IN THE KING'S GARDEN 
 
 And Other Poems 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES BERRY BENSEL 
 (I 
 
 BOSTON 
 D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY 
 
 FRANKLIN AND HAWLEY STREETS 
 
. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1885, BY 
 D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY. 
 
TO EMILY. 
 
 We gathered apple-blossoms one fair day 
 And pink arbutus from the woodland near. 
 
 Wild roses growing by the country way 
 And clover too ; can you remember , dear ? 
 
 We gathered them for mother. Sister mine, 
 I pluck these leaflets from my tree of song 
 
 For her and you in Heaven^ that sacred shrine 
 Where they by every right of love belong. 
 
 And you, I do believe > will feel and know 
 
 The heart-beats through them, and the tears in showers 
 That set so many of them forth to grow ; 
 
 Therefore I bring these as we brought the flowers. 
 
 M191806 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 IN THE KING'S GARDEN 7 
 
 MY BIRTHDAYS 12 
 
 A MARBLEHEAD LEGEND 14 
 
 FROM A FIELD 17 
 
 IN ARABIA 20 
 
 MY SAILOR 24 
 
 Two 26 
 
 A RHYME OF SUMMER 27 
 
 A SONG OF RAIN 30 
 
 FAILURE 33 
 
 ON AN ANTIQUE CAMEO 34 
 
 OF LOVE 35 
 
 To BE DEAD . .36 
 
 THE PASSING OF SUMMER 37 
 
 A PORTRAIT . . . . . . . . 38 
 
 SONNET 39 
 
 HER FACE 40 
 
 PATIENCE 41 
 
 QUESTIONINGS 42 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 GOLDEN-ROD AND ASTERS 
 
 A GLOVE 
 
 . . . . 46 
 
 AT EVENING 4 - 
 
 SHE AND I - 
 
 THE DESERTED HOUSE *~ 
 
 THE STATUE IN THE WOOD 5 6 
 
 FORGOTTEN 59 
 
 REMEMBERED 6 2 
 
 A LOCK OF HAIR 6^ 
 
 THE MUEZZIN 6 7 
 
 IN THE RAIN 70 
 
 ON THE BRIDGE . . . ... . . .72 
 
 THE STAR'S MISSION 7 8 
 
 THE WIFE OF ATTILA DIED 81 
 
 AMONG THE GRASSES 83 
 
 ABOUT MYSELF 86 
 
 MEMORIALS 89 
 
 SYMPATHY 93 
 
 AHMED ^ 
 
 SOMETIME ^ 7 
 
 IN ABSENCE ^8 
 
 AT MIDNIGHT I0 i 
 
IN THE KING'S GARDEN. 
 
 A KING of the old time, whose name and race 
 
 Are clean forgotten as his human face, 
 Beneath the shade of ilex-trees one day, 
 Wandering alone, came where the shadows lay 
 So deep and dark they made a twilight gloom, 
 Such as abides within a shrouded room 
 Where one is dead. The place was cool and 
 
 sweet 
 
 With garden scents that made it their retreat; 
 So the king paused awhile, and smiled to feel 
 The musky odors through his senses steal, 
 And the cool dampness of the tree-leaves lie 
 Thick on his hair. He turned, he knew not why, 
 To go, but caught the gleam of some bright 
 
 thing 
 
 In a far corner. " Lo, it is a ring ! " 
 And so it was, but a white finger too ; 
 A hand, wrist, arm, a shoulder into view 
 
R In tltc K< no; s* Garden. 
 
 At the king's touch came quickly; then a face 
 Wistful and wan, but with a pallid grace, 
 Such as a lily has, that, plucked and worn, 
 Is white though faded, fragrant though forlorn. 
 And from the leafy cavern to the light 
 Of the fierce sun, the king with cheeks grown 
 
 white 
 Most strangely white the shrinking figure 
 
 drew, 
 
 And murmured with unwilling lips, " I knew 
 A face like this in years so long gone by 
 They might have never been, but for the high 
 And noble heart that fixed them there for me, 
 Firm-planted in the heaven of memory. 
 Who art thou?" 
 
 And the boy looked sadly up, 
 Then smiled, and took a massive silver cup 
 'Graven with quaint device, and set around 
 With jewels jacinth, sard, and black pearl 
 
 found 
 
 Rarely enough by divers and of size, 
 The amethyst, which heavy drinkers prize, 
 Coral and emerald. This rich cup he 
 From out his girdle took, and on his knee 
 
In the King s Garden. 9 
 
 Slow-dropping, lifted it to where 
 The king's eye met its inner surface ; there 
 Upon the polished curve the monarch saw 
 Wonder submerged by a swift wave of awe 
 His own passed baby-face, and then the eyes 
 Of his dead mother, who with mild surprise 
 Looked back at him. And then the mouth 
 Of his fair wife pomegranates from the south, 
 Fresh cleft, were never sweeter and the strife 
 Of nations, the fierce turmoils of his life, 
 The precious hours, now gone, that used to be 
 His recompense for kinghood, and the sea 
 Of bitterness that washed against his throne, 
 And the great griefs his later years had known. 
 All of his life he saw there mirrored plain, 
 And gazed, and gazed with mingled joy and 
 
 pain, 
 
 And old regret, and new-born longing, and 
 A hundred varied feelings. Yet the hand 
 That held the cup nor trembled nor drooped 
 
 down, 
 
 Until at last he only saw his crown 
 Sparkling against the silver, and beyond 
 A sight of grace indeed for maidens fond 
 
IO /// tJtc Kings Canlcn. 
 
 The lad's pale face, with dark eyes fixed on 
 
 his 
 
 Immovable as some far planet is. 
 And the king trembled why, he could not 
 
 tell. 
 
 From distant towers he heard the sunset bell ; 
 Above the palace wall the white moon rose 
 And shed its gleam upon the garden close ; 
 A sea-breeze stirred the brilliant blossoms 
 
 hung 
 
 On slender stems. The birds, with nests among 
 The ilex boughs, began their evening hymn ; 
 And -lo ! the royal sight was growing dim 
 From olden memories, that set to tears 
 The music silenced in those vanished years. 
 So, stretching forth his hand, the monarch said, 
 His palm laid lightly on the golden head 
 Of the strange lad, "What art thou?" 
 
 Who at last 
 Spake, fading with the answer, 
 
 " The King's Past." 
 
 So we, who are not kings but put away, 
 Sadly enough sometimes, each passing day 
 
In the King s Garden. 1 1 
 
 And then forget it, feel a presence near 
 
 In lonely hours ; a voice falls on the ear 
 
 Melodious, strange, yet half-familiar : so 
 
 We turn and see once more the grievous woe, 
 
 Bright dreams made real, mistakes, and good 
 
 deeds done 
 
 We thought perhaps were hid from light of sun. 
 Ah me ! well is it that some things there be 
 To stir the placid deeps of memory; 
 And, like the king, through misty vistas vast, 
 We watch the resurrection of our past. 
 
12 My Birthdays. 
 
 MY BIRTHDAYS. 
 
 TTOW like the beads upon a rosary slip 
 1 My birthdays through my fingers ! Each 
 
 one bears 
 
 Its own prayer with it, but, indeed, the prayers 
 Pause at the cross, and then upon my lip 
 Lingers the longest of them all to sip 
 The fitful striving of my soul, that wears 
 My spirit with its passion and despairs 
 Of rising to fulfilment. 
 
 Prayers may trip 
 
 Sometimes, however high the soul is sent 
 Towards Heaven with them ; and, alas, I think 
 Mayhap I dwell upon my cross too long, 
 Noting its burden*. To be penitent 
 For sin is not enough ; the heart must link 
 \\ith penitence its own triumphal song. 
 
My Birthdays. 13 
 
 Yet burdens are so heavy, and they eat 
 
 So oft into the very heart of things 
 
 And take the life out. Even the mighty wings 
 
 Of song will droop beneath the burning heat 
 
 And struggles of the day. 
 
 These years are sweet 
 As honey often, but they have their stings 
 From those who seek the sweetness. Each one 
 
 clings 
 
 Close to my hands as I its prayer repeat. 
 Oh, they are few, as older men count years, 
 So few, and yet they held undone so much 
 Worthy the doing; therein lies the loss. 
 But oft I could not see to do for tears, 
 And now this last one slips beneath my touch, 
 And once again the prayers have reached the 
 
 cross. 
 
14 A Marblchcad Legend. 
 
 A MARBLEHEAD LEGEND. 
 
 to the heart of the ocean there, 
 Where fields are green and the rocks are 
 bare, 
 
 And twittering sea-birds beat the air 
 With wings as restless as feet that tread 
 Its ghost-haunted shores, lies Marblehead. 
 
 The fishing-smacks to its bays come in, 
 And just below are the lights of Lynn, 
 While long Nahant with its finger thin 
 Points always out to the mystic place 
 On the other side of the ocean's space. 
 
 In days that were old when these were young, 
 These old gray houses with mosses hung, 
 And long ere yonder cracked bell had rung 
 Its jubilant peal as men made known 
 The hate they flung at an earthly throne; 
 
A Marblehead Legend. 15 
 
 When clover grew where the lanes to-day 
 
 Wind in and out their tortuous way, 
 
 Here to the church and there to the bay, 
 
 A Spanish galleon rode afar 
 
 Beyond that point with its lighthouse star. 
 
