
 At each moon-end, his task more nearly done, 
 
 He muttered as with care he placed apart 
 
 The gift, " Tis for The Star-of-Selim's Heart;" 
 
 The star that touched the wan, the lonely sky 
 
 Of his rapt spirit, and then passed him by. 
 
 And now 'twas finished every tiny scroll 
 Wrought perfect ; but the work in Selim's soul 
 Was never finished, but incessant beat 
 Upon his heart, while through the mid-day heat
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 13 
 
 The hammers with their clinking, changeless chime, 
 Dinned out their symphonies to unresting Time. 
 
 He took the cunning tool, the delicate die 
 That formed the whorl, and with a gloomy eye 
 Defaced its pattern with his file and cast 
 The steel, disfeatured, on the street, then passed 
 One hand across his brow to smooth its pain, 
 And took the unfinished lantern up again. 
 
 Even as he worked a warm Elysian dream 
 
 Closed o'er him like a sunset, gleam on gleam. 
 
 Upon the wings of passion forth he flew 
 
 To clasp her where, unknown to her, in view 
 
 Of fancy he had held her; next the note 
 
 Of vision changed ; he saw her vestments float 
 
 Snow-white through flower-strewn ways, and on her face 
 
 A pleading look, as one who asks for grace; 
 
 For she was now the seeker, and he where? 
 
 He knew not, cared not, nor could seem to care; 
 
 But down the eddying current of his swound 
 
 A veiled form came that told him "I have found 
 
 My perfume-holder;" straightway he was made 
 
 The perfume-holder ; smiling then she laid 
 
 Caressing hands upon it, and did speak 
 
 It fair, and pressed it to her velvet cheek, 
 
 And, like to Allah's blessing, letting fall 
 
 Her silk of hair around in shining pall; 
 
 And over all the night without a frown, 
 
 And the white moon and stars were shining down. 
 
 Then for one moment, through the hammered brass 
 
 He felt his soul, the soul of Selim, pass 
 
 And tremble to the magic of her touch. 
 
 The moment sped ; there fell low voices, such 
 
 As Allah sends to true believers, when 
 
 He whispers of the crooked ways of men,
 
 14 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 That called, "O Selim! Where is Selim?" Soon 
 A sweet known voice made answer like a tune, 
 "I will find Selim, for I know him by 
 The ache within his finger"; then the sky 
 Sank, burdened with the sorrow and the pain 
 Of blighted souls that on sad earth remain; 
 So, forth went that fair form that held the voice 
 Among them, seeking, till she found her choice, 
 Selim's all-constant pain: with that began 
 By the dream-power the building of a man 
 Like Selim, yet unlike; the half-things fell 
 And crumbled in the falling; but the spell 
 Kept on till, lo, the finish head to feet! 
 Then for some moments Selim was complete, 
 Sitting in the bazaar, his right hand laid 
 Across his hammer, and the lantern stayed 
 Between his knees; but nowhere now was seen 
 The Star-of-Selim's- Heart naught but the sheen 
 Of brass-ware, and the crowd that thronged again 
 The market, babbling of the marriage-train. 
 
 'Twas but some moments more and the bazaar 
 
 Vanished again upon an ivory car 
 
 He sits, the enchanting lady by his side. 
 
 Lo, she is wreathed with roses like a bride! 
 
 Bright as Ayesha in the Courts of Day; 
 
 Pearled like a dewy lily in the ray 
 
 Of morning. Like the Shah's his kaftan white 
 
 Flames with a diamond, a deep fount of light, 
 
 A Sultan's ransom; forth in .state they ride 
 
 Midst cheers that surge around them like a tide, 
 
 Drawn by a gold-and-crimson-harnessed span 
 
 Of cream-white horses, (such at Ispahan 
 
 Speeds the Shah prayer-ward on great days of state) ;- 
 
 So move they proudly to their blissful fate; 
 
 Flowers rain upon them and their coursers' feet
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 15 
 
 Stamp cloth of gold, as down the echoing street 
 They press unto their nuptials till a band 
 With him, The Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand, 
 Fronts them with challenge; straight a conflict grows-- 
 The prince hath claimed the bride tumult and blows 
 Bring blood and death : now Selim wounded lies, 
 His bride and jewel both the prince's prize. 
 
 Again the vision changed ; his memory fought 
 Against oblivion, for his mind was wrought 
 Still with his finger-ache ! Then she again 
 Is with him on a wild storm-wasted plain. 
 A ponderous iron mace he grasps in hand; 
 Forth like the mighty Rustem doth he stand, 
 Sheathed in full mail; to a tremendous round 
 Of burnished brass his aching arm is bound ; 
 A company of leprous devils shout 
 Against him; and amidst that evil rout, 
 Two Sheitans, fierce and terrible to view 
 As the White Demon god-like Rustem slew. 
 
 But the sweet lady, she has naught of fear, 
 She loves him ; to his wounded hand draws near 
 And kisses it ; then the Sheitans howl in scorn ; 
 While he, alike with love and passion torn, 
 Rushes, deep cursing, at the hideous pair, 
 And closing on them heaves his mace in air. 
 
 Then suddenly he woke the finger's pain 
 
 Stung him awake now in his stall again, 
 
 A poor brass-worker, his bright vision flown, 
 
 Unloved, ignoble, scorned, reviled, alone. 
 
 A laughing, jeering crowd around him kept, 
 
 For he had moved and muttered as he slept; 
 
 And lo! amidst the laughter loud and long, 
 
 The slime-tongued merchant, foremost of the throng,
 
 16 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 Faced him: "O Selim, your brave dreams must spin 
 
 From poppy-head, or some old potent bin 
 
 Of purple Shiraz! Those who hashish eat, 
 
 Like fakirs play thus to the crowded street 
 
 More strange adventures than were ever sung 
 
 By great Firdusi of the silver tongue." 
 
 Then pausing, while the brutal mirth ran high, 
 
 And Selim, too bewildered to reply 
 
 "I, too, can dream, though scarce of lady's lips, 
 
 And battle, but of merchandise and ships; 
 
 For, while in sleep I rested this mid-day, 
 
 I dreamed that Selim came and heard him say, 
 
 'Here, take thy perfume-holder I would feast; 
 
 Bring forth thy bezants, be thy name increased ; 
 
 Or sell to Marco, if so be thy will, 
 
 To profit thee and me; I'll drink my fill 
 
 Of pleasure; let me flourish and be gay 
 
 And kiss the maid that I have won to-day.' 
 
 Here sits my Selim mooning in his booth; 
 
 Say, has my vision spoken aught but truth?" 
 
 Said Selim: "All I sell is in your view, 
 
 I have no perfume-holder here for you." 
 
 The knavish merchant made him this repeat, 
 
 With crafty leading, to the crowded street. 
 
 Yet once more he began "But dreams are sent 
 
 From Allah." "Some, not yours" then Selim bent 
 
 His eye full on him, "I have these to sell, 
 
 If so that you would purchase it is well, 
 
 You shall have value just and good; I need 
 
 Money to-morrow; be the price agreed. 
 
 Or if my wares you want not, pray you cease 
 
 And leave me, in the Name of Whom be Peace." 
 
 Then did the merchant buy of Selim's art 
 
 Some pieces, lothful with his coin to part; 
 
 And took his leave, while Selim, richer grown 
 
 By a few silver coins, did little own
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 17 
 
 For merchandise, save what discarded lay, 
 The unfinished lantern. Now he worked away 
 Fiercely upon it, that his wearied thought 
 Might cease its whispering, and Time be brought 
 To mend his pace. So, till the market gate 
 Was ready to be closed, he lingered late 
 At labor; rising then with anxious care 
 He fastened tight the little shutters where 
 The treasured gift, his pride and solace stood; 
 Then paced the unfriendly street in restless mood. 
 
 That night ill-boding dreams without surcease 
 
 Assailed his spirit, crucified his peace. 
 
 That one short night seemed fraught with danger more 
 
 Than all the hundred nights that went before 
 
 While he his treasure in the chest had kept 
 
 In that deserted market-place. He slept 
 
 Fitfully, briefly, now that once he knew 
 
 A bad man lusted for it; then he threw 
 
 His clothes upon him; wandered up and down 
 
 The winding streets and alleys of the town, 
 
 Still ever passing where his treasure lay 
 
 Behind the palisades which barred the way 
 
 To the brass-worker's moonlit, still bazaar. 
 
 Up raced the savage watch-dogs barking war, 
 
 Leaped at the gate which held twixt them and him 
 
 As though they fain had torn him limb from limb. 
 
 A watchman with his lantern, on his rounds, 
 
 Drew near, attracted by the clamoring hounds, 
 
 Saw Selim, knew him, and passed otherwhere; 
 
 While he, with bodeful brow, kept gazing there 
 
 Between the bars, where one long shadow fell 
 
 Across his shop a lonely sentinel. 
 
 Thus aimlessly until the dawn of day 
 
 He wore the weary hours of night away.
 
 18 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 Scarce did the market open than his door 
 
 He opened too; then hammered as before 
 
 At the half-finished lantern; next took down 
 
 The perfume-holder, wrapped it, that the town 
 
 Might not view what he carried; then returned 
 
 All quickly home. With what the brass-ware earned 
 
 He clothed himself in festival array 
 
 As though it were for some high holiday; 
 
 Tied with deft hand the perfume-holder, too, 
 
 Within a broidered silk of creamy hue, 
 
 Wherein he placed a scented billet writ 
 
 In flowing verses when some rhyming fit 
 
 Had seized his spirit in the silent night; 
 
 This a caligrapher did fairly write, 
 
 With many a courteous phrase of love profound; 
 
 And various woven flowers the border bound. 
 
 Behold the eager Selim as he stands, 
 
 The perfume-holder lifted in his hands, 
 
 Apparelled fair, ready to play his part 
 
 Of service to the mistress of his heart. 
 
 The full fine head-cloth of white hand-wove stuff, 
 
 Broidered with glimmering gold and threads of buff, 
 
 About a cone of yellow camlet winds; 
 
 Below, a snow-white linen skull-cap binds 
 
 With narrow line his temples, showing fair 
 
 Above his bronzed face and coal-black hair. 
 
 His head is straight, symmetric, small of size, 
 
 As of a steed alert, and his dark eyes 
 
 Are lustrous like a steed's; an eager grace 
 
 Plays in the outlines of his mobile face; 
 
 The lips are proudly set, the nostrils fine, 
 
 The features delicate and aquiline; 
 
 His tunic like the turban white, each fold 
 
 Of linen with its waving lines of gold; 
 
 A knife-case in the silken shawl is placed
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 19 
 
 Whose graceful folds wind round his slender waist; 
 From far Cashmere to Shiraz shall you see 
 No statelier, no braver youth than he. 
 
 The messenger he gained for his emprise 
 Was an old woman, good, discreet, and wise; 
 But ask not of the look on Selim's face 
 As in her hands the love-gift he did place, 
 Or while he watched her dragging steps depart 
 To her, the sovereign of young Selim's heart! 
 He stood in trance while heart and visage burned, 
 Waiting until the ancient dame returned. 
 
 O Love, thou pole-star of all souls proud dream 
 Of bliss! dread ruler, passionate and extreme! 
 In thy closed hand are wealth, fame, life, and death; 
 Self at thy heart, self-sacrifice thy breath; 
 The clown thou makest king, the king. a clown; 
 Thou turnest cowards brave, and with thy frown 
 The man of blood is quelled; yea, even the clutch 
 Of avarice, groping for the overmuch, 
 Yields to thy smile and to thy promise sweet 
 Strews its blood-sweated bezants at thy feet; 
 But when a heart like Selim's owns thy power 
 He is all slave, all votary from that hour! 
 
 He stood and waited ; years it seemed went by ; 
 The glare of mid-day paled across the sky; 
 The hum of distant traffic ebbed away, 
 And o'er the hills the flame-born god of day 
 Seemed to halt yearningly ere, passed from sight, 
 He left the lovely city to the night. 
 Selim stood, waited; back she came at last; 
 There was no need to question her, he cast 
 One look between her hands where she did lift 
 Trembling to meet his gaze the unopened gift,
 
 20 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 Saying, "The lady by the Shah's command 
 Is wed The Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand !" 
 
 The words struck Selim speechless, he had known 
 
 One joy in life, a dream, his, his alone, 
 
 And he had drank it with a royal art, 
 
 Like Jamshid, till the wakening stung his heart; 
 
 His head fell forward, for some breathless space 
 
 The blow was deathening; ghastly white in face 
 
 He tottered toward the door like one in years, 
 
 Borne down with grief that scorched the fount of tears. 
 
 Grasping convulsively the brazen jar, 
 
 He found himself again in the bazaar, 
 
 The while with quivering lips, distractedly, 
 
 He muttered texts of old philosophy, 
 
 Groping for consolation, but no heed 
 
 Could give them ah, how often in our need, 
 
 When earth is black beneath the blackened skies, 
 
 They fail, those deep proud sayings of the wise! 
 
 Yet through his agony was woven a tune 
 Of words that clogged his tongue as 'twere some rune 
 Hammering its dreadful rhythm through his brain 
 And mingled with his bitter draught of pain: 
 
 "The Cup of Life with wine or wormwood flows; 
 The Leaves of Life keep falling, and the Rose 
 Whether at Babylon or at Naishapur, 
 Fades, and her garden mate unheeding blows." 
 
 These were the words of one in Selim's town, 
 Gone long before, a sage of wide renown, 
 Who learned the mystic law that moves the stars, 
 But yet whose soul, foiled at life's prison bars, 
 Testing the hollowness of earthly state, 
 Mocked sadly at irrevocable fate;
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 21 
 
 And, spite of fame and power by learning won, 
 Re-wrote the olden tale of Solomon, 
 Chanting the hopeless burden o'er again, 
 " 'Tis vain the life we live, like death, is vain !" 
 
 And Selim turned to work, because he felt 
 
 His reason totter as he slowly spelt 
 
 The branding of the blow upon his soul; 
 
 In work, unceasing work, he might control 
 
 The anguish of his heart, and so vain, vain 
 
 The miserable days that must remain! 
 
 He had forgot or had not cared to change 
 
 His holiday vestments; down the sun-baked range 
 
 Of the bazaar the whole brass-working tribe 
 
 Broke forth upon him with loud laugh and gibe 
 
 That bit not like the fangs of anguish grim, 
 
 Yet like a swarm of gnats they worried him. 
 
 Yearning to be alone, his soul was wronged 
 
 As round his path the coarse mechanics thronged 
 
 With mock obeisance, gestures rude, uncouth, 
 
 Jeering, as they pursued them to his booth 
 
 For little love they bore him. "Taunt him well! 
 
 Is he not Selim the Unsociable, 
 
 Too proud to mingle with his equals?" There 
 
 They crowded close to see how he would stare 
 
 For a dire chance had happened him: thus he, 
 
 Unto his small store staggered heavily. 
 
 His booth was plundered; all his wares were gone! 
 Far worse his tools! He could not think upon 
 Their loss. Their value was not great, but dear 
 Almost as were his ringers; misery drear 
 Drifted across him; only now remained 
 The unfinished lantern, but deformed and stained, 
 As though the plunderer held its value light 
 And with his heel had crushed it out of spite.
 
 22 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 A long time he sat, there in his little shop, 
 Still as an image of stone, his head a-prop 
 Upon his hands, a ruined man, bereft 
 Of all he owned most dear. To him was left, 
 When he a little cleared his mind to think, 
 (His cup filled full, with madness at the brink), 
 Only the gift returned which he still held, 
 The perfume-holder; now is he compelled 
 To purchase bread and tools; now must he go 
 And from the merchant buy a lease of woe. 
 
 Blindness and deafness fell on eye and ear, 
 Confounding all, nor grew his sense more clear 
 As he went stumbling to the merchant's stand, 
 The empty pledge of his false hope in hand. 
 The place of sale with merchandise was rich ; 
 Fine armor blazed from bracket, hook, and niche; 
 Sabres from Samarcand and costly shawls 
 From Indian looms were hanging on the walls ; 
 And Orient ivories, carvings from the Isles 
 Within their lacquered cabinets stood in files. 
 The shelves were heaped with stuffs of rich brocade ; 
 Mirrors of steel with silver frames inlaid 
 With jewels, glittering daggers, hookahs fine, 
 And all the costly wares of Levantine 
 And Indian markets crowded all the space. 
 As Selim gazed in wonder round the place 
 Coarse faces covered him with leering scan, 
 Fit tools of service to the sordid man 
 Whose slaves they were, and downcast Selim felt 
 The transient courage he had groped for melt 
 Whole from his heart ; his one despairing thought 
 Sowed desolation; things against him wrought 
 In foul conspiracy. The merchant now 
 Began with lowering and contemptuous brow 
 To underprice, to scorn, to villify,
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 23 
 
 What he had been so eager once to buy. 
 
 Then asking Selim what his need might be, 
 
 He told him he would take for surety 
 
 The brazen jar and lend him; sadly then 
 
 Said Selim, "I need brass and tools again 
 
 To carry on my trade." The merchant's smile 
 
 Changed to a cold and stealthy look of guile 
 
 As forth he brought a well-assorted pack 
 
 Of half-worn tools; but Selim started back, 
 
 Then clutched the things were his! Faintness did seize 
 
 Upon him, he felt his very life-blood freeze 
 
 And shrivel; distant, indistinct, and small, 
 
 Looked all things round him ; darkness seemed to fall, 
 
 And deathly coldness, blotting earth and sky, 
 
 As though the wing of Asrael brushed him by. 
 
 Suddenly loomed the merchant's hateful face 
 
 Close o'er his own, in horrible grimace; 
 
 Forth sprang two monstrous hands that straightway lay 
 
 Grasp on his brazen treasure and away 
 
 Bore it in triumph to a distant shelf; 
 
 Then rushed the hot fit on he flung himself 
 
 In rage against the servants wildly fought 
 
 Until his mind some little space was brought 
 
 To hear men's voices dwindling through the dim, 
 
 From faces that he knew ; these said of him 
 
 "Such master work as this is, cannot be 
 
 That foolish Selim's;" sure were these that he 
 
 Wrought nothing of the kind ; they knew him well 
 
 And all his work; he yesterday did tell 
 
 He owned not such a thing; and as he strove, 
 
 Struggling to right himself, they dragged and drove 
 
 Him forth, and nothing but a whirl was there 
 
 Of dust and pressure, anger, and despair; 
 
 Blows rained upon him ; one last cruel stroke 
 
 Brought blood he fell and then his spirit broke!
 
 24 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 She who had been to one unhappy heart 
 
 The lode-star of its being, sat apart 
 
 In the zenana's curtained privacy, 
 
 A married captive, never to be free. 
 
 But o'er The Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand 
 
 Some time she ruled ; the heart she could command 
 
 Of that fierce fighter in his pleasant mood: 
 
 A second wife in sovereign solitude, 
 
 All gave her homage, all her triumph graced, 
 
 Even she, the first wife, whom she had displaced. 
 
 The Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand at first 
 
 Was courteous and devoted, but he nursed 
 
 Higher ambition than in flowers to bind 
 
 His mood to service of one girlish mind 
 
 However enchanting, for his heart was set 
 
 On deeds of violence; he could ne'er forget 
 
 The feud, the blood-lust that was his from birth. 
 
 He was a bold, intrepid son of earth, 
 
 A graceful tiger in a leash of silk, 
 
 As mild and pleasant as the coco's milk 
 
 Till call for action came; a lion-hunt, 
 
 In which he scorned the danger, chose the brunt, 
 
 Or vision of booty and some vengeful raid 
 
 Into Afghanistan, more often swayed 
 
 The councils of his heart, than any charms 
 
 He found within the circle of her arms. 
 
 And she, poor lonely discontented dove, 
 
 Brooded on this, and dreamed had she through love 
 
 Been so far favored in her lot, to fall 
 
 Unto that heart where she was all in all 
 
 However lowly, howso'er distressed 
 
 By circumstance, by poverty oppressed 
 
 Life had been happier even with such an one, 
 
 Than that now passed with this proud monarch's son. 
 
 She was unlike the frivolous, tranquil crew
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 25 
 
 Who chattered round about her; often grew 
 
 Intolerable to her vivacious mind 
 
 The still zenana health and spirit pined. 
 
 But came distress far greater when, one day, 
 
 Returning from some distant, wide foray 
 
 Into Afghanistan, her husband brought 
 
 A captive home, who now held all his thought. 
 
 The superseded wife grew languid, pale; 
 
 Till, part by some new thought to countervail 
 
 Her long depression, part, that she consult 
 
 A famed astrologer, whose art occult 
 
 In all that region was most noted, they 
 
 Who lived about her counselled her one day 
 
 She should a few leagues' distant journey take, 
 
 The drear monotony of her life to break, 
 
 Beyond the turquoise hills and level land 
 
 That fringed the province with its shifting sand. 
 
 Poor lonely star of one lone heart! the love 
 
 Her soul still yearned for like that heaven above 
 
 The Frankish women sought she had not dreamed 
 
 That it had crossed her; its pale radiance gleamed, 
 
 A heavenly vision through her falling tears, 
 
 Fairer as loomed the vista of the years! 
 
 Bravely again she took life's burden up. 
 
 Hope flowered once more; she had not drained the cup 
 
 Of bitter vintage to its turbid lees. 
 
 She and her escort started as the breeze 
 
 Of early evening swept the fragrant glades 
 
 And waved the banners o'er long colonnades, 
 
 Ruffled the citron blooms and filled the air 
 
 With cool perfume and freshness everywhere; 
 
 Bathed with its dews the earth and purged the sky; 
 
 Soothed the hot valleys with its wandering sigh; 
 
 Fluttered the folds of shawls and turbans loose 
 
 And frolicked in the billowy white burnous;
 
 26 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 The languid city fanned with healing breath- 
 Ay, even awoke the pulse benumbed of death. 
 
 Servants and slaves upon the camels laid 
 The tents and baggage; others were arrayed 
 To take the journey, sitting on the packs 
 Lashed either side or on the mounded backs; 
 And, as a guard, to rearward and before 
 Some twenty warriors on white camels bore 
 Lances or muskets, and each hump around 
 Bright shawls and broidered saddle-cloths were bound. 
 
 From out the gate the ordered camels passed; 
 
 They left the hills behind then travelled fast 
 
 Across the waste, whose open length was soon 
 
 O'er-lanterned by the lemon-colored moon. 
 
 The guards from time to time their challenge sent 
 
 To plodding footmen on their passage bent 
 
 Unto the city; who when questioned said 
 
 "We are but home-bound miners;" some they stayed, 
 
 The last of these, some moments; at demand 
 
 Why they were journeying in that lonely land, 
 
 These answered humbly, they had carried out 
 
 Into the distant desert thereabout 
 
 A corpse ; 'twas of a man who, raving mad, 
 
 Had died in prison; this of what it had 
 
 Of worth they'd stripped; lo, now but from their toil, 
 
 With their sad recompense of wretched spoil. 
 
 The captain forward turned his camel's head 
 
 And told his lady what these men had said. 
 
 Naught further marked their travel; all next day 
 They camped ; at evening took again their way ; 
 And when at length arose the second sun 
 They left the desert, their long journey done;
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 27 
 
 And to the village straight their lady brought 
 Where dwelt the famed astrologer she sought. 
 
 The gifts bestowed, with courtesies exchanged, 
 
 A visit for the lady was arranged 
 
 To the mysterious man. His house was small 
 
 And undistinguished ; but within the wall 
 
 Was a rich room where he received his guest; 
 
 There hung a time-piece with quaint signs impressed; 
 
 An astrolabe with Chaldic figures stood 
 
 Which told of wandering stars each varying mood, 
 
 Wrought in Egyptian land; a conjurer's crook 
 
 Leaned on a table; in a crypt-like nook 
 
 Lay yellow parchments piled. The" languid wife 
 
 Wistfully eyed the man of learned life ; 
 
 A sage sedate, a form of mark and note 
 
 In Iran, where the beggar's frowsy coat 
 
 Clothes often king-like men ; his tall black cap 
 
 And ample flowing robe of camlet nap 
 
 Were of the finest, and his brow and eye 
 
 Majestic; for through gazing on the sky 
 
 And pondering deeply o'er its mystic lore 
 
 He much of its sublime expression wore. 
 
 Full to the waist, wide down the massive chest, 
 
 His sable beard swept o'er his saffron vest, 
 
 Lending grave dignity and benignant grace, 
 
 Softening the stern lines of his thoughtful face. 
 
 There stands a proverb long in Eastern ken, 
 
 That "no men should wear beards but Persian men." 
 
 The sad-faced lady come to seek his aid, 
 Took courage as his features she surveyed. 
 Calm, courteous, wise, he seemed ; she told him all 
 Was needful to the purpose; voiced the thrall 
 And endless hunger of her heart, and, too, 
 Briefly her history; for she saw he knew
 
 28 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 Much of the strivings of tried souls; yes, he 
 
 Was deeply schooled in the philosophy 
 
 And poetry of Iran and the East. 
 
 He soothed her famished spirit with a feast 
 
 Of well-culled verses, wrought for counsel by 
 
 Strong hearts to comfort life's extremity; 
 
 Down from the words of Solomon the Wise 
 
 To the star-gazer poet, who now lies 
 
 In her own city in unchanging rest, 
 
 The clods and burial stones across his breast. 
 
 The words of counsel past, ere she her way 
 
 Took thence, he told her he, the following day, 
 
 The issue of his search ings of the night 
 
 Would send her. She, too, watched the twinkling light 
 
 Of stars, that through the heavens unswerving kept 
 
 Their doomful path. Beneath them mortals slept 
 
 As though no seeds of fate within them lay. 
 
 Keepers of how many secrets they 
 
 Of human lives, revealers of how few, 
 
 Though their eternal witness fronts our view! 
 
 Alas, they did not to her soul impart 
 
 That one had called her "Star-of-Selim's-Heart." 
 
 Next morn in scented silk the missive came: 
 "To the Most High and Honorable Dame, 
 Moon to the Shadotv-of-the-Sultan's-Hand, 
 Fairest of all the fair of Persian land! 
 In name of Allah whom the faithful call 
 The Merciful, Victorious, Chief of All: 
 The Stars, O Lady, speak the truth, tho' man 
 Not always may their mystic answer scan; 
 Thrice have I read to-night the face of Heaven, 
 And thrice to me this answer hath been given, 
 These silent words of fate and mystery :
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 29 
 
 'A FLIGHT OF RAVENS!' 
 
 May it rest with thee, 
 O Lady, to interpret them aright, 
 And may they throw upon thy darkness light 
 According to thy heart; and may the peace 
 Of Allah, who alone gives souls increase, 
 Be shown to Thee. This is the prayer devout 
 Of him, the unworthiest of thy servants; doubt 
 Not He will send thee grace. 
 
 Written by the hand 
 Of Hassan of the Astrolabe, to command." 
 
 She, bearing these words with her, now began 
 Her homeward journey, pondering; still ran 
 Her thoughts along one line; her mind was bent 
 Upon the answer of the stars, that went 
 Ever before her like a vision blest, 
 Guiding her to her solace and her quest. 
 
 It was the chill and silent time of night 
 Before the rose-crowned, pearly-vestured Light 
 Loops joyance round the world; mysterious hour, 
 When Azrael comes with all his awful power 
 To loose the souls of men and women old 
 From their worn bodies, and in numbing fold 
 The fluttering spirit wraps and bears away 
 To realms of utter midnight or of day. 
 
 The camel-train paced slowly; rose the dust 
 As each broad foot into the sand was thrust, 
 And fell again full quickly, beaten down 
 By the damp air; a distant eastward frown 
 Against the sky betokened hills; the sun 
 Beyond the shade-land soon prepared to run 
 His course; the watchful guards from time to time 
 Turned in their saddles to behold him climb
 
 30 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 The hill-tops; o'er the desert's lonely gray 
 Paling for leagues beyond, the film of day 
 Pressed a faint outline; an uneven spur, 
 Dimly defined against the mist-like blur, 
 Breaking the outline, showed them Naishapur. 
 
 As the round sun flamed o'er the hills again, 
 Startled by that or by the camel-train, 
 A clamorous flight of birds upon one hand 
 Trailed from some object on the distant sand. 
 The lady, resting in uneasy sleep, 
 Awoke as o'er her swished the bustling sweep 
 Of wings, and from her litter watched them float, 
 Ominous and black, against the heaven remote, 
 New-lighted by the half-way risen sun, 
 Which o'er the pallid sky his splendor spun. 
 Flush to her mind, as from the written page, 
 There rushed the words of the star-gazing sage, 
 "A flight of ravens;" straight she waved her hand 
 And gave the captain of the train command 
 She must at once be carried to the place 
 Whence rose the birds of omen ; with ill grace 
 He turned to do her will, for now would day 
 The naked desert scourge with burning ray. 
 The slow procession wheeled, the distance spanned,- 
 And lo, a skeleton bleaching on the sand! 
 
 "O fairest lady," cried the chief in tones 
 
 Sore vext, "Let Allah hear me; 'tis but bones 
 
 Of some wayfarer, slain or gone astray 
 
 Here in the desert; others for a prey 
 
 Than these same birds have found him; doth abide 
 
 With him no coin, nor weapon at his side." 
 
 "In name of Allah, Merciful and Just, 
 
 Some of you men dismount and straightway thrust
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 31 
 
 Around him ; search each bit of cloth and bone 
 And see if aught about him may be known." 
 
 Unwillingly, and cursing the delay 
 Among themselves, they slowly did obey. 
 They lifted with their spears each ragged clout, 
 And with their muskets shoved the bones about. 
 
 "Nothing, fair lady, nothing," cried the chief, 
 
 Climbing across his saddle with relief; 
 
 Then set the train in motion, well content 
 
 To quit their tarrying. Soon thereafter went 
 
 Unto the litter one who lingered late. 
 
 No word he said, but with a smile sedate 
 
 Handed his lady a sere, tiny thing 
 
 Of white and yellow bone. Round it a ring 
 
 Or shred of brass, tight-twisted, bore along 
 
 Each edge, at intervals, impression strong, 
 
 Irregular, a little whorl, which she 
 
 Caught at as from the man of mystery. 
 
 She placed it in the hollow of her hand 
 
 And gazed and gazed, till in the slender band 
 
 Of brass she found the token yes, the day 
 
 That she on Selim's finger in her play 
 
 Had twisted it! again the constant gaze 
 
 Which searched her footsteps through the market ways; 
 
 Again the dream, the hope, the flushed surprise 
 
 That starred with love those dark and thoughtful eyes. 
 
 To this, then, he had come! Ay, well, alas! 
 She knew the tiny pattern on the brass, 
 And all in tears she scanned it; he had said, 
 She now remembered in his little shed 
 He, poor dead Selim, her lone worshipper, 
 The tool that made it, save on gift for her, 
 Should not be used; yes, he whose bones now lie
 
 32 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 Strewing the sand, beneath the pitiless sky, 
 
 All save this one, this small ringed finger bone, 
 
 Relic of sacred love, hers, hers alone! 
 
 The one cold token of the constant flame 
 
 That burned within his breast. O hour of shame! 
 
 This dry white bone reproached her! Witness now 
 
 Poor dumb starved heart the fervor of her vow! 
 
 Witness her tears and kisses and her head 
 
 Bent o'er this voiceless pleader for the dead, 
 
 Laid now upon her soft grief-burdened breast, 
 
 There, while that heart should beat with life, to rest. 
 
 The lusty sun stared fiercely, free and high, 
 
 When they had reached the city. The blue sky 
 
 Shone dazzling clear, save where some fine-combed clouds 
 
 Straggled across ; as they were souls in shrouds 
 
 Speeding to heaven; or travellers single-file, 
 
 Moving apart, as tho in fear of guile, 
 
 Wrapping their parching bodies from the glare 
 
 And dusty highway. The zenana's air 
 
 Unto The Star-of-Selim's-Heart was cool 
 
 And comforting, as, fresh from out the pool 
 
 Of perfumed water on the rich divan 
 
 She lay, and over her waved an Indian fan 
 
 Held by a favorite maid. The silken door 
 
 Opened, two little girls between them bore 
 
 A shrouded present, which by high command, 
 
 Her lord's, The Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand, 
 
 On her return be given her. Listlessly 
 
 She loosed the first silk wrappings paused for she 
 
 Saw surely 'twas some growth of royal art, 
 
 Even such a love-work as some loyal heart 
 
 Like Selim's might have pledged her. She unwound 
 
 The silk with wakened care, in thought profound. 
 
 Oh, miracle of genius proud and pure! 
 
 He promised her such a gift ; alas ! how poor
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 33 
 
 The man who loved her was; she had not cared 
 For him or his ah, heaven, had he been spared! 
 Selim's own self this wonder might have wrought 
 Selim's sweet self, had he not come to naught. 
 It wronged, insulted him; for daily need 
 Had bound that hand from such a lavish deed. 
 Faint murmurings were thronging in her ears; 
 She watched it glimmering through her mist of tears; 
 Seen midst them, the entrancing, matchless thing 
 Loomed indistinct, gigantic, wavering. 
 
 As her tears fell she wiped them fast away ; 
 
 Then seeing more clearly, something bade her lay 
 
 Grasp on the brazen vessel, while her gaze 
 
 Grew fixed, grew all excitement, all amaze; 
 
 Then 'gainst her breast she strained it with a sob; 
 
 And as her heart, rallying with mighty throb, 
 
 Shook deep her being all her loosened hair 
 
 Enshrined the perfume-holder like a prayer. 
 
 There there deep-graved the proof of matchless love! 
 
 Each scrolled and burnished strip of brass above, 
 
 Upon each ornamental fillet's round, 
 
 The same fine-patterned tiny whorl was found! 
 
 The same with which his finger, once, she bruised 
 
 And fastened from the die herself had used! 
 
 Yes, Selim's gift had come to her his love 
 Had found her after death ; ay, there above, 
 Even in the distant realms of bliss, new cheer 
 Must come to him; had she not grown more near 
 Unto his spirit though his outcast bones 
 Lay whitening on the desert's sands and stones 
 All save this finger token? But there look! 
 Graved on the brass his words, the open book 
 Of Selim's love the words he never said 
 In life his faithful message from the dead!
 
 34 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
 
 "Dove of my soul, thou white and wondrous dove, 
 My Heaven is with thee; nor did Allah's love 
 Ever send Peri unto suffering earth 
 Fair as thou art, O lily of fragrant birth! 
 Star of love's sky, rise pure and dwell apart 
 To sanctity the flower-land of my heart. 
 Behold the first fruits of my pledge to thee; 
 Queen of my dreams, be merciful to me" 
 
 That evening, from the spot the camel-train 
 
 Had halted on when day broke o'er the plain, 
 
 Saw the same sun, soft-barred with roseate streaks, 
 
 Dying away between the western peaks; 
 
 And as he /sank from view the low sweet breath 
 
 Of twilight sighed above the day-god's death ; 
 
 But swelled at night and through the star-lit space 
 
 A requiem swayed across the desert's face; 
 
 And as it wailed its dreary, weird refrain 
 
 Along the hills and o'er the barren plain, 
 
 Cast heavy handfuls of soft sand where lay 
 
 A dead man's bones and when the eye of day 
 
 Searched for them, lo, the desert held its trust, 
 
 Folded forever in its shroud of dust. 
 
 And in the night that breeze with plaintive sigh 
 Breathed through the lonely latticed turret high 
 That pinnacled a palace; wandering there, 
 Entered a dim-lit chamber, strewing rare 
 Spiced odors forth along the midnight air 
 From a brass perfume-holder such sweet breath 
 As rises scarcely at a monarch's death. 
 
 And in that silence a pale, tearful-eyed 
 Woman inhaled the perfume watched it glide
 
 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 35 
 
 Toward the desert; on her heaving breast 
 One trembling hand she laid; beneath it pressed 
 A silken case, which hid a little bone 
 And shred of hammered brass . . . 
 
 No more is known.
 
 MAJOR POEMS
 
 HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY 
 
 MAGNET of the exploring mind, 
 Joy of nature unconfmed, 
 Spirit of the ideal, rare 
 Artist working everywhere, 
 Posting on thy restless pinion 
 O'er thy imperial dominion, 
 Painting all the turning year 
 An enswathed planetsphere; 
 Child of Fancy and Delight, 
 Joyous, e'er enchanting sprite, 
 Thou alone hast all completeness; 
 Perfect thou in strength and sweetness; 
 Ere blind Saturn held commission 
 Thou hadst heavenly manumission, 
 Ere grey wrinkled Time was young 
 Jove with music tipped thy tongue, 
 And so dowered thee with charms 
 That he thrilled with love's alarms; 
 All enamoured of thy face 
 Straightway clasped thee in embrace 
 And the keys of Heaven and Hell 
 Yielded to thy potent spell. 
 Hebe was thy handmaid, she 
 Taught thee grace and favor free; 
 Told thee many a mystic story 
 Of Olympus' olden glory, 
 Ere the strife in Heaven began, 
 Or ere Earth's first eons ran. 
 Lusty Bacchus owned thy sway; 
 39
 
 40 HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY 
 
 At thy feet his thyrsus lay; 
 
 Other loves he heeded not, 
 
 Ariadne was forgot, 
 
 Turned thy votary and for thee 
 
 Herded sheep in Arcady. 
 
 Brawling Mars would pine and sigh 
 
 For one glance of thy bright eye; 
 
 He would lay his helmet down 
 
 At thy slightest nod or frown; 
 
 He would bind his flowing locks 
 
 With the blue fond-lovers phlox, 
 
 But to lend some passing grace 
 
 To his harsh forbidding face. 
 
 He would call thee "dear" and "sweet," 
 
 Sitting suppliant at thy feet. 
 
 Thou couldst thrill his heart with fear 
 
 For thy distaff claimdst his spear; 
 
 Made thy mirror of his shield, 
 
 Once the torment of the field, 
 
 And his blood-dewed laurel bough 
 
 Rested on thy mocking brow. 
 
 Thou has quaffed the mountain lymphs 
 
 Oft amidst Diana's nymphs 
 
 When the rosy fingered Dawn 
 
 Hath the day bolts fairly drawn 
 
 For the safforn vestured East, 
 
 Ushering Nature's great high priest, 
 
 When he comes in golden state 
 
 Thru his azure arched gate. 
 
 Oft in some sequestered nook, 
 
 Gazing idly on a brook, 
 
 Thee the rustic Pan hath seen 
 
 Full length on a bank of green. 
 
 Thy blown robes and floating hair 
 
 Oft thru fields and uplands fair 
 
 He would glimpse as on thy way
 
 HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY 41 
 
 Thou wouldst with the shadows play, 
 
 And his silent pipe would slip 
 
 From his curved, half-smiling lip. 
 
 He would leave the charmed flocks 
 
 Clipping still their verdured rocks, 
 
 Follow thee thru forest lanes 
 
 Down which drifted sunshine strains 
 
 In a mist of filtered light 
 
 Thru the dense umbrageous night 
 
 To the shy nymph's bathing place, 
 
 Where the caverned rocks embrace 
 
 One of Nature's hidden nooks; 
 
 Where the mild midsummer brooks 
 
 Loiter, loth to leave, and hide 
 
 Neath the banks their purling tide, 
 
 And the curtaining waters fall 
 
 Foaming o'er the moss-hung wall. 
 
 Still his soul within him burned, 
 
 When the leaves were backward turned 
 
 Of the poplars tall and fair, 
 
 Knew that thou wert passing there, 
 
 Caught the fairy fantasy 
 
 Of thy fluttering drapery; 
 
 And howe'er he still pursued, 
 
 And howe'er thy favor wooed, 
 
 Still thy laughter rippled back 
 
 All along thy shining track; 
 
 Still thy fairness lured him on 
 
 Till he some slight favor won; 
 
 Flower or love wreath from thy hair, 
 
 Or a kiss thrown on the air, 
 
 Or a glance of roguish guile, 
 
 Or a courtesy or a smile. 
 
 Lovely sprite, ethereal elf, 
 Thou art Concord's second self,
 
 42 HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY 
 
 Thou art Melody's mateless voice, 
 Thou art Nature's dateless choice, 
 Thou art Purity's inner glow, 
 Thou art Culture's outward show; 
 Thou appearest to the seer 
 Where no earth-born forms are near, 
 And thou breathest upon his thought 
 Till it glories, star-enwrought, 
 Thru the unmeasured fields of space 
 To the heavens high dwelling-place, 
 Till unnumbered spheres it sees 
 Hung in crystal galaxies. 
 
 Thou, queen mother of the Loves, 
 In thy pearl car drawn by doves, 
 Rulest o'er the human heart 
 With an ever alluring art; 
 Never granting full fruition 
 To its ideal or ambition; 
 Still compelling it to turn 
 Toward a lovelier something, turn 
 On the axis of its thought, 
 Seeking that still vainly sought, 
 Avatar of blissful life, 
 Uncontaminate of strife. 
 
 All unconscious of thy wile, 
 Careless youth, thou dost beguile ; 
 Following up thy conquest won 
 Each new-born, diurnal sun, 
 Till thou flash on him surprise 
 Thru some sweet-faced maiden's eyes; 
 With intoxicating kisses 
 Luring him to a heaven of blisses, 
 To the Elysian Fields of love, 
 Where the skies are gold above;
 
 HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY 43 
 
 Where the flowerets never fade; 
 
 Where no upas casts its shade 
 
 'Gainst the sun-down tinted sky; 
 
 Where the dew is never dry 
 
 On the petals of the rose; 
 
 Where in chiming silver flows 
 
 The brook, unbound by wintry frost, 
 
 And by dog-star drouths uncrossed; 
 
 Where the perfume laden breeze 
 
 Wafted from the Hesperides 
 
 Blends its murmuring with the bees; 
 
 There his nightly dreams are fair 
 
 As the soft blue-violet air, 
 
 Till with golden locks outspread 
 
 Titan lifts his morning head 
 
 And night's minions flee away 
 
 From the victor crowned Day. 
 
 But a fuller bliss hath grown 
 
 Than these earth-born forms have known ; 
 
 Thou hast still a nobler part, 
 
 Mistress of the poet's heart! 
 
 He shall limn thee as thou dost stand 
 
 Fresh and fair from God's own hand, 
 
 And the fadeless aureole spread 
 
 Of rapt sainthood round thy head ; 
 
 He, thy champion, aye hath worn 
 
 Thy bright favors, proudly torn 
 
 Thru the hard won, fateful day, 
 
 Trophies from the field away. 
 
 He hath been thy high-priest, he 
 
 Hath adorned, enfranchised thee, 
 
 And hath offered up his heart 
 
 On the fire wave of his art; 
 
 He will still contented dwell 
 
 Thou sole inmate of the cell
 
 44 HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY 
 
 Of his dream life, and hath borne 
 Oft for thee the cross of scorn. 
 As I too have borne for thee 
 Scorn and bitter mockery; 
 As thou, too, hast dwelt apart 
 In the fastness of my heart, 
 And hast whispered to mine ear 
 Words which none beside may hear. 
 Mistress of my earliest choice 
 Of the sylphlike form and voice, 
 O'er me still thy glamor throw, 
 Spirit, all to thee I owe!
 
 ASTROPHEL 
 
 (In memory of Benjamin Lombard, died June, 1915) 
 
 I HAVE loved life I have loved life too well! 
 For sorrow dies not, yearning will not cease; 
 I have loved life, the life of Astrophel, 
 Of Astrophel, who lieth now at peace; 
 Peace from world care and wasting ills increase; 
 Free from Earth's galling ill requited toil ; 
 
 One with the thousand stars of artist Greece; 
 Reprieved from niggard Fortune's cumbering moil, 
 And chill despondent doubts that did his genius foil. 
 
 I scarce can sense he has renounced our life; 
 
 Spring lingers with her trophies; birds and trees 
 And bourgeoning flowers are with earth-rapture rife, 
 
 Their sentient perfumes load the rhythmed breeze. 
 
 My heart should hold in tune with all of these; 
 It should with that warm ravishment accord; 
 
 Why drain this bitter potion to the lees 
 While he triumphant stands with spirits adored, 
 Elect of earth and Heaven who waiteth on the Lord? 
 
 Philosophy, wise mentor, grant me balm! 
 
 Alas, I gain small comfort from your book; 
 I seem as life shows round me, careless, calm; 
 
 I would not aught should on my sorrow look. 
 
 Even by my dearest friends I am mistook; 
 Something has gone from day I know not where; 
 
 And yet the sunbeam flickers on the brook; 
 
 45
 
 46 ASTROPHEL 
 
 Music and happy voices thrill the air, 
 
 And summer dawns in pride and life blooms lush and fair. 
 
 Why here have chosen, Death? there are enough 
 
 Of passing souls to glut thy greedy hand; 
 Blood streams in torrents, rivers, and the stuff 
 
 Of carnage reeks to Heaven from every land; 
 
 On every side thy sable plumes are fanned; 
 The beautiful, the gifted, brave go down 
 
 Daily to that mysterious, shadowed strand 
 That lies beyond the country-side and town; 
 That hides so much of love, dream, promise, hope, renown. 
 
 They all are thine that press of stagnant souls 
 
 Alien to claim on Heaven ; knaves, dolts and fools 
 Cumbering the earth ; blind, burrowing money moles ; 
 
 Rakes lingering on their late repentance stools; 
 
 There fails no plethora of men whose rules 
 Of life outbrave the tiger and the pike; 
 
 Untamed by pity and untaught by schools 
 Of love or duty; each and all alike 
 Preying on weakened life and seeking where to strike. 
 
 Then to choose him the purity of whose life 
 
 Was rainbowed, Ariel rescued from the pine; 
 Whose spirit soared above this world of strife 
 
 Even as a falcon loosened from its line; 
 
 Who quaffed all beauty as a youth drains wine; 
 Thirsted for knowledge as a saint for God; 
 
 Whose soul was keyed to harmonies divine, 
 Climbing those minstrel marches few have trod, 
 Plucking rare flowers of song from that Olympian sod. 
 
 I mourn for Astrophel ah, none is left 
 To take his place, the Muse's darling son!
 
 ASTROPHEL 47 
 
 The world unknowing him, is still bereft 
 
 Of all the dazzling themes he might have done. 
 Yet he his finished course has proudly run, 
 
 Nor truckled to a crass, material time; 
 
 Yes, he to valorous laurelled heights had won 
 
 In the glad workday of his youthful prime: 
 
 Now naught remains except to grace his corse with rhyme. 
 
 For he loved books and could with practiced pen 
 
 Clothe balanced thought in lucid shining phrase; 
 The mounts of song were captured in his ken 
 
 From Palestrina to these full-sounding days; 
 
 While his own lyre was strung to magic lays 
 Such as lend wings to man ; like him who smote 
 
 Sublime the storied Lied, his genius sways 
 The variant turns of the vibrating note, 
 Till thru the ethereal field those heaven-tuned echoes float. 
 
 And they are of the heritage of man's soul; 
 
 Part of the temple structure of that art 
 Which o'er unnamed emotion takes control, 
 
 The spirit sailing on without a chart; 
 
 He held no claim or dealing with the mart 
 That over lesser natures makes demand ; 
 
 Love, Pathos, Aspiration, played their part; 
 Those proud familiars came at his command, 
 Which he controlled with strenuous soul and plastic hand. 
 
 He lived for art for more he lived to me. 
 
 I scarce can think that he has passed beyond; 
 The genial tone, the voiced thought high and free, 
 
 The aeolian life of which all hearts were fond, 
 
 The gentle presence, drew me with a bond 
 Time cannot alter, circumstance replace; 
 
 That natural dignity his soul had donned
 
 48 ASTROPHEL 
 
 Stood lightened by its loveliness and grace, 
 
 With Mozart's winning smile and clean cut cameo face. 
 
