o 
 
 5 
 
 1 
 
 
Albin Putzker 
 

LAVENDER AND OTHER VERSE 
 
LAVENDER 
 AND OTHER VERSE 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD ROBESON 
 TAYLOR 
 
 PAUL ELDER-&* COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS SAN FRANCISCO 
 
Copyright, IQIO 
 By EDWARD ROBESON TAYLOR 
 
 Printed by 
 
 The Stanley-Taylor Company 
 San Francisco 
 
TO MY WIFE 
 
 THIS HARVEST OF MY LATER DAYS 
 GATHERED BENEATH THY WORDS OF PRAISE, 
 AND WHEN THY FOND, IRRADIANT SMILE 
 BEAMED ON MY LABORS ALL THE WHILE, 
 I HUMBLY LAY, THOUGH INCOMPLETE, 
 BEFORE THY HEART AND AT THY FEET. 
 
 E. R. T. 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 MAY FIFTEENTH 
 NINETEEN HUNDRED AND TEN 
 
NOTE. Many of these poems were written within 
 very recent years and are published here for the first 
 time, while a few others, including some of the trans 
 lations, were published in "Moods and other Verse" 
 a volume long since out of print. Nothing in this 
 book will be found in "Selected Poems" a volume 
 published in 1907. Of the pieces in the present volume, 
 "The Visible Beauty of the World" was published in 
 the Cosmopolitan Magazine for June, 1906; "The 
 Gjoa in Golden Gate Park," in the Sunset Magazine 
 for December, 1909; "In the Potter s Field of the City 
 Cemetery, San Francisco," in the San Francisco 
 Chronicle; "The Optimist" in the San Francisco 
 Examiner; and "On the Death of Edward Seventh" 
 in the San Francisco morning papers of May 2ist, 1910. 
 
 The translations in this volume are reproductions 
 of the originals; that is, they strictly follow the 
 originals in matter of form including the rhyme 
 arrangement. In the view of the writer no verse 
 translation can properly be deemed such unless it 
 accomplish this. No literary work is perhaps so 
 technically difficult as the turning of the poetry of 
 one language into poetry of the language of another; 
 for not only must the form be maintained, but the 
 very essence of the poetry embodied in that form, 
 together with the thought in all its nicety and strength. 
 The difficulties hence are enormous, and perfect suc 
 cess well nigh impossible. 
 
 569469 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 MUSINGS BY THE WAY 
 
 Lavender ..... i 
 
 The Visible Beauty of the World . . 2 
 
 An Autumn Field .... 3 
 
 The Gjoa in Golden Gate Park . . 4 
 
 In the Potter s Field ... 5 
 
 Dawn ...... 6 
 
 A Day with Music .... 7 
 
 Meditation ...... 8 
 
 On Tamalpais at Sunrise . . . 9 
 
 Defeat ...... 10 
 
 With Memory ..... n 
 
 A Psalm of Victory . . . .12 
 
 The Old, Old Days .... 14 
 
 To Andree s Pigeon . . . .15 
 
 To the Ox . . . . 16 
 
 To an Albatross . . . . 17 
 
 I Bide My Time .... 18 
 
 Night and Day . . . . .21 
 
 The Work of the Poet . . . 21 
 
 Endeavor I ..... 22 
 
 Endeavor II ..... 23 
 
 Service ...... 24 
 
 At the Funeral Service of a Young Man 25 
 Gethsemane . . . . .26 
 
 Calvary ...... 27 
 
 Onward 28 
 
ETCHINGS 
 
 The Poet ..... 31 
 
 The Composer . . . . .32 
 
 The Violinist ..... 33 
 
 The Orator . . . . .35 
 
 The Painter . 36 
 
 The Sculptor . . . . 37 
 
 The Surgeon ..... 38 
 
 The Bibliophile to His First Edition of 
 
 Chapman s Homer 39 
 
 The Picture Connoisseur . . .40 
 
 Youth ...... 41 
 
 An Aged Man . . . . .42 
 
 The Penitent ..... 43 
 
 The Religious Ascetic . . . -44 
 
 The Miser ..... 45 
 
 Business ...... 46 
 
 The Homicide ..... 47 
 
 The Thief 48 
 
 The Pessimist ..... 49 
 The Optimist ..... 50 
 
 SONNETS SUGGESTED BY PAINTINGS 
 OF WILLIAM KEITH 
 
 The Joy of Earth .... 53 
 
 The Twilight Time . . . .54 
 
 The Meadow ..... 55 
 
 The Mystic Pool ..... 56 
 The River .... .57 
 
SONNETS SUGGESTED BY PAINTINGS OF 
 WILLIAM KEITH Continued. 
 
 A Vision ...... 58 
 
 Evensong ..... 59 
 
 Prayer ...... 60 
 
 Lachryma Montis . . . . 61 
 
 SOME LEAVES OF BAY 
 
 To Burns ...... 65 
 
 Scott ...... 67 
 
 On Pope s Translation of Homer . . 72 
 
 To Walter Savage Landor ... 73 
 
 Walt Whitman ..... 74 
 
 Poe 75 
 
 To Whittier I . . . . .76 
 
 To Whittier II .... 77 
 To a Soiled and Broken Volume of Bayard 
 
 Taylor s Poems .... 78 
 
 On the Death of Mark Twain . . 79 
 
 To Lloyd Mifflin .... 80 
 George Sterling . . . . .81 
 
 Charles Warren Stoddard ... 82 
 
 Professor Joseph Le Conte at Yosemite . 83 
 
 On the Death of Edward VII . . 84 
 
 HARRO 87 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH 
 
 Hymn to the Sun . . . . 95 
 
TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH 
 
 Continued. 
 The Orchard . . . . .98 
 
 What Is Heard on the Mountain . 103 
 
 The Tomb and the Rose . . .108 
 
 The Pelican ..... 109 
 
 The Poet . . . . . . in 
 
 Jacques ...... 112 
 
 Fifty Years . . . . .115 
 
 Adieu . . . . . . 117 
 
 Farewell to Life . . . . .118 
 
 To a Dead Poet .... 120 
 
 Solar Hercules ..... 121 
 
 The Condor s Sleep . . . . 122 
 
 The Evening of the Battle . . .124 
 
 Murmurings in the Darkness . . 126 
 
 The Axe . ... 128 
 
 On a Statue by Constantin Meunier of a 
 
 Mine s Old Horse . . . 129 
 
MUSINGS BY THE WAY 
 
LAVENDER 
 
 Of all the lovely names the flowers bear 
 
 None softlier beats upon the ear than thine, 
 Sweet Lavender; while thou in Memory s mine 
 A jewel art beyond description fair: 
 
 How oft our mothers gave thee tenderest care 
 For thy dear blossoms; what a far-drawn line 
 Of household fragrancies have borne thy sign; 
 What precious stuffs have breathed thy 
 perfume s air! 
 
 And I remember on an afternoon 
 Beholding, as an unexpected boon, 
 Thy hallowed purple where a Poet lies. 
 
 Oh, bloom forever there, nor let abate 
 
 The love for him who sang in deathless wise 
 The clouds adventuring through the Golden 
 Gate. 
 
 Edward Pollock s "Evening" is, of all his work, the poem 
 most admired by San Franciscans. The first two lines are: 
 
 "The air is chill, the day grows late, 
 And the clouds come in through the Golden Gate." 
 
THE VISIBLE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD 
 
 This golden bloom, this great-armed, towering tree, 
 This azure sky with billowy clouds of white, 
 Yon mount in robe of amethyst bedight, 
 This brook whose silver cleaves the emerald lea, 
 
 To-day seem so miraculous to me, 
 
 That all the senses, with celestial might, 
 Put dark-browed thought s unquiet brood to 
 
 flight, 
 And steep themselves in being s ecstasy. 
 
 The visible beauty of thy world, O Lord, 
 Touches at times the spirit-sounding chord 
 Which beats to music of revealing strain; 
 
 And then, far borne on faith-created wings, 
 We dare to feel that we divinely gain 
 Some deeper knowledge of the soul of things. 
 
 [2] 
 
AN AUTUMN FIELD 
 
 Beneath the sun this Field all restful lies, 
 
 Bathed in the golden-tinted, mellowing rays, 
 The children nourished through its laboring days 
 Now fled to answer hunger s ceaseless cries. 
 
 Torn was its bosom in most cruel wise, 
 
 The cold rains smote it, and the sunshine s 
 
 blaze, 
 
 While toiled it on until the grateful praise 
 Of ripened grain shook all the harvest skies. 
 
 And now, in undisturbed, sufficing rest 
 
 Soft steals through all its veins serene repose, 
 While every breeze exhilarates its breast 
 
 Like some great hero, by his country blest, 
 Who, brow-enlaurelled, at his labor s close 
 Lies couched where Peace through all his being 
 flows. 
 
 [3] 
 
THE GJOA IN GOLDEN GATE PARK 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 With the sloop "GJOA" Capt. Roald Amundsen made the 
 Northwest passage in 1905, arriving at San Francisco in 
 October, 1906; and now the vessel has been given to that 
 City for preservation in Golden Gate Park. 
 
 At last I rest in peace where nevermore 
 
 The waves shall whip my stout-resisting side; 
 Ignobly rest, and swell with bitter pride 
 As casual eyes all lightly scan me o er 
 
 Me, that have dared the Arctic s awful shore, 
 And with the bold Norwegian as my guide 
 Sailed the dread Pass to other keels denied, 
 Where we shall dwell with Fame forevermore. 
 