 'Twas laden with riches heavily, 
 And brave, strong men on its decks trod free, 
 When the bride on board came forth to see 
 The rocks that glowed in the sunset's red 
 On the rough, dark shores of Marblehead. 
 
 But night drew near, and the pirates bold 
 Swarmed over the vessel, stern and hold, 
 And the Spaniards fell 'mid their silks and 
 
 gold; 
 
 While one lived only who best had died 
 The* Spanish admiral's English bride. 
 
 They brought her here to the beach we tread ; 
 They brought her living and left her dead 
 The first great sin upon Marblehead. 
 And when the year to that night comes 'round, 
 In moonlit calm or the tempest's sound, 
 
1 6 A Marblcliead Legend. 
 
 Above and over all sounds that be, 
 The fisherman in his boat at sea, 
 And the maid that is sleeping peacefully, 
 Hear out on the night air loud and clear 
 A woman shrieking in pain and fear. 
 
 And do you tell me it is not so, 
 Her voice died, too, in the long ago? 
 You may speak truly, I do not know. 
 But yet I feel it were well to think 
 Her voice still lives by the water's brink. 
 
 For sin can never be hid so deep 
 It shall not out from its cover creep, 
 And ghosts in our hearts do never sleep; 
 While a man I met this morning said 
 He had heard her cries at Marblehead. 
 
From a Field. 17 
 
 FROM A FIELD. 
 
 TJERE is a field of yellow buttercups, 
 
 Yellow as gold, but the wide-roaming bee 
 
 Passes them by, and takes long lingering sups 
 
 From the thick flowers on yonder locust-tree. 
 
 And yet my buttercups they bend and glint 
 Beneath the soothing whispers of the breeze, 
 
 Nor ever give to me a single hint 
 
 Of why they are neglected by the bees. 
 
 I take one home and put it in a vase, 
 A slender glass an old Venetian wrought, 
 
 And there the pretty blossom nods and sways 
 As if distressed by some regretful thought. 
 
 Ah, no, I do it wrong ! It is to me 
 
 The floweret gently waves its golden shield, 
 
 Because, unlike the wandering, tricksy bee, 
 I find how much of sweetness it can yield. 
 
1 8 From a Field. 
 
 Like a bright bit of sunshine in my room 
 It gleams from out my precious little glass, 
 
 And I am conquered by a meadow-bloom, 
 A gold-capped priest who chanced my way 
 to pass. 
 
 For it has settled all my weird distrust, 
 All my unrest it quiets by its grace : 
 
 And grieving fancies blow away like dust 
 When the wild wind sweeps on in wanton race. 
 
 Ah, little yellow blossom of the mead! 
 
 Why should you bloom and then to-morrow 
 
 die? 
 I may not know. I plucked you in my need, 
 
 And what you brought me none can tell but I. 
 
 Then wave before me still your shining shield, 
 And face me bravely who have seemed your 
 
 foe, 
 
 I pulled you ruthlessly from yonder field, 
 And having filled your mission you will go. 
 
 So I who fain would be ns great and grand 
 As others who have gone before must be 
 
From a Field. 19 
 
 Content as you to grow beneath God's hand 
 In the small field where He has planted me. 
 
 I lay aside the restless discontent, 
 
 I let the world that seeks for sweets go by, 
 If you fulfilled your mission as God meant, 
 
 O little blossom, may not sometime I ? 
 
2O /;/ Arabia. 
 
 IN ARABIA. 
 
 1 HOOSE thou between ! " and to his enemy 
 The Arab chief a brawny hand dis- 
 played, 
 Wherein, like moonlight on a sullen sea, 
 
 Gleamed the gray scimetar's enamelled blade. 
 
 "Choose thou between death at my hand and 
 
 thine ! 
 Close in my power, my vengeance I may 
 
 wreak, 
 Yet hesitate to strike. A hate like mine 
 
 Is noble still. Thou hast thy choosing, 
 speak ! " 
 
 And Ackbar stood. About him all the band 
 That hailed his captor chieftain, with grave 
 eyes 
 
/// Arabia. 21 
 
 His answer waited, while that heavy hand 
 Stretched like a bar between him and the 
 skies. 
 
 Straight in the face before him Ackbar sent 
 A sneer of scorn, and raised his noble head ; 
 
 " Strike ! " and the desert monarch, as content, 
 Rehung the weapon at his girdle red. 
 
 Then Ackbar nearer crept and lifted high 
 His arms toward the heaven so far and blue 
 
 Wherein the sunset rays began to die, 
 While o'er the band a deeper silence grew. 
 
 " Strike ! I am ready ! Didst thou think to see 
 A son of Gheva spill upon the dust 
 
 His noble blood ? Didst hope to have my knee 
 Bend at thy feet, and with one mighty thrust 
 
 " The life thou hatest flee before thee here ? 
 
 Shame on thee ! on thy race ! Art thou the 
 
 one 
 Who hast so long his vengeance counted dear ? 
 
 My hate is greater ; I did strike thy son, 
 
22 /// Arabia. 
 
 " Thy one son, Noumid, dead before my face : 
 And by the swiftest courser of my stud 
 
 Sent to thy door his corpse. Aye, one might 
 
 trace 
 Their flight across the desert by his blood. 
 
 " Strike ! for my hate is greater than thy own ! " 
 But with a frown the Arab moved away, 
 
 \Yulked to a distant palm and stood alone, 
 With eyes that looked where purple moun- 
 tains lay. 
 
 This for an instant : then he turned again 
 Towards the place where Ackbar waited still, 
 
 Walking as one benumbed with bitter pain, 
 Or with a hateful mission to fulfil. 
 
 " Strike, for I hate thee ! " Ackbar cried once 
 
 more. 
 
 " Nay, but my hate I cannot find ! " said now 
 His enemy. " Thy freedom I restore. 
 
 ! life were worse than death to such n. 
 
 thou." 
 
In Arabia. 23 
 
 So with his gift of life the Bedouin slept 
 
 That night untroubled ; but when dawn broke 
 through 
 
 The purple East, and o'er his eyelids crept 
 The long, thin fingers of the light, he drew 
 
 A heavy breath and woke : Above him shone 
 A lifted dagger "Yea, he gave thee life, 
 
 But I give death ! " came in fierce undertone. 
 And Ackbar died. It was dead Noumid's 
 wife. 
 
24 My Sailor. 
 
 MY SAILOR. 
 
 TIE lay at my side on that eastern hill, 
 
 My brave, sweet lad with the golden hair, 
 And gazed at the vessels which seemed to fill 
 The rippling breadth of the harbor there ; 
 
 The black-hulled vessels from over the sea, 
 The white-sailed vessels that came and went. 
 
 "I am going to sail away," said he, 
 
 " To sail some day to my heart's content ! 
 
 " I shall see the waving of south-land palms, 
 The dark, fierce fronts of the icebergs tall, 
 
 And gather the grapes, as a beggar alms, 
 From vines on some Spanish convent's wall." 
 
 Then he drew my hand from beneath his chin, 
 And trailed my fingers across his lips ; 
 
My Sailor. 25 
 
 " Yes, we both will sail from this town of Lynn 
 In one of those staunch old black-prowed 
 ships." 
 
 So one Summer evening his ship set sail 
 And floated off in the twilight grim ; 
 
 I heaped up the vessel with blossoms pale 
 And wept that I could not follow him. 
 
 And I cannot say that the palms are there, 
 Nor icy mountains he longed to see ; 
 
 But I know he sailed into lands more fair 
 And stronger arms, when he went from me. 
 
 O, my brave, sweet lad ! how his angel eyes 
 Will gaze out over the ocean dim 
 
 That reaches from earth unto Paradise, 
 Till I set my sail and follow him. 
 
26 Two. 
 
 TWO. 
 
 E loved two women ; one whose soul was 
 
 clean 
 
 As any lily growing on its stalk ; 
 And one with glowing eyes and sensuous mien, 
 Who fired him with her beauty and her talk. 
 
 The pure one loved him to the day he died, 
 But when he died his dearest friend she wed. 
 
 The wanton from the wild world drew aside, 
 And no man saw her face till she was dead. 
 
A Rhyme of Slimmer. 27 
 
 A RHYME OF SUMMER. 
 
 PHE daisies nodded in the grass, the butter- 
 cups were sleeping, 
 
 And just across the river sang the farmers at 
 their reaping ; 
 
 Upon the hills, so blue and far, the maple- 
 leaves were showing 
 
 Their pallid beauty in the breeze that from the 
 sea was blowing. 
 
 A little maid came through the land with song 
 and rippling laughter ; 
 
 The buttercups made way for her, the daisies 
 nodded after. 
 
 A strong young farmer saw her pause beside 
 
 the parting river; 
 She drew a lily from its depth with golden 
 
 heart a-quiver. 
 