 Even now I see him he comes thru the door 
 
 With hat in hand and book beneath his arm; 
 The lithe, light tread on the unthinking floor, 
 
 The room all brightened, breathing forth his charm; 
 
 He seemed a creature no ill thing could harm; 
 So kind, so courteous, loving, debonaire; 
 
 I heard no threatening of that dire alarm 
 That could dissolve such sweetness into air; 
 No thought but Heaven to me would still that largesse spare. 
 
 And yet and yet who knows, ah me, who knows! 
 
 It must be as the soldier falls to-day, 
 Striking for country, home, whose life blood flows 
 
 Across the front of his unconscious clay, 
 
 Spurning rich life that Freedom shall make way, 
 So has he fought his fight and held his stand 
 
 On art, his art, which shall at last bear sway; 
 And that transcendent song that he had planned 
 Survive, a torso prized, wrought by a master's hand. 
 
 If so, no traffic hold with vain regret; 
 
 Let us cheer Sorrow from our doors ; still burn 
 The incense of our love, and proudly set 
 
 Remembrance high with chant and flowering urn; 
 
 He left his heart behind him, let us turn 
 To those brave melodies struck for after time; 
 
 The deer has not more passion for the fern 
 Than that fine gallant soul for the sublime; 
 Now, now, perchance, enthralled by some celestial chime. 
 
 Seek him not then, O Kin-folk, in the grave! 
 That which you wept escaped, it is not there;
 
 ASTROPHEL 49 
 
 Invoke his song, it is his message brave, 
 
 His best of earth which we who loved him share. 
 In that his immortality shines fair; 
 
 That is his aureole, 'tis his heavenly crown; 
 
 That is his trust to earth which Time shall spare; 
 
 Death threats not that, howe'er on all he frown; 
 
 Abashed before a claim his power may not put down. 
 
 My plaint fails earth-bound but the end is peace. 
 
 The clouds disperse, the showers of grief are past ; 
 The tears, the sighs, the vain regrets shall cease, 
 
 The treasured memories shine, we hold them fast; 
 
 Doubt and despondency behind are cast; 
 For Astrophel inhabiteth his star, 
 
 The star of immortality ; at last 
 The beam breaks o'er us from that realm afar, 
 Which Fate nor Death may shock, nor Time nor Custom 
 mar.
 
 ODE TO SPRING 
 
 BLITHE Flora, goddess of the opening year, 
 Queen of the birth of love and warm desire 
 Youngest of sovereigns of this variant sphere, 
 Thou who had'st Pan for brother, Jove for sire, 
 Fairest earth patron of the heavenly choir, 
 Blest harbinger of plenty and increase, 
 
 Bright incense-bringer, vestal of the fire, 
 Priestess of life and joyance, beauty, peace, 
 Bearing within thy robes the balm for cares surcease; 
 
 Thou, the adored of Earth, boon Nature's hope; 
 
 Joy of the winter prisoned and winter marred; 
 Who settest all hearts aflame, giv'st prescience scope, 
 
 Wings to the venturous spirit, to the bard 
 
 His hippogriff of Fancy; guide and guard 
 Of every live thing that exalts thy reign; 
 
 Urging thy forest children, stripped and scarred, 
 To cloak their naked limbs with leaves again ; 
 Coaxing Earth's timid flowers to smile o'er hill and plain ;- 
 
 Mother of all winged things, what time the brooks 
 
 Unloose themselves from Winter's hampering chain; 
 Gathering in windy pines the clamorous rooks, 
 
 And scattering balms and scents o'er hill and plain; 
 
 Who dost the budding emerald life sustain 
 To its full flower in Summer's lordly pride, 
 
 And o'er their tender lives thy tents maintain 
 Of clouds and rains, and spreadest far and wide 
 Thy spangled web of dews across the country-side; 
 
 So
 
 ODE TO SPRING 51 
 
 Thou who athwart the winter-conquered earth, 
 
 The ice-bound streams, the desolated land, 
 Sweep 'st on thy air-borne car, with kindly mirth 
 
 Thy fragrant largesse scattering on each hand; 
 
 Blessing the Earth's and Sun's new marriage band; 
 Coursing the fiends of Winter to their lairs; 
 
 Who, like the Virgin Mother still dost stand 
 Agent of Resurrection, Queen of Prayers; 
 List him who greets thy reign and all thy bounty shares! 
 
 Hearken to him who loved thee while a boy, 
 
 Ay, with intensest passion, and who keeps 
 The memories ever of that childhood joy 
 
 Thru manhood's cares, decline, and barren deeps; 
 
 Yea, even to-day his spirit sings and leaps 
 To view thy breath awakening the trees ; 
 
 To hear thy forces mustering, as sweeps 
 Thy airy chariot o'er the woods and leas, 
 With all the South in train and murmuring down the breeze. 
 
 Long has the Mother waited deep, close down 
 
 Within her breast she hides her children frail; 
 Above their sentient germs she spreads her gown 
 
 Of leaves to fence them from the frost and gale. 
 
 The patient Fosterer knows thou wilt not fail; 
 She wards with care her weaklings all from scath ; 
 
 Let Winter do his worst, she will not quail, 
 Although he lash her in his churlish wrath 
 And o'er her prostrate pride urge his unpitying path. 
 
 Oh, how her heart rejoices when thy horn 
 
 Is wound by boisterous March across the hills, 
 
 While wavering Winter, baffled and outworn, 
 Withdraws from his wide theatre of ills; 
 While all his ensigns, hanging from the sills,
 
 52 ODE TO SPRING 
 
 Are by thy breath blown forth in clouds and rain 
 
 To speed thy triumph, to feed full the rills 
 Which, now enfranchised, leap down hill and plain 
 And shout their joyous news to river, lake, and main. 
 
 Within the star-pranked palace of the skies, 
 
 The young moon on thy arm, thou lov'st to rest, 
 While the warm South-Wind on thy mandate flies 
 
 Urging thy rule to North and East and West; 
 
 While Winter's legions, smitten and sorely pressed, 
 Shriek through each mountain pass in forced retreat; 
 
 While from Earth's late mute, desolated breast 
 Rise sounds of life and joy and odors sweet, 
 Distilled by Heaven's own dew and borne by zephyrs' feet. 
 
 Sweet April, child of sunshine and of tears, 
 
 Attends thee with her violets; jocund May 
 Comes ever smiling through the cycled years, 
 
 Her daisies and her hawthorn flowers to lay 
 
 Upon thine altar; regal June, alway 
 Garlands thy brow with roses till thy child, 
 
 Gay, wanton Summer, flaunts her sumptuous way 
 O'er hill and holt, o'er every field and wild, 
 And vainly would outcharm the hearts by thee beguiled. 
 
 Fair, faithful harbinger of fruitful life, 
 
 What were this Earth deprived thee? What were noon 
 Without the dawning? Winter's toil and strife 
 
 How borne without the promise of thy boon? 
 
 Thy clouds, thy rains, thy blooms, the bubbling rune 
 Of brooks, the diapason of the trees, 
 
 The hum of insect life, the varied tune 
 Of birds, the buzzing of the questing bees, 
 And all the pageantry of life thou lead'st across the leas.
 
 ODE TO SPRING 53 
 
 And he whose soul was to thy flowers allied, 
 
 Sweet minstrel, with thy promise in his heart; 
 In his own Spring, in his rapt dream and pride 
 
 Of genius struck by Death's untimely dart; 
 
 Lover of books and beauty and that art 
 To which he gave his best, now lieth low, 
 
 Even as thyself wilt lie the tears that start 
 Are for no vulgar earth ; no pomp or show 
 Of kings might honor him whose worth I once did know. 
 
 'Twere fitting that his dream should close with thine, 
 
 Like Keats's, and the fevered heart which yearned 
 To sound the depths of that emotioned sea 
 
 Of rhythm, that surging thru his spirit burned, 
 
 Or when, like Orpheus, his fancy turned 
 To magic measures, charming old and young, 
 
 Giving in plenteous store the love he earned 
 Back to those friends for whose delight he sung, 
 Even now cut down when Fame had her first chaplet flung. 
 
 Let me, too, pass as he did, in thy time; 
 
 My own Spring long has withered, and that fame 
 Which comes of work well wrought, the wreath sublime 
 
 Of Poesy, has never crowned my name. 
 
 Yet would I pass like him, devoid of blame, 
 Of selfish, sordid passion. Goddess, hear 
 
 Keep thou my heart like thine! let me still claim 
 The love and joyance of the opening year; 
 Thy dauntless strife 'gainst Time, thy soul's unfailing cheer ! 
 
 Yet, Goddess, what are passing lives to thee! 
 
 Mother and nurse of every living thing, 
 Thy endless chain of years, thy agency 
 
 Remains the same, tho all man's pride takes wing; 
 
 Ever thou buildest for the garnering;
 
 54 ODE TO SPRING 
 
 Thy rains, thy dews, thy beams impartial fall; 
 
 Ay, every year thy birds of promise sing 
 To usher in the Summer's carnival; 
 Love, Life, Hope, Liberty enswathing all.
 
 ODE TO AUTUMN 
 
 DAUGHTER of Ceres, round whose wain-like car 
 Vine- wreathed nymphs and goat-hoofed satyrs dance ; 
 When down the twilight deeps the Evening Star 
 Casts her pale glimmer o'er thy realm's expanse; 
 ,Or when the Harvest Moon with mellow glance 
 Is hung thy lantern in the fields of air; 
 
 Or when the cohorts of the Morn advance 
 With brazen standard and with lances' flare, 
 Queen of the plenteous time, still is thy presence fair! 
 
 Thou art not crowned with blooms like siren Spring, 
 
 Nor with voluptuous Summer's glories dight; 
 But late the birds within thy bowers sing, 
 
 And thou hast days of lingering cool delight; 
 
 And thou with gracious and benignant might 
 Art matron o'er earth's tilled and garnered store; 
 
 Her fruits of gold, green, russet, purple, white, 
 Her heaped up treasures of the threshing floor, 
 The frothed October brew and wine-vats brimming o'er. 
 
 And thou too hast a glory all thine own, 
 The wampum of the woods, the violet skies ; 
 
 The barley rippling as the wind is blown 
 Along the northland marches; the rich prize 
 Of yellow pumpkins, sprawling huge of size; 
 
 The tasseled silken plumes of soldier maize; 
 
 The grapes dark ruddy with their vintage dyes; 
 
 The blushing peaches, and the pear which sways 
 
 Its brown-enameled gold o'er the close orchard ways. 
 
 55
 
 56 ODE TO AUTUMN 
 
 Oh, Autumn, where is now thy regal worth ? 
 
 Sad palmer queen in Nature's amice gray, 
 'Tis bleak November, all thy pride of birth 
 
 Is folded mutely from the view of day ! 
 
 Vainly the foliage thou wouldst overlay 
 With pigments of thy sundown painted skies; 
 
 For while the trees their liveried pomp display 
 Of gala tints and variegated dyes, 
 Winter to fragments rends their cloaks with taunting cries. 
 
 Yes, Winter, thy fell rival, now will turn 
 
 Thy whispering verdure into howling waste, 
 And choke the pregnant flow of Plenty's urn, 
 
 And clog the streams with firm and shining paste; 
 
 Across the northern moors he maketh haste, 
 Behind his coursers, furious, fleet, and pale, 
 
 In ermine robes and hoary terrors graced, 
 With shrouded messengers of sleet and hail, 
 His javelined, ghostly scouts who guide the impending gale. 
 
 What if the impatient North winds round thee blow 
 
 Their hoarse-tongued trumpets as their King draws 
 
 near, 
 Thou still wilt triumph, tho with manes of snow 
 
 The steeds of Boreas sweep in wild career ; 
 
 Ay, when he hurls his stealthy icy spear 
 Far o'er the dun waste and the shivering wold, 
 
 Nature in dumb defiance, grim and sere, 
 Fenced by thy foresight from the invading cold, 
 Scorns his unkemped rage, ruthless and over bold. 
 
 But when beside the shining Christmas board 
 In blithe accord the household kindred meet, 
 
 When forth is spread the lush life-giving hoard 
 
 While round the doors the North-wind's coursers fleet,
 
 ODE TO AUTUMN 57 
 
 Then when the Patriarch takes his honored seat 
 To ask Heaven's blessing on the plenteous fare, 
 
 Then must thy heart rejoice! then most complete 
 Thy triumph tho before the keen-lashed air 
 Thy chariot, rolling south, hath crossed the uplands bare. 
 
 Guardian of fruitful life! what thee we owe 
 
 We can with naught save gratitude repay; 
 All that we are, all that we feel and know, 
 
 Directly to thy bounty we must lay; 
 
 Far do thy thoughtful favors overweigh 
 Gay, wanton Summer's flushed and haughty grace; 
 
 Thou art our yearly hope, our daily stay, 
 For ere thou yield'st thy throne and dwelling place, 
 Thou dost provide for man till thou renew'st thy race. 
 
 Autumn, God rules through thee! thy hand alone 
 Guides opulent Progress with potential care ; 
 
 If thou but frown, dark spirits forth are flown, 
 Satan's fell angels from their dreadful lair, 
 Hunger, Theft, Madness, Pestilence, Despair, 
 
 And Blasphemy ! Great sovereign of Increase, 
 Still kindly listen to thy suppliant's prayer! 
 
 Grant bread to life! ay, give without surcease! 
 
 And spread o'er thankful earth the Saturnian reign of 
 Peace !
 
 ODE TO WINTER 
 
 MONARCH of polar realms, at whose hoar breath 
 Even the hearts' most passionate tides congeal; 
 King of frore winds and patron friend of Death, 
 Fortressed by icebergs as with towers of steel ; 
 To whose stern march man's haughtiest navies reel, 
 Or plunge sheer down through ocean's champing waves; 
 Who on heaven-prideful mountains stamp'st thy seal ; 
 Blighter of births and fructifier of graves; 
 Sovereign first crowned on earth, whose subjects all are 
 slaves ; 
 
 At whose fell frown sense fails and hope departs ; 
 
 At whose hoarse voice weak mortals cower with dread ; 
 Shriveling the poor, blocking the roads and marts, 
 
 Blasting where'er thy boreal flags are spread; 
 
 At sight of whose wild steeds, disheveled head, 
 Beasts, reptiles, insects wither and waste from day; 
 
 From whose grim gaze the choiring birds are fled; 
 Thy one desire to ravage, wreck and slay; 
 What curse bears earth like thee what prayer thy hand 
 can stay? 
 
 From thy pale wrath scarce Heaven itself escapes. 
 
 Thou stripp'st their brave, warm livery from the trees; 
 Nor even weak herbs avoid thy vengeance rapes, 
 
 Scathing the valley depths or upland leas ; 
 
 Scouting round Spring with keen and barbed breeze, 
 Frequent thou dost her genial realm surprise; 
 
 Her broidered zone and wind-flower garland seize; 
 
 58
 
 ODE TO WINTER 59 
 
 Howling with rage through all her shuddering skies; 
 Marring her emerald robes, dimming her mild blue eyes. 
 
 Nor stands even Summer from thy raids exempt; 
 
 Thou her rose-coronet tear'st with pelting hail; 
 Oft Autumn's wain and horn thou dost attempt, 
 
 Crippling her husbandry with venomed gale; 
 
 The huddling clouds before thy coming quail ; 
 The brawling brooks hush timorous to their chains ; 
 
 The hardy wild-fowl scour with bodeful wail 
 Before thy vanward sleets and skirmish rains, 
 Whose annual trumpets shriek thine onset o'er the plains. 
 
 Round thy swift wheel throng blood-hounds Famine glares 
 
 From the strained-leash, impatient for his prey; 
 Consumption, gaunt and ghastly, round him stares, 
 
 Singling frail, hectic forms to rend and slay; 
 
 Scurfed, dull-toothed Rheums rush by with sullen bay, 
 Worrying their victims who resourceless die; 
 
 Beneath their fangs Youth fades and Hope turns gray; 
 Through fear of th.ee men murder, thieve, and lie, 
 And the lashed coward wolves grow bold beneath thine 
 eye. 
 
 For sure thy sire was uncouth Chaos old, 
 
 Thy dam, decrepit, blind, primeval Night, 
 Who in their pact with Time bequeathed thee Cold, 
 
 Ere they resigned their thriftless, pristine right; 
 
 Who, ere they winged their head-long hell-ward flight, 
 Schooled thee for war against the ordered world; 
 
 Leagued their vague terrors to thy breath of blight, 
 Cloud, tempest, darkness, these thy mandate hurled, 
 Urged by the Gorgon, Want, with hissing hair uncurled. 
 
 Long as this world its path celestial wears; 
 Long as the indenture of gray Time shall run,
 
 60 ODE TO WINTER 
 
 Thou wield'st thy sceptre long as Heaven forbears 
 Thou warr'st unceasing with the imperial Sun; 
 How oft thy black battalions, one by one, 
 
 Crash 'gainst his bright spears in the Northern sphere! 
 How flash thy forked fire-bolts! then the dun, 
 
 Tremendous conflict ceases; far and near 
 
 The Sun's armed hosts advance, thine break, all rout and 
 fear. 
 
 Once thy high-turreted, mastless ships of war, 
 
 Like the Norse swarming, menaced every coast; 
 They breasted ocean's breadth from shore to shore, 
 
 A deep-keeled, sailless, iridescent host; 
 
 They were thy pride, O Winter, and thy boast; 
 Still annual dost thou launch them, towering free 
 
 Above the islands; oft a mountain ghost, 
 An icy castle, cools the sun-scorched lea 
 Of some careening bark, furrowing the trade-wind sea. 
 
 Thy standards curtained once the Torrid Zone, 
 
 And vexed Enceladus cooled his throat with snow ; 
 Across the Alps was reared thy crystal throne; 
 
 Once didst thou chain the Mississippi's flow; 
 
 From coast to coast thy vanguard, blow on blow, 
 Spread death through nether Afric's fervid realm; 
 
 Driving before thee bird, beast, man, thy slow, 
 Resistless glaciers deep did life o'erwhelm, 
 'Till more than Timour's rule stretched round thy sparry 
 helm. 
 
 Like to Armadas whelm'd in ocean surge, 
 
 Vast forests sank 'neath seas of leaguering ice; 
 
 Pushing down tropic vales the greening verge, 
 Thy snows frothed o'er earth's fruitage, corn and rice; 
 No common tribute could such lust suffice;
 
 ODE TO WINTER 61 
 
 The rocks were ground to dust, the mountain fanes 
 
 Were channelled peak to base; one awful price 
 Earth paid thee an enormity of pains, 
 As crept thy torturing frost through her fire-nurtured veins. 
 
 How then lived man? though fenced with frozen mail 
 
 The soil refused him sustenance, yet his hand 
 Drew safety from the maelstrom of thy gale; 
 
 On Earth's last cooling round he took his stand ; 
 
 He found in caves a refuge; armed with brand 
 Of wood or stone, he dauntless faced and slew 
 
 The earth-shaking mastodon; to his command 
 He trained the fleet-foot reindeer and o'erthrew 
 The huge cave-bear that even thy scourge could not subdue. 
 
 Thus age still rolled on age, then through dun skies 
 
 The buckler'd Sun sprang armed in aureate might; 
 His flashing javelins gained the desperate prize; 
 
 Back to the Poles thy chariots wheeled in flight; 
 
 There, and upon the hoariest mountains' height, 
 Thine outposts o'er the world eternal sway 
 
 Thou boldest with brawn hand and ancient right, 
 Pavilioned vast with glaciers, icebergs gray, 
 Thronged round with winds thy hest drives world-wide 
 day by day. 
 
 Ay, when the modern Caesar's fated power 
 
 Rose black with portent twixt the earth and sun, 
 
 Enshrouding continents, in his amplest hour 
 
 Thou met'st him, breath'dst against him, and undone 
 He fled, disarmed, dismayed; his empire won 
 
 Through blood and flame lay prostrate; ne'er again, 
 Answering thy voice, forth roared the Gallic gun; 
 
 Thy winds still boast those vaunting myriads slain, 
 
 Sepulchred 'neath thy snows from Moscow to the Seine.
 
 62 DDE TO WINTER 
 
 Thus thy revenge grows rooted, still more high 
 
 Around the Poles thou rear'st thy crystal wall; 
 Still, age on age, repulsed, compelled to fly, 
 
 Thy cohorts sweep to their wide carnival; 
 
 Still, one by one, the warm, bright barriers fall; 
 Persistent siege, insidious attack, 
 
 Spread slowly, surely thy perennial thrall, 
 Winning by piecemeal thy dominion back, 
 Till Time treads out his torch, Death dies and all is wrack. 
 
 Ay, when on cool, clear eves, athwart the dome 
 Flare white thy torches, and the maiden moon 
 
 Is hooped with silver, 'tis thy coming home 
 O Conqueror! were our earthly ears in tune 
 Well might we hear thy minstrels' triumph rune 
 
 Filtering its cadence through the dusky sky; 
 For be it gray December or green June, 
 
 Somewhere victorious thy dark standards fly, 
 
 Somewhere the Sun hath failed, somewhere his subjects die. 
 
 Yet, O proud Winter, despot though thou art, 
 
 And unreprieving thy imperious will, 
 Thy sumptuous grace reveals a royal heart, 
 
 What time thou smil'st the earth is beauteous still; 
 
 Thou deck'st with pearl and ermine tree and hill, 
 And rob'st with light-wreathed down the naked vales, 
 
 Bright pendants hang'st to archway, eave, and sill, 
 While blush fair cheeks beneath thy bussing gales 
 As at the Sun's first kiss are tinged the wind-filled sails. 
 
 And Nature, vanquished, triumphs, too, through thee. 
 
 By thee is her progressive year made sure; 
 But for her harsh arrest, how many a tree 
 
 And flowering shrub would bloom not nor endure; 
 
 Safe in their roots the thrifty saps procure
 
 ODE TO WINTER 63 
 
 From Mother Earth their rife, reviving powers; 
 
 Then when fair Spring holds out her shining lure, 
 Up gush the life-streams and rejoice in flowers, 
 While all the unshackled brooks swing laughing through 
 the bowers. 
 
 Thou, too, art Lord of Revels jocund thou 
 
 In the grave North at gracious Christmas time; 
 For the bright holly twines thy rugged brow, 
 
 And Mirth and Song leap round thy beard of rime. 
 
 Then the gay dance, chime-born, when in her prime 
 Heaven's wreath of diamonds frets the crest of Night, 
 
 Whilst the board, heaped from many a summer clime 
 And from bronzed Autumn's horn, with crystal bright 
 And lordly silver crowned, shines in the hearth-fire light. 
 
 Such are thy charms, O Winter! joys robust, 
 
 Varied, illustrious; mirthful, too, thy sway; 
 If earth yields naught for thee, not thine the dust, 
 
 The taint defiling the mild season's day. 
 
 Thine is the silvery trilling of the sleigh, 
 The steel-shod skater's zest, the daring slide, 
 
 The schoolboy's snowball battle, blithesome play! 
 Where'er thou reign'st free flows the festal tide, 
 'Till to one blithe accord thou bind'st the harvest side. 
 
 E'en when thou comest in thunders and in glooms, 
 
 (Like Attila, bursting on corrupted Rome) ; 
 Blustering above thy three fair rivals' tombs, 
 
 Even then thou furtherest the pure joys of home; 
 
 Beneath peaked cottage roof, arched palace dome, 
 How glide in fireside cheer thy riotous hours! 
 
 The genial game, the wise or witty tome, 
 Beguile the heart as in the month of flowers, 
 Making new Edens bloom amongst thy snows and showers.
 
 64 ODE TO WINTER 
 
 And she, my mother land, Queen of the North, 
 
 Heir to the Viking heart, the Briton fame; 
 Midst the sea-bridlers youngest, yet the fourth, 
 
 Unfurling round three ocean shores her claim; 
 
 Binding about her brows the Maple flame; 
 Holding from thee the new North World in fee; 
 
 Unsullied by the blood-drenched Afric shame; 
 Resourceful as the circumambient sea; 
 Firm as her granite hills, staunch as her bannered tree, 
 
 She gains from thee the deep-blue of her skies; 
 
 She breeds by thee her sons of stalwart mould; 
 She breathes thru thee a faith that never dies; 
 
 She draws her chasteness from thy storms and cold; 
 
 Along her future blessings manifold 
 Impend, if to herself she hold but true; 
 
 May she, like thee, still dwell unbribed and bold, 
 And bear her steps still upward, while the dew 
 Of Peace shall pearl her path and Honor's star lead true. 
 
 Nor comes the forceful brain, the tireless hand 
 
 From the enervate realms beneath the Line; 
 There, flower-enchained, the soul can ne'er expand, 
 
 Divorced from care, it sinks in sloth supine ; 
 
 The voice that fathers pregnant thought is thine; 
 The heroic virtues all are nursed by thee; 
 
 Thy tones to man are prophecy, like wine 
 Is thy keen, urgent spirit; like the sea 
 Thy winds upbear his soul, thy breath is Liberty! 
 
 Thy breath is Empire, from fierce frost and storm 
 The lion-loined, the bane of Romans, came; 
 
 No power on earth could thwart them, swarm on swarm, 
 They purged the world with massacre and flame; 
 Before the blast of Thor's and Odin's name,
 
 ODE TO WINTER 65 
 
 The sensual southern gods abhorred their shrines; 
 
 Since then the North has bulwarked Christ from blame; 
 Where'er the Northman rules there justice shines, 
 There Civilization grows, broad-based, on ordered lines. 
 
 Victorious o'er crude matter, space and time 
 
 Robbed of their secrets, still man's tireless brain, 
 All grasping, ventures on its quest sublime, 
 
 Still leads a longer strong-armed vassal train; 
 
 Still surer mastery o'er them doth obtain; 
 These giants in harness, those mysterious powers, 
 
 Like the thralled genii of the Orient main, 
 Toil for him through life's waking, sleeping hours, 
 Arid crown Time's centuried march with incense, gems, and 
 flowers. 
 
 Yes, to thy trackless wastes this marvellous man, 
 
 Even to thy citadels of ice and snow, 
 Following that spirit born of these, doth plan 
 
 Constant through Death's most private haunts to go; 
 
 No terrors, toils may daunt him, arctic floe, 
 Storm, cold, night, famine edge the tough emprise; 
 
 From cape to cape, from mount to mount, the slow 
 Receding Pole, still spectral, charms his eyes; 
 Thus, starved, benumbed, outworn, he follows Hope and 
 dies. 
 
 Yet there he penetrates even to that place 
 
 Most private to thy rule his march hath gone; 
 Even in the numbing terror of thy face, 
 
 Where Night her veil a hundred days has drawn; 
 
 Favored by fortune, yet of chance the pawn, 
 His daring foot is set upon thy throne; 
 
 Lo, there he stands, his face turned to the dawn; 
 To hunger, toil and cold unmoved as stone, 
 So that his unmatched pride may claim thy realm his own.
 
 66 ODE TO WINTER 
 
 Yet he, even he, were but for thee a child, 
 Passing in dreamless sloth life's choicest year; 
 
 Driven by vague impulse, passions rude and wild, 
 He drew no benison from the purer sphere; 
 He breathed no air of truth ; no limpid tear 
 
 Of feeling made the flowers of pity start; 
 Beheld no beauty; all untuned his ear 
 
 To music of the birds; his own crude heart 
 
 Was to itself a fear, yet conscience owned no smart. 
 
 His craft was that of beasts; to hunt, waylay 
 
 His food and dig rough shelter from the storm; 
 He praised no God; the body's lusts, the fray 
 
 Nursed the chief arts that could his mind inform; 
 
 He knew few social virtues; like a swarm 
 Of insects grew man's congregated dust, 
 
 Without coherence, amity, or form; 
 From brutish birth to brutal death a rust 
 Clave to his darkened soul, an all-corroding crust. 
 
 Thou didst arouse him, Father of the North ! 
 
 Thou nerved'st his heart-strings in the great Ice Age; 
 Drew'st tense his listless sinews, goad'st him forth 
 
 At first, for naught but rapine, war to wage 
 
 On palsied, blighted races; now the sage 
 Councils of Time have trained his hand to peace; 
 
 The victories he now writes on History's page 
 Yield grander Iliads; all the art of Greece 
 Revived, refined, and grasped the hundredth Golden Fleece. 
 
 Therefore, reign thou, most honored! for thy worth 
 Doth far thy surliest vassals' wraths outweigh; 
 
 For whilst thy white confusions blanch the earth 
 Thou lay'st foundations for an ampler day, 
 Thou sowest to richer futures; still life's May
 
 ODE TO WINTER 67 
 
 Blooms with the foresights thou hast taught to man; 
 
 For by thy rigor forced to war for sway, 
 He forms his own soul on thy strenuous plan 
 And builds a deathless fame in one brief mortal span!
 
 DIANA AND ENDYMION 
 
 ENDYMION had wandered all day long 
 Within the embrasured shadow of the \voods, 
 Lured by a dream of loveliness and hope 
 And joyance, such as comes but once to spirits 
 Of earth, and seldom to the gods above. 
 He hungered not, for the warm pulse of youth 
 Fluttered his eyelids, beat about his brain 
 With visions blissful, rapt; for all his soul 
 Vibrated, pinioned by the breath of June, 
 Blown thru the cedarn alleys, and the burden 
 Of swaying pine-tops melted thru his mood, 
 Like incense midst a pure impassioned prayer, 
 Till the deep diapason of the boughs 
 Rhythmed the pulse of languorous delight 
 With wordless chords of song. He came at eve 
 Upon the woodland fringe, when camping Day 
 Had set his crimson standard in the West, 
 And driven his golden-maned steeds a-field 
 For pasture ere the morrow; o'er the heath 
 The opposing gradual shades of evening fell 
 In folds like wings of sleep, and the mild dews 
 Of Latmos, steeped in odors, filtered down 
 Thru the dim breathless air and touched his brow 
 With balm-anointing coolness; o'er the vales 
 Faintly the low of home-returning kine 
 Rose with a hollow murmur, like the pipe 
 Of Pan himself, and swathed the pulseless eve 
 With a soft film of sound; the purple shades 
 Deepened to bluish jet, and one by one
 
 DIANA AND ENDYMION 69 
 
 The sentinels of Heaven in glistering arms 
 Moved midst the tented night, to each his stand, 
 And panoplied with light the involved skies 
 And the still, breathing earth; nor yet the Morn 
 Had journeyed forth, but in her house of clouds 
 Lingered awhile, as loth to shame the stars 
 With her full aureate beam. 
 
 Endymion drew 
 
 His leopard skin around his graceful loins 
 And leaned against a tree whose blossoms pale 
 Broke foam-like o'er his head, and breathed their love 
 Into the silent night; the languid eve 
 Pressed its nepenthe deep within his soul, 
 Soothing with cool caress; his eyelids fell 
 And his breast heaved with weariness; all cloyed 
 With drowsy sweets he sank upon the sward, 
 Arm-pillowed, dreamless in the pale starlight. 
 But soon the curved moon from her cloud sphere 
 Outbroke and turned her calm and tender gaze 
 Upon the limp form of the Arcadian youth, 
 Bathing with lucent glow his olive face 
 And russet burnished limbs; her nether horn 
 Hung like an argent sickle, and from its tip 
 A silvery gleam fell o'er the dusk-bound earth, 
 Banding the height with lustre to the feet 
 Of slumber-wrapped Endymion; down its coil 
 A radiant goddess slipped with arms outspread, 
 White as the drift of Heaven; on her arched brow 
 The moon had fixed her image, and her breast 
 Shone brighter than Orion's belt with gems, 
 That burned the dusk to splendor; at her back 
 A sheaf of silver arrows crossed a bow, 
 The red hart's lordly tine; in her right hand 
 She bore an ash-tree javelin tipped with steel, 
 Which sooty Vulcan tempered diamond hard 
 On Lemnos long agone; her beach-brown hair
 
 70 DIANA AND ENDYMION 
 
 Was coiled, save one long curl that 'gainst her throat. 
 
 Her throat of matchless alabaster, swirled, 
 
 Clung, as she dawned on Earth and to the side 
 
 Of the still youth with printless tread she drew. 
 
 The splendor of her beauty waked the birds 
 
 And tuned the slender life amidst the grass 
 
 To tenfold chorus, as with buskined feet, 
 
 Brushing the harebell blossoms, her proud lips 
 
 Curved to a smile of wonder and delight, 
 
 She drank the charm of the transcendent youth. 
 
 She stooped, then paused, a goddess bashful grown; 
 
 She paused, then stooped; her face with blushes flamed 
 
 That turned the flowers to rose; she bent her down 
 
 And lightly touched his lips, then thru his hair 
 
 Of clustering hyacinth she amorous swept 
 
 The glory of her hand. 
 
 He waked not yet, 
 
 Although his heart was stirred with dreams divine, 
 With beatific visions, as the chrism 
 Of more than mortal love enswathed his soul. 
 Then as the sleeper stirred she hovered there 
 Close to his face and breathed his smothered sigh 
 Of warmth-fed passion, as the youthful blood 
 Coursed nimbly thru the alleys of his brain 
 And fed voluptuously the uncharted mind 
 With rapt, aspiring dream. She smiled, she sighed; 
 Her breast with longing heaved, counting the cost, 
 The commune of the gods, the praise of men, 
 Worship of virgins, her Ephesian shrine, 
 And all the glories of her name and state. 
 Fate held the golden scales a mortal love 
 Against a heavenly crown; a span of bliss 
 Against an immortality of cold 
 And splendid power; then again she gazed 
 Upon the sleeping youth ; till yearning swayed 
 Her pulsing soul, far thrusting back her vow,
 
 DIANA AND ENDYMION 71 
 
 Her oath of godhead; musing, half-inclined 
 To veil her deity in a mortal frame, 
 And clothe her splendor with the common garb 
 Of human uses and the ways of men. 
 But even then the intrusive morning broke 
 Gray-filmed between the porches of the East; 
 And looking forth she marked a scarlet shaft 
 Of sunrise break upon the throned crest 
 Of far Olympus, canopied with clouds, 
 The home of prescience and power where dwell 
 The starry gods who guide the fates of men; 
 Then turned and still with backward-looking eyes. 
 She floated forth across the Latmian height, 
 Urging ethereal passage toward the Mount, 
 And burned a rival splendor 'gainst the dawn 
 Above the pathless and unstable sea.
 
 DEFORMED 
 
 LEAVE wide the window let the new-born Spring 
 Enfold me ere I die with her warm breath! 
 Die, did I say? I but cast off this thing 
 
 Hate calls its body. Claim thy tribute, Death! 
 Men have belied thy terrors; thou'rt to me 
 Deliverer; come, proud king, and make me free! 
 
 Yes, I thy lover, Death, have wooed thee long, 
 For Life hath crossed me with its foulest spite; 
 
 Life hath debased me, tricked me, turned me wrong; 
 Set me a mock in Earth's and Heaven's sight. 
 
 Life? I have never lived! In this brief span 
 
 I but have shared his agony with man. 
 
 Nought else? Ah, yes, these flowers! Their beauty fills 
 My soul with ravishment, whose hope is proof 
 
 Against this loathed flesh, these wasting ills; 
 God gave me love it is my sole behoof: 
 
 I love the flowers! I love this sweet spring day, 
 
 And you, dear friend, you I will love for aye! 
 
 No coldness froze me in your steadfast eye; 
 
 Your heart was always to compassion true; 
 You only did not curse me, pass me by; 
 
 Alone of all mankind I have but you; 
 I have been twice redeemed; not once sufficed 
 For me, you are my nearer, second Christ! 
 
 72
 
 DEFORMED 73 
 
 Yes, hell was mine, an earthly hell of shame; 
 
 The vilest outcasts drove me from their sight; 
 Their scorn and hatred seared me like a flame; 
 
 Women and babes fled from me in affright; 
 Never since matter germed, since earth was green, 
 Was such a vile misshapen monster seen! 
 
 Yet I was born with human mind and heart; 
 Ah, why should God have left this mark on me! 
 
 Yes, I can weep look how the tear-drops start 
 As limpid as from eyes of infancy! 
 
 The temple ways are foul, but its pure shrine 
 
 Is silver and holds consecrated wine. 
 
 'Tis said in His own image God made man, 
 But only sin's foul shape was shown in me; 
 
 Some wickedness, first born when time began, 
 Resisting goodness and regeneracy, 
 
 Heaped high its growing horrors on my head, 
 
 And for God's beauty fiend-form gave instead. 
 
 I walked the earth an alien! even the birds 
 Twitted me with deformity the broad sun 
 
 Laughed at my plight day stared at me men's words 
 Flicked at me serpent-like their eyes to shun 
 
 Dwelt on me still detesting God and man 
 
 And pitiless nature laid me under ban. 
 
 Yet have I read of pure and tender joys; 
 
 And covertly, like Satan upon Eve, 
 Besieged by all the yearning life annoys, 
 
 I gazed at beauty, still constrained to weave , 
 Among sad thoughts the unavailing tears 
 Of hopeless, homeless, loveless, blighted years.
 
 74 DEFORMED 
 
 Affection, which hath fostered every life, 
 
 Spurned me and changed her sweet breast-milk to gall; 
 The whole world's hate fell o'er me; all its strife, 
 
 Was how to break my spirit. Sad as Saul 
 When Israel's heart turned from him, I began 
 To live, to grow, in soul, at least, a man. 
 
 A curse far heavier than the curse of Cain, 
 
 Or him, who cries "unclean!" fell on my brow; 
 
 I heard the angels o'er my plight complain, 
 Around me fiendish shapes did mop and mow; 
 
 While leering faces cast a ghostly spell 
 
 Across the path that lured me down to hell. 
 
 They sold me like a chattel, hissed and jeered; 
 
 They thrust me forth before the vulgar crowd; 
 Their laughter tortured me; my soul was seared 
 
 By their low horror ; and my spirit bowed 
 Almost to breaking 'neath that cross of scorn 
 To which my human heritage was born. 
 
 Even the frightful freaks I dwelt among, 
 
 Avoided contact, shuddered, turned away, 
 Or cursed me ; hourly by their insults stung 
 
 I cursed myself and cursed the light of day. 
 And as the thing I called my head I bent, 
 I felt the fearful laughter thrill the tent. 
 
 And then the barker with a fiendish leer, 
 
 Stood up and poured the vitriol of his tongue 
 
 Around me, raising in their throats a jeer, 
 
 Which like the flame of Tartarus scorched and stung; 
 
 Till all the earth was torment, and I trod 
 
 The bitter wine-press of the wrath of God.
 
 DEFORMED 75 
 
 Then in a maze I saw you mount the boards; 
 
 I watched the anger quiver in your eye ; 
 Like to the money-changers whipped with cords, 
 
 From your just rage I watched the barker fly; 
 Next with your Christ-like arm you cleared a space, 
 Among the throng, and with me left the place. 
 
 Then to my hideous grave of life there came 
 
 One ray of comfort, first of all my days; 
 One heavenly word of kindness in His Name, 
 
 Who taught us Love; a word beyond all praise; 
 That word was brother your hand sought for mine, 
 You bathed my heart with sympathy divine. 
 
 I looked but in your eyes I failed to see 
 
 Aversion, lurking like a coiled snake; 
 The balm of pitying cheer was there for me; 
 
 The angel, Hope, in your blessed accents spake; 
 These books, these pictures, flowers, are, all from you, 
 Oh, rarer heart than woman's, kind and true! 
 
 Yes, you have earned the love I had bestowed 
 Upon some woman in life's happier state; 
 
 The love to unborn children I have owed, 
 The love that in all hearts outlasteth fate; 
 
 On every path of life a spring of God, 
 
 Waiting the stroke of Faith's divining rod. 
 
 Here in this chamber, closed from eyes of men, 
 I have worn out the remnant of my years 
 
 In peace if not in happiness; and when 
 
 This lies in death, I will rise midst my peers, 
 
 The spirits gone before; I then must be 
 
 In the new body oh, what ecstasy!
 
 76 DEFORMED 
 
 Yes, Death and I are friends! I never knew 
 Life's dread of him, and now my sole regret 
 
 Is leaving you, dear friend, for in that new 
 And better world there will not one be met, 
 
 Except it be Christ's self, to whom this heart 
 
 Will yearn as then for yours but here we part! 
 
 Once more your hand! ah, friend, the love I bear, 
 Would that it might ennoble this vile form; 
 
 Then might you see my soul, its visage fair 
 
 Rainbowed from out this passing cloud and storm, 
 
 Irradiating Life. Ah, Beauty, Love, 
 
 I shall behold you perfect there above! 
 
 The unclothed beauty of the soul that grows 
 
 Sublimer as the effluence of that life 
 Which is the sun indeed! which ever flows 
 
 Across the warring clouds of human strife, 
 And gendering all the glory of the years 
 Breaks into starry splendor on the spheres. 
 
 The beauty, strength and symmetry here sighed 
 
 In vain for, as I sighed for that of flesh; 
 The manhood purged by suffering, glorified 
 
 In the new larger life we live afresh; 
 The favor of God's smile, the love of Christ; 
 BROTHER 'twas His the word; dear friend the TRYST!
 
 THE EVER-GROWING TRUTH 
 (A Parable) 
 
 A SEED of truth, now far renowned, 
 A poet in his garden found; 
 Yet whence it came or how it grew 
 Or what its worth he scarcely knew; 
 He planted it; with tender thought, 
 The germ was to unfolding brought. 
 He nourished it with deftest skill 
 And placed it on his window sill; 
 A world of patient care, in sooth, 
 He lavished on that new-born Truth. 
 
 Enamored of its thrifty grace, 
 
 He stood it in the market-place, 
 
 And hourly to the crowd would cry, 
 
 "My precious Truth, who'll buy! who'll buy!" 
 
 He sang its praises late and soon 
 
 In lyrics of all kinds of tune; 
 
 Yet tho it shot forth green and fair, 
 
 And spread its leaves to sun and air, 
 
 Burgher and matron, maid and youth, 
 
 Laughed at the poet and his Truth. 
 
 A scientist in cap and gown, 
 First marked it with a hostile frown; 
 A pedant, steeped in dreams of age, 
 Fogged in his mythologic page, 
 Declared it but a weed, he saw 
 77
 
 78 THE EVER-GROWING TRUTH 
 
 'Twas clear against time-honored law; 
 For plants of such a strange degree 
 He could not find authority; 
 He deemed it but a thing uncouth; 
 "It never, never could be Truth." 
 
 A pompous theologue drew near 
 
 And smiled, "Good sir, what have we here? 
 
 'Tis worthless, friend; you should devote 
 
 Your care to matters less remote. 
 
 Certainly God did not intend 
 
 This unknown weed to work His end. 
 
 A thousand seedlings comelier far 
 
 I'll lend you from my dogma jar. 
 
 You surely cannot mean, forsooth, 
 
 To call this wretched wild thing, Truth." 
 
 A politician sidled up 
 
 And sneered, "You drain a bitter cup. 
 
 Who'll buy? Not all the fiends in Hell 
 
 Nor saints in Heaven; you'd better sell 
 
 Odes to the hero of the time; 
 
 He's useful, if much less sublime. 
 
 You swear you've grown it? Well, suppose 
 
 You have will't bring you bread and clothes? 
 
 From Pilate down," he chuckled, "youth, 
 
 We're all at sea about the Truth." 
 
 One day a philosophic wight 
 Fingered it, gauged its spread and height; 
 He measured down and round about, 
 Yet what it was still held in doubt. 
 'Twas in bad way 'twould soon be dead; 
 He snorted, squinted, shook his head: 
 "A dreamer's whim as one may see; 
 What, this thing bourgeon to a tree!
 
 THE EVER-GROWING TRUTH 79 
 
 'Twill ne'er abide Time's gnawing tooth; 
 It never, never can be Truth." 
 
 So all men on it gazed askance, 
 
 Or gave it scorn or passing glance; 
 
 They tossed their heads, they pursed their lips, 
 
 They would not take the proffered slips. 
 
 The owner shouted all day long, 
 
 "Who'll buy 'tis surely worth a song!" 
 
 But tho it wrung the poet's heart 
 
 To sue the mammon-greedy mart, 
 
 They would not give him heed nor ruth, 
 
 They would not buy his novel Truth. 
 
 Time passed the world-wrecked poet died; 
 
 The plant his loving hand supplied 
 
 With tendance slowly pined away, 
 
 Nor longer bloomed in face of day; 
 
 Blossom and leafage, all forgot, 
 
 Lay shrunk within the earthen pot. 
 
 Men marked its brown and cheerless hue: 
 
 "Look what the crazy poet grew! 
 
 Pity the fool outlived his youth, 
 
 He fondly called this changeling 'Truth.' " 
 
 And now the plant which had beguiled 
 The poet, passed unto a child, 
 A weak-eyed offspring, who, purblind 
 When manhood came, forgot to mind 
 The precious flower, and anyone 
 Who cared might place it in the sun. 
 "I have so much, so much to do; 
 My father valued it? most true." 
 He blinked, then gave a yawn uncouth; 
 "I have no time to air his Truth."
 
 8o THE EVER-GROWING TRUTH 
 
 At length a stranger hurrying by, 
 Chanced the neglected plant to spy. 
 He halted, gazed, then asked the price, 
 And straight he owned it in a trice. 
 He watered it with constant care, 
 He gave it wealth of sun and air, 
 When, lo, around its withered heart 
 New tender sprouts began to start; 
 They leaved, they wove a verdant booth, 
 The poet's wonder-working Truth ! 
 
 And now folk asked in stark surprise 
 
 Whence came this plant of giant size. 
 
 They wondered much to see it spread; 
 
 Then fell to praising it instead. 
 
 The theologue, with mouth agape, 
 
 All speechless, watched it taking shape; 
 
 The man of science wrote a book 
 
 Upon it; pedants stopped to look 
 
 With reverence, and the man of sooth, 
 
 The philosoph, adored the Truth. 
 
 The politician stared, and then 
 Took off his hat and cried, "Amen ! 
 We've grown it; I foresaw it all, 
 'Tis plain as apples in the Fall: 
 The man was cannier than we knew; 
 I also had this long in view." 
 But all, unknowing whence it came, 
 Thronged to the owner for its name; 
 "What's this?" they cried, "is this forsooth 
 What that daft rhymer called the Truth?" 
 
 "You would not take the poet's word," 
 He answered, "tho 'twas daily heard; 
 Like mine, your prescience might have known
 
 THE EVER-GROWING TRUTH 81 
 
 These bravely struggling leaves half-grown, 
 
 And owned, had you but eyes to see, 
 
 These blossoms for futurity. 
 
 The man you mocked heartbroken died; 
 
 The plant you scorned is now your pride; 
 
 Supreme beyond neglect or ruth, 
 
 Behold the never-dying Truth!"
 
 EUGENIE ON THE DEATH OF HER SON 
 
 WHAT, killed! O God! who said so? it is false! 
 I'll not believe it! 'tis an arrant lie 
 Forged by an enemy! Tears! then it's true, 
 True or I would not weep ! I shall go mad 
 Crushed by this load of woe! My son, my son! 
 Bless'd God, couldst thou not find a sacrifice 
 Some other than my lamb, my only one? 
 Were there not gallant hearts ejaow to bleed 
 That have no mothers ? None but only him 
 On whom the hopes of millions lived and thrived? 
 Art thou all sternness, that couldst take his life, 
 So hopeful, fresh and loving, full of joy, 
 And leave me desolate? Oh, it cannot be! 
 Men call thee merciful, and mercy loves 
 To guard young tender life, not to crush quite 
 The lonely longing heart, the yearning hope, 
 The hope of years, long, long and painful years; 
 Oh Heaven, I rave, I rave, stern judging Heaven! 
 I never, oh, I never more shall see 
 Him whom I once called Louis, never lay 
 My hand upon his brow and bid him live 
 The coming glory, life and light of France. 
 Ah, woe is me! for I have outlived hope, 
 Husband and throne and country, and my child! 
 Strike now, thou grinning Death, and join again 
 Them thou hast parted ! give me back my boy ! 
 Or that this agonizing grief might bring 
 Madness upon my soul! but yet not so 
 For then, perchance, I'd lose all memory 
 
 82
 
 EUGENIE ON THE DEATH OF HER SON 83 
 
 Of my poor stricken love; no, better live 
 And weep from day to day salt drops of sorrow 
 And drown my grief in tears, feeding their flow 
 Upon remembrances of my dear boy, 
 Nipped by the fierce frost in his morn of May. 
 
 my son, my son! 
 
