The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
(c)1998-2002; (c)2002 by Gale. Gale is an imprint of The Gale Group, Inc., a division of Thomson Learning, Inc. Gale and Design and Thomson Learning are trademarks used herein under license.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
All other sections in this Literature Study Guide are owned and copyrighted by BookRags, Inc.
LATER POEMS
When Tulips Bloom
The Whip-Poor-Will
The Lily of Yorrow
The Veery
The Song-Sparrow
The Maryland Yellow-Throat
A November Daisy
The Angler’s Reveille
The Ruby-Crowned Kinglet
School
Indian Summer
Spring in the North
Spring in the South
A Noon Song
Light Between the Trees
The Hermit Thrush
Turn o’ the Tide
Sierra Madre
The Grand Canyon
The Heavenly Hills of Holland
Flood-Tide of Flowers
God of the Open Air
The Toiling of Felix
Vera
Another Chance
A Legend of Service
The White Bees
New Year’s Eve
The Vain King
The Foolish Fir-Tree
“Gran’ Boule”
Heroes of the “Titanic”
The Standard-Bearer
The Proud Lady
LABOUR AND ROMANCE
A Mile with Me
The Three Best Things
Reliance
Doors of Daring
The Child in the Garden
Love’s Reason
The Echo in the Heart
“Undine”
“Rencontre”
Love in a Look
My April Lady
A Lover’s Envy
Fire-Fly City
The Gentle Traveller
Nepenthe
Day and Night
Hesper
Arrival
Departure
The Black Birds
Without Disguise
An Hour
“Rappelle-Toi”
Love’s Nearness
Two Songs of Heine
Eight Echoes from the Poems of Auguste
Angellier
Rappel d’Amour
The River of Dreams
A Home Song
“Little Boatie”
A Mother’s Birthday
Transformation
Rendezvous
Gratitude
Peace
Santa Christina
The Bargain
To the Child Jesus
Bitter-Sweet
Hymn of Joy
Song of a Pilgrim-Soul
Ode to Peace
Three Prayers for Sleep and Waking
Portrait and Reality
The Wind of Sorrow
Hide and Seek
Autumn in the Garden
The Message
Dulcis Memoria
The Window
Christmas Tears
Dorothea, 1888-1912
EPIGRAMS, GREETINGS, AND INSCRIPTIONS
For Katrina’s Sun-Dial
For Katrina’s Window
For the Friends at Hurstmont
The Sun-Dial at Morven
The Sun-Dial at Wells College
To Mark Twain
Stars and the Soul
To Julia Marlowe
To Joseph Jefferson
The Mocking-Bird
The Empty Quatrain
Pan Learns Music
The Shepherd of Nymphs
Echoes from the Greek Anthology
One World
Joy and Duty
The Prison and the Angel
The Way
Love and Light
Facta non Verba
Four Things
The Great River
Inscription for a Tomb in England
The Talisman
Thorn and Rose
“The Signs”
Patria
America
The Ancestral Dwellings
Hudson’s Last Voyage
Sea-Gulls of Manhattan
A Ballad of Claremont Hill
Urbs Coronata
Mercy for Armenia
Sicily, December, 1908
“Come Back Again, Jeanne d’Arc”
National Monuments
The Monument of Francis Makemie
The Statue of Sherman by St. Gaudens
“America for Me”
The Builders
Spirit of the Everlasting Boy
Texas
Who Follow the Flag
Stain not the Sky
Peace-Hymn of the Republic
THE RED FLOWER AND GOLDEN STARS
The Red Flower
A Scrap of Paper
Stand Fast
Lights Out
Remarks About Kings
Might and Right
The Price of Peace
Storm-Music
The Bells of Malines
Jeanne d’Arc Returns
The Name of France
America’s Prosperity
The Glory of Ships
Mare Liberum
“Liberty Enlightening the World”
The Oxford Thrushes
Homeward Bound
The Winds of War-News
Righteous Wrath
The Peaceful Warrior
From Glory Unto Glory
Britain, France, America
The Red Cross
Easter Road
America’s Welcome Home
The Surrender of the German Fleet
Golden Stars
In the Blue Heaven
A Shrine in the Pantheon
Mother Earth
Milton
Wordsworth
Keats
Shelley
Robert Browning
Tennyson
“In Memoriam”
Victor Hugo
Longfellow
Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Edmund Clarence Stedman
To James Whitcomb Riley
Richard Watson Gilder
The Valley of Vain Verses
MUSIC
Music
Master of Music
The Pipes o’ Pan
To a Young Girl Singing
The Old Flute
The First Bird o’ Spring
A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS
The House of Rimmon
Dramatis Personae
CARMINA FESTIVA
The Little-Neck Clam
A Fairy Tale
The Ballad of the Solemn Ass
A Ballad of Santa Claus
Ars Agricolaris
Angler’s Fireside Song
How Spring Comes to Shasta Jim
A Bunch of Trout-Flies
SONGS OUT OF DOORS
THE AFTER-ECHO
How long the echoes love to play
Around the shore of silence,
as a wave
Retreating circles down the
sand!
One after one, with sweet
delay,
The mellow sounds that cliff and island
gave,
Have lingered in the crescent
bay,
Until, by lightest breezes
fanned,
They float far off beyond the dying day
And
So
in the heart,
When, fading slowly
down the past,
Fond
memories depart,
And each that
leaves it seems the last;
Long after all
the rest are flown,
Returns a solitary
tone,—
The after-echo
of departed years,—
And touches all
the soul to tears.
1871.
A tear that trembles for a little while
Upon the trembling eyelid, till the world
Wavers within its circle like a dream,
Holds more of meaning in its narrow orb
Than all the distant landscape that it
blurs.
A smile that hovers round a mouth beloved,
Like the faint pulsing of the Northern
Light,
And grows in silence to an amber dawn
Born in the sweetest depths of trustful
eyes,
Is dearer to the soul than sun or star.
A joy that falls into the hollow heart
From some far-lifted height of love unseen,
Unknown, makes a more perfect melody
Than hidden brooks that murmur in the
dusk,
Or fall athwart the cliff with wavering
gleam.
Ah, not for their own sake are earth and
sky
And the fair ministries of Nature dear,
But as they set themselves unto the tune
That fills our life; as light mysterious
Flows from within and glorifies the world.
For so a common wayside blossom, touched
With tender thought, assumes a grace more
sweet
Than crowns the royal lily of the South;
And so a well-remembered perfume seems
The breath of one who breathes in Paradise.
1872.
THE GLACIER
At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream,
The silver-crested waves no
murmur make;
But far away the avalanches
wake
The rumbling echoes, dull as in a dream;
Their momentary thunders, dying, seem
To fall into the stillness,
flake by flake,
And leave the hollow air with
naught to break
The frozen spell of solitude supreme.
At noon unnumbered rills begin to spring
Beneath the burning sun, and
all the walls
Of all the ocean-blue crevasses ring
With liquid lyrics of their
waterfalls;
As if a poet’s heart had felt the
glow
Of sovereign love, and song began to flow.
Zermatt, 1872.
THE SNOW-FIELD
White Death had laid his pall upon the
plain,
And crowned the mountain-peaks
like monarchs dead;
The vault of heaven was glaring
overhead
With pitiless light that filled my eyes
with pain;
And while I vainly longed, and looked
in vain
For sign or trace of life,
my spirit said,
“Shall any living thing
that dares to tread
This royal lair of Death escape again?”
But even then I saw before my feet
A line of pointed footprints
in the snow:
Some roving chamois, but an
hour ago,
Had passed this way along his journey
fleet,
And left a message from a friend unknown
To cheer my pilgrim-heart, no more alone.
Zermatt, 1872.
MOVING BELLS
I love the hour that comes, with dusky
hair
And dewy feet, along the Alpine
dells,
To lead the cattle forth.
A thousand bells
Go chiming after her across the fair
And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare
Of sunset on the snowy mountain
dwells,
And valleys darken, and the
drowsy spells
Of peace are woven through the purple
air.
Dear is the magic of this hour: she
seems
To walk before the dark by
falling rills,
And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams;
She opens all the doors of
night, and fills
With moving bells the music of my dreams,
That wander far among the
sleeping hills.
Gstaad, August, 1909.
Flowers rejoice when night is done,
Lift their heads to greet the sun;
Sweetest looks and odours raise,
In a silent hymn of praise.
So my heart would turn away
From the darkness to the day;
Lying open in God’s sight
Like a flower in the light.
THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST
Who watched the worn-out Winter die?
Who, peering through the window-pane
At nightfall, under sleet
and rain
Saw the old graybeard totter by?
Who listened to his parting sigh,
The sobbing of his feeble
breath,
His whispered colloquy with
Death,
And when his all of life was
done
Stood near to bid a last good-bye?
Of all his former friends
not one
Saw the forsaken Winter die.
Who welcomed in the maiden Spring?
Who heard her footfall, swift
and light
As fairy-dancing in the night?
Who guessed what happy dawn would bring
The flutter of her bluebird’s wing,
The blossom of her mayflower-face
To brighten every shady place?
One morning, down the village
street,
“Oh, here am I,” we heard
her sing,—
And none had been awake to
greet
The coming of the maiden Spring.
But look, her violet eyes are wet
With bright, unfallen, dewy
tears;
And in her song my fancy hears
A note of sorrow trembling yet.
Perhaps, beyond the town, she met
Old Winter as he limped away
To die forlorn, and let him
lay
His weary head upon her knee,
And kissed his forehead with
regret
For one so gray and lonely,—see,
Her eyes with tender tears are wet.
And so, by night, while we were all at
rest,
I think the coming sped the parting guest.
1873.
If all the skies were sunshine, Our faces would be fain To feel once more upon them The cooling plash of rain.
If all the world were music,
Our hearts would often long
For one sweet strain of silence.
To break the endless song.
If life were always merry,
Our souls would seek relief,
And rest from weary laughter
In the quiet arms of grief.
At sunset, when the rosy light was
dying
Far down the pathway of the west,
I saw a lonely dove in silence flying,
To be at rest.
Pilgrim of air, I cried, could I
but borrow
Thy wandering wings, thy freedom blest,
I’d fly away from every careful sorrow,
And find my rest.
But when the filmy veil of dusk was
falling,
Home flew the dove to seek his nest,
Deep in the forest where his mate was calling
To love and rest.
Peace, heart of mine! no longer sigh
to wander;
Lose not thy life in barren quest.
There are no happy islands over yonder;
Come home and rest.
1874.
In warlike pomp, with banners flowing,
The regiments of autumn stood:
I saw their gold and scarlet glowing
From every hillside, every
wood.
Above the sea the clouds were keeping
Their secret leaguer, gray
and still;
They sent their misty vanguard creeping
With muffled step from hill
to hill.
All day the sullen armies drifted
Athwart the sky with slanting
rain;
At sunset for a space they lifted,
With dusk they settled down
again.
At dark the winds began to blow
With mutterings distant, low;
From sea and sky they called
their strength
Till with an angry,
broken roar,
Like billows on
an unseen shore,
Their fury burst at length.
I heard through the night
The rush and the clamour;
The pulse of the fight
Like blows of Thor’s
hammer;
The pattering flight
Of the leaves, and the anguished
Moan of the forest vanquished.
At daybreak came a gusty song:
“Shout! the winds are strong.
The little people of the leaves are fled.
Shout! The Autumn is dead!”
The storm is ended! The impartial
sun
Laughs down upon the battle lost and won,
And crowns the triumph of the cloudy host
In rolling lines retreating to the coast.
But we, fond lovers of the woodland shade,
And grateful friends of every fallen leaf,
Forget the glories of the cloud-parade,
And walk the ruined woods in quiet grief.
For ever so our thoughtful hearts repeat
On fields of triumph dirges of defeat;
And still we turn on gala-days to tread
Among the rustling memories of the dead.
1874.
Does the snow fall at sea?
Yes, when the north winds
blow,
When the wild clouds fly low,
Out of each gloomy wing,
Silently glimmering,
Over the stormy sea
Falleth the snow.
Does the snow hide the sea?
Nay, on the tossing plains
Never a flake remains;
Drift never resteth there;
Vanishing everywhere,
Into the hungry sea
Falleth the snow.
What means the snow at sea?
Whirled in the veering blast,
Thickly the flakes drive past;
Each like a childish ghost
Wavers, and then is lost;
In the forgetful sea
Fadeth the snow.
1875.
Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine
The art that reared thy costly shrine!
Thy carven columns must have grown
By magic, like a dream in stone.
Yet not within thy storied wall
Would I in adoration fall,
So gladly as within the glen
That leads to lovely Hawthornden.
A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green
And vine-clad pillars, while between,
The Esk runs murmuring on its way,
In living music night and day.
Within the temple of this wood
The martyrs of the covenant stood,
And rolled the psalm, and poured the prayer,
From Nature’s solemn altar-stair.
Edinburgh, 1877.
LATER POEMS
When tulips bloom in Union Square,
And timid breaths of vernal air
Go wandering down the dusty
town,
Like children lost in Vanity Fair;
When every long, unlovely row
Of westward houses stands aglow,
And leads the eyes to sunset
skies
Beyond the hills where green trees grow;
Then weary seems the street parade,
And weary books, and weary trade:
I’m only wishing to
go a-fishing;
For this the month of May was made.
I guess the pussy-willows now
Are creeping out on every bough
Along the brook; and robins
look
For early worms behind the plough.
The thistle-birds have changed their dun,
For yellow coats, to match the sun;
And in the same array of flame
The Dandelion Show’s begun.
The flocks of young anemones
Are dancing round the budding trees:
Who can help wishing to go
a-fishing
In days as full of joy as these?
I think the meadow-lark’s clear
sound
Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
While on the wing the bluebirds
ring
Their wedding-bells to woods around.
The flirting chewink calls his dear
Behind the bush; and very near,
Where water flows, where green
grass grows,
Song-sparrows gently sing, “Good
cheer.”
And, best of all, through twilight’s
calm
The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm.
How much I’m wishing
to go a-fishing
In days so sweet with music’s balm!
’Tis not a proud desire of mine;
I ask for nothing superfine;
No heavy weight, no salmon
great,
To break the record, or my line.
Only an idle little stream,
Whose amber waters softly gleam,
Where I may wade through woodland
shade,
And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream:
Only a trout or two, to dart
From foaming pools, and try my art:
’Tis all I’m wishing—old-fashioned
fishing,
And just a day on Nature’s heart.
1894.
Do you remember, father,—
It seems so long ago,—
The day we fished together
Along the Pocono?
At dusk I waited for you,
Beside the lumber-mill,
And there I heard a hidden bird
That chanted, “whip-poor-will,”
“Whippoorwill!
whippoorwill!”
Sad and shrill,—“whippoorwill!”
