UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 PROFESSOR FELICIEN VICTOR FACET 
 
 BY BEQUEST OF MADAME PAGET 
 
 NO. 
 
 _ 
 

 
 l/^ 
 
MOODS 
 
 AND OTHER VERSES 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD ROBESON TAYLOR 
 
 " Not for arrogant pride 
 Nor over boldness fail they who have striven 
 To tell what they have heard, with voice too weak 
 For such high message. More it is than ease, 
 Palace and pomp, honours and luxuries, 
 To have seen white Presences upon the hill 
 To have heard the voices of the Eternal Gods." 
 
 Efic of Hades, Sir LEWIS MORRIS. 
 
 The least of us is not too weak 
 To leave the world with something done." 
 
 Palinode. EDMUND GoSSK. 
 
 D. P. ELDER & MORGAN SHEPARD 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 1899 
 
Copyright, i8QQ, by 
 EDWARD ROBHSON TAYLOR 
 
 PRESS OF THE STANLEY-TAYLOR COMPA^ 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 
TO MY WIFE 
 AGNES STANFORD TAYLOR 
 
 HADST THOU NOT SERVED MY WAYWARD MOOD, 
 
 NOR LET MY LEISURE HAVE ITS WAY, 
 
 TIS TRUTH TO SAY THIS LITTLE BROOD 
 
 OF VERSE WOULD NOT HAVE SEEN THE DAY ; 
 
 EXCEPT THE CRUDE, IMPERFECT RHYMES 
 
 I COUPLED IN THE FAR-OFF TIMES, 
 
 WHEN DIVINATION COULD NOT SEE 
 
 WHAT THY FOND HEART SHOULD BRING TO ME ; 
 
 AND IF THE MUSES NOW ENTWINE 
 
 THE SLENDEREST THREAD ROUND BROW OF MINE, 
 
 ONE HALF THE GLORY SHALL BE THINE. 
 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 DEDICATION Ill 
 
 MOODS : . .1 
 
 My Muse ........ 3 
 
 Dream ......... 4 
 
 My Lady Sleeps ....... 5 
 
 To Sleep . 6 
 
 Reverie ........ 7 
 
 Home ......... 8 
 
 Prayer 9 
 
 Consolation . . . . . . . .10 
 
 The Poet 10 
 
 Proof of God ii 
 
 Thoughts 12 
 
 Now 15 
 
 Attainment ........ 16 
 
 Sufficiency . . . . . . . I? 
 
 Concentration ....... 18 
 
 Ambition . . . . . . . . . 19 
 
 The Old, Old Days 20 
 
 Solitude 21 
 
 Poetic Art ........ 22 
 
 Life and Death 22 
 
 Adversity . . . . . . . . 23 
 
 Refuge 24 
 
MOODS Continued : 
 
 Question ..... 24 
 
 To the Sonnet . . . . - . . . . 25 
 
 Endeavor 26 
 
 Song its Own Reward . . . . f .28 
 
 The Divine Harmony . . . , . . 29 
 
 To a Marble Statuette of Beatrice . . . .30 
 
 Dawn . . . ., .", . 31 
 
 The Unfinished Portrait . . . . . . 32 
 
 Love s Fears . . . . . . . . 33 
 
 Song ^ . .34 
 
 Song - . . T . 35 
 
 My Summer . . . . . _^ . . -35 
 
 Deliverance ........ 36 
 
 Work 37 
 
 The Sawmill 38 
 
 A Prayer , ... 39 
 
 Endure, Thou Fainting Soul ..... 40 
 
 Pine Not, Nor Fret 41 
 
 Beatitude ........ 42 
 
 ON NATURE S BREAST: . . . . . .43 
 
 Nature s Care of Her Own . . . . . 45 
 
 To the Sierras 46 
 
 At the Presidio of San Francisco .... 47 
 
 The Jonquil .... .... 48 
 
 Beauty 49 
 
 After the Storm ....... 50 
 
 Night , . 51 
 
 At Del Monte, California 52 
 
 VI 
 
ON NATURE S BREAST Continued: 
 
 On Some Landscapes Painted by William Keith : 5 3 
 
 I. The Golden Heritage of the Native Sons . .53 
 
 II. The Joy of Earth ..... 54 
 
 III. April . . . . . ^ . .55 
 
 IV. The Quiet Wood . . . . , - 56 
 V The Meadow 57 
 
 VI. The Enchanted Wood . . . . 58 
 
 VII. Dawn . .. . ... . . 59 
 
 VIII. At Twilight Time 60 
 
 IX. The Unceasing Round 61 
 
 X. The Dying Year 62 
 
 XI. The Fruitless Quest 63 
 
 XII. Promise 64 
 
 IN HUMBLE PRAISE: 65 
 
 To Shakespeare 67 
 
 To Milton 68 
 
 To Goethe 69 
 
 To Matthew Arnold ....... 70 
 
 Robert Browning ....... 71 
 
 To Balzac 7^ 
 
 To Jose-Maria de Heredia . . . . . 73 
 
 To Carlyle . . 74 
 
 On Looking at Wordsworth s Engraved Picture . 75 
 
 To Byron 76 
 
 To Keats 77 
 
 To Tennyson 79 
 
 Tennyson s Good Fortune . . . . . 80 
 
 To Burns 8 1 
 
 Vll 
 
IN HUMBLE PRAISI Continued: 
 
 To Walter Savage Landor . , . . . 83 
 
 To Goldsmith . . . . . , . .84 
 
 To Charles Lamb . . . . .... 85 
 
 To Swinburne on his Drama . . . . .86 
 
 On Looking into the Poems of William Ernest Henley 87 
 To Ruskin . . .> . , . * .88 
 To William Blake . . . . . . 88 
 
 Christopher Smart . . . . ^ . .89 
 
 To William Watson . . . . . 89 
 
 To James Russell Lowell . . , . . 90 
 After an Evening with Longfellow . . . , 91 
 
 On the Lyrics of Thomas Bailey Aldrich . , . . 91 
 Pope ......... 92 
 
 To William Cullen Bryant v . . .. . . .93 
 
 Poe . ....... . 95 
 
 To Lloyd Mifflin . . . . ... 96 
 
 Written in Lloyd Mifflin s "The Slopes of Helicon" 97 
 To Whittier ........ 98 
 
 To a Soiled and Broken Volume of Bayard Taylor s Poems 100 
 To Fitz-Greene Halleck . . . . . . 101 
 
 To Walt Whitman . . . . . 102 
 
 To George Frederick Watts, R. A. . . .103 
 
 IN TRIBUTE : 105 
 
 A. S. T 107 
 
 To Professor Jacob Cooper . . . . . 107 
 
 To Dr. Levi Cooper Lane on the Opening of Lane Hospital 108 
 George William Curtis . . . . . .no 
 
 David Starr Jordan ill 
 
 Vlll 
 
IN TRIBUTE Continued: 
 
 To William Keith , . . lix 
 
 On Reading the Posthumously Published Volume of 
 
 Timothy H. Rearden . . . , . 113 
 
 To my Friend, W. H. T. . . . . .114 
 
 Henry George . . . , . . . 1I 5 
 
 To Andree s Carrier Pigeon . . . . . 116 
 
 To C. S. K. . . . t ... . ."7 
 
 To Ysaye . . . . . . . .122 
 
 To Bonzig , . . . . .123 
 
 Perpetua , .. 124 
 
 Arria . . . .... . . .125 
 
 In the Convent Garden . . . . . . 126 
 
 Harro . . . . . . . . .127 
 
 Invocation to San Francisco . . . . . 132 
 
 My Friend . . . . . . . J 33 
 
 IN MEMORIAM: . . v .... 135 
 
 P. T. T. . . . .. .... 137 
 
 Among the Wheels . . . . . . 138 
 
 Dreams . . . . . . . . .139 
 
 To P. T. T. . . . . . . 140 
 
 Dirge . . . . . . . .141 
 
 Out of the Shadow . . . . . .142 
 
 To Death 
 
 143 
 
 Envoy . . . . . . . . .144 
 
 TRANSLATIONS : 145 
 
 From a Winnower of Grain to the Winds (After Du 
 
 Bellay] 147 
 
 From Voltaire : ... 148 
 
TRANSLATIONS Continued: 
 
 To a Lady . . . . . . . .148 
 
 To Madame du Chatelet . . . . - . 148 
 
 To a Prater . .. . . 149 
 
 Epigram . . . 149 
 
 Epigram . . . . . . . . 150 
 
 Farewell to Life . . . . , . . 151 
 
 From Victor Hugo :, 153 
 
 The Tomb and the Rose . . . . . 153 
 
 Come Near Me When I Sleep . . . . . 154 
 
 In the Cemetery of . . . . . 155 
 
 What is Heard on the Mountain . . . . 157 
 
 From Alfred de Musset : . . . . . i6a 
 
 The Pelican . . . . . . . .162 
 
 The Poet 163 
 
 Impromptu in Response to the Question : What is 
 
 Poetry ? . . . . . . 1 64 
 
 Song . . . . . . . . .165 
 
 Adieu, Suzon . . . . . . .166 
 
 From Ber anger : . . . . . .168 
 
 Mary Stuart s Farewell . . . . . .168 
 
 Fifty Years . . . . . . . . 171 
 
 Jacques 173 
 
 From Leconte de Lisle: . . . . . .176 
 
 The Vase 176 
 
 Solar Hercules . . . . . . . .178 
 
 The Condor s Sleep . . . . . .179 
 
 To a Dead Poet . . . . . . .181 
 
 My Secret (After Felix Arvers) . . . . 182 
 
 The Lady s Answer (After Louis Aigoin) . . .183 
 
TRANSLATIONS Continued ; 
 
 Philosophy (After Taine) . . . . 184 
 
 My Bohemia (After Arthur Rimbaud} . . .185 
 
 From Goethe: . . . . . . .186 
 
 The Violet . . . ... . lg 6 
 
 The Angler . . ... . . .187 
 
 Under the Linden . . v . . . .189 
 
 Faust s Wager . ." . . . . . 19* 
 
 Margaret at the Spinning Wheel . . . .191 
 
 The Hunter of the Alps (After Schiller) . . 194 
 
 Love and Time (After the Modern Greek) . . .197 
 
 The Soldier s Fate (After Prof. Putxker) . . 198 
 
 BENEDICTION . . . 201 
 
Moods 
 
" Blest is the man who with the sound of song 
 
 Can charm away the heartache, and forget 
 The frost of penury and stings of wrong, 
 And drown the fatal whisper of regret! 
 Darker are the abodes 
 
 Of Kings, tho his be poor, 
 While Fancies, like the Gods, 
 
 Pass thro his door." 
 The Skylark and the Poet. FREDERICK TENNYSON. 
 
 " In common things that round us lie 
 
 Some random truths he can impart, 
 The harvest of a quiet eye 
 
 That broods and sleeps on his own heart." 
 
 A Poet s Epitaph. WORDSWORTH. 
 
OF THE 
 
 ( UNIVERSITY ) 
 
 OF 
 
 MY MUSE 
 
 If that my Muse can never hope to soar 
 Above the summits where unwasting snowa 
 Are fellows of the stars; if that she knows 
 No swelling note of forest, sea, or shore; 
 
 If e en no streamlet of melodious lore 
 
 The tiniest craft of hers divinely shows; 
 Or not for her the lightest breeze that blows 
 In voiceful harmony Parnassus o er; 
 
 Yet her dear self I could not think to chide, 
 Nor deem her less than some anointed saint 
 Who guards my soul: sufficient unto me 
 
 If in my deepest being she abide, 
 
 To hold my wandering thoughts in sweet constraint, 
 And all that s noblest give me sight to see. 
 
DREAM 
 
 It may be that in some auspicious hour, 
 When all life s currents run serenely free, 
 A voice will come from Dreamland unto me 
 Upborne on music of celestial power. 
 
 Then in the garden of my heart some flower 
 May burst to bloom in sudden ecstasy, 
 And with delightful, deathless fragrancy 
 Add mite of glory to the Poet s dower. 
 
 O soul, thou feedest on the husks of hope, 
 
 And starvest while the things within thy scope 
 Lie all before thee in their bounty spread. 
 
 And yet, ah, let me for at least to-day 
 Enjoy the vision ere it melts away, 
 To be with other dreams forever fled. 
 
MY LADY SLEEPS 
 
 TO A. S. T. 
 
 My lady sleeps, and sleeps in sweetest peace; 
 No stain of tear is on her restful face, 
 While placid smiles do there each other chase, 
 To give assurance of her pain s release. 
 
 Her radiant head, that doth the pillow crease 
 In such serene repose, I fain would kiss 
 Till heart and soul were emptied of all bliss, 
 And love itself gave thankfulness surcease. 
 
 O Sleep, thou top of blessings ! What to thee 
 Does grief-struck, pain-tormented man not owe, 
 Or how, without thee, from his miseries flee? 
 
 And now that thou my lady s couch dost know, 
 From torture s agony to set her free, 
 Thou beamest on me with divinest glow. 
 
TO SLEEP 
 
 Thou angel Sleep, when I recall to mind 
 The sons of Genius, who on soaring wing 
 Have sung of thee the choicest they could sing, 
 In jeweled phrases goldenly enshrined 
 
 In love perennial of humankind, 
 
 I scarce durst try to body forth the note 
 That swells within my unmelodious throat, 
 Craving some fitting utterance to find; 
 
 But when thou cam st on yesternight to me, 
 And stroked so tenderly my feverous head, 
 That thought and sense to sweet oblivion s sea 
 
 From every grief and irritation fled, 
 
 My grateful heart became so full of thee, 
 
 That, scoff who may, my Muse and thou must wed, 
 
REVERIE 
 
 What realm is thine, thou gentle ruler, Sleep ! 
 All life obeys thee, while earth s countless graves 
 But point to where thy ageless banner waves, 
 And where thou dost unbroken vigil keep. 
 
 Innumerous messengers are thine, who leap 
 To do thy bidding noiseless, nimble knaves, 
 Who bring from out thy many-chambered caves 
 Sweet dreams wherein the troubled brain to steep. 
 
 And from thy choicest chamber steals thy child 
 Poetic souls do know as Reverie; 
 Tis she whose fingers set the spirit free, 
 
 So that from every fleshly hindrance isled, 
 
 It may with Fancy roam the woodland wild, 
 Or sail upon Imagination s sea. 
 
HOME 
 
 TO A. S. T. AND P. C. L. 
 
 Of earthly things thou greatest blessing Home I 
 
 Safe refuge where the overburdened soul 
 
 Lays down its weary weight of toil and care, 
 
 To gain refreshment in the arms of rest. 
 
 In deep dreams there the frets of life are hushed, 
 
 Its turmoils and its woes, while the stopped ears 
 
 Hear nought of clamor s unrelenting noise 
 
 That roars tumultuous in the world without. 
 
 And there the mistress of the blest abode 
 
 In sweetest tyranny serenely sways 
 
 Her silver sceptre over all the house, 
 
 Until each feverous, discordant pulse, 
 
 Ruled by the music of her bounteous love, 
 
 Beats to the measure of harmonious peace. 
 
PRAYER 
 
 Thou Power divine man feels so well 
 
 Yet in thy fullness never knows, 
 That in the humblest weed doth dwell, 
 
 As in the queenliest rose that blows, 
 And in the tides of all the seas, 
 
 And in the heart of man and beast; 
 That soundest all the harmonies 
 
 From nature s greatest to her least; 
 
 Mayhap no merely human prayer 
 
 Addressed to thee can aught avail; 
 Mayhap thy forces have no care 
 
 For joyful song or woeful wail; 
 But when with weariness we faint, 
 
 When burdens crush, or griefs dismay, 
 When faiths have lost their old restraint, 
 
 We fall upon our knees to pray. 
 
 And wherefore should we not, if thou 
 Art what we fain believe thou art 
 If thou thy presence dost avow 
 
Prayer In all the beatings of our heart ? 
 
 Call then, O Soul, thine angels blest; 
 
 Drive out the host of bestial sin; 
 Plant conquering courage in the breast, 
 And let the spirit s glory in. 
 
 CONSOLATION 
 
 The world is hard, and selfishness supreme; 
 The love of man for man is all a dream, 
 And e en Religion but a worn-out theme . . . 
 
 Ofttimes it seemeth so. 
 
 Still, souls there are who do themselves forget; 
 Man strives and bleeds for man; and even as yet 
 Religion soothes us in our toil and fret . . . 
 
 Ofttimes tis surely so. 
 
 THE POET 
 
 He crushed his heart for wine of song 
 With which the soul of man to glad; 
 
 But who of all the careless throng 
 
 Could dream how mad he was how mad ! 
 10 
 
PROOF OF GOD 
 
 Dost ask for proof of God ? Thou mayst as well 
 Ask of the daisy, as it meekly blows, 
 Whence cometh it, or how, or why it grows; 
 Or pray the world-compelling genius tell 
 
 The secret cunning of his magic spell; 
 
 But when their hearts lie close against thine own 
 Until their pulse-beats thrill thee to the bone, 
 Doubt s demons perish in their self-made hell. 
 
 The wings of Reason beat themselves in vain 
 Against the ether of a soundless air, 
 To fold at last in logic s dull despair. 
 
 Divinely ordered is this fruitless lore: 
 
 For were God proved, all mystery would be plain, 
 And man himself, as man, could be no more. 
 
 i i 
 
THOUGHTS 
 
 A dream came o er me, and I thought 
 A hundred ships, blown from the East, 
 
 To me had rarest cargoes brought, 
 
 With which to make a wondrous feast. 
 
 But as the ships at anchor lay, 
 
 A storm-wind blew from out the West, 
 And when I looked, at break of day, 
 
 No ships were seen, no bidden guest. 
 
 We cannot all be wisely great, 
 Much less be greatly wise; 
 
 To few alone is t given by fate 
 To read the mysteries, 
 
 And in the mass of rubbish find 
 
 The food that nourishes mankind 
 But none there is who cannot move 
 The world a little with his love. 
 
 12 
 
The child holds out its loving hand Thoughts 
 
 For gifts supplied from fairyland; 
 Life lies for it in smiles and tears, 
 Unvexed by doubt, unharmed by fears. 
 
 Youth sees beyond the fairyland, 
 And having life s horizon scanned, 
 It swells with self-conceit to know 
 That all is plain from high to low. 
 
 In manhood knowledge brings her lore, 
 To gender doubts still more and more, 
 Until at last it dares to know 
 That all is dark and will be so. 
 
 But through the dark the sage shall see 
 The stars that light the life to be, 
 Assured he shall forever grow, 
 But never can completely know. 
 
 The deepest poem is the one we feel, 
 And not the one that language can reveal; 
 Oh, times there are when music stirs the soul 
 Beyond mere words to measure or control, 
 
 13 
 
Thoughts And myriad thoughts flit ghostlike through the brain 
 That all the tongues of earth could never chain. 
 Let artist paint with ne er so deep a speech, 
 Great worlds there are he cannot hope to reach. 
 
 One doubts, one fears, one calls on circumstance, 
 And one is blown by every wind of chance; 
 While yet another looks into his soul, 
 And sails serenely to his destined goal. 
 
 Like him who, drawn by glorious heights beyond, 
 
 Is forced to cross the intervening flood 
 
 By dangerous step from slippery stone to stone, 
 
 So we, in this tumultuous life, but step 
 
 In trembling from one trouble to another, 
 
 While Error waits with her remorseless train 
 
 In hope to whelm us in the raging wave. 
 
NOW 
 
 Oh, do not wait until in earth I lie 
 
 Before thou givest me my rightful meed; 
 
 Oh, do not now in coldness pass me by, 
 
 And then cry praises which I cannot heed. 
 
 If I have helped thee on thy weary way, 
 
 Or lightened in the least thy burden s weight, 
 
 Haste with love s tokens ere another day 
 
 Shall pierce thee with the fatal words, "Too late." 
 
 The present moment is thy time to live: 
 
 The Past is gone, the Future may not be; 
 
 If thou hast treasure of thy heart to give 
 
 To hungry souls, bestow it speedily; 
 
 For sweet Love s sake, let not to-morrow s sun 
 Tempt thee to wait before thou see it done. 
 