 Had I been near to hear thy dying lips 
 Falter the name of Mother to exchange 
 One parting look to stanch thy piteous wounds 
 To watch the flicker of thy fleeting breath; 
 How soft I would have pressed thee to my breast 
 Where once thou lay, my child, a smiling babe 
 And soothed thy passing moments, and have wiped 
 The death-dew from thy brow but thou art gone 
 And I no more shall see thee, my lost boy! 
 My one, my Joseph! oh, my light, my all! 
 
 1 cannot think, my child, that thou art dead, 
 And that corruption and the grave shall mar 
 Thy delicate flesh thou wert too young to die; 
 Youth bloomed, hope brightened in thy speaking glance, 
 And how I loved to trace with mother's pride 
 
 The lineaments the partial hand of Time 
 Was graving on thy brow, kinglike and fair. 
 Ah, little thought I, child, when thou didst belt 
 England's bright sword of battle on thy side 
 And with thy radiant smile didst raise my hopes 
 With words of loving cheer, that I no more 
 Would hear the merry music of thy voice 
 Beguile my weary hours from vain regrets; 
 No more would feel thy warm breath on my cheek, 
 The light clasp of thine arm, as with flushed brow 
 And kindling eye, thou saidst, "Ma mere, adieu! 
 I go to make me worthy thee and France 
 And crown my brows with honor, that the world 
 May know thy son is equal to his name
 
 84 EUGENIE ON THE DEATH OF HER SON 
 
 And to his former fortunes happy if he 
 
 May thread with glory the dark web of fate. 
 
 His star shall lead thy Louis up to fame, 
 
 France, and an empire ; never yet hath failed 
 
 The great hope of our race good bye, good bye! 
 
 God keep thee!" and thou leftst me with that word. 
 
 Yes, then thou leftst me, leftst me here alone. 
 
 Alone! was I alone? No, while thou livedst 
 
 My spirit went forth with thee, as in dreams, 
 
 Watched o'er thee oft on shipboard or in camp, 
 
 Walked with thee up and down, joined in thy prayer, 
 
 Ay, poured out for thee litanies of love. 
 
 I'd muse away whole hours upon a guess 
 
 Of how thou'dst be employed, and how thou'dst shine 
 
 Upon the field of battle, and would pray 
 
 The God of hosts to keep my boy from harm, 
 
 Till prayer begat assurance Oh, fond fool! 
 
 To trust the promptings of a mother's heart 
 
 And hope to buy thy safety with her prayers. 
 
 Oh, thou wert winged for glory, Icarus, 
 
 But flew too near its sun! Now art thou gone, 
 
 And now am I alone! Oh, I am cold! 
 
 The night-wind gives a moan that thou art dead, 
 
 The night-bird tells it to her lonely mate; 
 
 This eve the Sun, fainting within the west, 
 
 Cast on his bed of clouds a bloody stain, 
 
 Yet shall he rise and smile, freshed with new life 
 
 But thou, my Light, my Sun, dyeing the fields 
 
 Of far-off Africa with thy young life 
 
 Let out by savage hands, remorseless hearts 
 
 That held no pity for thy tender youth, 
 
 Thy life-blood streaming on their cruel spears 
 
 No more shall come to greet me with thy smile. 
 
 I am alone, alone amidst a world 
 
 Of moving bodies, careless, mocking forms 
 
 That taunt me with their life thy bloody death.
 
 EUGENIE ON THE DEATH OF HER SON 85 
 
 I have no more to live for and the grave 
 Yawns wide its dreary portal; come, kind Death! 
 Snap the last cord that binds me to this earth 
 That I may seek my lost one through the skies; 
 I have no other hope I am alone!
 
 RESURGAM 
 
 "Old things need not be therefore true 
 O brother men, nor yet the new; 
 Ah! still awhile the old thought retain, 
 And yet consider it again!" 
 
 SO wrote the rhymer of a vanished day 
 And we, the Present's children in our play 
 At circumstance, abiding calm and sane, 
 Should take this home consider it again! 
 
 The passing hour the horologe of Time 
 Rounds forth the cycle of a change sublime; 
 Old institutions tottering to their fall, 
 And a new writing on tradition's wall. 
 Progress plays life 'gainst death the setting sun 
 Brings with new hopes and fears fresh tasks begun, 
 New to last year or yesterday, and change, 
 Growth and decay thru all creation range. 
 And yet and yet the past is with us still ; 
 Plan what we may the omnipresent will 
 Of past achievement lays its heavy hand 
 Upon our souls to warn, to check, command. 
 There is no dead past the germ source, the earth, 
 Gives to all sentient life its primal birth; 
 Each animal, plant, serviceable sod, 
 Lives in and on and of the senseless clod. 
 Unresting as earth's tides the social flow 
 Beats on Time's shores in waves of joy or woe. 
 Creatures of circumstance are we, and yet 
 This homely phrase we never should forget, 
 
 86
 
 RESURGAM 87 
 
 Tho chance at times conspires to prove a lie, 
 "God is with him who keeps his powder dry." 
 
 All conscious effort tells, the amoeba's span 
 
 Marks progress, even as the mind of man. 
 
 And all life's sublimations, all its ills 
 
 Spring from the varied tension of our wills. 
 
 This we may say there dwells essential might 
 
 That makes for God, in other phrase, the Right; 
 
 In spite of foil and of recurrent flow 
 
 The tides of being swell and higher go. 
 
 As various as the leaves of forest trees, 
 
 As shapes of rock or cloud, as flight of bees 
 
 Or birds or butterflies, the human soul 
 
 Differs within the round of its control. 
 
 Humanity, that particolored veil 
 
 Of the Almighty whose pure beams assail 
 
 The universe, changes with every cloud 
 
 Of custom twixt the cradle and the shroud. 
 
 And with this change comes strife; Existence first 
 
 Claims tribute of our nature as of erst, 
 
 To gain whate'er one can, the primal law 
 
 That doth all life within its meshes draw. 
 
 And next the spirit of Beauty, struggling thru 
 
 The inert past, the chaos of the new, 
 
 Wearing upon its crest world maidenhood, 
 
 Unfolding in its utmost sense the Good. 
 
 And last, the chrism of Love, supreme control 
 
 Of life made perfect in the human soul, 
 
 Forsaking self and passing hand to hand 
 
 The torch of Happiness thru a darkened land. 
 
 Yet Love, as said the ancient world, is blind: 
 
 Tho true its instincts, none the less has Mind 
 
 Sentence and rule of every living thing, 
 
 And out of Mind Justice and Order spring. 
 
 And out of Order, Justice grows the State,
 
 88 RESURGAM 
 
 Borrowing the curule chair and robes of Fate, 
 
 And high above the throne of State, the rood 
 
 Blood-drenched and scarred of Human Brotherhood. 
 
 Out of this concord currents flow of thought, 
 
 Muddy, clear welling, ill or wisely taught, 
 
 A reaching out for something unfulfilled, 
 
 By knowledge chastened, by doubt checked or chilled. 
 
 Philosophy, Religion, Science, Art, 
 
 These sway the soul in absolute or part, 
 
 The four main props of life, and built on these 
 
 The thousand tiers of life's utilities. 
 
 From savage up to seer, the soul's unrest 
 
 Is constant, striving still to be expressed 
 
 In some rude idol moulded, carved by hand, 
 
 Or thoughts that to the zenith star expand. 
 
 Like tides that sweep upon some rock-bound shore 
 
 These waves of soul-endeavor evermore 
 
 Beat on the shores of Time; their constant play 
 
 Sweep round the headlands of the stormed to-day. 
 
 The social systems, present, past, to come, 
 The monarch's trumpet, the republic's drum, 
 The poet's vision, the idealist's plan, 
 The Happy Valley, the millennial man, 
 And all the varied shibboleths proved in vain, 
 Voiced by the restless record of the brain, 
 Fast as the pictured films incessant flow, 
 While life moves on with never-ending show. 
 
 Lo, Anarchy, an ideal, crudely wrought, 
 Unchartered by historic fact or thought, 
 Bearing within itself the seeds of death, 
 Denying force, yet force its living breath, 
 Cursing the nations and by them accursed, 
 Destruction of the state its last and first,
 
 RESURGAM 89 
 
 Best advertised of economic pills, 
 The panacea for all social ills! 
 
 A stricter theory, a preciser scope, 
 
 Rule grown supreme, the Socialistic hope, 
 
 Antithesis of Anarchy, to bind 
 
 In law's straight shackles variant mankind; 
 
 At hearth and field and mart one pulseless plan 
 
 To free the aspiring, restless heart of man; 
 
 To lift the curse from poverty and play 
 
 Jove to the trivial habit of the day; 
 
 To shove each king and magnate from his throne 
 
 Yet place thereon an idol hard as stone, 
 
 And under guise of setting genius free 
 
 Fettering it thru combined utility; 
 
 Man's flowering thought, a formal potted theme; 
 
 This forms the rainbow of an airy dream. 
 
 Ah, could such dream dawn true! if Heaven's white dove 
 
 Of peace could bind the peoples all in love, 
 
 With chains of flowers, or might man and man 
 
 Bridge heart to heart, nor Hell have power to ban, 
 
 The true Christ then were come, no god-head birth, 
 
 But a new human day-spring o'er the earth. 
 
 If such the consecration if the mind 
 
 Of Heaven might clothe and expedite mankind, 
 
 Moulding the world one kinship, fit to climb 
 
 The laurelled heights of self-obscured time, 
 
 Not vain Love's martyrs braved the toil and shock, 
 
 Nor Sidney's blood flowed fruitless on the block, 
 
 Nor all the seers who wizard armor forge 
 
 From Socrates to Kant and Henry George 
 
 To fight the dragon, Error, would be found 
 
 Vain charging down the wind; nor would be drowned 
 
 In the world discord of the new and last 
 
 The mighty poets, answering blast for blast,
 
 90 RESURGAM 
 
 The trumpet tongues of the ages, who aye strove 
 
 To show that love was beauty, beauty love; 
 
 The symmetry and concord of the soul, 
 
 All life and light, with systems as they roll 
 
 In one harmonious diapason sod, 
 
 Tree, flower, fish, reptile, bird, beast, man, to God!
 
 IN THE GLOAMING 
 
 WE sat upon the rough sea shore, 
 My plighted love and I ; 
 The heavens with clouds were tented o'er, 
 No star upheld the sky; 
 Yet was the ether strewn with light 
 And sweet the air and mild, 
 While the slow waters to the night 
 Crooned like a sleepy child 
 
 II 
 
 When lulled upon its mother's knee; 
 
 And from the fragrant earth, 
 
 Around us on the shadowed lea, 
 
 A million trills had birth, 
 
 Which tinily did interfuse 
 
 And to the heavens upburn, 
 
 While downward Night her dusks and dews 
 
 Poured from her poppied urn. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Silent and still we sat; her cheek 
 Pressed mine, i' the other's arms 
 Each folded; rythmically did speak 
 The beached waves' low alarms;
 
 92 IN THE GLOAMING 
 
 The refluent wave which aye assailed 
 The pebbles beneath our feet ; 
 Over us, amethystine veiled, 
 Night bended down to greet 
 
 IV 
 
 The breathing earth with still embrace; 
 The brooding, thrilled delight, 
 The living lushness and the grace 
 Of warm midsummer night. 
 And so our souls fell into chime 
 With earth and sky and sea; 
 So did our sentient summertime 
 Melt in mute ecstasy. 
 
 And then she spoke, her words came low 
 As the soft-lapping tide; 
 Fervent as Evening's pulsing glow, 
 My sweet-voiced, sea-born bride; 
 High words of love and light as pure 
 And kind as Heaven's own dew; 
 Words that shall comfort and endure 
 My last life journey thru. 
 
 VI 
 
 And while we lingered paled the light, 
 Dusk's curtains were drawn down ; 
 Passed o'er the placid wave the Night, 
 And o'er the dreaming down
 
 IN THE GLOAMING 93 
 
 Her sables moved; but in that world, 
 Our hearts, the light still burned; 
 The petals of our souls unfurled, 
 And forth to Heaven upturned. 
 
 vn 
 
 And thru our bosoms throbbed the heart 
 
 Of breathing Nature's God; 
 
 One were we with the spheres, a part 
 
 Of star and wave and sod; 
 
 Comrade with eldest yearnings blown 
 
 Thru sentient pipes of Pan, 
 
 To noblest dreams of earth full grown, 
 
 The God-ward tread of Man. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Oh life, oh love, ye are the same 
 
 To souls born free and true! 
 
 Oh pure heart faith, words cannot frame 
 
 What the rapt eye may view! 
 
 Far from earth's dull material sounds 
 
 The still small voice is heard, 
 
 How oft the rude world's discord drowns 
 
 Heaven's sweet star-lighted word!
 
 CANADIAN THANKSGIVING HYMN 
 
 DOWN all the changes of the years, 
 Across earth's mingled joys and tears, 
 The stars of endless progress shine; 
 The centuries, O Lord, are Thine! 
 
 Thy hand the sovereign gifts of peace 
 Bestows with bounteous, rich increase; 
 The hearts of nations move to Thee 
 As towards the moon the midnight sea. 
 
 The star that rose o'er Morning Land 
 Doth now with clearer beam expand; 
 Old dreams come true oh, wondrous spell 
 Thy word of love, Emanuel! 
 
 Now Faith, like Noah's wandering dove, 
 The drear wide waste of creeds above, 
 Bears back unto her refuge ark 
 Her token o'er the waters dark. 
 
 But chief of those Thy love hath blest 
 Are we, the English of the West; 
 With filled and overflowing hands 
 The Benjamin of Nations stands. 
 
 O, thanks supreme are due to Thee, 
 Who brought us forth across the sea, 
 And taught our souls to feel and know; 
 Where Truth could build and Freedom grow! 
 94
 
 CANADIAN THANKSGIVING HYMN 95 
 
 Still runs the sturdy Standish strain, 
 Still glows the patriot heart of Vane 
 In us, the old Cromwellian will 
 In us is warm and vital still. 
 
 What though the horoscope of fate 
 Points out fresh dangers to the state, 
 Thy mercies oft our path have crossed, 
 Our trust, like Gideon's, was not lost. 
 
 Great cause for many thanks have we, 
 A land at peace, a Nation free; 
 From North to South, from East to West, 
 Above all nations we are blest. 
 
 Blest in our heritage and increase, 
 Blest both in faction and in peace, 
 Blest more than Israel in her prime, 
 This new, this true Hesperian clime. 
 
 With no faint hope for our young land, 
 We lay our futures in Thy hand ; 
 For blessings past we worship Thee, 
 And for Thy bounties yet to be. 
 
 Though fate's dark frown should cloud Thy face, 
 Keep for us, Lord, Thy heart of grace; 
 Our lives are Thine; Thy Gospel's ray 
 Lights up our new Thanksgiving Day!
 
 THE HOLLYHOCKS 
 
 SOME space beyond the garden close 
 I sauntered down the shadowed lawn; 
 It was the hour when sluggards doze, 
 
 The cheerful, zephyr-breathing dawn. 
 The sun had not yet bathed his face, 
 
 Dark reddened from the night's carouse, 
 When lo, in festive gypsy grace 
 
 The hollyhocks stood nodding brows. 
 
 They shone full bold and debonair 
 
 That fine, trim band of frolic blades; 
 Their ruffles, pinked and purfled fair, 
 
 Flamed with their riotous rainbow shades. 
 They whispered light each comrade's ears, 
 
 They flirted with the wooing breeze; 
 The grassy army's stanchest spears 
 
 Rose merely to their stalwart knees! 
 
 My heart flushed warm with welcome cheer, 
 
 They were so royal tall to see ; 
 No high-placed rivals need they fear, 
 
 All flowers paid them fealty. 
 The haughtiest wild rose standing near 
 
 Their girdles hardly might attain; 
 They glowed, the courtiers of a year, 
 
 Blithe pages in the Summer's train! 
 
 Their radiance mocked the ruddy morn, 
 
 So jocund and so saucy free; 
 Gay vagrants, Flora's bravest born, 
 
 They brightened all the emerald lea. 
 96
 
 THE HOLLYHOCKS 97 
 
 I said : "Glad hearts, the crabbed frost 
 Will soon your sun-dyed glories blight; 
 
 No evil eye your pride has crossed, 
 You know not the designs of night. 
 
 "You have not thought that beauty fades; 
 
 It is in vain you bloom so free; 
 While you are flaunting in the glades 
 
 The gale may wreck your wanton glee." 
 They shook their silken frills in scorn, 
 
 And to my warning seemed to say, 
 "Dull rhymester, look! 'tis summer morn, 
 
 And round us is the court of Day!"
 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 BRIDE of the Sun, thou beautiful Queen of the limitless 
 West, 
 A tiara of glittering snowpeaks o'er thy proud, imperial 
 
 crest; 
 
 With thy veil of vines and flowers, and eyes of eternal blue, 
 From the Occident greeting the Orient, heir of the Old 
 and New. 
 
 California crowned with summer, thou fairest of fair two- 
 score, 
 
 Great is thy name amid nations, bright marvel of mountain 
 and shore; 
 
 With gaze fixed full on the future or lifted to Hope's glad 
 skies, 
 
 The stars of a cloudless heaven reflected in thine eyes. 
 
 At thy feet the Ocean casteth his broad and burnished 
 
 shield, 
 For thou stretchest a scepter of iron over his wave-strewn 
 
 field; 
 And thy ichor of life takes fire from the glow of thy mighty 
 
 heart, 
 As from thy lips of passion the peans of triumph start. 
 
 On thy robes the perfume of roses lingers the live-long 
 
 year, 
 
 And the dream-winds of the ocean make music in thine ear; 
 
 98
 
 CALIFORNIA 99 
 
 Child-mother, of years most fruitful, whose breasts o'erflow 
 
 with milk, 
 The East shall sue for thy favor with spices and gems and 
 
 silk. 
 
 Yet, O thou peerless beauty, tho dowered with Heaven's 
 
 high grace, 
 Dream not of a cloudless future the meed of a faultless 
 
 face ; 
 For evil hath tainted thy blood, and the petulance of thy 
 
 hand 
 May turn a curse upon thee and blast thy bounteous land. 
 
 Rise, rise in strength majestic, young Titaness of the West, 
 And forge thyself a cuirass of the gold that adorns thy 
 
 breast; 
 
 Temper thy sword of justice in Freedom's sacred fire, 
 And slay with heart unflinching the dragon of thy desire. 
 
 Smite with the edge of thine ire that dragon of soulless 
 
 greed ; 
 
 So shalt thou leave safeguarded the heritage of thy seed; 
 So shall plenty descend like dew and the fair and fruitful 
 
 earth 
 Requite with lavish largesse the life that gave thee birth. 
 
 Anoint thy soul with vigil, thou bright-haired matron- 
 knight; 
 
 Win fairly thy crown of honor, bear bravely thy shield in 
 flight; 
 
 So Peace may o'er thy conquest her choicest blessing spread, 
 
 And wreathe with the orange blossoms the laurel round thy 
 head.
 
 ioo CALIFORNIA 
 
 Then will thy star resplendent burn on the brow of Morn ; 
 
 The Aurora of life new-waking, discarding her robes out- 
 worn; 
 
 In the virginal beauty of Truth, mid the nations radiant 
 stand, 
 
 The charm of a brighter heaven the joy of an ampler 
 land!
 
 TO THE POETS 
 
 OH, poets, brothers, though the world, unheeding 
 Grudges us all things save its care and pain ; 
 Know our probation is the spring-time seeding 
 Our tears the warm and fertilizing rain. 
 
 Make firm your choice! should we be slaves to Mammon, 
 To take the flesh pots from his sweaty hand? 
 
 Better Heaven's manna in the land of famine! 
 Better the desert thirst, the lonesome sand! 
 
 Should we forego our ill-paid love and hoping, 
 For Wealth's and Power's delirium and fears? 
 
 In recreant, careless sloth should we be dropping 
 The soiled rosary of the silver years? 
 
 Ye faithful hearted, what is Pride's indenture 
 
 To those who Heaven and Nature's secrets share? 
 
 We have our Shakespere he will, peradventure, 
 Show us the heights where laurels grow most fair. 
 
 Let us not fail in word, in just ambition; 
 
 Nor solely use the prophet's voice to please ; 
 Nor spend the golden thought in cheap attrition 
 
 Of trifling themes and turbid fantasies. 
 
 On, minstrels, cheer the van, march uncomplaining! 
 
 Ye are God's favorite children, for we feel 
 Perpetual spring within our spirits reigning, 
 
 Though frosts of age may on our locks congeal. 
 
 101
 
 102 TO THE POETS 
 
 Pale watchers for the Light in the new reaping 
 Men shall adore each lambent, deathless name! 
 
 Ye patient ones a wealth of smiles and weeping 
 The world shall pay in homage to your fame ! 
 
 Yes, all the tissued dreams of Fancy's leading, 
 
 The gold-wrought threads of song our rapture wove, 
 
 Are raiment to man's naked human pleading, 
 Girded with sacrifice and clasped with love.
 
 THE SLUMBER 
 
 SHE paled away like some bright flower, 
 In Autumn's chill, 
 
 Before the storm unchains its power, 
 At winter's will. 
 
 She sleeps nor all life's fevered dream 
 
 Disturbs her rest, 
 As pulseless as the thin moonbeam, 
 
 That lights her breast. 
 
 10
 
 ONE KIN ARE WE 
 
 WE all are sons of English land, 
 From Britain to New Zealand's strand ; 
 From isles of spice and far Cathay 
 To realms of occidental day. 
 From shore to shore, from sea to sea, 
 Throughout all earth one kin are we! 
 One kin, undoubted, faithful, free, 
 In our redoubted Liberty! 
 
 We own the wealth of half the world ; 
 Our sails on every sea unfurled 
 Waft treasures priceless and untold; 
 Ours are the fabled shores of gold! 
 In every land, on every sea, 
 On foreign strands, one kin are we! 
 One kin, illustrious still to be 
 In our industrious Liberty! 
 
 How bright the stars of empire shine 
 Above palmetto, oak and pine! 
 How the full groves of orange trees 
 Are rustling in fair Freedom's breeze! 
 Our realms of oceaned industry 
 Show to the world one kin are we! 
 One kin of blended fame are we, 
 Born to one splendid Liberty! 
 
 The Slav, the Teuton, and the Gaul, 
 Our strength and splendor dwarfs them all; 
 104
 
 ONE KIN ARE WE 105 
 
 They quarrel o'er their conquered lands 
 
 Earth groans beneath their armed bands; 
 
 Aloof in calm supremacy 
 
 We bide, because one kin are we! 
 
 One kin of fearless, proud degree, 
 
 Guarding our peerless Liberty! 
 
 Freedom regains each lost estate 
 
 From out the grudging hold of Fate, 
 
 The peaceful triumphs of her rule, 
 
 Arts, science, law, the church, the school; 
 
 Our patron saint of husbandry 
 
 Is she, because one kin are we! 
 
 One kin one towering, wide-spread tree, 
 
 With flowering boughs of Liberty! 
 
 Old England's glories bloom o'er earth; 
 They bourgeon forth in constant birth! 
 The stars that o'er Columbia shine, 
 The Pleiads o'er the Canadian pine, 
 The Austral cresset blazing free, 
 Now light the world; one kin are we! 
 One kin, far-famed, of proud degree, 
 Led by our star-flamed Liberty! 
 
 The earth's redemption draweth nigh! 
 Hark! as the dowerless nations sigh, 
 The rush of Freedom's firm set feet 
 Resounds down each insurgent street! 
 Her banner rolls out broad and free 
 We lead the van! One kin are we! 
 One kin one valorous constancy 
 Yes, one chivalrous Liberty !
 
 THE VISION 
 
 '^I^WAS twilight hour; I sat in darkened mood; 
 
 A "Would that the world would yield me more of good," 
 I sadly mused, when, close at my right hand 
 My guardian genius seemed to me to stand. 
 
 His face was calm, compassionate, and mild, 
 
 He gazed on me and all so sweetly smiled, 
 
 A paly radiance strayed across the room, 
 
 Like flickering moonbeams through a covert gloom. 
 
 He placed his hand upon my bended head; 
 "Look up, my child," in pure, low tones he said; 
 I looked, and wonderingly I gazed again, 
 The room seemed filled with a triumphal train. 
 
 Each figure in the dim light loomed and shaped, 
 
 Then crossed and vanished where the shades were draped; 
 
 And as they to my gazing passed away, 
 
 My sweet-faced genius low to me did say: 
 
 "These are the phantoms of thy youthful hope, 
 They enter not within thy manhood's scope; 
 Fair cherished ideals of life's early day, 
 Lo, one by one, they slowly fade away. 
 
 "Look thou once more!" again I raised mine eyes; 
 There passed a figure clad in splendid guise; 
 He eyed me with a shrewd, cold gaze of stealth; 
 "Not thine," the genius said, "his name is Wealth." 
 
 106
 
 THE VISION 107 
 
 A stately presence next did cross me by; 
 Proud was his mien and threatening was his eye; 
 One short, contemptuous glance he on me cast ; 
 "This one is Power, and lo, he too has passed!" 
 
 I looked again a delicate perfume 
 Of rose and jasmine wandered through the room; 
 There came a maiden all bedeckt with flowers, 
 Sweeter than those e'er grown in Flora's bowers. 
 
 Her eyes were lustrous as the stars of night, 
 And graceful w r as her form as sylph of light; 
 She held me spell-bound in delicious charm; 
 Sweetly she smiled and waved her lily arm. 
 
 Yet passed she on bewildered and amazed 
 
 I earnestly within the darkness gazed ; 
 
 The genius touched me, "She too doth remove; 
 
 Not thine," he said, "men call this siren, Love." 
 
 I heaved a sigh with rapt look and profound, 
 One slowly came, his head with bays was crowned ; 
 And fair as is the opening rose of morn, 
 A changeful radiance from his form was borne. 
 
 Yet simple was his garb a glance he turned 
 Upon my anxious eyes, that through me burned ; 
 With eager lips and outstretched hand his name 
 I cried aloud, "take all, but leave me Fame!" 
 
 Yet even as I spake he passed away; 
 My head in anguish in my hands I lay; 
 When a low voice upon the other side 
 Said softly, "Grieve not, I with thee abide!"
 
 io8 THE VISION 
 
 I raised mine eyes which vanished hope had seared; 
 My calm-faced genius all transformed appeared; 
 Celestial radiance all his visage veiled, 
 And scars showed where his hands had once been nailed. 
 
 "My child," he said, "the world for thee has nought; 
 Wealth, power, and fame are all too dearly bought; 
 Even love itself, unsanctified by me, 
 Would lure thy soul from higher destiny. 
 
 "Know thou thy good what hallows mortal life 
 Is 'gainst ourselves to wage a conquering strife; 
 Learn thou of me thy frailties to subdue, 
 And be in all things to thy vision true." 
 
 He ceased, and all his form grew heavenly fair, 
 Then slowly faded through the still night air; 
 Humbled and awed my spirit inly bowed, 
 And as he passed the moon brake through a cloud.
 
 THE BIRTHPLACE OF FREEDOM 
 
 WHERE'S Freedom's birthplace? it should be 
 Some spot of earth most fair to see! 
 What doth she name her natal home? 
 Some minster pile? some palace dome? 
 In what court, castle, tower or hall, 
 Did her first lisping accents fall? 
 Not within bannered walls of stone 
 Doth Freedom any birthright own! 
 
 No! she was not with life endowed 
 Among the mighty and the proud 
 Neither midst kings nor conquerors found, 
 Nor lords nor prelates capped and gowned; 
 The haughty barons, earls, and peers, 
 Oppressed and starved her infant years: 
 She hath not there a heritage known, 
 No birthright there may Freedom own! 
 
 Perchance her nascent strength grew then 
 Midst demagogues and lawless men? 
 Mayhap midst anarchy and crime 
 Was nurtured first her youth sublime? 
 In realms by selfish faction torn 
 Perhaps the radiant maid was born? 
 Where such rash tyrants sway the throne 
 No heritage can Freedom own! 
 
 It may be, then, in ways of trade 
 Her earliest infant footsteps strayed, 
 109
 
 no THE BIRTHPLACE OF FREEDOM 
 
 Where Commerce with her golden chain 
 
 Links shore to shore, joins main to main? 
 
 No! she was poor. No costly bales 
 
 No argosies with swelling sails 
 
 Were hers for humble, scorned, alone, 
 
 No birthright there could Freedom own! 
 
 No! her first smile she did bestow 
 Neither on wealth nor power, nor show; 
 But long ago her tender form 
 Was rescued from a night of storm. 
 From out her peril lifted then 
 High in the arms of lowly men, 
 A love child, sacred, though unknown, 
 Midst them might Freedom heritage own! 
 
 Lo, proud even of her humble birth 
 Are now the great ones of the earth; 
 As eager now her court to fill 
 As erst their hatred wrought her ill. 
 But now, as then, her guardian stands 
 The son of toil with hardened hands; 
 As when in youth, now fairly grown, 
 To him her life doth Freedom own !
 
 THE GOLDEN-ROD 
 
 ALONG the bronze-banked roadside as I stray 
 What is it braids the front of Autumn day? 
 The fields are brown, the wild flowers shrunk in blight, 
 Save where this glory trails upon my sight; 
 O Golden-Rod! 
 'Tis you who greet me as I walk abroad ! 
 
 As forth I saunter, sunk in moody dreams, 
 Around my path your way-fire pageant gleams; 
 While starring all my dusk of musing drear, 
 You hold me high your wealth of nodding cheer; 
 O Golden-Rod! 
 Moving my fancy as along I plod. 
 
 You love by common human paths to dwell; 
 Unlike the hermit shrunken to his cell, 
 You eye with interest human toil and strife 
 Undaunted by the dust of passing life; 
 O Golden-Rod ! 
 Blooming your brightest on the hardest sod. 
 
 Your free-willed, fearless presence showeth me 
 Worth bravely cheerful midst adversity, 
 How life may through the current of the day 
 Its bloom of kindly service wear alway; 
 O Golden-Rod! 
 
 May manhood blossom like your rude birth-clod! 
 
 in
 
 ii2 THE GOLDEN-ROD 
 
 Fair yellow jewel, the last in Autumn's crown! 
 
 No selfish tongue should voice your pure renown, 
 
 For without wage you charm the public eye, 
 
 A poet of the thankless, sombre sky! 
 
 O Golden-Rod! 
 
 How many heedless feet have past you trod. 
 
 Dear wayside flower with waving, feathery plume, 
 Uncherished still, life's two-fold way illume! 
 Your graceful charm thru Autumn's waning date 
 Outranks the cultured garden's proud estate; 
 O Golden-Rod! 
 Lamp of the highway, lit by hand of God !
 
 JANUARY 
 
 A WINTER'S day: the landscape veiled in white 
 Shimmers within the morning's lucent ray; 
 There is no cloud in all of heaven's height; 
 
 There is no leaf nor bird upon the spray; 
 The winds alone are wandering, while we 
 Warm sheltered sit in low-eaved privacy. 
 
 Gaily the flames leap up the chimney's throat; 
 
 The huge gnarled back-log crackles on the hearth ; 
 Hark, how the wheel hums round its cheerful note! 
 
 It is the season of the New Year's birth. 
 All nature greets us smiling; ah, may Time 
 Spin out our threads to such a sweet-toned chime! 
 
 This life is all our portion; little we 
 
 Know of the strife and passion of the mart; 
 
 The dull round of our quiet cares, the tree, 
 The corn and kine make up our peaceful part; 
 
 The city's pride and longing pass us by; 
 
 How white the world is and how blue the sky!
 
 THE BARREN FIG-TREE 
 
 A BARREN fig-tree in the vineyard stood. 
 The Lord in passing saw its want of good 
 And said, to the vine-dresser turning round, 
 
 "Cut this tree down, why cumbereth it the ground?" 
 
 "Behold have I not planted it with care? 
 Hath it not had the rain and sun and air, 
 
 Doth it not fare alike with all of these 
 Why doth it not bring forth like other trees?" 
 
 Then the vine-dresser said with anxious mien, 
 "Thy care and keeping, Lord, are fully seen, 
 
 Spare it a little longer tho, I pray, 
 
 For it to Thee may bring forth fruit some day. 
 
 "Lo, now it hath a goodly branch and root; 
 
 It groweth yet too rank for any fruit; 
 Its spurious blossoms all are blasted quite; 
 
 I'll prune it, Lord, that it may bloom aright." 
 
 Then said the Lord, "Vine-dresser, great thy care 
 Hath been of all my trees, beyond compare; 
 
 I give the barren fig-tree to thy will; 
 The choicest fruit is of redemption still." 
 
 114
 
 QUESTIONS OF LIFE 
 
 WHAT is Knowledge? 'Tis the beholding 
 The blue through a cloudy strife. 
 What is Wisdom? The unfolding 
 Of the secret calyx of life. 
 
 What is Life? The daily Postman's 
 
 Packet and tarnished sleeve. 
 What is Death? The churlish dustman 
 
 Who trundles his cart at eve. 
 
 What is Pleasure? The froth on the beaker 
 
 Of the sparkling vintage of joy. 
 What is Pain? A vengeance wreaker; 
 
 A servant the gods employ. 
 
 What is Honor? A kite that flieth 
 
 High as the gale expands. 
 What is Fame? A tongue that lieth 
 
 A foot-print upon the sands. 
 
 What is Happiness? Perfumed essence 
 
 Born of the dew and light. 
 What Despair? A shrouded presence 
 
 That sits by the hearth at night. 
 
 What is Chance? The heart of a lover, 
 
 A shuttle that weaves the air. 
 What is Fate? The coffin cover; 
 . The Pope in his curule chair. 
 "5
 
 ii6 QUESTIONS OF LIFE 
 
 What is Law? The planks and fitting 
 
 Of Noah's expedient Ark. 
 What is Faith? The white dove flitting 
 
 Over the waters dark. 
 
 What is Creed? A sea-shore cavern 
 Where sounding billows sweep. 
 
 What is Time? A wayside tavern 
 Where travellers greet and sleep. 
 
 What is Conscience? A Judge's warrant; 
 
 A vice-shaming polished shield. 
 What is Genius? A proud Knight-errant 
 
 Tilting against the field. 
 
 What is Friendship? Convenient barter; 
 
 A heart-fire guide at night. 
 What is Love? Life's chart and charter; 
 
 An Eagle's tireless flight. 
 
 What is History? The moon investing 
 
 A midnight forest march. 
 What is Truth ? The keystone resting 
 
 Upon the eternal arch.
 
 TO THE BUMBLE-BEE 
 
 YOU little, busy, bustling fellow, 
 In doublet striped with brown and yellow, 
 I wonder if your fair employment 
 Is such fine, fanciful enjoyment; 
 Dost ever weary of your sweets 
 And long for other tasks and meats, 
 Like human creatures, who, God wot, 
 Are alway grumbling o'er their lot, 
 Even should their heavy hoarded money 
 Be heaped up higher than your honey; 
 "Hard food for Midas," you can beat it, 
 Your wealth is fragrant and you eat it. 
 You do not feed your idle ones 
 As rich folk oft do lazy sons; 
 For social needs you think it kinder 
 To probe them with a keen reminder. 
 In the republic of your hive 
 To live is but to work and thrive; 
 And though you're chivalrous to ladies 
 All idle drones must go to Hades. 
 You're very circumspect indeed, sir, 
 And lay up plenty for your need, sir; 
 But are not stigmatized as niggard 
 As careful folk sometimes are figured, 
 Nor are to selfishness inclined 
 If rightly I can trace your mind; 
 But yet, my little buzzing elf, 
 You're much like us who live for pelf. 
 You have no conscience to be bought, 
 117
 
 u8 TO THE BUMBLE-BEE 
 
 But yet your honey's all your thought. 
 What then? you earn and keep your right 
 To live small sensual delight! 
 Your life is temperate, proper, just, 
 The only thought you have is must. 
 And so I hold no right to blame; 
 You put me and my kind to shame, 
 And teach our selfish ones at ease 
 They're not so wise or good as bees.
 
 THE POOR APPLE WOMAN 
 
 THE busy throng and loaded wain 
 Surged by the warehouse wall ; 
 Around her in the drizzling rain 
 
 She drew her tattered shawl; 
 Unnoticed by a look or word, 
 She cowered o'er her scanty hoard. 
 
 Her eyes betrayed a heart that pined; 
 
 Her lips with cold were blue; 
 Her face was wan and haggard-lined 
 
 And wore privation's hue; 
 Whoe'er hath been of woman born 
 Mighty pity one so sad and lorn. 
 
 But Want upon her careworn brow 
 Had stamped his cruel seal ; 
 
 No hope of happy fortune now 
 Did those sad eyes reveal; 
 
 A leaf swept by the winds of fate, 
 
 Trampled at Pleasure's palace gate! 
 
 119
 
 CHILDLESS 
 
 MY little daughter Nellie 
 Would be eighteen to-day, 
 Gone these ten years, I tell ye, 
 
 It's been a dreary way! 
 My little daughter Nellie, 
 As was so sweet and gay! 
 
 If you'd a-seen her, mister, 
 The light of these dim eyes! 
 
 They called her "The Little Sister"- 
 The plaguey tears will rise! 
 
 How often in dreams I've kissed her, 
 My deary, now in the skies! 
 
 Pretty? God never thought of 
 A thing more pure and fair! 
 
 It seemed like she was wrought of 
 The sunshine, dew and air. 
 
 Ah, now of her I've nought of 
 But memories everywhere! 
 
 Memories that haunt me ever 
 
 As round the place I go; 
 A heart so kind and clever, 
 
 A life so all aglow 
 With youth and joy, I never 
 
 From now to death will know. 
 120
 
 CHILDLESS 121 
 
 Why, sir, the birds would listen 
 
 But for to hear her sing; 
 The wild-flowers seemed to glisten 
 
 As tho touched by an angel's wing 
 When she passed earth's now a prison, 
 
 No joy in anything! 
 
 The dear white-violets cover 
 
 In spring her churchyard bed, 
 And a wild-rose clambers over 
 
 The headstone at her head; 
 Each fair thing was her lover, 
 
 To me and them she's dead! 
 
 Ah, well! I mustn't sadden 
 
 Your heart, so lightsome yet; 
 At times I seemed to madden 
 
 At loss of my little pet; 
 Nothing my heart can gladden; 
 
 Old age cannot forget.
 
 MY THREE FRIENDS 
 
 (Lines on a Photograph of Three Dogs) 
 
 THREE friends are these adherents of my flag; 
 Stanch followers, courtier, learned clerk, and wag; 
 Good friends, all three, as e'er did woman own, 
 As ever loved a woman or a bone ; 
 Friends, thoro friends, thru every pulse and breath, 
 Friends for all life; perchance who knows? past death! 
 Each to his service brings a fresh delight 
 And feels no virtue in his love's requite. 
 Mark you the right-hand comrade what an air 
 Of high-bred grace! his head thrown up in air. 
 How like the love-locks of the Cavaliers 
 Falls soft the peruke of his silken ears! 
 And how the silver locket at his breast 
 Shines like the order on a silken vest! 
 He is a cavalier ! Not Charles' court 
 Held one of braver or more constant sort; 
 Who, for a cause, would death more quickly face 
 Than Hark, my prince of chivalry and grace! 
 One night the tale I will not dwell on he 
 Saved me some inconvenience robbery 
 Or was it murder? Anyhow, I lay 
 My life and diamonds to his love, to-day. 
 
 The middle one, that's Dick, my learned clerk; 
 He's smaller than the others what a perk 
 Of knowingness sits on his supple ears! 
 He is the brains of the three worthy peers; 
 
 122
 
 MY THREE FRIENDS 123 
 
 Prim as a maiden, gentle, but so quick 
 To catch a hint or learn the mannered trick! 
 Dick knows a thing or two, mayhap, that you 
 Or I, my friend, scarce fathom yet 'tis true 
 Dick has no speech beyond a hoarse "y e P> yep !" 
 And language, Sir, articulate, is a step 
 Dogs will not take this many an aeon still 
 Dick's on the road with a persistent will. 
 
 And now, my third the one that's on the left; 
 
 No thoroughbred, you see! Nature's bereft 
 
 Brownie of dignity and manners note 
 
 His blunter nose, his shagginess of coat, 
 
 His tongue a-loll and two big sprawling paws, 
 
 And no clean cut expression to the jaws. 
 
 Yet Brownie, none the less, shall have his due, 
 
 Prince of good fellows! Ay, and princely true! 
 
 Never a better, merrier heart was born ; 
 
 With Brownie's love no life could be forlorn; 
 
 See, what an honest, jolly, sonsie face! 
 
 He's prime! the first Mark Tapley of his race! 
 
 So, you perceive, I'm rich in three good friends; 
 
 Friends? More than friends they're lovers; my amends 
 
 To you, my brave Hark, Dick and Brownie! you 
 
 Reck not who else is to your mistress true, 
 
 Nor what her fortunes are, and in her smile 
 
 You're happy, with no lurking thought of guile; 
 
 You've a capacity for love, I say, 
 
 That has no limit any popinjay 
 
 Can swear his love's eternal you've no way 
 
 But to act out your love from day to day. 
 
 ***** 
 
 You envy them their task? the trade is free; 
 I love my dogs. You understand, I see.
 
 THANKSGIVING HYMN 
 
 A CHEERLESS, bleak November morn 
 Broke lowing o'er that band forlorn 
 Those grave, stern Pilgrims, robed in gray, 
 Who kept our first Thanksgiving Day. 
 
 Between lone shore and lonelier wood 
 What trials had their manhood stood! 
 Through sorrow, care and toil arose 
 The infant state girt round with foes. 
 
 But tho rough wood and barren strand 
 Close hemmed that sad faced, toiling band 
 Tho in what hour no soul could tell 
 Might rise the Narraganset yell 
 
 Sundered in that inclement time 
 From English kin and England's clime, 
 Yet still our fathers blest the sea 
 That fenced their dear bought liberty. 
 
 For even while foes and cares assailed, 
 Faith grew not dim nor courage failed; 
 Then rose the voices rapt and calm, 
 That raised our first Thanksgiving psalm. 
 
 ***** 
 
 O wondrous change! how wide and fair 
 The inheritance their offspring share! 
 Yes, all is changed save faith 'on high, 
 The freeborn heart, the sea and sky. 
 124
 
 THANKSGIVING HYMN 125 
 
 That sea and sky now greet a strand 
 Where Freedom still doth stedfast stand, 
 While by her side her sisters twain, 
 Peace, Plenty smile o'er shore and main. 
 
 From out that stern and narrow rule 
 Have grown the Pulpit, Press and School; 
 Whose firm foundations stayed the shock 
 Of untoward fate on Plymouth Rock. 
 
 As in that twilight cold and gray, 
 As in war's fratricidal day, 
 Now in the hour of halcyon calm, 
 We raise the old Thanksgiving psalm !
 
 A WITHERED ROSE 
 
 THE rose that late in its passion slumbered 
 Is dead, and its bloom is withered to-day, 
 And hopes that a longing heart has numbered 
 Are torn, like these faded leaves, away. 
 
 Ah me, for the dream that awakes to sorrow; 
 
 For the baseless trust that has bloomed to die ; 
 The life of a love that is dead to-morrow; 
 
 For the outward smile and the inward sigh. 
 
 The tears that fall cannot bring back savor 
 To the petals once gay with the morning dew, 
 
 Nor the prayers of an errant heart earn favor 
 Of joy to the soul to its memories true. 
 
 126
 
 BETRAYED 
 
 YOU vowed to me your love was like the sea, 
 As wide, as free, as fathomless, as strong, 
 And in that trust I gave my all to thee, 
 A woman's heart, still unforeseeing wrong. 
 
 I blame you not, your nature stands revealed; 
 
 My love was wasted, for you could not know 
 For what deep source my cup of joy was filled; 
 
 What hidden springs now feed my bitter woe. 
 
 You could not ah, had I but found it out 
 In time to flee from Love's unreasoning snare, 
 
 Regret had not then ta'en a pledge from Doubt 
 Nor innocent Hope submitted to Despair. 
 
 Alas, that the ignoble still must be 
 
 The scourge of generous hearts, and ever bind 
 
 The Christ of the Ideal to the tree, 
 
 Who comes to work redemption for mankind. 
 
 127
 
 THE VOTIVE ROSE 
 
 SWEET Rose, thou gem of yestermorn, 
 All blushing from thy stem wast torn; 
 Red as the love pulse of my heart, 
 And dewy as my tears that start. 
 
 My tears are not of grief but joy; 
 Henceforth no fears shall me annoy; 
 He said, the love light in his eye, 
 "How sweet, dear Rose, for her to die." 
 
 "For her to die !" ah, happy she ! 
 Dear Rose, thy brethren of the tree 
 Might envy thee thy parting breath, 
 Love's envoy glorified in death. 
 
 So long as life abides thy claim 
 Is cherished, symbol of love's flame; 
 Thy withered form shall daily press 
 This leaf where I my love confess. 
 
 And when I die thy faded bloom 
 Shall grace my passage to the tomb, 
 And he shall kiss thy leaves and say, 
 "Be with her till her waking day." 
 
 128
 
 SOCIETY AND ART 
 
 FROM Mother earth the potter's crafty hand 
 Moulds into shape the vase's flowing line; 
 Then art around the surface doth expand 
 In bossage, color, tracery, and design. 
 
 The first is elemental like the child, 
 Cast in the matrix of his age and race; 
 
 The second like the man by dreams beguiled, 
 By action formed, with passion's warmth and grace. 
 
 And both are tried by fire until are fixed 
 Indissolubly whilst one shard remains, 
 
 The colors art and social forms have mixed 
 In clays and bronzes, or in hearts and brains. 
 
 129
 
 LINES ON A PICTURE 
 
 THE guests are gone my lady there is sitting 
 Between the lions of her palace gate, 
 A frame for peerless beauty most befitting, 
 The power that heralds her ancestral state. 
 
 And from her hand the soul of sound has glided 
 In rhythmic tremors o'er the starred lagoon ; 
 
 Her spirit seems 'tween earth and heaven divided 
 Ah, may her heart re-echo to love's tune! 
 
 130
 
 "JUST AS HIGH AS MY HEART" 
 
 HIGH as my heart my lovely lady stands 
 Her eyes gleam like twin sister stars of even, 
 Borrowing their beauty from the depths of Heaven. 
 Like tapering coral are her milk-white hands ; 
 Her lips like roses red that newly leaven. 
 High as my heart my lovely lady stands! 
 
 High as my heart my lovely lady stands 
 Beneath a bower of clambering brier roses; 
 The fawning sunbeam on her form reposes 
 
 And burnishes her braided chestnut bands 
 And like a golden shrine her grace encloses. 
 
 High as my heart my lovely lady stands! 
 