The place was all deserted;
The mill-wheel hung at rest;
The lonely star of evening
Was throbbing in the west;
The veil of night was falling;
The winds were folded still;
And everywhere the trembling air
Re-echoed “whip-poor-will!”
“Whippoorwill!
whippoorwill!”
Sad and shrill,—“whippoorwill!”
You seemed so long in coming,
I felt so much alone;
The wide, dark world was round me,
And life was all unknown;
The hand of sorrow touched me,
And made my senses thrill
With all the pain that haunts the strain
Of mournful whip-poor-will.
“Whippoorwill!
whippoorwill!”
Sad and shrill,—“whippoorwill!”
What knew I then of trouble?
An idle little lad,
I had not learned the lessons
That make men wise and sad.
I dreamed of grief and parting,
And something seemed to fill
My heart with tears, while in my ears
Resounded “whip-poor-will.”
“Whippoorwill!
whippoorwill!”
Sad and shrill,—“whippoorwill!”
’Twas but a cloud of sadness,
That lightly passed away;
But I have learned the meaning
Of sorrow, since that day.
For nevermore at twilight,
Beside the silent mill,
I’ll wait for you, in the falling
dew,
And hear the whip-poor-will.
“Whippoorwill!
whippoorwill!”
Sad and shrill,—“whippoorwill!”
But if you still remember
In that fair land of light,
The pains and fears that touch us
Along this edge of night,
I think all earthly grieving,
And all our mortal ill,
To you must seem like a sad boy’s
dream.
Who hears the whip-poor-will.
“Whippoorwill!
whippoorwill!”
A passing thrill,—“whippoorwill!”
1894.
Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing;
Blue is its cup as the sky, and with mystical odour o’erflowing;
Faintly it falls through the shadowy glades when the south wind is
blowing.
Sweet are the primroses pale and
the violets after a shower;
Sweet are the borders of pinks and the blossoming
grapes on the bower;
Sweeter by far is the breath of that far-away woodland
flower.
Searching and strange in its sweetness,
it steals like a perfume
enchanted
Under the arch of the forest, and all who perceive
it are haunted,
Seeking and seeking for ever, till sight of the
lily is granted.
Who can describe how it grows, with
its chalice of lazuli leaning
Over a crystalline spring, where the ferns and the
mosses are greening?
Who can imagine its beauty, or utter the depth of
its meaning?
Calm of the journeying stars, and
repose of the mountains olden,
Joy of the swift-running rivers, and glory of sunsets
golden,
Secrets that cannot be told in the heart of the
flower are holden.
Surely to see it is peace and the crown
of a life-long endeavour;
Surely to pluck it is gladness,—but
they who have found it can never
Tell of the gladness and peace: they
are hid from our vision for ever.
’Twas but a moment ago that a comrade
was walking near me:
Turning aside from the pathway he murmured
a greeting to cheer me,—
Then he was lost in the shade, and I called
but he did not hear me.
Why should I dream he is dead, and bewail
him with passionate sorrow?
Surely I know there is gladness in finding
the lily of Yorrow:
He has discovered it first, and perhaps
I shall find it to-morrow.
1894.
The moonbeams over Arno’s vale in
silver flood were pouring,
When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost
love deploring.
So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded
strange and eerie;
I longed to hear a simpler strain,—the
wood-notes of the veery.
The laverock sings a bonny lay above the
Scottish heather;
It sprinkles down from far away like light
and love together;
He drops the golden notes to greet his
brooding mate, his dearie;
I only know one song more sweet,—the
vespers of the veery.
In English gardens, green and bright and
full of fruity treasure,
I heard the blackbird with delight repeat
his merry measure:
The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune
was loud and cheery,
And yet, with every setting sun, I listened
for the veery.
But far away, and far away, the tawny
thrush is singing;
New England woods, at close of day, with
that clear chant are ringing:
And when my light of life is low, and
heart and flesh are weary,
I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes
of the veery.
1895.
There is a bird I know so well,
It seems as if he must have
sung
Beside my crib when I was
young;
Before I knew the way to spell
The name of even the smallest
bird,
His gentle-joyful song I heard.
Now see if you can tell, my dear.
What bird it is that, every year,
Sings “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very
merry cheer.”
He comes in March, when winds are strong,
And snow returns to hide the
earth;
But still he warms his heart
with mirth,
And waits for May. He lingers long
While flowers fade; and every
day
Repeats his small, contented
lay;
As if to say, we need not fear
The season’s change, if love is
here
With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very
merry cheer.”
He does not wear a Joseph’s-coat
Of many colours, smart and
gay;
His suit is Quaker brown and
gray,
With darker patches at his throat.
And yet of all the well-dressed
throng
Not one can sing so brave
a song.
It makes the pride of looks appear
A vain and foolish thing, to hear
His “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very
merry cheer.”
A lofty place he does not love,
But sits by choice, and well
at ease,
In hedges, and in little trees
That stretch their slender arms above
The meadow-brook; and there
he sings
Till all the field with pleasure
rings;
And so he tells in every ear,
That lowly homes to heaven are near
In “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very
merry cheer.”
I like the tune, I like the words;
They seem so true, so free
from art,
So friendly, and so full of
heart,
That if but one of all the birds
Could be my comrade everywhere,
My little brother of the air,
I’d choose the song-sparrow, my
dear,
Because he’d bless me, every year,
With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very
merry cheer.”
1895.
When May bedecks the naked trees
With tassels and embroideries,
And many blue-eyed violets beam
Along the edges of the stream,
I hear a voice that seems to say,
Now near at hand, now far away,
“Witchery—witchery—witchery.”
An incantation so serene,
So innocent, befits the scene:
There’s magic in that small bird’s
note—
See, there he flits—the Yellow-throat;
A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,
A spark of light that shines and sings
“Witchery—witchery—witchery.”
You prophet with a pleasant name,
If out of Mary-land you came,
You know the way that thither goes
Where Mary’s lovely garden grows:
Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,
And try to call her down this way,
“Witchery—witchery—witchery!”
Tell her to leave her cockle-shells,
And all her little silver bells
That blossom into melody,
And all her maids less fair than she.
She does not need these pretty things,
For everywhere she comes, she brings
“Witchery—witchery—witchery!”
The woods are greening overhead,
And flowers adorn each mossy bed;
The waters babble as they run—
One thing is lacking, only one:
If Mary were but here to-day,
I would believe your charming lay,
“Witchery—witchery—witchery!”
Along the shady road I look—
Who’s coming now across the brook?
A woodland maid, all robed in white—
The leaves dance round her with delight,
The stream laughs out beneath her feet—
Sing, merry bird, the charm’s complete,
“Witchery—witchery—witchery!”
1895.
Afterthought of summer’s bloom!
Late arrival at the feast,
Coming when the songs have ceased
And the merry guests departed,
Leaving but an empty room,
Silence, solitude, and gloom,—
Are you lonely, heavy-hearted;
You, the last of all your kind,
Nodding in the autumn-wind;
Now that all your friends are flown,
Blooming late and all alone?
Nay, I wrong you, little flower,
Reading mournful mood of mine
In your looks, that give no sign
Of a spirit dark and cheerless!
You possess the heavenly power
That rejoices in the hour.
Glad, contented, free, and fearless,
Lift a sunny face to heaven
When a sunny day is given!
Make a summer of your own,
Blooming late and all alone!
Once the daisies gold and white
Sea-like through the meadow rolled:
Once my heart could hardly hold
All its pleasures. I remember,
In the flood of youth’s delight
Separate joys were lost to sight.
That was summer! Now November
Sets the perfect flower apart;
Gives each blossom of the heart
Meaning, beauty, grace unknown,—
Blooming late and all alone.
November, 1899.
What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night,
And all the little watchman-stars have fallen asleep in light,
’Tis then a merry wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree,
And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille.
This is the carol the Robin
throws
Over the edge of the valley;
Listen how boldly it flows,
Sally on sally:
Tirra-lirra,
Early morn,
New born!
Day is near,
Clear, clear.
Down the river
All a-quiver,
Fish are breaking;
Time for waking,
Tup, tup, tup!
Do you hear?
All clear—
Wake up!
The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark,
And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark;
Now forth she fares thro’ friendly woods and diamond-fields of dew,
While every voice cries out “Rejoice!” as if the world were new.
This is the ballad the Bluebird
sings,
Unto his mate replying,
Shaking the tune from his wings
While he is flying:
Surely, surely, surely,
Life is dear
Even here.
Blue above,
You to love,
Purely, purely, purely.
There’s wild azalea on the hill, and iris down the dell,
And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well;
The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink,
Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink.
This is the song of the Yellow-throat,
Fluttering gaily beside you;
Hear how each voluble note
Offers to guide you:
Which way, sir?
I say, sir,
Let me teach you,
I beseech you!
Are you wishing
Jolly fishing?
This way, sir!
I’ll teach you.
Then come, my friend, forget your foes and leave your fears behind,
And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind;
For be your fortune great or small, you take what God will give,
And all the day your heart will say, “’Tis luck enough to live.”
This is the song the Brown
Thrush flings
Out of his thicket of roses;
Hark how it bubbles and rings,
Mark how it closes:
Luck, luck,
What luck?
Good enough for me,
I’m alive, you see!
Sun shining,
No repining;
Never borrow
Idle sorrow;
Drop it!
Cover it up!
Hold your cup!
Joy will fill it,
Don’t spill it,
Steady, be ready,
Good luck!
1899.
Where’s your kingdom, little
king?
Where the land you call your own,
Where your palace and your throne?
Fluttering lightly on the wing
Through the blossom-world of May,
Whither lies your royal way,
Little king?
Far to northward lies a land
Where the trees together stand
Closely as the blades of wheat
When the summer is complete.
Rolling like an ocean wide
Over vale and mountainside,
Balsam, hemlock, spruce and pine,—
All those mighty trees are mine.
There’s a river flowing free,—
All its waves belong to me.
There’s a lake so clear and bright
Stars shine out of it all night;
Rowan-berries round it spread
Like a belt of coral red.
Never royal garden planned
Fair as my Canadian land!
There I build my summer nest,
There I reign and there I rest,
While from dawn to dark I sing,
Happy kingdom! Lucky king!
Back again, my little king!
Is your happy kingdom lost
To the rebel knave, Jack Frost?
Have you felt the snow-flakes sting?
Houseless, homeless in October,
Whither now? Your plight is sober,
Exiled king!
Far to southward lie the regions
Where my loyal flower-legions
Hold possession of the year,
Filling every month with cheer.
Christmas wakes the winter rose;
New Year daffodils unclose;
Yellow jasmine through the wood
Flows in February flood,
Dropping from the tallest trees
Golden streams that never freeze.
Thither now I take my flight
Down the pathway of the night,
Till I see the southern moon
Glisten on the broad lagoon,
Where the cypress’ dusky green,
And the dark magnolia’s sheen,
Weave a shelter round my home.
There the snow-storms never come;
There the bannered mosses gray
Like a curtain gently sway,
Hanging low on every side
Round the covert where I bide,
Till the March azalea glows,
Royal red and heavenly rose,
Through the Carolina glade
Where my winter home is made.
There I hold my southern court,
Full of merriment and sport:
There I take my ease and sing,
Happy kingdom! Lucky king!
Little boaster, vagrant king,
Neither north nor south is yours,
You’ve no kingdom that endures!
Wandering every fall and spring,
With your ruby crown so slender,
Are you only a Pretender,
Landless king?
Never king by right divine
Ruled a richer realm than mine!
What are lands and golden crowns,
Armies, fortresses and towns,
Jewels, sceptres, robes and rings,—
What are these to song and wings?
Everywhere that I can fly,
There I own the earth and sky;
Everywhere that I can sing.
There I’m happy as a king.
1900.
I put my heart to school
In the world where men grow wise:
“Go out,” I said, “and
learn the rule;
Come back when you win a prize.”
My heart came back again:
“Now where is the prize?”
I cried.—
“The rule was false, and the prize
was pain,
And the teacher’s name was Pride.”
I put my heart to school
In the woods where veeries sing
And brooks run clear and cool,
In the fields where wild flowers spring.
“And why do you stay so long
My heart, and where do you roam?”
The answer came with a laugh and a song,—
“I find this school is home.”
April, 1901.
A silken curtain veils the skies,
And half conceals from pensive eyes
The bronzing tokens of the
fall;
A calmness broods upon the hills,
And summer’s parting dream distils
A charm of silence over all.
The stacks of corn, in brown array,
Stand waiting through the tranquil day,
Like tattered wigwams on the
plain;
The tribes that find a shelter there
Are phantom peoples, forms of air,
And ghosts of vanished joy
and pain.
At evening when the crimson crest
Of sunset passes down the West,
I hear the whispering host
returning;
On far-off fields, by elm and oak,
I see the lights, I smell the smoke,—
The Camp-fires of the Past
are burning.
Tertius and Henry van Dyke.
November, 1903.
Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden
days,
Why the sweet Spring delays,
And where she hides,—the dear
desire
Of every heart that longs
For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby
fire
Of maple-buds along the misty hills,
And that immortal call which fills
The waiting wood with songs?
The snow-drops came so long ago,
It seemed that Spring was
near!
But then returned the snow
With biting winds, and earth grew sere,
And sullen clouds drooped
low
To veil the sadness of a hope deferred:
Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain
Beat on the window-pane,
Through which I watched the solitary bird
That braved the tempest, buffeted and
tossed
With rumpled feathers down the wind again.
Oh, were the seeds all lost
When winter laid the wild flowers in their
tomb?
I searched the woods in vain
For blue hepaticas, and trilliums white,
And trailing arbutus, the Spring’s
delight,
Starring the withered leaves with rosy
bloom.
But every night the frost
To all my longing spoke a silent nay,
And told me Spring was far away.
Even the robins were too cold to sing,
Except a broken and discouraged note,—
Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat
Music has put her triple finger-print,
Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint,—
“Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while
for Spring!”
But now, Carina, what divine amends
For all delay! What sweetness treasured
up,
What wine of joy that blends
A hundred flavours in a single cup,
Is poured into this perfect day!
For look, sweet heart, here are the early
flowers
That lingered on their way,
Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of
May,
Entangled with the bloom of later hours,—
Anemones and cinque-foils, violets blue
And white, and iris richly gleaming through
The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze
Of butter-cups and daisies in the field,
Filling the air with praise,
As if a chime of golden bells had pealed!
The frozen songs within the
breast
Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods,
Melt into rippling floods
Of gladness unrepressed.
Now oriole and bluebird, thrush and lark,
Warbler and wren and vireo,
Mingle their melody; the living spark
Of Love has touched the fuel of desire,
And every heart leaps up in singing fire.