ATTAINMENT 
 
 We sigh for things we scarce may hope to gain, 
 And which, if all our own, would give no peace; 
 We vainly toil and struggle to release 
 To knowledge nature s secrets; we complain 
 
 That tis not given us to break some chain, 
 
 To scale some peak, to fetch some golden fleece, 
 To do some mighty deed whose light shall cease 
 Only when moons no longer wax and wane, 
 
 J Tis thus we make a mockery of life, 
 And miss the blessing at our very hand: 
 For Faith and Love, with glory as of sun, 
 
 Illume the path to Peace through every strife; 
 No work is futile that is nobly planned; 
 No deed is little if but greatly done. 
 
 16 
 
SUFFICIENCY 
 
 Let vulgar Malice work its venomed will 
 
 Against the heart that would have given its blood 
 To shield the thing which strikes it; let the brood 
 Of Envy swarm like bees a-hiving, and distil 
 
 Poisons more sure than those of Borgian skill; 
 Let Friendship wither, and a common good 
 No more be nourished by her nectared food; 
 And even dear Love insanely stab and kill. 
 
 Let all this be, with ills as yet unguessed; 
 And still, thou shalt as ocean wind be free, 
 If bravely thou dost seek thy strength and rest 
 
 Within thyself, bending compliant knee 
 
 To Conscience only, and in peace possessed 
 Of that all-crowning grace Humility. 
 
CONCENTRATION 
 
 TO L. C. L. 
 
 Mark how the florist s cunning hand compels 
 That weed unique, the strange chrysanthemum, 
 To crown one lonely stalk whose blossomed sum 
 To giant size and gorgeous beauty swells 
 
 The forces pulsing in its myriad cells 
 
 Concentring all their magic and their power 
 To build the structure of a single flower, 
 Wherein the plant its dazzling triumph tells. 
 
 So shouldst thou have the will, O struggling soul, 
 To hold thy thoughts and actions to the pole 
 Of one imperious, exclusive aim; 
 
 Then may tby stalk a wondrous blossom bear, 
 Which shall for thee achievement s glory wear, 
 And be to others as a sign of flame. 
 
AMBITION 
 
 " Long have I sued, and still have sued in vain;- 
 My one and only love, why holdst me off 
 With laughing banter and with bitter scoff? 
 Wilt never ease my heart s unceasing pain?" 
 
 "If thou lt be brave," said she, "thy sorrow s rain 
 Shall breed a harvest; look! seest thou yon peak 
 That lifts at dizzy height its snowy beak ? 
 Bear me to that, and thou my heart shalt drain." 
 
 Upon his back he took the tempting maid, 
 
 And upward went; up and still up he strode, 
 The distant, glittering peak his constant guide; 
 
 Still up, o er Alp on Alp, he strained, nor stayed 
 Till to the pinnacle he bore his load 
 Then like an idiot laughed . . . and gasping . . . 
 died. 
 
THE OLD, OLD DAYS 
 
 TO L. M. L. AND J. A. Q. 
 
 O golden-hearted, richly-hallowed days 
 
 That loom through deepening mists on memory 
 
 shore, 
 
 When boyhood fed from joy s unmeasured store 
 As hope sang loud her sweetest roundelays ! 
 
 How romped we in the wood s far-opening ways 
 When irksome studies for the time were o er; 
 How plied we games in their abounding lore, 
 How felt as gods when victory led to praise ! 
 
 The Master s strenuous voice ceased long ago, 
 While few of all that throng on earth can be, 
 And these are burdened with the weight of years ; 
 
 Yet on that fruitful spot still others glow 
 
 With youthful fire and sport the same as we, 
 Undreamt the future s agonies and tears. 
 
 20 
 
SOLITUDE 
 
 Thy aid I supplicate, O Solitude, 
 
 For one sore wounded in the unending strife 
 That makes such burden of our daily life; 
 Let me with thy repose be deep imbrued; 
 
 On thy smooth stream bear off each feverous mood, 
 And float my spirit to the Isles of Calm 
 Where grows luxuriant thy healing balm, 
 And where mad clamor never may intrude. 
 
 Where thou wilt take me it doth matter not, 
 For where thou art my spirit s peace will be; 
 The mind, fresh-winged, will rise to nobler thought, 
 
 And radiant sprites from Dreamland visit me, 
 As from my covert, with fresh beauties fraught 
 Looms Life s vast, varicolored, pulsing sea. 
 
 21 
 
POETIC ART 
 
 The cities vanish; one by one 
 The glories go that glories won; 
 At Time s continuous, fateful call 
 The palaces and temples fall; 
 While heroes do their deeds and then 
 Sink down to earth as other men. 
 Yet, let the Poet s mind and heart 
 But touch them with the wand of Art, 
 And lo! they rise and shine once more 
 In greater splendor than before. 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 Life is not all in all, 
 
 Nor yet is Death; 
 But from the Vast they call, 
 
 And each one saith: 
 I am the one in whom thy being lies; 
 Accept thy fate, nor fear me when I rise. 
 
 22 
 
ADVERSITY 
 
 O friend, when glad Fortuna comes to thee 
 With hands that offer more than liberal spoils, 
 Beware, lest slyly hid a serpent coils, 
 Thy soul to poison with Prosperity. 
 
 Thou never canst seraphic visions see 
 As noble recompense for strenuous toils, 
 Unless within thy deepest being boils 
 Some tear-fed fountain of Adversity. 
 
 The steel that Florence drove in Dante s heart 
 He fashioned to a lyre whereon with ease 
 He deathless rose above the hells of hate ; 
 
 And when life-wearied Milton sat apart, 
 
 Lonely and blind, he swept those organ keys 
 Whose tones from age to age reverberate. 
 
REFUGE 
 
 TO PROFESSOR ALBIN PUTZKER 
 
 The winds of grief were driving him 
 
 Upon the rocks despair had reared, 
 When in the distance faintly dim 
 
 The Star of Poesy appeared ; 
 And as toward her his face he turned 
 
 With hope and courage in his breast, 
 She then with great refulgence burned, 
 
 To light him to the port of Rest. 
 
 QUESTION 
 
 Outside, the rain is dreary, 
 Inside, my heart is weary ; 
 Outside, the winds are sighing, 
 Inside, my hopes are dying; 
 O Earth, where is thy beauty? 
 O Soul, where is thy duty ? 
 
 24 
 
TO THE SONNET 
 
 Bound in the fetters of thy narrow frame 
 
 What souls have conquered song ! Here Dante s 
 
 woe, 
 
 As Petrarch s, swells to joy; here Angelo 
 Greatens the glory of his mighty name; 
 
 Tis here that Shakespeare bares his breast to blame, 
 And here that Milton stoops, great strains to blow; 
 Here Wordsworth s notes with rapturing music flow, 
 While Keats divinely glows with quenchless flame. 
 
 Yea, all the rhymsters of our modern day 
 
 Crowd round thy shrine, and beg thee to enring 
 Their brows with leaves of thy immortal bay; 
 
 Such crown is not for me, but prithee fling 
 Thy spell upon me, so at least I may 
 Yet dream of beauties I can never sing. 
 
ENDEAVOR 
 I 
 
 " I discern 
 Vain aspiration, unresultivc work." 
 
 Mrs. Browning s " Prometheus Bound " of SEsthjlui. 
 
 Still am I tossed upon a troubled sea, 
 
 Puzzled and doubting how to make my way; 
 
 Resultless day follows resultless day, 
 
 And even my dreams no solace bring to me. 
 
 At Duty s call, unheeding other plea, 
 
 Have I pushed forward, scornful of delay, 
 Ne er yielding sense to indolence s sway, 
 Nor grieving over what might never be. 
 
 And now, the years seem shorter as they run, 
 Nor dares my life to hope for many more, 
 Or should they come, that they will truly bless. 
 
 The best that lay within me has been done; 
 And as an end all vainly I deplore 
 Endeavor s dreary waste of fruitlessness. 
 
 26 
 
II 
 
 Thou wavering soul, what note is this to sound? Endeavor 
 
 Dost prate of Duty, yet art satisfied 
 
 With what thou hast in scarce half-struggle tried? 
 
 i 
 Dost beat thy wings against thy self-made bound, 
 
 Forgetful that in Life s unresting round 
 
 All marvellously wondrous things abide 
 
 For him who seeks and will not be denied? 
 
 And that the humblest may not go uncrowned? 
 O blinded one, unhood thy spirit s eyes, 
 
 So they may truly see the world without, 
 
 And that still other world which stirs within; 
 Then canst thou soar above thy miseries 
 
 To heights undarkened by the clouds of Doubt, 
 
 And where to Victory thou mayst be kin. 
 
 27 
 
SONG ITS OWN REWARD 
 
 TO JOHN MUIR 
 
 Song is its own reward, so said to me 
 
 My clear-eyed, toiling friend whose jewelled prose 
 With joy of being sings as on it flows, 
 Bearing the thoughts that teach us to be free ; 
 
 Thou shouldst not hush one note of Poesy 
 That from Parnassian heights rejoicing blows, 
 Though none of all the world its music knows, 
 Or knowing cares for, saving only thee. 
 
 O friend, thou nursling of the mountain* s breast, 
 True brother of the glacier and the pine, 
 Tis meet thy voice this lesson has impressed ; 
 
 For do not all these noble kin of thine 
 Ring out forevermore their strains divine 
 Though not one soul may hearken to be blest ! 
 
 28 
 
THE DIVINE HARMONY 
 
 TO MRS. L. C. LANE 
 
 A single soul what microscopic mite 
 
 When measured gainst the universe of things ! 
 
 A voice that for a moment sobs and sings, 
 
 And then seems lost in silence of the night. 
 But yet how great the meanest, merest sprite 
 
 When measured in the universe of things ! 
 
 For there tis one with earth s supremest kings, 
 
 And bathes in unextinguishable light. 
 It must be that the note of every soul 
 
 Is needed in the harmonies that roll 
 
 And throb eternally with power divine ; 
 And I, dear friend, when stars were fair to see, 
 
 Have drank the summit s deep delights with thee, 
 
 As shone refulgent the assuring sign. 
 
 29 
 
TO A MARBLE STATUETTE OF 
 BEATRICE 
 
 When youthful Dante s roving, marvellous eyes 
 Upon the universe began to ope 
 As if with presage of their future scope, 
 They saw thy great original arise ; 
 
 And then he thrilled as one divinely wise, 
 For well he knew the star of faith and hope 
 That should lead on his travailing soul to cope 
 With all the hells beneath storm-clouded skies. 
 
 And now in marble spotless as her name 
 Thou dost compel such tribute to her fame 
 As if her own deep gaze upon us beamed ; 
 
 For thine the art wherein we newly see 
 
 Some hint of that which Dante greatly dreamed 
 Of woman s loveliness and purity. 
 
DAWN 
 
 TO JAMES ADDISON QUARLES 
 
 Now radiant Dawn unlocks her roseate doors, 
 Whence all her featly-footed, swarming band 
 Streams swift along the sleep-encompassed land, 
 And in the skies on fiery pinion soars. 
 
 The pauseless glory sweeps by moaning shores 
 
 Where Storm s poor victims strew the shuddering 
 
 strand, 
 
 While from the heights where trees rejoicing stand 
 It through my lady s window softly pours. 
 
 And as the fulgent beams grow still more bright, 
 Man flees the darker deeds of tempting Night 
 And meets with fresh resolve the new-born Day. 
 
 My dear old friend, when comes to us anon 
 That earthly Night no power can roll away, 
 May we together greet a newer Dawn. 
 
THE UNFINISHED PORTRAIT 
 
 TO W. K. AND E. M. 
 
 "I cannot strike the color for this eye, 
 Nor bend the arch above it; ah, to-day 
 My brush s cunning, do the best I may, 
 In very mockery fain would pass me by." 
 
 Thus spake the Master as he stood anigh 
 His easel, where a young man s portrait lay 
 So near to perfectness it seemed to say, 
 Give me not up ere once again you try. 
 
 Then with a fury such as genius knows, 
 
 He spread his pigments all that portrait o er 
 Until a landscape shone divinely there; 
 
 And in the glories of its great repose 
 Imagination feels, as ne er before, 
 Some hidden spirit breathe through all the air. 
 
LOVE S FEARS 
 
 Thou dost not love me that I see; 
 
 So let us part, 
 Although I feel it means to me 
 
 A breaking heart. 
 
 But better thus than have thee near 
 
 From day to day, 
 And freeze with oft-recurring fear 
 
 That love s away. 
 
 One chilling kiss, and all is o er 
 
 Between us twain, 
 And then, and then, perchance no more 
 
 To meet again; 
 
 No more to have thy presence fill 
 
 My leisure hours; 
 No more to know that earth has still 
 
 For me some flowers. 
 
 No more means much; that thou and I 
 
 Life s wine could drink 
 From different cups and peace not die, 
 Twere vain to think. 
 
 33 
 
Love s Tis past; I feel, when drawing nigh 
 Fears The fateful edge, 
 
 Affection come with stronger tie 
 And newer pledge. 
 
 We cannot part the love of years 
 
 Shall not be slain 
 By all the misbegotten fears 
 
 That e er caused pain. 
 
 Then let the darkness leave thine eye, 
 
 And on thy breast 
 My all forgiven, foolish cry 
 
 Be hushed to rest. 
 
 SONG 
 
 I dare be sworn thou lov st me; but thy word 
 Is so at odds with what thou dost accord, 
 That torn with doubt I oft do sadly fain 
 To never look upon thy face again. 
 
 But when once more thy beauty fills mine eye, 
 Thou art to me all things beneath the sky, 
 And then, despite all doubt, I fondly fain 
 To never lose thee from my sight again. 
 
 34 
 
SONG 
 
 Always be the same, sweetheart, 
 Or we must forever part; 
 Smiles to-day and frowns to-morrow 
 Can but bring us anxious sorrow; 
 Be the same as now thou art, 
 And we shall not, cannot, part. 
 
 Do I doubt thee ? never ! never ! 
 Love shall hold us fast forever; 
 Folded in thine eager arms, 
 Life for me can have no harms; 
 Pillowed on thy fragrant breast, 
 Come what may I must be blest. 
 
 MY SUMMER 
 
 Winter once more comes on apace 
 With chilling wind and lowering sky, 
 
 But summer still makes glad thy face, 
 And in its warmth I restful lie. 
 
 35 
 
DELIVERANCE 
 
 IN MEMORY OF J. T. H. 
 
 Thus spake my friend: What bliss can fill the breast 
 When drawn from deepest wells of dark despair, 
 I knew not till I ventured forth to fare 
 On ocean s paths by tempest s wrath possessed: 
 
 Throughout the night in fearsome, sick unrest, 
 We felt our helpless ship reel blindly where 
 Storm s unexhausted legions filled the air 
 And rode with fury on each billow s crest. 
 
 But when the last dim ray of hope seemed gone, 
 The winds drew off, and long-awaited dawn 
 With beauty s topmost glory lit the sea; 
 
 And as the sun above the horizon shone, 
 
 Beyond the waves with many a rainbow sown 
 I saw my child once more upon my knee. 
 
WORK 
 
 To age-worn palace veiled with vine and tree 
 I listless came one summer afternoon, 
 A self-invited guest who craved the boon 
 Of peaceful idlesse in that privacy. 
 
 And then, as swung the portal back for me, 
 I saw some inmates lounge as half in swoon, 
 While others gaped and yawned, tried trivial tune, 
 Turned a few leaves, then wandered aimlessly. 
 
 And when Ennui, the jewelled queen of these, 
 Uprising from her bed of poppied ease, 
 Drawled greeting such as indolence could spare, 
 
 I fled aghast the humblest tool to seize, 
 And as its strokes with music filled the air 
 Peace spread her wings in holy blessing there. 
 
 37 
 
THE SAWMILL 
 
 The demon Sawmill said, I lack for food 
 
 Wherewith to cram this craving maw of mine, 
 
 That spite of nature and of law divine 
 
 Would gorge on all that s grandest in the wood. 
 
 Then they who madly serve the monster s good, 
 Mid jocund laughter, slew a giant pine, 
 As bright-eyed, cheery morn with flaming sign 
 Awoke to life the slumbering solitude. 
 
 For immemorial years this fallen one 
 
 Had been so loved by earth and air and sun, 
 It seemed with beauty for the ages clad; 
 
 And as its massive trunk and members lie 
 Dissevered and a wreck, we marvel why 
 The demon and its slaves can still be glad. 
 
A PRAYER 
 
 Why mockest me, thou dearest, loveliest Muse? 
 When all my days I ve sought thy jeweled shrine, 
 To offer there this heart and soul of mine, 
 How canst thou still thy countenance refuse? 
 
 Wouldst thou but grant thy favor, I should choose 
 No other worship saving only thine, 
 Till blest by thee my song, thus made divine, 
 Might rise to music it could never lose. 
 
 My foolish clamor beats itself in vain 
 Upon the rock of thy unyielding breast, 
 And dies away in inarticulate moan. 
 
 I chide thee not; but oh, let live the strain 
 Which in my being ever unexpressed 
 Still keeps me better than a desert stone. 
 
 39 
 
ENDURE, THOU FAINTING SOUL 
 
 Endure, thou fainting soul, thou must endure: 
 
 Though thou hast labored and hast met but scath; 
 Though baseness sicken thee; though Fortune s wrath 
 Should rack and rend thee past all hope of cure, 
 
 And Love should feign herself too stripped and poor 
 To help or bless, until at last it seems 
 That Death should end thy unresultive dreams, 
 Even then, despairing soul, thou shouldst endure; 
 
 For lo, behold ! all fellows are thy kin 
 From mightiest sun to merest atomy; 
 Yea, all that is, which shall be, and has been, 
 
 In that mysterious, vast immensity 
 
 In which tis given thee to play thy part 
 Then forward, with fresh courage in thy heart ! 
 
 40 
 
PINE NOT, NOR FRET 
 
 Pine not, nor fret : 
 The rains will fall, 
 The sun will shine, 
 The flowers all bloom, 
 And grains and fruits 
 Their riches yield; 
 The wheels will turn, 
 And ever turn, 
 And ships still sail, 
 And ever sail. 
 But do thy part, 
 With faith and love, 
 As best thou canst, 
 And nought on earth 
 Can work thee ill, 
 Or make thee feel 
 One pang of fear. 
 
 4-1 
 
BEATITUDE 
 
 TO J. A. Q^ 
 
 Thrice blest is he, who, when Death comes 
 
 To bear him captive to the unknown realm, 
 
 Which lies beyond the reach of mortal ken, 
 
 Can look serenely in his awful face, 
 
 And hear the summons with complacent smile; 
 
 Who, looking back upon his earthly years, 
 
 Can see the trees of never-fading green, 
 
 Which flourish from the seeds, he planted, of good 
 
 deeds; 
 
 And who, with blessing on the ones he loved, 
 And those who loved him in his worldly walks, 
 Where he dispensed the goodness of his heart, 
 Can look his last farewell without a sigh, 
 And fall asleep as peacefully as does 
 A wearied child upon its mother s breast. 
 
 42 
 
On Nature s Breast 
 
" My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 A rainbow in the sky 
 So was it when my life began ; 
 So is it now I am a man j 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 Or let me die ! " 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " Underfoot the divine soil, overhead the sun." 
 
 WALT WHITMAN. 
 
NATURE S CARE OF HER OWN 
 
 TO J. M. AND T. M. 
 
 Nature takes loving thought of all her own 
 
 With marvellous cunning and with watchful eye, 
 So that her countless brood may multiply, 
 Nor leave their mother desolate and lone. 
 
 To the wild fruits by care of man unknown, 
 That ripe where winter at his stormiest blows, 
 She gives more seeds and better than to those 
 In cultured garden delicately grown. 
 
 And so in him that on the rugged breast 
 Of mountain finds his joy and his repose, 
 Who makes the pine his fellow, and with zest 
 
 Treads the great glaciers and their kindred snows, 
 A strength is planted that in direst test 
 Dares all the devils of Danger to oppose. 
 
 45 
 
TO THE SIERRAS 
 
 Thou beckonest to me and I come once more; 
 Once more to lay my head upon thy breast, 
 And feel thy easeful, all-sufficing rest 
 Body and mind deliciously steal o er. 
 
 My soul so hungers for thy bounteous store, 
 That every heart-beat of its riches sings, 
 And every thought, on love s unflagging wings, 
 Leaves far behind the city s maddening roar. 
 
 Twere joy enough to have thee once again, 
 If such possession were my very last 
 This side of death: to leave the haunts of men, 
 
 And in thy solitudes, bespeaking vast, 
 Entrancing mysteries, to be as one 
 With sons and stars and all they look upon. 
 