 High as my heart my lovely lady stands 
 
 But, ah, her worth than mine how truer, higher! 
 For like as gold that hath been tried by fire 
 
 Her steadfast heart meets all life's stern demands. 
 Yet this I say nor make kind love a liar 
 
 High as my heart my lovely lady stands!
 
 THE PRISONER OF LOVE 
 
 THEY who in Love's strong meshes lie 
 May swear the bonds are sweet not I. 
 Now, Eros, turn thy shafts away, 
 My breast to them is proof to-day. 
 
 With youth thy influence, too, hath flown; 
 The fair to me is fair alone. 
 Thy Mother's self with all her art 
 Has now no power to move my heart. 
 
 Only one homage I avow, 
 
 The Attic maid with laurelled brow; 
 
 Thy yoke and tribute I refuse ; 
 
 I yield sole service to the Muse. 
 
 The Muse, ah, she's the maid for me ! 
 Whose breath like summer winds is free, 
 Whose eyes are stars of Heaven, whose dress 
 Is of all lines of loveliness. 
 
 Who perfume brings of fields and hills; 
 Whose voice is of the mountain rills; 
 Whose smile is like the radiant beam 
 Of some light dancing, lucent stream. 
 
 The Muse is always constant? No! 
 Her woman's waywardness will show, 
 But when she greets me then I feel 
 She loves me aye through dearth and weal. 
 132
 
 THE PRISONER OF LOVE 133 
 
 Yet even while I her claim allow 
 I prove a recreant to my vow; 
 Despite of proud resolves, betrayed 
 By Eros thru an earthly maid. 
 
 The subtile King of hearts! he sent 
 His deadliest power of blandishment ; 
 He roused the slumbering fires to life 
 That held my youth in bonds and strife. 
 
 A maiden sweet, a maiden fair, 
 With heaven-blue eyes and sunny hair, 
 In whose low voice and winning smile 
 I note the love-god's cunning wile. 
 
 My Muse, too, in the plot! again 
 Complacent to the dual reign; 
 If she now joins against me all 
 Is up, my shield and falchion fall. 
 
 Why, Eros, warfare dost thou wage 
 Against grey hairs and growing age? 
 Still thy relentless bow is strung 
 'Gainst wise and simple, old and young! 
 
 It recks not to despise thy power; 
 None knoweth when may come his hour. 
 Now, tyrant, lay thine arrows by; 
 Once more thy helpless captive, I.
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 On the Death of Alfred Tennyson 
 
 WHOM would ye choose? for, lo, the king is dead 
 Who latest swayed the realm of English hearts; 
 He whose revered and silver crowned head 
 
 Lies dreamless midst the thunder of your marts; 
 Your Alfred of the calm and lofty mien, 
 His fingers clasping Shakespere's Cymbeline. 
 
 Buried in the bowels of that ancient crypt, 
 Amidst the dust of your illustrious great, 
 
 He rests, the gracious-hearted, honey-lipped, 
 Peer of the grandest of your race or state; 
 
 Yea, Prince of more than kingdoms, age or clime; 
 
 A Monarch whose dead sceptre conquers time! 
 
 For even when the trembling hand of age 
 
 Dwelt on the strings, no harsh, uncertain sound 
 
 Smote false your hearts; the venerable Mage, 
 The Master-minstrel all your being found; 
 
 Revived your souls to the rich bloom of youth, 
 
 And charmed with music the high paths to truth. 
 
 Ah, ye may dew with tears the burial stone, 
 And strew your tributes o'er his stainless hearse ; 
 
 Voice the far echo of his godlike tone; 
 
 Embalm his memory in your fragrant verse; 
 
 All all in vain no Star of Song doth rise 
 
 Above the grave where your great Laureate lies.
 
 IN MEMORIAM 135 
 
 The laurel wreath of Spenser should not grace 
 
 A front less high than this majestic brow, 
 The stamp imperial graved upon the face, 
 
 Fervently lighted with the poet's vow; 
 And with the outgrowth of a fertile heart 
 Blooming and fruiting in the close of art. 
 
 The hand that might have grasped yon silent lyre, 
 And struck its fateful strings with strenuous might, 
 
 Joined yester-year the pure-toned English choir, 
 Who wear their amaranths in the halls of light; 
 
 Ruder the touch, yet from those fingers ran 
 
 Strains that could rouse or sink the heart of man. 
 
 But now, the Arthur of your poet realm, 
 
 Both Lancelot and Galahad of rhyme, 
 Whom will ye find to wear his winged helm 
 
 Or ride his charger down the lists of time? 
 The new Pendragon where can such be found? 
 Alas, not one of all your Table Round! 
 
 Let none the storied chords of that clear harp 
 
 Restrike in service dissonant and vain; 
 Ye will but cause the world to mock and carp; 
 
 Ye will but sound a void of grief and pain; 
 Hang up the shining wires above his head 
 And leave your laureate's crown upon the dead.
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 KNIGHT in the vanguard of knowledge, peer of the king- 
 dom of thought, 
 Prophet, and priest, and bard, thou hast sung for futurity, 
 
 wrought 
 
 For the ampler after-time, for the kindlier soul's increase, 
 For the higher, humbler faith, for the purest, heavenliest 
 peace. 
 
 Thou hast hidden thy gold and rubies in thy quartz of 
 
 rough-veined verse; 
 Thou hast probed the secret soul with thy questions grave 
 
 and terse; 
 Thou turned'st the lamp of thy mind on the palimpsest of 
 
 the heart; 
 Thou didst strain in the bonds of Time, now Eternity's 
 
 ward thou art. 
 
 Thy sheaf of years hung full of the green hope of thy 
 
 youth, 
 
 Nurtured by secret dews from the heaven of love and truth ; 
 No blast of malice can shake, nor Time's envious mace 
 
 assault 
 Thy spacious structure of song, arched over earth's storied 
 
 vault. 
 
 Thou didst spurn the Egyptian's lure, thou didst cleave to 
 
 the race enslaved; 
 Thou didst dwell unknown to those for whose weal thou 
 
 hadst tyrants braved; 
 
 136
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 137 
 
 Thou beheldst the burning bush, thy feet the mount had 
 
 trod, 
 In the lair of the angry cloud thou stoodst face to face with 
 
 God! 
 
 The glory of song in thy heart lit thy face with auroral ray ; 
 Thou heldst our wisdom in trust, the chief of transition's 
 
 day; 
 
 Unbated by churlish age, thy lone, far-sighted stand 
 Was the Pisgah heights of song o'erlooking the Promised 
 
 Land. 
 
 Rest, crowned with the proud assurance thy verse was not 
 
 wrought in vain, 
 Though the century turn aside to its idols of pleasure and 
 
 gain; 
 Thou wilt be heard aright when the lutes and the laughter 
 
 have ceased 
 And the soul is alone with its stars, undazed by the glare 
 
 of the feast. 
 
 This leasehold thou hast exchanged for a wider and fadeless 
 
 life; 
 The swaddling bands of flesh thou hast cast to a world of 
 
 strife ; 
 Thou hast traversed the waters of Death; thou hast found 
 
 thy chosen mate, 
 The sibyl of burning song, the revealer of words of fate. 
 
 Where the blue Venetian night falls a spangled, huge con- 
 cave, 
 
 Did thy venturous spirit wing forth like a prayer from a 
 dome-crowned nave; 
 
 Like Arcturus throned afar in a mist of twinkling shine 
 
 Starts thy star on the heaven of song, loved guest of the 
 trophied Nine!
 
 TO SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 DEAR brother minstrel, Heaven-crowned spirit friend, 
 Who saw unrolled the apocalypse of earth, 
 Whose soul was star-lit, music-charmed from birth, 
 Who didst through aether send 
 The unwearied gaze of half-requited eyes, 
 Longing for higher, holier mysteries 
 O wheresoe'er art thou 
 Within what starry sphere 
 Thy spirit bourgeons, hear! 
 Bend down through space and touch mine eyes and brow. 
 
 Kiss these dull eyes awake that they may view 
 Like thee all beauty, the involved charm 
 Of Nature, which thy spirit only knew, 
 Or knew with angels O thou bright-souled seer 
 Who resteth on God's never-tiring arm, 
 And seeth this fair-world a sparkle shining clear 
 Amidst the constellations Thou whose pen 
 Burnt golden characters for soul-blind men, 
 Furrowing thy page with light, 
 (Heaven all thy heart requite!) 
 
 Sweet spirit, that bear'st faint scar of sin, bend down thy 
 Heaven entranced ear! 
 
 This dull material round hath need of thee! 
 The foison greed of Wealth besets our life; 
 With earth-blind eyes we see 
 Not the bright quietude but the cloudy strife. 
 That heaven, which to the ancient world seemed near, 
 Is but a waste of doctrine, dry and drear; 
 
 138
 
 TO SIDNEY LANIER 139 
 
 A world by dogma vext ; 
 
 A world with doubts perplexed ; 
 
 The dizzy heights we gain; 
 
 Our weary eyes we strain 
 
 And miss the glory shining in the plain; 
 
 Some cloud is ever shutting from our eyes 
 
 The soul-enhancing visions vainly sought for in the skies! 
 
 We walk as in a trance ; 
 
 We gaze with eyes askance 
 
 Upon our fellows in the crowded street; 
 
 We crush life's flowers beneath our heedless feet, 
 
 And self, with its unending cares, 
 
 Enlists our faith, our hopes, our hearts, our prayers; 
 
 We struggle to be free, 
 
 But a sad fatality 
 
 Breaks in across our souls and hides the star 
 
 Of promise even from the good and wise; 
 
 The elemental war 
 
 Environs us and takes us for its prize. 
 
 Thou vanished in thy noon! 
 
 Nature is niggard of such souls as thine, 
 
 Fearing her mysteries would be told too soon ; 
 
 Thou youngest of the radiant Shelley line 
 
 Hadst thou but lived to be 
 
 Full prophet in the new-time poesy, 
 
 What fair-found heights of knowledge had we gained! 
 
 We had not now remained, 
 
 Groping abroad with unconsidered sight, 
 
 Missing the clearer light 
 
 Of truth, to blindly fall on Hope's inconstancy. 
 
 But not all unfulfilled 
 
 Thy earthly mission or thy pledge of song, 
 
 Nor didst thou knock in vain upon our hearts;
 
 TO SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 The house thy hands hath built 
 
 For tired souls to rest in bideth strong 
 
 As adamant, and braves the shocks of fate 
 
 And winds of custom ; at its open gate 
 
 Sweet Confidences meet hospitably 
 
 Wayfaring spirits and invite them in, 
 
 And light their loads of sin, 
 
 And tell them many rapturous noble things of thee. 
 
 Minstrel of earth and sky, 
 
 Mak'st thou no reply? 
 
 Say, is our mortal quest and longing vain? 
 
 Hast thou in happiness forgot the throng 
 
 Of work-day lives on this low-lying plain? 
 
 Nor wilt thou lend them of thy new-found song? 
 
 Perhaps 'tis better so; 
 
 Perchance we dare not know, 
 
 Nor thou disclose what meets thy finer ear 
 
 Or how bliss tranced souls unfold and grow, 
 
 Or how the favored Isles of Heaven appear. 
 
 Yet, sweet ghost, hear! 
 
 Oh, send some largesse of thy wealth divine 
 
 Some tempered draught of thy rapt spirit's wine 
 
 Into this earthly, wayward, dim-lit, heart of mine!
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 WHAT a fine frenzy of poetic might 
 Shows Marlowe, rising to his passion's height! 
 Throughout all space his song triumphant soars, 
 Fathoms all passion, all delight explores. 
 His muse culls all things delicate and rare 
 To adorn her vestments or to gem her hair; 
 Plucks the bright bay leaf from its highest bough, 
 Wet with Castalian dews, to deck her brow. 
 With burning speed she scours the hill of fame 
 To win the laurel of a world's acclaim; 
 And would, so daring is her high emprise, 
 Reach at the stars to pluck them from the skies. 
 Leaving but half the wondrous story told 
 Of that fine fable of true love of old, 
 Marlowe flung down his mighty gift and life, 
 His proud heart cloven by a scullion's knife! 
 
 141
 
 REQUIESCAT! 
 (On the Death of Oliver Wendell Holmes.) 
 
 NAUGHT may be said 
 O'er the still presence of the illustrious dead 
 To forge one star-point to his fair renown, 
 Or weave one laurel in his fadeless crown, 
 To grace his time-worn, white and reverend head 
 Compounded now with dust, 
 
 And with the grieving Autumn strewing it with leaves- 
 Who held our hearts in loving fetters bound, 
 A husbandman of many kinds of sheaves, 
 Now himself garnered to the greater store 
 Of sages gone before, 
 
 Out of the heartache, care and earthly lust; 
 Who like a true knight hath fulfilled his trust, 
 Singing himself to sleep, 
 And facing fearlessly the deep profound, 
 And smiling still upon our eyes that weep, 
 That now shall nevermore 
 Behold him face to face upon Time's echoing shore. 
 
 Yet fitly may a bard of younger race, 
 Trained to a newer habitude of rhyme, 
 Turn with his own thin laurel to the place 
 Where rests the veteran of the older time; 
 The man of stiff set lance and trenchant blade, 
 Naught venal, naught afraid, 
 
 With all the great heart of the Northern clime, 
 
 142
 
 REQUIESCAT! 143 
 
 Then, midst the worthier tributes resting there 
 (And on his lips a prayer), 
 Hang his slight chaplet on the cypress bough, 
 In token of his faith, his reverence and vow. 
 
 For of the sons of song she nurtured forth, 
 
 New England, mother of renowned men, 
 
 He most combined the fiber of the North 
 
 With the South's flexile grace, 
 
 And from its cloudless, sun-bathed lurking place 
 
 His ardent fancy leaped upon the page 
 
 And stamped its impress there for every future age. 
 
 And he was last of that triumphant throng 
 
 Who voiced the earlier Genius of their land, 
 
 And spake to souls in terms they understand, 
 
 Nor grudged impassioned song, 
 
 But felt the thrill of Nature through their veins; 
 
 Who smote venality, pretense and wrong, 
 
 Nor counted up their gains 
 
 By Custom's tally, but to the larger rule 
 
 Of the immortal bards, put their young art to school. 
 
 Therefore, no passing fame 
 
 Shines out from each deep-graved, illustrious name, 
 
 Carved in our tree of Liberty; for they 
 
 Were nurtured in no dilettante day, 
 
 But from the forge and flame 
 
 Of civil strife they wrought their strenuous claim, 
 
 And woke an echo that resounds alway, 
 
 Through every realm and clime, 
 
 Far down the lengthening avenues of Time. 
 
 Perchance they greet him now 
 
 With the new-twisted amaranth on his brow, 
 
 And welcome him to their high-placed retreat,
 
 144 REQUIESCAT! 
 
 And to their rose-bowered seat 
 
 In the Elysium of the poet-band, 
 
 And take him by the hand, 
 
 Those comrades whom he knew and loved in life, 
 
 The Concord seer, 
 
 And he who sang the wave bright Merrimac, 
 
 Lowell the generous hearted, and that soul 
 
 Endeared to every fireside, and him austere, 
 
 Bryant, the first of ours who struck his harp notes clear. 
 
 But not alone the sons of song shall claim 
 
 The soul of him who charmed forth smiles or tears ; 
 
 He owes not to their muse alone his fame 
 
 And all the coming honors of the years; 
 
 Her plainer sister claims an equal share 
 
 Of glory he doth wear; 
 
 And in her train he finds some loved compeers, 
 
 The sweet souled Hawthorne, whose deep-reading eyes 
 
 Drew Magic from the skies, 
 
 And Irving, genial heart and kindly hand, 
 
 And Cooper, painter true of his loved mountain land. 
 
 Yet he his other self hath left behind, 
 
 The priceless legacy of his hand and brain; 
 
 The wit that falls in showers like diamond rain, 
 
 The gayety that to all care is blind; 
 
 And his rare, pregnant wisdom, Iris sweet, 
 
 With all the children of his soul who still his fame repeat. 
 
 Then, ye who loved him from your days of youth, 
 
 Make no vain lamentation for the dead; 
 
 For he hath left the mantle of his truth 
 
 And he who wills may wear it in his stead; 
 
 But ne'er with such a grace, 
 
 For ne'er again the old-time cavalier 
 
 Will flash his sword in rhyme and chant his rondel clear.
 
 LINES 
 
 AT THE END OF A PROSE ESSAY ON OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 ON THE COMPLETION OF HIS EIGHTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY. 
 
 THUS have I writ with fixed, impartial aim 
 To give no undue tribute, o'erdue blame; 
 Grudging the bard no honest meed of praise, 
 And yet not spendthrift of my loyal bays; 
 Now may the Muse her smiling favor bring, 
 And strike the light-stringed measure which I sing. 
 
 Briefly I choose the close-linked formal line, 
 The honored mode of bards well named divine; 
 O'er it old Chaucer took his jocund road; 
 Along it Marvell's forceful measures flowed ; 
 Dryden's tense genius swelled its tide of song; 
 Upon it Pope's terse reason swept along; 
 O'er its dark stream the torch of Byron burned; 
 Twice to its flow Keats' shallop fancy turned: 
 It bore along its rippling, limpid breast 
 Hunt's courtly theme and Morris' antique zest; 
 Thine, Holmes, its swift, its sunbright sparkling strain 
 That fairly limns the landscape of thy brain; 
 That picturesquely turns in play of thought, 
 In flowery bends of pleasant fancy caught, 
 Smooth in its current as its tide is clear, 
 And ever manly, cultured and sincere; 
 The rhymed pentameter that tireless hack 
 That's borne a horde of bardlings on its back, 
 
 145
 
 146 LINES 
 
 Drumming their dull, unvarying rataplan 
 On every theme from Cosmos to a fan, 
 Their thick octavos in oblivion sunk, 
 Gone to the flame, the ragman, and the trunk. 
 
 Last of a line behold the veteran stand, 
 
 The lance of wit still quivering in his hand; 
 
 With locks all whitened now, yet holding still 
 
 A cheerful courage, an enduring will; 
 
 Last of a race of bards; too proud to climb 
 
 Into the saddle of new-fashioned rhyme; 
 
 Too wise to value art o'er lucid sense; 
 
 Too brave to draw the curb on eloquence; 
 
 Not always deep, perchance, in flow of song, 
 
 But full-breathed, tuneful, fluent, limpid, strong; 
 
 A voice, gay, genial, grave still true to guide 
 
 From erring paths hot youth's impatient stride; 
 
 A humor keen, yet with no rankling smart; 
 
 Its champagne sparkling, bubbling from the heart; 
 
 A wit perennial and a fancy free, 
 
 The bloom of Spring on life's long wintered tree; 
 
 A heart as tender as a lover's thought; 
 
 A falcon spirit, fearless, firmly wrought; 
 
 Quick to detect, yet tardy to condemn, 
 
 Well armed with pungent, pointed apothegm; 
 
 Shrewd Yankee mind with graft of learning's fruit; 
 
 An ear fine-tuned as Blondel's joyous lute; 
 
 As sly and quaint as Shandy in his style, 
 
 With something of the Frenchman in his smile; 
 
 At fourscore still a bright-eyed, kindly man, 
 
 Part courtier-cavalier, part Puritan; 
 
 Revered where'er the rose of culture grows, 
 
 From Astral summer to Alaskan snows; 
 
 A school-boy's eye beneath his doctor's hat, 
 
 Our love-crowned poet, laurelled Autocrat!
 
 "THREESCORE AND TEN" 
 
 BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 
 
 WHO reach their threescore years and ten, 
 
 As I have mine, without a sigh, 
 Are either more or less than men 
 Not such am I. 
 
 I am not of them; life to me 
 
 Has been a strange, bewildered dream, 
 Wherein I knew not things that be 
 From things that seem. 
 
 I thought, I hoped, I knew one thing, 
 
 And had one gift, when I was young 
 The impulse and the power to sing, 
 And so I sung. 
 
 To have a place in the high choir 
 
 Of poets, and deserve the same 
 What more could mortal man desire 
 Than poet's fame ? 
 
 I sought it long, but never found ; 
 
 The choir so full was, and so strong 
 The jubilant voices there, they drowned 
 My simple song. 
 
 Men would not hear me then, and now 
 
 I care not, I accept my fate. 
 When white hairs thatch the furrowed brow, 
 Crowns come too late ! 
 
 The best of life went long ago 
 
 From me; it was not much at best; 
 Only the love that young hearts know, 
 The dear unrest.
 
 i 4 8 TO RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 
 
 Back on my past, through gathering tears, 
 
 Once more I cast my eyes, and see 
 Bright shapes that in my better years 
 Surrounded me! 
 
 They left me here, they left me there, 
 
 Went down dark pathways, one by one, 
 The wise, the great, the young, the fair; 
 But I went on ! 
 
 And I go on ! And, bad or good, 
 The old allotted years of men 
 I have endured, as best I could 
 Threescore and ten ! 
 
 TO RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 
 
 THREESCORE AND TEN 
 
 NOT so, you do your craftsmen wrong, 
 They love you, they, the earnest men; 
 All hail, our veteran chief of song, 
 Threescore and ten! 
 
 Though time has blanched and thinned your hair, 
 Shaken your strength and dimmed your gaze, 
 
 Greenly you yet the laurel wear, 
 As in old days. 
 
 And if the shallow, vain acclaim 
 Has passed you by for feebler men, 
 
 Know the tried corps of younger fame 
 Revere your pen.
 
 TO RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 149 
 
 True fame is yours, abiding, strong; 
 
 This Time will mould in just relief, 
 When all the meretricious throng 
 
 Who wear the leaf 
 
 Will vanish from the thoughts of men, 
 
 Like those of Delia Cruscan time, 
 With all their fluttering pride of pen 
 
 And puny rhyme. 
 
 Our old man eloquent be thou! 
 
 Still with wise counsels light our ways, 
 Ungrudging still some worthy brow 
 
 Its budding bays. 
 
 Then grieve not o'er the passing time, 
 
 Friends gone, the brilliant, wise, and brave; 
 
 Our country's richer for your rhyme 
 From wave to wave! 
 
 Why not ? Truth still breeds reverent hearts ; 
 
 This land doth proud traditions nurse; 
 As long as blooms our rose of arts 
 
 Lives Stoddard's verse!
 
 I 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 REIGN beyond the bourne of Fate and Time, 
 Through all the Present I echo of the Past, 
 
 All things but God are in my leash I climb 
 From star to star and quench them all at last 
 
 I blast the blooms of promise with a breath," 
 
 Vaunts Death. 
 
 "I am the spirit in matter the All-Searcher, 
 I am driven like surf by one deep-moving force, 
 
 Even in the grasp of Death my hope I nurture, 
 Enswathing Love is both my end and source, 
 
 Peace is my handmaid and my thrall is Strife," 
 
 Chants Life. 
 
 150
 
 SONGS AND LYRICS
 
 HEY, HO, ROBIN! 
 
 (A MADRIGAL) 
 
 HARK, d'ye hear the Robin's early greeting 
 O'er the clover blossoms gemmed with dew; 
 All the gladness of his heart repeating, 
 
 Heart that never care or sorrow knew. 
 Over upland, lawn and orchard 
 
 His clear pipe is heard: 
 "Sweetheart! Sweetheart!" 
 
 Hey, ho, Robin ; hey, ho, happy bird ! 
 
 In his russet coat and vest of scarlet, 
 
 With his jaunty crest and glittering eye, 
 Was there ever such a merry varlet? 
 
 Look upon him and forget to sigh. 
 Ah, but he's the blithesome rover! 
 
 His glad pipe is heard: 
 "Sweetheart! Sweetheart!" 
 
 Hey, ho, Robin ; hey, ho, happy bird ! 
 
 How Sir Malpert loves to steal his dinner 
 
 From our cherry trees across the way; 
 He's as reckless as a hardened sinner; 
 
 He's a prodigal who's always gay. 
 Rocking on the topmost branches 
 
 Still his pipe is heard : 
 "Sweetheart! Sweetheart!" 
 
 Hey, ho, Robin ; hey, ho, happy bird ! 
 
 153
 
 154 HEY, HO, ROBIN! 
 
 Ah, my blithe and brave fair weather fellow, 
 
 Soon again to milder haunts thou'lt wend; 
 When the leaves are turning brown and yellow 
 
 We will miss our early morning friend; 
 There thru fields of endless summer 
 
 Will thy pipe be heard : 
 "Sweetheart ! Sweetheart !" 
 
 Hey, ho, Robin ; hey, ho, happy bird ! 
 
 How those fair and distant shores we'll envy 
 
 When rough Winter drives thee from our clime; 
 Hostage to the summer tho we send thee, 
 
 Thou wilt greet us in thy mating time. 
 Then unto thy loved one calling 
 
 Will thy pipe be heard : 
 "Sweetheart! Sweetheart!" 
 
 Hey, ho, Robin; hey, ho, happy bird!
 
 WRITTEN FOR A CANADIAN NATIONAL 
 ANTHEM 
 
 THE banner with the blood-red field 
 Flew in the western main; 
 It made the golden Lilies yield, 
 
 It curbed the pride of Spain; 
 Till kindred blood ungrateful furled 
 
 That flag of broad renown; 
 All save the North- 
 She held it forth 
 
 For England's ancient crown; 
 Brave Canada, thou heldst it forth 
 
 For England's empire crown! 
 
 Since that dark day in many a fray, 
 
 The three cross banner near, 
 On native strand, in Transvaal land, 
 
 The seven-fold shield flew clear; 
 When the Nor'west, a hornets' nest, 
 
 Came buzzing round her form, 
 In royal ire she searched with fire 
 
 That mongrel, stinging swarm. 
 With dreadful frown she stamped them down 
 
 And shook her sword of might, 
 With queenly frown 
 She stamped them down, 
 
 In Death's and Hell's despite. 
 
 The Trident Matron from her steep 
 Looks out across the wave, 
 155
 
 156 CANADIAN NATIONAL ANTHEM 
 
 And sees beyond the distant deep 
 
 That heritage of the brave; 
 Two ocean shores 
 Ope wide their doors 
 
 To worlds both old and new; 
 Thy princely hand 
 Pledge, Motherland, 
 
 A daughter tried and true! 
 No slave shall stand 
 Upon thy strand, 
 
 O daughter proud and true! 
 
 Of nations five who round the world 
 
 Patrol the Seven Seas, 
 Of scions four who guard the door 
 
 Of British destinies; 
 Daughters of pith who peerless front 
 
 The enemies of their race, 
 She stands the first tho Gallic nursed, 
 
 She hath the English face. 
 Then here's a health, 
 True hearts and wealth, 
 
 Fair Canada, to thee! 
 A long deep health, 
 Leal hearts and wealth, 
 
 Brave Canada, to thee!
 
 LOVE LEADING 
 
 MY love she's tripping down the lane 
 Amid the dews, amid the dews; 
 My love she's stepping down the lane, 
 Fair through the sunset's golden rain, 
 Down toward the fields of nodding grain, 
 Amidst the evening dews. 
 
 The latticed beams between the boughs 
 Play o'er her hair, play o'er her hair; 
 
 The flattering beams between the boughs 
 
 Light up her snow white neck and brows; 
 
 She ne'er to me such bliss allows, 
 To play with her bright hair. 
 
 The jealous wild-flowers she doth pass 
 Are scant of cheer, are scant of cheer; 
 
 The flaunting field-flowers she doth pass 
 
 Now shrink their crowns amidst the grass; 
 
 They ne'er have seen so fair a lass; 
 They all are scant of cheer. 
 
 The timid violets nigh the path 
 Nod dainty heads, hod dainty heads; 
 
 The slim, coy violets nigh the path, 
 
 They hold for her no selfish wrath, 
 
 Each dear to her a kinship hath, 
 They nod their fragrant heads. 
 157
 
 158 LOVE LEADING 
 
 The blithe wild rose on thorny stem 
 
 Is sad in fear, is sad in fear; 
 The bold wild rose on bending stem 
 Flutters its pink pearl diadem; 
 'Twould fain her beauteous cheek condemn, 
 
 'Tis wondrously in fear. 
 
 The star of Eve that warms the skies 
 Doth watch my dear, doth watch my dear, 
 
 The Evening Star that studs the skies, 
 
 It knows it may not match her eyes; 
 
 'Tis standing tip-toe with surprise 
 Watching my dearest dear. 
 
 She carols to the perfumed breeze 
 So sweetly clear, so sweetly clear; 
 
 Her pure voice lulls the perfumed breeze; 
 
 She hushes all the whispering trees, 
 
 She soothes to sleep the loitering bees, 
 With song so sweetly clear. 
 
 The listening linnet lifts his head 
 Behind the bough, behind the bough ; 
 
 The gray-backed linnet bobs his head 
 
 From forth his thatched and leafy bed, 
 
 "I cannot sing such songs," he said 
 Beside the green beech bough. 
 
 Was ever youth so blest as I? 
 
 Love leads her nigh, Love leads her nigh; 
 There ne'er was youth so blest as I; 
 Her glance to mine makes sweet reply; 
 She's coy as fluttering butterfly, 
 
 For that Love leads her nigh.
 
 LOVE LEADING 159 
 
 The tell-tale flow invades her cheek; 
 
 She stills her song, she stills her song, 
 The rich, red glow pervades her cheek; 
 Her eyes are playing hide and seek; 
 She cannot trust her lips to speak, 
 
 Although she's stilled her song. 
 
 Fair traitor, now you're mine at last! 
 
 No truce will I, no truce will I. 
 Soft hands, sweet face, you're ta'en at last! 
 Behind all doubts and fears I cast; 
 The time for vain delay has past, 
 
 No shamefaced truce will I!
 
 A SONG OF SUMMER 
 
 AN oriole is singing 
 Her anthem clear and high ; 
 A blackbird blithe is ringing 
 
 Her jubilate nigh; 
 I watch the swallows winging, 
 Shearing the azure sky. 
 
 The dragon-fly is glancing 
 Zigzag, a winged spear; 
 
 A woodpecker is lancing 
 An elm-tree bole anear; 
 
 How wondrous, how entrancing, 
 Are all I see and hear! 
 
 Around me is the humming 
 Of heavy-freighted bees; 
 
 Over the field is coming 
 
 The winsome morning breeze; 
 
 This is the time for summing 
 All soulful ecstasies! 
 
 In such a place and season 
 All life its care forgets; 
 
 Come Fancy, loved of Reason, 
 Look at my tiny pets, 
 
 The crickets, black as treason, 
 Clicking their castanets! 
 1 60
 
 A SONG OF SUMMER 161 
 
 Like a Walpurgis revel 
 
 The dream of life flows on; 
 Across the lawny level 
 
 A tender haze is drawn; 
 This fair scene even a devil 
 
 Would love to look upon! 
 
 From out the pale blue ether 
 
 Glows the untarnished sun; 
 To robe her heir and wreathe her 
 
 Hath Spring her glories spun, 
 And smiling did bequeath her 
 
 The flowerets every one! 
 
 'Tis buxom, regal Summer, 
 
 Her fragrant zone unbound; 
 With minstrel bird and hummer 
 
 Of many an infant round; 
 Of zest the rhythmic plumber, 
 
 A carnival of sound! 
 
 But yet there lacks one measure 
 
 Of joy on eye and ear, 
 A smile of tender pleasure, 
 
 A voice of gentle cheer; 
 This were the lap of leisure, 
 
 Sweetheart, if thou wert here!
 
 SAINT CHRISTMAS 
 
 SAINT CHRISTMAS still is hale and stout, 
 His welcome grows not cold, 
 Still rings his royal greeting out 
 Each year to young and old. 
 
 With robe of fur and beard of snow, 
 
 And wreath of holly green, 
 And with a paunch like bended bow 
 
 Or lordly soup-tureen; 
 
 And with a round and rosy face 
 
 As any friar of yore, 
 Lit with a kindly, reverent grace 
 
 And cheer that runneth o'er. 
 
 And with a heart all sound and true, 
 
 And comfit-bag well lined 
 Sure never one an old man knew 
 
 So gay, so pleasant, kind! 
 
 Not half so blithe and debonair, 
 
 Nor with so merry a voice; 
 He must be sure a child of care 
 
 Whom Christmas can't rejoice! 
 
 He must be lean and starved of soul 
 
 As any o'er-driven hack, 
 He must be sick or in sad dole 
 
 Whom Christmas lures not back 
 162
 
 SAINT CHRISTMAS 163 
 
 To household cheer and kindly deed, 
 
 And simple mirth and jest, 
 To tender care for human need, 
 
 To generous faith and rest. 
 
 What time the merry bells ring out 
 
 And all the ways are white, 
 While rises glad the youthful shout 
 
 Beneath the holly bright. 
 
 Or when on hallowed Christmas-tide 
 
 The children, brimmed with glee, 
 Crowd round his saintship's special pride, 
 
 The glittering Christmas tree. 
 
 When all the family meet once more 
 
 Around the groaning board, 
 And Christmas knocks against the door 
 
 Of merchant, peasant, lord. 
 
 And entering in with lusty cheer 
 
 Doth o'er the feast preside, 
 And lights the eye and tunes the ear 
 
 And sets the tongue a-glide. 
 
 And hangs the treacherous mistletoe 
 
 Right down the path of girls, 
 That brings mishap to gallant bow 
 
 And dainty forehead curls. 
 
 Yes, sure he's ill and far from gay, 
 
 Ay, bilious-green and pale, 
 Who turns with sullen scorn away 
 
 From Christmas glad and hale.
 
 164 SAINT CHRISTMAS 
 
 From Christmas hale and holly-crowned 
 And full three yards about, 
 
 In all our forty States around 
 Is none so jolly stout! 
 
 Is none so dear to childhood's heart; 
 
 And though folk dub him Nick, 
 Of all the saints who live in art 
 
 He is the prince and pick. 
 
 He is the merriest saint of all 
 Who live in tale or song, 
 
 And they who on blithe Christmas call 
 Will not go far a-wrong. 
 
 Long may he bear his princely pack 
 Of joys both great and small; 
 
 Long may his laugh ring joyous back 
 From hut or palace wall! 
 
 And long may we who joyful take 
 His Yuletide to our breasts, 
 
 Live kindly for the old chap's sake 
 And keep his plays and jests. 
 
 From all the saints of olden day, 
 
 Matthew to Margery, 
 Christmas doth bear the bell away 
 
 Yes, he's the saint for me !
 
 "THE SPRINGTIME LINGERETH LONG, 
 LOVE" 
 
 7 I A HE springtime lingereth long, love, 
 
 A No birds are in the bowers; 
 No early primrose after the snows 
 Nor violets born of showers. 
 But everything speaks of thee, love, 
 The very air I breathe 
 Comes wafted to me 
 Over the lea 
 
 With messages dear from thee, love, 
 Messages dear from thee. 
 
 Like a nun asleep is the earth, love, 
 
 Wimpled, sombre, and white; 
 
 Her snowy hands pressed above her breast 
 
 And with snowy robes bedight. 
 
 'Tis winter over the wold, love, 
 
 No leaf on bush or tree; 
 
 Yet what if it be, 
 
 'Tis nothing to me 
 
 When I am thinking of thee, love, 
 
 I am thinking of thee. 
 
 The sky is grey with clouds, love, 
 The sun puts on no crown; 
 His radiant hair is shorn of glare 
 And his bright face wears a frown. 
 But let him frown on as he lists, love, 
 165
 
 166 "SPRINGTIME LINGERETH LONG, LOVE" 
 
 He harms not thee nor me; 
 The light of our skies each other's eyes 
 When we together shall be, love, 
 We together shall be. 
 
 There's wisdom enough in the world, love, 
 
 To freight a soul for heaven; 
 
 But the wisdom sages have known for ages 
 
 Is not free to mortals given; 
 
 But ours is free as the sunshine, love, 
 
 And rich as it is free; 
 
 Life's no sweet dole 
 
 To the loveless soul, 
 
 As it is to thee and me, my love, 
 
 As it is to thee and me.
 
 FAIRIES' SONG 
 
 HERE we to the midnight green 
 Speed in service of our queen ; 
 Frorri the ribbed salt-sea strand ; 
 From the lonely mountain land; 
 From where Ignis Fatuus strays 
 Through the marshy thicket's maze. 
 
 Here we o'er the moonlit green 
 Throng at bidding of our queen; 
 Guided by the firefly's lamp 
 Through the night-tide cold and damp; 
 Till the white stars' beams are shorn 
 And the cock crows shrill at morn. 
 
 Here we on the bosky green 
 Yield obeisance to our queen; 
 We the frisky squirrels teach 
 Nuts to hoard in hollow beech; 
 Teach the brindled bee to fly 
 Honey bag beneath her thigh. 
 
 Here we to the scented green 
 Bring the trappings of our queen; 
 Here's a crown of crystal globe! 
 Here's a purple bat's wool robe ! 
 Here's a throne of diamond spar, 
 And a moth-drawn emerald car! 
 167
 
 168 FAIRIES' SONG 
 
 Here we on the bowered green 
 Hold the court of Fairy Queen; 
 Round the hamlets raise our chant 
 Ere we hie to wild wood haunt, 
 Till the silver crescent dips 
 In the wave her horned tips. 
 
 Here we on the tufted green 
 Dance around our Fairy Queen; 
 They we are who hold in charm 
 Gnomes and witches from their harm; 
 Creatures born of Luna's beams, 
 Send we kind hearts happy dreams. 
 
 Here we on the painted green 
 Sing around our Fairy Queen; 
 Elves we are who fill the boy 
 With his springtime wealth of joy; 
 Teach the tender maids to see 
 Beauty in each flower and tree. 
 
 Here we on the freaked green 
 Pledge the fortunes of our queen; 
 Drinking dew distilled of flowers 
 In these snail-shell cups of ours; 
 Let the perfumed mead we drain 
 Cheer the heart and fire the brain. 
 
 Here we on the broidered green 
 Hold the revel of our queen; 
 All among the clover bloom 
 All among the heather plume 
 All around the haunted well 
 Where the Nixies love to dwell.
 
 FAIRIES' SONG 169 
 
 Here we from the pearled green 
 Haste at mandate of our queen; 
 See the morn is breaking gray 
 Over the hill-tops far away ! 
 Benison we leave with you, 
 Mortals all, adieu! adieu!
 
 MY LASSIE WITH YOUR EYES OF BLUE 
 
 I WAS a good-for-nothing fellow, 
 'Twas little work that I would do; 
 Still fond of drink till I got mellow; 
 My dollars hardly earned and few; 
 'Til I met you 
 My lassie with your eyes of blue. 
 
 You set my poor dull brain to thinking; 
 
 You set my heart a-throbbing too; 
 
 I scarce could look at you for blinking, 
 
 You were so wondrous fair to view; 
 
 Bright, pure as dew 
 
 My lassie with your eyes of blue. 
 
 Then all my foolish ways went packing, 
 
 And ever as I worthier grew, 
 
 I felt my merits more than lacking, 
 
 My fealty could humbly sue; 
 
 Thru thought of you, 
 
 My lassie with your eyes of blue. 
 
 I now have buckled on my armor; 
 I've quit the weed and wine-cup, too; 
 I've turned a trusty, thrifty farmer; 
 I save my money like a Jew; 
 'Tis all for you, 
 My lassie with your eyes of blue. 
 170
 
 MY LASSIE WITH EYES OF BLUE 171 
 
 My heart's a bark that's ready laden 
 
 With store of service choice and new; 
 
 Then take it lovely, tender maiden, 
 
 It bears its cargo all to you, 
 
 Of pledges due, 
 
 My lassie with your eyes of blue. 
 
 Then when my heart's full sail you've sighted, 
 
 And it has anchored close to you, 
 
 Let not its loving freight be slighted ; 
 
 The foolish heart, 'twas all it knew; 
 
 Just love, be true 
 
 My lassie with your eyes of blue.
 
 FAIR AS CERES BEARING GUERDON 
 
 FAIR as Ceres bearing guerdon, 
 First I met her midst the corn ; 
 To our ears the merry burden 
 Of the reaping song was borne; 
 On that morn, 
 There beside the nodding corn. 
 
 There was none in all the county, 
 None like her so pure and fair; 
 With her princely father's bounty 
 In the land could none compare; 
 Stood she there, 
 With a white rose in her hair. 
 
 Oft beside yon gleaming river 
 Held we converse sweet and low; 
 Where the paly shafts do quiver 
 From the new moon's silver bow; 
 Where they glow, 
 And the pleasant waters flow. 
 
 There I loved her, there I wooed her, 
 And she plighted troth for mine; 
 (Though I was of lineage ruder, 
 And she came of lofty line) ; 
 Lo, for sign 
 
 See, this faded eglantine! 
 172
 
 FAIR AS CERES BEARING GUERDON 173 
 
 Soon, alas, fate came between us 
 And our last adieus were sighed; 
 Love had naught on earth to screen us ; 
 She became a lordling's bride; 
 Then she died, 
 Like a flower cut down in pride! 
 
 Often now I sit and listen 
 
 To the river's monotone; 
 
 Still its waters lave and glisten, 
 
 Yet it answers me my moan, 
 
 All alone! 
 
 For my heart is turned to stone!
 
 A SONG OF THE DAWN 
 
 OH, how sweet in the summer fields is the breath of the 
 cool clear dawn, 
 When the vapory grey is rolled from the earth like the 
 
 veil from a face withdrawn ; 
 When the Moon her canopied state in heaven resigns to 
 
 the Lord of Light, 
 
 And her splendid glittering courtier train have vanished in 
 faithless flight; 
 
 'Til the green voluptuous land, new-waked, smiles bright 
 in the face of Day, 
 
 And Night's bodeful dreams with the bats and owls to the 
 darkness hie away; 
 
 When the blooms of the clover fill the air with their count- 
 less faint perfumes, 
 
 While millions of pearl-strewed gossamer webs the gay 
 young Sun illumes: 
 
 When the fingers of wizard winds play light with the leaves 
 of the woodland's crown; 
 
 And the crispy rasp of the whetted scythe through the still- 
 ness filters down; 
 
 And the low of the mild, full-uddered cows goes forth to 
 their offspring near, 
 
 While, clapping his wings to the joyous morn, winds his 
 challenge the chanticleer: 
 174
 
 A SONG OF THE DAWN 175 
 
 When the incense of early cottage fires curls soft through 
 
 the delicate blue, 
 And the caw comes down from the wooded heights of the 
 
 crows' freebooting crew; 
 And the clangorous wild-geese wing their flight o'er meadow 
 
 and moor and brake 
 To flash their wings and dabble their beaks in the breast 
 
 of the northern lake; 
 
 When the vigilant cricket wakes his friends asleep in the 
 feathery breres, 
 
 'Til the grasshopper leaps from his leaf-hung couch through 
 his forest of blades and spears; 
 
 'Til all over the fragrant breast of earth the lives of sum- 
 mer rejoice, 
 
 And the varied myriad insect tones blend one universal 
 voice ; 
 
 When the face of every wilding flower is washed her lord 
 to greet; 
 
 When the robin whistles his blithest note and the black- 
 bird's song is sweet; 
 
 Then is the time for the spirit of man to unburden the 
 breast of care, 
 
 For thankless indeed must be the soul untouched by a scene 
 so fair!
 
 178 SEA SONG 
 
 She plays her pranks upon us, 
 
 But, oh, her heart is free! 
 And as soft a sleep has the mighty deep 
 
 As a babe on its mother's knee. 
 
 Then here's to the hardy sailor 
 
 Whose home is the dark blue wave; 
 
 Who sleeps like a rock in the tempest's shock, 
 Or roars his rough sea-stave!
 
 INVOCATION TO LOVE 
 
 GOD, defied of lovely Eva, 
 Cupid, Eros, Hamadeva, 
 Or by whatsoever name 
 Thou hast long been known to fame 
 Child of Venus Psyche's spouse 
 Listen to thy poet's vows! 
 For his mistress, wanton she, 
 Harrieth him with treachery. 
 
 By thy bow of silver whiteness 
 
 By thy quiver's golden brightness 
 
 By thine eye of roguish blue 
 
 And thy crisp locks' sunny hue 
 
 By thy shining, potent arrows, 
 
 And thy Mother Venus' sparrows 
 
 Hasten, god of elfin guile! 
 
 Aid me with thy choicest wile! 
 
 Through the targe of her white breast 
 Be thy keen sweet javelin pressed 
 Whisper softly to the ear 
 Glamor maidens love to hear, 
 And let those low echoes be 
 Burdened with the name of me. 
 Love, the ancient and the young, 
 I thine honors oft have sung! 
 179
 
 178 SEA SONG 
 
 She plays her pranks upon us, 
 
 But, oh, her heart is free! 
 And as soft a sleep has the mighty deep 
 
 As a babe on its mother's knee. 
 
 Then here's to the hardy sailor 
 
 Whose home is the dark blue wave; 
 
 Who sleeps like a rock in the tempest's shock, 
 Or roars his rough sea-stave!
 
 INVOCATION TO LOVE 
 
 GOD, defied of lovely Eva, 
 Cupid, Eros, Hamadeva, 
 Or by whatsoever name 
 Thou hast long been known to fame 
 Child of Venus Psyche's spouse 
 Listen to thy poet's vows! 
 For his mistress, wanton she, 
 Harrieth him with treachery. 
 
 By thy bow of silver whiteness 
 
 By thy quiver's golden brightness 
 
 By thine eye of roguish blue 
 
 And thy crisp locks' sunny hue 
 
 By thy shining, potent arrows, 
 
 And thy Mother Venus' sparrows 
 
 Hasten, god of elfin guile! 
 
 Aid me with thy choicest wile! 
 
 Through the targe of her white breast 
 Be thy keen sweet javelin pressed 
 Whisper softly to the ear 
 Glamor maidens love to hear, 
 And let those low echoes be 
 Burdened with the name of me. 
 Love, the ancient and the young, 
 I thine honors oft have sung! 
 179
 
 i8o INVOCATION TO LOVE 
 
 I, in sonnet and in story, 
 Oft have tuned thine infant glory: 
 What though Time with churlish hand 
 Poureth fast my shining sand, 
 And my kindly summer time 
 Blighteth with his early rime, 
 Love, thou still hast been to me 
 An adored deity! 
 
 Lo, anew thy red fires start 
 On the altar of my heart! 
 Fast the breath of passion slips 
 Forth of the portal of my lips. 
 All her vagrant fancies guiding 
 Past the lures of youth's providing, 
 Lead her, conqueror of charms, 
 Captive to these longing arms! 
 
 Then will I thy praise renew; 
 Thou shalt keep my homage true; 
 Crown me now thy child of fortune 
 And I thee no more importune! 
 Come, thou hourly heaven-descending, 
 With the gift that hath no ending, 
 Though her melting spirit shine, 
 Make the radiant maiden mine!
 
 MY LADY FROM THE SEA 
 
 THE Lady from the Sea! a name 
 To charm the listening air; 
 A title buoyant, winged for fame, 
 
 Mysterious, debonair; 
 It rings across the round of time 
 
 In music pulsing free; 
 A breath from far Romance's clime 
 "The Lady from the Sea." 
 
 But now the phrase hath sweeter grown, 
 
 And haunts my ravished ear; 
 It takes a tenderer, richer tone 
 
 That none beside may hear; 
 The tocsin of an ampler hope 
 
 Where Faith shall bend the knee; 
 Within one fond heart's larger scope, 
 
 My Lady from the Sea! 
 
 My Lady from the Sea she stands, 
 
 And none may her gainsay; 
 With true love dowry in her hands 
 
 And in her eyes the play 
 Of forces that unfold their charm 
 
 Of light and power to me, 
 Yet work no living creature harm 
 
 My Lady from the Sea. 
 181
 
 i8a MY LADY FROM THE SEA 
 
 The rhythm of the ocean wind 
 
 Is pulsing through her heart; 
 The glint of waves that plastic bind 
 
 All lands across the chart, 
 With something of dawn's tender grace 
 
 In her clear eyes I see; 
 Or sunset's glamor lights her face 
 
 My Lady from the Sea. 
 