It seems as if the land
Were breathing deep beneath the sun’s
caress,
Trembling with tenderness,
While all the woods expand,
In shimmering clouds of rose and gold
and green,
To veil a joy too sacred to be seen.
Come, put your hand in mine,
True love, long sought and found at last,
And lead me deep into the Spring divine
That makes amends for all
the wintry past.
For all the flowers and songs I feared
to miss
Arrive with you;
And in the lingering pressure of your
kiss
My dreams come
true;
And in the promise of your generous eyes
I read the mystic
sign
Of joy more perfect
made
Because so long
delayed,
And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise.
Ah, think not early love alone is strong;
He loveth best whose heart has learned
to wait:
Dear messenger of Spring that tarried
long,
You’re doubly dear because you come
so late.
SPRING IN THE SOUTH
Now in the oak the sap of life is welling,
Tho’ to the bough the
rusty leafage clings;
Now on the elm the misty buds are swelling;
Every little pine-wood grows
alive with wings;
Blue-jays are fluttering, yodeling and
crying,
Meadow-larks sailing low above
the faded grass,
Red-birds whistling clear, silent robins
flying,—
Who has waked the birds up?
What has come to pass?
Last year’s cotton-plants, desolately
bowing,
Tremble in the March-wind,
ragged and forlorn;
Red are the hillsides of the early ploughing,
Gray are the lowlands, waiting
for the corn.
Earth seems asleep, but she is only feigning;
Deep in her bosom thrills
a sweet unrest;
Look where the jasmine lavishly is raining
Jove’s golden shower
into Danaee’s breast!
Now on the plum-tree a snowy bloom is
sifted,
Now on the peach-tree, the
glory of the rose,
Far o’er the hills a tender haze
is drifted,
Full to the brim the yellow
river flows.
Dark cypress boughs with vivid jewels
glisten,
Greener than emeralds shining
in the sun.
Whence comes the magic? Listen, sweetheart,
listen!
The mocking-bird is singing:
Spring is begun.
Hark, in his song no tremor of misgiving!
All of his heart he pours
into his lay,—
“Love, love, love, and pure delight
of living:
Winter is forgotten:
here’s a happy day!”
Fair in your face I read the flowery presage,
Snowy on your brow and rosy
on your mouth:
Sweet in your voice I hear the season’s
message,—
Love, love, love, and Spring
in the South!
1904.
There are songs for the morning and songs
for the night,
For sunrise and sunset, the
stars and the moon;
But who will give praise to the fulness
of light,
And sing us a song of the
glory of noon?
Oh,
the high noon, the clear noon,
The
noon with golden crest;
When
the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
With
his face to the way of the west!
How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his
strength!
How slowly he crept as the
morning wore by!
Ah, steep was the climbing that led him
at length
To the height of his throne
in the wide summer sky.
Oh,
the long toil, the slow toil,
The
toil that may not rest,
Till
the sun looks down from his journey’s crown,
To
the wonderful way of the west!
Then a quietness falls over meadow and
hill,
The wings of the wind in the
forest are furled,
The river runs softly, the birds are all
still,
The workers are resting all
over the world.
Oh,
the good hour, the kind hour,
The
hour that calms the breast!
Little
inn half-way on the road of the day,
Where
it follows the turn to the west!
There’s a plentiful feast in the
maple-tree shade,
The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned
tune,
The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a
maid,
To sweeten the cup that we
drink to the noon.
Oh,
the deep noon, the full noon,
Of
all the day the best!
When
the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
To
his home by the way of the west!
1906.
Long, long, long the trail
Through the brooding forest-gloom,
Down the shadowy, lonely vale
Into silence, like a room
Where the light
of life has fled,
And the jealous curtains close
Round the passionless repose
Of the silent
dead.
Plod, plod, plod away,
Step by step in mouldering
moss;
Thick branches bar the day
Over languid streams that
cross
Softly, slowly,
with a sound
Like a smothered weeping,
In their aimless creeping
Through enchanted
ground.
“Yield, yield, yield thy quest,”
Whispers through the woodland
deep;
“Come to me and be at rest;
I am slumber, I am sleep.”
Then the weary
feet would fail,
But the never-daunted will
Urges “Forward, forward
still!
Press along the
trail!”
Breast, breast, breast the slope
See, the path is growing steep.
Hark! a little song of hope
Where the stream begins to
leap.
Though the forest,
far and wide,
Still shuts out the bending
blue,
We shall finally win through,
Cross the long
divide.
On, on, on we tramp!
Will the journey never end?
Over yonder lies the camp;
Welcome waits us there, my
friend.
Can we reach it
ere the night?
Upward, upward, never fear!
Look, the summit must be near;
See the line of
light!
Red, red, red the shine
Of the splendour in the west,
Glowing through the ranks of pine,
Clear along the mountain-crest!
Long, long, long the trail
Out of sorrow’s lonely
vale;
But at last the
traveller sees
Light between
the trees!
March, 1904.
O wonderful! How liquid clear
The molten gold of that ethereal tone,
Floating and falling through the wood
alone,
A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear!
O holy, holy, holy! Hyaline,
Long light, low light, glory of eventide!
Love far away, far up,—up,—love
divine!
Little love, too, for ever, ever near,
Warm love, earth love, tender love of
mine,
In the leafy dark where you hide,
You are mine,—mine,—mine!
Ah, my beloved, do you feel with me
The hidden virtue of that melody,
The rapture and the purity of love,
The heavenly joy that can not find the
word?
Then, while we wait again to hear the
bird,
Come very near to me, and do not move,—
Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anew
The cool, green cup of air with harmony,
And we will drink the wine of love with
you.
May, 1908.
The tide flows in to the harbour,—
The bold tide, the gold tide,
the flood o’ the sunlit sea,—
And the little ships riding at anchor,
Are swinging and slanting
their prows to the ocean, panting
To lift their
wings to the wide wild air,
And venture a
voyage they know not where,—
To fly away and be free!
The tide runs out of the harbour,—
The low tide, the slow tide,
the ebb o’ the moonlit bay,—
And the little ships rocking at anchor,
Are rounding and turning their
bows to the landward, yearning
To breathe the
breath of the sun-warmed strand,
To rest in the
lee of the high hill land,—
To hold their haven and stay!
My heart goes round with the vessels,—
My wild heart, my child heart,
in love with the sea and the land,—
And the turn o’ the tide passes
through it,
In rising and falling with
mystical currents, calling
At morn, to range
where the far waves foam,
At night, to a
harbour in love’s true home,
With the hearts that understand!
Seal Harbour, August 12, 1911.
O Mother mountains! billowing far to the
snow-lands,
Robed in aerial amethyst,
silver, and blue,
Why do ye look so proudly down on the
lowlands?
What have their groves and
gardens to do with you?
Theirs is the languorous charm of the
orange and myrtle,
Theirs are the fruitage and
fragrance of Eden of old,—
Broad-boughed oaks in the meadows fair
and fertile,
Dark-leaved orchards gleaming
with globes of gold.
You, in your solitude standing, lofty
and lonely,
Bear neither garden nor grove
on your barren breasts;
Rough is the rock-loving growth of your
canyons, and only
Storm-battered pines and fir-trees
cling to your crests.
Why are ye throned so high, and arrayed
in splendour
Richer than all the fields
at your feet can claim?
What is your right, ye rugged peaks, to
the tender
Queenly promise and pride
of the mother-name?
Answered the mountains, dim in the distance
dreaming:
“Ours are the forests
that treasure the riches of rain;
Ours are the secret springs and the rivulets
gleaming
Silverly down through the
manifold bloom of the plain.
“Vain were the toiling of men in
the dust of the dry land,
Vain were the ploughing and
planting in waterless fields,
Save for the life-giving currents we send
from the sky-land,
Save for the fruit our embrace
with the storm-cloud yields.”
O mother mountains, Madre Sierra, I love
you!
Rightly you reign o’er
the vale that your bounty fills—
Kissed by the sun, or with big, bright
stars above you,—
I murmur your name and lift
up mine eyes to the hills.
Pasadena, March, 1913.
DAYBREAK
What makes the lingering Night so cling
to thee?
Thou vast, profound, primeval hiding-place
Of ancient secrets,—gray and
ghostly gulf
Cleft in the green of this high forest
land,
And crowded in the dark with giant forms!
Art thou a grave, a prison, or a shrine?
A stillness deeper than the dearth of
sound
Broods over thee: a living silence
breathes
Perpetual incense from thy dim abyss.
The morning-stars that sang above the
bower
Of Eden, passing over thee, are dumb
With trembling bright amazement; and the
Dawn
Steals through the glimmering pines with
naked feet,
Her hand upon her lips, to look on thee!
She peers into thy depths with silent
prayer
For light, more light, to part thy purple
veil.
O Earth, swift-rolling Earth, reveal,
reveal,—
Turn to the East, and show upon thy breast
The mightiest marvel in the realm of Time!
’Tis done,—the morning
miracle of light,—
The resurrection of the world of hues
That die with dark, and daily rise again
With every rising of the splendid Sun!
Be still, my heart! Now Nature holds
her breath
To see the solar flood of radiance leap
Across the chasm, and crown the western
rim
Of alabaster with a far-away
Rampart of pearl, and flowing down by
walls
Of changeful opal, deepen into gold
Of topaz, rosy gold of tourmaline,
Crimson of garnet, green and gray of jade,
Purple of amethyst, and ruby red,
Beryl, and sard, and royal porphyry;
Until the cataract of colour breaks
Upon the blackness of the granite floor.
How far below! And all between is
cleft
And carved into a hundred curving miles
Of unimagined architecture! Tombs,
Temples, and colonnades are neighboured
there
By fortresses that Titans might defend,
And amphitheatres where Gods might strive.
Cathedrals, buttressed with unnumbered
tiers
Of ruddy rock, lift to the sapphire sky
A single spire of marble pure as snow;
And huge aerial palaces arise
Like mountains built of unconsuming flame.
Along the weathered walls, or standing
deep
In riven valleys where no foot may tread,
Are lonely pillars, and tall monuments
Of perished aeons and forgotten things.
My sight is baffled by the wide array
Of countless forms: my vision reels
and swims
Above them, like a bird in whirling winds.
Yet no confusion fills the awful chasm;
But spacious order and a sense of peace
Brood over all. For every shape that
looms
Majestic in the throng, is set apart
From all the others by its far-flung shade,
Blue, blue, as if a mountain-lake were
there.
How still it is! Dear God, I hardly
dare
To breathe, for fear the fathomless abyss
Will draw me down into eternal sleep.
What force has formed this masterpiece
of awe?
What hands have wrought these wonders
in the waste?
O river, gleaming in the narrow rift
Of gloom that cleaves the valley’s
nether deep,—
Fierce Colorado, prisoned by thy toil,
And blindly toiling still to reach the
sea,—
At sight of thee, thou sullen labouring
slave
Of gravitation,—yellow torrent
poured
From distant mountains by no will of thine,
Through thrice a hundred centuries of
slow
Fallings and liftings of the crust of
Earth,—
At sight of thee my spirit sinks and fails.
Art thou alone the Maker? Is the
blind
Unconscious power that drew thee dumbly
down
To cut this gash across the layered globe,
The sole creative cause of all I see?
Are force and matter all? The rest
a dream?
Then is thy gorge a canyon of despair,
A prison for the soul of man, a grave
Of all his dearest daring hopes!
The world
Wherein we live and move is meaningless,
No spirit here to answer to our own!
The stars without a guide: The chance-born
Earth
Adrift in space, no Captain on the ship:
Nothing in all the universe to prove
Eternal wisdom and eternal love!
And man, the latest accident of Time,—
Who thinks he loves, and longs to understand,
Who vainly suffers, and in vain is brave,
Who dupes his heart with immortality,—
Man is a living lie,—a bitter
jest
Upon himself,—a conscious grain
of sand
Lost in a desert of unconsciousness,
Thirsting for God and mocked by his own
thirst.
Spirit of Beauty, mother of delight,
Thou fairest offspring of Omnipotence
Inhabiting this lofty lone abode,
Speak to my heart again and set me free
From all these doubts that darken earth
and heaven!
Who sent thee forth into the wilderness
To bless and comfort all who see thy face?
Who clad thee in this more than royal
robe
Of rainbows? Who designed these jewelled
thrones
For thee, and wrought these glittering
palaces?
Who gave thee power upon the soul of man
To lift him up through wonder into joy?
God! let the radiant cliffs bear witness,
God!
Let all the shining pillars signal, God!
He only, on the mystic loom of light.
Hath woven webs of loveliness to clothe
His most majestic works: and He alone
Hath delicately wrought the cactus-flower
To star the desert floor with rosy bloom.
O Beauty, handiwork of the Most High,
Where’er thou art He tells his Love
to man,
And lo, the day breaks, and the shadows
flee!
Now, far beyond all language and all art
In thy wild splendour, Canyon marvellous,
The secret of thy stillness lies unveiled
In wordless worship! This is holy
ground;
Thou art no grave, no prison, but a shrine.
Garden of Temples filled with Silent Praise,
If God were blind thy Beauty could not
be!
February 24-26, 1913.
The heavenly hills of Holland,—
How wondrously they rise
Above the smooth green pastures
Into the azure skies!
With blue and purple hollows,
With peaks of dazzling snow,
Along the far horizon
The clouds are marching slow.
No mortal foot has trodden
The summits of that range,
Nor walked those mystic valleys
Whose colours ever change;
Yet we possess their beauty,
And visit them in dreams,
While ruddy gold of sunset
From cliff and canyon gleams.
In days of cloudless weather
They melt into the light;
When fog and mist surround us
They’re hidden from
our sight;
But when returns a season
Clear shining after rain,
While the northwest wind is blowing,
We see the hills again.
The old Dutch painters loved them,
Their pictures show them fair,—
Old Hobbema and Ruysdael,
Van Goyen and Vermeer.
Above the level landscape,
Rich polders, long-armed mills,
Canals and ancient cities,—
Float Holland’s heavenly
hills.
The Hague, November, 1916.
IN HOLLAND
The laggard winter ebbed so slow
With freezing rain and melting snow,
It seemed as if the earth would stay
Forever where the tide was low,
In sodden green and watery gray.
But now from depths beyond our sight,
The tide is turning in the night,
And floods of colour long concealed
Come silent rising toward the light,
Through garden bare and empty field.
And first, along the sheltered nooks,
The crocus runs in little brooks
Of joyance, till by light made bold
They show the gladness of their looks
In shining pools of white and gold.
The tiny scilla, sapphire blue,
Is gently seeping in, to strew
The earth with heaven; and sudden rills
Of sunlit yellow, sweeping through,
Spread into lakes of daffodils.
The hyacinths, with fragrant heads,
Have overflowed their sandy beds,
And fill the earth with faint perfume,
The breath that Spring around her sheds.