 Ah, it is pleasant here with birds and trees, 
 With laughter-loving children, and the sea s 
 Keen winds that romp upon my orphaned deck; 
 
 Yet, mid this fatal peace at times I yearn 
 To face again the dangers of a wreck, 
 To see once more the great Aurora burn. 
 
 [4] 
 
IN THE POTTER S FIELD OF THE CITY 
 
 CEMETERY SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 NOW TO BE TURNED INTO A PARK 
 
 The wind blows keen from off the ocean s breast 
 Where springtime grasses, done with living, lie 
 Low on these graves, that list no human sigh 
 For those who there all unregarded rest 
 
 Each nameless one the City s wayworn guest, 
 Who long, beneath Misfortune s sullen sky, 
 Strove, till he could no more his woes defy, 
 Then fell to death unheeded and unblest. 
 
 But soon the cypresses will grip the bones 
 Of these lorn dead, and on their bodies feed 
 To bid them live anew in branch and leaf; 
 
 And children here, in merry-making tones, 
 All things of happiness will gaily breed, 
 Nor know that under them roll seas of grief. 
 
 [5] 
 
DAWN 
 
 Now radiant Dawn unlocks her roseate doors, 
 Whence all her featly-footed, swarming band 
 Streams swift along the sleep-encompassed land, 
 And in the sky 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 lures and glamours of the Night, 
 To meet with fresh resolve the new-born Day 
 
 That sphinx which, seated in the anxious breast, 
 With scornful lips of stony silence, may 
 Extinguish all our hopes or make us blest. 
 
 [6] 
 
A DAY WITH MUSIC 
 
 The morning moved us to the ocean-shore, 
 
 Where stretched at ease in tranquil joy we lay, 
 Watching the breakers near, incessant play, 
 And stirred by music of their thunderous roar. 
 
 Then deep Beethoven s grand, symphonic lore 
 Enchained the sequent hours of the day, 
 While evening saw great Verdi s lighter sway 
 Rule our obedient hearts as ne er before. 
 
 O miracle, in such brief span to be 
 
 Far borne on Music s multitudinous waves, 
 Which roll triumphant over Death s vast 
 graves ! 
 
 Life-breathing waves, inimitably free, 
 
 Divine, eternal; while upon their breast 
 The universe itself is rocked to rest. 
 
MEDITATION 
 
 Be up and doing ! In this time of steam 
 Let not one moment pass unlaboring by; 
 On these electric, wide-spread pinions fly 
 To where alone the stars of Action beam. 
 
 Dear Poet, leave thy phantom land of Dream, 
 Where lazy clouds all idly pace the sky,* 
 As Fancy s fairies in the coverts lie, 
 To watch with thee some naiad-haunted stream. 
 
 Thou many-tongued, immitigable voice, 
 
 With mine own soul I would in quiet be, 
 Till Silence medicine my wounded ear; 
 
 Then with the heart of things shall I rejoice, 
 The true realities divinely see, 
 And deathless harmonies enraptured hear. 
 
 *"When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
 And sails upon the bosom of the air." 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2. 
 
 [8] 
 
ON TAMALPAIS AT SUNRISE 
 
 Impatiently we watched the patient Day 
 Await the coming of her lover bright, 
 Until he burst on our rewarded sight 
 In splendor s opulence of cloud-array. 
 
 Before us spread the beauty-breathing Bay, 
 With its unconquered City, glory-dight, 
 And verdured hills which trembled in the light 
 Above the vales where Dawn still dimly lay. 
 
 And as we drained the golden cup of Morn 
 My dear one s face so fondly radiant shone, 
 That Rapture s children swarmed in every air. 
 
 Oh, then it seemed that Love was newly born, 
 And that all nature we had made our own, 
 Our deep, immeasurable joy to share. 
 
DEFEAT 
 
 Who dares to be defeated by defeat 
 Already herds with the ignoble dead, 
 As with his bowed and shame-confessing head 
 He seeks the land where great hearts never 
 meet 
 
 The land where Ease inglorious makes her seat, 
 And where the coward soul, from Virtue fled, 
 Sees from afar the wings of battle spread, 
 With valor breasting death in joy complete. 
 
 No righteous cause is ever lost till those, 
 
 Who should have borne it to the crested height, 
 Faint from defeat, no longer struggle on. 
 
 E en then twill live, for they who scorn repose 
 Shall rouse themselves, and with consuming 
 
 might 
 Raise high the banner of a newer dawn. 
 
 [10] 
 
WITH MEMORY 
 
 Tis memory steers me as my boat drifts by 
 The banks with blossoms prodigally gay, 
 While far and near with many a carolling lay 
 The mating songsters fill the earth and sky. 
 
 Here let me stop, and neath this old elm lie, 
 Where boyhood s moments passed like dreams 
 
 away, 
 
 And once more watch the sun s expiring ray 
 Light the cows homeward from the pasture 
 nigh .... 
 
 Their tinkling bells die out along the lane; 
 The gloaming slowly deepens into night, 
 And mid the darkness Memory flits from me. 
 
 Would she had stayed; and yet the Present s pain 
 Has been forgotten in her sweet delight 
 Beneath these stars which tell of days to be. 
 
A PSALM OF VICTORY 
 
 Tis true the queenliest eye will fade, 
 The mightiest voice sink faint and low, 
 And every sweet that man can know 
 In leaves of bitterness be laid; 
 
 The glass that brimmed for us alone 
 Be emptier than an idiot s brain, 
 And even Memory seek in vain 
 The scenes where Life s great pearls were 
 sown. 
 
 Then be it so, as sure it must, 
 Shall we then ring the curtain down? 
 Shall we the feast no longer crown, 
 And on our hopes but sprinkle dust? 
 
 It shall not be; the day is ours, 
 With all its moments to enjoy, 
 And though our gold bears some alloy, 
 And withered be our loveliest flowers, 
 
 Still bravely let us do and dare, 
 With Music in our heart of heart, 
 Content to do our little part 
 To ease our brother s heavy care. 
 
 [12] 
 
We are not young, we are not old; 
 Our years are all-sufficing years 
 For duty s wealth, for sorrow s tears, 
 And for the heart s unminted gold. 
 
 If we but will, the larks shall bide, 
 The dawn e er greet us with a smile, 
 And every star befriend us while 
 The dragons all their horrors hide. 
 
 Then raise the flags, though tattered they, 
 At head of our devoted line, 
 And marching under skies divine 
 A glory make of every day. 
 
THE OLD, OLD DAYS 
 
 O golden-hearted, richly-hallowed days 
 That loom through deepening mists on 
 
 memory s 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 struggle and its tears. 
 
 [14] 
 
TO ANDREE S PIGEON 
 
 IN THE ARCTIC OCEAN, 80 44 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; 
 
 While he and thou, as Fame is proud to own, 
 Have added, with transplendency complete, 
 A new Aurora to the Arctic skies. 
 
 Since the above was written news has come which indicates 
 that Andree and his party were killed by natives. 
 
 [15] 
 
TO THE OX 
 
 I see thee standing firmly as an oak, 
 In contemplation of the field and sky, 
 With resignation in thy plaintive eye, 
 Though thy broad back has felt full many a 
 stroke ; 
 
 And though thy mighty neck beneath the yoke, 
 Day after day, that passed unvarying by, 
 Has bowed and strained until the stars were 
 
 nigh 
 Since labor-rousing Dawn the hills awoke. 
 
 Helper of man, true brother of the soil, 
 
 That hast with him the paths of progress made 
 Through wildernesses trembling with surprise; 
 
 Great symbol thou of Patience and of Toil, 
 To whom earth s children have such homage 
 
 paid 
 That Poets lift thee to immortal skies. 
 
 [16] 
 
TO AN ALBATROSS 
 
 (AT THE ACADEMY OF SCIENCES SAN FRANCISCO) 
 
 Magnificent in death thou liest here, 
 
 As though still left some remnant of thy pride 
 When thy great wings, now folded to thy side, 
 Bore thee through ocean s air without a peer. 
 
 Thou couldst not wish, at end of thy career, 
 A nobler tomb than this wherein to bide: 
 Here Science reigns, and here thou wilt be eyed 
 In all thy beauty year on passing year. 
 
 Yea, thou belong st to that high-fortuned few, 
 That by the Poet s paradisal dew 
 Perennial live in Memory s jewelled hall; 
 
 For now we list the Mariner s deathless tale, 
 His wonder-peopled seas once more we sail, 
 To find at last that Love is all in all. 
 
 [17] 
 
"I BIDE MY TIME" 
 
 (SEE THE STORY ENTITLED "THE WAITING HAND" IN THE 
 JULY, 1909. NUMBER OF THE CENTURY MAGAZINE.) 
 
 I bide my time; though heart-wrung tears 
 Flow through my slow, unfruitful years, 
 And in my breast the weeds of ill 
 Produce soul-numbing poison, still 
 I bide my time. 
 
 When first I saw thy form it seemed 
 Thou wast the one of whom I d dreamed 
 The peerless Prince whose love-lit eyes 
 But shone for me; Now sadly wise 
 I bide my time. 
 
 Ah, this was when the bloomy Spring 
 Made all my heart-bells madly ring; 
 And lo! I freeze mid winter snows; 
 Yet as the darkness deeper grows, 
 I bide my time. 
 
 My being s boundless wealth I gave 
 To thee who, fool as well as knave, 
 Made mock of it, then tombed it where 
 No one e er comes except despair .... 
 I bide my time. 
 