 I watch the endless waters flow 
 
 Beneath the eternal sky; 
 I view the tall ships come and go 
 
 With new awakened eye; 
 She stands beside me and her voice 
 
 Doth with all moods agree; 
 She cries, "Rejoice, worn heart, rejoice!" 
 
 My Lady from the Sea. 
 
 Like her I come of Viking blood, 
 
 Yet bred in landward town, 
 I feared the mystery of the flood 
 
 And shunned the deep sea crown; 
 But now the breadth of wave and sky 
 
 Lies bare to port and lee; 
 Ah, how the bannered clouds go by, 
 
 My Lady from the Sea!
 
 MY SONNETEER 
 
 TWAS in a common German "Haus" 
 Where one may buy a beer, 
 (A "ham and" kind of place it was), 
 
 I met my sonneteer. 
 Among an unkempt, frowzy set, 
 
 Who wore a tipsy leer 
 And swaggered loud, 'twas first I met, 
 I met my sonneteer. 
 
 The scion of Euterpe sat 
 
 In solitary cheer, 
 A well-worn, weather-beaten hat 
 
 Adorned my sonneteer; 
 But yet he took his glass of "wet" 
 
 As though 'twere Rhenish dear; 
 Thus getting up his steam I met, 
 
 I met my sonneteer. 
 
 I knew him as the author of 
 
 That poem called De Vere; 
 'Twas mild as well, a sucking dove, 
 
 Or as my sonneteer. 
 But now it's dead as "Capulet," 
 
 A "book without a .peer"; 
 As dreary as his verse I met, 
 
 I met my sonneteer. 
 
 The Muse's livery on his back 
 All threadbare did appear, 
 183
 
 184 MY SONNETEER 
 
 Its shiny seams did fray and crack 
 
 Upon my sonneteer. 
 'Twas with a feeling of regret, 
 
 And with a sort of fear 
 His lot might soon be mine, I met, 
 
 I met my sonneteer. 
 
 What use for him Fate had in store 
 
 Was not exceeding clear; 
 For poetasters grow galore 
 
 Like to my sonneteer. 
 And Fortune sends her "Kind regret" 
 
 To many such a year; 
 I thought, "the world will soon forget, 
 
 Forget my sonneteer." 
 
 But ah, the Gods had care of him 
 
 Most gracious-wise I hear; 
 A wealthy widow took a whim 
 
 And wed my sonneteer. 
 He wrote the dame a canzonet 
 
 Upon her eye or ear; 
 A Muse of some account! I met, 
 
 I met my sonneteer. 
 
 'Twas at the big Fitz-Boodle ball, 
 
 The grandest of the year, 
 While strolling through the supper hall 
 
 I met my sonneteer; 
 He looked as though a dun or debt 
 
 Ne'er once had come him near; 
 A-sipping Pommery Sec I met, 
 
 I met my sonneteer! 
 
 And as the fashion is, he now 
 His head will highly rear;
 
 MY SONNETEER 185 
 
 To friends of old he'll slightly bow 
 
 My purse-proud sonneteer. 
 At bon-ton clubs he's quite a pet, 
 
 Is booked for a "career"; 
 He's changed indeed, but he is yet, 
 
 Is yet a sonneteer!
 
 SONG FOR THE EMPIRE STATE 
 
 THE mightiest of the sisters that form our native land, 
 The bulwark of our promise by lake and ocean spanned, 
 Nine million sons of freemen, tried men of mart and field, 
 In one accord are voicing the triumph of her shield. 
 
 The golden grain is ours and ours the fruitful vine; 
 
 Above our vales and mountains the stars of empire 
 
 shine ; 
 
 The product of the woodland, the harvest of the lea, 
 Pour down our roads and rivers to lake and town and 
 sea. 
 
 Flow forth, thou stately banner, upon the westering gale, 
 That flaunts her song of triumph o'er every hill and 
 vale; 
 
 From where one mighty city holds sovereign state to-day, 
 To mine and farm and forest, to hill and cape and bay! 
 
 Yet fairer than the pageant of mountain, dale and sea, 
 Is that free plighted tribute, O Lord of Hosts, to Thee ! 
 
 Thine is the cause and promise, thine is the law and rule, 
 That shapes the church and forum, that moulds the 
 home and school. 
 
 Thou gateway of the nation, the constant tribute pours 
 From lands beneath the dawning, to these enfranchised 
 
 shores ; 
 Hold up the ancient emblem * to show to after time 
 
 How from the slender seedling has grown the tree 
 
 sublime ! 
 
 * The arms of New York State. 
 
 186
 
 A SONG OF HOPE 
 
 DEAR heart, the clouds of even 
 Will fade away at morn, 
 And with the sun of heaven 
 
 New life and light be born; 
 Then do not now despair, 
 Nor live of hope forlorn; 
 The cloud that came with even 
 Will pass away at morn. 
 
 Let us be constant still 
 
 Through all life's care and cark, 
 Bearing a cheerful will 
 
 Though all around be dark; 
 The sun's behind the cloud 
 
 Though here his beams are shorn; 
 The cloud that came with even 
 Will pass away at morn. 
 
 Take Hope unto your bosoms, 
 
 All ye sad sons of care; 
 Her brow is wreathed with blossoms 
 
 That perfume lives of prayer; 
 Gather her to your hearts, 
 
 All ye of faith forlorn; 
 The cloud that came with even 
 Will pass away at morn. 
 
 187
 
 CRADLE SONG 
 
 (Translated from the French of Madame Valmore) 
 
 IF baby sleep he'll see 
 The busy bumble bee 
 With the honey 'neath her thigh 
 Dancing 'tween the earth and sky. 
 
 If baby sleep in bed 
 
 An angel rosy red 
 
 (None else sees him without light) 
 
 Down will come and say "good-night." 
 
 The Virgin full of grace 
 
 Down to his sweet face, 
 
 If he'll quiet be, will bend 
 
 And long time in talk will spend. 
 
 "If my child love me," 
 
 God to himself says he, 
 
 "I love that child who'll sleep 
 
 Make him golden dreams to keep. 
 
 "Eyes to close prepare! 
 When he's said his prayer, 
 He shall see my gardens grow 
 With the brightest flowers that blow. 
 188
 
 CRADLE SONG 189 
 
 "Angel hands down press 
 And smooth his long night dress! 
 And let whitest down be shed 
 Where he rests his sleeping head ! 
 
 "Brood ye wings above! 
 Like the turtle dove, 
 From his eyes my sun to keep 
 When he wakens from his sleep ! 
 
 "While he travels far 
 
 In my cloudy car, 
 
 Let him, whensoe'er he deems, 
 
 Drink my milk that flows in streams! 
 
 "Open to his call 
 
 Pearl and amber hall! 
 
 He while sleeping shall partake 
 
 Of my precious diamond cake! 
 
 "Broider ye his sail, 
 Stars so bright and pale! 
 When he sets his little boat 
 On my azure lake afloat! 
 
 "Waves be clearer soon 
 Than the shining moon! 
 While my fish with silver flakes 
 In the changing deep he takes! 
 
 "But I would he sleep 
 And in slumber keep, 
 Like the birds in downy hush 
 In their houses built of rush!
 
 CRADLE SONG 
 
 "If, an hour gone by 
 Still they hear him cry, 
 Everywhere they'd say abroad 
 That child's disobeying God!" 
 
 "Echo down the street 
 Would the news repeat, 
 Saying, as the hour flies, 
 'Hark, I hear a child that cries!' 
 
 "And his mother dear 
 
 In the night severe, 
 
 Won't keep singing very long 
 
 To that naughty child her song! 
 
 "Should he cry and fret 
 
 For daybreak in pet, 
 
 From her lamb who won't obey 
 
 Maybe she will run away. 
 
 "Or then she may flee 
 
 Through the roof, maybe; 
 
 Angry at his cries, alack! 
 
 Off she'll go and won't come back! 
 
 "Wander where he may 
 None will say 'good-day !' 
 And I say that child unwise 
 Will not look on Paradise! 
 
 "Yes! but if he's still, 
 
 The Blessed Virgin will 
 
 To his sweet face downward bend, 
 
 And long time in talk will spend !"
 
 FRENCH FORMS
 
 FRENCH FORMS 
 
 THESE blooms of song in minstrel time 
 Sprang from Provence's genial clime; 
 Fair as in Ronsard's lovers' lay 
 The rare exotics flower to-day, 
 Crowning de Banville's courtly prime. 
 
 As at the play the facile mime 
 
 Shows worth, love, chivalry, and crime, 
 
 Change to all tints of fancy's play 
 These blooms of song. 
 
 Though here the stubborn English rhyme 
 Curbs the Chant Royal's tread sublime, 
 
 The Rondeau courts an English day; 
 
 The Ballade's tendrils bend and sway 
 'Neath northern oak as southern lime, 
 These blooms of song!
 
 THE IMMORTALITY OF SONG 
 
 (Chant Royal) 
 
 ALL earthly state doth wither and decay; 
 Nor Pride, Wealth, Splendor, Loveliness, nor Might, 
 May in its course the stroke of Ruin stay, 
 
 As dreams they fade and vanish out of sight. 
 Perpetual change! the beggar and the king 
 Each turn to mould, and from their ashes spring 
 
 Conceptions for new life; o'er Xerxes' hall 
 
 Deep sands are drifting; lions nightly call 
 Across the waste where Babylon proud and strong 
 
 Towered to Heaven; yet safe from Ruin's thrall 
 They shine alway the saintly stars of Song! 
 
 What is the conqueror's laurel? Where the sway 
 
 Of Caesars with their purple robes bedight? 
 Like to a breath they came they passed away 
 
 Like torches flashed across the breast of night; 
 However so mighty, Time's remorseless wing 
 Sweeps them along of them scarce anything 
 
 Is left or known; the centuries downward haul 
 
 Their palaces the ivy on the wall 
 Hides all their wrecks of pride; oblivion long 
 
 Wraps crown and sceptre, throne and sumptuous pall; 
 They shine alway the saintly stars of Song! 
 
 193
 
 194 THE IMMORTALITY OF SONG 
 
 Where are the lovely forms of olden day 
 Proud Cleopatra's charms, all dusky bright, 
 
 Helen's enrapturing beauty, Lais gay? 
 Alas! frail Beauty first doth suffer blight. 
 
 The rose blooms forth; to-day our plaudits ring, 
 
 To-morrow, and the wanton world doth fling 
 Its withered joy aside! In ruin fall 
 Firm arch, proud plinth, and storied capital; 
 
 The eternal hills themselves shall suffer wrong: 
 Pure and inviolate from earth's changes all 
 
 They shine alway the saintly stars of Song! 
 
 Youth with his garland takes his joyous way, 
 Pledging the future with a proud delight; 
 
 How veiled is soon the glory of his day 
 
 The years speed on and Time asserts his right! 
 
 Changes no longer new enchantments bring; 
 
 All niggard now of cheer and welcoming, 
 The Seasons offer cups of rue and gall, 
 And weeds for favors; round earth's rolling ball 
 
 Youth creeps to age; bound as by iron thong, 
 Blind fortune sweeps him onward past recall: 
 
 They shine alway the saintly stars of Song! 
 
 Yes, song survives! except the inspired lay 
 Nothing of man's is stable; earth takes flight 
 
 Itself; in vain we would for respite pray; 
 Time soon or late our titles doth indict. 
 
 Awhile around the past our memories cling, 
 
 Awhile for loved ones lost we're sorrowing, 
 
 Then Death our names doth in his tablet scrawl, 
 And we are past the heart-ache and the brawl, 
 
 Life's hopes and fears and Pain's envenomed prong; 
 The armor-bearer sinks beside the Saul; 
 
 They shine alway the saintly stars of Song!
 
 THE IMMORTALITY OF SONG 195 
 
 L ENVOI 
 
 Friend, while to age and dusty death we crawl, 
 Till Time lays by his scythe and iron maul, 
 
 Songs are Heaven's choicest gifts; above the throng 
 Abiding o'er the mighty and the small 
 
 They shine alway the saintly stars of Song!
 
 THE RENASCENCE OF SPRING 
 
 (Chant Royal) 
 
 THERE dawns new gladness over holt and dale, 
 A rich prelude of melody and light; 
 The mating birds upon their branches hail 
 
 The regal morn all things to joy invite. 
 The velvet grass is freshening o'er the lea; 
 The bloom is frothing over bush and tree; 
 
 The earth doth set her mourning weeds aside, 
 
 And flushes, joyous as a new-made bride, 
 Beneath the gaze of her glad lord and king, 
 
 The bridegroom sun, all warm and ardent-eyed ; 
 Maternal Earth rejoices with the Spring! 
 
 No snow whirl drives before the billowy gale; 
 
 Gone are the tokens of decay and blight; 
 Upon slant wing the twittering swallows sail, 
 
 Flashing their pinions lined with flecked white ; 
 Nature stands crowned in all her majesty; 
 The heavens glow pure as a pellucid sea; 
 
 The soul with an intenser flame supplied, 
 
 Grows warmed, enlightened, and revivified, 
 Till all its heart doth to the season sing, 
 
 Partaking Nature's generative pride; 
 Maternal Earth rejoices with the Spring! 
 
 196
 
 THE RENASCENCE OF SPRING 197 
 
 The burnished beetle in his jointed mail, 
 Wheeling across the fields in whirring flight, 
 
 Drums for the concert warblers of the vale 
 His overture to Summer's queenly might. 
 
 The blithe grasshopper from his bended knee 
 
 Vaults forth; the cricket chirrups loud in glee; 
 The dragonflies across the champaign glide, 
 Their filmy oars transparent stretching wide; 
 
 The cooing dove flushes his iris ring, 
 
 Wooing his mate who coyly steps aside; 
 
 Maternal Earth rejoices with the Spring! 
 
 The ghostly beeches past the orchard pale 
 Are donning ruffled cloaks all emerald bright; 
 
 The vine begins to clamber o'er the rail; 
 The timid violets now are not affright, 
 
 But to the season's genial gaiety 
 
 They venture forth and make their beauties free; 
 The hardy crocus to the north allied, 
 Stands bravely up in raiment purple-pied; 
 
 The daisy soon her shield will forward fling, 
 The vaunted champion of the Summer-tide; 
 
 Maternal Earth rejoices with the Spring! 
 
 This is Love's season now he doth not fail 
 
 Of hearts; no mark escapes his cunning sleight; 
 Nothing can his keen arrows countervail, 
 
 When Spring hath wound her clarion on the height. 
 Nature's warm charms woo Youth voluptuously, 
 He may not from her flowery bondage flee; 
 
 For like a mistress true, companion tried, 
 
 Her gentle suasion may not be denied, 
 And with a thousand arts of welcoming 
 
 She lures him to her fragrant blooming side; 
 Maternal Earth rejoices with the Spring!
 
 198 THE RENASCENCE OF SPRING 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Nature, true teacher, still be thou my guide! 
 Never by me be thy rich charms decried; 
 
 Still to my heart thy choicest blessings bring! 
 Ride on supreme! in joyful triumph ride; 
 
 Maternal Earth rejoices with the Spring!
 
 THE COMING AGE 
 
 (Chant Royal} 
 
 AROUND the wastes of Tyranny and War, 
 Athwart the clouds of Ignorance and Blight, 
 There falls a splendor from the heavenly shore, 
 
 A strong archangel standing in the light; 
 The angel's name is Peace seraphic gleams 
 Adorn his robes and from his aureole streams 
 
 The gladness of the Morning; fair on fair 
 
 The lustres kindle up the pulsing air 
 And fling their radiance over every clime ; 
 
 Lo, Love will come with laurels round his hair! 
 So flushed with promise dawns the Coming Time! 
 
 Gone is the bigot's wrath the open door 
 Of Concord doth on golden hinge invite 
 All nations; on Thought's steep and boundless shore 
 
 What leagues of Prescience lengthen on the sight! 
 
 The glory poets outlined in their dreams 
 
 To-day on us in amplest beauty beams; 
 
 The triumphs Hope to think would hardly dare, 
 The Sciences unceasing hands prepare; 
 
 The pageant Hours in pomp of trophied prime 
 
 Upon their heads their wreaths of conquest wear; 
 
 So flushed with promise dawns the Coming Time! 
 
 199
 
 200 THE COMING AGE 
 
 Now sovereign Plenty hath unlocked her store; 
 
 Forth unto Want she holds her harvest bright ; 
 Around her foaming vats and threshing-floor 
 
 Dance jocund fays in gay and festal flight; 
 With bounteous wealth the fair-hued future teems, 
 And unto joy the sons of grief redeems, 
 
 Bringing to Labor ease and balm for Care; 
 
 While Love shall all the poor man's burdens share, 
 While Freedom marching up her paths sublime 
 
 Shall lead to wider views and clearer air; 
 So flushed with promise dawns the Coming Time ! 
 
 Fair Culture rules where Plenty held before, 
 
 With hyacinthine locks and brow of white; 
 Even Pride himself shall yield to her devoir; 
 
 She stands the queen of Progress and of Might; 
 She calms and quells the discord of extremes; 
 Worth has her heart and virtue she esteems; 
 
 All hearts and minds are open to her prayer; 
 
 Her blooms most fragrant are, most costly rare; 
 She loves the lute, she loves the poet's rhyme; 
 
 No earthly beauty can with hers compare ; 
 So flushed with promise dawns the Coming Time ! 
 
 The Olden Ages all their treasures pour 
 Into the lap of Learning, at whose right 
 
 The baffled fiends of Prejudice deplore, 
 
 While Plenty, Culture, Freedom, with delight 
 
 Wax mightier, while the golden sunburst seems 
 
 To consecrate the page of Wisdom's themes, 
 To track the dark-faced passions to their lair, 
 Who soon in chains shall into bondage fare, 
 
 'Til Love shall take the cruel sword from Crime; 
 Can mind conceive or tongue such bliss declare! 
 
 So flushed with promise dawns the Coming Time!
 
 THE COMING AGE 201 
 
 LENVOI 
 
 Take heart, ye doubting and despondent! there 
 Grows Truth where Love has birth; far up the stair 
 
 Of Progress shall enfranchised manhood climb ; 
 Yea, Faith shall wed with Reason everywhere; 
 
 So flushed with promise dawns the Coming Time!
 
 (Ballade) 
 
 TO Philosophy's heights he could soar, 
 Could decipher the stones of Copan ; 
 He was versed in Rabbinical lore 
 From Beersheba even to Dan; 
 Ten tongues he could jabber and scan; 
 Like Noah's adventurous dove 
 
 He had travelled from Maine to Japan, 
 But he lacked the advantage of Love. 
 
 He pondered Zoology o'er; 
 
 He collected the pot and the pan ; 
 Over fossils he'd study and pore 
 
 And could tell when the fusion began ; 
 
 From a star to an Indian fan 
 He had learning all others above; 
 
 His mind took a world in its span, 
 He lacked the advantage of Love. 
 
 His soul could like Kepler's explore 
 
 The deeps of creation, he ran 
 The gauntlet of pedant and bore 
 
 And the straight-forehead orthodox clan; 
 
 On a pulpit he beat rataplan 
 With a hand that was soft as a glove ; 
 
 He could pray and palaver, and plan, 
 He lacked the advantage of Love. 
 202
 
 THE ADVANTAGE OF LOVE 203 
 
 L ENVOI 
 
 Prince, though you win all you can, 
 Though Fortune continues to shove ; 
 
 You've missed the true scope of a man 
 If you lack the advantage of Love.
 
 UNDER MARLBORO' 
 (Ballade) 
 
 TTTE'VE drummed all the French out of Lille; 
 VV We'll soon have them drubbed out of Flanders, 
 
 When the trumpets of Marlboro' peal, 
 'Tis "on!" with our tough salamanders, 
 King Louis' proud pets and his panders 
 
 May carve new estates in Cayenne; 
 
 Let them call on their prince of commanders; 
 
 Pouf! Here's to their Marshal Turenne! 
 
 Tallard and Villars have turned heel, 
 
 They ran like a pack of train-banders; 
 The Johnny Crapauds, how they squeal 
 
 As we charge under Mordaunt and Saunders. 
 
 Messieurs, you are gallant Leanders, 
 Your vocation's in Paris, and then 
 
 The Pompadour dotes upon slanders; 
 Pouf! Here's to your Marshal Turenne! 
 
 You may trim us in farce, vaudeville, 
 And dub us gourmands and outlanders; 
 
 We'll play you to fire and steel 
 
 And the stiffest of British right-handers. 
 
 You imagined us Hessians and Pandours; 
 
 Mes braves, you mistook us, and when 
 The Seine is your last of Scamanders, 
 Pouf! Here's to your Marshal Turenne! 
 204
 
 UNDER MARLBORO' 205 
 
 L ENVOI 
 
 Your sheep and champagne to the branders, 
 Or, Louis, we'll claim them again! 
 
 For prog we are stoutest of standers, 
 Pouf ! Here's to your Marshal Turenne!
 
 BALLADE OF THE SEA-SERPENT 
 
 MYTHOLOGY'S knocked all awry; 
 Gods, demi-gods deader than punk; 
 To the Fauns and the Fairies good-bye! 
 Each Dryad has packed up her trunk; 
 Nymph, Naiad, and Oread funk; 
 The spook has gone off in a pet; 
 
 The Satyr is dead or dead drunk; 
 The Sea-Serpent flourishes yet! 
 
 The Mermaid has gotten so shy 
 
 She siestas all day in her bunk ; 
 The Triton is piping his eye; 
 
 The Nereids are all of them sunk; 
 
 The Gnomes to earth's bowels have slunk; 
 The Pixies have paid their last debt; 
 
 The Nixies are "nixy," non nunc; 
 The Sea-Serpent flourishes yet! 
 
 No witch is now sweeping the sky, 
 
 The last one was burned for her spunk; 
 One cannot on devils rely, 
 
 Although we've the word of the monk; 
 
 In Time's nostrils the Centaur has stunk; 
 No hobgoblin or bogle is met; 
 
 Vanderdecken has flown with his junk; 
 The Sea-Serpent flourishes yet! 
 206
 
 BALLADE OF THE SEA-SERPENT 207 
 
 L ENVOI 
 
 Prince, clever headed or lunk, 
 
 Time soon will your glories forget; 
 
 You'll down to oblivion plunk; 
 The Sea-Serpent flourishes yet!
 
 BALLADE OF THE TAILOR 
 
 WHATE'ER philosophers may say, 
 Or men of texts and tariffs prose, 
 In toga, tea-cup times, to-day, 
 
 The greatest social fact is clothes. 
 Come good or bad, come friends or foes, 
 The wise or simple, great or small, 
 
 Where'er the wave of culture flows, 
 The Tailor, he is King of all. 
 
 The days of plumes and mantles gay, 
 
 Or ruffles, patches, furbelows, 
 Have like foam-bubbles passed away, 
 
 Vanished the age of wits and beaux; 
 
 The gallant mincing on his toes, 
 Both Nelly's grace and Ninon's thrall, 
 
 Have passed like pageants of the Rose,- 
 The Tailor, he was king of all. 
 
 Now dandies dress in black or gray; 
 
 They sport no more the silken hose; 
 The pantaloon has come to stay; 
 
 No dress shirt now a ruffle knows; 
 
 A "congress" is a flock of crows; 
 The broidered scarf is now a shawl ; 
 
 But still, howe'er the fashion goes, 
 The Tailor, he is king of all. 
 208
 
 BALLADE OF THE TAILOR 209 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Friend, while upon the Stage you pose 
 As fool or knave, as saint or Saul, 
 
 In dress you mask or you disclose; 
 The Tailor, he is king of all !
 
 THE SERVANT OF THE MUSE 
 (Ballade} 
 
 OH, callow youths, ye vaporing lovers all, 
 Who pay your vows at some fair Circe's shrine, 
 If ye to one entrancing maid a thrall 
 
 Your ease of mind and sportive joys resign, 
 If ye for her your liberties confine, 
 And all your former comfortings refuse, 
 
 Your case is not so desperate as is mine, 
 Ye know not what it means to serve the Muse! 
 
 Ye middle-aged, who live false Fortune's thrall, 
 Who fondly deem her smile will constant shine; 
 
 Ye who beneath her ruthless chariot fall, 
 Or for her gilded toys and bubbles pine, 
 Your ear to a more hapless wight incline, 
 
 Who to a more capricious mistress sues; 
 
 Be thankful of your wage and drain your wine, 
 
 Ye know not what it means to serve the Muse ! 
 
 Old men, who throng to Wisdom's spacious hall, 
 
 And worship white-robed Science, the divine; 
 Who dig for light at Death's dark barrier wall, 
 
 And con life's mystic precepts line by line; 
 
 Straining your anxious vision for a sign 
 How to unravel cunning Nature's ruse; 
 
 If she be coy ye need not wince nor whine, 
 Ye know not what it means to serve the Muse! 
 
 210
 
 THE SERVANT OF THE MUSE 211 
 
 L ENVOI 
 
 All ye smug Strephons, who prosaic dine 
 Upon the viands which your Phyllis stews, 
 
 Eat and be thankful for your chops and chine, 
 Ye know not what it means to serve the Muse !
 
 THE BOGEY OF ENGLISH FREE TRADE 
 (Ballade) 
 
 THE tariff's a dear little pet, 
 The child of Republican lout; 
 Protection its nurse (that is, wet), 
 Just now is much flustered, put out; 
 Monopolist, run with the clout! 
 Manufacturer, stand for its maid! 
 
 And fright away megrim and pout 
 With the bogey of English free trade. 
 
 Oh, swaddle it, dandle it yet, 
 
 Ye grave senatorial rout ! 
 And teach it its tare and its tret, 
 
 And to keep clean its snub little snout. 
 
 Don't let depraved Democrats flout 
 Its failings, or make it afraid, 
 
 But after its enemies scout 
 With the bogey of English free trade. 
 
 Brother Jonathan's house is upset; 
 
 The mischief ! What's all this about ? 
 What caucusing furor, and fret! 
 
 What a headshaking, shiver and shout! 
 
 "The country'll be ruined, I vow it!" 
 "Let the surplus in pensions be paid !" 
 
 "Put the tariff's revisers to rout 
 With the bogey of English free trade!" 
 
 212
 
 THE BOGEY OF ENGLISH FREE TRADE 213 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Ye sons, macaroni and kraut! 
 
 Ye wielders of dibble and spade ! 
 They'd gammon you, make not a doubt, 
 
 With the bogey of English free trade!
 
 BERANGER'S SONGS 
 (Rondeau) 
 
 BE'RANGER'S songs ah, few to-day 
 Can such inspiring measures sway; 
 What muse can match the lilting strain 
 That dances down his sweet refrain? 
 Come name his rivals! where are they? 
 
 Around his theme wit's flashes play; 
 He's France! in him France lives for aye; 
 They glow like sunshine dipped in rain, 
 Beranger's songs! 
 
 The modern muse is seldom gay, 
 Infrequent grows the heart-felt lay, 
 
 The voice of passion breathes in pain; 
 
 O come, ye gladsome days again! 
 Like stars they gleam along my way, 
 
 Beranger's songs! 
 
 214
 
 MY TRICKSY MUSE 
 (Rondeau) 
 
 MY tricksy Muse ! full oft you play 
 Me shy, when I'd fain have you stay; 
 The most coquettish maid I know 
 Are you, and though I court you, lo, 
 You're off for all I do or say! 
 
 Well, come or go howe'er you may; 
 Assertive, tender, grave or gay, 
 
 Yet never false, malicious grow, 
 My tricksy Muse! 
 
 The critic, waiting for his prey, 
 May scoff you, with my scorn I pay ; 
 
 And should all wheels on Fortune's row 
 Spin by us, we'll no favors owe; 
 Afoot we'll travel life's highway, 
 My tricksy Muse! 
 
 215
 
 A RUSTIC SCENE 
 (Rondeau) 
 
 A RUSTIC scene, ma chere ami? 
 Well, first a vine-flowered canopy; 
 A garden here an orchard yon 
 A fountain and a sloping lawn 
 Some chairs the china set for tea. 
 
 Yes, something more ah, there must be 
 A hedge in bloom a willow tree 
 
 Thus far you think I've fairly drawn 
 A rustic scene? 
 
 A lake far distant down the lea 
 
 A white-robed, gold-haired, winsome she, 
 
 Holding in ribbon leash a fawn; 
 
 Her smile, suggestive of the dawn 
 A young Aurora; you, ma mie; 
 
 A rustic scene! 
 
 216
 
 A PERFECT FRIEND 
 (Rondeau) 
 
 A PERFECT friend, Miss Guenevere, 
 -*V. Come tell me who that is ? 'Tis queer 
 A clever scholar such as you 
 Never that mental portrait drew, 
 And you thumb Shakespeare every year! 
 
 Heart, culture, grace, a voice of cheer, 
 Wit not too gay nor yet severe, 
 
 Tact, talent, sweetness, all are due 
 A perfect friend. 
 
 A woman? surely! Men appear 
 
 Less sympathetic, earnest, clear, 
 Resourceful and I know but few 
 Of your sex, even, kind and true. 
 
 Look in the mirror you? yes, dear, 
 A perfect friend ! 
 
 217
 
 THE HEART'S VOYAGE 
 (Pantoum) 
 
 MY all too trustful day is o'er, 
 Grey clouds draw darkling o'er the sea; 
 Youth's all enchanting tropic shore 
 Fades slowly o'er life's shadowed lea. 
 
 Grey clouds grow darkling o'er the sea 
 From out the deepening skies of time; 
 
 Fades slowly o'er life's shadowed lea 
 The freshness of life's summer clime. 
 
 From out the deepening skies of time 
 The storm-wings veering down in force, 
 
 The freshness of life's summer clime 
 I leave, upon my out-bound course. 
 
 The storm-wings veering down in force, 
 I know not where they drive me on; 
 
 I leave, upon my out-bound course, 
 
 Bright hopes, full-blossomed at the dawn. 
 
 I know not where they drive me on 
 The dark waves stretch an endless waste; 
 
 Bright hopes, ye blossomed at the dawn 
 Roses, that once Faith's garden graced! 
 
 The dark waves stretch an endless waste; 
 
 One star beams through the gloom above; 
 Roses, that once Faith's garden graced, 
 
 Ye all were consecrate to Love! 
 218
 
 THE HEART'S VOYAGE 219 
 
 One star beams through the gloom above, 
 
 The pale, pure star of Poesy; 
 Ye all were consecrate to Love, 
 
 Fair flowers that bloomed so tenderly! 
 
 The pale, pure star of Poesy! 
 
 My one blest guide when night is drear; 
 Fair flowers that bloomed so tenderly, 
 
 Would now ye smiled upon me here! 
 
 My one blest guide when night is drear; 
 
 Her light still cheers my wayward soul; 
 Would now thou smiledst upon me here, 
 
 Dear star of Love the billows roll ! 
 
 Her light still cheers my wayward soul, 
 Lend too, O Love, thy steadfast shine! 
 
 Dear star of Love, the billows roll! 
 
 Why cheer'st thou not this heart of mine? 
 
 Lend too, O Love, thy steadfast shine! 
 
 Then might the white-walled haven gleam; 
 Why cheer'st thou not this heart of mine, 
 
 Sweet guide of each night-opening dream? 
 
 Then might the white-walled haven gleam, 
 
 Calm port of rest, fulfilled desires; 
 Sweet guide of each night-opening dream, 
 
 Thy charm would gild its lofty spires! 
 
 Calm port of rest, fulfilled desires 
 
 It were a paradise with thee! 
 Thy charm would gild its lofty spires; 
 
 Where may I that bright haven see?
 
 220 THE HEART'S VOYAGE 
 
 It were a paradise with thee! 
 
 Ah, how the cloudy streamers fly! 
 Where may I that bright haven see? 
 
 How swift my light bark glideth by! 
 
 Ah, how the cloudy streamers fly! 
 
 My all too trustful day is o'er; 
 How swift my light bark glideth by 
 
 Youth's all-enchanting tropic shore!
 
 O SOVEREIGN LOVE 
 (Rondeau) 
 
 O SOVEREIGN LOVE ! there is no fear or stress 
 May shake thy follower's rapt devotedness ; 
 Heaven hath no bliss surpassing this of thine; 
 Thy favor makes the face of care to shine 
 And clothes the cruel with thy tenderness! 
 
 Lean from thy heaven! the wearied spirit bless, 
 Fair youthful god, to whom all hearts confess; 
 
 Let not thy servants unrequited pine, 
 O Sovereign Love! 
 
 Thy arms round lives of earth born labor press 
 And soothe them with thy pure and soft caress; 
 
 Warm the dull spirit with thy flame divine; 
 
 To all who pray thee straight thy joy consign; 
 Yea, banish pain bring sweet forgetfulness, 
 O Sovereign Love! 
 
 221
 
 THE VISION OF THE DIS DEBAR 
 
 ( Villanelle} 
 
 THROUGH the visions of the nights 
 What is this my fancy sees? 
 'Tis the Dis Debar in tights! 
 
 Oh, of all the awesome sights 
 
 That do oft the senses freeze 
 Through the visions of the nights; 
 
 This one most my spirit frights 
 
 This one surely takes the cheese! 
 'Tis the Dis Debar in tights! 
 
 All ye gamesome Harlem wights, 
 
 Saw ye ever limbs like these 
 Through the visions of the nights? 
 
 There behind the platform lights 
 
 Nightly doth fair Cupid wheeze; 
 'Tis the Dis Debar in tights! 
 
 Still she haunts me, queen of sprites, 
 
 Sighing like a gusty breeze 
 Through the visions of the nights 
 'Tis the Dis Debar in tights! 
 
 222
 
 E 
 
 TRIOLETS 
 
 VERY age has its craze, 
 Our day has the maddest; 
 
 'Tis a bric-a-brac phase. 
 
 Every age has its craze, 
 
 But of all work in "clays" 
 This "crockery's" the "saddest." 
 
 Every age has its craze. 
 Our day has the maddest. 
 
 Since Bellamy's book 
 
 The world's gone demented. 
 
 All's "social outlook" 
 
 Since Bellamy's book; 
 
 The co-operative cook 
 
 Is the last thing invented. 
 
 Since Bellamy's book 
 
 The world's gone demented. 
 
 Nina pouted when I said 
 
 All her sex are like Pandora; 
 But I straightway pleased the maid 
 
 When I called her my Aurora. 
 Flatter well the fair, ye men, 
 
 If you'd have your faith undoubted. 
 Tell them not the truth, as when 
 
 Nina pouted. 
 
 223
 
 QUATRAINS
 
 THE QUATRAIN 
 
 As thru a prism strains the circling sky, 
 Packed in four lines how much of life may lie ; 
 Yet flashing forth its radiance down the years ; 
 A diamond flinging pent fire to the spheres.
 
 T 
 
 THE UNIVERSAL LIFE 
 
 HE mountain's brooks divide, yet from one source 
 They plenish all the fruitful fields below; 
 So from the central, sole, eternal force, 
 
 The strong, life-giving streams of Nature flow. 
 
 STANDING-ROOM 
 
 "A PLACE to stand, and I will move the world!" 
 So cried the wise-browed Syracusan seer; 
 
 Whereon to stand ? Ay, had we that, unfurled 
 Across the age what banners Truth would rear ! 
 
 THE WORLD-MAELSTROM OF THE WEST 
 
 HERE seethes the o'erflow of Nations; from all shores 
 Earth's human rivers mix in one embrace; 
 
 Yet through this myriad-tided ocean pours 
 The Gulf-stream of the Anglo-Saxon race. 
 
 KNOWLEDGE AND WISDOM 
 
 KNOWLEDGE is Wisdom's hand-maid; oft her gown 
 The servant dons a masquerade complete; 
 
 Then goes she aping Wisdom up and down, 
 And few there are who recognize the cheat. 
 227
 
 228 QUATRAINS 
 
 PENUEL 
 
 NOTHING of value comes unearned to man; 
 
 The storm that scathes, roots yet more deep the trunk; 
 All striving tells in earnest Nature's plan; 
 
 Still wrest the blessing though your thigh be shrunk. 
 
 EVOLUTION 
 
 SOUL is developed Nature; from the sod 
 
 Grows soul-stuff; Nature's but a thrifty wife; 
 
 The field-flowers claim us kindred with a nod, 
 And mothers kiss the babes that sap their life. 
 
 LOVE 
 
 LOVE is the rose of life, its natural zest, 
 Its daily bourgeon woos the circling air; 
 
 When Cupid plants it in some maid's warm breast, 
 Its perfume doubles and 'tis doubly fair. 
 
 ON CERTAIN ACADEMICIANS 
 
 THEIR skill is all mosaic; rule of thumb 
 
 Guides every groping hand and squinting eye, 
 
 Ask for imagination they are dumb; 
 
 Point them to truth and, lo, they choose a lie!
 
 QUATRAINS 229 
 
 OLD AND NEW ART 
 
 NATURE was with the souls of olden time, 
 
 They loved her, spoused her, were by her misled; 
 
 We are like husbands long outpast their prime, 
 We know her moods but passion now is dead. 
 
 TO CERTAIN CRITICS 
 
 WOODPECKER-LIKE, intent on drilling holes, 
 You seek nor leaf nor blossom on the tree; 
 
 And cuckoo-like you echo other souls, 
 
 And hatch your changelings for a beggar's fee. 
 
 THE BASIC FORCE 
 
 RHYTHM must vibrate through the poet's mind 
 Ere he can urge his verse to throb and glow, 
 
 And feeling mount upon the spirit's wind 
 Before the master-player draws his bow. 
 
 THE CONVENTIONAL PARSON 
 
 EVEN the cholera is scarce his peer; 
 
 The droning pulpit prig, how dread is he! 
 One lays your body breathless on the bier; 
 The other plagues your soul and takes a fee.
 
 230 QUATRAINS 
 
 MIDAS AND COMPANY 
 
 MIDAS, 'tis said, turned all he touched to gold; 
 
 "Wise act!" we cry, "how few his worthy peers!" 
 His type how well preserved! It grows not old; 
 
 But what a price to pay for Ass's Ears! 
 
 CAVE CANEM! 
 
 XANTIPPE worsted Socrates, and few 
 
 Petruchios conquer where are hosts undone. 
 
 Even cunning Marlborough could not curb his shrew; 
 The moral? Lovers, read it as you run! 
 
 PEGASUS AT PASTURE 
 
 POPE, Milton, Byron, bankrupt poets these; 
 
 The rustics now have taken all the trade; 
 Long live the Hoosier bards! down on your knees 
 
 To Cracker slang and Yankee gasconade! 
 
 ORTHODOX LIBERALISM 
 
 THE Troy of creeds is down the Greeks are in; 
 
 The new yneas flees the falling wrack; 
 Seeking new lands he staggers from the din, 
 
 Anchises and his gods athwart his back.
 
 QUATRAINS 231 
 
 THE POETS AND MAMMON 
 
 POETS, like Swabia's free Knights of old, 
 Build proud and high their castles in the air; 
 
 Then Mammon comes, invests their straitened hold, 
 And Rudolf-like demands allegiance there. 
 
 SONNETS AND SONNETEERS 
 
 MOST rhymesters now are jewelers, and would fain 
 Their deft-carved cherry-stones for cameos sell; 
 
 Like amateurs, who play the moody Dane, 
 
 The counterfeit may pass not "passing well." 
 
 THE SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET 
 
 LEAVE the strict mould to Petrarch's plastic hand, 
 And frame your verse to Shakespeare's form divine; 
 
 In that the sweetest, loftiest thoughts expand; 
 The brave "fourteener" comes of English line. 
 
 POETS AND POETASTERS 
 
 THE hoarsest rhymesters, blundering in the dark, 
 Most clamorous are for an immortal name; 
 
 Still croaks and puffs the frog; the thrush and lark 
 Are not inflated with desire for fame.
 
 232 QUATRAINS 
 
 ON THE SPIRITUAL BARNUM 
 
 WERE I compelled to bide a donkey's bray, 
 
 I'd choose a time the beast's turned out to grass; 
 
 I'd never of my own volition stay 
 To hear a roof reverberate an ass. 
 
 TRUTH 
 
 TRUTH is the lode-star of free thought nor can 
 He earn its guidance who is thrall to pelf; 
 
 Nor shall he gain perspective view of man 
 Until his shadow shortens to himself. 
 
 TO SOME NEW CRITICS 
 
 "ScoTT is no master!" no, my dainty soul, 
 Weaving your cobweb verse or etching prose? 
 
 You new time Delia-Cruscan ! centuries roll, 
 He's Britain's Homer; who are you? who knows? 
 
 FANCY 
 
 THE chord of Fancy is the slenderest string 
 In rich Imagination's varied lyre; 
 
 And yet some novice hand might make it ring 
 Above the chorus of the veteran choir.
 
 QUATRAINS 233 
 
 SELF-KNOWLEDGE 
 
 MOST men desire yet fear to stand revealed 
 
 Unto themselves; when forced, aghast they stare, 
 
 As captives, long from life and light concealed, 
 Start at their shadows in the sunlit air! 
 
 TRUE AND FALSE FAME 
 
 No mushroom is true fame; its hardy shoot 
 Springs not the seedless changeling of a night; 
 
 The soft, sweep rasp is summer's briefest fruit; 
 The firm-grained apple mellows with time's flight. 
 
 BERANGER 
 
 LIKE an aeolian harp his tense-drawn soul 
 Echoes the varying voice of France's will; 
 
 Oft as she breathes her joy or bitter dole, 
 
 Those rhythmic, trembling heart-strings answer still. 
 
 THE RULE OF RAPACITY 
 
 THE robber sea-kings' rule left traces here, 
 
 Though not in mouldering cairns along our coast; 
 
 Our Danes to-day in legal rapine rear 
 
 The Raven plundering with protecting host.
 
 234 QUATRAINS 
 
 THE PROFLIGATE OF KINDNESS 
 
 YQU'D dwell respected? hold yourself aloof, 
 
 Nor spread your cloak too freely for your friend; 
 
 The kindest hearts win ever most reproof, 
 And earn the ass's nettles in the end. 
 
 TRAITS OF WOMEN 
 
 FLOUT her who loves you and she grows more fond; 
 
 Yield to her whims she will your grace despise; 
 She has no magnanimity beyond 
 
 Her gift of patience and her partial eyes. 
 
 THE INVINCIBLE SEX 
 
 THERE is no armor 'gainst a woman's eyes; 
 
 Excalibur could not foil her dextrous wit; 
 And when her tears join forces with her sighs 
 
 The doughtiest heroes are the hardest hit. 
 
 THE CURSE OF THE COQUETTE 
 
 THERE is no fool, however wise he be, 
 
 Like him, the pensioner of a woman's smile; 
 
 No tyrant lives so dead to ruth as she 
 
 Who pillories hearts and poisons faith with guile.
 
 DOUBLE QUATRAINS 235 
 
 ARTIFICIAL REFINEMENT 
 
 THE hot-house nurtured woman more and more 
 Would make men slaves, her bears to dance at will ; 
 
 Our Ninons know their business to the core, 
 While o'er-exacting prudes die virgins still. 
 
 WOMAN'S HEART 
 
 OH, miracle of mysteries, woman's heart! 
 
 Misleading ever, even when meaning true; 
 As Gama's sailors conned the ancient chart, 
 
 With risk and fear we steer our course by you. 
 
 DOUBLE QUATRAINS 
 
 LIFE 
 
 PILOT, what gleam is that? What means that sounding 
 
 Through the dim night afar? 
 Soul, 'tis the breakers of the ocean pounding 
 
 Against the harbor bar! 
 
 Oh, helmsman, steer your bark by yon fixed beacon 
 
 Against the swerving tide; 
 Keep well your course, nor let your vigil weaken 
 
 Till you in safety ride!
 
 DOUBLE QUATRAINS 
 
 THE ILIAD 
 
 FROM vast, unfathomed deeps of ages gone, 
 
 Swelling in surge and gathering voice sublime, 
 
 Crested with froth of legendary dawn, 
 
 A lordly wave sweeps up the shores of time. 
 
 Lo, how it roars through all the bays and creeks, 
 Strewing its wealth of ocean treasures rare; 
 
 Hark now tall Hector thunders on the Greeks! 
 Look how Achilles shakes his shining hair! 
 
 THE PRESS 
 
 "PALLADIUM of Liberties" 'tis called; 
 
 The skillet-lid of faction might be writ ; 
 The editorial clothesman stands installed 
 
 To sell you mental garments that will fit. 
 
 'Tis Argus and Briareus in one, 
 
 And yet 'tis frailest of all things of power ; 
 It quickens, brightens, searches like the sun, 
 
 And changes ever with the changeful hour.
 
 DOUBLE QUATRAINS 237 
 
 THE YEARS OF LIFE 
 
 IN happy Youth Time goes with lingering feet, 
 And Hope, Life's herald, swiftly speeds before, 
 
 But, as we age, Time's pace becomes more fleet, 
 And Hope toils fainting or is seen no more. 
 
 Thus Heaven's compassion gives to pilgrim man 
 The brightest summer with the longest days, 
 
 And crowds the waning year in narrowing span 
 Down to the silent parting of the ways. 
 
 HUMAN EXISTENCE 
 
 LIFE is the sap-flow from the natal gloom, 
 Combining, mingling each essential force ; ' 
 
 The Soul is life's refined, consummate bloom, 
 
 And Sense, the leaves, which are life's outer source. 
 
 Mind is the pistil where Thought's pollen clings, 
 Love is the perfume of the dewy hours; 
 
 Genius, the bee with swift and patient wings 
 Whom God hath sent to fertilize the flowers.
 
 238 DOUBLE QUATRAINS 
 
 TRUTH 
 
 TRUTH what is Truth? Ah, yet the mystery stands 
 
 Veiled in the tissues of Eternal Will; 
 And, as of old, upon Arabian sands, 
 
 The world asks Pilate's vexing question still. 
 
 Yet inch by inch the drapery drops away 
 And bares vast outlines of a shaped intent ; 
 
 Yet gleam on gleam springs up the brighter day, 
 Till earth with heaven in Isis' smile is blent. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 "SWEET Swan of Avon," one who loved him well 
 
 A rival of that gladiatorial day 
 Called our loved Shakespeare ; and no sweeter spell 
 
 Than Shakespeare's ever held the world in sway. 
 
 Nor yet a mightier with a grace sublime 
 
 The Greek had worshipped in his proudest year, 
 
 He strikes the key-note of all after time, 
 And shows all nature in a smile or tear!
 
 DOUBLE QUATRAINS 239 
 
 THE HUMBLE-BEE 
 
 HE is the thriftiest of the Buccaneers 
 Who sails to every port among the flowers, 
 
 And gathers golden tribute and then steers 
 To wassail it away in winter hours. 
 
 And like the mightiest Tudor is his queen, 
 Who in her hive presides o'er his increase, 
 
 And sends him forth to scour the seas of green, 
 The Gloriana of his war and peace. 
 
 HOPE AND DESPAIR 
 
 A GHASTLY crag, stark against lowering skies, 
 Beneath whose brow black sullen water lies; 
 
 One spectral tree upon it, barked and bare, 
 Where a blind raven mopes that is Despair. 
 
 A vision in the desert's central grave, 
 
 Where crystal waters gleam and palm-trees wave, 
 A caravan beneath the burning cope, 
 
 Expecting blest possession this is Hope.
 
 240 DOUBLE QUATRAINS 
 
 FAITH AND LOVE 
 
 FAITH like an eagle on aspiring wing 
 Looks up undazzled to her God on high, 
 
 Scorning the earth, ay, every earth-born thing, 
 Beyond the pinnacle where her fledglings lie. 
 