28 A Rhyme of Sinunicr. 
 
 "Thou art more fair than lilies are," said he 
 
 uith head uplifted; 
 And threw a poppy, which the stream swift to 
 
 the maiden drifted. 
 She set the flowers within her hair, the red 
 
 and white together; 
 A cloud grew black before the sun and rainy 
 
 was the weather. 
 
 He came across the river then, this farmer, 
 from his mowing; 
 
 He heeded not the water's depth, he cared not 
 for its flowing. 
 
 " O love ! " said he, " if gleaming sun and cloud- 
 less skies o'erlean us, 
 
 The river's barring width may roll unpassed, 
 untried between us ; 
 
 But when loud thunder fills the air, and clouds 
 and rain come over, 
 
 I'd cross the ocean to your side, I am no fair- 
 day lover ! " 
 
 And so one noon the village bells rang out 
 across the river, 
 
A Rhyme of Summer. 29 
 
 Their music set the buttercups and daisies all 
 
 a-shiver, 
 While some one drew a lily from the stream 
 
 so blithely flowing, 
 And plucked a blood-red poppy that amid the 
 
 wheat was growing ; 
 The maiden set them in her hair the red 
 
 and white together 
 With many a smile, a tear or two, and glances 
 
 at the weather. 
 
 They passed beneath the chapel's shade the 
 
 farmer and the maiden 
 Where arches crossed above their heads, with 
 
 snowy blossoms laden, 
 And in that place of holy calm the binding 
 
 words were spoken ; 
 He in his heart bore out the truth, she on her 
 
 hand the token. 
 The years went by, and some were bright and 
 
 some were clouded over, 
 But ever stood he at her side, he was no 
 
 fair-day lover. 
 
30 A Song of Rain. 
 
 A SONG OF RAIN. 
 
 T^HE rain came over the mountain, 
 
 From a little town beyond, 
 To sprinkle the dust in the roadway, 
 And the lilies in the pond. 
 
 From the clover-sweetened meadow 
 The kine went up to the shed, 
 
 As the lightning flashed through heaven, 
 And the o'erfilled brooklet spread. 
 
 The buttercups bent and shivered, 
 While stricken leaves from the tree 
 
 Went sailing down to the river, 
 And thence to the mighty sea. 
 
 The rain passed on to the city, 
 And the clear blue sky once more 
 
A Song of Rain. 3 1 
 
 Stretched out in its tranquil beauty 
 Above the sea and the shore. 
 
 The cows went back to the clover, 
 While the children from the school 
 
 Ran merrily over the highway 
 For the lilies in the pool. 
 
 The rain of sorrow came over 
 
 Some distant hills in my life, 
 And the rolling of its thunder 
 
 Stirred a heart's rebellious strife. 
 
 I had not patience to shelter 
 Myself till the storm passed by 
 
 In the refuge of God's promise, 
 In the guiding of His eye. 
 
 But the rain in time went over 
 
 To some other life beyond, 
 And the warm, bright sunlight strengthened 
 
 The power of loving's bond. 
 
 To be sure, the storm had beaten 
 Some few frail twigs from my trees, 
 
32 A Song of Rain. 
 
 And I saw them pass my reaching 
 In the shoreless stretch of seas. 
 
 But I learned which boughs were strongest, 
 Which blossoms were brave to bear ; 
 
 While a richer incense sweetened 
 The cleansed and freshened air. 
 
 And yet, and yet I must wonder, 
 If the storm should come again, 
 
 Have I learned to walk with patience 
 Through its tumult and its pain ? 
 
 And yet, and yet I must wonder, 
 Would I care to find the sweet, 
 
 If to gain its fullest fragrance 
 I must walk with aching feet? 
 
 Ah, God ! shall I pass with meekness, 
 
 If the bitter rain comes down, 
 From my bloom-sweet field of living 
 
 To some refuge bare and brown? 
 
Failure. 33 
 
 FAILURE. 
 
 T AM so weary of it all ; and yet 
 
 See how my hands are bleeding with the 
 
 strain 
 
 Of trying to be brave, to conquer pain 
 And sorrow ; yea, and trying to forget, 
 That is the hardest of them all. I let 
 
 The sleet and snow blow over me, the rain 
 And roses of the Summer that would fain 
 With sweet caresses pay my sweet love's debt. 
 I cry to heaven as if there were some spot 
 Through which my pain and passion might 
 
 be heard; 
 
 But all must go for naught. No seraph band 
 Comforts or helps me. If I pray or not, 
 
 'Tis all the same ; no angel heart is stirred 
 To bring me balm, nor does Christ move 
 His hand. 
 
34 On an Antique Cainco. 
 
 ON AN ANTIQUE CAMEO. 
 
 ARVEN in sard, and quite as chastely cold 
 As the deep stone, a woman's face, a 
 
 Greek, 
 
 Or, mayhap, Roman. Gods ! if it could speak 
 This red-brown gem what stories might be 
 
 told 
 
 Of the old time when even slaves were bold, 
 And weakness only lay in being weak 
 Of nerve and muscle. Some patrician cheek 
 Lent for the jewel's grace its soft sweet mould, 
 The man who carved it may have won him 
 
 fame 
 
 Out of this deft, clear limning, and the maid, 
 (Or was she matron?) it were like to be 
 Her regal face was than her blood and name 
 Less regal. Now a tossing leaflet's shade 
 Is more substantial than their memory. 
 
Of Love. 35 
 
 OF LOVE. 
 
 '"TO meet thee? Why, to meet thee is to 
 
 draw 
 
 Long inward breaths of something more akin 
 To that great strength of strengths my soul 
 
 would win 
 
 Than I have known to learn to love the law 
 That governs loving. Faith ! I never saw 
 Thy face but that I read therein 
 How much I love thee, and it were a sin 
 To stifle love that has no fleck nor flaw. 
 Love grows so like the flower in yonder mead 
 That no man ever sowed, that God's own 
 
 hand 
 
 Planted and nourished with His sun and rain. 
 
 So true love grows. And, if thou hast no need 
 
 Of present love, still here for thee doth stand 
 
 Love in full blossom, bred of joy and pain. 
 
36 To be Dead. 
 
 TO BE DEAD. 
 
 V\7HAT is it to be dead? I think that I, 
 \Yhen I am dead, shall know no more of 
 
 pain, 
 
 Shall still be glad in sunshine or in rain ; 
 May, at my mood, unto the ones who lie 
 Fast bound in sleep and whom I love, draw 
 
 nigh 
 
 And nestle close, and kiss and kiss again 
 The sweet pink lips ; or when the sunbeams 
 
 wane 
 
 And soft stars shine serenely in the sky, 
 With veiling vapors o'er my spirit face, 
 And feet in silence shod, I may as now 
 Glide through the rooms where my small work 
 
 was done. 
 
 And those who sit within that haunted place 
 Shall say, " How near to us he is ! " And how 
 The dear, sad souls will long to see the sun ! 
 
The Passing of Summer. 37 
 
 THE PASSING OF SUMMER. 
 
 O HE gathers up her robes of green and gold, 
 The fair, sweet Summer, and across the 
 
 land 
 
 We see her go, with outward-reaching hand 
 Whose magic spreads its beauties manifold 
 Along the region by her sway controlled. 
 
 The trees, o'erhung with gorgeous banners, 
 
 stand 
 
 To see her pass them with a last command, 
 While all the world is draped in splendor bold. 
 
 She passes onward, from the lowlands first, 
 Then lays a reverent touch on every hill, 
 
 A smile of promise lighting up her face ; 
 The brooks are fain to quench her fateful thirst, 
 And glowing carpets line her roadway still, 
 The splendid queen departing from her 
 place. 
 
38 A Portrait. 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 TN the white sweetness of her dimpled chin 
 The pink points of her perfumed ringers 
 
 press, 
 
 And 'round her tremulous mouth's loveliness 
 The tears and smiles a sudden strife begin: 
 First one and then the other seems to win : 
 And o'er her drooping eyes a golden tress 
 Falls down to hide what else they might con- 
 fess 
 
 Their blue-veined lids are striving to shut in. 
 The yellow pearls that bind her throat about 
 \Vith her pale, bosom's throbbing rise or fall : 
 The while her thoughts like carrier-doves 
 
 have fled 
 
 To that far land where armies clash and shout, 
 And where, beyond love's reach, a soldier tall 
 With staring eyes and broken sword lies 
 dead. 
 
Sonnet. 39 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 IT OW can we say one man has lived in vain ? 
 
 ' Nay ! every soul that panteth into life 
 Is wonderful, because it hath had strife 
 With the great Death, and conquered, and shall 
 
 reign 
 
 Somewhere eternally, and throbs of pain 
 Have purified it. Yea, the earth is rife 
 With monarchs who have battled to the knife 
 And won their kingdoms, yet are free from stain. 
 Behold ! the meanest dolt bears the same spark 
 In him that triple-crowned genius bears, 
 And fights and wins the same. We have no 
 
 rule 
 
 By which to measure men, but in the dark 
 Of our own ignorance divide the tares 
 From wheat, and choose the teachers from the 
 
 school. 
 
4O Her Face. 
 
 HER FACE. 
 