 [18] 
 
The sunset s gold thine eye surveyed 
 Thy hand upon the canvas laid; 
 But now behold oh, heavy loss! 
 Instead of it mere gilded dross .... 
 I bide my time. 
 
 Thine Art is gone: a golden stream 
 Has drowned it with thy every dream; 
 Ay, even thy soul is rotting there 
 Beyond all hope; and so with care 
 I bide my time. 
 
 A foul and triple murder thine 
 In taking her base love for mine: 
 Thou slewest then my helpless heart, 
 Thy soul, and thy devoted Art .... 
 I bide my time. 
 
 For months I waited by the tree, 
 The faintest glimpse to catch of thee; 
 Thou wouldst not come; but though has set 
 Hope s every radiant sun, still yet 
 I bide my time. 
 
 The hand that lay so oft in thine 
 With promised ring that ne er was mine 
 
Shall even in death the road attest 
 That brought thee to my panting breast . . . 
 I bide my time. 
 
 The countrymaid, whose crown thou took st 
 In passion s sport, and then forsook st 
 To wallow deep in lucre s mire, 
 Proclaims with hell s eternal ire, 
 I bide my time. 
 
 And it will come: when thou art most 
 The devil s own, my vengeful ghost 
 Shall slay thee in the sight of men, 
 Who spurn thy lifeless form; till then 
 I bide my time. 
 
 [20] 
 
NIGHT AND DAY 
 
 The waves of Night dashed over me 
 With such tempestuous roar and roll, 
 It dazed all sense that such a sea 
 Could rise to whelm the struggling soul. 
 
 But when the Day, led in by Dawn, 
 With hope and promise radiant shone, 
 I found the murderous billows gone, 
 And all the air with rainbows sown. 
 
 THE WORK OF THE POET 
 
 The Poet s tissue, woven but of dreams 
 Beneath Imagination s starry beams, 
 Transplendent hangs in Art s eternal sky, 
 While empires fall and creeds outlasted die. 
 
 [21] 
 
ENDEAVOR 
 
 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 once 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. 
 
 [22] 
 
ENDEAVOR 
 
 II 
 
 Thou wavering soul, what note is this to sound? 
 Dost prate of Duty, yet art satisfied 
 With what thou hast in scarce half-struggle 
 
 tried? 
 
 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 mount above complaint s vain 
 
 cries 
 
 To heights undarkened by the clouds of Doubt, 
 Where Victory waits to make thee of her Kin. 
 
 [23] 
 
SERVICE 
 
 Why weakly pine for that the years refuse 
 Their heaping bounty we so vainly dare 
 To claim as ours; why all reluctant bear 
 The Cross whose eloquence forever sues; 
 
 Why slay the winged hours because the clews 
 Of Life lead not to mystery s hidden lair; 
 Or why so steeped in poison of despair 
 Thou findest nothing for thy strength to use. 
 
 O doubting soul! within thyself alone 
 
 Exhaustless, saving riches thou mayst own, 
 Where hope-enweaponed thou canst smile at 
 fears ; 
 
 Where Service waits to take thee by the hand, 
 And as she leads thee through her wonderland 
 Thou then shalt learn the blessedness of tears. 
 
 [24] 
 
AT THE FUNERAL SERVICE OF 
 A YOUNG MAN 
 
 About the urn which held his remnant clay 
 The friends he loved had placed appealing 
 
 bloom : 
 
 The altar s candles lit its mystic gloom, 
 Wherein a solemn hush deep-brooding lay; 
 
 The organ spake in heart-constraining way, 
 And song and prayer that trembled with his 
 
 doom 
 
 Uprose deep-toned, while all the sacred room 
 Pulsed in the sifted sun s declining ray. 
 
 The saintly man the great Epistle read 
 
 As though St. Paul himself were standing there 
 Mid exhalations of celestial air; 
 
 While sweet Religion all our footsteps led 
 
 Along the paths of stress and grief to where 
 The fount of Peace eternally is fed. 
 
 [25] 
 
GETHSEMANE 
 
 Thou Mount of Olives, what a crown is thine, 
 In splendor growing since that night when He, 
 Within thy lonely, gloomed Gethsemane, 
 Besought His Father s will in prayer divine. 
 
 The bitter cup, Renunciation s wine 
 
 Would fill to brimming at the fatal tree, 
 
 He nerved his soul to drain, nor cared to see 
 
 Aught but the f ulgence of the heavenly sign . . . 
 
 O Lord, on this thy crucifixion s day, 
 
 At thy pierced feet in humbleness we pray 
 That we our own Gethsemanes may bear; 
 
 That thy great message we may newly scan, 
 And in the bosom of thy boundless care 
 Learn what it is to love our fellow-man. 
 
CALVARY 
 
 When wavering Pilate gave his fatal doom, 
 Jesus, to every agony resigned, 
 Bore, while the thorns around his head 
 
 entwined, 
 
 His cross through mocking crowds and 
 thickening gloom. 
 
 Before the woe-worn eyes of her, to whom 
 He owed the life he now anew should find, 
 His scourged and tortured body they consigned 
 To that dread tree they hoped would be his 
 tomb .... 
 
 Thou flower of souls, with message all divine, 
 What unexampled fortune has been thine 
 The victim of thy friends as of thy foes: 
 
 For on the cross of Creed and Dogma they 
 
 Nail Thee till man, mid hate-engendered woes, 
 Can find Thee not upon his anguished way. 
 
 [27] 
 
ONWARD 
 
 O sad-beseeming Earth, what flowers are thine, 
 Through what dark glooms thy stars of glory 
 
 shine, 
 What radiant altars beckon us to prayer! 
 
 What myriad voices chorus the divine, 
 
 Whose winged strains the doubting soul upbear 
 
 To gaze entranced on Faith s eternal sign! 
 
 Who then shall cast his precious burden down, 
 Obedient to the demons of despair, 
 In very sight of his immortal crown? 
 
 [28] 
 
ETCHINGS 
 
THE POET 
 
 (FOR HERMAN SCHEFFAUER ON HIS LEAVING CALIFORNIA 
 IN MAY, 1909.) 
 
 Sceptred beyond the power of mortal Kings 
 He wanders with insatiate, curious gaze, 
 Pausing anon to build melodious lays, 
 Then dreaming once again with folded wings; 
 
 He seeks the utmost heart and soul of things 
 Which fill all nature s palpitating ways, 
 And on the stepping-stones of golden days 
 Mounts where the voice eternal ever sings. 
 
 Such is the Poet, whose immortal song 
 Has shaken every century of time, 
 Making what seemed the common all sublime. 
 
 Scheffauer, thou art of this irradiant throng, 
 And as thou seekest now another clime, 
 I give thee this thou singer true and strong. 
 
THE COMPOSER 
 
 My brain is surging with tremendous things 
 Whose visions touch the top of my desire, 
 Where Art stands waiting with supernal fire, 
 And every voice with golden accent rings. 
 
 To that far height, upborne on radiant wings, 
 My spirit shall in ecstasy retire, 
 Till breathes within the bosom of my lyre 
 A glory nectared from immortal springs .... 
 
 At last! At last! Ah, list the cheers on cheers! 
 Oh, how I ve yearned for this these long, long 
 
 years- 
 Years that have heard full many a fatal hiss; 
 
 And now to feel that I am Music s own 
 
 And Fame s forever, bathes my soul in bliss, 
 And seats me on a more than mortal throne. 
 
 [32] 
 
THE VIOLINIST 
 
 Above thy strings, my Stradivarius dear, 
 My spirit hovers on the wings of dream, 
 Wherein, mid heavenly ecstasies, I seem 
 Divinely ordered harmonies to hear; 
 
 Apollo s troop my quivering fingers steer, 
 Till issues forth such pure, melodial stream 
 From thy deep soul, that Orpheus self might 
 
 deem 
 
 Thy strains were borne from some celestial 
 sphere. 
 
 Thou precious instrument, as in the case 
 Thy throbbing form in tenderness I place, 
 I feel anew the miracle thou art 
 
 Thou pigmy, giant one, whose lover s hand 
 Can bid thee roam the palace of the heart, 
 And at thy will its smiles or tears command. 
 
 [33] 
 
THE ORATOR 
 
 His eye seems flashing with unwonted fire, 
 His body quivers with emotion s throes, 
 The while his passion all sublimely grows 
 Till every heart responds to his desire. 
 What mighty causes has his winged ire 
 
 Lifted to heights beyond the reach of foes! 
 What jewelled phrases gem his speech like 
 
 those 
 
 Born on the bosom of the poet s lyre! 
 He pictures danger as a glorious feast; 
 And when Demosthenes fierce thunder 
 
 ceased, 
 "To arms! To arms!" the roused Athenians 
 
 cried; 
 So, when our Fathers dreamed they might be 
 
 free, 
 
 Henry and Adams on their flaming tide 
 Bore them to Liberty s unbounded sea. 
 
 [34] 
 
THE ORGANIST 
 
 How solemn all; the sun s last glimmering ray 
 Illumes the pane where glows our dear Lord s 
 
 head, 
 
 As now the organ s breath is gently sped 
 In seeming requiem for the parting day. 
 
 No one is here, not even to rest or pray, 
 Except the spirits of the saintly dead, 
 Who bring memorial gifts, and sweetly shed 
 The balm of peace upon me as I play. 
 