 But Love, as bravely pinioned, turns and keeps 
 Her wings above us while the tempest raves, 
 
 Like the white albatross, and, like her, sleeps 
 Rocked on the inconstant bosom of the waves. 
 
 PLEASURE AND JOY 
 
 PLEASURE, a sylph with gay transparent wings, 
 Hath flattery's smile, and like a siren sings; 
 But if you strive to bind the flitting sprite, 
 She'll off and send you Sorrow out of spite. 
 
 But Joy, her gentler sister, oft is found 
 Musing in nooks and pacing holy ground; 
 And oft a tender tear-drop dims her eye, 
 And oft she breathes her rapture through a sigh.
 
 BALLADS
 
 CANADA TO ENGLAND 
 
 WE come to your call, O Mother, great mother of stead- 
 fast men ; 
 The days of earth are darkened, the morrow beyond our 
 
 ken; 
 
 Stress of war is upon us, the star of Empire shines, 
 A clouded and glimpsing beacon along the battle lines. 
 
 But know by the God above us, by the tale of a thousand 
 
 years, 
 By the blood of our countless heroes, by the rain of our 
 
 women's tears, 
 By the faith in our past and future, wherever our standards 
 
 fly, 
 
 We pledge our souls to this service, are prepared in this 
 cause to die. 
 
 Do not forget, dear Mother, we have proved our faith of 
 
 old; 
 Those memories of pain and struggle have not in our hearts 
 
 grown cold; 
 Here in the homes they cherished, the fire that holds and 
 
 strives 
 Once warmed the breasts of our fathers, they suffered and 
 
 gave their lives. 
 
 On the dank rice fields of India, on the sun-scorched kopjed 
 
 veldt, 
 On the snow-swept hills of Crimea, our manhood was tried 
 
 and felt; 
 
 243
 
 244 CANADA TO ENGLAND 
 
 From the times of Wolfe and Amherst to "Twelve," to th< 
 
 Transvaal days, 
 We have lustred our country's annals, we have fought anc 
 
 earned your praise. 
 
 Now in our prouder freedom, here in our fuller strength 
 Round every field and forest, through our great land'; 
 
 breadth and length, 
 
 To every city and village, to every ranch and mine, 
 Your call to the children echoes to fill the battle line. 
 
 Far off the fisher hears it on the Banks of Newfoundland 
 The coasting trader hears it off Fundy's fog-bound strand 
 The lonely woodsman hears it on the rafts of Temiscaming 
 The call of the Mother in harness, "Bring me your thou 
 sands bring!" 
 
 We are coming, O Trident Wielder, we are coming ter 
 
 thousand score; 
 
 The seven-fold shield is lifted high on Valcartier's shore 
 The flag that tripped stern Cronje, the flag of a hundrec 
 
 fights, 
 Is flying to-day for battle with the spirit of Queenstowr 
 
 Heights. 
 
 To every shore of the British around the Seven Seas, 
 The sons of the soil come trooping, their banners aslant th( 
 
 breeze ; 
 
 They will not fail you, Mother, their best are freely given 
 With hearts for England's honor, with souls by Freedorr 
 
 shriven. 
 
 Hail to the Three-Cross standard, with its streaming blood- 
 red field! 
 
 Hail to the bright-leaved Maple, hail to the Seven-fold 
 Shield!
 
 CANADA TO ENGLAND 245 
 
 Hail to the stout Four Nations, Britons of blood renowned 
 Who carry our old time prowess to the ocean's outmost 
 bound. 
 
 And hail to you, Mother England, proud mother of stal- 
 wart men, 
 
 As you sprang to front Napoleon, you are grasping the 
 spear again. 
 
 Hark, do you hear our trumpets! as in the past days of pain, 
 
 We march to strike for Freedom, to strike for the whole 
 world's gain. 
 
 Never the English spirit sheathes the reluctant sword, 
 Till the reaping days are ended for the Harvest of the Lord ; 
 Woe to the proud oppressor who follows ambition's lure 
 To the lair of the angry lion, the Lion of Agincourt. 
 
 And shall the God-flaunting Teuton shake in our face his 
 
 gyves, 
 Trample the weaker nations and mangle our babes and 
 
 wives ? 
 
 Roar "Deutschland iiber Alles" to the torch-fed cities glow; 
 In the name of the Great Protector, in the name of Nelson, 
 
 No! 
 
 Lead out, lead out, Brave Mother, for the sake of sacked 
 
 Louvain ! 
 
 Give us our own Smith-Dorrien, yield us the van again! 
 By our pledge to martyred Belgium, in the cause of harried 
 
 France, 
 Sound the unbending onset, let the bugle scream, ADVANCE !
 
 THE BONNET BLUE 
 
 HE day is done, the gloaming hour 
 A For lovers' trysts is near, 
 And she hath left her turret bower 
 
 To meet her cavalier. 
 She is the daughter of the earl 
 
 For whom the counties sue, 
 And he's the grandson of a churl, 
 And wears a bonnet blue. 
 
 Oh, sweeter is the whispered vow 
 
 For what might come between. 
 No likelier youth than he, I trow, 
 
 Was e'er in greenwood seen. 
 No grace than hers is more divine, 
 
 No heart more fond and true; 
 She lets the lordly suitors pine 
 
 To pledge a Bonnet Blue. 
 
 She thinks upon her lofty state 
 
 And drops a pensive tear; 
 She looks upon her lowly mate 
 
 And she is straight in cheer. 
 He holds her in his strong embrace, 
 
 He plights his troth anew; 
 She dreads not donger nor disgrace 
 
 Beside her Bonnet Blue. 
 246
 
 THE BONNET BLUE 247 
 
 Next morn the bower maidens wait 
 
 In vain their mistress' call; 
 The servers stand with cup and plate, 
 
 The vassals throng the hall. 
 But where is she, the proudest born, 
 
 The fairest Scotland knew? 
 She wedded ere the blush of morn 
 
 Her dear loved Bonnet Blue!
 
 SOLDIERS' HOME 
 
 WHAT, Pete Hawes? I'm glad to see you; 
 
 Stand up closer, near the light! 
 Just the match of when I faced you, 
 
 Old Pete Hawes, at Shiloh fight. 
 You come chargin' up with Longstreet, 
 
 I with Wallace kep' the hill; 
 Say, old Reb, my schoolboy crony, 
 
 P'raps that wa'nt a scrumptious mill. 
 
 'Member, Pete, you'd lost your shako? 
 
 How you puffed as on you came! 
 Just as many a time I've seen you 
 
 In some rough an' tumble game. 
 With your face as red's a turkey's, 
 
 An' your hair not dressed to kill; 
 You jumped at me with the bay 'net, 
 
 Didn't you thrust it with a will! 
 
 But I've played at "prisoner's base," boy; 
 
 There I learned a trick or two, 
 And I dodged or that derned bay'net 
 
 Sure as guns had run me through. 
 Gosh! it sot my dander risin', 
 
 An' I grabbed my gunstock tight; 
 If I'd let the daylight through you 
 
 It had served you blamed well right. 
 
 Fur, you mind, you'd stumbled forward, 
 An' before you'd got your feet 
 
 You'd a' been the prettiest corpus 
 That was ever made dog meat; 
 248
 
 SOLDIERS' HOME 249 
 
 Fur I'd draw'd my skewer this way, 
 
 Up an' back to sock it well; 
 All the chance you'd then for livin' 
 
 Could crept in a walnut shell. 
 
 But as quick as lightnin' on me 
 
 Come the thought of childhood days, 
 When we used to fight, play hookey, 
 
 Ride down hill, tell yarns and laze; 
 So I hadn't heart to do it, 
 
 Rammed the butt end in your breast, 
 An' you tumbled down the earthwork; 
 
 Went to bed already dressed. 
 
 Three times up the hill like tigers 
 
 Charge on charge you rebels came, 
 An' we druv' you back as many; 
 
 Our boys' blood was up and game. 
 Thunder, how our Sniders rattled! 
 
 You chaps tumbled by the score; 
 That blow saved your life, my hearty, 
 
 Guess you'd seen the other shore. 
 
 When you rebs got tired of maulin', 
 
 Left us masters of the field, 
 There I found you, Pete, a-lyin' 
 
 Like a Roman on his shield; 
 With three dead men piled on top you, 
 
 T'other one beneath your head; 
 'Twas a cur'ous kind of cover, 
 
 Fine old bolster fur you* bed. 
 
 Then I fished you out, all dazed like, 
 
 Blinkin' awkward with your eyes; 
 Poured you down a horn of brandy, 
 
 Druv' away the pesky flies;
 
 250 SOLDIERS' HOME 
 
 Then I felt three ribs was broken, 
 Didn't mean to hit so rough, 
 
 But when men for life is strikin' 
 They're dead sure to strike enough. 
 
 An' you can't say, Pete, old feller, 
 
 That I didn't treat you square, 
 Though they might a' used you rough like 
 
 In the prison over there; 
 Twice, my boy, I sent terbacker 
 
 By some chaps was goin' back; 
 'T wasn't much, but I was thinkin'd 
 
 Keep your wits from gettin' slack. 
 
 An' I see you live and chipper, 
 
 Like a rooster up at morn; 
 I, you see, was not so lucky, 
 
 Got laid up, was badly worn; 
 And I see you notice, Peter, 
 
 I've three legs in place of two, 
 Them's my stumpers in the corner, 
 
 Ain't they hansum pegs, fur true? 
 
 How'd I lose it? O at Vicksburg, 
 
 Knocked off by a Parrot ball; 
 Then they sent me here, I've been here 
 
 These three years come late in fall; 
 But now sit ye down, old hearty, 
 
 Smoke your pipe and drink your can; 
 I was Blue an' you was Grey, lad, 
 
 But we're both yet solid man. 
 
 Blame them blasted politicians 
 Holdin' up the bloody shirt; 
 
 If they'd not that rag to cling to 
 They'd be in some other dirt;
 
 SOLDIERS' HOME 251 
 
 But for us as seen the service 
 
 We'll remember Shiloh's day; 
 Grab, old pard, your horn of plenty, 
 
 Here's, my boy, the Blue and Grey!
 
 GOOD SAINT VALENTINE 
 
 KIND Cupid, god of tender wiles, 
 Who rules the hearts of men, 
 Great Sovereign lord of tears and smiles 
 
 And of the lyrist's pen, 
 Is my dear love still true to me 
 
 As e'er he was lang-syne? 
 What message from him o'er the sea 
 Brings good Saint Valentine? 
 
 He brought my lover first to me; 
 
 As from my dreams he came; 
 Full-browed with thought supremacy, 
 
 His voice a thrilling flame; 
 And wit that like a rapier flew 
 
 To clip the sparks from mine, 
 While blithe, a day-bright laugh he threw 
 
 To good Saint Valentine. 
 
 A gallant, handsome, fearless, proud, 
 
 As e'er was hawk on wrist, 
 With every manly grace endowed, 
 
 True steel to plighted tryst. 
 He pressed his parting on my lips, 
 
 Then said, his hand in mine, 
 "I'll write, my dear, when come the ships 
 
 Of good Saint Valentine!" 
 
 The ships are past the harbor bar, 
 
 All anchored nigh the quay; 
 Each sail gleams like the happy star 
 
 Of Love's nativity, 
 252
 
 GOOD SAINT VALENTINE 253 
 
 But has my dear one sent his word 
 
 Beneath his signet's sign?- 
 Come tell me tidings, wandering bird, 
 
 Of good Saint Valentine! 
 
 Uncourteous bird ! no message kind 
 
 By page or marinere! 
 There's but the sobbing of the wind 
 
 Along the lonely brere; 
 O where's thy token, blue sea wave, 
 
 To light this care of mine! 
 Oh, sigh not, wind, as from his grave, 
 
 For good Saint Valentine! 
 
 This tree is ours where last we met, 
 
 And carved here on the rind, 
 Within the green moss-livery set, 
 
 Our names stand intertwined; 
 O tree, tell me what wind of love 
 
 Brings thee his whispered sign: 
 I'll carve the dear words here above 
 
 For good Saint Valentine. 
 
 She heard no step across the leaves 
 
 She saw no snow-white plume; 
 She gazed where bound in glittering sheaves 
 
 The sunbeams lanced the gloom, 
 Then started with a sudden shriek: 
 
 He clasped her, "Mistress mine, 
 He's come himself his word to speak 
 
 For good Saint Valentine!"
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER 
 
 THOU hast my secret, I have told 
 All, all, my father, even his name; 
 My love hath made my duty bold; 
 I can for his sake bear thy blame; 
 Here am I, all thy anger prove; 
 
 'Twill root him deeper in my love. 
 
 What though his be no princely race, 
 Must pride then tear two souls apart? 
 
 Lo, worth is stamped upon his face, 
 Nobility is in his heart. 
 
 No knight of all thy halls so free 
 To do proud deeds of chivalry. 
 
 I loathed the high-born butterflies, 
 
 That paid me court with fawning smiles; 
 
 I hated all their varnished lies, 
 
 Despised their mean, transparent wiles, 
 
 He seemed to all that smirking band 
 A prince who held in his bare hand 
 
 More honor than their gilded scrolls, 
 
 More worth than all their leagues of land; 
 
 How trifling seemed their little souls 
 By that high look and bearing grand; 
 
 Might he not scorn their borrowed fame 
 And accident of noble name? 
 254
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER 255 
 
 Thou frown'st I know what thou wouldst say 
 
 I'd lower forsooth thy honored race; 
 Yet our forefathers in their day 
 
 Plucked fame from even as low a place; 
 'Tis worth from which all honor springs; 
 
 Without it, crowns disgrace their Kings! 
 
 How came it that I loved him then? 
 
 I had a heart could match his own; 
 Had he been more like other men 
 
 He might have loved but he alone. 
 Where have the schoolmen writ in books 
 
 That eagles ever mated rooks? 
 
 Threat me with no false, loathed tie 
 
 My spirit ne'er would brook to be 
 The slave of low desires, to die 
 
 Were then my soul's last liberty; 
 Think'st thou this breast a heart doth bear 
 
 Less free-willed than my fathers' were? 
 
 Rememb'rest when, a little maid, 
 
 I pulled some wild-flowers in a wood, 
 
 And of them did a chaplet braid 
 And crowned me in a merry mood, 
 
 You said, "Sweet, here's a wreath more rare," 
 And placed these jewels on my hair. 
 
 And how I cast the gems aside 
 
 And chose my floral crown instead, 
 And how you laughed in easy pride 
 
 And said a shepherd I should wed? 
 I were content to wear even now 
 
 That humbler garland on my brow,
 
 256 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER 
 
 And with its emblems, at thy feet 
 
 Lay state lay all whereto I'm born; 
 
 Ay, would the lowliest fortunes meet 
 Ere I to him would prove forsworn! 
 
 That truly is dishonor's part 
 To lie against a loving heart. 
 
 But yet I know that thou art kind, 
 I know thou art my father still; 
 
 That 'tis the one wish of thy mind 
 Thy daughter's heart with joy to fill ; 
 
 Could'st thou take from her e'en in thought 
 That, without which all else were nought? 
 
 Dear father, is not true love fair? 
 
 Unbend that frown upon thy brow! 
 My father, kind beyond compare, 
 
 Thy daughter's heart is 'gainst thee now! 
 Dost hear? 'tis the warm throb in mine 
 
 Speaking to that proud beat in thine! 
 
 Now thou dost smile! and now I know 
 That thou art all my father still; 
 
 Why do my tell-tale blushes glow? 
 Father, he waiteth on thy will! 
 
 This forward youth, forsooth, would be 
 A sharer in thy bounty free! 
 
 Look forth! What prince hath nobler air? 
 
 Hyperion was not such as he! 
 He sees he bounds the castle stair! 
 
 And now he kneeleth at thy knee! 
 Must we dismiss him? Say you so 
 
 This forward youth ? My father, No/
 
 THE OLD SABRE 
 
 TURN my chair, old comrade, toward the window, 
 Where the sunbeams fall 
 On my old and rusty battered sabre, 
 
 Hanging on the wall; 
 For my failing eyes would look upon it 
 
 Ere I breathe my last; 
 
 How like burnished gold the flaming sunset 
 On its blade is cast! 
 
 For three generations has that sabre 
 
 Waved amidst the fight; 
 Many a blow for Freedom it has stricken 
 
 And for England's right; 
 For my father's father once did wear it 
 
 Through the Flanders War, 
 When the French our soldiers under Marlborough 
 
 Followed long and far. 
 
 It has oft in battle with my father 
 
 To the hilt been dyed ; 
 Twice with him across the broad Atlantic 
 
 Was its temper tried; 
 Up the heights of Ti' it led the stormers; 
 
 Downed the Oriflamme, 
 When with gallant Wolfe it faced the Frenchmen 
 
 Under stout Montcalm. 
 
 257
 
 258 THE OLD SABRE 
 
 Me, too, it has served in many a battle 
 
 On the Indian sands, 
 When from out Mysore black Tippoo Sahib 
 
 Led his cut-throat bands; 
 And on many a field of Spain I've worn it, 
 
 From the days when Moore 
 Marched us into Leon, fondly trusting 
 
 To the Spaniard's lure. 
 
 Yes! I won my stripes as color-sergeant 
 
 On Vimiera's height, 
 When I, wounded, reeled all sick and bloody 
 
 From the desperate fight; 
 How we chased the cowed and beaten Frenchmen 
 
 Through the fields of Spain! 
 Drove them out of Andalusian vineyard 
 
 And Castilian plain! 
 
 And my sword waved victor from the Tagus 
 
 To the Pyrenees; 
 Loud we cheered as forth our colors floated 
 
 To the mountain breeze; 
 How we smashed Soult's scarred and veteran legions, 
 
 Laid his eagles low; 
 My old comrade, Wellesley, king of heroes, 
 
 Led us on the foe! 
 
 But my sabre's crowning hour of triumph 
 
 Was that day in June, 
 When we Guardsmen gathered under Picton 
 
 To the cannon's tune; 
 When we formed across the miry corn-field, 
 
 Mid the trampled rye, 
 And we spied out Boney's hundred banners 
 
 Flaunting to the sky.
 
 THE OLD SABRE 259 
 
 And my old and rusty battered sabre 
 
 As I gripped it fast, 
 Seemed to thrill unto my heart's quick beating 
 
 With its glories past; 
 For the Iron Duke still looked upon us 
 
 And we thought of home, 
 And we vowed we'd be no slaves to Frenchmen 
 
 And the dogs of Rome. 
 
 See that nick upon the edge! 'twas cleft there 
 
 By a cuirassier, 
 As he sideways leaned from out his saddle, 
 
 When in full career; 
 And you see the point is turned and broken, 
 
 'Twas the thrust I sped 
 Through the ribs of a frog-eater did it 
 
 As I stretched him dead ! 
 
 Give me here the grand old sabre, comrade ! 
 
 For my failing hand 
 Would at touch with new life nerve and quicken 
 
 Of my trusty brand; 
 How as light as reed it bent and quivered 
 
 In my sinewy grasp! 
 Hardly now my palsied, trembling ringers, 
 
 Round the hilt I clasp! 
 
 Fades the daylight, and the sunbeams waver, 
 
 And their lustres fall; 
 And the deepening shadows of the twilight 
 
 Chase them from the wall; 
 And my life is slowly ebbing, ebbing, 
 
 And the muffled roll 
 Of a drum is through the dimness beating, 
 
 Summoning my soul.
 
 260 THE OLD SABRE 
 
 'Tis the order of the Great Commander 
 
 Signalling to rest; 
 Mother land, I've loved you well, I'm dying 
 
 On your dear-loved breast! 
 Reach your hand, old comrade, I am going, 
 
 With my long discharge, 
 Where there'll be forever rest from fighting, 
 
 All the ranks at large. 
 
 Take the sabre for my chilling fingers 
 
 Feel the hilt no more; 
 'Tis a memory of pain and struggle, 
 
 May its reign be o'er; 
 But it helped the righteous cause of nations 
 
 As the good God willed; 
 And I trust that he will grant us pardon 
 
 For the blood it spilled. 
 
 When you lay me in the grave, my comrade, 
 
 Under yon gray oak tree, 
 Let my dear and faithful old companion 
 
 Buried be with me; 
 'Tis the only thing that I have left me 
 
 And we ne'er shall part; 
 Lay it, comrade, in the coffin with me, 
 
 Hilt against my heart!
 
 LAMOND 
 
 A LIKELIER lad than Lamond was 
 -*V God wot was never seen ; 
 No lither foot e'er dashed the dew 
 From off the bracken green. 
 
 No surer hand in all Argyle 
 
 Drew bow or wielded brand; 
 In sport or hunt, in dance or song, 
 
 The first in all the land. 
 
 'Twas when the leaves began to fall, 
 With youths some eight or nine, 
 
 It chanced that Lamond chased the deer 
 One day thru far Glenfine. 
 
 Both rough and toilsome grew the way; 
 
 His friends lagged far behind; 
 Yet Lamond on the wounded stag 
 
 Pressed faster than the wind. 
 
 When, lo, a huntsman's shrill halloo 
 
 Broke on his startled ear; 
 Yet dashed he forward on the bent 
 
 Without one care or fear. 
 
 When straight, the stag, a bow-shot length, 
 
 Fell dead, before the lad, 
 And lo, a hunting band drew nigh 
 
 Who wore Macgregor's plaid. 
 261
 
 262 LAMOND 
 
 Out stepped Macgregor's only son, 
 
 A comely boy was he, 
 His foot he planted on the deer, 
 
 Then loud and bold spake he. 
 
 "Come you as friend or come as foe, 
 
 'Tis little reck to me; 
 But come you here to claim this deer, 
 
 Well proved your claim must be." 
 
 Right forward sprang the fearless youth 
 And seized the branching tyne; 
 
 "Stand back!" he cried, "I roused this deer 
 This morn beyond Glenfine! 
 
 "Against your numbers stands my right, 
 
 With this I urge my claim," 
 And from its sheath his good claymore 
 
 Leaped forth like flash of flame. 
 
 "Art then so bold?" Macgregor cried, 
 
 "Stand back my clansmen all, 
 Whoe'er shall now the worthier prove 
 
 To him the deer shall fall!" 
 
 Right short and desperate was the strife 
 
 The fiery youngsters made; 
 For soon his foeman's generous blood 
 
 Flowed forth on Lamond's blade. 
 
 With one exulting cry the youth 
 
 Flung up his sword in air, 
 When round him closed Macgregor's band 
 
 Like bloodhounds round a bear.
 
 LAMOND 263 
 
 But striking down the foremost man 
 
 He cleft the ring in twain; 
 As starts an arrow from the string 
 
 He fled with might and main. 
 
 Yet breathing curses dark and deep 
 
 The clansmen throng his track; 
 The foot of no Macgregor yet 
 
 For deed of blood was slack. 
 
 Thru brake and wood, o'er cliff and hill, 
 
 For life did Lamond strain, 
 And swift as swallow now he skims 
 
 Across the heath-clad plain. 
 
 When straight before his starting eyes 
 
 Macgregor's fastness rose; 
 Now sure the runner seeks his fate! 
 
 Exultant yelled his foes. 
 
 With one low cry and headlong bound 
 
 He burst the foremost door, 
 And, lo, what chance can save him now, 
 
 He stands the chief before! 
 
 "Chieftain, we met, 'twas mortal strife, 
 
 Your son was slain by me; 
 Take now my life, for I have left 
 
 No strength to further flee." 
 
 Black grew Macgregor's swarthy brow, 
 
 Forth flashed his ready dirk, 
 As with an ague, all his frame 
 
 Did with his passion work.
 
 264 LAMOND 
 
 Thrice fell the weapon at his side, 
 
 And thrice it rose in air; 
 Not fiercer on the hunter glares 
 
 A wild-cat from its lair. 
 
 Close drew the tramp of hurrying feet, 
 
 "Enough," he sternly said, 
 "Though vengeance lives, beneath my roof 
 
 No harm shall touch your head." 
 
 Then strode he quickly to the door, 
 "What seek ye, clansmen, here?" 
 
 As hounds that list the huntsman's call, 
 They checked their fierce career. 
 
 "Death to the murderer of your son! 
 
 Make way, my chief, make way!" 
 But with his long and sinewy arm 
 
 He made their boldest stay. 
 
 "Thou'rt mad, my children," cried the chief, 
 
 "Away and search the woodl 
 A hundred kine I give to him 
 
 Who spills the murderer's blood!" 
 
 Like famished wolves around the wold 
 They sought the vanished prey; 
 
 But Lamond 'neath the chieftain's roof 
 Lay safe 'till close of day. 
 
 Then when the moon her lantern hung 
 
 Above the lonely height, 
 Two silent forms moved swiftly forth 
 
 Within the fold of night.
 
 LAMOND 265 
 
 The chieftain strode before, the youth 
 
 Trod light the fearsome shade; 
 E'er as the wind-swept foliage stirred 
 
 His fingers clutched his blade. 
 
 Till with a joyful heart he viewed 
 
 Once more the treeless land; 
 Then as they gained the midmost heath 
 
 The chieftain took his stand. 
 
 His face showed ghastly pale, his voice 
 
 Was hoarse with hate and grief, 
 And his proud, stalwart frame was shook 
 
 As is an aspen leaf. 
 
 "Stout be your arm and true your sword" 
 
 (His brow grew dark and wild), 
 "When in the open next I meet 
 
 The slayer of my child!" 
 
 He turned and pulled his bonnet down; 
 
 His plaid he round him drew; 
 Next instant and the beechwood shade 
 
 Concealed his form from view. 
 
 Years passed, Macgregor aged apace; 
 
 He chased the deer no more; 
 But yet in memory of a wrong 
 
 He wore his broad claymore. 
 
 Till like a flood in harvest-time 
 The northern clans came down; 
 
 They harried all the country-side, 
 And burnt both hall and town.
 
 266 LAMOND 
 
 The aged chief was forced to flee, 
 And, wandering in the wild, 
 
 All sudden in his path he met 
 The slayer of his child.. 
 
 But Lamond dropped his ready blade, 
 
 He broke in sobbing grief; 
 "Long have I mourned my hasty deed, 
 
 Forgive me, generous chief! 
 
 "Come to my home, I do repent 
 What my rash hand hath done. 
 
 Be thou the father I have lost, 
 And I will be thy son!" 
 
 He clasped the old man's wasted hands, 
 He kneeled upon the heath; 
 
 But straight Macgregor backward stept 
 And drew his sword from sheath. 
 
 He raised his arm it faltering fell 
 
 Nor yet the chieftain spoke. 
 His form was shook as thrills a tree 
 
 Beneath the woodsman's stroke. 
 
 His cheek grew pale, a passion tide 
 
 Across his features swept, 
 Then sternness melted from his face, 
 
 He bowed his head and wept. 
 
 He flung the claymore from his hand, 
 "Brave youth," he broken said, 
 
 "Heaven gives me back my son, and takes 
 My foe; revenge is dead!"
 
 HELLO yerself! Well, stranger, 
 What's news with you down East? 
 Will ye have a bite? A hump steak 
 
 Isn't very much of a feast 
 But ye're welcome. I see you've ridden 
 
 A good many mile to-day 
 Jest take off yere hoss's bridle 
 And let the critter stray. 
 
 We don't get much news on the prairie. 
 
 The 'lection is over, ye say? 
 The Repubs thrown out? Well, dang it, 
 
 That crowd have had their day. 
 We've been scouts here on the frontier 
 
 And we've drawed Uncle Samuel's cash 
 Nigh thirty year and mebby 
 
 Seen some notions go to smash. 
 
 All through the war we served, sir; 
 
 Fit for the Union then 
 In Custer's Brigade, for a fighter 
 
 He was the boss o' men! 
 I never took stock in niggers, 
 
 But 'twas fair to give 'em a show; 
 Then we drifted out here on the prairie 
 
 Twenty-five year ago. 
 
 267
 
 268 ON THE FRONTIER 
 
 There was Injuns all about us 
 
 And not a white in the land; 
 All that country dotted with houses 
 
 Was clean as the palm o' yer hand; 
 And me and Hank, my chum here, 
 
 Many a night we've nassed 
 Watch and watch 'ti nornin', 
 
 Thankful our scalps held fast. 
 
 We was down on the Platte just yonder 
 
 Huntin' some buffalo, 
 When we struck a pioneer's wagon, 
 
 Wife and baby in tow; 
 They was young and towny people, 
 
 And we wondered to see 'em there 
 Away on the lonesome prairie, 
 
 Out of Uncle Samuel's care. 
 
 Well, we chinned with the chap and his woman 
 
 And we found 'em smooth as silk; 
 They hadn't even a tan on, 
 
 As white, sir, as new milk; 
 And Hank and me it stumped us 
 
 How such critters got out here; 
 Why folks like them should rough it 
 
 It 'peared outrageous queer. 
 
 But that young chap 'dmired his wifey 
 
 The best I ever seen; 
 For ye see she was slim and pooty 
 
 And ladylike as a queen; 
 And delicate and sweet-natured 
 
 As a blade o' young spring corn, 
 With an eye as clear and pleasant 
 
 As a mountain pool at morn.
 
 ON THE FRONTIER 269 
 
 And the dear little baby girl, sir, 
 
 Jest about two year old 
 Was the cunnin'est, cutest creter, 
 
 With its hair all curly gold. 
 'Twas a toss up which or t'other 
 
 Of that little family nest, 
 The chap or wife or baby, 
 
 Loved either the others best. 
 
 They pitched their claim just yonder 
 
 By the river's wooded bank, 
 And he started to build his shanty 
 
 With the grit of a true-born Yank; 
 And Hank and me took a fancy 
 
 To the chap and give him a hand 
 And helped him raise his log-house 
 
 And root up his patch o' land. 
 
 But no sooner they got to livin' 
 
 In the shebang than he fell sick; 
 Worked too hard for a green hand 
 
 And the fever ketched him quick; 
 But we hung around the country 
 
 And helped the poor little wife; 
 And by and by with care, sir, 
 
 She nursed him back to life. 
 
 And, be jing, if they'd had millions 
 
 They'd a' given it all to us; 
 You'd a' thought we was Kings in exile 
 
 They made on us such a fuss; 
 And when we'd cross the country 
 
 On our way back from the Fort 
 We'd stay at the Yankee's log-house 
 
 With his mail and the last report.
 
 270 ON THE FRONTIER 
 
 'Twos just a year from their comin', 
 
 Hank and me was out for news 
 On the trail o' some restless Injuns, 
 
 Foxes, Cheyennes, and Sioux, 
 When down on us come a-ridin' 
 
 Like mad, barehead, and wild, 
 That Yank chap hollerin' to us, 
 
 "My wife my wife and child! 
 
 "Good God!" he yelled, "the Injuns! 
 
 There there that way's the track!" 
 No time for axin' questions, 
 
 We turned our mustangs back, 
 And the style we streaked that prairie 
 
 I never went afore, 
 Since the day when we chased Morgan 
 
 In Missouri in the War. 
 
 We struck the trail o' their ponies 
 
 Six sets o' hoofs they were, 
 And straight to west they pinted 
 
 Like a line drawn through the air; 
 We chased 'em down to dark, sir, 
 
 And all the followin* day, 
 Till we saw their camp-smoke curlin' 
 
 Far through the evenin' grey. 
 
 We hitched our nags to some bushes 
 
 And waited for day to pass ; 
 Then armed with our guns we started 
 
 To crawl through the prairie grass; 
 Till eatin' there by the fire 
 
 Was six Injuns big and tall, 
 And the Yank's wife was sittin' near 'em 
 
 With her baby wrapped in a shawl.
 
 ON THE FRONTIER 271 
 
 Jiggers! it raised my dander 
 
 To see them Injuns feed, 
 And nary a bite to the woman 
 
 Though she looked in the worst o' need; 
 But the young Yank's face was a pictur, 
 
 And his two eyes flashed like flame, 
 And I knowed we would count to the letter 
 
 He would kill or die there game. 
 
 We each one singled an Injun 
 
 And let go like one man; 
 We dropped three dead, and the others 
 
 They give one yelp and ran; 
 And next moment, tremblin', faintin', 
 
 But safe from the Injuns' harms, 
 The wife with her baby tumbled 
 
 Kerflop in the young chap's arms. 
 
 And what a huggin' and kissin' 
 
 Went on for a little while! 
 You'd a' hurd them smacks he give her 
 
 Well on to half-a-mile. 
 They laughed and cried like time, sir, 
 
 And Hank he blowed his nose, 
 And I felt all kind o' crawly 
 
 Way down to the ends o' me toes. 
 
 Well, they'd had 'bout 'nough o' the frontier, 
 
 Ye can bet yer dimes on that! 
 They moved East, but we've hurd from 'em often 
 
 Out here on the river Platte; 
 And that chap was as slick a feller 
 
 As I'll ever see or hear, 
 For many's the pound o' pigtail 
 
 He sent us these twenty year.
 
 272 ON THE FRONTIER 
 
 And if ever ye come acrost him 
 
 Ye may, perhaps, ye see, 
 Jest mention we're live and chipper, 
 
 My old chum here and me. 
 Don't I know ye? Never sized ye 
 
 Afore did you ever, Hank? 
 Why, bless my stars and garters 
 
 If it isn't the little Yank!
 
 DEVON AND DRAKE 
 
 HO, Pelicans, tip the flagon * 
 Here's to Devon's old renown! 
 May we have such ale to brag on 
 
 When land luck has run us down. 
 Now here, and to-morrow the ocean, 
 
 To follow the Spaniards' wake 
 And to breathe a life of motion 
 In the Spanish Main with Drake! 
 
 Ay, lads, all men are civil 
 
 To the Kings of the open sea, 
 For we fear nor saint nor devil 
 
 And we spend our ducats free. 
 All cheer the bold freebooter, 
 
 When they see his topsails shake, 
 For silver is cheap as pewter 
 
 In the Spanish Main with Drake. 
 
 Last cruise by tempests pounded 
 
 We scudded the nor'east breeze, 
 With joyous hearts we rounded 
 
 Cape Horn to the southern seas; 
 We upset Sancho's scheming, 
 
 How he would for harbor make 
 When he saw the Red-Cross streaming 
 
 In the Spanish Main with Drake! 
 
 * The name of Drake's vessel was the "Pelican." 
 
 273
 
 274 DEVON AND DRAKE 
 
 We made short work of the slaver, 
 
 He gave us an offing wide; 
 We asked of man no favor, 
 
 For Heaven was on our side; 
 Of all sea-rovers the vanward, 
 
 We threw for a splendid stake 
 When we sailed the track of the Spaniard 
 
 In the Spanish Main with Drake. 
 
 We scuttled their barques and traders, 
 
 And their galleons plundered too; 
 Like heartiest sea-crusaders 
 
 On the monsoon's wings we flew; 
 From Lima to Portobello 
 
 We kept the Dons awake; 
 A hero was every fellow 
 
 In the Spanish Main with Drake! 
 
 We ravaged their rich plantations 
 
 And ransacked their convents' gold; 
 To their Popish lamentations 
 
 We were deaf, like Britons bold; 
 But our hearts were warm and human 
 
 For our wives' and sweethearts' sake, 
 And we harmed no child or woman 
 
 In the Spanish Main with Drake. 
 
 The spawn of the Inquisition, 
 
 Who had wrought through two worlds harm, 
 We gave a high commission 
 
 'Twas the end of our long yard-arm! 
 We flung their bones to the raven 
 
 And the shark, for acquaintance sake, 
 And burned their blood-stained haven 
 
 In the Spanish Main with Drake.
 
 DEVON AND DRAKE 275 
 
 We brought an Infanta's dower 
 
 A present to good Queen Bess; 
 Our captain won fame and power 
 
 And was knighted for our success; 
 We've feasted at home in Devon 
 
 On the best they brew and bake 
 But here's to a breezy heaven 
 
 In the Spanish Main with Drake! 
 
 Let the Jesuit snarl in rancor 
 
 Let him loose his hounds of Spain; 
 We will lift with Drake the anchor 
 
 We will spread our sails again! 
 Let them look to their Lisbon and Cadiz 
 
 As we'll down their sea-coasts rake, 
 St. George's God to aid us 
 
 In the Spanish Main with Drake! 
 
 The Pope may send forth letters 
 
 And Philip his war ships too, 
 But our limbs for Castile fetters 
 
 Are too stout and our hearts too true! 
 Let them flourish and make bravada 
 
 And threaten our pride to break, 
 But we'll stand to their huge Armada 
 
 When Devon's afloat with Drake.
 
 MARY JANE 
 
 OF all the maids in Brooklyn City 
 There's none to match my Mary Jane; 
 She is so pretty, sweet, and witty 
 
 She fills my heart with loving pain; 
 Whene'er I see her in the arey 
 
 A-polishing a window-pane, 
 She looks just like a story fairy, 
 My dainty, white-armed Mary Jane. 
 
 She's chamber-maid at number seven, 
 
 Her master is an overseer, 
 And I sell meat at number 'leven 
 
 The butcher-shop of Rufus Grier, 
 I cuts the steaks for man and missus 
 
 And many a flattering smile I gain; 
 I wish them smiles were turned to kisses 
 
 And came to me with Mary Jane. 
 
 When she goes out to take her airing 
 
 On some fine Thursday afternoon, 
 Her pretty fixings all a-wearing, 
 
 She's fairer than the silver moon; 
 There is no lady in the street here 
 
 That sweeps along in satin train, 
 Who's rigged more stylish and complete! 
 
 Than sweet and lovely Mary Jane. 
 276
 
 MARY JANE 277 
 
 I took her to a ball last winter, 
 
 'Twas given by the B. P. U's;* 
 She broke the fellers' hearts to splinter 
 
 A-tippin' on them pinks o' shoes; 
 Them shoes they'd done for Cinderella! 
 
 Her dress was only blue delaine; 
 But blest if there was half so swell a 
 
 Miss there as my Mary Jane. 
 
 The dearest wish I've for the future, 
 
 When I can stock me up in beef, 
 'S t' turn an independent butcher 
 
 And Mary Jane make Mrs. Keefe; 
 Though storms may come and cloudy weather, 
 
 We'll nothing of the storms complain; 
 We too will make sunshine together, 
 
 Me and my sweetheart, Mary Jane. 
 * Butchers' Protective Union.
 
 BLIND MILTON 
 (Loquitur) 
 
 I HAVE lived late and come on evil days; 
 Some lewd-tongued revellers even now crost my door 
 With brawl and uproar and the sottish crew 
 Jeered as they passed my blindness; were it not 
 For memory of what this land has been, 
 What it has borne thru suffering for the truth, 
 The uncontaminate, burning hearts that mourn, 
 Indignant, pitying her uncrowned state, 
 Hope with me had departed and my darkness 
 Were night indeed; but that pure Spirit Eterne, 
 Whose Voice is heard in silence, and whose Word 
 Is full of the promises of Him whose arm 
 Upholds the heavens, sustains me. 
 
 I have seen 
 
 Frothing the measure of this yeasty time 
 Rash, licensed spirits, stuffed with vanity, 
 Dregs of spume faction and adulterous birth, 
 Pestilent, rapacious, unabashed, 
 With venal function and blood-guilty lust 
 Fouling high place; and masquered, mumbling Faith 
 With greedy palms outstretched, impious in prayer, 
 With fulsome lips agape or with haught brow 
 Trampling the elect of God beneath her feet, 
 Bawd to the subtle harlot, crowned and throned 
 Upon the Seven Hills; her pander, State, 
 Holding his swinish revel, satyr-eyed, 
 
 278
 
 BLIND MILTON 279 
 
 Insensate, swol'n with pride; the honored seats 
 
 Of God-enfranchised men trafficked and. sold 
 
 To buy the smiles of wantons, and the throne 
 
 Of the great Edwards, Henries, made the pawn 
 
 Of mockers, rakes and masquers, and debased 
 
 To foreign thralldom, w r hile a courtesan 
 
 Plays Juno to the giggot rule of him, 
 
 The spawn of that late tyrant who betrayed 
 
 Our commonwealth, and would have broken down 
 
 Our liberties, had not the Highest raised 
 
 Men like to Joshua and Gideon who 
 
 Fired the indignant hearts of humble men 
 
 To rise and overthrow him, and so sealed 
 
 The charter of our freedom with his blood. 
 
 How has our greatness fallen ! the foul block 
 Dripping with blood of martyrs ; the honored bones 
 Of those whose names still thunder round the earth, 
 Hurled from their graves, grappled in gibbet irons, 
 Bared to the sneering and unholy gaze 
 Of sycophants and mummers, while the Dutch, 
 Who shrank to cover when our trumpets blew, 
 Insult us in our shores, and the French court 
 Lampoons our infamy, and the Triple Crown 
 Recovers, threatening all the Saints of God, 
 While rufflers, duelists and gamesters crowd 
 The honored of our land into their graves. 
 
 But this is in God's hand ; as David purged 
 
 His spirit, so this land will cast aside 
 
 The grave-clothes of her sin, and rise again
 
 280 BLIND MILTON 
 
 A mightier nation than this world has seen, 
 A beacon to the ages; 
 
 I foresee, 
 
 In that fair land beyond the western surge 
 New Hampdens, Cromwells, leading forth a race 
 English in speech to empire, bearing the rampt 
 Lion of English valor at the fore, 
 And spreading witness of His Holy name 
 Who bends the heavens, portents comets and shakes 
 The stars out of their spheres; rilling the void 
 Of virgin forests, leveling the hills, 
 Bridging the mightiest rivers, making bloom 
 The desert, city studded, till a new 
 England of mightier presence than the old 
 Shall rise across the ocean, queen-like, fair 
 As Venus Amphitrite, with throned bows 
 Majestic, wreathed with vine-leaves and full corn, 
 Her rippling tresses clustered ; in her hand 
 Sheep-hook for sceptre, her star-shimmered robe, 
 With fragrant cestus girdled ; in her eyes 
 The morning of the young Democracy, 
 Whose leaven working thru the world unseen 
 Shall permeate the castes, and overthrow 
 Privilege and the pomp and power of kings ; 
 Voicing its claim within Tradition's halls, 
 Echoing with din of war and prelate strife 
 And footfalls of receding centuries. 
 
 Oh, England, oh, my mother, in that time 
 
 Bear thyself well! for 'gainst thy strength shall crowd 
 
 Envy, distrust, and malice; with the seed 
 
 Of Freedom grow the tares of sensual sloth 
 
 And self-sufficiency; the prosperous years 
 
 Enervate, and the vigor of thy arm
 
 BLIND MILTON 281 
 
 Which steered the world may slacken ; not for long, 
 If I may read aright the pristine worth 
 Of spirit which endures, and greatly tried 
 Shines forth the brighter for the stormy wrack, 
 Leaving thee still serene, the pride of earth, 
 The patron heir of time; 
 
 Prithee lead in; 
 
 The night grows chill, and wide invisible wings 
 Of contemplation tent above my thought 
 Calmed from the outer world. My heart is stirred 
 Strangely, and on my lifted spirit grows 
 The theme of that great argument I told 
 Thee yester-night of. I give thanks to him 
 Who while He took the sense of sight hath left 
 The inner vision, spared the varied lore 
 I drew in youth from many a storied fount 
 Of ancient inspiration; calmed my soul 
 That I unmoved within this evil time 
 May trust His promise for that ampler day.
 
 DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 
 
 [The defence of the Long Saut, as told in the pages of Park- 
 man, is one of the most spirited episodes in the history of New 
 France. For thirteen days the Sieur Dollard of Doulac, with six- 
 teen devoted companions of the garrison of Montreal and five 
 Algonquin braves, defended the renowned Pass against the whole 
 armed power of the Iroquois Nation, and though all were even- 
 tually slain, their defence so disheartened the savages that they 
 gave up all hope of driving the French from Canada.] 
 
 THE Iroquois with wasting torch and cruel butchering 
 hand, 
 East, West and North resistless sweep across New France's 
 
 land ; 
 Along Ontario's northern shore they range with none to 
 
 check, 
 
 And muster bands around Champlain to threat the young 
 Quebec. 
 
 Each hour some hut or hamlet flames the foe strike every- 
 where ; 
 
 The lumberer in the woods is slain while swings his axe in 
 air. 
 
 From every savage girdle hangs some pledge of ghastly 
 strife, 
 
 Torn reeking from the quivering flesh beneath the scalping 
 knife. 
 
 Now, who would live out length of days nor court a tor- 
 tured death, 
 
 Must hasten to the palisades by stealth with bated breath; 
 
 282
 
 DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 283 
 
 The venturous couriers du bois all still and watchful go; 
 The winter wild cats are less fierce than this blood-famished 
 foe. 
 
 The Hurons from their villages like deer are hunted forth, 
 And hide within the trackless wilds that fringe the frozen 
 
 North ; 
 
 The Melicites to Tadousac the awesome tidings tell, 
 Where every shrieking blast forebodes the Mohawk's mur- 
 der yell. 
 
 But to the fort at Montreal have crossed the champing sea, 
 From Mother France a chosen band of youthful chivalry; 
 And he, the proud young commandant with high-born, peer- 
 less port, 
 Is Dollard, Sieur of old Doulac, the star of Louis' Court. 
 
 'Tis Dollard speaks to Maisonneuve, the governor of New 
 France, 
 
 While flashes round the council hall his proud and burning 
 glance, 
 
 ''Had I one score of willing hearts to hold the narrow Saut, 
 
 These prowling wolves of Iroquois would soon their mas- 
 ters know. 
 
 "Now, who will dare to stake his life upon a desperate 
 
 chance ? 
 Who'll earn with me a deathless name who'll win renown 
 
 for France? 
 
 Or will ye slink and cower still within your fortress wall, 
 While on your desolated fields in flames your roof-trees fall ? 
 
 "What, would ye send the tidings home that by a savage foe 
 The royal Lilies are besmirched and torn and trampled low;
 
 284 DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 
 
 The stock of Bayard and Navarre, of Conde and Dunois, 
 Quail like a pack of well-whipped hounds before these Iro- 
 quois ! 
 
 "Speak, fellow-soldiers, comrades, friends who now will 
 go with me 
 
 To drive the painted devils hence, come death or victory? 
 
 In name of King and Christ's dear faith, let whoso will ad- 
 vance, 
 
 And draw his blade to strike for fame, for Dollard, and for 
 France." 
 
 An instant's pause then sixteen youths spring forth with 
 
 martial glee; 
 Out flash their swords, at once they cry, "To death we'll 
 
 follow thee!" 
 They snatch the gun and corselet down, they seize the pike 
 
 and lance, 
 Then throng the shore their muster cheer, "For Dollard 
 
 and for France!" 
 
 Forth leap the light canoes they breast St. Lawrence swift 
 
 and wide, 
 
 To where the stately Ottawa rolls down her wine dark tide ; 
 Yet still they stem the rushing stream, their paddles sweep 
 
 the flow, 
 Until they win the rugged rocks that hem the famed Long 
 
 Saut. 
 
 They land within the pass's jaws their lonely camp is made 
 
 Beside the bastion's rough-hewn wall, a loop-holed palisade; 
 
 There, lined along the swarthy cliffs that bind the frothing 
 sea, 
 
 This band of New World Spartans hold their new Ther- 
 mopylae.
 
 DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 285 
 
 "Ho, yon canoes hold surely friends! 'Tis they our red 
 
 allies!" 
 Right joyous ring the welcome shouts that round the camp 
 
 fires rise. 
 
 "Annahotaha, fighting chief, with forty Huron braves 
 Now come, you cursed Iroquois come now and find your 
 
 graves ! 
 