And now the tulips break in bloom!
A sea, a rainbow-tinted sea,
A splendour and a mystery,
Floods o’er the fields of faded
gray:
The roads are full of folks in glee,
For lo,—to-day is Easter Day!
April, 1916.
GOD OF THE OPEN AIR
Thou who hast made thy dwelling
fair
With flowers below, above with starry lights
And set thine altars everywhere,—
On mountain heights,
In woodlands dim with many a dream,
In valleys bright with springs,
And on the curving capes of every stream:
Thou who hast taken to thyself the wings
Of morning, to abide
Upon the secret places of the sea,
And on far islands, where the tide
Visits the beauty of untrodden shores,
Waiting for worshippers to come to thee
In thy great out-of-doors!
To thee I turn, to thee I make my prayer,
God of the open air.
Seeking for thee, the heart of man
Lonely and longing ran,
In that first, solitary hour,
When the mysterious power
To know and love the wonder of the morn
Was breathed within him, and his soul was born;
And thou didst meet thy child,
Not in some hidden shrine,
But in the freedom of the garden wild,
And take his hand in thine,—
There all day long in Paradise he walked,
And in the cool of evening with thee talked.
Lost, long ago, that garden bright
and pure,
Lost, that calm day too perfect to endure,
And lost the child-like love that worshipped and
was sure!
For men have dulled their eyes with sin,
And dimmed the light of heaven with doubt,
And built their temple walls to shut thee in,
And framed their iron creeds to shut thee out.
But not for thee the closing of the door,
O Spirit unconfined!
Thy ways are free
As is the wandering wind,
And thou hast wooed thy children, to restore
Their fellowship with thee,
In peace of soul and simpleness of mind.
Joyful the heart that, when the
flood rolled by,
Leaped up to see the rainbow in the sky;
And glad the pilgrim, in the lonely night,
For whom the hills of Haran, tier on tier,
Built up a secret stairway to the height
Where stars like angel eyes were shining clear.
From mountain-peaks, in many a land and age,
Disciples of the Persian seer
Have hailed the rising sun and worshipped thee;
And wayworn followers of the Indian sage
Have found the peace of God beneath a spreading
tree.
But One, but One,—ah,
Son most dear,
And perfect image of the Love Unseen,—
Walked every day in pastures
green,
And all his life the quiet waters by,
Reading their beauty with a tranquil eye.
To him the desert was a place prepared
For
weary hearts to rest;
The hillside was a temple
blest;
The grassy vale a banquet-room
Where he could feed and comfort many a
guest.
With
him the lily shared
The vital joy that breathes itself in
From the prison of anxious thought that
greed has builded,
From the fetters that envy has wrought
and pride has gilded,
From the noise of the crowded ways and
the fierce confusion,
From the folly that wastes its days in
a world of illusion,
(Ah, but the life is lost that frets and
languishes there!)
I would escape and be free in the joy
of the open air.
By the breadth of the blue that shines
in silence o’er me,
By the length of the mountain-lines that
stretch before me,
By the height of the cloud that sails,
with rest in motion,
Over the plains and the vales to the measureless
ocean,
(Oh, how the sight of the greater things
enlarges the eyes!)
Draw me away from myself to the peace
of the hills and skies.
While the tremulous leafy haze on the
woodland is spreading,
And the bloom on the meadow betrays where
May has been treading;
While the birds on the branches above,
and the brooks flowing under,
Are singing together of love in a world
full of wonder,
(Lo, in the magic of Springtime, dreams
are changed into truth!)
Quicken my heart, and restore the beautiful
hopes of youth.
By the faith that the wild-flowers show
when they bloom unbidden,
By the calm of the river’s flow
to a goal that is hidden,
By the strength of the tree that clings
to its deep foundation,
By the courage of birds’ light wings
on the long migration,
(Wonderful spirit of trust that abides
in Nature’s breast!)
Teach me how to confide, and live my life,
and rest.
For the comforting warmth of the
sun that my body embraces,
For the cool of the waters that run through the
shadowy places,
For the balm of the breezes that brush my face with
their fingers,
For the vesper-hymn of the thrush when the twilight
lingers,
For the long breath, the deep breath, the breath
of a heart without
care,—
I will give thanks and adore thee, God of the open
air!
These are the gifts I ask
Of thee, Spirit serene:
Strength for the daily task,
Courage to face the road,
Good cheer to help me bear the traveller’s
load,
And, for the hours of rest that come between,
An inward joy in all things heard and seen.
These are the sins I fain
Would have thee take away:
Malice, and cold disdain,
Hot anger, sullen hate,
Scorn of the lowly, envy of the great,
And discontent that casts a shadow gray
On all the brightness of the common day.
These are the things I prize
And hold of dearest worth:
Light of the sapphire skies,
Peace of the silent hills,
Shelter of forests, comfort of the grass,
Music of birds, murmur of little rills,
Shadows of cloud that swiftly pass,
And, after showers,
The smell of flowers
And of the good brown earth,—
And best of all, along the way, friendship and mirth.
So let me keep
These treasures of the humble heart
In true possession, owning them by love;
And when at last I can no longer move
Among them freely, but must part
From the green fields and from the waters clear,
Let me not creep
Into some darkened room and hide
From all that makes the world so bright and dear;
But throw the windows wide
To welcome in the light;
And while I clasp a well-beloved hand,
Let me once more have sight
Of the deep sky and the far-smiling land,—
Then gently fall on sleep,
And breathe my body back to Nature’s care,
My spirit out to thee, God of the open air.
1904.
THE TOILING OF FELIX
In the rubbish heaps of the ancient city of Oxyrhynchus, near the River Nile, a party of English explorers, in the winter of 1897, discovered a fragment of a papyrus book, written in the second or third century, and hitherto unknown. This single leaf contained parts of seven short sentences of Christ, each introduced by the words, “Jesus says.” It is to the fifth of these Sayings of Jesus that the following poem refers.
PRELUDE
Hear
a word that Jesus spake
Nineteen
hundred years ago,
Where
the crimson lilies blow
Round
the blue Tiberian lake:
There
the bread of life He brake,
Through
the fields of harvest walking
With
His lowly comrades, talking
Of
the secret thoughts that feed
Weary
souls in time of need.
Art
thou hungry? Come and take;
Hear
the word that Jesus spake!
’Tis the sacrament of labour, bread
and wine divinely blest;
Friendship’s food and sweet refreshment,
strength and courage, joy and
rest.
But this word the Master said
Long ago and far away,
Silent and forgotten lay
Buried with the silent dead,
Where the sands of Egypt spread
Sea-like, tawny billows heaping
Over ancient cities sleeping,
While the River Nile between
Rolls its summer flood of green
Rolls its autumn flood of red:
There the word the Master said,
Written on a frail papyrus, wrinkled, scorched by
fire, and torn,
Hidden by God’s hand was waiting for its resurrection
morn.
Now
at last the buried word
By
the delving spade is found,
Sleeping
in the quiet ground.
Now
the call of life is heard:
Rise
again, and like a bird,
Fly
abroad on wings of gladness
Through
the darkness and the sadness,
Of
the toiling age, and sing
Sweeter
than the voice of Spring,
Till
the hearts of men are stirred
By
the music of the word,—
Gospel for the heavy-laden, answer to
the labourer’s cry:
“Raise the stone, and thou shall
find me; cleave the wood and there
am
I.”
LEGEND
Brother-men who look for Jesus, long
to see Him close and clear,
Hearken to the tale of Felix, how he found the Master
near.
Born in Egypt, ’neath the shadow
of the crumbling gods of night,
He forsook the ancient darkness, turned his young
heart toward the Light.
Seeking Christ, in vain he waited for
the vision of the Lord;
Vainly pondered many volumes where the
creeds of men were stored;
Vainly shut himself in silence, keeping
vigil night and day;
Vainly haunted shrines and churches where
the Christians came to pray.
One by one he dropped the duties of the
common life of care,
Broke the human ties that bound him, laid
his spirit waste and bare,
Hoping that the Lord would enter that
deserted dwelling-place,
And reward the loss of all things with
the vision of His face.
Still the blessed vision tarried; still
the light was unrevealed;
Still the Master, dim and distant, kept
His countenance concealed.
Fainter grew the hope of finding, wearier
grew the fruitless quest;
Prayer and penitence and fasting gave
no comfort, brought no rest.
Lingering in the darkened temple, ere
the lamp of faith went out,
Felix knelt before the altar, lonely,
sad, and full of doubt.
“Hear me, O my Lord and Master,”
from the altar-step he cried,
“Let my one desire be granted, let
my hope be satisfied!
“Only once I long to see Thee, in
the fulness of Thy grace:
Break the clouds that now enfold Thee,
with the sunrise of Thy face!
“All that men desire and treasure
have I counted loss for Thee;
Every hope have I forsaken, save this
one, my Lord to see.
“Loosed the sacred bands of friendship,
solitary stands my heart;
Thou shalt be my sole companion when I
see Thee as Thou art.
“From Thy distant throne in glory,
flash upon my inward sight,
Fill the midnight of my spirit with the
splendour of Thy light.
“All Thine other gifts and
blessings, common mercies, I disown;
Separated from my brothers, I would see Thy face
alone.
“I have watched and I have
waited as one waiteth for the morn:
Still the veil is never lifted, still Thou leavest
me forlorn.
“Now I seek Thee in the desert,
where the holy hermits dwell;
There, beside the saint Serapion, I will find a
lonely cell.
“There at last Thou wilt be
gracious; there Thy presence,
long-concealed,
In the solitude and silence to my heart shall be
revealed.
“Thou wilt come, at dawn or
twilight, o’er the rolling waves of sand;
I shall see Thee close beside me, I shall touch
Thy pierced hand.
“Lo, Thy pilgrim kneels before
Thee; bless my journey with a word;
Tell me now that if I follow, I shall find Thee,
O my Lord!”
Felix listened: through the
darkness, like a murmur of the wind,
Came a gentle sound of stillness: “Never
faint, and thou shalt find.”
Long and toilsome was his journey through
the heavy land of heat,
Egypt’s blazing sun above him, blistering
sand beneath his feet.
Patiently he plodded onward, from the
pathway never erred,
Till he reached the river-headland called
the Mountain of the Bird.
There the tribes of air assemble,
once a year, their noisy flock,
Then, departing, leave a sentinel perched upon the
highest rock.
Far away, on joyful pinions, over
land and sea they fly;
But the watcher on the summit lonely stands against
the sky.
There the eremite Serapion in a cave
had made his bed;
There the faithful bands of pilgrims sought his
blessing, brought him
bread.
Month by month, in deep seclusion,
hidden in the rocky cleft,
Dwelt the hermit, fasting, praying; once a year
the cave he left.
On that day a happy pilgrim, chosen
out of all the band,
Won a special sign of favour from the holy hermit’s
hand.
Underneath the narrow window, at
the doorway closely sealed,
While the afterglow of sunset deepened round him,
Felix kneeled.
“Man of God, of men most holy, thou
whose gifts cannot be priced!
Grant me thy most precious guerdon; tell
me how to find the Christ.”
Breathless, Felix bent and listened, but
no answering voice he heard;
Darkness folded, dumb and deathlike, round
the Mountain of the Bird.
Then he said, “The saint is silent;
he would teach my soul to wait:
I will tarry here in patience, like a
beggar at his gate.”
Near the dwelling of the hermit Felix
found a rude abode,
In a shallow tomb deserted, close beside
the pilgrim-road.
So the faithful pilgrims saw him waiting
there without complaint,—
Soon they learned to call him holy, fed
him as they fed the saint.
Day by day he watched the sunrise flood
the distant plain with gold,
While the River Nile beneath him, silvery
coiling, sea-ward rolled.
Night by night he saw the planets range
their glittering court on high,
Saw the moon, with queenly motion, mount
her throne and rule the sky.
Morn advanced and midnight fled, in visionary
pomp attired;
Never morn and never midnight brought
the vision long-desired.
Now at last the day is dawning when Serapion
makes his gift;
Felix kneels before the threshold, hardly
dares his eyes to lift.
Now the cavern door uncloses, now
the saint above him stands,
Blesses him without a word, and leaves a token in
his hands.
’Tis the guerdon of thy waiting!
Look, thou happy pilgrim, look!
Nothing but a tattered fragment of an old papyrus
book.
Read! perchance the clue to guide
thee hidden in the words may lie:
“Raise the stone, and thou shalt find me;
cleave the wood, and there
am I.”
Can it be the mighty Master spake
such simple words as these?
Can it be that men must seek Him at their toil ’mid
rocks and trees?
Disappointed, heavy-hearted, from
the Mountain of the Bird
Felix mournfully descended, questioning the Master’s
word.
Not for him a sacred dwelling, far
above the haunts of men:
He must turn his footsteps backward to the common
life again.
From a quarry near the river, hollowed
out amid the hills,
Rose the clattering voice of labour, clanking
hammers, clinking drills.
Dust, and noise, and hot confusion
made a Babel of the spot:
There, among the lowliest workers, Felix sought
and found his lot.
Now he swung the ponderous mallet,
smote the iron in the rock—
Muscles quivering, tingling, throbbing—blow
on blow and shock on shock;
Now he drove the willow wedges, wet
them till they swelled and split,
With their silent strength, the fragment, sent it
thundering down the
pit.
Now the groaning tackle raised it;
now the rollers made it slide;
Harnessed men, like beasts of burden, drew it to
the river-side.
Now the palm-trees must be riven,
massive timbers hewn and dressed;
Rafts to bear the stones in safety on the rushing
river’s breast.
Axe and auger, saw and chisel, wrought
the will of man in wood:
’Mid the many-handed labour Felix toiled,
and found it good.
Every day the blood ran fleeter through
his limbs and round his heart;
Every night he slept the sweeter, knowing
he had done his part.
Dreams of solitary saintship faded from
him; but, instead,
Came a sense of daily comfort in the toil
for daily bread.
Far away, across the river, gleamed the
white walls of the town
Whither all the stones and timbers day
by day were floated down.
There the workman saw his labour taking
form and bearing fruit,
Like a tree with splendid branches rising
from a humble root.
Looking at the distant city, temples,
houses, domes, and towers,
Felix cried in exultation: “All
that mighty work is ours.
“Every toiler in the quarry, every
builder on the shore,
Every chopper in the palm-grove, every
raftsman at the oar,
“Hewing wood and drawing water,
splitting stones and cleaving sod,
All the dusty ranks of labour, in the
regiment of God,
“March together toward His triumph,
do the task His hands prepare:
Honest toil is holy service; faithful
work is praise and prayer.”
While he bore the heat and burden
Felix felt the sense of rest
Flowing softly like a fountain, deep within his
weary breast;
Felt the brotherhood of labour, rising
round him like a tide,
Overflow his heart and join him to the workers at
his side.