 Since death seized her, my life s unclouded sun, 
 This wonder-hearted, myriad-throated one 
 Holds me in Music s chains as ne er before; 
 
 And oftentimes my soul is made aware 
 Of harmonies that infinitely soar 
 Beyond the earth and all the earth s despair. 
 
 [35] 
 
THE PAINTER 
 
 You do not like this gorgeous, flaming sky 
 
 Wherewith I ve robed the form of dying day; 
 So strained and so extravagant, you say, 
 That Nature s best with it could never vie. 
 
 Then gaze, and gaze, and find the reason why 
 Art justifies the glories of her way: 
 She decks the old with newly-bright array, 
 And lifts the hidden to the wondering eye. 
 
 Art is not imitation; who can hope 
 
 In paint with sunlight s dazzling beams to cope 
 And did achievement bless him it were vain. 
 
 True Art interprets: craves the soul of things, 
 Then binds the captured thought in Beauty s 
 
 chain, 
 And sends it forth on Form s imperial wings. 
 
 [36] 
 
THE SCULPTOR 
 
 A Lady once bewitched my youthful sight, 
 Whose beauty in the greatest bred despair 
 Her face Madonna like, simple her air, 
 And yet with every majesty bedight. 
 
 And now this piece of Parian seems so right, 
 So pure and flawless, that I fain would dare 
 Her marble effigy to fashion there, 
 While Art befriends me with its golden light. 
 
 My Lady s figure lies within this stone; 
 
 Release it thence I must, and proudly own 
 The smile refused me in her earthly days. 
 
 That pregnant thought, great Angelo, is thine; 
 Oh, frown not, Master, that I seek thy praise. 
 Or for a moment link thy name with mine. 
 
 [37] 
 
THE SURGEON 
 
 In Anesthesia s arms the patient lies 
 Unmindful of the cruel, kindly knife, 
 While helpers stand anear with interest rife, 
 And expectation dancing in their eyes. 
 
 The Surgeon then, cool, confident, and wise, 
 Cuts resolutely deep where weakening life 
 Has waged with its dread foe unequal strife 
 Until he makes the venomous thing his prize. 
 
 A conqueror he, with monsters in his train 
 
 To their most hidden coverts tracked and slain, 
 Their victim s lips aflame with songs of praise. 
 
 His conquests bear no weight of orphans tears, 
 But sweet Beneficence upon them lays 
 Her gentle hand through all his laurelled years. 
 
 [38] 
 
THE BIBLIOPHILE TO HIS FIRST 
 EDITION OF CHAPMAN S HOMER 
 
 At last within my hands thy joys I see, 
 
 Thou precious Chapman, Shakespeare might 
 
 have eyed, 
 Which I for long had sought both far and 
 
 wide ; 
 
 And now with radiant face thou com st to me! 
 The binders have been merciful to thee; 
 
 Prince Henry s picture glows with pristine 
 
 pride; 
 
 Thy very flyleaves still with thee abide, 
 While every text from wound or stain is free. 
 And as delightedly mine eyes engage 
 
 The stars of poesy which blaze thy page, 
 I think of him Apollo greatly souled; 
 Who, when he quaffed the nectar of thy lay, 
 On sonnet wing sought out "the realms of 
 
 gold," 
 And set a flower there which blooms alway. 
 
 [39] 
 
THE PICTURE CONNOISSEUR 
 
 Look at my Mauve picked up this very day 
 At auction sale where none its value knew 
 Mauve who in life known only to the few 
 Now with a fame Time never will betray. 
 
 Note how the lights and shades harmonious play; 
 See the rich color every form endue; 
 Breathe its clear air, then feel Spring could 
 
 not sue 
 For fairer spot to wanton on her way. 
 
 My choice is wide as life: no man or school 
 Can sound the chords of all that s beautiful, 
 Nor claim as theirs the vasty fane of Art; 
 
 And yet a Rembrandt once mine eye did own, 
 Till fled abashed the children of my heart, 
 While he in matchless grandeur stood alone. 
 
 [40] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 With head erect, and proud, outswelling breast, 
 We see him start upon his lifelong race; 
 The Gods to him have given alluring grace, 
 And every voice adds joyance to his zest. 
 
 Ambition urges him to some far crest 
 
 Where devils lurk, while hopes each other chase 
 Through bloom-bespangled fields, whose 
 
 gorgeous face 
 Conceals the dragon s brood as yet unguessed. 
 
 How fast he goes! What barriers break away 
 Before the impact of his strenuous day; 
 What cheer-swept banners wave above his head! 
 
 Now manhood grandly looms, and all seems well; 
 But ere its toiling labors have been sped 
 What tales of agony its years may tell! 
 
AN AGED MAN 
 
 Time was I leaped and bounded like the roe, 
 When boyhood s blood ran blithesome in the 
 
 veins, 
 
 While in my breast Hope held the radiant reins, 
 As Life plunged onward in resplendent show. 
 
 Now note my shuffling gait, so slow, so slow; 
 No sound I hear, nor feel but torturing pains, 
 While my scarred body, bent and stiffened, 
 
 strains 
 In agony against its weight of woe. 
 
 O state most wretched! Wheresoe er I gaze 
 I do but see the ghosts of other days, 
 Whose chains tear-rusted they upon me bind. 
 
 Yet, I would live; great God, to thee I cry; 
 I ask but life till I am wholly blind; 
 Oh, make me feel I am not now to die! 
 
 [42] 
 
THE PENITENT 
 
 Oh, I have sinned till all my life seems one 
 Lone desert-waste of every hideous thing, 
 Where misery-breeding gloom outspreads its 
 
 wing, 
 Nor leaf nor blossom sees the blessed sun. 
 
 I dare not name the deeds which I have done; 
 But as they pass before mine eyes they fling 
 Their horrors in my face, until they wring 
 A torture from me Hell itself would shun. 
 
 Penance I ll do if even to drink the tears 
 Of memory s angels for unnumbered years, 
 And be with scorpions scourged for eons more. 
 
 Father of all, condemn me to the worst, 
 If at the last on seraph s wings I soar 
 To where thy heavenly splendors on me burst. 
 
 [43] 
 
THE RELIGIOUS ASCETIC 
 
 Why should I glut this carnal frame of mine, 
 Of every lustful thing the source and seat; 
 Why try with bath and balm to make it sweet, 
 Or clothe it with apparel soft and fine? 
 
 Ah, no! I must all thought of it resign, 
 Except to rack it with tormentings meet, 
 Until abased beneath my conquering feet 
 It can obscure no glimpse of the divine. 
 
 I clasp this skull as in the dust I pray, 
 And thrill to feel how swiftly flees away 
 The body man would deck and make so fair; 
 
 While in my dreams my fleshless spirit wings 
 Through all the boundless vastitudes to where 
 Seraph on seraph, rapture-throbbing, sings. 
 
 [44] 
 
THE MISER 
 
 How slowly drag the leaden-footed hours 
 Along the ways of revel-breeding night, 
 To hold me from the glutting of my sight 
 On that whereto my soul delighted cowers. 
 
 Silence falls deep; at last the time is ours, 
 
 Thou precious hoard, when by my candle s light 
 Unseen I shall again behold thy bright, 
 Unutterably beauteous minted flowers. 
 
 My heart stands still as now my fingers pass 
 Caressingly through all thy glittering mass, 
 With knowledge that it swells still more and 
 more. 
 
 Oh, I am hungered, but I would not dare 
 
 To take one piece from thy appealing store 
 Instead I ll drop these hard-earned pennies there. 
 
 [45] 
 
BUSINESS 
 
 A demon he of ever restless mien 
 
 Who scorns the wooing angels of repose, 
 To follow fast the money-stream which flows 
 To wastes where ruined souls gloom every 
 scene. 
 
 With ruthless hoofs he tramples down the green 
 As on and on with pauseless pace he goes, 
 Still ever treating as his deadliest foes 
 The higher things that dare to intervene. 
 
 The Ledger is the book of books for him, 
 Its figures, saints, with whom he feverous 
 
 makes 
 His daily journey round a dollar s rim. 
 
 Of glorious visions never he partakes, 
 
 And strange to him the countless host of Art 
 That yearn to make a palace of his heart. 
 
 [46] 
 
THE HOMICIDE 
 
 True, true he s dead; so surely dead the sound 
 Of crashing worlds could not one pulse awake; 
 The waves of happy life no more will break 
 Upon the breast where gapes my dagger s 
 wound. 
 
 He drove me to it: had he not been bound 
 To scorn of me who lived but for her sake, 
 And had her beauty not have been the stake, 
 My steel his heart s recesses had not found. 
 
 How long she ll wait for his embrace, how long! 
 I cannot brave her with these hands of blood, 
 Nor frame my lips the needed lie to tell. . . . 
 
 O fatuous, irremediable wrong, 
 
 That courses through me as a fiery flood, 
 Bearing the seeds which blossom but in hell! 
 
 [47] 
 
THE THIEF 
 
 You ask, your Honor, what he has to say 
 Why he should not receive your last decree, 
 And he is silent; for it cannot be 
 But that the verdict s right in law s strict way; 
 
 But think of his environment, we pray; 
 Think of the fruit of his ancestral tree 
 In crimes as foul as eye might dare to see, 
 Which those before him fed on day by day. 
 
 O wretched youth, such knowledge bids us feel 
 Twas in your very bones that you should steal, 
 And murder even for sufficient cause. 
 
 O God of all the thunders, why impose 
 On helpless man immitigable laws 
 That brim his being with tremendous woes? 
 