 T WOULD not look upon thy face again, 
 Nor now nor ever, though it was as sweet 
 As new-blown rose to me when it would greet 
 
 My eyes in that old time of love-sick pain. 
 
 tender face ! how often have I lain 
 
 And on thee gazed in hours so passing fleet, 
 Consumed by all the fire of passion's heat; 
 And now I fear thee more than woe and bane. 
 
 1 would not look upon thy face, lest I 
 Might love it once again ; for know I well 
 
 My greatest weakness centres in that face, 
 That dear, sweet face, which, till some time I 
 
 die, 
 
 I have forsworn to love. And heaven or hell 
 Will be to find or miss thee in Death's 
 space. 
 
Patience. 41 
 
 PATIENCE. 
 
 A SWEET-FACED maiden calm as marble is, 
 
 But powerful to stand against the blows 
 Of an unyielding Fate. No lustre glows 
 From out her eyes save that of peace, no kiss 
 Of passion ever touched her lips I wis, 
 
 Though their full curve is dewy as the rose 
 That, coloring mid-summer, buds and blows : 
 Albeit they are less tremulous than this. 
 .She teaches to endure, she lays a hand 
 
 Both firm and cool upon the wounded heart, 
 And then her soft breath fans the heated 
 
 brow, 
 
 And every quivering nerve at her command 
 Is still. 
 
 O Patience ! why did'st thou depart 
 Ere I had learned to be as calm as thou? 
 
42 Questionings. 
 
 QUESTIONINGS. 
 
 \ 17 HERE waits the woman I shall one day 
 
 claim 
 
 The right to call my own, the one whom I 
 Shall love with that great love which, till I 
 
 die, 
 
 Will feed my heart with its enduring flame? 
 For I, who have known many women, blame 
 The Fate which has not given me to lie 
 Prostrate with love that should be grand and 
 
 high, 
 
 A fact, a conscious truth, and no mere name. 
 And where is growing, too, the laurel bough 
 That all my life long I have felt was mine? 
 And where is the content my soul has said 
 Should one day come to it? And when and 
 
 how, 
 
 And why and what? Who plants the seed- 
 ling fine 
 
 Whose blossom I shall hold when I am 
 dead ? 
 
Questionings. 43 
 
 O foolish questions ! O unwise unrest ! 
 Who answers me ? I only have to go, 
 Day after day, along my way, and know 
 That all things come in turn, as it is best : 
 To simply live is simply to be blest ; 
 And doubtless he is like to overthrow 
 His builded hopes who strives to peer below 
 The dim foundations, which, were all confest, 
 Rise only upon vain imaginings, 
 
 Or, haply, on some whisper of his Fate, 
 Half-heard in some strange silence. Let 
 
 all be 
 
 As it shall come : nor let bright Fancy's wings 
 Your fond desires so foolishly elate 
 
 That what shall come shall come too sud- 
 denly. 
 
44 A Glove. 
 
 A GLOVE. 
 
 A H, yesterday I found a glove 
 
 Grown shabby, full of tiny rips, 
 But dear to me because my love 
 
 Once through it thrust her finger-tips. 
 
 A glove one would not care to see 
 Upon his arm in public street ; 
 
 Yet here I own there is for me 
 No relic in the world more sweet. 
 
 A faint, far scent of lavender 
 
 Steals from it, as the clover smelt 
 
 When through the fields I walked with her 
 And plucked the blossoms for her belt. 
 
 Faith ! but I loved the little hand 
 That used to wear this time-stained thing! 
 
A Glove. 45 
 
 Its slightest gesture of command 
 Would set my glad heart fluttering. 
 
 Or if it touched my finger, so, 
 
 Or smoothed my hair why should I speak 
 Of those old days? It makes, you know, 
 
 The tears brim over on my cheek. 
 
 Poor stained, worn-out, long-wristed glove ! 
 
 I think it almost understands 
 That reverently and with love 
 
 I hold it in my trembling hands. 
 
 And that it is so dear to me, 
 
 With its old fragrance, far and faint, 
 
 Because my mother wore it, she, 
 
 On earth my love, in Heaven my saint. 
 
46 Golden-Rod and Asters. 
 
 GOLDEN-ROD AND ASTERS. 
 
 OOME gaudy prince has stayed here over- 
 
 night : 
 For look, the road-side gleams in splendor 
 
 bright 
 With gold-embroidered plumes that decked his 
 
 train, 
 
 While stars of purple amethyst, like rain, 
 Have fallen from his robes. 
 
 Mayhap he grew 
 
 Weary of rioting, and straightway threw 
 His gorgeousness away; then, smiling, went 
 Clad in humility and sweet content, 
 With tender lips and eyes, and open palms, 
 To ask for and, receiving, to give alms; 
 While the rich garments that he laid aside 
 Symbols of earthly glory and of pride 
 The mighty grace of some strange sylvan god 
 Has changed to asters and to golden-rod. 
 
At Evening. 
 
 AT EVENING. 
 
 T TPON the hills the sunset glories lie, 
 
 The amaranth, the crimson and the gold. 
 Beside the sinuous brook that ripples by, 
 The dark, damp ferns their feathery grace 
 unfold. 
 
 The little yellow blossom of the field, 
 That shone a jewel in the splendid day, 
 
 Holds one small dew-drop in its bosom sealed, 
 And by to-morrow will have passed away. 
 
 The village windows gleam with gorgeous light, 
 And in the east a purple cloud hangs low, 
 
 A few brown birds sing out their hymn to night 
 On shadowy boughs then spread their wings 
 and go. 
 
 Along the road the men that sow and reap 
 With heavy footsteps stir the whitened dust. 
 
48 At 
 
 And up the sky illimitable steep 
 
 The moon climbs slowly to her sacred trust. 
 
 Oh, grand, strange trust ! to be a light to those 
 Who lie all night impatient for the morn, 
 
 \Yhen the fresh fragrance rises from the rose, 
 And the sweet dew begems the sharpest thorn. 
 
 The stars, those sleepless eyes, peer through 
 
 the chinks 
 That pierce the shrouding darkness of night's 
 
 walls. 
 Each thirsty flower its draught of dampness 
 
 drinks, 
 And here and there a perfumed petal falls. 
 
 Then from the east a salty breath comes up 
 To cool the heated bosom of the world, 
 
 It lays its lip upon the lily's cup, 
 
 Whose white, soft edge its kiss leaves all 
 empearled. 
 
 And upward to the splendor of the stars 
 The fragrant moisture rises like a veil. 
 
At Evening. 49 
 
 Night shuts its gate and drops the heavy 
 
 bars, 
 
 And somewhere morning waits, supreme and 
 pale. 
 
50 She and L 
 
 SHE AND I. 
 
 A ND I said, " She is dead, I could not brook 
 Again on that marvellous face to look." 
 
 But they took my hand and they led me in, 
 And left me alone with my nearest kin. 
 
 Once again alone in that silent place, 
 My beautiful dead and I, face to face. 
 
 And I could not speak, and I could not stir, 
 But I stood and with love I looked on her. 
 
 With love, and with rapture, and strange sur- 
 prise 
 I looked on the lips and the close-shut eyes; 
 
 On the perfect rest and the calm content 
 And the happiness in her features blent, 
 
She and L 51 
 
 And the thin white hands that had wrought so 
 
 much, 
 Now nerveless to kisses or fevered touch. 
 
 My beautiful dead who had known the strife, 
 The pain, and the sorrow that we call Life. 
 
 Who had never faltered beneath her cross, 
 Nor murmured when loss followed swift on loss. 
 
 And the smile that sweetened her lips alway 
 Lay light on her Heaven-closed mouth that day. 
 
 I smoothed from her hair a silver thread, 
 And I wept, but I could not think her dead. 
 
 I felt, with a wonder too deep for speech, 
 She could tell what only the angels teach. 
 
 And down over her mouth I leaned my ear, 
 Lest there might be something I should not 
 hear. 
 
 Then out from the silence between us stole 
 A message that reached to my inmost soul. 
 
52 She a fid I. 
 
 "Why weep you to-day who have wept before 
 That the road was rough I must journey o'er? 
 
 " Why mourn that my lips can answer you not 
 When anguish and sorrow are both forgot ? 
 
 "Behold, all my life I have longed for rest, 
 Yea, e'en when I held you upon my breast. 
 
 "And now that I lie in a breathless sleep, 
 Instead of rejoicing you sigh and weep. 
 
 " My dearest, I know that you would not break 
 If you could my slumber and have me wake. 
 
 "For though life was full of the things that 
 
 bless, 
 I have never till now known happiness." 
 
 Then I dried my tears, and with lifted head 
 I left my mother, my beautiful dead. 
 
The Deserted House. 53 
 
 THE DESERTED HOUSE. 
 
 T T IGH on the headland it stands, 
 
 The woodbine clasps it with tremulous 
 hands, 
 
 And the scarlet leaves through the windows 
 blow, 
 
 And the waves are fierce below. 
 
 Bare and dismantled it is; 
 The sunlight creeps in through the crevices 
 And over the stucco and wainscot plays 
 As it used in other days. 
 
 But then its glimmering tone 
 
 Through curtains of muslin and lace-work shone 
 
 Over satin-bound chairs and draperies, 
 
 And pallid piano-keys. 
 