AT THE PRESIDIO OF SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 The rose and honeysuckle here entwine 
 In lovely comradeship their amorous arms; 
 Here grasses spread their undecaying charms, 
 And every wall is eloquent with vine; 
 
 Far-reaching avenues make beckoning sign, 
 And as we stroll along their tree-lined way, 
 The songster trills his rapture-breathing lay 
 From where he finds inviolable shrine. 
 
 And yet, within this beauty-haunted place 
 War keeps his dreadful engines at command, 
 With scarce a smile upon his frowning face, 
 
 And ever ready, unrelaxing hand . . . 
 
 We start to see, when dreaming in these bowers, 
 A tiger sleeping on a bed of flowers. 
 
 47 
 
THE JONQUIL 
 
 TO W. B. K. 
 
 As o er the city s dark and bustling street 
 He swiftly made his task-appointed way, 
 Before his feet upon the pavement lay 
 The mute, appealing face of jonquil sweet 
 
 No more its father Sun at morn to greet 
 With music from its golden trumpet blown; 
 Untimely plucked to perish all alone, 
 Nor find in natal soil its winding sheet. 
 
 With tenderness he took the beauteous thing 
 As yet unstained with soilure of the town, 
 And for his friend he bade its music flow; 
 
 And now again in glory it doth ring, 
 
 With note that gives it more than mortal crown, 
 Of friendship blooming in the long ago. 
 
BEAUTY 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 Or 
 
 THE MAN TO THE ROSE : 
 
 Rose, with heart of flaming gold, 
 Wilt tell me what thou hast been told, 
 And make me merry, make me sad, 
 
 With what thou knowest of good and bad ? 
 
 1 see thee bending lowly now 
 
 As if with weight of prayerful vow 
 So lovely that I faint to see 
 The beauty glorified in thee; 
 
 But doubt will work its cruel way 
 Though fiend or angel bid it stay, 
 And now despite thy joy to me, 
 I fain would dare to question thee. 
 
 THE ROSE TO THE MAN : 
 
 Dost see the bee that gently sips 
 The nectar from my welcome lips ? 
 He takes his good without a sigh, 
 Nor seems to seek for reason why. 
 
 My lover Sun I do not ask 
 For any but affection s task, 
 
 49 
 
Beauty Content to have him shine on me, 
 
 And breed the gold that puzzles thee. 
 
 But this I give for future thought: 
 When thou to me in love hast brought 
 Goodness and Truth, thou then mayst know 
 Why I and all my kind do blow. 
 
 AFTER THE STORM 
 
 The storm is o er; the angry clouds 
 
 All sullenly retire 
 To where beneath the western sun 
 
 They blaze with peaceful fire; 
 
 While winds, that tore like demons wild 
 
 At earth s defenceless breast, 
 Have sated their unwonted rage, 
 
 And calmly sink to rest. 
 
 And now the grass looks up and laughs, 
 
 And in the rose s heart, 
 Erst bowed with grief, I see a joy 
 
 That heals my bosom s smart. 
 
NIGHT 
 
 As oft of old, I watched the sun leap o er 
 The golden barriers of the farthest West, 
 And saw the stars on heaven s deep azure breast 
 In splendor blaze as never seen before; 
 
 And then upon mine ear began to pour, 
 In waves innumerous that knew no rest, 
 The sharp, sweet notes of myriad ones that blest 
 My inmost soul with more than music s lore: 
 
 Unnoted these great stars glow all the day, 
 Unheard these tiny insects chirp their lay 
 Eclipsed by louder sound, by brighter light. 
 
 Thus many a sweet and patient one of earth 
 
 Shines on, sings on, unmarked her priceless worth 
 Till she has glorified Misfortune s night. 
 
AT DEL MONTE, CALIFORNIA 
 
 JULY 24, 1898. 
 TO M. E. OF CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND. 
 
 We passed through hoary, dozing Monterey, 
 And thrilled to see the gloried spot from where 
 The Stars and Stripes first floated on the air, 
 To give this matchless land a newer day; 
 
 Then through the piney woods we took our way, 
 On either hand great ferns, the tangled hair 
 Of varicolored vines, and blossoms fair 
 That on earth s tawny breast all starlike lay. 
 
 And still we went until against the sky, 
 
 Where hung the gray-hued banners of the mist, 
 The weird, gnarled cypresses dazed sense and eye. 
 
 The shore was there by emerald breakers kissed; 
 But from their crested bloom and sovran pride 
 I turned to rose of England by my side. 
 
ON SOME LANDSCAPES PAINTED BY 
 WILLIAM KEITH 
 
 I 
 
 Behold this canvas where the artist shows 
 Our Golden Heritage: The sovran Sun 
 In ripened harvest sees his triumph won, 
 And golden glories deepen to repose, 
 
 Save where the laden wain an accent throws 
 Of voiceful toil; afar the mountains swim; 
 Great trees ensentinel the valley s rim, 
 And childhood gambols where the streamlet flows. 
 
 O children, nature here has given her best 
 So rich, no poet could its wealth proclaim 
 Though dowered with words of ruby-hearted flame; 
 
 Knead with it best of yours; and so possessed, 
 
 May you, faced starward, mount to summits where 
 Your souls shall blossom in celestial air. 
 
 The 
 
 Golden 
 
 Heritage 
 
 of the 
 
 Native 
 
 Sons 
 
 53 
 
II 
 
 The Who doubts the earth speaks audibly unto 
 
 Jy J The heart o f everyone that lists to hear, 
 
 Earth 
 
 Setting its beats to music ? If to thee not clear 
 
 Her ceaseless note that rings beneath the blue; 
 
 Or hast thou never been impelled to woo 
 
 Her beauty-glowing forms, nor sought her ways, 
 I pray thee on this breathing picture gaze, 
 That Art may give thee all thy soul s best due. 
 
 For here Earth seems with radiant joy to say: 
 Behold the children born in love to me 
 These lush, deep grasses where the flowerets play 
 
 At hide and seek; this wide-embracing tree, 
 Where birds may live their little, tuneful day, 
 And golden harvests that are yet to be. 
 
 54 
 
Ill 
 
 Full many a time fair April have I seen April 
 
 Enwrapped in cloud of every lovely hue, 
 
 With tears that fell as soft as morning dew 
 
 On bloomy orchard and on fields of green; 
 And watched her smilingly, her tears between, 
 
 The balmy air with sun-born jewels strew, 
 
 Till life and joy and song seemed born anew, 
 
 To glorify with promise all the scene. 
 These, and still more, O Master, hast thou caught 
 
 Within the meshes of thy subtile art, 
 
 That April there, with quickening beauties fraught, 
 Might stir the languid waters of the heart, 
 
 And make forever there all seasons hers 
 
 To bid fulfilment crown the laboring years. 
 
 55 
 
IV 
 
 The Come with me into this all-quiet wood, 
 
 Where nought of hurry or of noise is known, 
 And where soft airs from every tree are blown, 
 To fill the heart with Rest s untroubled good. 
 
 Here we may lie on leaf-strown couch, and brood, 
 While sweet Imagination binds her zone 
 Around our vagrant thoughts, and stirs alone 
 The silence of this lovely solitude. 
 
 Thou precious Art ! be always thus, so we 
 May compass something of thy priceless lore : 
 Thy deeper truths shall set the spirit free, 
 
 When soulless imitation rules no more, 
 And where, as here, thy joyous liberty 
 Gives birth to beauty never seen before. 
 
To-day the soaring mount is not for me The 
 
 Though it should marshal all its loveliest mass, Meadow 
 
 Or though across my tempted vision pass 
 
 Its utmost witchery of rock and tree ; 
 For this lush meadow holds my heart in fee, 
 
 Where clouds lie sleeping in its pool s clear glass, 
 
 And where in comradeship with flower and grass 
 
 No other friend than Reverie shall be. 
 The Mountain trumpets with imperious voice, 
 
 And great Ambition sits enthroned there 
 
 With spoils that blaze in fever-laden air ; 
 But thou, sweet Meadow, bidst the soul rejoice 
 
 In love of lowly and familiar things, 
 
 And lead st to peace s cooling, crystal springs. 
 
 57 
 
VI 
 
 The With moss-grown, interlocking arms that wear 
 
 A beauty strangely true, these gnarled trees 
 Wood 
 
 Rule o er this weird demesne, where mysteries 
 
 Seem lurking nigh in many an eerie lair. 
 
 Silence has closed the lips of every air, 
 
 Till hushful Rest, as though on drowsy seas, 
 Floats dreaming, safe from all disease 
 Of vain ambition or of mad despair. 
 
 To some such spot as this lone Dante might 
 Have brought the travail of his towering soul, 
 When exile s grief had made it joy to die; 
 
 And here Imagination, love-bedight, 
 Will over us its waves enchanted roll, 
 As near this naiad-haunted pool we lie. 
 
VII 
 
 The mild, alluring Night has had her time, Dawn 
 
 For now the Sun on his resistless way 
 Beats down with mighty hand her vast array, 
 And grandly up the heavens begins to climb. 
 
 These pulsing clouds announce the King sublime ; 
 Yet not with banner blazed with ruby ray, 
 But one whose opal light of lustrous gray 
 Wakes Dawn s sweet bells to silver-sounding chime. 
 
 The birds have scarce aroused, yet man is here, 
 To lay the dewy grass beneath his knife 
 And bear it off upon the waiting wain. 
 
 Thou wondrous New-born Day; what hope, what fear, 
 Lie coiled within thy breast ; what peace, what strife, 
 And what ambitions that are worse than vain ! 
 
 59 
 
VIII 
 
 At The Sun that raged victorious through the day, 
 
 Like conquering monarch scornful of defeat, 
 lime 
 
 Behind the hills in unrestrained retreat 
 
 With pauseless haste now speeds upon his way. 
 
 He conquers still : these clouds proclaim his sway, 
 That lace refulgently the lucent blue, 
 And this lone-wandering moon with crescent new 
 Begins to glow with his reflected ray. 
 
 The grasses tanned by summer s breath, the trees, 
 The distant crag a battlement that seems, 
 Lie in the arms of silence and of rest. 
 
 The feverous day is done ; night s galaxies 
 
 Hold yet aloof; in this mid- time what dreams 
 May hover o er us that shall make us blest ! 
 
 60 
 
IX 
 
 In centre of the canvas see this pine Tbe 
 
 All stark in death, with arms in vain appeal 
 
 Round 
 For what it nevermore can taste or feel 
 
 Of joys of earth or of the heavens divine. 
 Straight as in life it stands, still bearing sign 
 
 Of noble majesty and dauntless will ; 
 
 While ar its base its elder brothers spill 
 
 Their ashes where the grasses kiss and twine. 
 A glorious redwood centuries have blessed 
 
 Uptowers, while with bliss of life possessed 
 
 The forest sings in grand, harmonious tone. 
 And careless men pass by the children they 
 
 Of other children death has made his own, 
 
 And who like them will strive and pass away. 
 
 61 
 
The The year is on the edge of death ; for see, 
 
 These dreary branches have already shed 
 Year 
 
 Such myriad leaves, they lie in mounds of dead 
 
 At foot of each sad-hearted parent tree. 
 
 Yet, grim and stern as human soul might be, 
 The scarred, gray sycamores with defiant head 
 Like warriors stand, while in its shrunken bed 
 The languid stream flows on resignedly. 
 
 Life is aweary and in quiet here 
 
 Would rest awhile her fever-haunted brain, 
 As dreams she of the dear, departing year ; 
 
 And Melancholy, led by Memory s train, 
 With velvet step will gently come anear, 
 To dew the ground with sacramental tear. 
 
 62 
 
XI 
 
 Behold : dark, lead-like clouds made beautiful The 
 
 With various forms of fantasy, where light 
 
 Quest 
 Breaks through their lowermost edge with forceful 
 
 might, 
 
 As if in challenge of their right to rule ; 
 Two birds that fly above a sleeping pool 
 
 Wherein a woman peers with aching sight, 
 
 While tree and grass, in mystic garment dight, 
 
 Rest in the silence of a dreamful lull. 
 O Woman ! tell me what thou findest here 
 
 In light and dark, in water, bird and tree, 
 
 In all these grasses and their mystery. 
 O Man ! I am as thou : for could I peer 
 
 Till Time made peace with Death, as now I do, 
 
 No ray would show me the unraveling clew. 
 
XII 
 
 Promise The shower has ceased, yet big with coming rain 
 
 The light-fringed clouds loom o er the gladsome hills, 
 While all the sunbeam-glinted valley thrills 
 With expectation of its harvest grain. 
 
 This fresh, sweet soil but just upturned is fain 
 Its seed to press; the orchard blossom spills 
 Its fragrance round ; and rising incense fills 
 The air to gratitude s symphonic strain. 
 
 O Earth, dear, bounteous mother of us all, 
 From thee we come, and at the last we fall 
 Into thy softly folding arms to rest; 
 
 And as the Master spreads thy beauties here, 
 We seem to lie serenely on thy breast, 
 With Promise gently soothing every fear. 
 
In Humble Praise 
 
" He, above the rest 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
 Stood like a tower." 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book I, line 589. 
 
 " The Poet is the only potentate ; 
 
 His sceptre reaches o er remotest zones 5 
 
 His thought remembered and his golden tones 
 
 Shall, in the ears of nations uncreate, 
 Roll on for ages and reverberate 
 When Kings are dust beside forgotten thrones." 
 
 Sestet of " The Sovereigns." LLOYD MIFFLIN. 
 
 How glow they evermore, serenely bright, 
 
 These star-eyed ones the immortal Sons of Light ! 
 
TO SHAKESPEARE 
 
 JUNE, 1898. 
 
 u As Carlyle said, we are all subjects of King Shakespeare. As long as 
 the Americans acknowledge that allegiance, and in truth none could be more 
 loyal, there can be no doubt as to their Englishry." 
 
 Tbt Sfectator, April 30, 1898 
 
 Why add superfluous, piping note of mine 
 
 To those which for these now three hundred years 
 Have sung thy name, that in transplendence rears 
 Itself above the mightiest of thy line? 
 
 Why should I not, like nun before a shrine, 
 Midst adoration s more than grateful tears, 
 Let silence speak,* until the rapt soul hears 
 The distant music of the shores divine? 
 
 Because in this tremendous time of throes, 
 
 When all the lands are bowed with many woes, 
 We joy to feel old England s hand in ours ; 
 
 And so to-day, beyond imagining, 
 
 We kneel, as thrilled with newly-wakened powers, 
 Before thee England s and our Country s King. 
 
 *" The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
 
 Breathless with adoration." WORDSWORTH. 
 
TO MILTON 
 
 Thou star-crowned, peerless Milton, thine to know 
 The moans and thunders of the surging seas, 
 The tinkling laugh of rippling rills, the trees 
 Soft murmurs multidudinous ; and so 
 
 To make thy numbers with their music flow 
 In such deep roll of cadenced harmonies, 
 Such rythmic trip of honeyed melodies, 
 That round the world forevermore they go. 
 
 Thy thoughts were high as heaven, as deep as hell, 
 Strong as the truth, as sweet as liberty, 
 And pure as thine own song of chastity. 
 
 Thou gavest England, when she needed well 
 Her kingliest and her best, one rarest man 
 Who grandly blended Greek with Puritan. 
 
 68 
 
TO GOETHE 
 
 God built thee on the noblest plan, 
 Thou universal, matchless man ! 
 No life there was thou couldst not feel, 
 Nor learning thou didst not acquire, 
 And these thine art did so anneal 
 They glow as with divinest fire. 
 Thy serious soul surveyed the all, 
 Contemning not what seemed the small, 
 Nor lost in mazes of the vast ; 
 While all thy years thou wisely wast 
 The conqueror of thyself, who could 
 Dispart the evil from the good, 
 And calmly sit above the show 
 Of froth and fume that raged below. 
 Thou sat st on an imperial throne, 
 Making all forms of life thine own 
 A mighty, intellectual force, 
 Appointing man his proper course. 
 Thy piercing vision saw the springs 
 That lie within the heart of things, 
 
To And thy enthralling voice shall sound 
 e Its notes to earth s remotest bound, 
 To lift mankind on eagle s wings 
 To where sweet Peace in triumph sings. 
 
 TO MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 Clear-sighted and clear-thoughted, thou ; 
 Dogmatic, as we must allow ; 
 But temperate alway and sincere, 
 And void of bias as of fear. 
 
 So limpid thy prosaic flow, 
 We could with thee forever go, 
 To catch the rich and rare delight 
 Of seeing clearness joined to might. 
 
 And with thy verse we breathe an air 
 The very Gods would wish to share, 
 Where passion linked with beauty glows 
 Mid restful calms of great repose. 
 
 70 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 Here was a Titan : one whose teeming thought 
 In unfamiliar channels, broad and deep, 
 Rolled on with seeming superhuman sweep ; 
 One who, by learning as by nature taught, 
 
 In every mine of human passion wrought 
 
 With such exhaustless power, such piercing ken, 
 
 Such boundless sympathy, as poet s pen, 
 
 Save his and matchless Shakespeare s, never caught, 
 
 One who met truth with never flinching gaze, 
 As on he walked with Muse for loving guide ; 
 Who kept his road, despite of blame or praise, 
 
 In fiercest scorn of intellectual pride ; 
 
 And who, at close of his unrivalled days, 
 
 Sleeps, where tis meet he should, by Chaucer s side. 
 
TO BALZAC, 
 
 ON READING HIS MEMOIR BY 
 MISS WORMELEY 
 
 Until I knew the story of thy years, 
 It did not seem titanic power like thine 
 Could have been found in merely human mine, 
 Or could have mingled with life s hopes and fears ; 
 
 For thy great spirit so sublime appears 
 Among the kindred fellows of thy line, 
 That all the Nine would hail thee as divine, 
 And Atropos for once distrust her shears. 
 
 Tis so set down, yet strange I feel it still, 
 That thou wast not the demi-god I deemed, 
 But anxious toiler for thy daily bread ; 
 
 Thy bosom racked with many a torturing ill ; 
 
 And who, like others, when thy dreams were dreamed, 
 Saw Death s dark angel cloud thy helpless head. 
 
 72 
 
TO JOSE-MARIA DE HEREDIA 
 
 Twas eagle- winged, imperial Pindar who 
 Sent down the ages on the tide of song 
 The thought that only to the years belong 
 Those deeds that win immortal poet s due. 
 
 Still rise his crowned athletes to the view, 
 On his unwearied pinions borne along ; 
 Still shepherd s pipe and lay sound sweet and strong 
 As when Theocritus attuned them true. 
 
 And so through thee the feats of heroes great, 
 The hues of life of other times than ours, 
 With such refulgence in thy sonnets glow, 
 
 That in the splendor of their new estate, 
 
 They there, with deathless Art s supernal powers, 
 Shall o er the centuries enchantments throw. 
 
 73 
 
TO CARLYLE 
 
 Thou strangest one of lettered men, 
 Whose scathing tongue and piercing pen 
 No mercy had for vain pretense, 
 Thou mov st us less with love than awe ; 
 Yet no one could before thee draw 
 Without enlargement of his sense ; 
 Without sensations such as ne er 
 Before had stirred his spirit s air; 
 Without conviction, too, that here 
 Was one who dared to be sincere 
 A stern, unflinching soul, whose blow 
 Spared neither self, nor friend, nor foe. 
 A Prophet, thou, who strov st to teach 
 The deepest truths mankind can reach; 
 Who knew not what it was to try 
 To compromise with any lie, 
 Whate er might threaten or beseech; 
 And whose unwonted, thunderous speech 
 Will furnish man with generous store 
 Till Earth and Time shall be no more. 
 
 74 
 
ON LOOKING AT WORDSWORTH S 
 
 ENGRAVED PICTURE IN THE CENTEN- 
 
 ARY EDITION OF HIS POEMS 
 
 Immortal Wordsworth, as thy pictured face, 
 With all its placid calm, its brow serene, 
 Its mild, benignant majesty of mien, 
 Moves me to-day as with unwonted grace, 
 
 I fain would yield, if only for a space, 
 My soul to thee completely, and so clean 
 My thoughts of all impurities terrene, 
 That they with thine might dare to interlace. 
 
 Thou glorious singer of soul-quickening song ; 
 Thou nature s child to being s very core ; 
 Simple in all thy ways, yet bold and strong; 
 
 One that to loftiest mountain-top could soar 
 With sweeping wing, and lightly skim along, 
 No less at ease, the valley s daisied floor. 
 