 [48] 
 
THE PESSIMIST 
 
 What are these struggling, bestial-minded men 
 But ravening beasts, that hunger-tortured prey 
 Upon each other, blackening all the day 
 With deeds that spring from Hell s malicious 
 ken. 
 
 We stumble on from fen to noisome fen; 
 
 Death, myriad-sworded, hews his slaughterous 
 
 way 
 
 Through Nature s hosts, while no consoling ray 
 Illumes one cell in earth s vast, darksome den. 
 
 Some unimaginable demon must, 
 
 In very wantonness of boundless lust, 
 Have filled Life s every urn with blood and 
 tears. 
 
 Oh, strange it is, that humankind still bear 
 The agonizing fruitage of the years, 
 With comrades none save misery and despair. 
 
 [49] 
 
THE OPTIMIST 
 
 O Life, of thee I never have a fear: 
 
 No matter where thou tak st me I am thine, 
 For in my soul I feel some power divine 
 Bear me along from year to mellowing year. 
 
 In every storm the nymphs of Peace appear; 
 Round every grief the arms of Mercy twine; 
 Sweet Service holds aloft her blazoned sign, 
 And smiling Hope is shrined in every tear. 
 
 Then take me Life, and let my eager soul 
 Submit with gladdening joy to thy control, 
 Until Achievement lifts its radiant head; 
 
 And though it be not as the heavens high, 
 Who dares to doubt that with the good tis 
 
 fed, 
 And lustrous shines in the eternal eye. 
 
 [50] 
 
SONNETS SUGGESTED BY PICTURES 
 PAINTED BY WILLIAM KEITH 
 
THE JOY OF EARTH 
 
 Who doubts the earth speaks audibly unto 
 The heart of everyone that lists to hear, 
 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 blossoms 
 
 play, 
 This murmuring stream, this wide-embracing 
 
 tree, 
 
 Where birds may live their little, tuneful day, 
 And golden harvests that are yet to be. 
 
 [53] 
 
THE TWILIGHT TIME 
 
 The Sun that raged victorious through the day, 
 Like conquering monarch scornful of defeat, 
 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 
 In tranquil mystery pulse through all the breast. 
 
 [54] 
 
THE MEADOW 
 
 To-day the soaring mount is not for me, 
 
 Though it should marshal all its loveliest mass, 
 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 Revery 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 the way to Peace s crystal springs. 
 
 [55] 
 
THE MYSTIC POOL 
 
 The flaunting banners of imperious Day 
 
 Have all been folded out of sense and sight, 
 Where, in this ancient wood, star-nurtured Night 
 With silence-wreathed sceptre holds her sway. 
 
 The Moon new risen throws such tender ray 
 Across this mystic pool, in Fancy s flight 
 We see Selene clasp, with fresh delight, 
 Endymion to her breast till morning s gray. 
 
 Within this wood there must be many a sprite 
 The Poet loves, and many a blithesome fay 
 To lead imagination to his heart; 
 
 Oh, grant he finds them in the world s despite, 
 That with their magic-working help he may 
 Uprear some deathless pyramid of Art. 
 
 [56] 
 
THE RIVER 
 
 Since from my deep-embosomed spring I flowed 
 I have come far still singing all the way 
 In face of night as in the face of day, 
 And feeling nought but joysomeness for goad. 
 
 Upon my breast the kindly stars have sowed 
 
 Their golden seed; I catch the sun s warm ray; 
 I list the leaves and birds delightful lay, 
 While myriad creatures make me their abode. 
 
 And yonder cloud that flecks the sunset sky 
 In unimaginable glory I, 
 Lured by the day s great lord, gave to the air; 
 
 While onward to the ocean s welcoming shore, 
 Enriched by gifts I pauseless wend, and there 
 My bounty s wealth immeasurably pour. 
 
 [57] 
 
A VISION 
 
 Sweet Morn trips lightsomely along the sky, 
 Awakening earth and all the things of air, 
 Whose trees, joy-hearted, murmurous greetings 
 
 bear 
 
 To the far lake and bloom-gemmed grasses 
 nigh. 
 
 Some pigeons, snowy-white, encircling fly 
 
 Above two maidens, loveliest creatures there, 
 Who send their dreams on voyage calm and 
 
 fair, 
 To Love s own harbors that resplendent lie. 
 
 O blessed Morn! Thy wealth no garish day 
 In heartless mock can ever take away, 
 Nor these fond doves to ravening ravens turn. 
 
 O fortunate maidens! Alien to all tears, 
 
 Your beauty shall not fade, but brighter burn, 
 To consecrate your Vision to the years. 
 
 [58] 
 
EVENSONG 
 
 Day s glare and noise are done for you and me; 
 Its dying glories tremble in the west; 
 The stars are near, and Evening s tranquil rest 
 With balmy softness fills the wood and lea. 
 
 Deep-shaded lies the pool s untroubled breast 
 Near where the shepherdess, full fair to see, 
 Walks with her sheep as gently sighing she 
 Builds fairy dreams of him beloved the best. 
 
 And as the twilight slowly draws anear, 
 
 What all-pervading tones we seem to hear 
 Bearing the moments of the dying day; 
 
 For Nature s harmonies are mounting high 
 In vesper hymn against the fading sky, 
 To blend with spirit voices far away. 
 
 [59] 
 
PRAYER 
 
 Each thing seems here subdued to silent prayer; 
 The clouds hang moveless in the sombre sky, 
 The brook scarce whispers as it ripples by, 
 And stilled are all the pulses of the air. 
 
 The stately trees a fading splendor wear, 
 
 As now the westering sun s last gleamings die 
 Around a man, who views with saintly eye 
 The vast distresses that his fellows bear. 
 
 What countless problems on this Prophet weigh, 
 As mid the myriad mysteries of it all 
 Within this temple he is fain to pray! 
 
 Here babbling laughter flees beyond recall, 
 While Grief, sore stricken with the pangs of 
 
 years, 
 Seems bending low above a bowl of tears. 
 
 [60] 
 
LACHRYMA MONTIS 
 
 Why shouldst thou weep, dear mount, so fair all 
 
 lies, 
 From spring s first blush to winter s last sad 
 
 days, 
 Thy blooms so beauteous that they seem to 
 
 raise, 
 As if in prayer, their petals to the skies? 
 
 And yet this Lake, in amethystine guise 
 Of calm, untroubled beauty, men emblaze 
 As thine own tear, delighting thus to praise 
 Its loveliness in sweet, poetic wise. 
 
 From off the ocean, with its neighboring roar, 
 The legions of the fog resistless pour, 
 And conquering settle on thy flanks and head; 
 
 But this is joy and recompense divine, 
 
 For with this compensation thou art fed, 
 That ocean s tears are mingled then with thine. 
 
 [61] 
 
SOME LEAVES OF BAY 
 
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 did st thou need 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; 
 But though thy blow was never light, 
 
 It meant no evil; 
 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! 
 
 Why should we note thy fitful years, 
 Remorseful pangs, repentant tears, 
 Or sigh that Fate had used her shears 
 
 Untimely on thee? 
 Tis nought, when blessed Love appears 
 
 Fore er to crown thee. 
 
 [66] 
 
SCOTT 
 
 Read at celebration of the one hundred and thirty- 
 seventh anniversary of his birth, held by the United 
 Scottish Societies of San Francisco, August 14, 1908. 
 
 O Mother Earth, how good thou art, 
 Thou and the Powers that rule in thee; 
 How wide embracing thy vast heart, 
 How deep thy deep divinity. 
 
 The countless blooms the sun adores, 
 And all the myriad trees are thine, 
 With streams that woo the seas, and ores 
 That sleep with gems in rock and mine, 
 
 The soaring peaks enwrapped in snows, 
 And mothered by the bending skies, 
 With peaceful vales whose soft repose 
 Folds into rest the world s harsh cries. 
 
 And good thou wast to set apart 
 The land on every lip to-night, 
 That thrills our every heart of heart, 
 And glows magnificently bright 
 
 The land of science, art and song, 
 Of passion for the nobly right, 
 
 [67] 
 
Of men and women brave and strong, 
 Of sons embathed in fadeless light 
 
 The sons that lead material things 
 Through blossomy ways to moral ends, 
 And on imagination s wings 
 With farthest stars become as friends. 
 
 And one of these the world has praised 
 Beyond all wealth of honor s lot, 
 Till Fame with fondest hand has blazed 
 His name the name of Walter Scott. 
 
 What infinite things were his to see 
 With unfatigued, far-ranging eye; 
 What world-enchanting gift had he 
 To dress with life what passed him by! 
 
 The very ground beneath his feet 
 Seemed pulsing with unwonted breath, 
 While every bush he chanced to meet 
 Held fairy tribes unknown to death. 
 
 The mountain spake to him, the moor, 
 The brae, and burn that leaped along, 
 Nor could there be a thing so poor 
 That might not hope to swell his song. 
 
 [68] 
 
Life, life he felt in every vein, 
 And life he saw in every scene, 
 Abundant, throbbing, though his strain 
 Be weighted oft with note of teen. 
 
 The minstrelsy of other days 
 Sang to his heart with living voice, 
 And many a tale of olden ways 
 He framed to make the world rejoice. 
 
 Imagination led him o er 
 The fairest fields of gay Romance, 
 Where ladies and their knights outpour 
 Their hearts mid flash of sword and lance; 
 
 And where beneath the conjurer s sway 
 The silent dust of long-tombed men 
 Stirs with fresh life to newer day, 
 And proudly lives on earth again. 
 