 And now the casements are clear 
 
 Of all save the tendrils that flutter here, 
 
54 The Deserted House. 
 
 Or some weary bird which, questioning flies 
 To the sill with mild surprise. 
 
 The rain has soddened the floors, 
 A wandering touch on the creaking doors 
 And they yield, while my feet are free to go 
 All over the mansion low. 
 
 The walls they will tell no tale 
 Of laughter and cheer, or of mournful wail; 
 Yet one cannot speak in this house of gloom 
 As he could in modern room. 
 
 So I press the keyless locks, 
 And standing again on the headland rocks 
 Look over the sea that reaches so far 
 With neither limit nor bar. 
 
 There is the wasting away, 
 
 Art given over to blight and decay; 
 
 Here is the freedom of God, with the great 
 
 Glory of Nature's estate. 
 
 Why ever wonder again 
 
 What mingled story of pleasure and pain 
 
The Deserted House. 55 
 
 Was written within the bond of these walls 
 Where the sunlight faints and falls ? 
 
 Why question ? It stands, has stood 
 In its place for evil alone or good, 
 And naught that is left in power of man 
 Can lighten desertion's ban. 
 
 I pass down the cliff : no more 
 Shall my fingers move the shivering door, 
 No soul has the solemn right to intrude 
 On such ancient solitude. 
 
 Sometime it will fall and lie 
 Unheeded by thought or by human eye, 
 While woodbine, and asters, and golden-rod 
 May shield it from all but God. 
 
56 The Statue in tlic Wood. 
 
 THE STATUE IN THE WOOD. 
 
 '"THERE was a statue standing in a wood, 
 
 A gracious statue of a youth divine 
 Who lightly poised upon one arched foot stood, 
 As though prepared to quit that leafy shrine. 
 
 I marvelled at the cunning artist's skill 
 
 Who so could limn each muscle, feature, 
 grace : 
 
 Even -the marble semblance of a hill 
 
 Was chiselled carefully as the sweet face. 
 
 And then I saw a little trembling vine 
 
 That clung with slight hold to the columned 
 
 base, 
 And sent its small shoots clambering toward 
 
 the fine, 
 
 Nude shape, whose beauty peopled that dull 
 place. 
 
The Statue in the Wood. 57 
 
 I stood enrapt, and for the moment knew 
 The passion that those ancient heathen felt, 
 
 Who formed their idols rich in shape and hue 
 And down before the rare perfection knelt. 
 
 Yea, I admired, heart and soul, and went ; 
 And all day long, and still for many days, 
 
 My sense was strong with a supreme content, 
 And all my thoughts turned backward still 
 to praise. 
 
 Years afterward I journeyed through that land 
 Where Summer smiles a half year round, 
 once more, 
 
 And so I thought again to go and stand 
 Before the statue as in days of yore. 
 
 With hasty steps I passed the woodland through, 
 Came to the spot and paused, before me still 
 
 The golden sunlight shone and song-birds flew, 
 But vacant was the chiselled, marble hill. 
 
 Prostrate before the pedestal it lay, 
 
 That god-like form, and round about it 
 clung 
 
58 The Statue in the Wood. 
 
 The tendrils of the little vine ahvay, 
 
 And on the perfect limbs dark mosses hung. 
 
 Tears filled my eyes. "Aye, man may do his 
 best 
 
 In love and art, and sanctify a shrine ! 
 But Nature holds the power within her breast 
 
 To overthrow his efforts by a vine. 
 
 "And hand-created idols only serve 
 
 To point man's follies homeward to his 
 heart." 
 
 And still that statue, grand in line and curve, 
 Lies prostrate there, a sacrifice of art. 
 
Forgotten. 59 
 
 FORGOTTEN. 
 
 A MONG some cast-off trinkets laid away 
 Within a curious box of Eastern make, 
 I found a sandal casket closed to-day, 
 Which had been quite forgotten since that May 
 I kissed the contents for a dead boy's sake. 
 
 Aye ! and I wept, and bitter tears they were, 
 Although my memory held the things so 
 
 slight : 
 For the brown scentless bloom had nestled 
 
 there 
 
 Above his still heart, and the wisp of hair 
 Had shaded brows forever hid from sight. 
 
 I thought that day I never could forget 
 
 How well I loved him, as I sorrowed so : 
 But still, although my eyes have oft been wet, 
 It has not been that we no more have met, 
 Nor for his lying thus beneath the snow. 
 
60 Forgotten. 
 
 Ah! live and love, then die and be forgot, 
 
 So roll the cycles of our years away; 
 Nor can we hope to find a single spot 
 Wherein our memories shall fail to blot, 
 And blur, and be effaced some sunny day. 
 
 Man's love is nothing! mind you, I who speak 
 
 Do love as strongly as man ever loved : 
 But oh ! 'twere foolishness to think one cheek 
 Shall lose its glow forever, when I seek 
 That haven our gross knowledge ne'er has 
 proved. 
 
 Yet I who sing this know that there are those 
 Who love me better than aught else on earth, 
 
 And follow me with prayers till daylights close ; 
 
 But when I pass the reach of human throes, 
 I know as well they will forget my birth. 
 
 So little box of sandal and of pearl, 
 
 An o'er-wise lesson you have taught to-day 
 To me who had forgotten flower and curl, 
 Which, wild with grief as any love-lorn girl, 
 Within your case that Spring I laid away. 
 
Forgotten. 6 1 
 
 I had forgot ! poor foolish words are these 
 
 To offer at the dust-bound shrine I raised 
 To him I loved, and where upon my knees 
 I vowed, at each recurring May, though seas 
 Should intervene, to mourn him whom I 
 praised. 
 
 I had forgot ! well, let it be so ! I 
 
 Shall gain no other epitaph than this. 
 Let those who love me best so pass me by 
 With these three words while gazing where I 
 
 lie, 
 I had forgot ! 'tis better so, I wis. 
 
62 Remembered. 
 
 REMEMBERED. 
 
 TVTAY, men have been who died to life and 
 me ; 
 
 And looking back, the memory of all 
 The love I felt for them, the tears as free 
 As rain in autumn, seem a fantasy 
 
 Behind the years that fall. 
 
 But him! I have not looked upon his face 
 For years, indeed, and far from mine his 
 
 way; 
 Yet just as well through time and distance' 
 
 space 
 
 I can perceive the olden, loving grace, 
 As he were here to-day. 
 
 He lives within my world ; however dim 
 
 My sight might grow, however closed my 
 ears, 
 
Remembered. 63 
 
 I still could feel his warm lip on the brim 
 Of life's full goblet, and I know from him 
 No lapse could hide my tears. 
 
 Oh, life is love and love is life, be sure ! 
 
 And once loved, always must that love be 
 
 strong ; 
 
 Through every wave of strife it will endure, 
 From every bitter battle come more pure, 
 
 And stand in right or wrong. 
 
 Death only, as in pity, throws a veil 
 Across the burning of its mighty flame ; 
 
 Death only makes the crimson strength grow 
 pale; 
 
 Before death, only, love will ever quail, 
 And not for grief or shame. 
 
 Oh, not because I loved this man the best 
 
 Do I remember all his gracious ways ! 
 The man I had forgotten in his rest 
 Held just as great a place within my breast, 
 And garnered more my praise. 
 
64 Remembered. 
 
 But he is safe. If we remembered such 
 
 As pass beyond us, with our present love, 
 If all day long we hungered for their touch, 
 AYould not the burden weary us overmuch? 
 Would not life endless prove ? 
 
 Wlien time comes to it, all will be made plain 
 For them, for us. But those who still may 
 tread 
 
 This earth we know, can find remembrance gain ; 
 
 Forge tfulness for them were greater pain 
 Than memory for the dead. 
 
 Then blame me not, because for him who lies 
 
 Beneath the snow I have no grieving tear ; 
 \Yhile for my friend who looks on foreign skies 
 I wait and long. The dead one is so wise 
 He knows how passing dear 
 
 He was to me ; and he who lives can feel 
 My love about him, though we should not 
 
 speak 
 
 Each unto each for years. One has the weal 
 Of death ; the other bears the binding seal 
 Of life and life is weak: 
 
A Lock of Hair. 65 
 
 A LOCK OF HAIR. 
 
 TIER eyes were full of truth and light, 
 ' Her slender hands were very white, 
 Her pretty voice was clear and strong, 
 And often trembled on the air 
 In some old-fashioned sacred song, 
 While I I smoothed her fragrant hair. 
 
 She used to wear this in a braid 
 
 My dainty, clear-complexioned maid 
 
 A bright brown braid, with gleams of gold ; 
 
 And oh ! her face, so sweet and fair, 
 
 I loved it with a love untold; 
 
 And now I love this lock of hair. 
 
 Oh ! beautiful she was, and true, 
 And where the lovely lilacs grew 
 I used to watch her at her play; 
 And now she sleeps forever there, 
 
66 A Lock of Hair. 
 
 Where sunbeams lie the livelong day, 
 As once they glimmered in this hair. 
 
 I dare not pass her place of rest, 
 
 Where birds that loved her make their nest; 
 
 I think my heart would break, and I 
 
 Should never say another prayer 
 
 With faith that He would hear my cry, 
 
 Who left me just this lock of hair. 
 