 75 
 
TO BYRON 
 
 Byron, volcanic soul, whose crater s fire 
 
 Gushed without pause in heart-consuming pain, 
 The world still owns the brilliance of thy reign, 
 And wreathes with amaranth that throbbing lyre, 
 
 Where passion cries in unappeased desire, 
 Where nature pulsates in her every vein, 
 Where lofty thought evokes its loftiest strain, 
 And scorn of cant is hot with scourging ire. 
 
 As restless thou and ample as the sea 
 
 That sported with thee as familiar friend; 
 Thy heart was open, and thy spirit free 
 
 Beyond all human power to break or bend ; 
 Thy face was starward set, and Liberty 
 Wept with mankind at thy untimely end. 
 
TO KEATS 
 
 I 
 
 Dear Keats, forgive me that I cannot fly 
 The sweet temptation of a verse to thee, 
 Whose name, deep writ in brass, shall ever be 
 Still deeper written as the years go by ; 
 
 But looking in that tender, haunting eye 
 Which Severn drew for men to fondly see, 
 Thou dost to-day so radiant seem to me, 
 That love extorts what prudence might deny. 
 
 Tis not alone the glories of thy song, 
 
 Nor thy young death (at which mankind still weeps), 
 That binds us closely to thee, but thy strong, 
 
 Enduring steadfastness as well, which keeps 
 The golden glories of thy precious name 
 Secure within our hearts a vestal flame. 
 
 77 
 
II 
 
 To Thou art, indeed, of all the poet race 
 
 The Muses most immediate, darling child; 
 They kissed thee at thy birth and fondly smiled, 
 Foreseeing what thy splendors would embrace : 
 
 Enchantments man would never cease to chase, 
 And catch and catch again, and be beguiled, 
 Till filled with rapture he should be so isled 
 Upon such sparkling sea of fairy space. 
 
 Thou clear-eyed soul ! Thou miracle of song ! 
 Greek and Elizabethan met in thee ; 
 Thy honeyed lips all beauteous things did throng, 
 
 Attuned to music s noblest ecstasy, 
 Making thy world so ravishingly fair, 
 That all the years shall rest delighted there. 
 
TO TENNYSON 
 
 As comes to all, so thou hast passed away 
 To that unfathomable, dark beyond, 
 Before whose mysteries thine enchanting wand 
 Stirred soulful music to her deepest play ; 
 
 And meet it was that when Death came, to lay 
 His icy finger on that dreamful brain, 
 Thy soul should yearn for Shakespeare s choric strain 
 To fill the moments of thy parting day. 
 
 Thou deftest master of poetic art, 
 
 Whose verse is tinct with noble dignity, 
 And makes of England an immortal part ! 
 
 Familiar things are glorified by thee, 
 
 While dullest blood leaps lightly through the heart 
 At thy immatchless song of chivalry. 
 
 79 
 
TENNYSON S GOOD FORTUNE 
 
 Of all the poets never yet was one 
 
 More blest by fortune than was Tennyson : 
 
 For half a century his pen so swayed 
 
 The realm of Poesy that all obeyed, 
 
 And owned he gave such jeweled song-words birth 
 
 As could not well be matched upon the earth. 
 
 His country held him closely to her breast 
 
 As one in whom she was uniquely blest, 
 
 While wife, and friends, and children, all were his, 
 
 And spoils of wealth and noble dignities. 
 
 He dreamed his dreams in quietude apart, 
 
 His every passion centring in his art, 
 
 And from his garden s uninvaded shade 
 
 In calm contentment all the world surveyed, 
 
 Keeping his powers in such consummate bloom 
 
 They never seemed to wither or to fade. 
 
 And when had come the fateful hour of doom, 
 
 Good fortune still was his : the moonbeams made 
 
 Transfiguring beauty of his chamber s gloom ; 
 
 80 
 
The Master s music lingered on his lips Tennyson* s 
 
 The latest ere his spirit passed away, Good 
 
 And sudden sunlight burst through cloud s eclipse 
 In golden glory on his coffined clay. 
 
 TO BURNS 
 
 Thou wast of truest flesh and blood : 
 Thy veins ran hot with passion s flood ; 
 Thou knewest the stars and miry mud- 
 
 But all sincerely ; 
 And so the world, as well it should, 
 
 Loves thee most dearly. 
 
 All nature s kin was kin of thine ; 
 The earth for thee was all divine ; 
 Nor neededst thou from Heaven a sign 
 
 To love thy brothers, 
 Nor wouldst thou measure with thy line 
 
 The faults of others. 
 
 Tis true thy satire s lash did smite 
 The tender spot of many a wight ; 
 
 81 
 
To But though thy blow was never light, 
 Burns j t meant no e vil ; 
 
 Indeed, thou didst not do despite 
 E en to the Devil. 
 
 And yet thy bosom nursed a hate 
 For bigotry that would not bate ; 
 For aught that bound thy fellow s fate 
 
 To tyrant burdens, 
 Or barred him from his just estate 
 
 Of worthy guerdons. 
 
 The lowliest ones that breathe the air 
 Could catch thy thought and feel thy care, 
 And nestling in thy heart find there 
 
 Unselfish giver, 
 Till winged with song their flight shall bear 
 
 Still on forever. 
 
 Thy artless strain, how rich and strong ! 
 
 How full of all the joys of song ! 
 
 How round the heart its children throng 
 
 To leave us never ! 
 How scornful of the meanly wrong, 
 
 Yet loving ever ! 
 
 82 
 
Why should we note thy fitful years, To 
 
 Remorseful pangs, repentant tears, Burns 
 
 Or sigh that Fate had used her shears 
 
 Untimely on thee ? 
 J Tis nought, when blessed Love appears 
 
 Fore er to crown thee. 
 
 TO WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 
 
 Landor, thou art, in truth, the one unique : 
 A Briton, yet a Roman and a Greek, 
 And still no less Italian ; in all time 
 Breathing ambrosial airs of every clime ; 
 Who all the spoils of all the ages stored, 
 And drew such honey from thy heaping hoard, 
 That we who read thee pause and pause again 
 In wonder at the marvels of thy pen. 
 A lettered Titan, thou, so greatly great, 
 Thou sittest throned in high imperial state, 
 Like some immortal God that keeps his place 
 In lonely grandeur of unconquered space, 
 With none so venturesome as dare dispute 
 His rule as being less than absolute. 
 
 83 
 
TO GOLDSMITH 
 
 Dear Goldsmith, how we dwell and gloat 
 Upon thy clear and liquid note, 
 And with thy Vicar talk until 
 Sweet Resignation leads the will. 
 Thy Traveller still pursues his way ; 
 Thy Village glows in its decay 
 More lovely now than when it first 
 Upon the world of letters burst ; 
 Thy Citizen still makes us hear ; 
 Thy Bee still buzzes in our ear ; 
 Still does thy conquering Lady show 
 The self-same charms of long ago ; 
 While Garrick and Sir Joshua stand 
 Forever painted by thy hand. 
 
 Who could have thought, of all the set 
 With Johnson at the Turk s-head met, 
 That thou shouldst be the one bright star 
 Whose light eclipse should never bar ; 
 That thy beloved name should trail 
 The rest behind thee like a tail ? 
 
 84 
 
TO CHARLES LAMB 
 
 Tis three score years, dear Lamb, since thou 
 
 Tasted the bitter and the sweet of death, 
 
 But Love thy name hath nurtured so, that now, 
 
 As ne er before, it greenly flourished!. 
 
 Thou hadst sincerity without a flaw, 
 
 And lovedst all so deeply and so true, 
 
 Thou to the beggar and the sweep couldst draw, 
 
 And see their hearts their rags and tatters through. 
 
 Thou hadst no theories for wayward man, 
 
 Nor sought to teach some lesson to thy kind, 
 
 But livedst patiently thy little span, 
 
 To hopeless ills courageously resigned. 
 
 Thy writings leave us debtors evermore, 
 
 But what thou wast makes still the richer store. 
 
TO SWINBURNE ON HIS DRAMA 
 
 If highest taste some Songs of thine would blot, 
 
 Thy Drama raises its Olympian head 
 
 Above our wonder. All divinely fed 
 
 With the ambrosia of enkindling thought 
 And soul-enthralling music, and inwrought 
 
 With rarest beads of color-laden phrase, 
 
 It grandly moves in such heroic ways 
 
 As scarce one modern, saving thee, has sought. 
 Here Scotland s Mary winds through her career, 
 
 Her dainty fingers dipped in every crime ; 
 
 Here Knox, the dauntless, shakes his priestly spear; 
 Here Bothwell schemes, the Satan of his time, 
 
 And here antiquity has been rewon 
 
 Through Atalanta s chase in Calydon. 
 
 86 
 
ON LOOKING INTO THE POEMS OF 
 WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY 
 
 What sweep of wing ! what moving power ! 
 What strange, inevitable things 
 That menacingly loom and lower, 
 Bodeful and big with doom ! 
 
 No puny morbidness here broods, 
 But thoughts and words of giant form 
 That stride across the vastitudes 
 In color-glinted gloom. 
 
 He holds us fast, and binds the will 
 So closely round our inmost thought, 
 We feel an unaccustomed thrill 
 To ecstasy akin. 
 
 The Hospital its story sings 
 Through every gamut of the strain, 
 And London, gloomed and glorious, brings 
 Her terror and her sin. 
 
 All nature throbs with strange desire, 
 While themes deemed barren or outworn 
 
Willian Burst from his music-haunted lyre 
 
 Ernest In blooms of kingliest line. 
 Henley 
 
 Too lurid, lacking sober rest, 
 Some critic cries and let him cry ; 
 For here are gems, with beauty blest, 
 From Art s eternal mine. 
 
 TO RUSKIN 
 
 WRITTEN IN "ARROWS OK THE CHACE. 
 
 Thou noble one, thy mind and heart 
 We reverence more the more we scan, 
 
 The more we see thy love for Art 
 
 Moves hand in hand with love for Man. 
 
 TO WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 Thou strange, rare one, with spirit free, 
 What glorious visions didst thou see ; 
 How teach us that the truest Real 
 Is that contained in the Ideal. 
 
 88 
 
CHRISTOPHER SMART 
 
 Smart was the marvel of his sapless time : 
 To scribble reams of empty, futile rhyme, 
 Then in a phrensy of poetic art 
 Crazed in his brain and saddened in his heart- 
 To pour his soul into one mighty song, 
 Where sparkling jewels do so thickly throng, 
 And blaze with such imaginative light, 
 That every year shall gladden in their sight 
 A deathless song with nature s ruin bought ; 
 No wonder his own century knew him not ! 
 
 TO WILLIAM WATSON 
 
 Thou dost the verses of thy brethren praise 
 In rarest nicety of tuneful phrase, 
 But who, all gladdened with Parnassian wine, 
 Will sing the crystal purity of thine? 
 
TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 AUGUST 12, 1891. 
 
 Lowell, thou art not dead ; thou canst not die 
 Till Letters children all shall cease to be ; 
 Till dawns the day (but who such day may see?) 
 When Art s innumerous crystal springs run dry ; 
 
 When Fancy skims no more the meads that lie 
 In fadeless bloom, and doomed by death s decree 
 Imagination s mighty majesty. 
 Till then, O glorious soul, thou shalt not die. 
 
 Thou art the perfectest of all the flowers 
 
 That yet have blossomed on New England s soil 
 Blending great character with stintless powers, 
 
 And making every literature thy spoil ; 
 While all thy years thy jewel-crusted pen 
 Sent thrilling message to the hearts of men. 
 
 90 
 
AFTER AN EVENING WITH LONGFELLOW 
 
 Could I but mount with something of thine ease, 
 And lightly wing the empyreal air 
 The muses breathe, I would not now despair 
 To rise in praise of thee on lines Hke these ; 
 
 Now, when thy dulcet, fine felicities 
 All freshly lie upon my soul, and wear 
 A bloom so richly, beautifully fair, 
 They mock expression s subtlest alchemies. 
 
 No deliration ever mars thy strain, 
 
 No puling, weak complaining nor lament, 
 Nor hobbling verse that roughly drags along; 
 
 But borne on waves of music, sweetly sane, 
 Serenely passioned, suavely eloquent, 
 It glows with witching art of noble song. 
 
ON THE LYRICS OF THOMAS BAILEY 
 ALDRICH 
 
 Dainty as daintiest thing 
 
 In man s imagining 
 
 Of words that faultless fit 
 
 Their fabric exquisite ; 
 
 With beauty such as rose 
 
 In happiest moment knows ; 
 
 Attuned to melody s 
 
 Supremest ecstasies ; 
 
 These gemlike lyrics live through flawless art, 
 To please the senses and to stir the heart. 
 
 POPE 
 
 The choicest vintage of ambrosial wine 
 
 He knew not, nor the harmonies divine ; 
 
 But who has matched, or who shall hope to match, 
 
 The wit and sparkle of his rapier line ? 
 
 92 
 
TO WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 Thou wast of those who lived with noble things 
 From very birth, until, weighed down with years, 
 Death sealed thine eyes, whilst all thy country stood 
 Uncovered round thy venerated clay. 
 Twas thine to show how clean the Press could be, 
 And how courageous ; thine to clearly point 
 The paths thy countrymen might safely tread, 
 And what they ought in honor to acclaim ; 
 And thine, in combat for a purer tongue, 
 To bid thine own example lead the way 
 jn very panoply of chastest mail. 
 The gift of song was thine ; and in thy great 
 Miltonic cadences the mighty heart 
 Of nature beats, anon with joy serene, 
 Anon with melancholy sad as leaves 
 By Autumn kissed, but alway with a hope 
 That sings its music to the darkest hour. 
 With thee we lose ourselves within the wood, 
 And make the tree our brother ; every plant, 
 That spreads its modest beauties to the sun, 
 Or nestles in the shade, is then our kin, 
 93 
 
To And we with them on nature s kindly breast 
 
 William T -i 1.1 
 
 In silence hearken to the voice divine. 
 Cullen 
 
 Bryant ^e ^ owers f tne field were thy dear friends, 
 Who spake their message to thee as to one 
 They trusted ; and in swelling, golden note 
 Of sounding rhythm thou gavest it to us 
 To keep enshrined in love s own treasury. 
 All things that walk or fly could set thv soul 
 To harmony, as did the waterfowl 
 Which caught thine eye, when in the vast 
 Of space s unimaginable waste 
 Alone, yet confident, it took its way, 
 And where, through thee, transfigured and sublime, 
 It beats forever an unwearied wing. 
 
 94 
 
POE 
 
 He walked beneath the raven s wing 
 A wayward child in lightless gloom, 
 
 And there his trancing songs did sing 
 And weave his haunting tales of doom, 
 
 He drank from Beauty s honey-cup, 
 Pressed to his eager lips by Art, 
 
 Until her nectar swallowed up 
 The very substance of his heart. 
 
 Upon her lines his structures grew, 
 In form most cunningly designed, 
 
 While demons that he nurtured slew 
 The peace and sweetness of his mind. 
 
 With hopeless sighs and bitter tears 
 He filkd his sad, remorseful hours, 
 
 Yet reared the while, for all the years, 
 His beauty-crowned, enchanted towers* 
 
 95 
 
TO LLOYD MIFFLIN 
 
 Borne on thy sonnet-feathered wings I fly 
 To strange, vast realms immeasurable where 
 Imagination breeds her children fair, 
 That wake, with singing, Thought s remotest sky. 
 
 Then down to earth thou bring st me, and I lie 
 So sweetly close to every human care, 
 And breathe the joys of such ambrosial air, 
 That Love s seraphic host seems hovering nigh. 
 
 Where er thou bearest me all beauties bide 
 
 With Art and Passion linked, while music rolls 
 In cadenced billows on the spirit s shore. 
 
 O Poet by the Susquehanna s side, 
 
 Take thou this heart-wrought song and all my soul s 
 Most faithful homage till my days are o er. 
 
WRITTEN IN LLOYD MIFFLIN S 
 "THE SLOPES OF HELICON 
 
 APRIL 14, 1898. 
 
 Thou alien one, O War, whose notes prelude 
 Full many a grievous woe to haughty Spain, 
 Nor less, mayhap, to us, let not their bane 
 On this glad day upon mine ear obtrude ; 
 
 And thou familiar one, O Law, endued 
 
 With that which should make battle s havoc vain, 
 Must now release me from thy stress and strain, 
 And leave my spirit to its solitude. 
 
 For now have come to me the lyric songs 
 
 Of him whose numbers with impassioned might 
 In beauty flow mellifluously on ; 
 
 And hence this golden day to him belongs, 
 On which he shall, with soul-illuming light, 
 Lead me along the Slopes of Helicon. 
 
 97 
 
TO WHITTIER 
 
 I 
 
 Some verse there is death cannot touch although 
 It may not nest upon the loftiest height, 
 To spread its pinions in untiring flight 
 Where constellations in resplendence glow; 
 
 Nor yet by Fancy fondly fellowed know 
 Her fairy realms of exquisite delight ; 
 Nor with Imagination s stopless might 
 Range the vast regions of our bliss and woe ; 
 
 For it hath cradled in the human breast 
 
 Feelings and thoughts with which we would not part ; 
 And hath in loving, saving strength possessed 
 
 The power to move the universal heart, 
 And so will be by all the muses blest 
 As long as joys shall sing, or tears shall start. 
 
II 
 
 Such verse, O Whittier, thy muse employs : To 
 
 For thou dost sing in unaffected lay 
 Of maidens fair, of childhood s glorious day, 
 Of natural things unmixed with base alloys ; 
 
 Dost mint the gold which lies in homely joys, 
 And gently mov st in such consummate way 
 The human heartstrings to harmonious play, 
 That restful music drowns the world s mad noise. 
 
 New England lives in thy delightful line : 
 
 There do her household hearths our love constrain ; 
 There do her tales with newer beauty shine, 
 
 Her fields, her woods, her skies, her stormy main; 
 While over all the Power we feel divine 
 Upholds eternal, universal reign. 
 
 99 
 
TO A SOILED AND BROKEN VOLUME OF 
 BAYARD TAYLOR S POEMS 
 
 Come, lovely waif, to my embrace ; 
 With gentlest touch I shall erase 
 All soilure from thy pretty face, 
 Shall tear away the faded dress 
 That mars thy pristine loveliness, 
 And bid the binder clothe anew 
 Thy beauteous form, and there bestrew, 
 With hand by loving taste controlled, 
 His daintiest flowers of gleaming gold. 
 Then shall I gladly house thee where 
 The best of all thy kinsmen fare, 
 And who will give thee welcome room 
 Within the precints of their home, 
 And where thine author e en would say 
 Thou hadst at last not gone astray. 
 There shalt thou have such tender care 
 The bitter past will be forgot ; 
 And oft to thee shall I repair, 
 To thrill beneath thy glowing thought ; 
 To follow thee at leisure times 
 100 
 
For art-grown pearls in distant climes ; 
 To have the sluggish feelings stirred 
 By many a music-singing word, 
 And mount with thee on lyric wings 
 Above the touch of sordid things. 
 Ah, then how happy shall I be, 
 At thought of having rescued thee ! 
 
 To a 
 
 Soiled and 
 Broken 
 
 Volume of 
 
 Bayard 
 
 Taylor s 
 
 Poems 
 
 TO FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 
 
 Thy verse, dear Halleck, hath such flowing ease, 
 And sparkles with such rare felicities ; 
 So much of it is nourished with a blood 
 That flows from sources of perennial good ; 
 We cannot still but wonder more and more 
 Thou shouldst have doled us such a stinted store ; 
 But every soul forgives thee when it turns 
 To read, for hundredth time, thy song to Burns. 
 
 101 
 
TO WALT WHITMAN 
 
 Thou roughest-hewn of all the poet kind ! 
 
 Not thine to tinkle rhyme s melodious bell, 
 
 Nor set to music of harmonious swell 
 
 The thoughts that surged within thy shoreless mind ; 
 Not these could Art to lightest durance bind, 
 
 Nor sensuous Beauty with her deepest spell 
 
 Entice them in her fair demesne to dwell ; 
 
 But formless, ruleless they, as unconfined. 
 Yet, giant soul, thy loud-resounding lyre, 
 
 Whose tones the wondering world still leans to hear, 
 
 Thrills every spirit that would dare to be 
 Inflamed with that unique, immortal fire, 
 
 That made thee what thou wast the grandest seer 
 
 And noblest poet of Democracy. 
 
 102 
 
TO GEORGE FREDERICK WATTS, R. A. 
 
 ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY 
 FEBRUARY 23, 1897. 
 