 Battle s dread trump he fiercely fills 
 To blare it to the trembling sky, 
 And who so dull but that he thrills 
 At Marmion s last expiring cry; 
 
 Or who so dyed in peace s hue 
 That cannot feel his blood run fire, 
 
 [69] 
 
When Saxon James and Roderick Dhu 
 Tug to the death with hate s desire; 
 
 Or when the proud Mac-Ivor, borne 
 Toward all the torturing tools of death, 
 Stood grandly mid his hopes uptorn, 
 And gave King James his latest breath. 
 
 Yet love and tenderness he bound 
 About the heart of women fair, 
 And Jeanie Deans, by him encrowned, 
 Can Time and all his minions dare. 
 
 So Constance, in the hall of doom 
 Through passioned love s untoward ill, 
 Shall fill with light her living tomb, 
 And in her radiance queen it still. 
 
 But oh, how idle to recount 
 The stars that blaze in Scott s great sky, 
 E en though my Muse could breathless mount, 
 And on unwearying pinions fly. 
 
 Not his to build great towers of gloom 
 Till Life, with all its wonder, palls, 
 Or bid psychology have room 
 In Fiction s vast, palatial halls; 
 
 [70] 
 
Or set some writhing problem there 
 To bestialize the ways of art, 
 Or on a poisoned pen s point bear 
 The dregs and offal of the heart; 
 
 But he content to purely tell 
 The stories coursing through his brain, 
 Where living men and women dwell 
 Each age on age to entertain. 
 
 The Muses blest him at his birth, 
 And with melodious accent said, 
 Before thy shrine the sons of earth 
 Shall stand with bowed, uncovered head. 
 
 How toiled and moiled this noble soul, 
 This gentleman of high degree, 
 Without apparent aim or goal, 
 Yet bound for immortality. 
 
 Sharp sorrows pierced him when the years 
 Should have been kind with peace and rest, 
 But not for him complaint or tears 
 As on he went with dauntless breast 
 
 On and still on through seas of debt 
 That rolled in mountains by his side, 
 
And which, though age and grief were met, 
 Could not abate his matchless pride. 
 
 The Muse may point to kinglier names 
 Emblazoned on her golden roll, 
 But well she knows that on it flames 
 No manlier man, no greater soul. 
 
 The heather-bell may bloom no more, 
 The Tweed itself run bare and dry, 
 But Fame proclaims it o er and o er 
 That Walter Scott shall never die. 
 
 ON POPE S TRANSLATION OF HOMER 
 
 Pope could not translate Homer, so you say; 
 But tell me who of all the rest could, pray, 
 Or who will ever bend that mighty bow. 
 Yet lines of his roll on in thunderous roar, 
 And his winged words the empyrean soar, 
 In scorn of others crawling far below. 
 
 [72] 
 
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 all the Muses crown thee with their 
 
 bays 
 Fadeless throughout thy fame-besplendored days. 
 
 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, 
 And who, impregnably contented, knows 
 That on the centuries he shall repose. 
 
 [73] 
 
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 which 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, that quenchless fire, 
 Which made thee what thou wast the 
 
 grandest seer 
 And noblest poet of Democracy. 
 
 [74] 
 
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 these lines his structures grew, 
 In form most cunningly designed, 
 While demons whom he nurtured slew 
 The peace and sweetness of his mind. 
 
 With hopeless sighs and bitter tears 
 He filled his dark, remorseful hours, 
 Yet reared the while, for all the years, 
 His beauty-crowned, enchanted towers. 
 
 [75] 
 
TO WHITTIER 
 
 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 
 
 The lowly things wherefrom 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. 
 
 [76] 
 
TO WHITTIER 
 
 II 
 
 Such verse, O Whittier, thy muse employs: 
 For thou dost sing in unaffected lay 
 Of maidens fair, of childhood s radiant 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. 
 
TO A SOILED AND BROKEN VOLUME 
 OF BAYARD TAYLOR S POEMS 
 
 Come, wandering one, 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 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 
 
 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 
 
 [78] 
 
Above the touch of sordid things. 
 Ah, then how happy shall I be 
 At thought of having rescued thee! 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MARK TWAIN 
 
 His waves of laughter rolled around the world, 
 And ever shall though he be dead; 
 
 In vain the conqueror Death has madly 
 
 hurled 
 
 His spear against that noble head, 
 For drowned in mirth immortal, he, 
 Despairing, yields the victory. 
 
 [79] 
 
TO LLOYD MIFFLIN ON RECEIVING 
 FROM HIM A COPY OF HIS 
 "FLOWER AND THORN" 
 
 Thou art the child of that beloved Keats, 
 
 Whose name in water writ flows not away, 
 But fixed in Fame s own brass shall still 
 
 outstay 
 Even the mightiest in their mighty seats. 
 
 The humblest thing thy brooding vision meets 
 Puts on through thee empurpled, rich array, 
 And every season, day by halcyon day, 
 Thine open soul with newer wonder greets. 
 
 Together we have walked this many a year, 
 Thy strains Parnassian beating on mine ear, 
 Till crystal fountains gushed within my heart. 
 
 Who doubts the Muse triumphant scorns all fear, 
 As now her children with consummate art 
 Her stately palaces divinely rear. 
 
 [80] 
 
GEORGE STERLING 
 
 The multitudinous, vast orbs which keep 
 
 Their pride of grandeur in the night-bound sky, 
 
 Within his ample breast like children lie 
 
 Mid winged words that all their spaces sweep; 
 
 And there weird fancy piles, in heap on heap, 
 Amazing jewels, till the startled eye 
 Faints at the sight; and there sweet blossoms 
 
 cry 
 With ecstasy for him their souls to reap. 
 
 O Poet by Balboa s sapphire sea, 
 
 What thunderous waves of thought must roll 
 
 to thee, 
 To break in music on thy heart s wide shore! 
 
 What many-chambered caves of silence where 
 Imagination spreads her golden lore, 
 To tell of heights which souls like thine may 
 dare! 
 
 [8!] 
 
CHARLES WARREN STODDARD 
 
 Who could forget, once having fitly heard, 
 The tender cadence of his voice of gold, 
 Or, having read him, could be uncontrolled 
 By the sweet music of his lyric word? 
 
 Life s clamorous voices, mammon-hearted, stirred 
 No pulse in him his heart the happy fold 
 Of gentle things which, shaped in fancy s 
 
 mould, 
 Poured out their joys as blithely as a bird. 
 
 His body rests where he would have it rest: 
 Where blooms and grasses whisper o er his 
 
 breast 
 Far from the noise and tumult of the town; 
 
 And who can doubt the Muse oft ponders there, 
 To keep afresh the jewels of his crown 
 Till Fame shall take them in eternal care. 
 
 [82] 
 
PROFESSOR JOSEPH LE CONTE AT 
 YOSEMITE, JULY 4-6, igoi 
 
 "If it were now to die, 
 Twere now to be most happy." 
 
 Othello, Act 2, Scene I. 
 
 His hoary head, lustrous with all that s best 
 Of human kind, by fame immortal made, 
 In death s last agony he fitly laid 
 Upon Yosemite s titanic breast. 
 
 For years their mutual love had been confessed, 
 And when once more her glories he surveyed, 
 His raptured heart such ecstasies betrayed, 
 Fate dared not tempt him further to be blest. 
 
 Her beauteous leaves of cedar, oak and pine, 
 She lavish gave for garlands to entwine 
 His coffin fashioned from her teeming store; 
 
 And neath the reverent gaze of her great walls, 
 While throbbed in muffled tones her saddened 
 
 falls, 
 His clay, star-lighted, left her evermore. 
 
 [83] 
 
ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD SEVENTH 
 
 All England s far-spread empire weeps to-day 
 O er that imperial head death would not 
 
 spare, 
 
 And we Americans are proud to share 
 Our tears with them and let our words have 
 
 way. 
 
 In his capacious breast Life joyed to play 
 With infinite desire, while tactful care 
 His steersman was, with regal sense to bear 
 Him safely through the seas of Yea and Nay. 
 To his dear land he fetched the Golden Fleece 
 Of reconcilement, bidding hates to cease 
 Whose dangerous fires for years had 
 
 smouldered on. 
 
 O England, in thy stress, when every hour 
 Demands the utmost reach of all thy power, 
 How much thou lt miss his wisdom now he s 
 gone! 
 
HARRO 
 
HARRO 
 
 SCHLESWIG-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 
 The life-boat speeds, attest 
 
 Of selfless souls that dare; 
 And every man finds place 
 Within her crowded space 
 
 [87] 
 
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." 
 
 "Comrade, in vain thy plea, 
 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 
 
 [88] 
 
Well 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 
 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, 
 
 [89] 
 
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 terrors on the strand." 
 "But what of him out there, 
 Abandoned to despair? 
 Has he 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." 
 In vain; the four and he, 
 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, 
 
 [90] 
 
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, 
 Mid joys which there did throng 
 
 Round perils greatly braved; 
 And when they neared the shore, 
 Twas Harro shouted o er: 
 "Good mother, grieve no more, 
 
 Tis Uwe we have saved." 
 
TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH 
 
HYMN TO THE SUN 
 
 (FROM THE CHANTICLEER OF EDMOND ROSTAND) 
 CHANTICLEER SPEAKS: 
 
 Thee, who to dry the tears of every blade dost 
 
 please, 
 
 Who butterflies Greatest out of lifeless flowers, 
 When shed their blooms Roussillon s shaken 
 almond trees 
 
 In breezes of the Pyrenees, 
 E en as the destinies of ours, 
 
 Thee I adore, O Sun! thee whose supernal fire, 
 To consecrate each brow, each nectar to imbue, 
 Enters the hut and blossom with divine desire, 
 
 All disparate and yet entire, 
 
 Even as mother-love can do. 
 