 My little sister, far from me, 
 
 My darling dark-eyed Emily ! 
 
 How much doth lie between us two, 
 
 How much of distance, time and care! 
 
 Or are these nothing more to you 
 
 Than is this curling lock of hair? 
 
 Sweet ! surely God is good, and so 
 Our hearts and lips can wait to know 
 How some day, somewhere, they shall meet 
 And find the answer to their prayer. 
 Yes, some time God will answer, sweet, 
 My cry above this lock of hair! 
 
The Muezzin. 67 
 
 THE MUEZZIN. 
 
 purple hills and azure skies, 
 Tall, slender palms, that rise and rise 
 In plume-like masses towards the sun : 
 While narrow streamlets curve and run 
 As blue as Leda's lovely eyes. 
 
 Along the lofty parapet 
 
 A swarth muezzin paces yet, 
 
 Although the morning call to prayer 
 Long since was sounded on the air, 
 
 And hours must pass ere day will set. 
 
 He leans and looks and listens. Far 
 Below him, like a fallen star, 
 
 A gilded sandal lies unbound 
 
 From some swift foot that spurned the ground 
 Where the great mosque's long shadows are. 
 
68 The Muezzin. 
 
 lie holds his robe across his face, 
 And creeping on from space to space, 
 From stair to stair in columned line, 
 He passes from the prophet's shrine 
 And lifts the sandal from its place. 
 
 
 
 What dark muezzin ever knew 
 Such eyes like iris moist with dew? 
 What drunken bee e'er took his sips 
 From roses sweet as Leda's lips? 
 Those lips that trembled as she flew. 
 
 First woman in the minaret, 
 She came for love of Ashtoblet, 
 
 And dropped her sandal as she fled, 
 While slept the city like the dead 
 Who nor remember nor forget. 
 
 And once again the sunset's glare, 
 And once again the call to prayer, 
 And once again Night throws her veil 
 About the lives that faint and fail, 
 And Ashtoblet upon the stair. 
 
The Muezzin. 69 
 
 No call is sounded from his post 
 When pallid Morning like a ghost 
 
 Comes stealing through the city's gate, 
 And for a while the people wait 
 About the mosque, a silent host. 
 
 Then one, with finger at his lip 
 And heavy feet that pause and trip 
 And eyes that scarcely see for fright, 
 Comes stumbling on in woful plight 
 And guides to where the fountains drip. 
 
 There the muezzin Ashtoblet 
 
 Lies dead on banks of violet, 
 
 One red line on his dusky throat : 
 And to his heart, where all may note, 
 
 He holds a gilded sandal yet. 
 
7O /// the Rain. 
 
 IN THE RAIN. 
 
 '"THE black clouds roll across the sun, 
 Their shadows darken all the grass: 
 The songs the sweet birds sang are done, 
 And on wide wings the minstrels pass. 
 
 There comes a sudden sheet of rain 
 
 That beats the tender field-flowers down, 
 
 And in the narrow fragrant lane 
 
 The white road turns a muddy brown. 
 
 And then the clouds roll slowly back, 
 The sun again shines fierce and hot, 
 
 The cows come down the sodden track 
 And munch the wet grass in the lot. 
 
 The flowers their moistened faces raise, 
 The wet leaves in the sunbeams gleam, 
 
 The birds, refreshed, resume their lays, 
 The children paddle in the stream. 
 
In the Ram. 71 
 
 How like to life such days as this ! 
 
 The brightness and the storm of tears ; 
 So much to gain, so much to miss, 
 
 The sudden overflow of fears. 
 
 Yet though the song is hushed a while, 
 We know 'twill break forth by-and-by, 
 
 We know behind the clouds the smile 
 Of radiant glory still doth lie. 
 
 Oh, let the sudden storm beat low 
 Our tenderest blossoms as it may ! 
 
 And let our sweetest song-birds go, 
 They will return some other day. 
 
 We shall forget the sheeted rain 
 
 And all that looks so dark and drear, 
 
 Just as we have forgot the pain 
 
 That seemed so hard to us last year. 
 
72 On the Bridge. 
 
 ON THE BRIDGE. 
 (FLORENCE, 1645.) 
 
 ur T*ELL me, my friend you loved him well, 
 
 I know, 
 
 But time enough has passed to kill your woe, 
 Or so at least to dull it, you may speak 
 His cherished name and not bedew your cheek 
 With tears I pray, how did Edgardo die ? 
 Is it the truth, when with averted eye, 
 With crimson face and fingers parted wide, 
 Men murmur softly, 'Twas in shame he died, 
 In wanton rankness?" 
 
 " He who said it lied ! 
 
 Were it the king himself, or courtier, priest, 
 Or cup-mad brawler at a midnight feast, 
 He lied most foully! Yes, I loved my friend; 
 Saw him by night and day, and did attend 
 Such gay delights as he partook of ; he 
 Was part and soul of perfect purity; 
 
On the Bridge. 73 
 
 Edgardo never stepped a foot aside 
 From honor's pathway, and the whisperer lied, 
 Whoe'er he was, that told of shame to him. 
 Why, I have had him when the night was dim 
 Cradled upon my heart, and could believe 
 My own beloved wife would me deceive 
 Whom I do know pure as the virgin gold 
 Clustered within the lily's sealed fold 
 Soon as that he would e'er have hid from me 
 One single deed, whatever it might be. 
 Listen ! 
 
 He loved a maid who was as sweet 
 As new-blown roses when their petals greet 
 The dewy morning's breaking, and as light 
 Of tread as thistle-blows in airy flight. 
 You knew my friend ! Not as are other men 
 Was he. We were together passing when 
 He saw her first ; we were together, too, 
 When next his eyes met hers. The Arno blue 
 Smiled, danced, and murmured underneath our 
 
 boat, 
 
 And from the maiden's forehead to her throat 
 I saw a glow like sunrise on far hills 
 Spread swiftly; while, as wine that spills 
 
74 On the Bridge. 
 
 Its ruby beauty from Venetian glass, 
 
 I watched a flush across his swart cheek pass. 
 
 " Day after day he met her ; day by day 
 Posted himself to cross her in her way. 
 At last he spoke, and she was quick to smile 
 And grasp his love with many a maiden wile. 
 To see them then was as though Paradise 
 Had shown the beauty that within it lies. 
 Her limpid eyes of blue, her chestnut hair, 
 By his dark splendor only showed more fair. 
 And by the charm of Love he grew beyond 
 The youth enraptured to the man most fond. 
 
 " Love is like some magician as it turns 
 Strange things to glory in the soul it burns. 
 Frail natures strengthen, strongest men grow 
 
 frail, 
 
 Vice turns to virtue, virtue oft may fail. 
 An Alchemist is Love, who has no care 
 Save just to work and bring his seed to 
 
 bear 
 
 Bear oftentimes poor fruit, and oftentimes 
 The dearest richness, or, it may be, crimes. 
 
On the Bridge. 75 
 
 " But, at the last, Edgardo came to grow 
 Distraught and restless, starting as a doe 
 At sudden knocks or flashings of the light 
 And, waking startled in the still midnight 
 Would rush across the floor, about to fling 
 The casement wide and through its void to 
 
 spring. 
 
 Strong as I am who oft, indeed, have thrown 
 Edgardo prostrate as an olive blown 
 By high sea winds, when in our friendly bouts 
 We wrestled at the noontime 'mid the shouts 
 Of boon companions in such freaks as these 
 I scarce could hold him surer than the breeze. 
 But one night waking, round about my neck 
 He threw his arms, and as though all the 
 
 wreck 
 Of hopes and dreams burst from his stranded 
 
 heart, 
 Through groans and tears that might have had 
 
 their start 
 
 In some sore-wounded god, he told me how 
 The maid he loved had broken every vow 
 So often pledged to him, and soon would wed 
 A lordly lover, one whose daily bread 
 
76 On the P>ru('-c. 
 
 \Yas at his call, who need but lift his hand 
 To gain the richest lady in the land. 
 
 " Then, when the morning broke, Edgardo went 
 His usual way and seemed to be content, 
 Save that his face grew thin ; his eyes so bright 
 I ofttimes thought they saw beyond the sight 
 Of mortal men. Once only did he show 
 Aggrievance ; when a comrade, laughing low, 
 Uttered some scathing taunt of her he bit 
 His under lip, and o'er the curve of it 
 
 I saw a thin red stream of blood flow down, 
 As, with a glance more full of scorn than frown 
 Toward the man, he rose as one might feel 
 Who on a crawling worm had set his heel. 
 She wedded. So, in time, did I. 
 
 Three years 
 
 Sped swiftly by with all their joys and fears, 
 And on the street I heard that she had come 
 Back to the place that was her childhood's 
 
 home. 
 Then it was said the lord she wed had cast 
 
 I 1 is wife away with tauntings of the past, 
 Her poorer youth, the lover who was still 
 
On the Bridge. 77 
 
 Unwed, and waited on her wavering will 
 To come to her. And rumors rose that she 
 Was careless of her honor, loved to see 
 The red wine brimming high within the cup, 
 Was known with men of vile repute to sup. 
 And then and then ah, pity me ! I heard 
 My friend was dying. He had caught a word 
 That slid through latticed windows rushed 
 
 within, 
 
 And found her with the comrade of her sin, 
 Who had his right hand raised, about to smite 
 The woman's face. As lightning through the 
 
 night, 
 
 Edgardo struck him, when he turned and drew 
 His polished steel and ran its sharpness through 
 My noble friend. 
 