 No worthier, nobler name, great Watts, than thine 
 Has Art emblazoned on her golden scroll ; 
 Nor has old England gendered truer soul 
 Of all the wonders of her wondrous line : 
 
 For thou hast borne with marvellous strength the sign 
 Of Beauty s chastity to highest goal, 
 Unheeding largess of applause or dole, 
 Nor taking thought in worldly ways to shine. 
 
 And all the while Imagination s hand 
 
 Has led thce to the unclouded summits, where 
 For souls like thine all high ideals await 
 
 Those radiant ones that spurn each base demand 
 Of fad or falseness, and in Truth s pure air 
 Teach what it means to be supremely great. 
 
 103 
 
In Tribute 
 
" I cannot love thee as I ought, 
 For love reflects the thing beloved ; 
 My words are only words, and moved 
 
 Upon the topmost froth of thought." 
 
 In Memoriam. 
 
 Trifles that glittered in affection s sun, 
 
 Then passed like morning dew, 
 And which through eloquence of love have won 
 
 The right to live anew. 
 
A. S. T. 
 
 So deep her love, so warm her heart, her touch 
 So soft and gentle, and her voice so sweet, 
 That when she soothes my pain, then overmuch 
 My life seems blest ; and thus serene, complete, 
 By means of her, my soul can never meet 
 One danger that shall make it cower or retreat. 
 
 TO PROFESSOR JACOB COOPER, D. D., 
 D. C. L., OF RUTGERS COLLEGE, NEW 
 JERSEY 
 
 I have not seen the nobleness and grace 
 That surely sit in glory on thy face, 
 For never has it been my joy to know 
 Thy spoken word in golden, friendly flow ; 
 But many a token have I had from thee 
 So rarely sweet and beautiful to see, 
 And have so gazed upon thy distant light, 
 That in thy modesty s supreme despite 
 I give thee homage in this verse of mine, 
 And sigh to think I lack the Muse s might 
 To make it thrill with all that is divine. 
 
 107 
 
TO DR. LEVI COOPER LANE ON THE 
 OPENING OF LANE HOSPITAL 
 
 JANUARY i, 1895. 
 " Finis Coronat Opus." 
 
 Unconquerable soul, as fortunate 
 
 As good and true, and worthy all the store 
 
 That binds our hearts to thine still more and more, 
 
 We bring thee loving homage on this great, 
 
 Auspicious day, yet vainly strive to mate 
 Our feelings with the best of every lore, 
 That bodied thus they might superbly soar 
 On golden, winged words to Heaven s own gate. 
 
 Here stands thy work, and shall forever stand 
 As long as man may know disease or pain, 
 In flawless roundness of completion planned ; 
 
 What nobler monument of selfless gain ! 
 
 In all that s precious, how supremely grand 
 This wise creation of thy heart and brain ! 
 
 108 
 
II 
 
 Long years ago thy prescient soul made bold To 
 
 To point to rich fruition such as this, 
 
 Cooper 
 And now thou drainest such a cup of bliss r 
 
 As even thyself couldst scarce have hoped to hold ; 
 But every purpose of thy hard-earned gold 
 
 Has been accomplished ; nought has gone amiss, 
 
 And all thy plans harmoniously kiss 
 
 Here where thy name shall evermore be told. 
 The starry heights have been sublimely won, 
 
 And we who watched thee on thy toilsome way 
 
 Are thrilled to see the splendor of thy sun 
 Undimmed as yet by age, and fervent pray 
 
 That as the years their future courses run, 
 
 Their peace shall bless thee to thy latest day. 
 
 109 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 
 
 Death holds our Curtis now; no more that pen 
 From which fell crystal drops of honeydew ; 
 No more that spoken word, so strong and true, 
 For sweet refreshment of the souls of men. 
 
 Nor tongue, nor pen, will ever speak again 
 
 This side of Heaven ; but Fame will fondly strew 
 His grave with amaranth, and Love renew 
 Her passion there to utmost of her ken ; 
 
 For he was more than Letters honored child, 
 And more than lover of the artist race : 
 His country held him as her noble son 
 
 Who strove to make her parties undefiled, 
 To lift their feet from out the filth of place, 
 And set them where real victories might be won. 
 
 no 
 
DAVID STARR JORDAN, 
 
 PRESIDENT OF LELAND STANFORD JUNIOR 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 Six feet and more his massive figure stands, 
 With countenance sedate, yet frankly free, 
 And with calm mien so masterful that we 
 Could fear no cause committed to his hands. 
 
 As one beloved by Science he commands 
 Her largesses, and bids them bodied be 
 In closely-woven speech wherein we see 
 Inweaved all great ideals* bright golden strands. 
 
 Sincere, courageous, never less than bold 
 In scorn of weakness and of compromise, 
 He keeps straight on to where his duty lies ; 
 
 In body, mind and soul so big of mould, 
 
 That when the most of him is thought or told, 
 He seems beyond us still to higher rise. 
 
 1 1 
 
TO WILLIAM KEITH 
 
 O Master, if such halting verse as mine 
 Can for a moment stay thy magic brush, 
 Then let, mid thankfulness religious hush, 
 My grateful tribute fall on ear of thine. 
 
 Our friendship s years have stretched a hallowed line 
 Since first I knew the children of thy Art, 
 And now, with wider thought and warmer heart, 
 I come my laurel round thy name to twine. 
 
 Would that my rhyme could run as does this stream 
 Which on thy canvas breaks in rapturous song 
 Where Spring, triumphant, bursts from every clod ! 
 
 Then would be realized my vain, fond dream : 
 To sing one bar that might amidst the throng 
 Of countless voices rise from earth to God. 
 
 112 
 
ON READING THE POSTHUMOUSLY PUB 
 LISHED VOLUME OF TIMOTHY H. 
 REARDEN 
 
 Tis strange to think I should have held his hand, 
 Full many a time all warmly clasped in mine, 
 And ne er was conscious that he bore the sign 
 Of those who conquer by divine command. 
 
 And now he s gone, how well we understand j 
 How gloat upon the once unnoted line ; 
 How newly bright his gems of beauty shine, 
 As born to live in Art s enchanted land. 
 
 The Muses loved him, but the cruel Fates 
 Held his high hopes in many a sad eclipse, 
 And led his feet where guerdon could not be ; 
 
 But at the last, Heaven opened wide its gates 
 To light him, and with song upon his lips 
 He hailed the glory of the eternal sea.* 
 
 * His poem, " The Sea! The Sea! " was written a short 
 time before bis deatb. 
 
TO MY FRIEND W. H. T. 
 
 Friend of my struggling years, when friend was none, 
 Save only thou, to set my wavering feet 
 On paths where effort and reward should meet ; 
 Whose blood and mine have mingled into one 
 
 Through fruitful marriage ; ere thy westering sun 
 Shall sink one second lower, let my verse 
 Thy merit and my gratitude rehearse, 
 And so live there when both our days are done : 
 
 In counsel wise, with scorn of useless speech, 
 Tenacious to the last, yet just to each, 
 And modest ever, this, and more, thou art ; 
 
 While never man was born who starred his way 
 With more unselfish deeds from day to day, 
 Or nursed his feelings in a tenderer heart. 
 
 114 
 
HENRY GEORGE 
 
 He, like some prophet in the days of old, 
 Took every weary heart into his own, 
 And sought assuagement of the dreadful moan 
 Forever rising and by nought controlled. 
 
 Against the giant wrongs whose coils enfold 
 
 The myriad souls that starve, and freeze, and groan, 
 His flaming message flew as if twere blown 
 By all the woes that earth has ever told. 
 
 His love was man s until his latest day, 
 
 When, battling gainst corruption s foul array, 
 He fell, to flood with glory all the scene. 
 
 Alas ! Alas ! the world has lost him now ; 
 But men will look to it that on his brow 
 The laurel keeps imperishably green. 
 
TO ANDREE S CARRIER PIGEON 
 
 IN THE ARCTIC OCEAN, 8o44 / NORTH, 20 20 EAST 
 JULY 16, 1897. 
 
 No voice but thine, O ill-requited bird, 
 Has come to tell of mighty-souled Andree, 
 Since that uniquely memorable day 
 His polar voyaging the whole world stirred ; 
 
 And as on sheltering mast thy flight deterred 
 By cold and weariness thy body lay, 
 Wrapped in the dreams of home-cote far away, 
 Man gave thee death for thy recorded word. 
 
 Thy master sailed into the depths unknown 
 Along the paths no human wing had beat, 
 And fell with frozen plume, no more to rise ; 
 
 And twinned with thee ye both, as glory s own, 
 Have added, with transplendency complete, 
 New Borealis to the Arctic skies. 
 
 116 
 
TO C. S. K. 
 
 And so you re back from London town, 
 From Paris and from Florence ; 
 
 You ve seen Italia s lovely plains, 
 And Alpine peaks and torrents ; 
 
 You ve gloated over gems of art 
 
 In many an olden city ; 
 The Louvre and Luxembourg have walked, 
 
 Uffizi and the Pitti ; 
 
 You ve racked your brain to find what s in 
 
 Libraries and museums, 
 And various music heard, from pipe 
 
 Of shepherd to Te Deums. 
 
 You ve breathed the classic air of Greece 
 
 That all mankind inspires, 
 And thrilled before the Parthenon s 
 
 Unquenched, immortal fires, 
 
 And watched the witching moonlight kiss 
 
 Each rent and mutilation, 
 Till all her columns seemed to rise 
 
 In glad rejuvenation, 
 
 I 17 
 
To And once again her sculptured host 
 
 C S K 
 
 In joyousness possessed her, 
 
 While great Athene shone as when 
 The art of Phidias blessed her. 
 
 You ve trod the streets which Plato trod,- 
 In silent, dreaming wonder, 
 
 And climbed Hymettus where the bees 
 The nectared blooms still plunder; 
 
 Thermopylae has felt your step, 
 And Marathon and Plataea, 
 
 Where Asia s fall made sure for us 
 The priceless Greek idea ; 
 
 And Salamis was yours to see, 
 With all its memories glowing : 
 
 The Persian monarch throned in state, 
 To watch the battle s flowing ; 
 
 Themistocles heroic form 
 Above his fellows towering, 
 
 The wives and children on the height 
 In fear and wailing cowering ; 
 
 118 
 
OF THF. 
 
 UNIVRS!TY 
 
 The Asian host on Attic s shore 
 
 The victory bespeaking ; 
 The writhing ships, the valorous deeds, 
 
 The sea with slaughter reeking, 
 
 Until the evening sun looked down 
 On Persia wrecked and flying, 
 
 While Greece in glory flamed along 
 Ncw-splendored and undying. 
 
 Over the hills of mighty Rome 
 
 And through her ways you ve wandered, 
 And o er her everlasting mark 
 
 On history s page have pondered ; 
 
 You ve mused where Caracalla s baths 
 Upon the ground lie sprawling, 
 
 Until Rome s grandeur and her shame 
 From out the past were calling ; 
 
 You ve stood where Titus sat, when he 
 
 The Colosseum s wonder 
 Opened with seas of blood that ran 
 
 Below applause s thunder ; 
 
 To 
 C. S. K. 
 
 119 
 
To And where the Forum s columns stand 
 
 C S K 
 
 In splendid ruination, 
 
 You ve conjured up the populace, 
 The Tribune and oration ; 
 
 You ve bended o er the fateful place 
 Which Brutus made appalling, 
 
 Until in fancy you could see 
 The towering Julius falling ; 
 
 You ve roamed the Vatican where Art 
 
 Her vigil still is keeping, 
 And knelt upon the grave where Keats 
 
 Immortally is sleeping ; 
 
 You ve read your Virgil mid the scenes 
 Where sang the master classic, 
 
 And viewed the farm where Horace versed 
 Tween sips of fragrant Massic ; 
 
 You ve followed Dante s dauntless steps 
 
 In exile from his city, 
 And Tasso s prison walls have felt 
 
 The murmur of your pity. 
 
 120 
 
You ve gazed on Venice, sailed upon To 
 
 C S K 
 
 Her marvellous streets aquatic, 
 
 And lived the matchless scene when she 
 Wedded the Adriatic ; 
 
 And thought of all that far-gone time, 
 
 When power was hers and glory, 
 Till every age entranced has heard 
 
 Recital of her story ; 
 
 When Dandolo, the sightless Doge, 
 
 Joined arms with the crusader, 
 And far and near full many a land 
 
 Submissively obeyed her ; 
 
 When Tintoretto s brush was tinct 
 
 With great imagination, 
 And Titian s and Giorgione s glowed 
 
 With gorgeous coloration ; 
 
 And when Manuzio raised his press, 
 
 And with his slanting letters 
 Set free the Muses royal line 
 
 From manuscriptal fetters. 
 
 121 
 
To Language you ve mastered; bent your thought 
 
 /"* 9 K 
 
 On problems of the nations, 
 
 And pondered o er the mystic past, 
 With all its vast relations; 
 
 And more, and more; but why recount 
 When you are here before us, 
 
 To let narration s gentle waves 
 Delightfully roll o er us ? 
 
 YSAYE 
 
 All leonine in look he stands, 
 
 Serious, confident, serene, 
 Whilst neath his supple, willowy hands 
 
 His myriad-voiced violin 
 Speaks to the soul, until the air 
 Seems tremulous with praise and prayer. 
 
 122 
 
TO BONZIG 
 
 (SEE PARTS II AND IV OF "THE MARTIAN " BY 
 GEORGE DU MAURIER* ) 
 
 Thou honest soul, amidst the dry routine 
 
 Where school-boys mocked thy mild severity, 
 How thou didst feed thy hunger for the Sea 
 By painting her thine eyes had never seen. 
 
 And when thy years were turning from their green, 
 Ecstatic thoughts of her still came to thee, 
 As in thy garret on thy canvas she 
 Glowed as with jewels from her great demesne. 
 
 O rapturous day that makes thy heart run o er ! 
 The Baron calls thee to the ocean-shore, 
 And says thou shalt be tutor to his son ... 
 
 Then as thou criest, bliss in every breath, 
 "The Sea ! the Sea ! my best beloved one ! " 
 Thou plungest in her waves . . . and findest death. 
 
 123 
 
PERPETUA 
 
 My father, plead no more; wouldst have me wed 
 Remorse in life, and then in flames to lie, 
 When from the blood of Caesar s circus I 
 Can leap to Heaven to be chapleted ? 
 
 Has not our holy Saint Ignatius said 
 
 God s wheat we are, that, for his purpose high 
 And in his boundless love, should be ground by 
 The teeth of wild beasts into Christ s pure bread ? 
 
 Then welcome the arena s glorious ruth ; 
 I long to feel the lion s rending tooth 
 Till all my body reeks with horrors fell. 
 
 And yet, dear father, ere from thee I go, 
 It touches me to think of that great woe 
 Which will be thine eternally in Hell. 
 
 124 
 
ARRIA 
 
 "I hear and shake not that thou art decreed 
 By thine own hand to miserably die, 
 Now when thy fortunes blossom and the eye 
 Of fate beams bright as with prophetic meed ; 
 
 And why shak st thou in this thy spirit s need 
 When Death and Cassar stand relentless by ? 
 Arouse thy soul till thy defiant cry 
 Proclaims once more our matchless Roman breed. "- 
 
 " O wife, to close this day my book of years 
 Is unimagined pain ; this waiting steel 
 The horror s sum of horrors unto me." 
 
 " Give me the blade, that so thy griefs and fears 
 May drown in mine own blood. I strike . . . 
 
 and feel 
 
 No hurt, my Paetus . . . now the point s for 
 thee." 
 
 125 
 
IN THE CONVENT GARDEN 
 
 TO EDWIN STEVENS IN APPRECIATION OF HIS RENDERING 
 OF THE CHARACTER OF CYRANO DE BERGERAC 
 
 Steeped in autumnal dyes the mournful leaves 
 With sad insistence flutter to the ground, 
 And blend their voices with the vespers sound, 
 To soothe the heart that still for Christian grieves. 
 
 Beneath the sighing trees her bosom heaves ; 
 
 For memories throng, while he that in her bound 
 Brings worldly word comes not he whom, 
 
 thorn-crowned, 
 She still, as ever, blindly misconceives. 
 
 At last all worn he comes with feeble breath, 
 In whose sweet tenderness preluding death 
 Throbs strangely new a note from love s past years : 
 
 It tells that he, not Christian, won her kiss, 
 
 That his, not Christian s, pen had fed her bliss, 
 And that Remorse shall fill her cup with tears. 
 
 126 
 
HARRO 
 
 SCHLESW1G-HOLSTEIN COAST, 
 FEBRUARY, 1895. 
 
 The waves leapt fierce and high 
 Beneath cloud-blackened sky, 
 And raging winds tore by 
 
 The ship that staggered on, 
 While blinding sleet fell there, 
 From out the freezing air, 
 Upon her bosom where 
 
 Hope seemed forever gone. 
 
 And now the seas dash o er 
 Her deck s defenseless floor, 
 And more and ever more 
 
 She gasps and pants for breath ; 
 While, worn with weary strain, 
 Her desperate men attain 
 Her rigging, there to gain 
 
 What seems but slower death. 
 
 But hope now thrills their breast, 
 For o er the billows crest 
 
 127 
 
Harro The life-boat speeds, attest 
 
 Of selfless souls that dare ; 
 And every man finds place 
 Within her crowded space 
 Save one, whose helpless case 
 
 Seems all beyond their care. 
 
 Then Harro ran to meet 
 The boat with flying feet, 
 And cried, with joy complete, 
 
 "All? All? Ye have saved all ? "- 
 "All, Captain, all but one, 
 And he so high had run 
 Upon the mast, that none 
 
 Was equal to the call." 
 
 At this he smote his head, 
 And with sad sternness said, 
 " Tis woe that those I ve led 
 
 Should fail in duty s hest ! . . . 
 Now let but four agree 
 To try yon wreck with me, 
 And that lone wretch shall be 
 
 With life divinely blest." 
 
 128 
 
Comrade, in vain thy plea , Harra 
 
 Too heavy runs the sea.* 
 "Then I alone," said he, 
 
 Will venture on the deed.* 
 " Not so," upstarted four, 
 " If thou but lead, once more 
 We ll through these billows bore, 
 
 Despite all coward rede." 
 
 " Harro, my only boy, 
 Do not all hope and joy 
 Within my breast destroy," 
 
 His tearful mother cried ; 
 "The sea runs higher still, 
 And great as is thy skill, 
 And stout thy strength and will, 
 
 It cannot be defied. 
 
 Our duty s charge by none 
 More nobly has been done ; 
 And as for that poor one 
 
 So lonely left, he s gone ; 
 Tis sure we cannot know 
 That he still lives, and so 
 
 129 
 
Harro The truest might forego 
 
 What thy fond wish is on. 
 
 "Thou rt all that s left to me: 
 Thy brother Uwe, he 
 Went from me, and the sea 
 
 Most like has been his grave ; 
 And thy dear sire doth sleep 
 Entombed within the deep, 
 Where hope had bade him reap 
 The glory of the brave. 
 
 I cannot let thee go ; 
 
 The ocean is our foe, 
 
 And these mad breakers throw 
 
 Fresh terror on the strand." 
 But what of him out there, 
 Abandoned to despair ? 
 Has be no mother s care?" 
 
 Asked Harro oar in hand. 
 
 Again she pleading cried : 
 
 " Give o er thy spirit s pride, 
 
 Come to my lonely side, 
 
 Nor perish in the storm." 
 
 130 
 
In vain ; the four and he, Harro 
 
 With sturdy arm and free, 
 Sent through the seething sea 
 
 The life-boat s glorious form. 
 
 They conquered wave and blast. 
 And safely clutched at last 
 The mast where still clung fast 
 
 The wretch about to die ; 
 When Harro then straightway 
 Clomb, without pause or stay, 
 To where that lone one lay 
 
 All stark against the sky. 
 
 With more than tender care 
 His burden he did bear 
 Unto his comrades there, 
 
 Who clove the air with cheers ; 
 But when they saw the face 
 Upturned to his embrace, 
 Another joy did lace 
 
 Their cheeks with silent tears. 
 
 Homeward, with heartening song, 
 They drove the boat along, 
 
Harro Mid joys that there did throng 
 
 From perils all had braved ; 
 And when they neared the shore, 
 Twas Harro shouted o er : 
 " Good mother, grieve no more, 
 Tis Uwe we have saved." 
 