 To thee I sing ! To crown me as thy priest, oh, 
 
 deign, 
 Thou who the washtub lightest with its suds of 
 
 blue, 
 
 And who on disappearing oft art fondly fain 
 Against the humble window pane 
 To dart thy lances last adieu. 
 
 The rectory s sunflower turns in eagerness to thee, 
 Thou burnishest my brother on the steeple high, 
 
 [95] 
 
And when among the lindens steals thy mystery, 
 Such flickering, radiant discs we see, 
 To walk thereon we dare not try. 
 
 The varnished jug becomes enameled at thy call, 
 The flapping dishcloth seems a flag of glory s 
 
 brood, 
 
 The haycock, thanks to thee, wears gold that 
 crowns it all, 
 
 And so the hive its sister small 
 Flaunts golden splendor on its hood. 
 
 Let meadows give thee hail, and hail each fruited 
 
 vine! 
 Blest be thou mid the grass, and at the friendly 
 
 door! 
 
 Touch the swan s wing and in the lizard s keen eye 
 shine ! 
 
 O thou who drawest each splendent line, 
 And every detail lingerest o er! 
 
 Thy twin and sombre sister thou dost silhouette, 
 Who lengthening lies at foot of that where falls 
 
 thy light, 
 
 And then the loveliness is in us doubly set, 
 A shadow oft more charming yet 
 Than its own object beauty-dight. 
 
 [96] 
 
Thee I adore, O Sun! Thou giv st the rose her 
 pride, 
 
 The bush its living God, the spring its ardent glow; 
 
 The woodland s lowliest tree thou makest deified ! 
 O Sun, without whom things would bide 
 No more than what we only know! 
 
 [97] 
 
THE ORCHARD 
 
 (AFTER EDMOND ROSTAND) 
 
 The poem, of which the following is a translation, was 
 written by Edmond Rostand and read at a performance given 
 in Paris in aid of the Actors Home, situated at Couilly, near 
 that city. 
 
 What orchard s this wherein the Cid recites his 
 
 strain 
 With tremulous voice beneath the sun s warm, 
 
 genial light? 
 
 Where not so eager now of folly to complain, 
 Since whitening fast he sees the locks of 
 
 Celimene, 
 With leaves of living green Alceste his coat 
 
 makes bright? 
 What orchard s this wherein the Cid recites his 
 
 strain? 
 
 Its distances in golden glory melt away; 
 Smooth-faced as some old Marquis, all the strollers 
 
 there. 
 
 What Park is this wherein thy soul of frolic play 
 Thy great soul seeming but the trivial to 
 
 essay! ... 
 
 [98] 
 
Breathes deep the lovely landscape s fresh, 
 
 delicious air ... 
 Beneath a sky whose golden glory melts away? 
 
 Old dames who seem to owe to Art their aged air 
 
 Pluck blooms where insects flash their emerald- 
 tinted dyes. 
 
 No more the reeking den! No more gloom s dull 
 despair ! 
 
 And everywhere the Garden looking to the skies! 
 
 While underneath the boughs in pensive meekness 
 fare 
 
 Old dames who seem to owe to Art their aged air. 
 
 A time-worn shawl is draped as with a princess 
 
 hand; 
 
 Hernani buttons on a box-coat out of date; 
 The names which light their past incessant they 
 
 command .... 
 A Frederick one has heard, and one, Rachel the 
 
 great. 
 And then the trees become an audience ranged 
 
 in state, 
 Where time-worn shawl is draped as with a 
 
 princess hand. 
 
 Here sadness flits away like curtain upward rolled, 
 
 [99] 
 
Nor in the least are lost the dreams which 
 
 follow you. 
 
 You that to us bore cups of dream in days of old, 
 And, charmers of our evenings, now that yours 
 
 are told, 
 Why should we not your footlights place 
 
 beneath the blue? 
 Here sadness flits away like curtain upward rolled. 
 
 What wide-spread orchard s this all filled with 
 
 revery s haze 
 And with comedians gay, like park by Watteau 
 
 made? 
 Where wandering Mascarille, without his mask 
 
 and blade, 
 
 Dons now his theatre-cloak as fancy s vision plays, 
 When soft the pine-trees fleck his mantle with 
 
 their shade? 
 
 What beauteous orchard s this all filled with 
 
 revery s haze? 
 
 What beauteous orchard s this a Moliere makes 
 
 his own, 
 
 All pensive as he feels the soil s deep love control 
 The ivy s arms around his marble to be thrown, 
 And smiling as he sees Elmire and Dona Sol 
 
Within the arbor chat in kind, familiar tone? 
 What beauteous orchard s this a Moliere makes 
 his own? 
 
 The moving vines festooned upon 
 
 This arbor have no fictive guise; 
 
 The pate s not from pasteboard drawn 
 
 Which down the throat of Gringoire hies! 
 
 Misfortune s child no longer sighs; 
 
 Leander now is Castellan; 
 
 Stirs Buridan while Scapin lies 
 
 The orchard this of Coquelin. 
 
 The villain now on sheep would fawn; 
 The lover every calyx tries, 
 
 His piping voice forever gone 
 
 Yet on the side-scenes keeps his eyes! 
 In lakelet, which with mirror vies, 
 The Star delights to fondly scan 
 The twilight heaven s reflected dyes 
 The orchard this of Coquelin. 
 
 Don Cesar now has jacket on; 
 While Harpagon his vice defies, 
 
And redemands his miroton;* 
 
 Sweet Agnes dreams, somewhat more wise; 
 
 Of crawfish Perdican makes prize; 
 
 When tinkle, tinkle, rings Argan, 
 
 To do his will each swiftly flies 
 
 The orchard this of Coquelin. 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 Prince, princesses, we here devise 
 Some eves of golden-tissued plan, 
 And real the sun that walks our skies! 
 The orchard this of Coquelin. 
 
 * Miroton is a dish of minced beef and onions. 
 
 [102] 
 
WHAT IS HEARD ON THE MOUNTAIN 
 
 (AFTER VICTOR HUGO) 
 
 Has it so been that you in tranquil, silent wise, 
 Have pushed to mountain s top in presence of 
 
 the skies? 
 Was this on Southern banks? on shores of 
 
 Brittany? 
 
 And at the mountain s foot did you the ocean see? 
 And leaning o er the surge, and o er immensity, 
 In silent wise and tranquil, have you bent your 
 
 ear? 
 Tis this befalls: at least, one day at dream s 
 
 command 
 My thought in eager flight had swooped above 
 
 a 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 like 
 
 or peer 
 Ne er came from human mouth nor fell upon an 
 
 ear. 
 
 At first its sound was full, confused, all 
 unconfined, 
 
 [103] 
 
More vague than in the tufted trees the sighing 
 
 wind; 
 With piercing 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 tones 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 quickly I discerned, clouded and dissonant, 
 Two voices in this voice each with the other blent, 
 O er flowing all the earth unto the 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 spake in happy 
 
 throng ; 
 The other from the land which rose where now we 
 
 are 
 Was sad; it was men s murmur rising near and 
 
 far; 
 
 And in this diapason, sounding night and day, 
 Each billow had its voice, each man his separate 
 
 lay. 
 
 But, as I ve said, the Ocean, vast, magnificent, 
 A mild and joyous voice through endless spaces 
 sent; 
 
 [105] 
 
Like harp in Zion s fanes it burst in swelling note, 
 And with creation s praise song filled his 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 sounding swell. 
 Like that majestic lion whom Daniel made his 
 
 guest, 
 At times the Ocean s voice sank low within his 
 
 breast, 
 And then I deemed I saw toward the glowing 
 
 West 
 Beneath its mane of gold the hand of God 
 
 confessed. 
 
 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, 
 
 [106] 
 
Mad curses, blasphemies, and wraths 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, strange as ever sped, 
 That cease not though reborn, and cease not being 
 
 fled, 
 
 That with unending stroke the ear eternal shake, 
 HUMANITY in one, in the other, NATURE 
 
 spake. 
 
 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 darksome 
 
 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, 
 
 [107] 
 
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? 
 
 THE TOMB AND THE ROSE 
 
 (AFTER VICTOR HUGO) 
 
 The Tomb said to the Rose: "Love s own, 
 What mak st thou of the tears bestrewn 
 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!" 
 
 [108] 
 
THE PELICAN 
 
 (AFTER ALFRED DE MUSSED 
 
 When the tired pelican returns from his long 
 
 quest 
 Unto his lonely reeds where evening mists hang 
 
 low, 
 
 His famished little ones all shoreward wildly go 
 On seeing him alight upon the 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. 
 
 [ 109] 
 
Stretched silently and sombre on 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. 
 Mid this supreme surrender at each moment he 
 Is sickened with the thought of long-drawn agony, 
 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 there the one belated, feeling death is nigh, 
 With dread s appalling fears commends to God his 
 
 soul. 
 
 [no] 
 
THE POET 
 
 (AFTER ALFRED DE MUSSED 
 
 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. 
 
 [in] 
 
JACQUES 
 
 (AFTER BERANGER) 
 
 Dear Jacques, I must bid thee awake: 
 A bailiff round the village steals, 
 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 well; 
 Thou know st to old Remi to sell 
 One must bestir 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 bay; 
 He will demand a whole month s pay. 
 Ah, if the King could only wait! 
 