 This, this is all ! Now go, 
 And unto every man whom you do know 
 Talks of his death as shame, I pray you say 
 What I have told you on the bridge this day. 
 If such a death as his be shame, then I 
 Crave, like my friend, a shameful death to 
 die ! " 
 
78 The Star's Mission. 
 
 THE STAR'S MISSION. 
 
 A BABY clasped its hands and slept: 
 
 Across its eyes like gentians blue 
 The veined white eyelids downward crept, 
 The red lips took a paler hue. 
 
 They raised it from the cradle low 
 
 And laid it in a harder bed, 
 Amid soft laces, and the glow 
 
 Of blossoms at its feet and head. 
 
 They hid it from the mother's sight 
 The mother with the empty arms 
 
 The sunshine glimmered blinding bright, 
 And all the field-flowers lost their charms. 
 
 The night came on with stars and dr\v 
 And clear calm moonlight, and the smell 
 
 Of moistened flower-cups and the few 
 J );ink mosses by the unused well. 
 
The Star's Mission. 79 
 
 And " Oh ! " the mother thought, " how bare 
 The earth can be of sweets ! " and still 
 
 The stars shone straightway through the air, 
 The asters nodded on the hill. 
 
 But all the world was narrowed down 
 To her for whom it once was wide 
 
 And crowded in the hillock brown 
 New-rounded on the meadow-side. 
 
 And then she saw one star that grew 
 
 Of separate lustre from the rest, 
 Its glorious radiance shimmered through 
 
 The frozen sorrow in her breast. 
 
 " Perhaps," she said, " it is the star 
 That led to where the Christ-child lay, 
 
 And I ? O, I am very far 
 
 From Him who took my child away ; 
 
 "I will arise and go to Him, 
 
 And pray for peace and righteous grace 
 To light the deathly shadows grim 
 
 That hover o'er my baby's face ! " 
 
8o The Star's Mission. 
 
 And peace descended from its height, 
 And earth regained its wonted charms, 
 
 The mother-heart shed warmth and light 
 On other children in her arms; 
 
 But still she kept one place apart 
 And none but God might enter there, 
 
 The sacred corner of her heart 
 
 Where her dead child was shrined in prayer. 
 
The Wife of Attila Died. 8 1 
 
 THE WIFE OF ATTILA DIED. 
 
 OO the wife of Attila died, and behold there 
 
 was mourning in Hunia : 
 And into the stream, which curved like a bow 
 
 about the crescent-shaped headland, 
 They cast green leaves from the nut trees, that 
 
 the current might bear them downward, 
 And the maidens of other nations who filled 
 
 their pitchers and vases, 
 And the warriors who brought their horses to 
 
 quench their thirst in the river, 
 Seeing the blue-gray bosom of the stream cov- 
 ered thick with the leaflets, 
 Should know that some one beloved of all had 
 
 died in the land of the Huns. 
 
 And on the day counting third from the day of 
 
 her dying, they laid her 
 Straight on the short, sweet grass, with her 
 
 white, dead face turned upward, 
 
82 The Wife of Attila Died. 
 
 And eyes that were shut from the sunlight like 
 
 violets under the snow. 
 They plaited her hair with gems, and locked 
 
 her fingers together; and then, 
 When the moon stood in the midst of the 
 
 heavens and the stars in their places, 
 They made her a bed in the ground, and folded 
 
 a coverlet over 
 Cut from the greenest of turf, and on it they 
 
 planted a rose-bush, 
 Whose blossoms and leaves should gather all 
 
 that the world gave voice to, 
 And whose roots, running down, might tell her 
 
 all that was passing in Hunia. 
 
 And there they left her alone, for into her 
 
 grave could go nothing 
 Of husband and children but love, and that 
 
 love was her portion forever, 
 So long as the breath of life was in Attila 
 
 and his descendants. 
 
Among tJie Grasses. 83 
 
 AMONG THE GRASSES. 
 
 THE sweet, sweet grasses growing in the 
 
 field, 
 And all the lovely weed-flowers that such faint 
 
 fragrance yield ! 
 I lie and watch them bending beneath the 
 
 breeze that blows 
 Across the rolling river and gardens of the 
 
 rose. 
 
 O the sweet grasses that ask not name nor 
 
 fame ! 
 Just a little place to grow each Summer-time 
 
 the same ; 
 A shower of rain, a breath of wind scented by 
 
 the fruit, 
 A bit of blessed sunshine to warm them at the 
 
 root. 
 
84 Among the Grasses. 
 
 O the sweet, sweet grasses, let them have their 
 
 way! 
 Nothing makes more beautiful than they the 
 
 Summer day; 
 The buttercups and clover, the sky-blue chic- 
 
 cory, 
 When I am laid away at last may these grow 
 
 over me. 
 
 I seem to hear them singing, weed-flowers and 
 grass, 
 
 When here I come to rest me and watch the 
 white clouds pass. 
 
 They've brought me peace and courage by 
 their unconscious grace 
 
 When Sorrow's hand was on my heart, its tear- 
 drops on my face. 
 
 O the sweet grasses and weed-flowers in the 
 
 mead ! 
 Well they know how best to ease the spirit in 
 
 its need. 
 
Among- the Grasses. 85 
 
 What wonder that the bird is glad to make his 
 
 nest among 
 The tangled stems and blossoms when his 
 
 blithe song is sung ! 
 
 O the sweet grasses ! amid them here I rest 
 With all the sunset splendor a-burning in the 
 
 West. 
 Sometime, when on the tired heart my hands 
 
 are folded down, 
 Good friends, I pray you, bring me here to 
 
 sleep outside the town. 
 
86 About Myself. 
 
 ABOUT MYSELF. 
 
 A 
 
 H me ! I met a man to-day 
 Who used to seem the very dream 
 Of what I wished myself to be; 
 He often lingered on his way 
 To watch us in our boyish play, 
 Or ask me something laughingly 
 About myself. 
 
 And yet to-day he did not know 
 That ever he had met with me. 
 
 He touched the binding of his hat, 
 And raised his head a trifle so; 
 My name broke up his stiffness though, 
 
 And then we had a quiet chat 
 About myself. 
 
 It must have seemed so queer to him 
 To think those years of hopes and fears 
 Had made the little boy a man. 
 
About Myself. 87 
 
 I wonder why his eyes grew dim 
 When mine began to over-brim 
 As swiftly on his questions ran 
 About myself. 
 
 He is quite old and gray and bent, 
 And I am well, I will not tell! 
 
 But he was just as old as I 
 Am now, when on the street he lent 
 Spare moments to my merriment, 
 
 And I ne'er took a thought or sigh 
 About myself. 
 
 He said he had been glad to see 
 My name at times affixed to rhymes 
 
 Or books that won a long review. 
 And that his daughters both would be 
 Much pleased if I would come to tea, 
 
 They had so often spoken too 
 About myself. 
 
 I'll take him at his word, and go 
 Some Sunday night to get a sight 
 At Mary and at Margaret. 
 
88 About Myself. 
 
 They used to like me well, I know, 
 And time cannot have changed me so 
 They'll fail to find some graces yet 
 About myself. 
 
 But, ah ! my heart ! Those years, those years 
 Through which sharp pain like April rain 
 
 Fell down my pathway as I walked. 
 So much comes back of loss and fears 
 I almost wish alas ! these tears ! 
 
 I had not met that man, and talked 
 About myself. 
 
Memorials. 89 
 
 MEMORIALS. 
 
 QUEEN'S handmaiden, very young and 
 
 fair, 
 
 One early morning planted lilies where 
 The sunlight fell upon a pretty spot 
 Hedged thickly with the blue forget-me-not. 
 Far from the fragrant gardens of the Court 
 In which great roses bloomed of every sort, 
 Where lovely lilacs hung in clusters sweet 
 And pansies made rich carpets for the feet. 
 A little corner she held wondrous dear 
 Because she often met her lover here, 
 A bird-voiced Troubador, whose magic lute 
 Struck, with its music, other minstrels mute. 
 
 And there she found, one splendid afternoon 
 When all the air was filled with scents of June, 
 The queen in tears. 
 
 "Who planted these?" she said. 
 
90 Memorials. 
 
 "Twas I," the maiden answered with bowed 
 
 head. 
 " And why ? " " Because, your majesty, the 
 
 place 
 
 Has precious memories." She raised her face 
 And saw the queen was looking down at her 
 More tenderly than ever through the blur 
 Of tear-drops on her lashes. 
 
 "And for me," 
 
 In measured accents spake her majesty, 
 " Long years ago, before my lord was king, 
 When I, a child, cared not for anything * 
 But sun and flowers and all delights of life, 
 We played here, and he called me then his 
 
 wife : 
 
 And after years had passed, we older grown, 
 He wooed and won me here to share his 
 
 throne. 
 