 INVOCATION TO SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 READ AT THE UNITARIAN CLUB DINNER ON MARCH 19, 
 AT WHICH WAS DISCUSSED "MUNICIPAL PROBLEMS. 
 
 O City of our life and hope, 
 
 That sittest by this westmost sea, 
 
 Thy lovers pray thy widest scope, 
 And deepest in the yet to be. 
 
 May Learning s temples rear their towers 
 
 Above thy unpolluted ways, 
 And all the strength of all thy powers 
 
 Build only what good men can praise. 
 
 May stranger ships bring costly bales 
 From every near and distant land, 
 
 And in return thy winged sails 
 
 By prosperous winds he ever fanned. 
 132 
 
May all the arts with newer life, Invocation 
 
 And greater, sing their highest notes ; 
 
 Francisco 
 While over all with glory rife 
 
 The flag of peace divinely floats. 
 
 O City of our life and hope, 
 
 That sittest by this westmost sea, 
 So long as we have strength to cope, 
 
 God lead that strength to truth and thee. 
 
 MY FRIEND 
 
 He had completeness : Gentleman and Man 
 Bloomed in his nature a composite flower ; 
 The grace and elegance of mien that can 
 Alone assure us that the subtile power 
 Of pure refinement every action rules, 
 High culture, dignity and gentleness, 
 All these were his. And in the sterner schools, 
 Where none but souls that vigorously press 
 Forever onward win the world s success, 
 He was as sturdy as a man might be. 
 And with it all, pretentious ne er was he, 
 But went his way with charming modesty. 
 
 133 
 
In Memoriam 
 
My dear, departed boy, these songs I lay 
 Upon the urn that holds thy hallowed clay; 
 Wrung from the fibres of my heart they arc 
 That heart which wears immedicable scar. 
 
P. T. T. 
 
 But six and twenty years on earth he knew ; 
 And from the time his eyes first saw the day, 
 Until death blinded them forever, they 
 Cast but affection s glances from their blue. 
 
 And in their light such confidences grew 
 
 And genial joys, that home became the stay 
 That held him fast when he was far away 
 And once more drew him to his cherished few. 
 
 Machinery was his goddess at whose shrine 
 With nimble fingers and inventive brain 
 He poured unstintedly his life s best wine. 
 
 So young, so good, to die ! That sad refrain, 
 
 Wet with his dear ones tears that blend with 
 
 mine, 
 Makes heavier my intolerable pain. 
 
 137 
 
AMONG THE WHEELS 
 
 TO P. T. T. 
 
 With heavy heart I went amid the hum 
 
 Of whirring wheels that owe their life to thee, 
 And where thou hadst full often greeted me 
 With love that made it more than joy to come ; 
 
 But all their music was to me as dumb 
 As if thy hand had never set it free : 
 For thy dear, welcoming face I could not see, 
 And Grief but added to her bitter sum. 
 
 Then Peace drew near me and upon my head 
 Most softly laid her spirit-soothing palm, 
 As with the gentlest tenderness she said : 
 
 Remember, after storm there must be calm ; 
 
 And know, these wheels now sing rejoicing psalm 
 For him who lives in them though he be dead. 
 
 138 
 
DREAMS 
 
 I know not why so wearisome to me 
 My necessary tasks appear to-day, 
 Save that my brood of dreams is fain to play 
 Where all things beautiful are wont to be. 
 
 This very moment do I feel so free 
 
 That nought could hold me under tasking sway, 
 As borne beyond the city s strenuous way 
 I float in soundless, calm serenity. 
 
 And now the mountains woo me on and on, 
 And many a lake lays bare her crystal breast, 
 While scene on scene its pillared beauty rears. 
 
 O dreams that mock ! for from me HE has gone 
 Who shared these joys with me ; and grief-oppressed 
 I sink to earth o erweighted with my tears. 
 
 39 
 
TO P. T. T. 
 
 The strangest thing that ever came to me, 
 Since first my being conscious feeling knew, 
 Was that relentless pain which pierced me through 
 When Death unmerciful had power o er thee : 
 
 That thou nowhere in all this world canst be, 
 Thy voice forever mute that rang so true, 
 Oh, who can sound the depths of such adieu 
 Till made acquainted with its agony? 
 
 But when I saw thee in thy coffin laid, 
 A rare, new beauty shone upon thy face 
 So gracious and so wonderful to see, 
 
 That Death s own self I could not then upbraid, 
 For through my tears my vision seemed to trace 
 Thy flight to higher than mortality. 
 
 140 
 
DIRGE 
 
 In these sad days when Joy outspreads her wing 
 Grief s unrestrained pursuers to elude, 
 Sudden she feels the shaft, and thence subdued 
 Falls down to earth a wounded, anguished thing. 
 
 Then Grief from out her loneliest cave doth bring 
 Upon the scene her melancholy brood, 
 And bids no note of happiness intrude 
 As these alone in dirge s numbers sing: 
 
 Oh, mourn for him who in his promise died ; 
 For him who held his course by Duty s pole ; 
 For him whose cup of love was filled to brim. 
 
 Remember how he stood when he was tried, 
 
 Remember those great hopes that stirred his soul, 
 Remember all he was, and mourn for him. 
 
 141 
 
OUT OF THE SHADOW 
 
 I would not have the world s regardless eyes 
 Rest on this verse made consecrate with tears 
 For him who in the blossom of his years 
 Sank down o erburdened, nevermore to rise; 
 
 But those alone whose unavailing cries 
 
 Have risen like mine for all the heart endears 
 I would have here to pause, and in his bier s 
 Deep shadow share my bosom s agonies. 
 
 Yet as Grief hands the bitter cup around, 
 And deeper grows the shade s intensity, 
 My soul may hear some new, far-falling sound ; 
 
 And midst its throbs divine it then may be 
 
 That Life will stream with richer thought on me, 
 And Death seem monarch with effulgence crowned. 
 
 142 
 
TO DEATH 
 
 Thou monster Death, that dost no mercy show- 
 To least or greatest of the earthly train ; 
 That hast made horrible thine endless reign 
 With tear-cemented monuments of woe ! 
 
 Thou angel Death, that kindly dost bestow 
 Release from hopeless ill, from torturing pain, 
 And from life s whirling flood where fiercely strain 
 The desperate souls that faint and sink below ! 
 
 Like Love thou art as old as oldest eld, 
 Yet ever new as is the wondrous child 
 This moment blossomed on its mother s breast ; 
 
 And since the time that thou wast first beheld, 
 When Order s music rang through Chaos wild, 
 Life has by thee been nourished and caressed. 
 
ENVOY 
 
 TO P. T. T. 
 
 Thy work is done, and what thou hadst to do 
 Was wrought with faithfulness and all thy might, 
 Nor darker made is now my sorrow s night 
 By thought that thou wast ever less than true. 
 
 What flowers more sweet than these could Love 
 
 bestrew 
 
 On tomb of any man though Son of Light 
 With dazzling fame immaculately white, 
 Or conquering one whose sword its millions slew ? 
 
 Thy mortal ashes rest within the urn ; 
 Thy fleshly substance is dissolved in air 
 Or throbs with newer life in many a cell ; 
 
 Thy spirit is a star whose light will burn, 
 We trust, so deeply and divinely fair, 
 That Grief herself shall feel that all is well. 
 
 144 
 
Translations 
 
Why heed the critics who delight to dart 
 Their sneer-tipped arrows at translator s art ? 
 The poet s work remains his own at last 
 Though it in other languages be cast, 
 And in the sky of Fame it still will shine 
 By that which made it at the first divine. 
 But in this foreign dress some soul may see 
 A hint of that which fascinated me j 
 Some deep impression be still deeper made 
 When by our muse-beloved tongue conveyed ; 
 Some beauty be with newer beauty set ; 
 Some thought that will with fresh emotion fret 
 Some gentle breast, or with strange music sweep 
 O er heaving waters of the spirit s deep. 
 
FROM A WINNOWER OF GRAIN TO 
 
 THE WINDS 
 (AFTER JOACHIM DU BELLAY) 
 
 Nimble troop, to you 
 
 That on light pinion through 
 The world forever pass, 
 And with a murmuring sweet 
 Where shade and verdure meet 
 Toss gently leaf and grass, 
 
 I give these violets, 
 
 Lilies and flowerets, 
 And roses here that blow, 
 All these red-blushing roses 
 Whose freshness now uncloses, 
 And these rich pinks also. 
 
 With your soft breath now deign 
 To fan the spreading plain, 
 And fan, too, this retreat, 
 Whilst I with toil and strain 
 Winnow my golden grain 
 In the day s scorching heat. 
 
 47 
 
FROM THE MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF 
 VOLTAIRE : 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 ON SENDING HER A RING ON WHICH WAS 
 ENGRAVED THE AUTHOR S PORTRAIT 
 
 These features Barier graved for you alone : 
 O deign to find them fit for you to see: 
 Yours in my heart were better cut, and own 
 A master greater far than he. 
 
 TO MADAME DU CHATELET 
 
 ON RECEIVING HER PORTRAIT 
 
 O living image, features dear, 
 Of that fond object of my passion s smart ! 
 Yet that which love has graved upon my heart 
 
 Than this is thousand times more near. 
 
 148 
 
TO A PRATER 
 
 In writing, thought should lead the way : from 
 
 Better erase the senseless blot. Poltaire 
 
 Authors at times write on without a thought, 
 
 As some speak oft without a word to say. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MONSIEUR D AUBE, NEPHEW OF 
 MONSIEUR DE FONTENELLE 
 
 Who is it knocks? said Lucifer. From 
 
 Open, tis d Aube. At this name s stir, Poltairc 
 
 All helldom fled and left him lone. 
 Oh, oh ! said d Aube, this land, I see, 
 Treats me as Paris treated me : 
 Whene er I made a call, I found not anyone. 
 
 149 
 
EPIGRAM 
 
 From Know you that noteless poetaster who, 
 Voltaire D ust _d rv and stiff, is cold and hard all through; 
 Having the slanderer s bite without his art, 
 Who ne er can please much less can wound the heart ; 
 Who for misdeeds in prison walls did fare, 
 And afterwards was flogged at Saint-Lazare, 
 Chased, beaten and detested for his crimes, 
 Disgraced, despised, derided for his rhymes ; 
 And who, contented in a cuckold s sty, 
 Chatters about himself unceasingly ? 
 Eh ! tis the poet Roy, at once all cry. 
 
 ISO 
 
FAREWELL TO LIFE 
 
 AT PARIS, 1778. 
 
 Farewell ! the country I go to From 
 
 Still holds my late dear father yet; Voltaire 
 
 My friends, farewell fore er to you 
 
 Who may for me bear some regret. 
 
 Laugh, enemies, for so to do 
 
 Will pay the usual requiem debt. 
 
 Still, some day you may feel concern : 
 
 For when to darksome shores consigned, 
 
 Your works you there would seek to find, 
 
 On you the laugh will have its turn. 
 
 When on the stage of human life 
 A man can play his part no more, 
 On leaving, all the air is rife 
 With hisses to his exit door. 
 I ve seen in their last malady 
 Full many a one of differing states : 
 Old bishops, aged magistrates, 
 Old courtesans, in agony. 
 In vain, all ceremoniously, 
 Together with its little bell 
 
Farewell Came sacred gear of sacristy; 
 Vainly the priest anointed well 
 Our friend in his extremity; 
 The public laughed with malice fell ; 
 A moment satire joyed to dwell 
 On all his life s absurdity; 
 Then even his name no one could tell 
 The farce had reached finality. 
 And now my utmost bound I own, 
 What man needs less compassion s tear? 
 J Tis he alone knows nought of fear, 
 Who lives and dies to fame unknown. 
 
 152 
 
THE TOMB AND THE ROSE 
 (FROM "LES voix INTRIEURES " OF VICTOR HUGO) 
 
 The Tomb said to the Rose: "Love s own, 
 What mak st thou of the tears bestrown 
 By lovely, dewy dawn o er thee ? " 
 The Rose said to the Tomb : "And pray, 
 What comes of that which feeds alway 
 Thy gulf that yawns eternally?" 
 
 Then said the Rose: "O sombre Tomb, 
 
 I make of them a rare perfume 
 
 Where honey with the amber lies." 
 
 Then said the Tomb : " O plaintive Flower, 
 
 Of every soul that feels my power 
 
 I make an angel of the skies ! 
 
 53 
 
COME NEAR ME WHEN I SLEEP 
 (FROM "LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES " OF VICTOR HUGO) 
 
 Oh, when I sleep, come closely to my couch 
 
 As did fair Laura to Petrarca s side, 
 
 And as I feel thy breathing s balmy touch . . . 
 
 Sudden my lips 
 
 Will part to thine. 
 
 When on my brow, where then perchance some dream 
 
 Of darkness settles which too long would bide, 
 
 Thy lovely eyes look down with starry beam . . . 
 
 Sudden my dream 
 
 Will brightly shine. 
 
 Then if my lips, whose fluttering flame has learned 
 
 Love s lightning God himself has purified, 
 
 Are kissed by thee to woman angel turned . . . 
 
 Sudden will wake 
 
 This soul of mine. 
 
 154 
 
IN THE CEMETERY OF .... 
 (FROM "LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES" OF VICTOR HUGO) 
 
 The laughing living crowd by folly still is led, 
 
 At times where pleasure rules, at times where anguish 
 
 lies, 
 
 But here these all forgotten, silent, lonely dead 
 On me, a dreamer, fix their sad, regardful eyes. 
 
 They know me to be man of solitary mood, 
 
 A musing, strolling one who on the trees attends, 
 
 The soul that sadly learns, from sorrow s countless 
 
 brood, 
 In trouble all begins, in peace all trouble ends ! 
 
 They well do know the pensive, reverent mien of mine 
 Mid crosses, graves and boxwood, and they mutely list 
 To fallen leaves that neath my careless foot repine, 
 And they have seen me dream in woods the shades 
 have kissed. 
 
 O blatant living ones of strife and mad unrest, 
 My flowing voice falls better on these dead ones* ears ! 
 My lyre s sweet hymns that lie deep hidden in my breast 
 That are but songs for you, for them are gushing tears. 
 
 155 
 
In the Forgotten by the living, nature still is theirs : 
 
 Cemetery j n g arc j en o f t h e dead w here each shall end his dreams, 
 of . . . 
 
 In more celestial garb, and calmer, dawn appears, 
 
 Still lovelier is bird, and lily purer seems. 
 
 Tis there I live ! there pluck the rose of pallid face, 
 Console with tombs that lie in desolation rent ; 
 I pass, repass, the branches gently there displace, 
 And stir the sighing grass ; the dead they are content. 
 
 Tis there I dream ; and roaming many a drowseful 
 
 space, 
 
 With thought-enwidened eyes I marvellously see 
 My soul transformed as in a magic-haunted place, 
 Mysterious mirror of the vast immensity. 
 
 The wandering beetles there I indolently watch, 
 The wavering branches, forms, and color-glinting gleams, 
 And on the fallen stones reposing love to catch 
 The dazzlings of the flowers and of the myriad beams. 
 
 J Tis dream s ideal fills my wondering eyesight there, 
 Floating in shining veil between the earth and me ; 
 And there my ingrate doubts are melted into prayer: 
 For standing I begin and end upon my knee. 
 
As in the rock, whose hollow drips in sunlcsr gloom, In the 
 
 For drop of water seeks the thirsty, humble dove, ; ^ 
 
 of . . . 
 So now my altered spirit seeks the shadeful tomb, 
 
 To drink, if but a sip, of faith, of hope and love. 
 
 WHAT IS HEARD ON THE MOUNTAIN 
 (FROM "LES FEUILLES D AUTOMNE" OF VICTOR HUGO) 
 
 Has it so been that you in calmful, silent wise, 
 Have pushed to mountain s top in presence of the skies ? 
 Was this on banks of Sund ? on shores of Brittany ? 
 And at the mountain s foot did you the ocean see? 
 And leaned o er surging wave, and o er immensity, 
 In silent wise and calmful, have you bent your ear ? 
 Tis this befalls : at least, one day at dream s command 
 My thought had drooped in flight above a shimmering 
 
 strand, 
 
 And, to the briny depths plunging from summit sheer, 
 On one hand saw the sea, on the other saw the land ; 
 And listening there I heard a voice whose parallel 
 Ne er issued from a mouth and on an ear ne er fell. 
 
 157 
 
What is At first its sound was full, confused, all unconfmcd, 
 
 ear More vague than in the tufted trees the sighing wind ; 
 on the 
 
 Mountain ^"^ P^ erc ^ n S concords filled, with murmurs suavely 
 
 low ; 
 
 Sweet as an evening song, as harsh as armors shock 
 When fight s red furies round the maddened squadrons 
 
 flock, 
 And in the clarion s mouths with battle s fierceness 
 
 blow. 
 
 Twas music past all thought, with notes divinely deep, 
 Which, fluid, round the world unceasingly did sweep, 
 And in the boundless heavens, its waves fore er renewed, 
 Rolled, in its orbit s greatening, endless vastitude, 
 To lowest depths profound, until its flow sublime 
 Was lost in dark with Number, Form, and Space, and 
 
 Time ! 
 
 As with another air, dispersed, outreaching wide, 
 The globe s whole body felt the hymn s eternal tide ; 
 And as the world is wafted in its airy sea, 
 So now twas wafted in this mighty symphony. 
 
 Then the ethereal harps swept o er my pensive soul, 
 Lost in their voice as in great ocean s surging roll. 
 
And soon I then discerned, clouded and dissonant, What is 
 
 Two voices in this voice each with the other blent, tieard 
 
 on the 
 Overflowing all the earth to very firmament, , . 
 
 That hymned together there the universal chant ; 
 And in their roar profound mine ear caught every stave, 
 As one two currents sees which cross beneath the wave. 
 
 One came the waters o er : blest hymn ! a glory-song ! 
 It was the voice of waves that spoke in happy throng ; 
 The other from the land that rose where now we are 
 Was sad; it was men s murmur rising near and far; 
 And in this diapason, which day and night sang on, 
 Each billow had its voice, each man his separate tone. 
 
 But, as Fve said, the Ocean, vast, magnificent, 
 A mild and joyous voice through endless spaces sent ; 
 Like harp in Zion s fanes it burst in swelling note, 
 And with creation s praise song filled its raptured throat. 
 His music, borne by zephyrs as by gales that fly, 
 Incessantly toward God in triumph mounted high, 
 And when each throbbing wave, that God alone can 
 
 quell, 
 
 Had quired in joy another rose in songful swell. 
 Like that great lion of whom brave Daniel was the guest, 
 
 159 
 
What is At times the Ocean s voice dropped low within his 
 
 Heard breast, 
 
 on the 
 
 *. . . And then I deemed I saw toward the fiery West 
 jYiountain 
 
 Upon his mane of gold the hand of God impressed. 
 
 Yet, nathless, by the side of this so great fanfare 
 The other voice, like cry of steed in maddening scare, 
 Like rusted hinge of gate that guards Hell s quenchless 
 
 fire, 
 
 Like brazen bow drawn o er the strings of iron lyre, 
 Ground harsh ; and insult, tears, anathema, and cries, 
 Viaticum, baptism, refused by him who dies, 
 The blasphemy and curse and rage from mouths that 
 
 rave, 
 
 In human clamor s whirling, all-devouring wave, 
 Passed by, as in the vale where shuddering shadows 
 
 cling 
 
 Do Night s ill-omened birds with dusky, hideous wing. 
 What was that sound which made a thousand echoes 
 
 rise ? 
 Alas ! it was the earth and man all torn with cries. 
 
 Brothers, of these two voices, the strangest ever sped, 
 That cease not though reborn, and cease not being fled, 
 
 1 60 
 
That shake the eternal ear with everlasting stroke, What is 
 
 HUMANITY in one, in the other, NATURE spoke. 
 
 on the 
 
 Thought brooded o er me, for my faithful spirit then 
 Alas ! had never yet attained to such high ken, 
 Nor had such lustrous light illumed my shadeful day; 
 And I considered long, turning at times away 
 From that obscure abyss the billows hid from me 
 To the other gulf that filled my own immensity. 
 And then I asked myself, why is it we are here, 
 What is this life and what its agony and tear, 
 And what the soul, and why should any being be ? 
 Why should the Lord, who reads alone his book, decree 
 Eternally to blend in hymen s fatal tie 
 The song of nature with the human race s cry? 
 