 Get up, my Jacques, get up: 
 
 Here comes the bailiff of the King. 
 
 [112] 
 
Oh, how the poor are stripped and flayed! 
 So crushed are we, our home enjoys, 
 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 all hopeless miseries touch, 
 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? 
 High priced is strengthening food, and then, 
 High priced the salt and sugar, too. 
 
 Get up, my Jacques, get up: 
 
 Here comes the bailiff of the King. 
 
 A little wine would courage bring; 
 But hard the laws for such as we; 
 My dearest, for some drink for thee 
 Go sell at once my wedding ring. 
 
 ["3] 
 
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? 
 Can rich ones feel taxation s woes? 
 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 I heard thee wail, 
 From whom before no murmur rose. 
 
 Get up, my Jacques, get up: 
 Here s the good bailiff of the King. 
 
 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. 
 
FIFTY YEARS 
 
 (AFTER BERANGER) 
 
 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. 
 I m fifty years. Alas! Alas! 
 
 Old age is cursed with biting ills: 
 The gout is murder s willing tool; 
 Blindness for us welds prison chains; 
 While at our deafness mocks the fool. 
 Then reason, like a feeble lamp, 
 
Burns faint and flickering 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! 
 
 [116] 
 
ADIEU 
 
 (AFTER BERANGER) 
 
 Dear France, all things announce that now I 
 
 die. 
 
 Mother adored, farewell. Thy name, blest so, 
 Shall be the last my lips will ever sigh. 
 Has any Frenchman loved thee more? Ah, no! 
 I sang of thee ere I had learned to read; 
 And when Death falls on me with weapon fell 
 I ll sing of thee till my last breath be freed. 
 For so much love give me one tear. Farewell. 
 
 When those ten Kings, in impious triumph bound, 
 With war s dread cars o er thy torn body pressed, 
 Their bandeaus gave me lint for many a wound 
 Which my fond hand with healing balsam 
 
 dressed. 
 
 Heaven bids thy waste with fruitage to be grown; 
 The ages will have cause of thee to tell; 
 For thy great thought on all the world is sown, 
 With man s Equality for sheaf. Farewell. 
 
 Half-couched my body in the tomb I see. 
 Ah, come as help to them who love me true. 
 Tis owing, France, to that poor dove who, free 
 
To wing thy field, no spoil of it e er knew. 
 
 That to thy sons my prayer may be made known, 
 
 When I already list God s sounding knell, 
 
 I have held up my tomb s enclosing stone. 
 
 My arm is wearied out; it falls. Farewell. 
 
 FAREWELL TO LIFE 
 
 AT PARIS, 1778. 
 (AFTER VOLTAIRE) 
 
 Farewell! the country I go to 
 Still holds my late dear father yet; 
 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 
 
 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? 
 
 Tis he alone knows nought of fear, 
 
 Who lives and dies to fame unknown. 
 
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 things to the 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. 
 
 [ 120] 
 
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 the baneful 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 many a cliff s sharp edge and wheel with 
 
 rearing breast! 
 
 Of all the genial Gods the eldest, fairest, best! 
 O purifier King, who through thy glorious days, 
 Made, like 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 dost thou tear 
 With thy convulsive hands, where flames in rivers 
 
 roll, 
 The bloody clouds which wreathe thy pyre divine, 
 
 and there 
 In the empurpled wind thou yieldest up thy soul. 
 
THE CONDOR S SLEEP 
 
 (AFTER LECONTE DE LISLE) 
 
 Beyond the Cordilleras stairs that steeply wind, 
 Beyond the 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 vast 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, 
 
 [ 122 ] 
 
Bathed in a light that dyes with crimson all the 
 
 snow, 
 He waits this direful sea which threats him as a 
 
 foe. 
 
 It comes, it breaks in foam, then dashes over him. 
 As in the unsounded depths the Southern Cross 
 
 now looms 
 
 Upon the sky s vast shore a pharos-glowing light, 
 His rattling throat speaks joy, he proudly shakes 
 
 his plumes, 
 
 His sinewy, bare 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. 
 
 [123] 
 
THE EVENING OF THE BATTLE 
 
 (AFTER ALOYS BLONDEL) 
 
 Some poplars ranged in solemn row 
 
 The landscape s farthest boundary hold, 
 
 Where, in the fitful sunset-glow, 
 
 The foliaged masses gleam with gold 
 
 To the horizon s vague, blue zone, 
 
 Fast fading in the distant haze. 
 
 Below, a smoke uprises lone. 
 
 What peaceful calm the plain conveys 
 
 Where twilight spreads her darkening pall; 
 
 So peaceful, so consenting all. 
 
 A bell just rang from out the monastery near; 
 Nor earth nor soul now lists the plangent clamor 
 here. 
 
 Thou comest, friendly Autumn, sweetly to allure, 
 Thy hands, like as a sister s, filled with peace 
 
 secure ; 
 
 Thou comest to inter, in thy fete robes complete, 
 The bodies couched upon the field of their defeat 
 Of these young, beauteous ones who strove without 
 
 a fear, 
 No one will come to weep the lonely tombs anear. 
 
Their number, even their names, will in the future 
 
 fade, 
 Nor will it know the hope that led them to the 
 
 shade, 
 The awful shade of Death which nothing can 
 
 abate. 
 What matters it we vaunt or we deplore their 
 
 fate 
 These mute ones, overthrown in all their armor s 
 
 pride, 
 Who had a heart-born dream of which they 
 
 grandly died. 
 
 What matters if their bodies lie beneath no stone, 
 Seeing that in their dream immortal things were 
 
 sown. 
 
 Autumn, give them thy crown endued 
 
 With saffrons pale where griefs abide, 
 
 And with thy foliage purple-hued; 
 
 Oh, thou canst spill o er them the pride 
 
 And glory of the riches born 
 
 Of thy ensanguined twilights! They, 
 
 Whom now the world here leaves forlorn 
 
 Were all so young, so valiant aye. 
 
 For them low lying at our feet 
 
 How thy hand weaves the winding-sheet. 
 
MURMURINGS IN THE DARKNESS 
 
 (AFTER FERNAND GREGH) 
 
 This eve a wind divine is stirring in the trees; 
 Its long-drawn sighing fills the lonely, sombrous 
 
 Park; 
 Nought but the wind one hears, nought but the 
 
 gloom one sees, 
 While shadow-murmurings seem at times to bid us 
 
 hark. 
 
 Tis like a rambling stream in eddy vaguely 
 
 tossed 
 Beneath the sky where gleams a lone star s 
 
 emerald light; 
 
 It draws anear, then fades, till in the distance lost, 
 And at the window feigns to pass before our sight. 
 
 It bathes each thing like water fragrant, crisp and 
 
 sweet, 
 
 Like airy, magic waves that lightly flow at will, 
 So that in all the world no leaf or moss could 
 
 meet 
 Its tender touch and not voluptuously thrill. 
 
 Tis languor s all and ardor s, all that joy can own, 
 [126] 
 
With all that dreams, glides, faints, or noiseful 
 
 passes by; 
 
 Tis like the silk s delicious, softly-rustling tone, 
 Or like the nighttime s tremor, dumb with ecstasy. 
 
 In truth, amid the dismal depths profound we 
 
 mark 
 Its warm, mysterious wine elate the heart and 
 
 brain, 
 Something of Heaven itself at times we dare to 
 
 feign, 
 Something all vast, august; yet vain, and ever 
 
 vain. 
 
 It is as though a sigh of God filled all the dark. 
 
THE AXE 
 
 (AFTER HENRI DE REGNIER) 
 
 Listen. Upon the stones the icy wind full drear 
 Makes slowly, surely sharpworkman no eye can 
 
 see 
 Its norther s bills and scythes as keen as steel can 
 
 be. 
 Listen. Tis Time s dread step that on the road we 
 
 hear. 
 
 Listen. Afar e en now the flowers are stripped and 
 
 sere; 
 The neighboring mead s a-cold; and this majestic 
 
 tree 
 At breath so murderous shakes and shudders 
 
 f earsomely ; 
 While trickles drop by drop its Dryad s life-blood 
 
 dear. 
 
 The woodmen, binding bark and fagots, wend their 
 
 way, 
 Alas! thy towering stature and thy strength to 
 
 slay; 
 Thy own shade marks the hour for thee to be laid 
 
 low; 
 
 [128] 
 
And when some autumn eve is proud to see 
 
 thee die 
 
 Amid thy golden limbs that all dismembered lie, 
 Then calmly, grandly fall beneath the axe s blow. 
 
 ON A STATUE BY CONSTANTIN 
 MEUNIER OF A MINE S OLD HORSE 
 
 AFTER GERARD HARRY) 
 
 Before thee neither bronze nor marble bright 
 Has ever deigned its prestige to declare, 
 As to the chariot s horse, when called to dare 
 He leaps, all drunk with space, in sovran flight. 
 
 Or who, with victor charging in the fight, 
 His bloody mane wild streaming in the air, 
 And fiercely neighing, for his own grand share 
 Dies in the sun on battle s topmost height. 
 
 But thou, with spirit humanly divine, 
 
 Hast made thy home the bottom of the mine, 
 
 Its worn and wretched heroes to exalt. 
 
 Fellow of slaves, thou gaunt, thou faithful soul, 
 
 Man offers thee, in place of aureole, 
 
 His misery s horror and the tomb s black vault. 
 
 [ 129] 
 
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