Oft he cheered them with his singing
at the breaking of the light,
Told them tales of Christ at noonday, taught them
words of prayer at
night.
Once he bent above a comrade fainting
in the mid-day heat,
Sheltered him with woven palm-leaves, gave him water,
cool and sweet.
Then it seemed, for one swift moment,
secret radiance filled the place;
Underneath the green palm-branches flashed a look
of Jesus’ face.
Once again, a raftsman, slipping,
plunged beneath the stream and sank;
Swiftly Felix leaped to rescue, caught him, drew
him toward the bank—
Battling with the cruel river, using all
his strength to save—
Did he dream? or was there One beside
him walking on the wave?
Now at last the work was ended, grove
deserted, quarry stilled;
Felix journeyed to the city that his hands
had helped to build.
In the darkness of the temple, at the
closing hour of day,
As of old he sought the altar, as of old
he knelt to pray:
“Hear me, O Thou hidden Master!
Thou hast sent a word to me;
It is written—Thy commandment—I
have kept it faithfully.
“Thou hast bid me leave the visions
of the solitary life,
Bear my part in human labour, take my
share in human strife.
“I have done Thy bidding, Master;
raised the rock and felled the tree,
Swung the axe and plied the hammer, working
every day for Thee.
“Once it seemed I saw Thy presence
through the bending palm-leaves gleam;
Once upon the flowing water—Nay,
I know not; ’twas a dream!
“This I know: Thou hast been
near me: more than this I dare not ask.
Though I see Thee not, I love Thee.
Let me do Thy humblest task!”
Through the dimness of the temple slowly
dawned a mystic light;
There the Master stood in glory, manifest
to mortal sight:
Hands that bore the mark of labour, brow
that bore the print of care;
Hands of power, divinely tender; brow
of light, divinely fair.
“Hearken, good and faithful servant,
true disciple, loyal friend!
Thou hast followed me and found me; I
will keep thee to the end.
“Well I know thy toil and trouble;
often weary, fainting, worn,
I have lived the life of labour, heavy
burdens I have borne.
“Never in a prince’s palace
have I slept on golden bed,
Never in a hermit’s cavern have
I eaten unearned bread.
“Born within a lowly stable, where
the cattle round me stood,
Trained a carpenter in Nazareth, I have
toiled, and found it good.
“They who tread the path of labour
follow where my feet have trod;
They who work without complaining do the
holy will of God.
“Where the many toil together, there
am I among my own;
Where the tired workman sleepeth, there
am I with him alone.
“I, the peace that passeth knowledge,
dwell amid the daily strife;
I, the bread of heaven, am broken in the
sacrament of life.
“Every task, however simple,
sets the soul that does it free;
Every deed of love and mercy, done to man, is done
to me.
“Thou hast learned the open
secret; thou hast come to me for rest;
With thy burden, in thy labour, thou art Felix,
doubly blest.
“Nevermore thou needest seek
me; I am with thee everywhere;
Raise the stone, and thou shall find me; cleave
the wood, and
I am there.”
ENVOY
The legend of Felix is ended, the toiling of Felix is done;
The Master has paid him his wages, the goal of his journey is won;
He rests, but he never is idle; a thousand years pass like a day,
In the glad surprise of that Paradise where work is sweeter than play.
Yet often the King of that country comes
out from His tireless host,
And walks in this world of the weary as
if He loved it the most;
For here in the dusty confusion, with
eyes that are heavy and dim,
He meets again the labouring men who are
looking and longing for Him.
He cancels the curse of Eden, and brings them a blessing instead:
Blessed are they that labour, for Jesus partakes of their bread.
He puts His hand to their burdens, He enters their homes at night:
Who does his best shall have as a guest the Master of life and light.
And courage will come with His presence,
and patience return at His
touch,
And manifold sins be forgiven to those who love
Him much;
The cries of envy and anger will change to the songs
of cheer,
The toiling age will forget its rage when the Prince
of Peace draws near.
This is the gospel of labour, ring it, ye bells of the kirk!
The Lord of Love came down from above, to live with the men who work.
This is the rose that He planted, here in the thorn-curst soil:
Heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of Earth is toil.
1898.
A silent world,—yet full of
vital joy
Uttered in rhythmic movements manifold,
And sunbeams flashing on the face of things
Like sudden smilings of divine delight,—
A world of many sorrows too, revealed
In fading flowers and withering leaves
and dark
Tear-laden clouds, and tearless, clinging
mists
That hung above the earth too sad to weep,—
A world of fluent change, and changeless
flow,
And infinite suggestion of new thought,
Reflected in the crystal of the heart,—
A world of many meanings but no words,
A silent world was Vera’s home.
For
her
The inner doors of sound were closely
sealed
The outer portals, delicate as shells
Suffused with faintest rose of far-off
morn,
Like underglow of daybreak in the sea,—
The ear-gates of the garden of her soul,
Shaded by drooping tendrils of brown hair,—
Waited in vain for messengers to pass,
And thread the labyrinth with flying feet,
And swiftly knock upon the inmost door,
And enter in, and speak the mystic word.
But through those gates no message ever
came.
Only with eyes did she behold and see,—
With eyes as luminous and bright and brown
As waters of a woodland river,—eyes
That questioned so they almost seemed
to speak,
And answered so they almost seemed to
hear,—
Only with wondering eyes did she behold
The silent splendour of a living world.
She saw the great wind ranging freely
down
Interminable archways of the wood,
While tossing boughs and bending tree-tops hailed
His coming: but no sea-toned voice of pines,
No roaring of the oaks, no silvery song
Of poplars or of birches, followed him.
He passed; they waved their arms and clapped their
hands;
There was no sound.
The torrents from the hills
Leaped down their rocky pathways, like wild steeds
Breaking the yoke and shaking manes of foam.
The lowland brooks coiled smoothly through the fields,
And softly spread themselves in glistening lakes
Whose ripples merrily danced among the reeds.
The standing waves that ever keep their place
In the swift rapids, curled upon themselves,
And seemed about to break and never broke;
And all the wandering waves that fill the sea
Came buffeting in along the stony shore,
Or plunging in along the level sands,
Or creeping in along the winding creeks
And inlets. Yet from all the ceaseless flow
And turmoil of the restless element
Came neither song of joy nor sob of grief;
For there were many waters, but no voice.
Silent the actors all on Nature’s
stage
Performed their parts before her watchful
eyes,
Coming and going, making war and love,
Working and playing, all without a sound.
The oxen drew their load with swaying
necks;
The cows came sauntering home along the
lane;
The nodding sheep were led from field
to fold
In mute obedience. Down the woodland
track
The hounds with panting sides and lolling
tongues
Pursued their flying prey in noiseless
haste.
The birds, the most alive of living things,
Mated, and built their nests, and reared
their young,
And swam the flood of air like tiny ships
Rising and falling over unseen waves,
And, gathering in great navies, bore away
To North or South, without a note of song.
All these were Vera’s playmates;
and she loved
To watch them, wondering oftentimes how
well
They knew their parts, and how the drama
moved
So swiftly, smoothly on from scene to
scene
Without confusion. But she sometimes
dreamed
There must be something hidden in the
play
Unknown to her, an utterance of life
More clear than action and more deep than
looks.
And this she felt most deeply when she
watched
Her human comrades and the throngs of
men,
Who met and parted oft with moving lips
That had a meaning more than she could
see.
She saw a lover bend above a maid,
With moving lips; and though he touched
her not
A sudden rose of joy bloomed in her face.
She saw a hater stand before his foe
And move his lips; whereat the other shrank
As if he had been smitten on the mouth.
She saw the regiments of toiling men
Marshalled in ranks and led by moving
lips.
And once she saw a sight more strange
than all:
A crowd of people sitting charmed and
still
Around a little company of men
Who touched their hands in measured, rhythmic
time
To curious instruments; a woman stood
Among them, with bright eyes and heaving
breast,
And lifted up her face and moved her lips.
Then Vera wondered at the idle play,
But when she looked around, she saw the
glow
Of deep delight on every face, as if
Some visitor from a celestial world
Had brought glad tidings. But to
her alone
No angel entered, for the choir of sound
Was vacant in the temple of her soul,
And worship lacked her golden crown of
song.
So when by vision baffled and perplexed
She saw that all the world could not be
seen,
And knew she could not know the whole
of life
Unless a hidden gate should be unsealed,
She felt imprisoned. In her heart
there grew
The bitter creeping plant of discontent,
The plant that only grows in prison soil,
Whose root is hunger and whose fruit is
pain.
The springs of still delight and tranquil
joy
Were drained as dry as desert dust to
Now in those distant days, and in that
land
Remote, there lived a Master wonderful,
Who knew the secret of all life, and could,
With gentle touches and with potent words,
Open all gates that ever had been sealed,
And loose all prisoners whom Fate had
bound.
Obscure he dwelt, not in the wilderness,
But in a hut among the throngs of men,
Concealed by meekness and simplicity.
And ever as he walked the city streets,
Or sat in quietude beside the sea,
Or trod the hillsides and the harvest
fields,
The multitude passed by and knew him not.
But there were some who knew, and turned
to him
For help; and unto all who asked, he gave.
Thus Vera came, and found him in the field,
And knew him by the pity in his face.
She knelt to him and held him by one hand,
And laid the other hand upon her lips
In mute entreaty. Then she lifted
up
The coils of hair that hung about her
neck,
And bared the beauty of the gates of sound,—
Those virgin gates through which no voice
had passed,—
She made them bare before the Master’s
sight,
And looked into the kindness of his face
With eyes that spoke of all her prisoned
pain,
And told her great desire without a word.
The Master waited long in silent thought,
As one reluctant to bestow a gift,
Not for the sake of holding back the thing
Entreated, but because he surely knew
Of something better that he fain would
give
If only she would ask it. Then he
stooped
To Vera, smiling, touched her ears and
spoke:
“Open, fair gates, and you, reluctant
doors,
Within the ivory labyrinth of the ear,
Let fall the bar of silence and unfold!
Enter, you voices of all living things,
Enter the garden sealed,—but
softly, slowly,
Not with a noise confused and broken tumult,—
Come in an order sweet as I command you,
And bring the double gift of speech and
hearing.”
Vera began to hear. At first the
wind
Breathed a low prelude of the birth of
sound,
As if an organ far away were touched
By unseen fingers; then the little stream
That hurried down the hillside, swept
the harp
Of music into merry, tinkling notes;
And then the lark that poised above her
head
On wings a-quiver, overflowed the air
With showers of song; and one by one the
tones
Of all things living, in an order sweet,
Without confusion and with deepening power,
Entered the garden sealed. And last
of all
The Master’s voice, the human voice
divine,
Passed through the gates and called her
by her name,
And Vera heard.
What
rapture of new life
Must come to one for whom a silent world
Is suddenly made vocal, and whose heart
By the same magic is awaked at once,
Without the learner’s toil and long
delay,
Out of a night of dumbly moving dreams,
Into a day that overflows with music!
This joy was Vera’s; and to her
it seemed
As if a new creative morn had risen
Upon the earth, and after the full week
When living things unfolded silently,
And after the long, quiet Sabbath day,
When all was still, another day had dawned,
And through the calm expectancy of heaven
A secret voice had said, “Let all
things speak.”
The world responded with an instant joy;
And all the unseen avenues of sound
Were thronged with varying forms of viewless
life.
To every living thing a voice was given
Distinct and personal. The forest
trees
Were not more varied in their shades of
green
Than in their tones of speech; and every
bird
That nested in their branches had a song
Unknown to other birds and all his own.
The waters spoke a hundred dialects
Of one great language; now with pattering
fall
Of raindrops on the glistening leaves,
and now
With steady roar of rivers rushing down
To meet the sea, and now with rhythmic
throb
And measured tumult of tempestuous waves,
And now with lingering lisp of creeping
tides,—
The manifold discourse of many waters.
But most of all the human voice was full
Of infinite variety, and ranged
Along the scale of life’s experience
With changing tones, and notes both sweet
and sad,
All fitted to express some unseen thought,
Some vital motion of the hidden heart.
So Vera listened with her new-born sense
To all the messengers that passed the
gates,
In measureless delight and utter trust,
Believing that they brought a true report
From every living thing of its true life,
And hoping that at last they would make
clear
The mystery and the meaning of the world.
But soon there came a trouble in her joy,
A note discordant that dissolved the chord
And broke the bliss of hearing into pain.
Not from the harsher sounds and voices
wild
Of anger and of anguish, that reveal
The secret strife in nature, and confess
The touch of sorrow on the heart of life,—
From these her trouble came not.
For in these,
However sad, she felt the note of truth,
And truth, though sad, is always musical.
The raging of the tempest-ridden sea,
The crash of thunder, and the hollow moan
Of winds complaining round the mountain-crags,
The shrill and quavering cry of birds
of prey,
The fiercer roar of conflict-loving beasts,—
All these wild sounds are potent in their
One voice alone of all that sound on earth,
Is hateful to the soul, and full of pain,—
The voice of falsehood. So when Vera
heard
This mocking voice, and knew that it was
false;
When first she learned that human lips
can speak
The thing that is not, and betray the
ear
Of simple trust with treachery of words;
The joy of hearing withered in her heart.
For now she felt that faithless messengers
Could pass the open and unguarded gates
Of sound, and bring a message all untrue,
Or half a truth that makes the deadliest
lie,
Or idle babble, neither false nor true,
But hollow to the heart, and meaningless.
She heard the flattering voices of deceit,
That mask the hidden purposes of men
With fair attire of favourable words,
And hide the evil in the guise of good:
The voices vain and decorous and smooth,
That fill the world with empty-hearted
talk;
The foolish voices, wandering and confused,
That never clearly speak the thing they
would,
But ramble blindly round their true intent
And tangle sense in hopeless coils of
sound,—
All these she heard, and with a deep mistrust
Began to doubt the value of her gift.
It seemed as if the world, the living
world,
Sincere, and vast, and real, were still
concealed,
And she, within the prison of her soul,
Still waiting silently to hear the voice
Of perfect knowledge and of perfect peace.
So with the burden of her discontent
She turned to seek the Master once again,
And found him sitting in the market-place,
Half-hidden in the shadow of a porch,
Alone among the careless crowd.
She spoke:
“Thy gift was great, dear Master, and my heart
Has thanked thee many times because I hear
But I have learned that hearing is not all;
For underneath the speech of men, there flows
Another current of their hidden thoughts;
Behind the mask of language I perceive
The eyes of things unsaid.
Touch me again,
O Master, with thy liberating hand,
And free me from the bondage of deceit.