 161 
 
THE PELICAN 
 (FROM ALFRED DE MUSSET S "LA NUIT DE MAI") 
 
 When wearied pelican returns from lengthened quest 
 Unto his lonely reeds where evening mists hang low, 
 His famished little ones all shoreward wildly go 
 On seeing him afar alight on billow* s crest. 
 And then believing spoil is theirs to seize and share, 
 With joyous cries they to their father quickly fare, 
 As o er their hideous goitres shake their ravening beaks. 
 With dragging step and slow he gains a towering rock, 
 Where shielding with his pendent wings his starving flock 
 He, melancholy fisher, all the sky bespeaks. 
 From out his open breast the blood makes copious way, 
 For vainly sought he ocean s depths on eager wings ; 
 They empty were and even the strand was stripped of prey ; 
 And now for nourishment his heart alone he brings. 
 Sombre and silent, stretched upon the lonely stone, 
 The father shares his deepest with the sons his own ; 
 And in this love sublime he rocks his dolor till, 
 As he views flowing fast the crimson of his breast 
 And sinks and staggers by this feast of death possessed, 
 Joy, tenderness and horror all his senses thrill. 
 162 
 
But mid this sacrifice divine at moments he The 
 
 Is sickened with the thought of too long agony, Pelican 
 
 For now he sees his children will but give him death. 
 
 Then rising up he opes his wings to ocean s breath, 
 
 And striking hard his heart with madly savage cry, 
 
 Along the night his woeful farewell notes so roll 
 
 That all the sea-birds from the shore in terror fly, 
 
 And traveller there belated, feeling death is nigh, 
 
 With dread s appalling fears commends to God his soul. 
 
 THE POET 
 (FROM ALFRED DE MUSSET S "LA NUIT DE MAI") 
 
 O Muse ! thou most insatiate sprite, 
 Do not demand so much of me. 
 Man nothing on the sand doth write 
 When blows the north-wind bitterly. 
 Time was my youthful lips were stirred 
 And ever ready as a bird 
 With ceaseless song the hours to speed ; 
 But I have borne such pangs of fire, 
 That were the least that I desire 
 Essayed by me upon my lyre, 
 It then would break it as a reed. 
 
IMPROMPTU 
 
 IN RESPONSE TO THE QUESTION: 
 WHAT IS POETRY? 
 (AFTER ALFRED DE MUSSET) 
 
 To drive the chase in every hallowed spot 
 
 By Memory haunted, and the captured thought, 
 
 All tremulous, uncertain, firm to hold 
 
 Balanced on axis glorious of gold ; 
 
 To stamp eternity upon the dream 
 
 Which but an instant lights him with its gleam; 
 
 Deeply to love the beautiful and true, 
 
 And their harmonious virtues to pursue ; 
 
 In his own heart to look and list unto 
 
 The echo of his genius ; all alone 
 
 To sing, to laugh, and make his tearful moan, 
 
 Thereto unprompted by design or guile ; 
 
 Out of a sigh, a word, a look, and even a smile, 
 
 A work of art consummately to rear 
 
 Full of sweet charmingness and moving fear ; 
 
 A radiant pearl to fashion from a tear : 
 
 Such is the passion of the poet s strife, 
 
 His boon, his great ambition, and his life. 
 
SONG 
 (AFTER ALFRED DE MUSSET) 
 
 Good morn, Suzon, my woodland flower ! 
 
 Art still the prettiest thing to see? 
 I have returned, as thou must know, 
 
 From wondrous trip to Italy! 
 Of Paradise I ve made the round 
 Have written verse in Love been bound . . 
 What s that to thee ! 
 What s that to thee I 
 Before thee comes thy waiting one : 
 Ope thy door ! 
 Ope thy door ! 
 
 Good morn, Suzon! 
 
 I saw thee in the lilacs time, 
 
 When thy free heart was in its bud, 
 And thou did st say: "I ve no desire 
 
 For love as yet to stir my blood." 
 Since then, what, pray, has been thy fate ? 
 Who leaves too soon returns too late. 
 What s that to me ? 
 What s that to me? 
 
 .65 
 
Song Before thee comes thy waiting one : 
 Ope thy door ! 
 Ope thy door ! 
 
 Good morn, Suzon ! 
 
 ADIEU, SUZON! 
 
 SONG 
 (AFTER ALFRED DE MUSSET) 
 
 Adieu, Suzon, my sweet, blonde rose, 
 Who for a week has made me blest : 
 Of all the world s supreme delights, 
 The short amour is oft the best. 
 Ah, whither shall my errant star, 
 On leaving thee, tempt me to stray? 
 Yet I must go, my little one, 
 With hastening pace, and far away, 
 Still ever on. 
 
 I leave thee ; on mine eager lip 
 Burns once again thy parting kiss ; 
 Within mine arms, imprudent dear, 
 1 66 
 
Thy beauteous head finds soothing bliss. Adieu 
 
 Feel st thou my heart s delirious beat? 
 How thine doth make responsive play! 
 Yet I must go, my little one, 
 With hastening pace, and far away, 
 Fore er thine own. 
 
 Paf! that s my horse they re saddling now; 
 When on the road, how then withstand 
 The perfume of thy baleful hair, 
 That has so scented all my hand ! 
 Thou hypocrite, I see thee smile 
 While running off in nymph-like play. 
 Yet I must go, my little one, 
 With hastening pace, and far away, 
 Still laughing on. 
 
 Oh, all of sadness and of charm, 
 
 Dear child, is in thy fond adieu ! 
 
 Tis maddening joy to see thy heart 
 
 Shine in thine eyes thy tear-drops through. 
 
 In life, thy trancing look allures ; 
 
 In death, twill be my latest stay. 
 
 Yet I must go, my little one, 
 
Adieu, With hastening pace, and far away, 
 Suzon Lamenting on. 
 
 Oh, that our love, shouldst thou forget, 
 Might for one moment be revived 
 Like some bouquet of drooping flowers 
 Within thy charming bosom hived ! 
 Adieu : good fortune stays at home ; 
 But memory shall not say me nay: 
 And that I ll take, my little one, 
 With hastening pace, and far away, 
 Neath every sun. 
 
 MARY STUART S FAREWELL 
 (AFTER BERANGER) 
 
 Farewell, delightful land of France, 
 Where all my love doth lie ; 
 Home of my childhood s gay romance, 
 Farewell ! to leave thee is to die. 
 
 O thou adopted country mine, 
 That seest me banished from thy shore, 
 List to thy Mary s sad farewell, 
 And guard her memory evermore. 
 168 
 
The wind is up, we quit the strand, 
 And all my tears and sobs are vain ; 
 God will not stir the angry waves, 
 To beat me back to thee again. 
 
 Farewell, delightful land of France, 
 
 Where all my love doth lie ; 
 Home of my childhood s gay romance, 
 Farewell ! to leave thee is to die. 
 
 When thy loved people saw me wreathed 
 With thy resplendent fleur-de-lis, 
 My charms in all their springtime bloom 
 Won plaudits rank could ne er decree. 
 Ah, vain the royal pomp and state 
 The gloomy Scot intends for me ; 
 I would not wish to be a queen, 
 Unless to reign, as once, o er thee. 
 
 Farewell, delightful land of France, 
 
 Where all my love doth lie ; 
 Home of my childhood s gay romance, 
 Farewell ! to leave thee is to die. 
 
 Love, glory, genius, these have filled 
 With too much joy my beauteous days j 
 169 
 
 Mary 
 Stuart s 
 Farewell 
 
Mary In Scotia* s rough, uncultured land 
 Stuart s My fate wiu find far different ways> 
 Farewell 
 
 Alas ! already, big with doom, 
 
 An omen bids my heart stand still ; 
 For I have seen, in dreadful dream, 
 A scaffold raised my blood to spill. 
 
 Farewell, delightful land of France, 
 
 Where all my love doth lie ; 
 Home of my childhood s gay romance, 
 Farewell ! to leave thee is to die. 
 
 Dear France, in midst of all her fears 
 The daughter of the Stuart line, 
 As on this day which sees her tears, 
 Will turn toward thee as to a shrine. 
 But, God ! the ship with rapid keel 
 Already bends neath foreign skies, 
 And night draws down her dewy veil, 
 To screen thee from my weeping eyes. 
 
 Farewell ! delightful land of France, 
 
 Where all my love doth lie ; 
 Home of my childhood s gay romance, 
 Farewell ! to leave thee is to die. 
 170 
 
FIFTY YEARS 
 (AFTER BRANGER) 
 
 What mean these flowers ? Is it my fete ? 
 No ; this bouquet now comes to say, 
 That half a century on my head 
 Is rounded and complete to-day. 
 How many days fleet fast along ! 
 How many moments fruitless pass ! 
 How many wrinkles tell their tale ! 
 I m fifty years. Alas ! Alas ! 
 
 At such an age we nothing hold ; 
 The fruit dies on the sallowing tree 
 But some one knocks ; yet open not : 
 My part is ended, that I see. 
 I ll wage some doctor thrusts his card, 
 Or tis the Times; ah, day there was, 
 I would have said : That is Lisette. 
 Fm fifty years. Alas ! Alas ! 
 
 Old age is cursed with biting ills : 
 The gout is murder s willing tool ; 
 Blindness for us welds prison chains ; 
 
 171 
 
Fifty While at our deafness mocks the fool. 
 Tears Then reason, like expiring lamp, 
 
 Burns faint and trembling ere it pass. 
 
 O children, honor hoary age. 
 
 I m fifty years. Alas! Alas! 
 
 Heavens ! Here s Death ; rubbing his hands 
 With joyous glee, he comes apace. 
 Tis gravedigger that s at my door ; 
 Farewell, good sirs of every race ! 
 Below, are famine, pest and war; 
 Above, the stars resplendent mass. 
 Open, while God remains to me. 
 I m fifty years. Alas ! Alas ! 
 
 But no ; tis you ! my welcome friend, 
 
 Sister of Charity of loves ! 
 
 You draw my sleeping soul from out 
 
 The horrid thoughts wherein it moves ; 
 
 Strewing the roses of your youth, 
 
 As does the Spring, where er you pass, 
 
 And sweetening all an old man s dreams. 
 
 I m fifty years. Alas ! Alas ! 
 
 172 
 
JACQUES 
 (AFTER BERANGER) 
 
 Dear Jacques, I must bid thee awake : 
 A bailiff scours the village round, 
 With keeper following at his heels. 
 Poor man, they come the tax to take. 
 
 Get up, my Jacques, get up : 
 Here comes the bailiff of the King. 
 
 Look out and see : the night is gone ; 
 Never before hast slept so late ; 
 Thou know st to sell to old Remi, 
 That one must stir before the dawn. 
 
 Get up, my Jacques, get up : 
 Here comes the bailiff of the King. 
 
 We ve not a sou ! O God of fate ! 
 I hear him ; how the dogs do bark ; 
 He will demand a whole month s pay. 
 Ah, if the King could only wait ! 
 
 173 
 
Jacques Get up, my Jacques, get up : 
 
 Here comes the bailiff of the King. 
 
 Oh, how the poor are stripped and flayed ! 
 So crushed are we, we own all told, 
 For us, thy father and six boys, 
 Nought but my distaff and thy spade. 
 
 Get up, my Jacques, get up : 
 Here comes the bailiff of the King. 
 
 They count that with our wretched hut 
 An acre s fourth is far too much ; 
 Yet that with hopeless misery reeks, 
 While this by usury s scythe is cut. 
 
 Get up, my Jacques, get up : 
 Here comes the bailiff of the King. 
 
 So much of pain, of gains so few. 
 When shall we taste pork flesh again ? 
 Ah, strengthening food is all so dear ! 
 And even the salt, and sugar, too ! 
 
 Get up, my Jacques, get up : 
 Here comes the bailiff of the King. 
 
 174 
 
Some wine to thee would courage bring ; Jacques 
 
 But then the laws are close and hard ; 
 My dearest, for some drink for thee 
 Go sell at once my wedding ring. 
 
 Get up, my Jacques, get up : 
 Here comes the bailiff of the King. 
 
 Couldst dream that thy good angel would 
 To thee bring plenty and repose ? 
 Dost think taxation bites the rich ? 
 Their barns to all the rats give food. 
 
 Get up, my Jacques, get up : 
 Here comes the bailiff of the King. 
 
 He enters ! Heavens ! O woe of woes ! 
 Thou speak st no word ! Thou art so pale ! 
 On yesterday thou mad st some wail, 
 From whom before no murmur rose. 
 
 Get up, my Jacques, get up : 
 Here s the good bailiff of the King. 
 
 175 
 
Jacques Her cries are vain : there is no life. 
 
 For him who wears toil s thorny crown 
 Death is a pillow soft as down. 
 Good people, pray ye for his wife. 
 
 Get up, my Jacques, get up : 
 Here s the good bailiff of the King. 
 
 THE VASE 
 (AFTER LECONTE DE LISLE) 
 
 Take, shepherd of the goat and of the frugal ewe, 
 This two-eared vase, well-waxed, and from the chisel 
 
 new. 
 
 Its wood still fragrant smells, and round its edge enwind 
 The ivy s verdurous leaves with helichrysum twined 
 And clustering fruits of gold. Ah, firm the hand and 
 
 fine 
 
 That here did carve this form of woman so divine ; 
 With peplum graced and brow enwreathed with flowers 
 
 she smiles 
 At her contending suitors with their fruitless wiles. 
 
Upon the rock, his feet in tangled wrack where he The Vase 
 Now drags his long net toward the smooth and glaucous 
 
 sea, 
 
 A fisher comes apace ; and though with age bent o er, 
 His rigid muscles swell as strains he more and more. 
 Near by a laden vine with ripened grapes bends low, 
 Neath which a young boy sits to guard it from the foe ; 
 But two sly foxes steal upon the other side, 
 And eat the grapes as they behind the branches hide, 
 The while the child inweaves, from fragile straws 
 
 with care, 
 
 And from some blades of rush, a deft cicala-snare ; 
 While all around the vase and Dorian plinth thou lt see 
 The acanthus leaf displayed in beauty s luxury. 
 
 This masterpiece has cost me pains and money too 
 A cheese both large and fresh, and fine, young pregnant 
 
 ewe. 
 
 Shepherd, tis thine whose songs are sweeter far to me 
 Than figs of ^Egilus, and wake Pan s jealousy. 
 
 177 
 
SOLAR HERCULES 
 (AFTER LECONTE DE LISLE) 
 
 O pang-born Tamer who as swaddled infant killed 
 The Night s fell Dragons ! O thou Warrior, Lion- 
 Heart, 
 Who pierced bane-breathing Hydra with thy burning 
 
 dart 
 Where poisonous mist and mire their livid horrors 
 
 spilled ; 
 
 And who with flawless sight of old saw Centaurs start 
 At precipices verge and wheel with rearing breast ! 
 Of all the genial Gods, the eldest, fairest, best ! 
 O purifier King, who through thy glorious days, 
 Made, as so many torches, from the East to West, 
 The sacrificial fire on every summit blaze ! 
 Thy golden quiver s void, the Shade s at last thy goal. 
 Hail Glory of the Air ! All vainly thou dost tear, 
 With thy convulsive hands where flames in rivers roll, 
 The bloody clouds which wreathe thy pyre divine, 
 
 and there 
 In purple whirlwind now thou yieldest up thy soul I 
 
 178 
 
THE CONDOR S SLEEP 
 (AFTER LECONTE DE LISLE) 
 
 Beyond the Cordilleras stairs that steeply wind, 
 Beyond black eagle s haunts in mist-enshrouded air, 
 And higher than the cratered, furrowed summits where 
 The boiling flood of lava rages unconfined, 
 His pendent pinions tinct with spots of crimson dye, 
 The great bird silent views, with indolent, dull stare, 
 America and space outreaching boundless there, 
 And that now sombre sun which dies in his cold eye. 
 Night rolls from out the East, where savage pampas lie 
 Beneath the tier on tier of peaks in endless line ; 
 It Chili lulls, the shores, the cities roar and cry, 
 The grand Pacific Sea, and horizon all divine ; 
 The silent continent its close embraces hide : 
 On sands and hills, in gorges, on declivities, 
 And on the heights, now swell, in widening vortices, 
 The heavy flood and flow of its high-rolling tide. 
 Upon a lofty peak, alone, like spectre grim, 
 Bathed in a light that spills its life-blood on the snow, 
 He waits this direful sea that threats him as a foe : 
 It comes, it breaks in foam, and dashes over him. 
 179 
 
The In the unfathomed depths the Southern Cross doth loom 
 
 Londor s Upon the sky s vast shore a pharos-shining light. 
 Sleep 
 
 His rattling throat speaks joy, he proudly shakes his 
 
 plume, 
 
 His muscular, peeled neck he lifts and stretches tight ; 
 To raise himself he gives the hard snow lashing stings ; 
 Then with a raucous cry he mounts where no winds are, 
 And from the dark globe far, far from the living star, 
 In the icy air he sleeps on grand, outspreading wings. 
 
 1 80 
 
R 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 TO A DEAD POET 
 (AFTER LECONTE DE LISLE) 
 
 Thou whose delighted eye roamed eagerly and free 
 From hues divine to forms in strength immortal grown, 
 And from the fleshly to the heavens star-splendored zone, 
 In that dark night which seals thy lids peace be to thee. 
 
 To see, to hear, to feel? Breath, dust and vanity, 
 To love ? That golden cup has but the bitter known. 
 Thou rt like some wearied God who leaves his altars 
 
 lone, 
 To mingled be with matter s vast immensity. 
 
 Upon thy mute grave where thy mouldering body lies 
 Whether or no the tears are poured from sorrowing eyes, 
 Whether thy banal age forget thee or acclaim, 
 
 I envy thee thy silent, darksome bed below, 
 Forever freed from life and never more to know 
 Man s horror of his own existence and the shame. 
 
 181 
 
MY SECRET 
 (AFTER FELIX ARVERS) 
 
 My soul its secret has, my life its mystery : 
 Tis an eternal love an instant saw conceived. 
 My pain s beyond all hope, so silent I must be, 
 While she, the cause, knows not that I am sore bereaved. 
 
 Alas ! I shall have passed anear her unperceived, 
 Still by her side, and yet a lonely one to see, 
 And shall have served on earth to life s extremity, 
 Not daring aught to ask, and having nought received. 
 
 Though God has made her sweet and infinitely dear, 
 With heedless mind she ll go her way, and never hear 
 The murmuring of love that doth her steps attend. 
 
 Beneath the pious yoke of duty s rigid sway, 
 
 When she reads o er this verse all full of her, she ll say, 
 
 " This woman, who is she ? " and will not comprehend. 
 
 182 
 
THE LADY S ANSWER 
 (AFTER LOUIS AIGOIN) 
 
 My friend, wherefore aver, with so much mystery, 
 That the eternal love within your breast conceived 
 Is pain beyond all hope, a secret that must be ; 
 And why suppose that she may know not you re bereaved? 
 
 Ah no, you did not pass anear her unperceived, 
 Nor should you ve deemed yourself a lonely one to see ; 
 The best beloved may serve to life s extremity, 
 Not daring aught to ask, and having nought received. 
 
 The good God gives to us a knowing heart and dear, 
 And on our way we find that it is sweet to hear 
 The murmuring of love that doth our steps attend. 
 
 She who would meekly bow to duty s rigid sway, 
 Reading your verse of her, felt more than she can say : 
 For though she spake no word, . . . she well did 
 comprehend. 
 
 83 
 
 OF THF 
 
 UNIVEP 
 
 OF 
 
PHILOSOPHY 
 (AFTER TAINE) 
 
 Two sages well have known the verity supreme ; 
 But wrongly each the other condemns and says him nay ; 
 One tells us : " Bear thou up, be strong and patient 
 
 aye"; 
 The other : " Happy be, enjoy each moment s dream. * 
 
 Zeno and Epicurus, on the antique trireme, 
 To either shore have pressed too closely on their way; 
 While we, in seeking port, have stranded even as they. 
 And yet the cats have solved the problem s knotty 
 scheme : 
 
 The pleasure as it comes, the pain that will not fly, 
 You, Puss, accept unquestioned ; and the sun on high, 
 When in the boundless blue at eve he journeys hence, 
 
 Sees you, in circle couched, as at morn s earliest call, 
 Without an effort happy, and resigned to all, 
 Serenely smooth your tail in calm indifference. 
 