 "Ay, here stands France !" As hunters watch the mountain 
 
 streams for game, 
 They scan the rock-strewn, foaming pass, athirst for war 
 
 and fame; 
 Yet, true Crusaders, night and morn to Christ they bend the 
 
 knee 
 Beneath the oriflamme of God, the peerless Fleur-de-Lis. 
 
 "Arm! arm! they come! now strike for France! the foe 
 
 are fair in view; 
 The Iroquois, a thousand strong, shooting the rapids 
 
 through !" 
 
 Hurrah! the muskets volley death! a thousand yells reply; 
 A leap a splash three first canoes upturned go drifting by ! 
 
 "Vive, vive La France!" the paddles swerve the redskins 
 
 leap to land; 
 Their scalp-locks tossing in the wind, their tomahawks in 
 
 hand ; 
 Like wolves around a lone battue to shore the Oneidas 
 
 crowd ; 
 They come, the bloodhounds of the Lakes, the Mohawks 
 
 fierce and proud. 
 
 In plumed and painted panoply the glade the warriors 
 throng ; 
 
 Each scalping-knife hangs glittering keen within its deer- 
 skin thong;
 
 286 DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 
 
 Beside each quiver sheathed with quills a hickory bow is 
 
 borne, 
 And round each waist the wampum belt with leathern fringe 
 
 is worn. 
 
 They rush in vain! the dauntless band repel the fierce at- 
 tack, 
 
 And many an eagle plume goes down in dust and bloody 
 wrack ; 
 
 While storms from out the palisade to greet each fresh 
 advance 
 
 The Frenchman's stern defiant cheer, "For Dollard and 
 for France!" 
 
 Five days of stealthy, bold assault the stubborn French have 
 stood, 
 
 'Til all the trampled sward is now besmirched with savage 
 blood ; 
 
 No sleep by night, no peace by day, the worn-out band 
 have won, 
 
 For hourly rings the piercing whoop and cracks the an- 
 swering gun. 
 
 Five days! the Hurons, man by man, desert the leaguered 
 walls ; 
 
 Their haughty chief alone remains, for naught his soul 
 appals ; 
 
 With only four Algonquin braves, who to him constant 
 stand, 
 
 He fights beside the roaring Saut for France and Father- 
 land! 
 
 But yet, high o'er the closing din the yell and crackling 
 round, 
 
 Bursts forth the war-cry of the French with hoarse, de- 
 fiant sound;
 
 DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 287 
 
 And still the Lilies flaunt the sky still, as the foe advance 
 The muskets rattle to the cheer, "For Dollard and for 
 France!" 
 
 Eight long days more! and yet around the fire-scathed pali- 
 sade, 
 
 The baffled, vengeful redmen throng the encircling forest- 
 shade ; 
 
 Eight hundred more of Iroquois adown the Richelieu 
 sweep ; 
 
 Now, gallants, look your last on earth now must your loved 
 ones weep ! 
 
 Pile high the blazing birch canoes against the timbers 
 
 brown 
 Make one more rush, you Iroquois, for half your foes are 
 
 down ! 
 While sore with wounds and spent with toil, and dazed for 
 
 want of sleep, 
 How worn the few survivors now who still the barriers 
 
 keep! 
 
 Oh, Blessed Mary! but how weak has grown their stalwart 
 
 cheer, 
 As round that slope of blazing logs the boldest foes draw 
 
 near; 
 But far above the strife of death the banner streams on 
 
 high, 
 And while it waves, you Iroquois, some Frenchman lives 
 
 to die! 
 
 Ay, by the Rood! as 'tween the logs the Mohawks rend 
 
 their way, 
 There stand that stubborn handful yet, like hunted stags, 
 
 at bay;
 
 288 DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 
 
 "One cheer, my lads La Nouvelle France! one cheer for 
 
 Ville Marie! 
 Then die like Frenchmen to the last, for die you must 
 
 with me!" 
 
 'Tis Bollard's voice he dashes forth he hurls a hand- 
 grenade ; 
 
 Too weak too weak the cast it bursts within the pali- 
 sade! 
 
 Ah, God! it scatters ruin and death! midst blinding flash 
 and roar, 
 
 Fast through the charred and gaping wall the furious red- 
 skins pour. 
 
 Stand stoutly still, you desperate few, God's rest is large 
 
 for all; 
 Now close with pistol, pike and sword, and round your 
 
 Lilies fall! 
 Spent, wounded, hopeless, overborne, front still the swarthy 
 
 ring 
 Where thirsty knives and tomahawks a thousand foemen 
 
 swing 
 
 Ay, staunchly round your banner close! all sternly back 
 
 to back, 
 They meet with sword the tomahawk, the knife with pistol 
 
 crack ; 
 Still o'er the black and blinding smoke the pale blue Lilies 
 
 dance, 
 While fainter, hoarser grows the cheer, "For Dollard and 
 
 for France!" 
 
 And still the tufted braves go down, as falls the plumed 
 
 maize 
 Beneath the sturdy peasant's scythe across the furrowed 
 
 ways;
 
 DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 289 
 
 'Til maddened at their frightful loss, the whooping, crowd- 
 ing foe 
 
 One close and deadly volley pour and lay the Frenchmen 
 low. 
 
 No one stands yet the sword-hilt dropped from out his 
 
 nerveless hand; 
 'Tis Dollard, of the snow-white plume, bold brow and 
 
 lightning brand ; 
 He leans against the banner-staff, he lifts a last fond 
 
 glance 
 Then falls with one death-throttled shout, "For Dollard 
 
 and for France!" 
 
 And o'er that smoking holocaust the peace of God comes 
 down ; 
 
 But why is raised no victor shout? why spreads that sullen 
 frown ? 
 
 Lo! heaped within yon blackened pyre, and strewed the san- 
 guine plain, 
 
 The whole Six Nations view dismayed their best and bravest 
 slain ! 
 
 This night, ye nuns of Montreal, resume your ways of peace, 
 
 And you, ye watchers at Quebec, take now from fear re- 
 lease ; 
 
 For ne'er was ampler, prouder deed, since Clovis lifted 
 lance, 
 
 Than that which hath been wrought to-day by these few 
 sons of France! 
 
 And pause in time, you Iroquois, and count your hundreds 
 
 slain, 
 Ere you in closing strife would cross the Frenchmen's path 
 
 again ;
 
 290 DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 
 
 How many, think ye, of your braves, will hunt the fields of 
 blue, 
 
 If every soldier of New France dies like these twenty- 
 two?
 
 GORING'S RIDE 
 
 ONE bumper, our sweethearts! then up and away! 
 For there's hot work to do ere the close of the day; 
 The train-bands of Essex are out in full force, 
 And Cromwell's black troopers are mustered to horse. 
 All round, the King's health! for morn's breaking light, 
 Now up, boot and saddle! away for the fight! 
 
 What's here? A despatch! the North's up in arms! 
 They swarm out like bees at the sound of alarms! 
 Rupert's over the Humber like hawk on the wing, 
 And Lunsford and Astley have joined with the King; 
 Each turnpike from Scotland to stout Oxford town 
 Is clatt'ring to horse-hoofs fast galloping down! 
 
 Unfurl the old flag! It has flown for the Right 
 At Edge Hill, and many a tough, bloody fight; 
 Who'd exchange its old tears and its dingy blood-stains 
 For the gayest new silk the King's army retains! 
 And though tarnished its lustre still proudly it waves 
 As we dash sword in hand at the psalm-singing knaves! 
 
 Open line, you in front! thrust a torch in yon pane! 
 Give the churl a house-warming in high Spanish vein! 
 Let the jade go, you sirs! Close up the rear ranks! 
 You Roger and William out on the flanks! 
 Noll's pets are abroad it were best to take care 
 Or we'll stumble full tilt on their pikes unaware. 
 
 Eustace, ride on ahead! we are nearing the plain; 
 Keep a sharp look around! gag that ribald refrain! 
 
 291
 
 292 COKING'S RIDE 
 
 Look to primings, my men ! pass the word through the troop ! 
 And see that each carbine hangs right of the croup 
 The churls if we're careless may play us a trick, 
 And they'll follow Noll's nose as the fiends follow Nick. 
 
 Boy, whom see you there? by St. Denis of France 
 
 The sight of a Roundhead's like prick of a lance! 
 
 What make you their colors? you rogue, look again! 
 
 Pray God it be Ludlow's or Ireton's men! 
 
 Left wheel! Line advance! Steady! Give your nags 
 
 breath, 
 These foxes don't run that we hunt to the death. 
 
 Now fellow, your trumpet! a good rousing blast! 
 Pikes to front! Ready? DRAW! We have them at last! 
 Three cheers for the Church ! for the King ! for the Cause ! 
 Now down with all traitors, and up with the laws! 
 No quarter, my lads ! Cleave the Knaves to the gorge ! 
 Charge, Cavaliers, CHARGE! Now for God and St. George!
 
 LADY MAUD 
 
 WAKE, Lady Maud! the stars grow dim, the morn in 
 heaven is high, 
 
 And I beneath thy lattice wait, sweetheart, to bid good-bye ; 
 My carbine's slung my baldric fro', at side my sword is 
 
 pressed, 
 Thy scarf doth deck my saddle bow, thy glove swings on my 
 
 crest. 
 Wake, maiden, wake! the day-god's shafts o'er-slant the 
 
 upland sod, 
 While I beneath thy lattice wait, my dream-bound Lady 
 
 Maud. 
 
 Wake, mistress mine! the time grows short, I must with 
 
 speed away, 
 
 For Rupert's reckless cavaliers will brook no long delay; 
 The clarion call rings shrilly out, the silken flag floats free, 
 I hear the tramp and muster shout, the brandished swords 
 
 I see; 
 My champing charger paws the ground, he scents the war 
 
 abroad, 
 Yet I beneath thy lattice wait, my fair-haired Lady Maud. 
 
 Wake, lady, wake! this well may be thy gallant's last fare- 
 well, 
 
 For o'er the stiff-necked Commons' arms doth Victory clang 
 her bell; 
 
 From point to hilt my burnished blade deep red shall soon 
 be dyed, 
 
 293
 
 294 LADY MAUD 
 
 For Rupert oath this day has made to humble Cromwell's 
 
 pride. 
 He vows the crop-eared, canting rout shall kiss this day the 
 
 rod; 
 Rise, rise! and look thy lattice forth, my bright-faced Lady 
 
 Maud! 
 
 Up, up! my fair one, 'tis no time to dream of song and 
 
 dance, 
 Thy lover now must stride a horse, and handle sword and 
 
 lance ; 
 
 Nor now in sport thy sandal fan thy doting gallant strikes, 
 He seeks the sword-play in the van, he braves the rush of 
 
 pikes ; 
 Ope, dear one ! ope those eyes of blue that all the world doth 
 
 laud, 
 And shine two victories down the morn, my peerless Lady 
 
 Maud! 
 
 Our standard floats on Naseby heath wide o'er the king's 
 array, 
 
 And I and every loyal blade must meet him there this day, 
 
 And by Saint George! will they and I now ride the victor's 
 course, 
 
 Or, piled a rampart round him lie, o'erthrown by Crom- 
 well's horse. 
 
 One kiss the last! and then farewell, and put thy trust in 
 God, 
 
 If ne'er on earth, we'll meet in Heaven, sweetheart, my 
 Lady Maud!
 
 SONNETS
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 SONNET, Child of Petrarch and the Lyric Muse, thou wert born 
 in the days of Chivalry and Romance, and all thy earlier youth 
 was touched by love. Angelo, the Immortal, found for thee a 
 deeper note, and the magnificent Lorenzo gave thee added grace. 
 Next, Surrey and Wyatt, twins of English rhyme, rescued thee 
 from the neglect of Fame, and nourished thee on English ground. 
 "The gentle Spenser loved thee," and the high-born Sidney was 
 thy servitor. 
 
 But thy crowning glory was to be the guest of Shakespeare, the 
 Prince of Song. He took from thee thy Italian mantle and decked 
 thee in his own royal robes. No man shall henceforth do thee 
 ampler honor. Under the hand of the mighty Milton thou ob- 
 tained an organ tone thy note of Reverence and Prayer. But 
 the degenerate children of English Song abjured thee or gave but 
 grudging habitation, until Wordsworth, Priest of Nature, ushered 
 thee into his calm and stately cloisters. There thy plastic soul 
 took on fresh harmonies and delights; new aspirations, fair hopes, 
 sweet consolations and confidings. In thy turn thou becamest a 
 teacher of men; and henceforth thou must remain the favored heir 
 of the English Muse. 
 
 It behooves not to tell of all the illustrious masters who have 
 taken thee to their hearts. The Old World still loves thy ordered 
 walk, and the New has opened wide its doors and enriched thee. 
 To each hast thou spoken in a different key, for thy nature is 
 variant as the flowers of mountain and field, of garden and forest. 
 Thee, dwelling in the strict bonds of rhyme, I love best of all the 
 Children of Song, for, if thou demandest much, thy favors are 
 bountiful to them who worthily seek thee. 
 
 But for them not of the true Brotherhood, wilt thou dig a pit- 
 fall and cover the pretender and the careless wooer with shame. 
 Therefore, O Sonnet, may my feet tread reverently in thy service, 
 and in the name of these Masters be all this my cherishing of 
 thee so shalt thou obtain the larger honor and I perchance a 
 favor more sweet. For my offering I bespeak the good-will of all 
 true votaries of the Muse, and of all others who worship and love 
 her but have been holden from bringing gifts to her shrine. In 
 their hands I leave thee, beloved Sonnet, my companion and the 
 solace of my heart! 
 
 C. L. B.
 
 OUT OF THE DARKNESS 
 
 I HAVE seen Freedom nailed upon the cross; 
 I have seen Truth outraged, and in that lie 
 A nation damned, another nation die ; 
 A world at strife, stricken with bitter loss. 
 Faith's counters in a game of pitch and toss, 
 And ruthless Rapine with her hue and cry 
 Urging the dogs of war, whose victims lie 
 Strewing the scarp and heaping high the fosse. 
 
 And with a deep despair for this fair world 
 I gazed upon the blood-reek and the smoke, 
 Till from my lips a quivering protest broke 
 
 At all that waste of fair things, broken and hurled 
 Into the jaws of Moloch, and the tears 
 Not to be stanched or wiped away in years. 
 
 ii 
 
 Yet midst that ruin and carnage I have seen 
 Honor, a falcon, rise and breast the gale; 
 And Fortitude expand her daring sail; 
 
 And Love, the evangel, gliding in between 
 
 The serried ranks; and Charity, in sheen 
 Of service white, bidding the wounded hail, 
 Clutching the hands of women, driven and pale, 
 
 And children, fearful-eyed, unmirthed and lean. 
 
 297
 
 298 SONNETS 
 
 And out of all this hell, this furnace flame 
 Of warring nations, I have marked thee rise, 
 
 My Mother England, girt in shining mail, 
 Thy Spenser's armed queen, and in the name 
 Of thy great past look in the demon eyes 
 
 Of Hate and make the dreadful Gorgon quail. 
 
 ill 
 
 'Twas his design, queen Mother of five free 
 
 And stalwart nations ; from whose loins have sprung 
 Sons of proud pith, by mightiest minstrels sung; 
 
 Thee to whom Earth brings tribute, and the Sea 
 
 Fences with thy Viking liberty, 
 
 It was his hope, the overweening Teuton, stung 
 With envy plunderer since his horde was young 
 
 To rape the Hesperian apples from thy tree. 
 
 Thou island Britomart, thy courage swells, 
 
 Thy prowess strengthens as the test draws near. 
 
 Upon thy breast the cross of service dwells; 
 What foe can make my Mother England fear? 
 
 Not he, the Outlaw, with his leash of hells; 
 With murder in his heart and on his spear.
 
 SONNETS 299 
 
 BRITAIN AND HER COLONIES 
 
 THRONED on the sunset marge of the oM world, 
 
 She sits in state, by all the new surveyed; 
 
 The broad Atlantic at her feet is laid, 
 O'er which she hath so oft her thunders hurled. 
 O'er continents of virgin land unfurled, 
 
 Far floats the Red Cross of her new crusade, 
 
 The genius of her language, law and trade, 
 Supreme where'er an ocean wave is curled! 
 She reigns not conqueror only ! o'er the main 
 
 Speed forth her milder servitors of renown, 
 Law, Justice, Freedom, and Commercial Faith; 
 
 Unlike the misruled, aliened wards of Spain, 
 Her proud young statelings, all untouched by scathe, 
 
 Are bound through love to her redoubted crown! 
 
 ENGLAND AND THE ARMADA 
 
 A CRESCENT moon in mists of steel-gray hue 
 
 Presaging dire disaster, o'er the main 
 
 Rode the impending puissance of Spain, 
 The Invincible Armada! Rumor flew 
 With thousand tongues before it; awestruck drew 
 
 Their breaths the bodeful nations; "England, vain," 
 
 They cried, "to face proud Parma's hand of bane; 
 Behold Sidonia's squadrons on the blue!" 
 
 Rash doubters ! throned upon her island steep 
 She raised her dreadful trident; round her swarmed 
 
 Her sea-dogs marked their quarry; o'er the deep 
 Her warlike trumpet pealed, her shout upstormed 
 
 "A Drake! a Raleigh!" where the blue waves sweep 
 Round all her shores her dauntless spirit warmed!
 
 300 SONNETS 
 
 BELGIUM 
 
 THE mandat&of a haughty empire rang, 
 
 "Be them my roadway !" To the o'erweening foe 
 
 Belgium from all her ramparts thundered, "No!" 
 And soon across her fields the bullets sang. 
 On your devotion, Liege, the issues hang 
 Of Europe's fate! before your walls are low 
 Forth to the front the Gallic legions flow, 
 And England rouses to your cannon's clang. 
 
 Small among nations, stout and high of heart; 
 
 Nor last upon the honored scroll of fame. 
 Even Caesar feared your prowess; Charles the Bold 
 Respected you alone; the Spaniards' art 
 
 And arms were shriveled on your battle flame, 
 And still your ancient war-shield you uphold. 
 
 JAPAN 
 
 THE war clouds lower, are riven and high in air 
 Burns the far portent of the Rising Sun; 
 Late promise of an empire long begun, 
 
 Japan, whom Fate hath pledged, Japan the Fair! 
 
 The lotus wreath still clinging to her hair, 
 Yet in her hand the sword and smoking gun, 
 While from her feet the western wolves have run, 
 
 And from his prey crawls off the crippled Bear. 
 
 The Orient queen, flower-robed and crowned with arts- 
 Nippon, the nurse of chivalry and dreams, 
 
 Yet dread in battle. From his roadstead starts 
 Togo the Watcher, while his banner streams 
 
 Defiance. When those thunders die away 
 
 Where are his foes? Answer, ye waves at play!
 
 SONNETS 301 
 
 MONTENEGRO 
 
 THE thunders of five stormy centuries broke 
 Full on thy mountain! Frank and Ottomite 
 Brested in vain that black, redoubted height; 
 
 Vainly they strove to bend thee to their yoke. 
 
 Down those ravines, steaming with musket smoke, 
 Thy cliff-reared heroes drove their hosts in flight, 
 While that stern Amurath, the Christian's blight, 
 
 Fled headlong from their swift avenging stroke. 
 
 Still, Tsernagora, stand and front the world 
 
 As when, wide-rolled, the Moslem breakers swept 
 Around thy rock of refuge; Freedom there 
 Still keeps her ancient Slavic flag unfurled 
 
 Thy deeds unfold thy passion; still are kept 
 Faith unto death and hearts that all things dare. 
 
 SWITZERLAND 
 
 AMIDST the sharp-clawed European kites, 
 
 Eager to flesh their ruthless beaks with prey, 
 And watchful where to strike and when to slay, 
 
 This brood of falcons, nested on the heights, 
 
 Nursed their staunch wings of freedom; days and nights 
 For centuries they faced their foes yes, they 
 Have held their cloud-wrapped eyrie to this day, 
 
 Inviolate, bounded by their ancient rights. 
 
 The homes of Switzers! built too firm and free 
 And near to Heaven to brook the rule of kings, 
 
 Though kings were emperors; let the invader be 
 Howe'er so mighty, forth to oppose him springs 
 
 The hardy patriot, and each rock and tree 
 Becomes an altar whereto Freedom clings!
 
 302 SONNETS 
 
 HOLLAND 
 
 RESCUED, half-drowned, from surly Neptune's hold, 
 Whose white-maned steeds, still foiled, incessant leap 
 Athwart the bulwarks of thy sunken keep, 
 
 With smouldering hearts, although thy skies be cold; 
 
 Mother of crafts, with trading manifold, 
 Yet dread to war with as in Caesar's day, 
 Holland, no grind of traffic scours away 
 
 The gravings of thy struggle stern and bold. 
 
 For those are records, wrought within thy soul, 
 Freedom's eternal dower! The Spaniard saw 
 Thee, waif of nations, to thy succor draw 
 
 The foe that wasted thee yet kept thee free; 
 
 Than brook his rule above thy homes might roll 
 
 The desolating chariots of the sea! 
 
 A WARNING TO THE KAISER 
 
 AY, nurse thy pride and vaunt thee of thy state, 
 O purple-robed Belshazzar! pour the wine 
 And pledge thy fortune ! let the cressets shine ! 
 
 Behold thy walls and watchmen mock at fate! 
 
 Do not thy guards in proof around thee wait? 
 Where, coward, fails thy majesty divine? 
 What! thy soothsayers cannot read the sign? 
 
 Thou'rt wanting lo, the Mede is at thy gate! 
 
 Freedom, for every pang thy votaries feel 
 Thy retribution grows ! thy way is long 
 
 And thou far patient, but thy hand of steel 
 When once 'tis closed about the throat of wrong 
 No power can loosen; Tyranny is strong, 
 
 But thou wilt break him on his own red wheel!
 
 SONNETS 303 
 
 THE LIGHTED LIBERTY 
 
 (Viewed from Brooklyn Bridge) 
 
 ABOVE the glow-worm glimmering of the town, 
 
 Beneath Heaven's dusky vault all spangled wide, 
 
 The spider-latticed cables curve beside 
 The spectral pillars to the Bridge's crown. 
 'Midst the night-folded stillness looking down, 
 
 Where huge, mysterious, dim-drawn phantoms glide 
 
 Like shadow towers that swim the darkened tide 
 Of some fantastic dream of old renown 
 
 I stand and gaze where, an embattled star, 
 Dwarfing the ruddy sparks on shore and sea, 
 
 One pure and constant beacon gleams afar, 
 The flame that led us, cheered us, kept us free; 
 
 Our lamp in peace, our fiery guide in war; 
 The outflung torch of august Liberty! 
 
 THE HALF-CENTURY REUNION AT 
 GETTYSBURG 
 
 HERE rolled the iron tempest up the height, 
 And here fell soldiers thick as new-mown hay; 
 Three days the smoke of thundering battle lay 
 
 Along these ridges ; each succeeding night 
 
 Fresh heaps of slaughtered forms appalled the sight 
 Of torchmen on their rounds; till drew away 
 The Southron ; then the uncrowded face of day 
 
 Stared at the dreadful trophies of the fight. 
 
 Here Reynolds fell ; there Armitage went down, 
 With Pickett charging 'neath the thunder pall. 
 'Twas fifty years ago; the old renown 
 
 Stands regnant. Peace her trophies brings to all 
 Those sons surviving ; mark the olive crown 
 
 For laurel, brothers of the bugle call!
 
 304 SONNETS 
 
 EVENING AT CITY POINT, JAMES RIVER, 
 1890 
 
 Ho,w peaceful is the scene! the unshrouded moon 
 Casts benediction o'er the daylight's grave. 
 Scarce doth a vesper breathe, a ripple lave; 
 
 Earth in her green, voluptuous garb of June, 
 
 Faint o'er the verges of the wide lagoon, 
 Exhales the breath of flowers; the azure wave 
 Lies bright and steadfast as a crystal pave, 
 
 Yea, even men's souls seem with this rest in tune. 
 
 Yet here, too, passion raged; here once the roar 
 Of mortars stunned the drowsy ear of night; 
 
 Thundered the battery screamed the hurtling shell; 
 
 Here smoke and havoc blackened wide the shore; 
 This deep floor shook beneath the shock of fight, 
 
 And men were demons, this fair calm a hell! 
 
 CHARLOTTE CORDAY 
 
 THAT gentle, dark-haired maiden can it be 
 Hounded with curses by the wolfish throng 
 Of libertine Paris? What hath been her wrong? 
 
 The Judith with her blood-bathed dagger see! 
 
 Oh, how her eyes burn deep with ecstasy! 
 
 "For love of France" ! Why bind the cruel thong 
 About her tender wrists? Your hands are strong; 
 
 Have pity Heaven's pure sacrifice is she! 
 
 Ah, friends, how young and beautiful ! Love's part 
 In her flames on life's altar; innocent-wise 
 
 And proudly-sweet she stands; as on the cart 
 
 She rolls to death she lifts her dawn-bright eyes 
 And views with welcoming the kind Sunrise 
 
 That comes to shrine her in its deathless heart!
 
 SONNETS 305 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ONLY to name thee is to bring thy spell ! 
 
 And when I drain the intoxicating bowl 
 
 Of thy rapt passion, lo, that sweet control 
 Makes free my heart and burdens it as well. 
 At times thy voice breathes Orpheus' plaintive shell; 
 
 At times Jove's thunder, echoing pole to pole; 
 
 Again thou dost Apollo's lyre control, 
 Or Pan's sweet pipe, or Mars' stern trumpet swell. 
 
 In thee all life grows regnant ; thy proud range 
 Of passion runs its gamut forth to God. 
 
 Thine is a world of beauty's constant change, 
 Sunrise and sunset, star and flowering sod. 
 
 Yet with dim vistas terrible and strange, 
 
 Into whose depths no one but thou hast trod! 
 
 LINCOLN 
 
 FOUR square he stood and on all sides a man. 
 The dust of party strife has fallen away 
 And shaped this figure 'gainst the light of day, 
 
 Built on the rugged, broad Cromwellian plan. 
 
 Throughout the state his pregnant message ran, 
 "For, with and by the People" and that ray 
 Of counsel o'er our destinies holds sway, 
 
 An earth to Heaven irradiating span. 
 
 He loved, toiled, fought and conquered ; all the while 
 The brother murder madness bowed him down. 
 His mirth saturnine eased the iron crown 
 
 Of public service; with no plaint or guile 
 
 He faced the age, filled wide with his renown ; 
 
 And foiled blind hate with calmness and a smile.
 
 306 SONNETS 
 
 ALFRED AND CHARLEMAGNE 
 
 TWIN stars of that long twilight! England, thine, 
 One, and thine, France, the other; History 
 Records no ampler names; and we who see 
 
 Statecraft with glittering hook and flimsy line 
 
 And specious bait of protestations fine 
 
 Catching its gudgeons, and the sweaty crowd 
 Trafficked and trampled by Wealth evil-browed, 
 
 Might well for such stout, simple rule repine. 
 
 Oh, English Alfred, wert thou living now, 
 
 How would they vex at times thy steadfast mind, 
 
 These Danes of politicians ! How thy brow, 
 Truthteller, oft would darken! by the blind, 
 
 Corrupt, and vaunting ring-rule of to-day, 
 
 How grandly stands thy strong, old, earnest sway ! 
 
 CROMWELL 
 
 Ay, call him a usurper what you will 
 But, tyrant, never! for no vengeful frown 
 Clouded the brow of the imperial clown; 
 
 Who, erring oft, in malice wrought no ill. 
 
 His hand was hard, yet England loved him still, 
 So like his bride he held her; while Renown 
 Gave him her blood-sprent amaranthine crown, 
 
 And Prescience did with might his councils fill. 
 
 Nations revered or feared him; pale alarm, 
 Stretched from the cloister to the Papal throne; 
 The oceans then were England's and his own ; 
 
 France, Holland, Spain, and Algiers felt his arm ; 
 Broadcast by every wind his fame was blown ; 
 
 And Freedom, Fate, dwelt in that dreadful charm!
 
 SONNETS 307 
 
 ABDUL HAMID, THE "SHADOW OF GOD" 
 
 I SEE in the seraglio's secret hold 
 
 A venomed wretch, alone, in guarded state, 
 While sexless murderers his caprices wait, 
 
 Their service bought with blows and blood-stained gold ; 
 
 And thru the casement lattice come, deep-rolled, 
 Mutterings and curses, until urged by hate 
 The groundswell of sedition floods his gate; 
 
 The Giaours' armed hand grows daily bold. 
 
 The ghosts of martyred Christians haunt his sleep; 
 
 The black assassin thru his nightmare strays; 
 He hears the women scream, the children weep; 
 
 The Crescent dewed with gore appals his gaze; 
 "Allah is Great! the Shepherd loves his sheep!" 
 
 For him Hell yawns and all her pits upblaze! 
 
 GARIBALDI 
 
 THE child-sweet southern spirit! how it shone 
 In thee, blithe player of war's desperate game! 
 O'er Piedmont's venturous shield her sword became 
 
 In thy swift hand a meteor, flashed a dawn, 
 
 A herald streak of noontide! Thou art gone 
 From earth, but thy unmatched heroic name 
 Is zenith star i thy fair country's fame, 
 
 The topmost jewel round her forehead drawn. 
 
 Freedom's bold knight she her resistless art 
 Taught thee, her lion will; opposing odds 
 But swelled thy triumph; like an antique god's 
 
 Thy soul unstintedly played out its part ; 
 No more, Italia, bow to Europe's rods, 
 
 His name upon thy lips, within thy heart!
 
 308 SONNETS 
 
 SALVINI 
 
 I SAW him once he was that tortured Moor 
 
 Whom Shakespeare limned with his earth-startling pen ; 
 An awe-inspiring figure to one's ken, 
 
 Whose suffering scarce could lengthen and endure. 
 
 Maddened and bending to lago's lure, 
 Yet noble thru his frenzy; of all men 
 Most thwarted and despairing; greatest when 
 
 He made the vain heart-breaking murder sure. 
 
 Sublime concept that can so shake the soul 
 With mimic thunder that the grave has stilled. 
 
 Even now those rhythmic imprecations roll 
 Thru memory till the heart of mind is chilled. 
 
 Art has no ampler triumph that takes toll 
 Of feeling where no sense can shape or build. 
 
 OTHELLO 
 
 ALAS, for love unwise that loves too well! 
 
 She was the queen of thy most loyal heart; 
 
 Dark Intrigue on thy trusting spirit fell, 
 
 And Jealousy thrust deep her poisoned dart. 
 
 Honor and Pride were throned midst thy desires. 
 
 Honor and Pride both lost their sovereignty; 
 
 Upon their altars flamed Revenge's fires; 
 
 Fate to the Furies turned thy destiny. 
 
 The greatness of thy Faith was made its loss; 
 
 The merit of thy Love was found its blame ; 
 
 Foul Murder bore a sacrificial cross; 
 
 Rash Retribution stood in Justice' name; 
 
 These broke thy heart, thou could'st not choose but die, 
 
 Too great for life with Crime for life's ally.
 
 SONNETS 309 
 
 IRVING 
 
 I SAW him last as Shylock time had then 
 Mellowed his art and furnished the sublime 
 To round his action; 'twas his later prime, 
 
 The most impressive presence among men. 
 
 As in a herd of deer a stag of ten 
 
 He towered above his fellows; after time 
 Never may see again such wondrous climb 
 
 Toward the ideal in the craftsman's ken. 
 
 Shylock has passed with him save in thy page, 
 O Shakespeare! he has vanished from our view. 
 
 That father love, that avarice, pride and rage, 
 That hate and cunning, no one may renew; 
 
 He was not all of genius, but a mage 
 
 So potent, doubting were not wise nor true. 
 
 BOOTH 
 
 THE poetry of action claimed its king; 
 The realm of rhythm knew its overlord; 
 He was the Dane his foot upon the board 
 
 Fell with the tread of fate, his soul a-swing 
 
 'Twixt doubt and certainty ; Revenge's wing 
 Sweeping him on and yet to qualms restored ; 
 Irresolute to the last; then with his sword 
 
 Cutting the snarl of Circumstanced string. 
 
 The impress of that scene is with me still; 
 
 The dim-lit chamber and the mother's tears ; 
 The ghostly figure, towering and chill; 
 
 The prince's courage shining thru his fears; 
 The grace of movement, the upsoaring will, 
 
 Abide and strengthen thru the passing years.
 
 3io SONNETS 
 
 ON READING THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 BENVENUTO CELLINI 
 
 WITH swagger and with cloak about him caught, 
 Here view the vain, vindictive Florentine; 
 Clothed with an artist spirit proud and keen, 
 
 Which through a rapt and fiery passion wrought 
 
 Works of undying beauty, and so bought 
 
 The world's allegiance ; bringing from that scene 
 Of struggle purity out of ways unclean, 
 
 That spirit of art for whose uplift he fought. 
 
 Cellini, thy no less immortal book 
 
 Lays like a scalpel bare the form of man, 
 
 That inner frame, the soul. Through all thy time, 
 Bloody and turbulent, thou didst not brook 
 
 One faltering of thy hand, while thou didst plan 
 Thy life-work flowering to its princely prime. 
 
 JOHN HENRY BONER 
 
 I KNEW him well, the gentle pensive soul 
 Death had untimely marked; and in his eye 
 The pathos of the doomed that to the sky 
 
 Lifts a long hope disease may not control. 
 
 Unto the warm, bright South his heart was whole; 
 Far from the whispering pines that wooed his sigh, 
 He trod life's fettered round, nor made reply 
 
 To the rude fevered strife that claimed its dole. 
 
 He passed beyond my ken, yet left behind 
 The lingering memory cadence of his voice, 
 
 And of his verse, so passion souled and kind. 
 Alas, the first is soundless, though the choice 
 
 Gift of his song survives, and in my mind 
 
 And heart it echoes, "mourn not but rejoice."
 
 SONNETS 311 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LORDS 
 
 AY, let them go! too long they've held at bay 
 
 Hedged in by precedent the people's right. 
 
 Once they were bold to quell a tyrant's might; 
 They stood a mail-clad rampart in their day 
 'Gainst foreign thraldom; those have passed away 
 
 Like stars that vanish in the dawning light. 
 
 Now outworn rule and old observance trite 
 With cankering blight and poison shadow sway 
 
 Over the realm of England o'er the height 
 Of Time's new mason-work those branches gray, 
 
 Moss-grown, decrepit, weave a creaking night 
 Of old obstructions ; rise, let in the ray 
 
 Young heart of English Freedom ! deep then bite 
 Thine axe, Democracy! to the trunk's base lay 
 
 And clear the sapless dotage from your sight! 
 
 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 GAUNT, rueful knight, on raw-boned, shambling hack, 
 Thy battered morion, shield and rusty spear 
 Jog ever down the road in strange career, 
 
 Both tears and laughter following on thy track; 
 
 Stout Sancho hard behind, whose leathern back 
 Is curved in clownish sufferance; mutual cheer 
 The quest beguiling, as, devoid of fear, 
 
 Thou spurrest to rid the world of rogues, alack! 
 
 Despite fantastic creed and addled pate, 
 
 Of awkward arms and weight of creaking steel, 
 
 Nobility is thine; the high estate 
 
 That arms knights-errant for all human weal. 
 
 How rare, La Mancha, grow such souls of late; 
 Dear foiled enthusiast, teach our hearts to feel !
 
 312 SONNETS 
 
 TO THE MOON-FLOWER 
 
 PALE climbing disk, who dost lone vigil keep 
 
 When all the flower-heads droop in drowsy swoon ; 
 When lily bells fold to the zephyr's tune, 
 
 And wearied bees are lapped in sugared sleep; 
 
 What secret hope is thine? What purpose deep? 
 Art thou enamoured of the siren moon 
 That thus thy white face from the god of noon 
 
 Thou coverest, while his chariot rounds the steep? 
 
 Poor, frail Endymion! know her lustre fine 
 
 Is .but the cold, reflected majesty 
 That clothes the great sun's regent borrowed shine 
 
 Of Him who yields restricted ministry, 
 Thy bright creator; he did ne'er design 
 
 The proud, false queen should fealty claim of thee ! 
 
 THE CONDOR 
 
 HIGH above clouds and mountains, through thin air 
 
 Prone on his waving vans he rushing flies; 
 
 The great dread corsair admiral of the skies, 
 For prey and plunder ravening everywhere. 
 The sun doth not so pitilessly stare 
 
 As those red eye-balls glare with fierce surmise ; 
 
 He stoops, but only to obtain a prize, 
 The struggling victim that his talons bear. 
 
 Heroic strength and lawless majesty 
 
 Dowering a ruthless vulture! born to slay, 
 
 And rob the peaceful flocks of their increase; 
 
 He shrinks at naught, untamed as he is free. 
 He holds his stern and unremorseful way, 
 
 And screams defiant protest against Peace!
 
 SONNETS 313 
 
 HONOR AND FAME 
 
 HONOR, the virgin knight, bright vigil keeps; 
 
 May Heaven assoil him and prevent him blame! 
 
 While Fame, the pander, rides in Honor's name, 
 In Honor's mail and his fair guerdon reaps. 
 Honor upon his arms securely sleeps, 
 
 While midnight phantoms shake the soul of Fame. 
 
 Honor's clear saintly eyes are void of shame; 
 Fame his misdeeds now vaunteth and now weeps. 
 
 These ever cross each other in the field, 
 Supposed allies; yet Honor holds in scorn 
 The boaster, Fame, and when he winds his horn 
 
 Fame shrinks beneath his gaudy, glistering shield. 
 For Honor's titles stand secure and broad, 
 And on his breast he wears the cross of God. 
 
 LOVE AND TRUTH 
 
 LOVE'S rosy robe is wrought with Truth's design, 
 
 And Truth's white brows by Love are garlanded; 
 
 Blindfolded Love by clear-eyed Truth is led, 
 And Truth austere smiles oft on Love benign. 
 While Love stands strong Truth doth not fret nor pine; 
 
 While Truth holds firm Love fears no path to tread, 
 
 But wears the amaranth on his royal head, 
 And his fair hands bear clusters of the vine. 
 These are the twain that ever walk the earth 
 
 With offerings rich and greetings manifold; 
 These the proud sponsors for the sons of Worth 
 
 Who curb the traitor, Self, cruel and cold; 
 Yea, without them no gracious thing hath birth; 
 
 And Heaven by their high counsels is controlled.
 
 3H SONNETS 
 
 WISDOM AND KNOWLEDGE 
 
 KNOWLEDGE the Proud sits oft in Wisdom's seat, 
 
 With robe and sceptre, crown and orb of power ; 
 
 While Wisdom wanders lone thru sun and shower 
 With few to grant her shelter or to eat. 
 Yet to proved souls is Wisdom Paraclete; 
 
 Her heart is pure, her mind blooms like a flower; 
 
 And quietly she waiteth for that hour 
 When she shall reign with Knowledge at her feet. 
 
 Wisdom hath light within; few recognize 
 
 Whence comes that smile, the sweetener of pain ; 
 
 Or how the yearning of those patient eyes 
 Works all unseen like fertilizing rain; 
 
 Knowledge is moon-bright, hosts her rule obey, 
 
 But Wisdom turns the world and leads the day. 
 
 PEACE 
 
 PEACE what is peace? Not this to dwell secure, 
 A moth upon the downy edge of time, 
 Wasting in careless ease life's summer prime, 
 
 While others fight the battle and endure. 
 
 Ah, no! this is the selfish devil's lure, 
 
 A pinchbeck peace that hath no ringing chime; 
 Peace knows no earthly price, no age or clime, 
 
 But comes unasked to upright hearts and pure. 
 
 No! war is the world's province stress and strife 
 And strenuous toil that never quits the field 
 
 'Till Death reaps in his harvest; 'tis in pain 
 
 That Progress brings her offspring into life; 
 Peace hath no quality that earth doth yield 
 
 It comes from God and goes to God again.
 
 SONNETS 315 
 
 FORTITUDE 
 
 THAT is not failure, rightly understood, 
 
 Though lacking furtherance, when we've wrought 
 our best; 
 
 If we have put our manhood to the test 
 Nor found it wanting; if we, unsubdued, 
 Suffer defeat, we have but taken food 
 
 And water to our souls; shall be twice blest; 
 
 Stronger in heart, not shrunken in the breast, 
 Stamping Faith's signet on the hardening mood. 
 
 Thus did Coligny, still defeated, rise 
 
 Proudly unconquered ; thus did Alfred crown 
 
 Constancy with success; thwarted likewise 
 Columbus reached the summit of renown ; 
 
 Thus Washington opposed the troops of George, 
 
 Undaunted, midst the snows of Valley Forge. 
 
 THE UNSEEN WORLD 
 
 THE spirits of the dead are with us still; 
 
 Part of our being, instinct to our life, 
 
 Familiars light and dark; all space is rife 
 With influences that mould our plastic will, 
 Unseen yet felt, unknown yet guessed at, till 
 
 Death plucks away the mask of flesh, or strife 
 
 Of soul wears out the body as a knife 
 Frets thru its sheath then feels a naked thrill. 
 
 For nature wars within us with a sense 
 
 Mysterious, conjoined, yet not of her, 
 Subduing yet subdued ; but when the tense 
 
 Bond of their union slackens, then the whirr 
 Of the soul's wings is heard, our essence soars 
 Transfigured, lighted from the eternal shores.
 
 316 SONNETS 
 
 HUMANITAS 
 
 THOUGH faith in heaven be gone, not so in man ; 
 
 Nor is God wanting, though we know him not. 
 
 If our primeval visions be forgot, 
 We still weave dreams though on a saner plan. 
 If once again we turn to reverence Pan, 
 
 Love none the less has angels, and I wot, 
 
 That should this life be all our bound and lot, 
 Hearts still will yearn as erst when faith began. 
 
 Hearts will o'erflow with larger, sweeter thought; 
 
 Hands will unclose and close in brotherhood; 
 Blood will not flow for naught or worse than naught; 
 
 Man will know man and life be understood; 
 Religion's chain of orient pearls be brought 
 
 To wreathe the shrine of Nature's holyrood. 
 
 PERSONALITY 
 
 I AM not what I seem, nor any two 
 
 See me alike or as myself I see; 
 
 Nor does myself with my own self agree, 
 But e'er in counterfeit myself I view; 
 Ay, even to myself I stand untrue; 
 
 Some see a ghost and think that ghost is me; 
 
 And when they turn a searchlight on I flee 
 Into that self whence all my shadows grew. 
 
 For Nature doth in me exhaust her arts 
 
 And weave her mysteries beyond human ken ; 
 
 For my true self is made of many parts; 
 In some one part I touch my fellowmen; 
 
 Yet I, unknown, unknowing other hearts, 
 Am but the dream life varies o'er again.
 
 SONNETS 317 
 
 DUTY 
 
 I HAVE pledged life, not for itself alone, 
 
 Nor for the happiness or renown it brings, 
 
 Nor wealth, nor power, nor beauty, nor the wings 
 
 Of enterprise, nor gay-browed Pleasure's tone. 
 
 I have pledged life that ere my span be flown 
 I might be known as one who earnest sings 
 Of faith and love, of high and noble things, 
 
 Unto the youth the coming age shall own. 
 
 Yet I am little better than a voice 
 
 Heard daily in the market-place whom men 
 List idly and turn upon their way again; 
 
 But on my spirit there is laid this choice 
 Of service; let me do my duty then 
 
 And let me in my duty's path rejoice. 
 
 SCIENCE 
 
 I SAW the spangled curtain of the night 
 
 Drawn backward by the radiant hand of day, 
 Till like to streams of molten silver lay 
 
 The water courses; soon wide grew the light 
 
 Across the misty valleys; bathed each height 
 And hoary mountain in its kindling ray, 
 And gave o'er wakened earth a newer sway 
 
 To life, a new enfranchisement to sight. 
 
 So Science, not with miscalled wings of lead, 
 Nor harpy-like, confounding but with plumes 
 
 All lustred with the rays of morning's prime, 
 
 Dawns a benignant goddess; on her head 
 
 The amaranth of new faith and knowledge blooms; 
 
 And through her soul and vision wake sublime.
 
 3 i8 SONNETS 
 
 THE TIDE OF TIME 
 
 BORN out of earthquake and the tempest's night 
 I saw a mighty wave; and tossed like straw, 
 Swam on its crest the drift of years; its maw 
 
 Crowns, coronets, mitres, swords, gulped down from sight; 
 
 And momently, from that long scarf of white 
 A roaring came as of voices, and great awe 
 Fell on me, and I heard a cry, "Old law 
 
 Is dead, is dead! We live in the new light!" 
 
 Still onward surged the wave, until the sky 
 
 Rent suddenly, and Heaven's prismic bow was cast 
 Across the waters; the contention vast 
 
 Stood hushed, all still the swollen flood did lie; 
 I heard a trumpet voice, that cried, "At last!" 
 
 And lo, a dove with green palm branch swept by. 
 
 DEATH 
 
 DREAD foe to life, thou bearer of the seal 
 Of mystery and fate, I argue nought 
 Against thee nor repine that Joy and Thought 
 
 Must reach thee in the round of Fortune's wheel; 
 
 For thy domain brings rest; to thy dread steel 
 
 Are dragged Time's favors; prince and priest are brought 
 To the one role with knave and drudge and wrought 
 
 Into the framework of the common-weal. 
 
 Yet Genius arms against thee ceaseless toils 
 The free, unquenchable spirit of the Lamp; 
 
 Revives the fainting and the dead assoils; 
 
 Even where thy banners surge, thy legions tramp, 
 
 Art, life's proud Avatar, thy purpose foils, 
 
 While Love, the evangel, braves thee in thy camp.
 
 SONNETS 319 
 
 THE CLOSING WALLS 
 
 FEW live the truth, in fortune few are free, 
 And fewer still in spirit. We but wear 
 The cap and badge of worldly, servile care, 
 
 And catch faint glimpse of higher destiny. 
 
 God help us! what we would we may not be; 
 
 Our hearts, like opening flowers were pure and fair; 
 Now lords are we of spirits starved and bare, 
 
 We live no wiser for the ills we see. 
 
 Oh, deadly blight of soul! the world doth gain 
 Upon us daily, and sweet Nature's voice 
 
 Is heard no more or faintly; we but strain 
 To play the role of petty Caesars; choice 
 
 Is ever leagued with interest, and we sneer 
 
 Across the grave of what our youth held dear. 
 
 LIFE'S VOYAGE 
 
 FATE drives me forth upon an unknown sea 
 
 Ever I view the shoals that round me lie. 
 Fond youth, adieu! Come, manhood, strong and free, 
 
 Courage and purpose are the oars I ply. 
 
 My sunny morning dreams, I pass them by; 
 All gray the noon-tide clouds that hem me round; 
 
 I hear afar the curlew's woeful cry, 
 What care I if my boat is staunch and sound. 
 Better to sink, than in sad soul profound 
 
 To drive my bark amidst embaying cares; 
 Better the tempest and the gaping wound 
 
 Than stranded log-like on the world's affairs; 
 Spread sail, and fly the banner from the truck 
 The voyage is on, bold heart, now try your luck!
 
 320 SONNETS 
 
 THE RETURN 
 
 ONCE more the green turf bends beneath my feet ; 
 
 The brooding silence of the woods sifts down 
 
 Across my spirit; gone the dusty town, 
 The noise and fretful fever of the street. 
 Here spreads the balm of Nature, soothful, sweet; 
 
 No Timon's curse comes here, no Caesar's frown ; 
 
 Breaks not the clangorous strife of sword or gown; 
 Only the soft breeze and the birds' "weet, weet!" 
 
 I throw aside life's sombre cloak of care; 
 
 Good-bye, Convention ! Hope renew thy theme ! 
 Take, Mother, back thy world-worn, wayward child; 
 The soul grows rhythmic in this charmed air. 
 