Open another gate, and let me hear
The secret thoughts and purposes of men;
For only thus my heart will be at rest,
And only thus, at last, I shall perceive
The mystery and the meaning of the world.”
The Master’s face was turned aside
from her;
His eyes looked far away, as if he saw
Something beyond her sight; and yet she
knew
That he was listening; for her pleading
voice
No sooner ceased than he put forth his
hand
To touch her brow, and very gently spoke:
“Thou seekest for thyself a wondrous
gift,—
The opening of the second gate, a gift
That many wise men have desired in vain:
But some have found it,—whether
well or ill
For their own peace, they have attained
the power
To hear unspoken thoughts of other men.
And thou hast begged this gift? Thou
shalt receive,—
Not knowing what thou seekest,—it
is thine:
The second gate is open! Thou shalt
hear
All that men think and feel within their
hearts:
Thy prayer is granted, daughter, go thy
way!
But if thou findest sorrow on this path,
Come back again,—there is a
path to peace.”
Beyond our power of vision, poets say,
There is another world of forms unseen,
Yet visible to purer eyes than ours.
And if the crystal of our sight were clear,
We should behold the mountain-slopes of
cloud,
The moving meadows of the untilled sea,
The groves of twilight and the dales of
dawn,
And every wide and lonely field of air,
More populous than cities, crowded close
With living creatures of all shapes and
hues.
But if that sight were ours, the things
that now
Engage our eyes would seem but dull and
dim
Beside the wonders of our new-found world,
And we should be amazed and overwhelmed
Not knowing how to use the plenitude
Of vision.
So
in Vera’s soul, at first,
The opening of the second gate of sound
Let in confusion like a whirling flood.
The murmur of a myriad-throated mob;
The trampling of an army through a place
Where echoes hide; the sudden, whistling
flight
Of an innumerable flock of birds
Along the highway of the midnight sky;
The many-whispered rustling of the reeds
Beneath the passing feet of all the winds;
The long-drawn, inarticulate, wailing
cry
Of million-pebbled beaches when the lash
Of stormy waves is drawn across their
back,—
All these were less bewildering than to
hear
What now she heard at once: the tangled
sound
Of all that moves within the minds of
men.
For now there was no measured flow of
words
To mark the time; nor any interval
Of silence to repose the listening ear.
But through the dead of night, and through
the calm
Of weary noon-tide, through the solemn
hush
That fills the temple in the pause of
praise,
And through the breathless awe in rooms
of death,
She heard the ceaseless motion and the
stir
Of never-silent hearts, that fill the
world
With interwoven thoughts of good and ill,
But when at last the Master’s second
gift
Was perfected within her, and she heard
And understood the secret thoughts of
men,
A sadness fell upon her, and the load
Of insupportable knowledge pressed her
down
With weary wishes to know more, or less.
For all she knew was like a broken word
Inscribed upon the fragment of a ring;
And all she heard was like a broken strain
Preluding music that is never played.
Then she remembered in her sad unrest
The Master’s parting word,—“a
path to peace,”—
And turned again to seek him with her
grief.
She found him in a hollow of the hills,
Beside a little spring that issued forth
Beneath the rocks and filled a mossy cup
With never-failing water. There he
sat,
With waiting looks that welcomed her afar.
“I know that thou hast heard, my
child,” he said,
“For all the wonder of the world
of sound
Is written in thy face. But hast
thou heard,
Among the many voices, one of peace?
And is thy heart that hears the secret
thoughts,
The hidden wishes and desires of men,
Content with hearing? Art thou satisfied?”
“Nay, Master,” she replied,
“thou knowest well
That I am not at rest, nor have I heard
The voice of perfect peace; but what I
hear
Brings me disquiet and a troubled mind.
The evil voices in the souls of men,
Voices of rage and cruelty and fear
Have not dismayed me; for I have believed
The voices of the good, the kind, the
true,
Are more in number and excel in strength.
There is more love than hate, more hope
than fear,
In the deep throbbing of the human heart.
But while I listen to the troubled sound,
One thing torments me, and destroys my
rest
And presses me with dull, unceasing pain.
For out of all the minds of all mankind,
There rises evermore a questioning voice
That asks the meaning of this mighty world
And finds no answer,—asks,
and asks again,
With patient pleading or with wild complaint,
She ceased; and in her upward faltering
tone
The question echoed.
Then
the Master said:
“There is another gate, not yet
unclosed.
For through the outer portal of the ear
Only the outer voice of things may pass;
And through the middle doorway of the
mind
Only the half-formed voice of human thoughts,
Uncertain and perplexed with endless doubt;
But through the inmost gate the spirit
hears
The voice of that great Spirit who is
Life.
Beneath the tones of living things He
breathes
A deeper tone than ever ear hath heard;
And underneath the troubled thoughts of
men
He thinks forever, and His thought is
peace.
Behold, I touch thee once again, my child:
The third and last of those three hidden
gates
That closed around thy soul and shut thee
in,
Is open now, and thou shalt truly hear.”
Then Vera heard. The spiritual gate
Was opened softly as a full-blown flower
Unfolds its heart to welcome in the dawn,
And on her listening face there shone
a light
Of still amazement and completed joy
In the full gift of hearing.
What
she heard
I cannot tell; nor could she ever tell
In words; because all human words are
vain.
There is no speech nor language, to express
The secret messages of God, that make
Perpetual music in the hearing heart.
Below the voice of waters, and above
The wandering voice of winds, and underneath
The song of birds, and all the varying
tones
Of living things that fill the world with
sound,
God spoke to her, and what she heard was
peace.
So when the Master questioned, “Dost
thou hear?”
She answered, “Yea, at last I hear.”
And then
He asked her once again, “What hearest
thou?
What means the voice of Life?” She
answered, “Love!
For love is life, and they who do not
love
Are not alive. But every soul that
loves,
Lives in the heart of God and hears Him
speak.”
1898.
A DRAMATIC LYRIC
Come, give me back my life again, you
heavy-handed Death!
Uncrook your fingers from my throat, and
let me draw my breath.
You do me wrong to take me now—too
soon for me to die—
Ah, loose me from this clutching pain,
and hear the reason why.
I know I’ve had my forty years,
and wasted every one;
And yet, I tell you honestly, my life
is just begun;
I’ve walked the world like one asleep,
a dreamer in a trance;
But now you’ve gripped me wide awake—I
want another chance.
My dreams were always beautiful, my thoughts
were high and fine;
No life was ever lived on earth to match
those dreams of mine.
And would you wreck them unfulfilled?
What folly, nay, what crime!
You rob the world, you waste a soul; give
me a little time.
You’ll hear me? Yes, I’m
sure you will, my hope is not in vain:
I feel the even pulse of peace, the sweet
relief from pain;
The black fog rolls away from me; I’m
free once more to plan:
Another chance is all I need to prove
myself a man!
* * * * *
The world is full of warfare ’twixt
the evil and the good;
I watched the battle from afar as one
who understood
The shouting and confusion, the bloody,
blundering fight—
How few there are that see it clear, how
few that wage it right!
The captains flushed with foolish pride,
the soldiers pale with fear,
The faltering flags, the feeble fire from
ranks that swerve and veer,
The wild mistakes, the dismal doubts,
the coward hearts that flee—
The good cause needs a nobler knight to
win the victory.
A man whose soul is pure and strong, whose
sword is bright and keen,
Who knows the splendour of the fight and
what its issues mean;
Who never takes one step aside, nor halts,
though hope be dim,
But cleaves a pathway thro’ the
strife, and bids men follow him.
No blot upon his stainless shield, no
weakness in his arm;
No sign of trembling in his face to break
his valour’s charm:
A man like this could stay the flight
and lead the wavering line;
Ah, give me but a year of life—I’ll
make that glory mine!
* * * * *
Religion? Yes, I know it well; I’ve
heard its prayers and creeds,
And seen men put them all to shame with
poor, half-hearted deeds.
They follow Christ, but far away; they
wander and they doubt.
I’ll serve him in a better way,
and live his precepts out.
You see, I waited just for this; I could
not be content
To own a feeble, faltering faith with
human weakness blent.
Too many runners in the race move slowly,
stumble, fall;
But I will run so straight and swift I
shall outstrip them all.
Oh, think what it will mean to men, amid
their foolish strife,
To see the clear, unshadowed light of
one true Christian life,
Without a touch of selfishness, without
a taint of sin,—
With one short month of such a life a
new world would begin!
* * * * *
And love!—I often dream of
that—the treasure of the earth;
How little they who use the coin have
realised its worth!
’Twill pay all debts, enrich all
hearts, and make all joys secure.
But love, to do its perfect work, must
be sincere and pure.
My heart is full of virgin gold.
I’ll pour it out and spend
My hidden wealth with open hand on all
who call me friend.
Not one shall miss the kindly deed, the
largess of relief,
The generous fellowship of joy, the sympathy
of grief.
I’ll say the loyal, helpful things
that make life sweet and fair,
I’ll pay the gratitude I owe for
human love and care.
Perhaps I’ve been at fault sometimes—I’ll
ask to be forgiven,
And make this little room of mine seem
like a bit of heaven.
For one by one I’ll call my friends
to stand beside my bed;
I’ll speak the true and tender words
so often left unsaid;
And every heart shall throb and glow,
all coldness melt away
Around my altar-fire of love—ah,
give me but one day!
* * * * *
What’s that? I’ve had
another day, and wasted it again?
A priceless day in empty dreams, another
chance in vain?
Thou fool—this night—it’s
very dark—the last—this choking
breath—
One prayer—have mercy on a
dreamer’s soul—God, this is death!
It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise
His name!)
To hear, one day, report from those who
came
With pitying sorrow, or exultant joy,
To tell of earthly tasks in His employ.
For some were grieved because they saw
how slow
The stream of heavenly love on earth must
flow;
And some were glad because their eyes
had seen,
Along its banks, fresh flowers and living
green.
At last, before the whiteness of the throne
The youngest angel, Asmiel, stood alone;
Nor glad, nor sad, but full of earnest
thought,
And thus his tidings to the Master brought
“Lord, in the city Lupon I have
found
Three servants of thy holy name, renowned
Above their fellows. One is very
wise,
With thoughts that ever range beyond the
skies;
And one is gifted with the golden speech
That makes men gladly hear when he will
teach;
And one, with no rare gift or grace endued,
Has won the people’s love by doing
good.
With three such saints Lupon is trebly
blest;
But, Lord, I fain would know, which loves
Thee best?”
Then spake the Lord of Angels, to whose
look
The hearts of all are like an open book:
“In every soul the secret thought
I read,
And well I know who loves me best indeed.
But every life has pages vacant still,
Whereon a man may write the thing he will;
Therefore I read the record, day by day,
* * * * *
First to the Temple door he made his way;
And there, because it was a holy-day,
He saw the folk in thousands thronging,
stirred
By ardent thirst to hear the preacher’s
word.
Then, while the people whispered Bernol’s
name,
Through aisles that hushed behind him
Bernol came;
Strung to the keenest pitch of conscious
might,
With lips prepared and firm, and eyes
alight.
One moment at the pulpit step he knelt
In silent prayer, and on his shoulder
felt
The angel’s hand:—“The
Master bids thee go
Alone to Spiran’s huts, across the
snow,
To serve Him there.” Then Bernol’s
hidden face
Went white as death, and for about the
space
Of ten slow heart-beats there was no reply;
Till Bernol looked around and whispered,
“Why?”
But answer to his question came there
none;
The angel sighed, and with a sigh was
gone.
* * * * *
Within the humble house where Malvin spent
His studious years, on holy things intent,
Sweet stillness reigned; and there the
angel found
The saintly sage immersed in thought profound,
Weaving with patient toil and willing
care
A web of wisdom, wonderful and fair:
A seamless robe for Truth’s great
bridal meet,
And needing but one thread to be complete.
Then Asmiel touched his hand, and broke
the thread
Of fine-spun thought, and very gently
said,
“The One of whom thou thinkest bids
thee go
Alone to Spiran’s huts, across the
snow,
To serve Him there.” With sorrow
and surprise
Malvin looked up, reluctance in his eyes.
The broken thought, the strangeness of
the call,
The perilous passage of the mountain-wall,
The solitary journey, and the length
Of ways unknown, too great for his frail
strength,
Appalled him. With a doubtful brow
He scanned the doubtful task, and muttered
“How?”
But Asmiel answered, as he turned to go,
With cold, disheartened voice, “I
do not know.”
* * * * *
Now as he went, with fading hope, to seek
The third and last to whom God bade him
speak,
Scarce twenty steps away whom should he
meet
But Fermor, hurrying cheerful down the
street,
With ready heart that faced his work like
play,
And joyed to find it greater every day!
The angel stopped him with uplifted hand,
And gave without delay his Lord’s
command:
“He whom thou servest here would
have thee go
Alone to Spiran’s huts, across the
snow,
To serve Him there.” Ere Asmiel
breathed again
The eager answer leaped to meet him, “When?”
The angel’s face with inward joy
grew bright,
And all his figure glowed with heavenly
light;
He took the golden circlet from his brow
And gave the crown to Fermor, answering,
“Now!
For thou hast met the Master’s hidden
test,
And I have found the man who loves Him
best.
Not thine, nor mine, to question or reply
When He commands us, asking ‘how?’
or ‘why?’
He knows the cause; His ways are wise
and just;
Who serves the King must serve with perfect
trust.”
February, 1902.
LEGEND
Long ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngest
of the shepherds,
Saying, “I will make
you keeper of my bees.”
Golden were the hives and golden was the
honey; golden, too, the music
Where the honey-makers hummed
among the trees.
Happy Aristaeus loitered in the garden,
wandered in the orchard,
Careless and contented, indolent and free;
Lightly took his labour, lightly took his pleasure,
till the fated moment
When across his pathway came Eurydice.
Then her eyes enkindled burning love
within him; drove him wild with
longing
For the perfect sweetness of her flower-like face;
Eagerly he followed, while she fled before him,
over mead and mountain,
On through field and forest, in a breathless race.
But the nymph, in flying, trod upon
a serpent; like a dream she vanished;
Pluto’s chariot bore her down among the
dead!
Lonely Aristaeus, sadly home returning, found his
garden empty,
All the hives deserted, all the music fled.
Mournfully bewailing,—“Ah,
my honey-makers, where have you departed?”
Far and wide he sought them over sea and shore;
Foolish is the tale that says he ever found them,
brought them home in
triumph,—
Joys that once escape us fly for evermore.
Yet I dream that somewhere, clad
in downy whiteness, dwell the
honey-makers,
In aerial gardens that no mortal sees:
And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us,
gathering mystic
harvest,—
So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees.
THE SWARMING OF THE BEES
Who can tell the hiding of the white
bees’ nest?
Who can trace the guiding of their swift home
flight?