 184 
 
MY BOHEMIA 
 
 A FANTASY 
 (AFTER ARTHUR RIMBAUD) 
 
 With fists in tattered pockets forth I strayed, 
 My great-coat, too, not far from raggery, 
 Beneath the skies, O Muse, most true to thee ; 
 And there what radiant love-dreams round me played ! 
 My only breeches gaped with holes as I, 
 Poor, little dreamer, many a rhyme dropped where 
 My footsteps fared ; mine inn the heavens Great Bear, 
 Neath stars whose soft, sweet rustlings filled the sky. 
 
 I heard them as I sat by roadsides when 
 September s eves were steeped in balm ; and then, 
 As with strong wine, my face was wet with dew ; 
 And rhyming midst fantastic shades I made 
 Of my torn shoe s elastics, worn and frayed, 
 A lyre as near my heart my foot I drew. 
 
 NOTE. Mr. Lloyd Mifflin calls my attention to the original of this sonnet 
 and to the fact that Mr. George Moore, in his " Impressions and Opinions," 
 says that Rimbaud wrote it at the age of fifteen years, and that it was never 
 before published until it was published in hii (Moore s) volume with title as 
 above 
 
 185 
 
THE VIOLET 
 (AFTER GOETHE) 
 
 Unknown a violet bowed its head 
 Where meadow in its beauty spread 
 A violet fresh and lovely, 
 As youthful shepherdess came there, 
 And with light step and winsome air 
 Along, along, 
 The meadow went and sang. 
 
 "Ah!" thought the violet, "would that I 
 Were grandest flower beneath the sky, 
 Instead of violet lowly, 
 By her dear hand to be uptorn 
 And on her gracious bosom worn, 
 If but, if but, 
 A little quarter-hour." 
 
 But ah ! on it the maiden bent 
 No glance at all, but as she went 
 The violet poor she trampled. 
 Yet still it sank in joyful state : 
 " I die, indeed, but glorious fate, 
 Through her, through her, 
 And at her very feet." 
 
 186 
 
THE ANGLER 
 (AFTER GOETHE) 
 
 The water rushed in swelling flow ; 
 
 An Angler plied his art 
 As sat he filled with calm, and cool 
 
 Up to the very heart ; 
 And as he lurked with slyness there, 
 
 And motionless did spy, 
 Amazed he saw the tide upheave, 
 
 Divide itself on high, 
 And from the cleft a Naiad rise 
 
 Before his dazzled eye. 
 
 She sang to him ; she spake to him : 
 
 " My brood why dost thou snare, 
 With human wit and human craft, 
 
 To scorching death of air? 
 Ah, friend of mine ! if thou wouldst know 
 
 What joys my children share 
 Upon the ground where they disport, 
 
 Unknown to ills or care, 
 Thou shouldst descend and be at once 
 
 Rejuvenated there. 
 
The "Do not the Sun and Moon repose 
 Angler Refreshed on Ocean s breast? 
 
 Turn not their welcome faces there 
 
 Upon us doubly blest, 
 As from the sparkling wave they rise 
 
 With newer life imprest ? 
 Allure thee not the Heavens deep, 
 
 The humid, glorious Blue? 
 Decoys thee not thy mirrored form 
 
 Down to perpetual dew?" 
 
 The water rushed in swelling flow ; 
 
 It laved his naked feet ; 
 His heart unconsciously grew full 
 
 Of fond desire s heat, 
 As if his own beloved had come 
 
 His offered kiss to meet. 
 She spake to him ; she sang to him ; 
 
 No hand could intervene : 
 She drew him half, half sank he down 
 
 And nevermore was seen. 
 
 188 
 
UNDER THE LINDEN 
 (FROM GOETHE S FAUST) 
 
 All for the dance the shepherd dressed ; 
 In ribbon, wreath and coloured vest, 
 
 Sprucely himself arraying ; 
 Beneath the Linden s green expanse 
 The crowd began like mad to dance ; 
 
 Huzza ! Huzza ! 
 
 Hey-day-hey ! Hey ! Hey ! 
 
 The fiddle-bow went playing. 
 
 With eager haste into the mass 
 He hotly pressed, against a lass 
 
 His elbow sharply sending ; 
 The blooming wench turned quick about, 
 And cried, "You gawky, stupid lout ! " 
 
 Huzza ! Huzza ! 
 
 Hey-day-hey ! Hey ! Hey ! 
 
 "Your manners need amending." 
 
 Still swiftly sped the dance-delight 
 From right to left, from left to right, 
 The petticoats a-flying ; 
 
 189 
 
Under Until at last, all red and warm, 
 
 They rested, panting, arm in arm, 
 Linden 
 
 Huzza ! Huzza ! 
 
 Hey-day-hey ! Hey ! Hey ! 
 With hips gainst elbows lying. 
 
 "Stand off, good sir! come not so near 
 Full many a one his dearest dear 
 
 Has cheated in Love s riddle!" 
 But ah ! he wheedled her aside, 
 While from the Linden sounded wide 
 
 Huzza ! Huzza ! 
 
 Hey-day-hey ! Hey ! Hey ! 
 The shouts, and screams, and fiddle ! 
 
 190 
 
FAUST S WAGER 
 (FROM GOETHE S FAUST) 
 
 Faust. Should I lie down on couch of indolence 
 
 contented, 
 
 Then be it o er with me at once ! 
 Canst thou with guileful praise so gull me, 
 That self-approval swells my breast ; 
 Canst thou with pleasure s froth delude me, 
 Then be that day my very last ! 
 This wager offer I. 
 
 Mepbisto. Agreed ! 
 
 Faust. And quickly too ! 
 
 If I bespeak the passing moment, 
 
 " Oh, stay, so beautiful thou art ! " 
 
 Then mayst thou clap me fast in fetters, 
 
 Then utter ruin be my part ! 
 
 Then let the death-bell sound its numbers, 
 
 Then be thou from thy service free, 
 
 The clock may stop, its hands be broken, 
 
 And Time be past and gone for me ! 
 
 191 
 
MARGARET AT THE SPINNING WHEEL 
 (FROM GOETHE S FAUST) 
 
 My heart is heavy, 
 My peace is o er, 
 No more I ll find it, 
 No, nevermore. 
 
 Not him to have 
 Is as the grave, 
 And bitter all 
 The world as gall. 
 
 Oh, this poor head 
 Of mine is crazed, 
 And my poor sense 
 Is racked and dazed. 
 
 My heart is heavy, 
 My peace is o er, 
 No more I ll find it, 
 No, nevermore. 
 
 192 
 
From the window I 
 Him only would sec, * 
 When I quit the house 
 *Tis with him to be. 
 
 His stately step, 
 
 His figure grand, 
 
 His mouth s witching smile, 
 
 His eye of command, 
 
 His talk that flows 
 Like stream of bliss, 
 His hand s fond clasp, 
 And ah, his kiss ! 
 
 My heart is heavy, 
 My peace is o er, 
 No more I ll find it, 
 No, nevermore. 
 
 My bosom strains 
 Toward him fore er ; 
 Oh, could I fold 
 And hold him there ! 
 
 Margaret 
 at the 
 
 Spinning 
 Wheel 
 
 93 
 
Margaret And kiss him till 
 
 at the ,, , , 
 
 My heart ran dry, 
 Spinning 
 
 on kis kisses 
 
 Enraptured die ! 
 
 THE HUNTER OF THE ALPS 
 (AFTER SCHILLER) 
 
 Wilt thou, son, not guard the lambkin 
 Lambkin mild, my dearest charge ; 
 
 Feeding from the grasses flowers, 
 
 Playing by the brooklet s marge? 
 
 Mother, mother, let me go 
 
 Up the mountain with my bow ! 
 
 Wilt thou not call up the cattle 
 
 With the lively, echoing horn? 
 
 Clearly sound the bells and sweetly, 
 On the forest breezes borne. 
 
 Mother, mother, say I may 
 
 In the mountain s wildness play. 
 
 194 
 
Wilt thou not attend the flowers The 
 
 Standing kindly in their bed? Hunter 
 
 of the 
 Gardens there do not invite thee, ^4 IDS 
 
 Wild the mountain s rugged head. 
 Let the buds untended blow ; 
 Mother, mother, let me go ! 
 
 And the boy with bounding gladness 
 
 Sallies forth upon the chase ; 
 Rashly reckless, blindly venturing 
 
 To the mountain s darkest place, 
 Where before the hunter fell 
 Flies like wind the scared gazelle. 
 
 Up the ribs of rocks all naked, 
 
 Flies she with the nimblest step ; 
 Over crags wide-gaping fissures 
 
 Speeds she with unerring leap ; 
 But behind, the heedless boy 
 Follows fast with murderous joy. 
 
 Now, of all the rugged summits 
 
 Hangs she on the highest place, 
 Where the cliffs sink down abruptly, 
 
 With of path no sign or trace ; 
 
 195 
 
The Steepy heights she sees below, 
 
 Hunter And fehind, the nearing foe. 
 of the 
 Alps With dumb, pleading look of anguish 
 
 Begs she mercy of her foe ; 
 Begs in vain, for now the arrow 
 
 Threats to leave the bended bow ;- 
 When from out the rock s cleft face 
 Steps the Genius of the place ; 
 
 And with hand of God-like seeming 
 Frees the beast as thunders he : 
 
 " Must thou death and woe be sending 
 So they cry even up to me ? 
 
 Earth for each and all has room, 
 
 Why dost mark my herd for doom ? 
 
 196 
 
LOVE AND TIME 
 
 (FROM A PROSE TRANSLATION BY PROFESSOR ALBIN 
 PUTZKER OF A MODERN GREEK POEM) 
 
 My Dear and I one summer day 
 
 Toiled up the mountain* s rugged way, 
 
 And as we slowly fared along 
 
 With heartening speech and snatch ot song, 
 
 Eros and Chronos with us walked, 
 
 And lightly laughed and gayly talked. 
 
 But as we traveled, Love and Time 
 
 Began to fast and faster climb; 
 
 When cried I out, " Sweet Eros, stay, 
 
 Oh, do not, do not, haste away ; 
 
 My Love can scarce maintain thy pace, 
 
 And fain would rest a little space. " 
 
 But no response or word came back 
 Along the mountain s winding track, 
 But spreading out their wings, the two 
 Now faster and still faster flew, 
 Until I saw in wild dismay 
 Their figures fleeting fast away, 
 
 197 
 
Love And shouted, till my breast was sore, 
 ** My earnest pleading o er and o er: 
 
 " My friends, Oh, whither do you fly? 
 
 Is it to place beyond my cry ? 
 
 My love no farther step can go, 
 
 And will you then desert her so?" 
 
 But all in vain : their rapid flight 
 
 Soon bore them from my straining sight, 
 
 And as they vanished, on mine ear 
 
 Fell saddest words a man might hear : 
 
 " Know st not the truth, which lives for aye, 
 
 That Love with Time will flit away ? 
 
 THE SOLDIER S FATE 
 (FROM THE GERMAN OF PROFESSOR ALBIN PUTZKER) 
 
 Now tumultuous war 
 
 Draws the youth afar 
 
 Out from fatherland 
 
 Unto alien strand. 
 
 Wounded on the field of battle lies, 
 Underneath the blistering torrid skies, 
 
 198 
 
Bleeding fast, the son, the child so dear, The 
 
 His beloved, helping ones not near. 
 
 Fate 
 How the wound burns ! Oh, 
 
 Who his pains can know ! 
 
 Anguished to the bone 
 
 Lies he there alone. 
 Round him only matted jungles grow 
 Where the fatal ball has laid him low ; 
 Noxious marsh is all his pillow there, 
 And his cover nought but stifling air. 
 
 Now into his breast, 
 
 Where life s joys had pressed, 
 
 Creeps with blasting breath 
 
 He, sole rescuer death. 
 "Mother, dearest," soft he murmurs o er; 
 And the burning wound then burns no more ; 
 From his tender heart all pain has gone ; 
 Ours in bitter grief to suffer on. 
 
 199 
 
BENEDICTION 
 
 My Mother dear, these songs of many days 
 
 Are now the world* s to scorn , or blame, or praise / 
 
 But could they shine with something of the grace 
 
 That bloomlike lay upon thy lovely face, 
 
 The best of them might well aspire to rise 
 
 In Love 1 s own arms to Fame 1 s star-gloried skies. 
 
 It may be that an idle dream I chase ; 
 
 But Spirit blest, from thy exalted place 
 
 Oh, bend above them and with angel heart 
 
 Give them thy blessing as they now depart. 
 
INDEX 
 
 Adieu, Suzon! . . . l66 
 Adversity . 2 3 
 
 After the Storm . , . . -5 
 
 Aldrich, On the Lyrics of 9 2 
 
 Alfred de Musset, From . . . . .. . l6 * 
 
 Ambition X 9 
 
 Among the Wheels *3 8 
 
 AndreVs Carrier Pigeon, To . . * . . II6 
 
 Angler, The . . l8 7 
 
 April . . . ... , 55 
 
 Arria . S . . . I2 5 
 
 A. S. T. . . f . IQ 7 
 
 Attainment . . . . I0 
 
 Balzac, To 7* 
 
 Bayard Taylor s Poems, Written in a Soiled Volume of . .100 
 
 Beatitude . . . 4 2 
 
 Beauty . . 49 
 
 Benediction . 2O1 
 
 Beranger, From l68 
 
 Bonzig, To . . I2 3 
 
 Browning, To 7 1 
 
 Bryant, To 93 
 
 Burns, To 8 1 
 
 Byron, To 7^ 
 
 203 
 
Carlyle, To . 74 
 Cemetery of , In the .,# J$5 
 
 Christopher Smart . . . . , . . .89 
 
 Come Near Me When I Sleep . . . . . 154 
 
 Concentration . . . . . , , . .18 
 
 Condor s Sleep, The . . . , . * . i?9 
 Consolation . . . . . , . .io 
 
 Convent Garden, In the . . . . . .126 
 
 Cooper, To Professor . . . . . .107 
 
 C. S. K., To . . 117 
 
 Curtis, To George William . . . . . .no 
 
 Dawn 31 
 
 Dawn, On Picture Painted by William Keith entitled . .59 
 
 Dead Poet, To a 181 
 
 Death, To . . 143 
 
 Dedication ......... iii 
 
 Deliverance ......... 3^ 
 
 Del Monte, At , 5* 
 
 Dirge 141 
 
 Divine Harmony, The . 29 
 
 Dream . . . . . ...4.4 
 
 Dreams ..... *39 
 
 Du Chatelet, To Madame . . . . . . .148 
 
 Dying Year, The 62 
 
 Enchanted Wood, The . . . . . . .58 
 
 Endeavor ......... 26 
 
 Endure, Thou Fainting Soul ...... 40 
 
 Envoy 144 
 
 Epigram 149 
 
 20 4 
 
Epigram 5 
 
 Farewell to Life . . . . - . . . 15* 
 
 Faust s Wager . . . . . . .19* 
 
 Felix Arvers, From . . . . .182 
 
 Fifty Years .. . . 171 
 
 From a Winnower of Grain to the Winds . . . 14? 
 
 Fruitless Quest, The . . . . . . .63 
 
 Goethe, From . . . . . . . .186 
 
 Goethe, To . . . . . . . .69 
 
 Golden Heritage, The . , . . . . 53 
 
 Goldsmith, To . , . . . . . . .84 
 
 Halleck, To Fitz-Greene . . . . .. . 101 
 
 Harro . 127 
 
 Henley, On Looking into Poems of . . . . 87 
 
 Heredia, To . . . . . . . -73 
 
 Henry George . . . . . . . .115 
 
 Home ........... 8 
 
 Hunter of the Alps, The . . . . . .194 
 
 In Humble Praise .65 
 
 In Memoriam . . , . . . . 135 
 
 In Tribute . . . . . . . 105 
 
 Jacques . . . . . .173 
 
 Jonquil, The . ... . . . .48 
 
 Jordan, To David Starr . , . . . . in 
 
 Joy of Earth, The . . . . ... 54 
 
 Keats, To . . . ; f . . . . 77 
 
 205 
 
Keith, To William . . . . . . . . 1 1 a 
 
 Lady, To a . . . . . . . .148 
 
 Lady s Answer, The . . . . . . . 183 
 
 Lamb, To . .. . 85 
 
 Landor, To. 83 
 
 Landscapes Painted by William Keith, On Some . . .53 
 
 Lane, To Dr. Levi Cooper 108 
 
 Leconte de Lisle, From .176 
 
 Life and Death ........ 2,2 
 
 Lloyd Mifflin, To . 96 
 
 Longfellow, After an Evening with . . . 91 
 
 Louis Aigoin, From . . . . . . . . 183 
 
 Love and Time . . . , . . . .197 
 
 Love s Fears . . . 33 
 
 Lowell, To James Russell . . . . . . 90 
 
 Marble Statuette of Beatrice, To a . . . .30 
 
 Margaret at the Spinning Wheel . . . . . 191 
 
 My Friend W. H. T., To 114 
 
 Mary Stuart s Farewell . . . . . . .168 
 
 Matthew Arnold, To ....... 70 
 
 Meadow, The ........ 57 
 
 Milton, To 68 
 
 Moods i 
 
 My Bohemia . . . . . . . . .185 
 
 My Friend . . . . . . . . 133 
 
 My Lady Sleeps 5 
 
 My Muse 3 
 
 My Secret i8a 
 
 My Summer ........ 35 
 
 206 
 
Nature s Care of Her Own . . . . 45 
 Night . . . . . . . . . . 5 1 
 
 Now . . . . . . . . * . 15 
 
 Old, Old Days, The ....... *o 
 
 On Nature s Breast . . . . . . . .43 
 
 Out of the Shadow . / , . . 142 
 
 Pelican, The . . . . . . . .162 
 
 Perpetua . . 1*4 
 
 Philosophy . . . . . ^ . . . .184 
 Pine Not, Nor Fret ....... 41 
 
 Poe 95 
 
 Poet, The ......... 10 
 
 Poet, The (After De Musset) 163 
 
 Poetic Art . . . . . . . . 22 
 
 Pope . . 9 2 
 
 Prater, To a . > . . . . .149 
 
 Prayer . . . . . . . . -9 
 
 Prayer, A . ... . . . 39 
 
 Presidio of San Francisco, At the . . . . 47 
 
 Promise ......... 64 
 
 Proof of God II 
 
 P. T. T. . . . . . . . . . 137 
 
 P. T. T., To . .*. 14 
 
 Putzker, From Professor . . . . . . 197 
 
 Question .......... 2 4 
 
 Quiet Wood, The 5 6 
 
 Rearden, On Reading Posthumously Published Volume of 113 
 
 Refuge 44 
 
 207 
 
Reverie . 7 
 
 Rimbaud, From . ;, , . . . .185 
 
 Ruskin, To . . . . . . . x &8 
 
 San Francisco, Invocation to . 9 . . . .132 
 
 Sawmill, The ... . 38 
 
 Schiller, From . . . . . . . .194 
 
 Shakespeare, To . . . . . 67 
 
 Sierras, To the . . . . . . . . .46 
 
 Sleep, To . . . 6 
 
 Solar Hercules . .178 
 
 Soldier s Fate, The . 198 
 
 Solitude . . . . ai 
 
 Song 34 
 
 Song 35 
 
 Song (lifter De Musset ) 165 
 
 Song its Own Reward . 28 
 
 Sonnet, To the 25 
 
 Sufficiency . . . . . . . . 17 
 
 Swinburne on his Drama, To ..... 86 
 
 Taine, From . . . . . . . . .184 
 
 Tennyson, To ........ 79 
 
 Tennyson s Good Fortune . . . . . . .80 
 
 "The Slopes of Helicon," Written in Lloyd Mifflin s . 97 
 
 Thoughts ll 
 
 Tomb and the Rose, The 153 
 
 Translations . 145 
 
 Twilight Time, At 60 
 
 Unceasing Round, The . . . . . . 6 1 
 
 208 
 
Under the Linden . 
 
 Unfinished Portrait, The 
 
 Vase, The ...... ..,176 
 
 Victor Hugo, From . . . . * . . I 53 
 
 Violet, The . . ........ 186 
 
 Voltaire, From the Miscellaneous Poems of . . . .148 
 
 Walt Whitman, To ....... 102 
 
 Watts, To George Frederick ...... 103 
 
 What is Heard on the Mountain ..... 157 
 
 What is Poetry? . . . , .164 
 
 Whittier, To ........ 98 
 
 William Blake, To . , . . . . . .88 
 
 William Watson, To . . ...... 89 
 
 Wordsworth, On Looking at Picture of . . . 75 
 
 Work ...... ... 37 
 
 Ysay 
 
 2Op 
 
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