 The floweret's zest is mine, the woodland's dream, 
 And with all life again I'm reconciled! 
 
 GRAND MANAN 
 
 A HUGE, black fort of Neptune, 'gainst the sky 
 It heaves its bastion through cold Fundy's pall, 
 Scoured by a million winters ; round it brawl 
 
 The hoarse-tongued breakers; there long-trailing fly 
 
 The West-wind's rainy streamers; there untie 
 
 Their hair the storm's shrill maenads; down its wall 
 The lightning's jagged javelins carve and scrawl 
 
 Jove's words as on the gust they thunder by. 
 
 The gull screams wheeling o'er it round it dives 
 
 The deep, dark-green abyss; when days are fair 
 The dingy fisher skiffs their lines unreel 
 Close to the base; but woe to him who drives 
 Blind on in storm ; there hope hath no appeal 
 The monster's sides stand steep as man's despair!
 
 SONNETS 321 
 
 THE WATER LILY 
 
 GEMMING the bosom of thy mother lake, 
 
 Swayed to and fro through morning's zephyr hours, 
 Or ripple-rocked to sleep as evening lowers, 
 
 Folded until the sun's bright javelins shake 
 
 Grey riot to heart of darkness thou dost break, 
 Wooing all hearts that haunt thy reedy bowers, 
 Light as blown foam, the Nereid of the flowers, 
 
 And virgin-pure for thine own beauty's sake. 
 
 Pale lovely blossoms! as my rowboat slides 
 Among your level targes floating green, 
 
 Spreading a wind-swept carpet o'er the waves, 
 
 Upon my sense your fragrant whiteness glides 
 With ravishment; are ye the souls all clean 
 
 Of fair frail girls who sleep in watery graves? 
 
 II 
 
 No, we are Daylight's children we are born 
 From out the ooze where lurks the water-snake, 
 And where the perch and minnow harbor make, 
 
 White as the blest of Resurrection Morn. 
 
 When from our watery cradles we are torn 
 
 We droop with grief in sweet complaining break, 
 And fading die; we, vestals of the lake, 
 
 Give praise to Him who doth our forms adorn. 
 
 We envy no one's wealth; we dwell alone, 
 Unthought of by our sisters of the plain; 
 Ever we in our peaceful passion lie, 
 Stars of the light-time, gazing up the sky 
 As long as Day's fond glance is on us thrown 
 Then sleeping, dream that he will come again!
 
 322 SONNETS 
 
 SPRING MORNING 
 
 ROUGH hearted Winter yields his realm to Spring, 
 His diamond crown and ermine stained in flight. 
 Lo, Spring hath ta'en the valleys! With delight 
 
 She winds her echoing horn; on home-bound wing 
 
 The truant birds flock to her welcoming; 
 
 O'er earth her emerald cloak, embroidered bright, 
 She flings; she doth the tongue-tied brooks invite 
 
 To gossip while the early zephyrs sing. 
 
 Now red-cheeked Morn in saffron vest, a-field, 
 Trips down the hills and wakes the drowsy swains; 
 The Earth hath washed her morning face with rains; 
 The Buttercup her golden chalice rears 
 To dews; the Daisy 's gold-bossed, silver shield 
 Gleams gaily, buttressed by a sheaf of spears! 
 
 SUMMER NIGHT IN THE COUNTRY 
 
 THERE is a veiled quiet in this night; 
 
 A few faint stars peer through the curtain dun, 
 Nor hath the stately moon usurped the sun, 
 
 Who to the under world transfers his right. 
 
 The drowsy shadows thicken o'er my sight 
 
 Blotting the landscape out; the dark close-spun, 
 Drips dews unseen, and now clear chiming run 
 
 The pebbled brooks from yon fir-crested height. 
 
 The winds lie dead asleep upon the wold, 
 
 Tired with their wandering. Hist! one tinkling bell 
 From a nigh pasture breaks the rhythmed spell 
 
 Then leaves the stillness deeper; a vapor rolled 
 From off the mountain like a ghost doth glide 
 Athwart the darkness there is nought beside!
 
 SONNETS 323 
 
 THE BATHER* 
 
 IN musing mood, listless and happy eyed, 
 She sits upon the green bank of a stream, 
 Wrapped in a veiled sun's summer woodland dream, 
 
 While round her feet start windflowers purple-pied, 
 
 And many a wilding shrub springs free beside 
 
 Her sweet nude limbs, which in the sunlight gleam 
 With maiden majesty, as they might seem 
 
 Those of a forest nymph, half-deified. 
 
 O friend, in her the creature of thy hand, 
 I view the poet painter's loving task, 
 That nothing doth of lust or traffic ask, 
 And only speaks to brethren of the Band, 
 The few who feel and, feeling, understand, 
 And view the burning soul behind the mask. 
 
 SUMMER NOON 
 
 A NOONTIDE languor melts into the air; 
 
 The brook beneath my feet is keeping tune 
 
 Unto the lazy breezes' dreamy rune; 
 The thrifty bees are humming everywhere; 
 The blackbird whistles blithe and debonair; 
 
 Around me is the varied, vivid June 
 
 Of opulent Summer with her pleasant croon, 
 Bathing the lea side with its mellow glare. 
 
 Away, dull care join soul in Nature's mirth! 
 
 The favor of this pulsing morn is thine. 
 See all the fallows drest in gala trim! 
 Down such a mead Silenus with his girth 
 
 Of vine leaves passed, his visage stained with wine, 
 While flower-crowned maidens trolled the Bacchic hymn. 
 
 * To Warren Davis on his gift of the picture to the author.
 
 324 SONNETS 
 
 TO A FRIEND 
 
 DEAR friend, long distant, oft my thought to you 
 
 Looks forth as mariner to the Northern Star; 
 For you have stedfast shining, comrade true, 
 
 That night but brightens, distance cannot mar. 
 And I have faith, what griefs to leeward lie, 
 
 Or head-winds take aback my steady sail, 
 Or calumny o'er-cloud the smiling sky, 
 
 Your cheer, accord, and favor will not fail. 
 True fellowship hath a touch most wondrous fine, 
 
 A voice that strikes no dull material ear, 
 A gaze that draws the soul; no pinchbeck shine, 
 
 No counterfeit custom, passes current here; 
 For he hath fortune, beyond need to spend, 
 Who makes his heart the treasury of his friend. 
 
 LOVE 
 
 LOVE frees us from ourselves yet makes us slaves; 
 
 He moves our souls yet gives us fixed intent; 
 He whelms us like a barque o'ercome with waves, 
 
 Then towards the stars he lifts us, eminent. 
 
 Before his shrine the haughtiest crests are bent, 
 And oft he clothes the clown with princely rage; 
 
 He hath a will brooks no arbitrament, 
 Yet hath he patience of a meagre wage. 
 
 His sweetest pleasures ever are kin to pain; 
 His choicest blessings oft bring direst curse; 
 
 Man would lose all for Love and count it gain, 
 Though howsoe'er a niggard of his purse; 
 
 Thus in Love's quiver all contention lies 
 
 Twixt good and ill his shafts are women's eyes!
 
 SONNETS 325 
 
 THE CONJUNCTION OF LOVE 
 
 LIKE as two waves, by spheric pulses driven, 
 
 Rolling from Orient and from Occident, 
 Meet in mid-sea beneath the arch of Heaven 
 
 And forthwith mingling are forever blent 
 So may two souls, though Nature at beginning 
 
 Long from sweet converse sundered them afar, 
 Yet fatefully their destined courses winning, 
 
 Meet and unite beneath Love's fixed star; 
 For come all winds and sweep the earth-round ocean, 
 
 Bearing the thunderbolt within its breast, 
 Till the lashed deep is fevered to commotion, 
 
 Making his moan and never finding rest, 
 Yet these two souls once met can never part, 
 For mind hath wed with mind and heart with heart! 
 
 THE SECURITY OF LOVE 
 
 THERE bides no bulwark against adverse fate 
 
 Save in the shield and helm of faithful love; 
 
 With them a man, though shaken, towers above 
 The throng, investured with that proud estate. 
 The hell-born host will shun such brow sedate, 
 
 Nor e'er attempt that heart's rich treasure trove; 
 
 For, like to Noah's olive-bearing dove, 
 The promise fails not nor the hopes abate. 
 
 For mutual strength o'er-tops the mutual need; 
 
 And mutual faith o'er-crowns the mutual fear ; 
 And mutual toil shall earn the double meed, 
 
 And mutual hope bring forth unchanging cheer; 
 For in thy love I must prove all indeed, 
 
 While in my love thy favor grows not sere.
 
 326 SONNETS 
 
 THE FORTITUDE OF LOVE 
 
 SWEETHEART, what storms may come (and not a few 
 May dark our lives' horizon), yet I know, 
 Clasped hand in hand, come all the winds that blow, 
 
 We shall not blench but front them, for we two 
 
 Sail not for pleasure of the public view 
 Through shallow bays, but to the ocean go 
 Where the skies ring the sea, the deep tides flow, 
 
 And lay our course by one clear star and true. 
 
 And round our course the ocean bird shall scream, 
 The harbinger of faith, against the gale; 
 Yea, every sea-mew shall take up the tale 
 
 And bear it to the ocean's fartherest gleam, 
 
 How our two hearts have trimmed the tautest sail 
 
 That ever held the love-winds o'er the beam. 
 
 THE FAVOR OF LOVE 
 
 To me hath Heaven given a work for doing, 
 
 I may not shirk it or I wreck my life; 
 All slothful instincts to my nature suing 
 
 Wage with my high intent a civil strife. 
 My day is overcast nor can I see 
 
 The path to lead me up the steep incline; 
 And all the summit's wrapped in mystery; 
 
 Alone must bear the brunt, this heart of mine. 
 Yet not alone for love is at my side 
 
 To cheer me through the dark and devious way ; 
 I can bear all if love with me abide, 
 
 Its patient hope adorns life's toilsome day; 
 For of my life is love the treasure trove; 
 For love is life, and life to me is love.
 
 SONNETS 327 
 
 THE QUALITY OF LOVE 
 
 MY love is like a river still and deep, 
 
 Not as a swollen torrent rushing strong; 
 Round tender memories its lingerings creep, 
 
 They bear a burden of bright hopes along; 
 
 Its banks are broidered o'er with flowers of song; 
 Its depths reflect the rainbow tinted skies; 
 
 Its beauteous landscape doth to me belong; 
 Intrudes no poacher with unhallowed eyes. 
 
 And as I float upon its limpid breast, 
 I near the confluent wave of my desires, 
 
 On which the darling of my heart doth rest, 
 To whom the manhood of my hope aspires; 
 
 And lest rogue Fancy should a recreant prove, 
 
 I'll drown him in the deepest depths of love. 
 
 DEVOTION OF LOVE 
 
 WHENE'ER I read the mighty bards of old 
 
 Where mortal love weds immortality, 
 I would as high thy own dear image hold 
 
 That after time thine heir through me might be. 
 
 I first would laud thy passion pure and free, 
 Thy sweetness next that grudgeth not its dole, 
 
 Thy grace which charms all life, thy constancy, 
 Thy beauty last which mirrors all thy soul. 
 
 For half my heaven is born in thy bright eyes, 
 
 Those twins of deep, dark splendor, kind and true. 
 
 My wintry care in genial summer dies 
 
 When thy full sun of beauty breaks anew. 
 
 Even Death itself would one last sweetness be 
 
 If I, in dying, could but die for thee!
 
 328 SONNETS 
 
 IMMORTALITY OF LOVE 
 
 WHEN you and I commingled are with dust, 
 Nor one survive who knew our forms in life 
 When we have crossed beyond the bounds of strife, 
 
 Nor may one say, "I found them kind or just"; 
 
 Then will the leafage of our love, I trust, 
 
 Bloom in this verse and in true hearts grow rife, 
 
 maiden, sweetener of the name of wife, 
 A star whose shine no smirch of time may rust. 
 
 Your life thru me may best expression find; 
 
 And I in you best prove what life is worth ; 
 For while I sing you queen of womankind, 
 
 Each lover there will read his own love's birth. 
 Ay, we in lovers' hearts shall live enshrined; 
 
 1 for my song you as the Flower of earth. 
 
 CONSTANCY 
 
 CONSTANT to thee! ay, while these lips take breath, 
 
 Or while the heart throbs to its spoken vow! 
 Constant to thee! even beyond Time and Death, 
 
 And when the laurel withers from my brow ! 
 Yes, I am thine! for I of truth am nought 
 
 Unless I find my complement in thee; 
 Then why should I indulge a wayward thought? 
 
 I lose myself when I inconstant be. 
 For Constancy is the first-loved of Heaven, 
 
 Twin sister of the anchor-maiden, Hope; 
 Then let me in thy gracious heart be shriven, 
 
 Though Fancy wander with the world for scope ; 
 If blue-eyed Faith gave birth to Constancy, 
 Then am I constant, who keep faith in thee!
 
 SONNETS 329 
 
 TO - 
 
 AY, more than when in blush of girlhood's bloom; 
 
 The world a fairyland around thee lying, 
 
 And every sylph of sun-dyed fancy flying 
 Between thee and the nearby cypress gloom, 
 With Innocence thy handmaid, Joy thy groom, 
 
 Ere Hope had strayed and Faith had no denying, 
 
 When only thy Ideal taught thee sighing, 
 And only Pity led thee to the tomb 
 I love thee for the chrism of earthly pain 
 
 That robbed thee of thy gayness, yet did thrill. 
 Thy rarer sensibilities, made plain 
 
 The higher grace of life with lowlier will; 
 The lily is sweeter for the cloud and rain, 
 
 And care and grief have left thee lovelier still! 
 
 TO 
 
 WHEN I reflect that this warm heart of mine 
 Must chill, fail, wither and to dust decay, 
 And I no more shall view the face of day, 
 Nor drink again the air of Spring like wine, 
 Nor hear the birds their matin loves refine, 
 When all my memory is a mouldered bay, 
 And I have mingled with the shadows gray 
 That throng beyond the senses' border line; 
 Then when I think of all thou bringst to me, 
 
 Fresh pleasures of the Spring or music's voice; 
 Thou of sweet shade and fruitage, my palm tree 
 In this parched desert thou my only choice 
 In the whole world of women heart and breath 
 Grow sorrowful at wasteful, envious Death.
 
 330 SONNETS 
 
 THE IDEAL 
 i 
 
 I HAD a vision of a fair maid's face; 
 
 A dream of brook-brown eyes and midnight hair, 
 
 Of swan-like neck and breast, the queenly air 
 Of Dian, full accoutred for the chase; 
 Thus Fancy led her radiant forth from space, 
 
 All sweet and stately, beauteous, kind, and rare; 
 
 "Alas!" I said, "where may I find her, where?" 
 And locked my heart upon this for a space. 
 
 Then, like the rose-bud swelling with its dream, 
 
 My fancy heaved those breasts and brimmed those eyes; 
 
 Oft from those outlets of the soul a beam 
 Fell on me from the spirit's inner skies ; 
 
 I said, "Lie there within my heart, I deem 
 O Love, no flesh may ever make thee prize." 
 
 THE IDEAL FOUND 
 ii 
 
 So, like a miser fondling his dear gold, 
 
 Oft would I count those pure perfections o'er, 
 Hugging to heart my wondrous, earthless store, 
 
 Whose charms shamed all life's glories manifold; 
 
 Then with a bitter mockery I grew bold, 
 For there was not in prose or poet's lore 
 Such jewel found as my proud fancy wore 
 
 "This, too, will vanish when my veins grow cold." 
 
 But as I went all dully on my round, 
 
 Nought hoping, seeking, for my dream-land mate, 
 I entered suddenly on enchanted ground, 
 
 Invading Heaven by some rosed postern gate 
 For in thy form my loved ideal I found, 
 
 And in thine eyes I stood betrayed of Fate!
 
 SONNETS 33i 
 
 TO ASTREA 
 
 (Eight sonnets in the Elizabethan manner.) 
 
 FAIR art thou as when Spring and Summer join ; 
 Spring o'er thy form and Summer in thy heart; 
 Like the opposing image on a coin 
 
 Beauty and grace their equal world impart. 
 Like the Spring's blossoms stand thy cheeks in bloom, 
 
 And like the Summer cherry is thy lip; 
 Yet Spring and Summer both shall front their doom, 
 And wintry Death thy buoyant beauty trip. 
 
 Then think on all the raptures thou shalt lose, 
 If thou to love too long thy charms deny; 
 
 For Fate may then thy foolish claims refuse, 
 And thy proud favors withered all shall die; 
 
 While the pale ghosts of lovers thou hast slain 
 
 Will rise and thy cold cruelty arraign. 
 
 H 
 
 LIKE the queen bee art thou and they the drones 
 
 Who on thy course triumphal still attend; 
 Lovers who mark thy passage with their moans 
 
 And for thy favor life and substance spend; 
 Or like the pelican who doth repast 
 
 Its young with its ow T n blood, so do their hearts 
 Squander their pulses, even to the last, 
 
 On thee who dost repay them with false arts. 
 
 For tho thou art Time's darling, Summer's joy, 
 Thy soul is barren of Love's flowering ruth; 
 
 Created wert thou lealty to annoy 
 
 And make thy mock of fealty and truth. 
 
 So frozen thy heart, that let Love shoot his best, 
 
 His arrows still fall blunted from thy breast.
 
 332 SONNETS 
 
 in 
 
 LIGHT as the wandering thistledown thou art, 
 
 Sowing in fallow soils its freight of tares; 
 For Nature formed a bubble of thine heart 
 
 Wherein is limned its fancy's flaunting wares. 
 For thou dost smile on all with equal grace 
 
 And seem'st to grant yet ever dost deny; 
 Like as a snare outspread thy beauteous face 
 
 Ever shows love yet giveth love the lie. 
 
 Surely God did thy comely features plan 
 
 To shine around thee here an earthly Heaven; 
 
 Surely instead of torment unto man 
 Nature intended thee all joy to leaven; 
 
 Yet God and Nature both are disobeyed; 
 
 Joy hast thou slain and Love thou hast betrayed. 
 
 IV 
 
 GIVE me thy love I say or take my breath! 
 
 One of the twain englobeth my desire; 
 
 I am consumed ; Heaven in his ire 
 Reads me in torture what thy sweet lips saith. 
 Upon me oft thy false smile lingereth, 
 
 Like winter's sun upon a woodland byre, 
 
 Coaxing some early hyacinth to suspire 
 In bloom, and then forsake him to his death. 
 
 Sure thou hast none with God, tho thy blest face 
 Might draw impassioned angels from the skies; 
 
 Nor sanctified art thou with Heaven's grace, 
 Altho my Heaven is regnant in thine eyes; 
 
 Tho love for thee should drag me down to Hell, 
 
 Even there thy feigned love would make me well!
 
 SONNETS 333 
 
 WILT thou condemn thy servant to despair 
 
 Whose only fault is too much loving thee? 
 Lo, thou shalt stale and he become Time's heir, 
 
 While even thy scorn shall his advancement be. 
 For with his pen while he thy beauty paints, 
 
 A just revenge upon thee shall be taken; 
 For Love himself, thy cold caprice attaints, 
 
 When Age shall prove thee faded and forsaken. 
 
 So in this verse when future time shall read 
 
 Thy rivalship to Venus' ernpery ; 
 It will as well for flattery paint thy greed 
 
 And thy disdain and cruel mastery; 
 That stripped by Age of charms and without friend, 
 Love did against thee poisoned arrows send. 
 
 VI 
 
 WHEN in my dreams I am by Hope beguiled, 
 
 And thou art kind as thou art fair in face; 
 Queen of this earth and Heaven's own favored child, 
 
 Who dost abound in wit and sprightly grace; 
 Then when I wake and sense the cruel cheat, 
 
 With all my happy dreams abused by day, 
 Could I the witness of hard fact defeat, 
 
 And with illusion still my spirit pay, 
 
 If I could hood the falcon of my heart, 
 And make its jesses of thy witching hair; 
 
 As thou art false redeem thee in mine art, 
 
 Until men's lips should laud thee everywhere; 
 
 Then, tho thy falsehood still gives Truth the lie, 
 
 Truth grows in me and durst not thee deny.
 
 334 SONNETS 
 
 VII 
 
 THOU hast no truth nor I no recompense; 
 
 False as thou art I must for needs be true; 
 Thy craftiness I miscalled innocence, 
 
 For which I now in heart must wear the rue. 
 That voluntary bondage I renounce, 
 
 Yet daily to my conscience am forsworn; 
 So light thy heart it weighs not sure an ounce, 
 
 Mine hangs like lead yet proves the prick of scorn. 
 
 Sweet as thou art and fairer than the rose, 
 Thou bear'st a deadlier weapon than a sword ; 
 
 Thy hapless victims are transfixed by those 
 
 Darts from thine eyes which no address can ward; 
 
 Content if they may warm their hearts awhile 
 
 In the false, fickle solace of thy smile. 
 
 VIII 
 
 THY beauty like an ignis fatuus plays 
 
 Across the yearning gaze of trusting souls; 
 Lovers who wander forth in devious ways 
 
 Yet never swerve the nearer to their goals. 
 Moths are they, by the traction of thine eyes 
 
 Drawn to their death, and on their passion's wing 
 Crippled and scorched and made a hapless prize 
 
 To thy caprice's thoughtless cruel sting. 
 
 For thou dost on the ruin of those hearts 
 
 Build high the triumphs of thy peerless face; 
 
 Queen of vain prayers and mistress of false arts, 
 
 Thou grant'st no quittance and thou yieldst no grace, 
 
 Content to pleasure thy remorseless way 
 
 Over the graves of those whom thou dost slay.
 
 A GARLAND OF SONNETS
 
 TO SHAKESPEARE 
 
 // / have earned some favour of good men, 
 
 Or if my song hold aught of just or true, 
 
 This happy fortune to thy grace is due, 
 Who things unseen hast brought within my ken; 
 Who hast redeemed my shallow courses when 
 
 I would run glittering on the public view, 
 
 And led'st me into quiet fields anew, 
 And turned'st me safe from many a noisome fen. 
 I fly to thee when wounded, worn, and faint, 
 
 And thou upholdest me against thy knee; 
 Thy volume is my rubric ; no attaint 
 
 Dwells in its page, nor no absurd decree. 
 Companion, guide, then friend while Life's acquaint 
 
 With love, thy words sustain me, make me free!
 
 HOMER 
 
 TIME hath no shore, nor History port for thee, 
 Thou first great admiral of the fleets of Song! 
 To thee the winds, the waves, the clouds belong 
 The heart and brain of broad humanity. 
 Thy theme swift-winged, an eagle's flight, and free, 
 All tireless sweeps this varied world along, 
 Wide-shadowing all the crawling, fluttering throng, 
 Unbounded as the shining, thundering sea. 
 
 From thy stored coffers craftsmen age on age 
 Have filled their treasuries to remint the gold; 
 No alien verse can thy full soundings hold ; 
 
 While wise Ulysses' guile, Achilles' rage, 
 
 Doomed Hector's love, from thy dead tongue are rolled, 
 
 And still dead gods war in thy deathless page. 
 
 CHAUCER 
 
 THE heart of Merrie England sang in thee, 
 Dan Chaucer, blithest of the sons of Morn! 
 How from that dim and mellow distance borne 
 
 Floats down thy chiming measures pure and free, 
 
 Minstrel of Pilgrim pleasaunce! Pageantry, 
 And Revel, blowing from his drinking-horn 
 The froth of malt, and Love triumphant, lorn 
 
 Thy England lives in these that live through thee! 
 
 Thine is the jocund Springtime; winsome May, 
 
 Crowned with her daisies, wooed thee, clerkly wight! 
 
 The cheer of pastoral breath is in thy lay, 
 And in thy graver verse thy country's might. 
 
 O, Pipe of Pan at England's break of day, 
 Her noon re-echoes with thy clear delight! 
 337
 
 338 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 
 
 TASSO 
 
 LOVE gilds thy laurel, love was found thy blame ; 
 
 Yet, brightest in the dungeon shone thy muse. 
 
 Not Este, no, nor Italy, might refuse 
 Thy due the poet's wreath, the deathless name. 
 Thine honor lustres in thy tyrant's shame; 
 
 The cold cell's damps were Inspiration's dews; 
 
 The world hath won through what thy hope did lose, 
 O Tasso, king of hearts, and heir of fame! 
 
 Ferrara's court is dust. Thy passioned dream 
 
 A grand, immortal pageant did create 
 O knightliest bard! Rinaldo's hero-gleam 
 
 Is thine, thrice glorified; thy proud estate, 
 The Lyre, the Sword, and Love in each supreme; 
 
 Life's splendid protest at the doors of Fate! 
 
 SPENSER 
 
 I'VE watched^him stroll with Raleigh by the wood, 
 Or Sidney, near the Mulla's rippling brim, 
 While Nature crooned her Summer-evening hymn, 
 
 Till o'er the fields the new moon's sickle stood. 
 
 I've heard calm words of courtly brotherhood 
 Chime like an Angelus through the ages dim, 
 And they, whom all else honored, honored him, 
 
 My Spenser, votary of the Holy Rood. 
 
 They rose and passed through Honor's troubled sky; 
 
 Each quenched in blood his fitful, fervent star; 
 He dwelt apart, unknown, and fixed his eye 
 
 Where aureoled Beauty beckoned him afar. 
 Thy Lion, Maid, and Knight shall never die, 
 
 O Childe, for of them England's glories are!
 
 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 339 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 FOR him the ancient heavens relumed their fires 
 
 And starred his crown of songs with lambent gleams; 
 Down one sweet song a nightly cresset gleams 
 
 'Tis Hero's beaconing her love's desires. 
 
 Yet dark and thundrous, as when Faust expires, 
 
 And veined with lightning stands that mount of dreams 
 Down which the lava of his passion streams, 
 
 Or soars from off its cloud-enshrouded pyres. 
 
 He was the Baptist heralding the morn 
 
 Of Poesy's adored Prince of Light. 
 He hath no sponsor save his muse forlorn; 
 
 A voice all sweetness and impetuous might ; 
 A heart unbridled and a hope death-shorn 
 
 Remains and squandered blood that hides from sight! 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 WHEN the brave tackle of Life's craft is torn, 
 And Hope's high pennon frays before the blast, 
 My star of guidance vanished in the Vast, 
 
 And the dun night grown deathful and forlorn 
 
 Then, turning fain to thee, the gates of Morn 
 Swing heaven-wide, and the clouds, all overcast, 
 Are rolled from sight ; the rocks and shoals are passed ; 
 
 Safe on thy affluent ocean I am borne; 
 
 There I hear Ariel singing; there they file, 
 The birds of Faery to their hid sea lair; 
 
 There with unnumbered kiss Aurora's smile 
 Beams roseate, there she shakes her golden hair; 
 
 While down the enameled deeps, in sportive guile, 
 The sea-nymphs flash their ivory arms in air!
 
 340 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 
 
 MILTON 
 
 NEXT to our mightiest mightiest dost thou stand, 
 Great heart of patience, charged with patriot flame, 
 Shining thy stateliest midst thy country's shame, 
 
 A nobler Samson to that time's demand. 
 
 Thou Orb of Song! whose prismic beams expand 
 Still o'er thy country brightening forth her claim 
 To empire ; prouder, sweeter for thy name 
 
 Than all the prescience that her courts command. 
 
 As when within that green Italian vale 
 
 The Kiss of beauty touched thy sleeping brow, 
 So did the Muse thy purpling years endow 
 
 With consecration to that sounding tale 
 
 Of Earth and Heaven that moves before us now, 
 
 And doth o'er Time and shifting modes prevail. 
 
 DRYDEN 
 
 STOUT, crowned with praise, the wits around his chair, 
 Sipping his cordial or his cup of tea, 
 Full primed with aphorisms choice or free, 
 
 Sat "glorious John," who trimmed to every air! 
 
 The biggest brawn on the arena there, 
 
 He shook the town with vauntings, then on knee 
 Bartered his birthright for a huckster's fee, 
 
 And thrust his muse aneath a lordling's care. 
 
 Still he brought valiant service; none that day 
 Might bide the baited gladiator's blows; 
 
 His ponderous truncheon crushed the foe at bay; 
 How grand to watch him on MacFlecknoe close! 
 
 The drums resound, the trumpets loudly bray 
 As down the age that lordly galleon goes!
 
 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 341 
 
 POPE 
 
 BEHOLD the foe of Grub Street's rival schools, 
 The Richard Crookback of the kings of rhyme, 
 Forging firm couplets of heroic chime, 
 
 And routing all his masters at their rules! 
 
 How brave an arsenal of shining tools 
 He brought to shape his fanciful sublime, 
 Spurning each proud Maecenas of the time, 
 
 And shoving all the dunces from their stools! 
 
 And you deny him greatness? Would to-day 
 Your acrobatic bards could fill his place! 
 
 His art and range were bounded? Who can sway 
 More forceful measures in such narrow space? 
 
 Yield him, O Fame, thy brightest three-leaved bay, 
 Mind, manners, modes the Horace of his race! 
 
 BURNS 
 
 HE was my earliest, nearest, sweetest friend! 
 
 His songs starred all my firmament of dreams; 
 
 Through them I caught the first auroral gleams 
 Of Her whose smile will haunt me to the end. 
 Here was my gold, the gold I might not spend ; 
 
 Here was my heaven, a heaven of earthly beams; 
 
 I heard that rapture rippling like the streams; 
 I heard the Loves their rhythmic voices blend. 
 
 Ye banks of Ayr, how happy should ye be 
 
 Whereon the feet of your dear minstrel trod! 
 
 For even the sun, methinks, more tenderly 
 Than other turf must kiss your lowly sod. 
 
 O happy Scotland, earth doth envy thee 
 Thy kingly ploughman, thy disguised God!
 
 342 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 
 
 SCOTT 
 
 THOSE broad bright Marches, Ballad and Romance, 
 Never were ruled by baron bold like thee! 
 No knight to Heaven or Beauty bent the knee 
 
 With more proud-souled devotion in his glance. 
 
 All stately as the Lilies of Old France 
 The banner of thy Fancy floated free, 
 O'er damsels, gallants, clansmen, monkish glee, 
 
 Pageants and courts, and tourney's crash of lance. 
 
 It gathered brilliance from ancestral skies; 
 
 It pictured Love, his dole and holiday; 
 Widely it blazoned deeds of high emprise, 
 
 Or flung forth wassail, feud, and gramarye; 
 Or caught the gleam and glint of targe and glaive, 
 And blew to Border gales and watched the tartans wave! 
 
 BYRON 
 
 BELOVED Greece, thy wreath adorned his pall ! 
 
 The hero of thy resurrection time. 
 
 The vine-crowned Titan girt with power sublime, 
 Almost accomplished Heaven; unfearing all, 
 He faced the levin and the thunder brawl 
 
 Scaling the heights of Song; his rebel prime 
 
 Pelion on Ossa planted; then with rhyme 
 Transcendent on his lips reeled down the wall. 
 
 He fell, hard-fighting; dire the clash and clang 
 
 Earth heard through all her limits then sleek jays 
 
 Piped chattering funeral, and foul charnel kites 
 
 Fed on the warm, proud heart; but wide outrang, 
 
 Sweet Poesy, thy plaint along the ways, 
 And Love and Freedom brought their tribute rites.
 
 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 343 
 
 KEATS 
 
 JUST as the earliest flowers began to blow, 
 
 (He felt the daisies growing o'er his grave) 
 His fevered heart found rest; those grasses wave 
 
 Unconscious o'er the form that sleeps below; 
 
 Yet there the "rathe primroses" surely know, 
 And tender violets (howsoever rave 
 The rude winds o'er his slumber) that he gave 
 
 Them human love in human hearts to grow. 
 
 His "name was writ in water?" still 'tis called 
 By every dryad's ghost that mournful fleets! 
 
 That name the Summer's pageant hath extolled; 
 That name the Autumn's requiem repeats; 
 
 But he, with charms of Faery deep enthralled, 
 
 Hears no dull earth-tones echoing "where is Keats!" 
 
 SHELLEY 
 
 To shore the sea-nymphs buoyed their captive dead, 
 Touched by a human grief; yes, there lay hand, 
 Heart, tongue, and brain of that august command, 
 
 All save the soul that Heaven to music wed. 
 
 Clung curling yet the pale locks round the head; 
 Silent and prone upon the drifted sand, 
 He clasped her still, his loved Italian land, 
 
 The foster-mother to whose breast he fled. 
 
 We raised him on the pyre in one great shine 
 The body chased the fleeting shade 'twas meet, 
 
 That which had given the flaming soul a shrine 
 Should incorrupt as that bright soul retreat; 
 
 Yet, heart of proof, thy substance still divine, 
 Lingering in earthly love, lay at our feet!
 
 344 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 
 
 COLERIDGE 
 
 THY mind and heart the dome of Kubla Khan ! 
 
 These twain were wed, like mountain joined to sea, 
 
 In lofty, broad, cloud-merged sublimity, 
 With words that awe yet soothe the soul of man. 
 From Earth to Heaven thy circling vision ran, 
 
 Yet, free in thought, thy life thou coulds't not free; 
 
 The Knight of Poesy, enchained in thee, 
 Slept on his arms and ne'er fought out his plan. 
 
 Yet, Truth, divined in dreams, blooms best in Art; 
 
 One dream, O mystic, blown within thy mind, 
 Thy Mariner's tale, of Love's own life a part, 
 
 This wizard bay-wreath doth thy temples bind; 
 
 This orphic banner floats to every wind 
 One cross of service blazoned on thy heart! 
 
 WORDSWORTH 
 
 THE quiet of the woods was in his soul 
 
 And in his song were winds and murmuring streams; 
 
 Across his vision broke Love's rarest gleams, 
 And English faith held o'er him proud control. 
 He was Truth's eremite with beechen bowl; 
 
 The wayside life and legend shaped his themes, 
 
 Led softly through his meadowy realm of dreams, 
 But round the heights rang Freedom's trumpet-roll ! 
 
 Prophet and priest and bard the humble throng 
 
 He loved and voiced, from the great Mother drew 
 His litanies and choruses; the blue 
 
 Of Heaven and green of Earth illumed his song. 
 He was the Joshua of an art made new, 
 
 And of his peers the Godfrey chaste and strong.
 
 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 345 
 
 HOOD 
 
 THERE, midst his children's noisy, prattling play, 
 
 Hard by the dusty city's iron clang, 
 
 A wing-spurred Hermes from dull earth he sprang 
 And soared untrammeled through the azure day. 
 That plumed Fancy oared its joyous way 
 
 O'er magic oceans where the mermaids sang; 
 
 Then veered once more where human voices rang 
 Of Love, Want, Crime, and Boyhood's happy day. 
 
 Alas, again the pack-horse of the Press, 
 
 He folded close his pinions' glistering pride, 
 And to the mill of jesting Rhyme was tied, 
 
 To strain his heart-strings in that vile duress; 
 Yet even the ignoble task he glorified 
 
 Through that sad mirth still flashed his loveliness! 
 
 SCHILLER 
 
 BOTH lyric wreath and Thespian crown were thine, 
 And thine the Germans' pledge from mount to sea; 
 For thy first thought, to make the people free, 
 
 Was to those hungering souls Love's corn and wine. 
 
 The hapless Mary's hope illumes thy line, 
 
 While Wallenstein's dark form abides with me 
 Since, when a lad, I laid upon my knee 
 
 Thy heart, all throbbing through its leathern shrine. 
 
 The nations' tocsin thine! Thy Bell is heard 
 On ocean coasts scarce known to thee by name; 
 
 The deathless cadence of Tell's dauntless word, 
 Hath wed the Switzer's Fatherland to fame; 
 
 While Swabian youths, by thy bold measures stirred, 
 Their proud old Eberhard's liberties proclaim!
 
 346 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 
 
 GOETHE 
 
 FORTH from the jungle of dark creeds he may 
 
 Who wills walk by thy star's unfaltering shine, 
 
 O Liberator Soul! Thou dost define 
 And hold life's secrets in wise-guarded sway; 
 And yet thy art looms amplest, and thy lay 
 
 Pours forth enlightening flame; and as the Rhine 
 
 Ripples to sea, thy human-pulsing line 
 Speeds world round, broadening its imperial way. 
 
 Goetz, Wilhelm Meister, Faust no haughtier themes 
 By wizard genius e'er conceived or penned! 
 
 These will not cease "to feed our lake of dreams," 
 Nor will churl Time outbrave them at the end. 
 
 Thought Love inwoven thus thy laurel gleams; 
 Poet and Seer yea, wisest, truest Friend! 
 
 BERANGER 
 
 (At the Coronation of Charles X.) 
 
 YES, there he stands you mark him down the street, 
 Yon, dream-eyed, little, bald, round-shouldered man! 
 While Paris thrums her day-long rataplan 
 
 Of loud huzzas and million-surging feet. 
 
 Tyrtaeus bold is he, Catullus sweet! 
 
 Or well had passed in Tempe's Vale for Pan 
 In modern garb; draw nearer now and scan 
 
 The form of one whom kings have feared to meet! 
 
 Ay, sirs, here Is the king! That shape who goes 
 All drums and trappings merely stuffs the crown; 
 
 Here rusty black and there the ermine shows; 
 The throne's a candle for OUT clerk's renown ; 
 
 That galley toward the hungry Maelstrom rows; 
 This shallop storms nor hidden rocks may drown !
 
 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 347 
 
 HUGO 
 
 THOUGH banished, Prospero, to thy mid-sea isle, 
 
 State thou maintaindst most ample; thou could'st call 
 Thy choiring Ariel, or sea-monsters haul 
 
 From sounding caves by magic's strenuous wile; 
 
 Thou could'st the storm unchain, make ocean smile, 
 Or hold the hearts and minds of men in thrall; 
 Yet Jeanne (Miranda, dearer far than all 
 
 Thy art) could aye thy darkest hour beguile. 
 
 Beyond the surge thy natal dukedom lay, 
 Dominion of brave hearts; thy dreaming eye 
 
 Watched with paternal longing day by day 
 Its coast-line, where pale Freedom rose to die, 
 
 'Til fell the usurper; then to ampler day 
 Restored thy passionate slave of sea and sky. 
 
 TENNYSON 
 
 THY fame stands wide as England's! If I lay 
 One song-wreath at thy feet, 'tis not to grace 
 So much thy triumphs, or thy high-throned place 
 
 Amongst the minstrels of the modern day. 
 
 As to confess thy erstwhile sovereign sway 
 O'er my affections; thine was once a space 
 Near Shakespeare; if that splendor Time efface, 
 
 Its beam grows mellower, may not pass away. 
 
 Thou art our own King Arthur I, a knight 
 Unscutcheoned, unannounced in lists of fame; 
 
 Content to win, when proved, some slight acclaim 
 From lips like thine; unwilling most to fail 
 
 In service or in vigil; keeping bright 
 
 Armor like thine in quest for Holy Grail.
 
 34 8 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 
 
 BROWNING 
 
 THE tangled currents of the rhythmic seas 
 
 Stream through thy song with many a swirl and sweep ; 
 
 With storm and cloud and sunshine o'er the deep, 
 And bright waves lapping to the variant breeze. 
 Thou hast conned secrets 'tween Jove's mighty knees, 
 
 And kenned the vision of life's toiling steep; 
 
 Hast heard the strong men groan, the women weep, 
 And drank earth's gloom and glory to the lees. 
 
 What though thy careless hand hath jarred the strings? 
 
 Thy harp still rings to Thought and Beauty true; 
 Though from Italian earth thy phoenix springs, 
 
 Her gaze strikes ever toward the English blue. 
 O, teacher, brave and wise, the proudest things 
 
 Of Faith and Love through fire have come from you! 
 
 ARNOLD 
 
 THE World denied thee gold Heaven gave thee verse; 
 
 A burst of morn on Learning's peaks of snow! 
 
 Under sweeps ever Emotion's tidal flow 
 And therein Love her fair form doth immerse. 
 Nature and Art, these twain, thy mother and nurse, 
 
 Mixed fine thy mould through thy grand age to grow; 
 
 Sonorous, pure, their mingled clarions blow, 
 Unchecked by Time or Change, above thy hearse. 
 
 Sohrab and Rustem, Tristram, Marguerite 
 The twain of Homer's large, authentic breed; 
 The third, Love's Knight, faithful in word and deed ; 
 
 The last, Love's perfect flower a kindred sweet! 
 These for thy fame, O royal palmer, plead, 
 
 And lay their chaplets blooming at thy feet!
 
 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 349 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR 
 
 HERE find the poet's scrip, his ready pen, 
 The staff of service on his pilgrim round, 
 Now laid aside; for he in sleep is bound, 
 
 No more to wander through the ways of men ; 
 
 But these his furnishings, ingathered when 
 He wandered all Arcadia's laurelled ground, 
 The cheer and nurture of his journey found, 
 
 He hath bequeathed them to the world again. 
 
 Herein note Love, his crust of daily bread, 
 
 Romance, his flask of wine, and Reverie sweet, 
 
 The rich-chased missal brought from Orient clime ; 
 Here also Hope, his belt, and from his head 
 
 His scallop-shell of Fancy; from his feet 
 The rhythmic sandals of his passion, Rhyme ! 
 
 EMERSON 
 
 VOICE of the deeps thou art! But not the wild, 
 
 Ungoverned mouthing of the wind-lashed waves; 
 
 Nor yet the dirge of billows over graves, 
 But crooning, like a mother o'er her child. 
 Through thee gross earth with heaven is reconciled, 
 
 Thy songs, like anthems through cathedral naves 
 
 Dispel confusing passion; never raves 
 The storm along thy cloisters undefiled. 
 
 Light of the deeps thou art! as forth I glide, 
 From rock and whirlpool far, and tempest's roar, 
 Sudden there looms an ever verdurous shore, 
 Whose towers in the still wave stand glorified, 
 Where thou, the Virgil who hast been my guide, 
 Lead'st me and leav'st me rapt at Heaven's door!
 
 350 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 
 
 LONGFELLOW 
 
 THE New- World's sweetest singer! Time may lay 
 Rude touch on some, his betters, yet for me, 
 His seat is where the throned immortals be, 
 
 The chaste affections answering to his sway. 
 
 As fair, as fresh as children of the May, 
 
 His songs, spring up from wood and sun-bathed lea, 
 Yet oft the rhythmic cadence of the sea 
 
 Rolls 'neath his verse and speeds its shining way. 
 
 In borrowed robes our English buckram yields 
 
 Small charm of style, but his he wears with grace. 
 Thru him the grave-eyed Florentine finds place 
 
 Among us; but across Acadian fields 
 
 Who is it moves with rapt and pensive face ? 
 
 Evangeline to all thy love appeals! 
 
 LOWELL 
 
 POET, who bore thy crown of seventy years 
 
 As greenly as the chaplet of thy bays, 
 
 Who from thy throne of thought o'er-looked the maze 
 Of human life, high lifting midst thy peers 
 Heaven-lighted minstrel brows, no envious shears 
 
 Of fate may clip thy laurels, but thy lays, 
 
 Brightened by Fame, bloom thru thy winter's days, 
 Sunned in our smiles and watered with our tears. 
 
 Not to the craftsman merely, nor the calm, 
 Keen-sighted critic, nor the patriot stirred 
 
 With passion, do our grateful hearts belong 
 But to the new Crusader with his palm 
 
 And cross of valiant service, viewed and heard 
 Through the long, vow-knit vigil of his song.
 
 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 351 
 
 WHITTIER 
 
 THE call was Freedom's loudest 'neat that blast 
 Down crashed the walls of Slavery's Jericho! 
 (Beware, ye proud, the fighting Quaker's blow, 
 
 When once he strikes ye well may stand aghast!) 
 
 Now all those storms are far forspent and past, 
 Thy martial trumpet long attuned to peace, 
 While still to bring the courts of Heaven increase, 
 
 Those olive blooms of song abroad are cast. 
 
 O, strong and faithful watchman may this state 
 In memory long that lifted warning keep! 
 
 Thy strenuous voice hath given us bonds to fate; \ 
 
 We dread no harm while we that blessing reap; 
 
 Old age, 'twas never thine a warm, sedate, 
 A mellow sunset brooded o'er thy sleep! 
 
 WHITMAN 
 
 IN him, time-balanced mind and cosmic heart 
 
 With common human speech were reconciled. 
 
 Heed not the jargon tongue, the phrase defiled, 
 The roughened hand, ignoring forms of art. 
 Nay, from his breast what yearning sighs depart ! 
 
 Hark how those vibrant tones grow pure and mild! 
 
 While with the freeborn heart-beat of the Child 
 His Earth-song rises and the echoes start. 
 
 What sentient wind makes answer? 'Tis thy breath 
 Borne round these shores, O Queen Democracy! 
 He stands thy spokesman, thy new prophet, he; 
 
 He leads those souls whose faith o'ermasters death ; 
 
 She triumphs still! whate'er the Preacher saith, 
 The horn of Odin blows and men are free!
 
 352 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 
 
 MORRIS 
 
 CHAUCER and Spenser, gather him to your heart, 
 
 That burly Radical of dreamy rhyme! 
 
 And crown him with the Trouvere's bay sublime, 
 That ne'er till now had graced the British mart; 
 Tho late, for him the story-teller's art 
 
 Came glamorous out of Fancy's buoyant clime, 
 
 The mintage of the golden ore that Time 
 Draws from world childhood ; for he voiced in part 
 
 Your mid-sea swaying melodies, the breath 
 Of pastoral lands, of flowery meads, and meres, 
 
 And your pale, poignant picturing of death, 
 And your dear, tender ruth for love in tears. 
 
 No idle singer, he, whate'er he saith; 
 His pilgrim torch relumes the shadowed years! 
 
 KIPLING 
 
 THE East hath reared her Viking! lo, he comes 
 Laurelled with victory to the purpled West, 
 Voicing the proud, vexed century's unrest, 
 
 With fifes, harps, sackbuts, psalteries, and drums. 
 
 His galley, pitched with rare and odorous gums, 
 Floats far the Dragon o'er the billow's crest; 
 Neath bellying sail his round world keel is pressed ; 
 
 The Empire trade-wind through its cordage hums. 
 
 No vassal laureate he! he wears the crown 
 Of English hearts, the roses never sere; 
 
 The rooted loves that bloom in bold renown; 
 Those sheaves of promise ripening in the ear, 
 
 The pledge of birthright nations! 'gainst the frown 
 Of Fate herself, stands England's faith writ clear!
 
 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 353 
 
 MISTRAL 
 
 O FAIR Provence, thou land of corn and wine! 
 
 Provence, thou brave, sweet home of Love and Song! 
 
 In arts, in arms, in princely feeling strong, 
 Once more the dream of Poesy is thine! 
 Thine is the latest Troubadour whose line 
 
 From Ronsard runs in honor; of that throng 
 
 King gleeman, who still wind their pipes along 
 From towered Avignon to Camargue's blue brine. 
 
 Mireio, of Death the dearest bride, 
 
 Thy love and grief for aye, for aye are sung! 
 
 The Homer of his cherished vineyard side, 
 His heart e'er tender, bountiful, and young, 
 
 Swells bold with song, with more than Roman pride 
 The brave Horatius of his native tongue!
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Go forth, my little book, my child of Song! 
 
 My chiefest solace all these years along. 
 
 I've writ thee with small thought of praise or pelf, 
 
 I've writ thee studiously to please myself; 
 
 I've writ thee lovingly; but, comrade, now 
 
 Godspeed! my true interpreter be thou.
 
 DAT S DUE 
 
 JUNO 6 
 
 jyy u 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 GAYLORD 
 
 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S.A.
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL L BRA R Y j A jj[j|. 
 
 AA 001248911 8