Far would be his riding on a life-long quest:
Surely ere it ended would his beard grow white.
Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring,
Never in the passing of the
wine-red Fall,
May you hear the humming of the white
bee’s wing
Murmur o’er the meadow
ere the night bells call.
Wait till winter hardens in the cold gray
sky,
Wait till leaves are fallen
and the brooks all freeze,
Then above the gardens where the dead
flowers lie,
Swarm the merry millions of
the wild white bees.
Out
of the high-built airy hive,
Deep
in the clouds that veil the sun,
Look
how the first of the swarm arrive;
Timidly
venturing, one by one,
Down
through the tranquil air,
Wavering
here and there,
Large,
and lazy in flight,—
Caught
by a lift of the breeze,
Tangled
among the naked trees,—
Dropping
then, without a sound,
Feather-white,
feather-light,
To
their rest on the ground.
Thus
the swarming is begun.
Count
the leaders, every one
Perfect
as a perfect star
Till
the slow descent is done.
Look
beyond them, see how far
Down
the vistas dim and gray,
Multitudes
are on the way.
Now
a sudden brightness
Dawns
within the sombre day,
Over
fields of whiteness;
And
the sky is swiftly alive
With
the flutter and the flight
Of
the shimmering bees, that pour
From
the hidden door of the hive
Till
you can count no more.
Now on the branches of hemlock and pine
Thickly they settle and cluster and swing,
Bending them low; and the trellised vine
And the dark elm-boughs are traced with
a line
Of beauty wherever the white bees cling.
Now they are hiding the wrecks of the
flowers,
Softly, softly,
covering all,
Over the grave of the summer hours
Spreading a silver
pall.
Now they are building the broad roof ledge,
Into a cornice smooth and fair,
Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge,
Into the sweep of a marble stair.
Wonderful workers, swift and dumb,
Numberless myriads, still they come,
Thronging ever faster, faster, faster!
Where is their queen? Who is their
master?
The gardens are faded, the fields are
frore,—
What is the honey they toil to store
In the desolate day, where no blossoms
gleam?
Forgetfulness and
a dream!
But now the fretful wind awakes;
I hear him girding at the trees;
He strikes the bending boughs, and shakes
The quiet clusters of the bees
To powdery drift;
He tosses them away,
He drives them like spray;
He makes them veer and shift
Around his blustering path.
In clouds blindly whirling,
In rings madly swirling,
Full of crazy wrath,
So furious and fast they fly
They blur the earth and blot the sky
In wild, white
mirk.
They fill the air with frozen wings
And tiny, angry, icy stings;
They blind the eyes, and choke the breath,
They dance a maddening dance of death
Around their work,
Sweeping the cover from the hill,
Heaping the hollows deeper still,
Effacing every line and mark,
And swarming, storming in the dark
Through the long
night;
Until, at dawn, the wind lies down
Weary of fight;
The last torn cloud, with trailing gown,
Passes the open gates of light;
And the white bees are lost in flight.
Look how the landscape glitters wide and
still,
Bright with a
pure surprise!
The day begins with joy, and all past
ill,
Buried in white
oblivion, lies
Beneath the snow-drifts under crystal
skies.
New hope, new love, new life, new cheer,
Flow in the sunrise beam,—
The gladness of Apollo when
he sees,
Upon the bosom of the wintry year,
The honey-harvest of his wild white bees,
Forgetfulness and
a dream!
LEGEND
Listen, my beloved, while the silver morning,
like a tranquil vision,
Fills the world around us
and our hearts with peace;
Quiet is the close of Aristaeus’
legend, happy is the ending—
Listen while I tell you how
he found release.
Many months he wandered far away
in sadness, desolately thinking
Only of the vanished joys he could not find;
Till the great Apollo, pitying his shepherd, loosed
him from the burden
Of a dark, reluctant, backward-looking mind.
Then he saw around him all the changeful
beauty of the changing seasons,
In the world-wide regions where his journey lay;
Birds that sang to cheer him, flowers that bloomed
beside him, stars that
shone to guide him,—
Traveller’s joy was plenty all along the
way!
Everywhere he journeyed strangers
made him welcome, listened while he
taught them
Secret lore of field and forest he had learned:
How to train the vines and make the olives fruitful;
how to guard the
sheepfolds;
How to stay the fever when the dog-star burned.
Friendliness and blessing followed
in his footsteps; richer were the
harvests,
Happier the dwellings, wheresoe’er he came;
Little children loved him, and he left behind him,
in the hour of
parting,
Memories of kindness and a god-like name.
So he travelled onward, desolate
no longer, patient in his seeking,
Reaping all the wayside comfort of his quest;
Till at last in Thracia, high upon Mount Haemus,
far from human dwelling,
Weary Aristaeus laid him down to rest.
Then the honey-makers, clad in downy
whiteness, fluttered soft around
him,
Wrapt him in a dreamful slumber pure and deep.
This is life, beloved: first a sheltered garden,
then a troubled journey,
Joy and pain of seeking,—and at last
we sleep!
1905.
The other night I had a dream, most clear
And comforting, complete
In every line, a crystal sphere,
And full of intimate and secret cheer.
Therefore I will repeat
That vision, dearest heart, to you,
As of a thing not feigned, but very true,
Yes, true as ever in my life befell;
And you, perhaps, can tell
Whether my dream was really sad or sweet.
The shadows flecked the elm-embowered
street
I knew so well, long, long ago;
And on the pillared porch where Marguerite
Had sat with me, the moonlight lay like
snow.
But she, my comrade and my friend of youth,
Most gaily wise,
Most innocently loved,—
She of the blue-gray eyes
That ever smiled and ever spoke the truth,—
From that familiar dwelling, where she
moved
Like mirth incarnate in the years before,
Had gone into the hidden house of Death.
I thought the garden wore
White mourning for her blessed innocence,
And the syringa’s breath
Came from the corner by the fence
Where she had made her rustic seat,
With fragrance passionate, intense,
As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite.
My heart was heavy with a sense
Of something good for ever gone.
I sought
Vainly for some consoling thought,
Some comfortable word that I could say
To her sad father, whom I visited again
For the first time since she had gone
away.
The bell rang shrill and lonely,—then
The door was opened, and I sent my name
To him,—but ah! ’twas
Marguerite who came!
There in the dear old dusky room she stood
Beneath the lamp, just as she used to
stand,
In tender mocking mood.
“You did not ask for me,”
she said,
“And so I will not let you take
my hand;
But I must hear what secret talk you planned
With father. Come, my friend, be
good,
And tell me your affairs of state:
Why you have stayed away and made me wait
So long. Sit down beside me here,—
And, do you know, it seems a year
Since we have talked together,—why
so late?”
Amazed, incredulous, confused with joy
I hardly dared to show,
And stammering like a boy,
* * * * *
But all the while, a silent question stirred
Within me, though I dared not speak the
word:
“Is it herself, and is she truly
here,
And was I dreaming when I heard
That she was dead last year?
Or was it true, and is she but a shade
Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear,
Cold though so kind, and will she gently
fade
When her sweet ghostly part is played
And the light-curtain falls at dawn of
day?”
But while my heart was troubled by this
fear
So deeply that I could not speak it out,
Lest all my happiness should disappear,
I thought me of a cunning way
To hide the question and dissolve the
doubt.
“Will you not give me now your hand,
Dear Marguerite,” I asked, “to
touch and hold,
That by this token I may understand
You are the same true friend you were
of old?”
She answered with a smile so bright and
calm
It seemed as if I saw the morn arise
In the deep heaven of her eyes;
And smiling so, she laid her palm
In mine. Dear God, it was not cold
But warm with vital heat!
“You live!” I cried, “you
live, dear Marguerite!”
When I awoke; but strangely comforted,
Although I knew again that she was dead.
Yes, there’s the dream! And
was it sweet or sad?
Dear mistress of my waking and my sleep,
Present reward of all my heart’s
desire,
Watching with me beside the winter fire,
Interpret now this vision that I had.
But while you read the meaning, let me
keep
The touch of you: for the Old Year
with storm
Is passing through the midnight, and doth
shake
The corners of the house,—and
oh! my heart would break
Unless both dreaming and awake
My hand could feel your hand was warm,
warm, warm!
1905.
In robes of Tyrian blue the King was drest,
A jewelled collar shone upon his breast,
A giant ruby glittered in his crown:
Lord of rich lands and many a splendid
town,
In him the glories of an ancient line
Of sober kings, who ruled by right divine,
Were centred; and to him with loyal awe
The people looked for leadership and law.
Ten thousand knights, the safeguard of
the land,
Were like a single sword within his hand;
A hundred courts, with power of life and
death,
Proclaimed decrees of justice by his breath;
And all the sacred growths that men had
known
Of order and of rule upheld his throne.
Proud was the King: yet not with
such a heart
As fits a man to play a royal part.
Not his the pride that honours as a trust
The right to rule, the duty to be just:
Not his the dignity that bends to bear
The monarch’s yoke, the master’s
load of care,
And labours like the peasant at his gate,
To serve the people and protect the State.
Another pride was his, and other joys:
To him the crown and sceptre were but
toys,
With which he played at glory’s
idle game,
To please himself and win the wreaths
of fame.
The throne his fathers held from age to
age,
To his ambition seemed a fitting stage
Built for King Martin to display at will,
His mighty strength and universal skill.
No conscious child, that, spoiled with
praising, tries
At every step to win admiring eyes,
No favourite mountebank, whose acting
draws
From gaping crowds the thunder of applause,
Was vainer than the King: his only
thirst
Was to be hailed, in every race, the first.
When tournament was held, in knightly
guise
The King would ride the lists and win
the prize;
When music charmed the court, with golden
lyre
The King would take the stage and lead
the choir;
In hunting, his the lance to slay the
boar;
In hawking, see his falcon highest soar;
In painting, he would wield the master’s
brush;
In high debate,—“the
King is speaking! Hush!”
Thus, with a restless heart, in every
field
He sought renown, and made his subjects
yield.
But while he played the petty games of
life
His kingdom fell a prey to inward strife;
Corruption through the court unheeded
crept,
And on the seat of honour justice slept.
The strong trod down the weak; the helpless
poor
Groaned under burdens grievous to endure;
The nation’s wealth was spent in
vain display,
And weakness wore the nation’s heart
away.
Yet think not Earth is blind to human
woes—
Man has more friends and helpers than
he knows;
And when a patient people are oppressed,
The land that bore them feels it in her
breast.
Spirits of field and flood, of heath and
hill,
Are grieved and angry at the spreading
ill;
The trees complain together in the night,
Voices of wrath are heard along the height,
And secret vows are sworn, by stream and
strand,
To bring the tyrant low and free the land.
But little recked the pampered King of
these;
He heard no voice but such as praise and
please.
Flattered and fooled, victor in every
sport,
One day he wandered idly with his court
Beside the river, seeking to devise
New ways to show his skill to wondering
eyes.
There in the stream a patient angler stood,
And cast his line across the rippling
flood.
His silver spoil lay near him on the green:
“Such fish,” the courtiers
cried, “were never seen!
Three salmon longer than a cloth-yard
shaft—
This man must be the master of his craft!”
“An easy art!” the jealous
King replied:
“Myself could learn it better, if
I tried,
And catch a hundred larger fish a week—
Wilt thou accept the challenge, fellow?
Speak!”
The angler turned, came near, and bent
his knee:
“’Tis not for kings to strive
with such as me;
Yet if the King commands it, I obey.
But one condition of the strife I pray:
The fisherman who brings the least to
land
Shall do whate’er the other may
command.”
Loud laughed the King: “A foolish
fisher thou!
For I shall win, and rule thee then as
now.”
Then to Prince John, a sober soul, sedate
And slow, King Martin left the helm of
State,
While to the novel game with eager zest
He all his time and all his powers addressed.
Sure such a sight was never seen before!
In robe and crown the monarch trod the
shore;
His golden hooks were decked with feathers
fine,
His jewelled reel ran out a silken line.
With kingly strokes he flogged the crystal
stream;
Far-off the salmon saw his tackle gleam;
Careless of kings, they eyed with calm
disdain
The gaudy lure, and Martin fished in vain.
On Friday, when the week was almost spent,
He scanned his empty creel with discontent,
Called for a net, and cast it far and
wide,
And drew—a thousand minnows
from the tide!
Then came the angler to conclude the match,
And at the monarch’s feet spread
out his catch—
A hundred salmon, greater than before.
“I win!” he cried: “the
King must pay the score.”
Then Martin, angry, threw his tackle down:
“Rather than lose this game I’d
lose my crown!”
“Nay, thou hast lost them both,”
the angler said;
And as he spoke a wondrous light was shed
Around his form; he dropped his garments
So every summer day along the stream
The vain King-fisher darts, an azure gleam,
And scolds the angler with a mocking scream.
April, 1904.
A tale that the poet
Rueckert told
To German children,
in days of old;
Disguised in a
random, rollicking rhyme
Like a merry mummer
of ancient time,
And sent, in its
English dress, to please
The little folk
of the Christmas trees.
A little fir grew in the midst of the
wood
Contented and happy, as young trees should.
His body was straight and his boughs were
clean;
And summer and winter the bountiful sheen
Of his needles bedecked him, from top
to root,
In a beautiful, all-the-year, evergreen
suit.
But a trouble came into his heart one
day,
When he saw that the other trees were
gay
In the wonderful raiment that summer weaves
Of manifold shapes and kinds of leaves:
He looked at his needles so stiff and
small,
And thought that his dress was the poorest
of all.
Then jealousy clouded the little tree’s
mind,
And he said to himself, “It was
not very kind
To give such an ugly old dress to a tree!
If the fays of the forest would only ask
me,
I’d tell them how I should like
to be dressed,—
In a garment of gold, to bedazzle the
rest!”
So he fell asleep, but his dreams were
bad.
When he woke in the morning, his heart
was glad;
For every leaf that his boughs could hold
Was made of the brightest beaten gold.
I tell you, children, the tree was proud;
He was something above the common crowd;
And he tinkled his leaves, as if he would
say
To a pedlar who happened to pass that
way,
“Just look at me! Don’t
you think I am fine?
And wouldn’t you like such a dress
as mine?”
“Oh, yes!” said the man, “and
I really guess
I must fill my pack with your beautiful
dress.”
So he picked the golden leaves with care,
And left the little tree shivering there.
“Oh, why did I wish for golden leaves?”
The fir-tree said, “I forgot that
thieves
Would be sure to rob me in passing by.
If the fairies would give me another try,
I’d wish for something that cost
much less,
And be satisfied with glass for my dress!”
Then he fell asleep; and, just as before,
The fairies granted his wish once more.
When the night was gone, and the sun rose
clear,
The tree was a crystal chandelier;
And it seemed, as he stood in the morning
light,
That his branches were covered with jewels
bright.