 My babes here, with their nurses, used to play 
 In merry gambols each sunshiny day. 
 What wonder then the place is consecrate 
 To sacred thoughts that heed no gloomy Fate ? 
 But it is dear to you as well, and you 
 Have planted here these lilies wet with dew 
 
Memorials. 9 1 
 
 For a memorial. O girl of mine ! 
 
 Full often shall you leave upon Love's shrine 
 
 An offering like this in future years 
 
 And sanctify it by your flowing tears. 
 
 But, listen child, that day must come to all 
 
 When castles built in girlhood surely fall. 
 
 And so sometimes with Love : a tiny worm 
 
 Eats the foundation that we thought so firm. 
 
 And the high turrets topple and come down 
 
 Though she who raised them may have worn a 
 
 crown. 
 
 ^ 
 
 "Be patient, dear, permit not Jealousy 
 To enter at Love's portals ; keep the key 
 Always against your bosom and be sure 
 Nothing can harm you if your soul is pure. 
 Though bitter foes surround, full-armed to fight, 
 Virtue and Faith may slay them in a night. 
 
 " Take an old woman's counsel (you are young) 
 And set a seal on an impulsive tongue. 
 Give to your lover more than he bestows 
 Not, like some maidens, always rose for rose. 
 
92 Memorials. 
 
 Not measured singly out a smile for smile, 
 Else frowns will follow every once a while 
 And tears wash Love away as tidal waves 
 Bear land-flowers with them to unhallowed 
 graves." 
 
 Then the queen blessed her as she blushing 
 
 stood 
 
 Like a peach-blossom in her maidenhood. 
 And, after many years had passed away, 
 To this same place a matron came one day 
 And brought a child who played at cup and 
 
 ball 
 
 While, once again for a memorial, 
 The mother with a smile that made her fair 
 Planted great white and stately lilies there. 
 
Sympathy. 93 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 TN sorrow once there came to me 
 Two friends to proffer sympathy. 
 
 One pressed warm, dewy lips on mine, 
 And quoted from the word divine : 
 
 Wiped the hot tear-drops from my eye 
 And gave my sore heart sigh for sigh: 
 
 Told me of pain he had outgrown 
 Pain that was equal to my own, 
 
 And left me with a tender touch 
 That should have comforted me much. 
 
 But still my sorrow was no less 
 For all his loving graciousness. 
 
 The other only pressed my hand; 
 Within his eyes the tears did stand. 
 
94 Sympathy. 
 
 He said no word, but laid a rare 
 Bunch of sweet flowers beside my chair; 
 
 And closely held my hand the while 
 
 He cheered my sad gloom with his smile. 
 
 And ere he went he sang a song 
 That I had known and loved for long. 
 
 And then he clasped my hand again 
 With the same look that shares a pain. 
 
 So when he went I laid my head 
 Down, and was glad and comforted. 
 
 What was the difference, can you tell? 
 I loved my friends, alike and well; 
 
 I loved them both alike, and yet 
 The one's warm kiss I could forget, 
 
 The other's hand-clasp I could feel 
 For hours through all my being steal. 
 
 Each shared my sorrow, yet to me 
 One brought but love, one sympathy. 
 
Ahmed. 95 
 
 AHMED. 
 
 \I 7ITH wrath-flushed cheeks, and eyelids red 
 
 Where anger's fiercest sign was spread, 
 And hands whose clenched nails left their print 
 In the brown palm's deep, sun-warmed tint, 
 The chieftains sate in circle wide, 
 And in the centre, on his side, 
 Thrown like a dog, a thieving brute, 
 Lay Ahmed, frowning, bound and mute. 
 
 "The man who takes an offered bribe 
 From chieftain of an alien tribe 
 Shall die." So ran the Arab law, 
 Read by a scribe ; and Ahmed saw 
 In every eye that scanned his face 
 Burn the hot fury of his race. 
 His fate was told. All men must die 
 Some time ; what cared he how or why ? 
 
g6 Ahmed. 
 
 They loosed his tight-swathed arms and feet, 
 Unwound the cashmere turban, sweet 
 \Yith spice and attar, stripped the vest 
 Of gold and crimson from his breast, 
 And laid his broad, brown bosom bare 
 To scimetar and desert air. 
 He stood as moulded statues stand, 
 With sightless eye and nerveless hand. 
 
 As moulded statues stand, but through 
 The dark skin, at each breath he drew, 
 The wild heart's wilder beating showed. 
 Then on the sand he kneeled, and bowed 
 His head to meet the ready stroke; 
 The headsman threw aside his cloak, 
 The curved steel circled in the sun 
 Ahmed was dead, and justice done. 
 
Sometime. 97 
 
 SOMETIME. 
 
 OOMETIME It gives me patience; 
 
 Sometime It makes me strong; 
 I think but for that Sometime 
 I should not sing a song. 
 
 I used to feel you waited 
 
 Somewhere along the way, 
 And sometime I should find you, 
 
 As true I did one day. 
 
 And so I know most surely 
 
 As up the hills I climb, 
 That to each prayer I lift Him 
 
 God answers me, Sometime. 
 
98 /;/ Absence. 
 
 IN ABSENCE. 
 
 \ 17 HERE art thou, O my friend, who used 
 VV to be 
 
 So near to me ? 
 
 Somewhere on earth thou art, for I can feel 
 Times when the dusky Nights about me steal 
 
 A touch like thine 
 
 Press lightly on these tired hands of mine. 
 Where art thou, O my friend, who used to be 
 
 So near to me ? 
 
 Earth is so very, very wide and rough, 
 
 I lack enough 
 Of strength to make my voice reach to thine 
 
 ear, 
 
 Or my so weary feet to thee draw near. 
 O, when wilt thou 
 
In Absence. 99 
 
 Come unto me who criest loudly now 
 Where art thou, O my friend, who used to be 
 So near to me? 
 
 Life is so long and Time so full of pain; 
 
 Come once again ' 
 
 To let me look upon thy sweet, pale face, 
 Thine eye so blue, thy wrist so set with grace ! 
 
 Then shall I grow 
 
 As sunbeams make the Summer flowers to blow. 
 Where art thou now, my friend, who used to be 
 
 So near to me ? 
 
 What if I failed a little in my love ? 
 
 Those stars above 
 
 Falter sometimes in what they owe to God; 
 Should not I be forgiven whose feet have trod 
 
 So sad a way 
 In which more rain than sunshine filled the 
 
 day? 
 
 Where art thou, vanished friend, who used to 
 be 
 
 So near to me ? 
 
ioo In Absence. 
 
 Come with thy fond, forgiving smile, once more 
 
 From that far shore 
 
 Lying somewhere with waves of sea set 'round, 
 And I shall hear the gladsomeness of sound 
 
 From thy dear lips, 
 As the bee joyfully sweet honey sips. 
 Where art thou, my one friend, who used to be 
 
 So near to me ? 
 
 Am I to blame that I have weary grown 
 
 Standing alone? 
 
 If thou hadst trusted longer I had been 
 Secure of love on which my love to lean. 
 
 O, sure am I, 
 
 It would have paid thee to have lingered by. 
 Where art thou, trustless friend, who used to be 
 
 So near to me ? 
 
At Midnight: ^ 
 
 AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 T STOOD in the night's great darkness 
 And heard the calling sea, 
 
 Ever and ever 'twas speaking 
 Out of its heart to me. 
 
 It seemed like a voice beloved 
 
 I had not heard for years, 
 And, like a mist in the morning, 
 
 My eyes were dim with tears. 
 
 I felt my heart grow purer, 
 
 I felt my soul float far 
 As if it were seeking Heaven 
 
 To shine there like a star. 
 
 And my lips, my lips made answer 
 
 Unto the sea's sad moan, 
 As if I had found my darling 
 
 And stood no more alone. 
 
2 /}/ Midnight. 
 
 "Come to me, sweetheart," I whispered, 
 
 "Come to my empty arms, 
 And see how close I will fold thee 
 
 From earth's most vague alarms ! 
 
 "Feel how my hands shall caress thee, 
 Feel how my heart will beat 
 
 Against thy heart as I hold thee 
 Near in this safe retreat 1" 
 
 But the Voice spake low and sweetly: 
 "Dear, wouldst thou have me break 
 
 The bonds of peace that surround me, 
 Just for thy longing's sake ? 
 
 "Here in Death's mystical mansion 
 
 Waiting for thee am I, 
 Why should I seek thee, who surely 
 
 Shalt find me, by and by? 
 
 "Ever my love groweth greater, 
 
 Ever thy love for me 
 Foldeth me over and over 
 
 Like the tide of the sea. 
 
At Midnight. 103 
 
 "Take to thyself more of patience, 
 
 Learn to be strong and wait, 
 And I O love, I will stand here 
 Very close to the gate." 
 
 I felt the breeze on my forehead, 
 
 I heard the moaning wave 
 Hushing itself into silence 
 
 Like the hush of the grave. 
 
 And then I grew calm and patient ; 
 
 What if she did not stay? 
 Close to the gate I shall find her 
 
 When I go Home some day. 
 

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