“Aha!” said the tree.
“This is something great!”
And he held himself up, very proud and
straight;
But a rude young wind through the forest
dashed,
In a reckless temper, and quickly smashed
The delicate leaves. With a clashing
sound
They broke into pieces and fell on the
ground,
Like a silvery, shimmering shower of hail,
And the tree stood naked and bare to the
gale.
Then his heart was sad; and he cried,
“Alas
For my beautiful leaves of shining glass!
Perhaps I have made another mistake
In choosing a dress so easy to break.
If the fairies only would hear me again
I’d ask them for something both
pretty and plain:
It wouldn’t cost much to grant my
request,—
In leaves of green lettuce I’d like
to be dressed!”
By this time the fairies were laughing,
I know;
But they gave him his wish in a second;
and so
With leaves of green lettuce, all tender
and sweet,
The tree was arrayed, from his head to
his feet.
“I knew it!” he cried, “I
was sure I could find
The sort of a suit that would be to my
mind.
There’s none of the trees has a
prettier dress,
And none as attractive as I am, I guess.”
But a goat, who was taking an afternoon
walk,
By chance overheard the fir-tree’s
talk.
So he came up close for a nearer view;—
“My salad!” he bleated, “I
think so too!
You’re the most attractive kind
of a tree,
And I want your leaves for my five-o’clock
tea.”
So he ate them all without saying grace,
And walked away with a grin on his face;
While the little tree stood in the twilight
dim,
With never a leaf on a single limb.
Then he sighed and groaned; but his voice
was weak—
He was so ashamed that he could not speak.
He knew at last he had been a fool,
To think of breaking the forest rule,
And choosing a dress himself to please,
Because he envied the other trees.
But it couldn’t be helped, it was
now too late,
He must make up his mind to a leafless
fate!
So he let himself sink in a slumber deep,
But he moaned and he tossed in his troubled
sleep,
Till the morning touched him with joyful
beam,
And he woke to find it was all a dream.
For there in his evergreen dress he stood,
A pointed fir in the midst of the wood!
His branches were sweet with the balsam
smell,
His needles were green when the white
snow fell.
And always contented and happy was he,—
The very best kind of a Christmas tree.
“GRAN’ BOULE”
We men hat go down for a livin’
in ships to the sea,—
We love it a different way from you poets
that ’bide on the land.
We are fond of it, sure! But, you
take it as comin’ from me,
There’s a fear and a hate in our
love that a landsman can’t understand.
Oh, who could help likin’ the salty smell, and the blue
Of the waves that are lazily breathin’ as if they dreamed in the sun?
She’s a Sleepin’ Beauty, the sea,—but you can’t tell what she’ll do;
And the seamen never trust her,—they know too well what she’s done!
She’s a wench like one that I saw in a singin’-play,—
Carmen they called her,—Lord, what a life her lovers did lead!
She’d cuddle and kiss you, and sing you and dance you away;
And then,—she’d curse you, and break you, and throw you down like a
weed.
You may chance it awhile with the girls like that, if you please;
But you want a woman to trust when you settle down with a wife;
And a seaman’s thought of growin’ old at his ease
Is a snug little house on the land to shelter the rest of his life.
So that was old Poisson’s dream,—did you know the Cap’?
A brown little Frenchman, clever, and brave, and quick as a fish,—
Had a wife and kids on the other side of the map,—
And a rose-covered cottage for them and him was his darlin’ wish.
“I ’ave sail,” says
he, in his broken-up Frenchy talk,
“Mos’ forty-two year; I ‘ave
go on all part of de worl’ dat ees wet.
I’m seeck of de boat and de water.
I rader walk
Wid ma Josephine in one garden; an’
eef we get tire’, we set!
“You see dat bateau, Sainte
Brigitte? I bring ’er dh’are
From de Breton coas’, by gar, jus’
feefteen year bifore.
She ole w’en she come on Kebec,
but Holloway Freres
Dey buy ‘er, an’ hire me run
‘er along dat dam’ Nort’ Shore.
“Dose engine one leetl’ bit
cranky,—too ole, you see,—
She roll and peetch in de wave’.
But I lak’ ’er pretty well;
An’ dat sheep she lak’ ’er
captaine, sure, dat’s me!
Wit’ forty ton coal in de bunker,
I tek’ dat sheep t’rou’ hell.
“But I don’ wan’ risk
it no more; I had bonne chance:
I save already ten t’ousan’
dollar’, dat’s plenty I s’pose!
Nex’ winter I buy dat house wid
de garden on France
An’ I tell adieu to de sea,
and I leev’ on de lan’ in ripose.”
All summer he talked of his house,—you
could see the flowers
Abloom, and the pear-trees trained on
the garden-wall so trim,
And the Captain awalkin’ and smokin’
away the hours,—
He thought he had done with the sea, but
the sea hadn’t done with him!
It was late in the fall when he made the
last regular run,
Clear down to the Esquimault Point and
back with his rickety ship;
She hammered and pounded a lot, for the
storms had begun;
But he drove her,—and went
for his season’s pay at the end of the trip.
Now the Holloway Brothers are greedy and
thin little men,
With their eyes set close together, and
money’s their only God;
So they told the Cap’ he must run
the “Bridget” again,
To fetch a cargo from Moisie, two thousand
quintals of cod.
He said the season was over. They
said: “Not yet.
You finish the whole of your job, old
man, or you don’t draw a cent!”
(They had the “Bridget” insured
for all they could get.)
And the Captain objected, and cursed,
and cried. But he went.
They took on the cargo at Moisie, and
folks beside,—
Three traders, a priest, and a couple
of nuns, and a girl
For a school at Quebec,—when
the Captain saw her he sighed,
And said: “Ma littl’
Fifi got hair lak’ dat, all curl!”
The snow had fallen a foot, and the wind
was high,
When the “Bridget” butted
her way thro’ the billows on Moisie bar.
The darkness grew with the gale, not a
star in the sky,
And the Captain swore: “We
mus’ make Sept Isles to-night, by gar!”
He couldn’t go back, for he didn’t
dare to turn;
The sea would have thrown the ship like
a mustang noosed with a rope;
For the monstrous waves were leapin’
high astern,
And the shelter of Seven Island Bay was
the only hope.
There’s a bunch of broken hills
half sunk in the mouth
Of the bay, with their jagged peaks afoam;
and the Captain thought
He could pass to the north; but the sea
kept shovin’ him south,
With her harlot hands, in the snow-blind
murk, till she had him caught.
She had waited forty years for a night
like this,—
Did he think he could leave her now, and
live in a cottage, the fool?
She headed him straight for the island
he couldn’t miss;
And heaved his boat in the dark,—and
smashed it against Gran’ Boule.
How the Captain and half of the people clambered ashore,
Through the surf and the snow in the gloom of that horrible night,
There’s no one ever will know. For two days more
The death-white shroud of the tempest covered the island from sight.
How they suffered, and struggled, and died, will never be told;
We discovered them all at last when we reached Gran’ Boule with a boat;
The drowned and the frozen were lyin’ stiff and cold,
And the poor little girl with the curls was wrapped in the Captain’s
coat.
Go write your song of the sea as the landsmen do,
And call her your “great sweet mother,” your “bride,” and all the rest;
She was made to be loved,—but remember, she won’t love you,—
The men who trust her the least are the sailors who know her the best.
HEROES OF THE “TITANIC”
Honour the brave who sleep
Where the lost “Titanic”
lies,
The men who knew what a man must do
When he looks Death in the
eyes.
“Women and children first,”—
Ah, strong and tender cry!
The sons whom women had borne and nursed,
Remembered,—and
dared to die.
The boats crept off in the dark:
The great ship groaned:
and then,—
O stars of the night, who saw that sight,
Bear witness, These were
men!
November 9, 1912.
“How can I tell,” Sir Edmund
said,
“Who has the right or
the wrong o’ this thing?
Cromwell stands for the people’s
cause,
Charles is crowned by the
ancient laws;
English meadows are sopping red,
Englishmen striking each other dead,—
Times are black as a raven’s
wing.
Out of the ruck and the murk I see
Only one thing!
The King has trusted his banner to me,
And I must fight for the King.”
Into the thick of the Edgehill fight
Sir Edmund rode with a shout;
and the ring
Of grim-faced, hard-hitting
Parliament men
Swallowed him up,—it
was one against ten!
He fought for the standard with all his
might,
Never again did he come to sight—
Victor, hid by the raven’s
wing!
After the battle had passed we found
Only one thing,—
The hand of Sir Edmund gripped around
The banner-staff of his King.
1914.
When Staevoren town was in its prime
And queened the Zuyder Zee,
Her ships went out to every clime
With costly merchantry.
A lady dwelt in that rich town,
The fairest in all the land;
She walked abroad in a velvet gown,
With many rings on her hand.
Her hair was bright as the beaten gold,
Her lips as coral red,
Her roving eyes were blue and bold,
And her heart with pride was
fed.
For she was proud of her father’s
ships,
As she watched them gaily
pass;
And pride looked out of her eyes and lips
When she saw herself in the
glass.
“Now come,” she said to the
captains ten,
Who were ready to put to sea,
“Ye are all my men and my father’s
men,
And what will ye do for me?”
“Go north and south, go east and
west,
And get me gifts,” she
said.
“And he who bringeth me home the
best,
With that man will I wed.”
So they all fared forth, and sought with
care
In many a famous mart,
For satins and silks and jewels rare,
To win that lady’s heart.
She looked at them all with never a thought,
And careless put them by;
“I am not fain of the things ye
brought,
Enough of these have I.”
The last that came was the head of the
fleet,
His name was Jan Borel;
He bent his knee at the lady’s feet,—
In truth he loved her well.
“I’ve brought thee home the
best i’ the world,
A shipful of Danzig corn!”
She stared at him long; her red lips curled,
Her blue eyes filled with
scorn.
“Now out on thee, thou feckless
kerl,
A loon thou art,” she
said.
“Am I a starving beggar girl?
Shall I ever lack for bread?”
“Go empty all thy sacks of grain
Into the nearest sea,
And never show thy face again
To make a mock of me.”
Young Jan Borel, he answered naught,
But in the harbour cast
The sacks of golden corn he brought,
And groaned when fell the
last.
Then Jan Borel, he hoisted sail,
And out to sea he bore;
He passed the Helder in a gale
And came again no more.
But the grains of corn went drifting down
Like devil-scattered seed,
To sow the harbour of the town
With a wicked growth of weed.
The roots were thick and the silt and
sand
Were gathered day by day,
Till not a furlong out from land
A shoal had barred the way.
Then Staevoren town saw evil years,
No ships could out or in,
The boats lay rotting at the piers,
And the mouldy grain in the
bin.
The grass-grown streets were all forlorn,
The town in ruin stood,
The lady’s velvet gown was torn,
Her rings were sold for food.
Her father had perished long ago,
But the lady held her pride,
She walked with a scornful step and slow,
Till at last in her rags she
died.
Yet still on the crumbling piers of the
town,
When the midnight moon shines
free,
A woman walks in a velvet gown
And scatters corn in the sea.
1917.
A MILE WITH ME
O who will walk a mile with me
Along life’s merry way?
A comrade blithe and full of glee,
Who dares to laugh out loud and free,
And let his frolic fancy play,
Like a happy child, through the flowers
gay
That fill the field and fringe the way
Where he walks a mile with
me.
And who will walk a mile with me
Along life’s weary way?
A friend whose heart has eyes to see
The stars shine out o’er the darkening
lea,
And the quiet rest at the end o’
the day,—
A friend who knows, and dares to say,
The brave, sweet words that cheer the
way
Where he walks a mile with
me.
With such a comrade, such a friend,
I fain would walk till journeys end,
Through summer sunshine, winter rain,
And then?—Farewell, we shall
meet again!
WORK
Let me but do my work from day to day,
In field or forest, at the
desk or loom,
In roaring market-place or
tranquil room;
Let me but find it in my heart to say,
When vagrant wishes beckon me astray,
“This is my work; my
blessing, not my doom;
Of all who live, I am the
one by whom
This work can best be done in the right
way.”
Then shall I see it not too great, nor
small,
To suit my spirit and to prove
my powers;
Then shall I cheerful greet
the labouring hours,
And cheerful turn, when the long shadows
fall
At eventide, to play and love and rest,
Because I know for me my work is best.
LOVE
Let me but love my love without disguise,
Nor wear a mask of fashion
old or new,
Nor wait to speak till I can
hear a clue,
Nor play a part to shine in others’
eyes,
Nor bow my knees to what my heart denies;
But what I am, to that let
me be true,
And let me worship where my
love is due,
And so through love and worship let me
rise.
For love is but the heart’s immortal
thirst
To be completely known and
all forgiven,
Even as sinful souls that
enter Heaven:
So take me, dear, and understand my worst,
And freely pardon it, because confessed,
And let me find in loving thee, my best.
LIFE
Let me but live my life from year to year,
With forward face and unreluctant
soul;
Not hurrying to, nor turning
from, the goal;
Not mourning for the things that disappear
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear
From what the future veils;
but with a whole
And happy heart, that pays
its toll
To Youth and Age, and travels on with
cheer.
So let the way wind up the hill or down,
O’er rough or smooth,
the journey will be joy:
Still seeking what I sought
when but a boy,
New friendship, high adventure, and a
crown,
My heart will keep the courage of the
quest,
And hope the road’s last turn will
be the best.
Not to the swift,
the race:
Not to the strong,
the fight:
Not to the righteous, perfect grace
Not to the wise,
the light.
But often faltering
feet
Come surest to
the goal;
And they who walk in darkness meet
The sunrise of
the soul.
A thousand times
by night
The Syrian hosts
have died;
A thousand times the vanquished right
Hath risen, glorified.
The truth the
wise men sought
Was spoken by
a child;
The alabaster box was brought
In trembling hands
defiled.
Not from my torch,
the gleam,
But from the stars above:
Not from my heart,
life’s crystal stream,
But from the depths
of Love.
DOORS OF DARING
The mountains that inclose the vale
With walls of granite, steep
and high,
Invite the fearless foot to scale
Their stairway toward the
sky.
The restless, deep, dividing sea
That flows and foams from
shore to shore,
Calls to its sunburned chivalry,
“Push out, set sail,
explore!”
The bars of life at which we fret,
That seem to prison and control,
Are but the doors of daring, set
Ajar before the soul.
Say not, “Too poor,” but freely
give;
Sigh not, “Too weak,”
but boldly try;
You never can begin to live
Until you dare to die.
When to the garden of untroubled thought
I came of late, and saw the
open door,
And wished again to enter,
and explore
The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom
inwrought,
And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught,
It seemed some purer voice
must speak before
I dared to tread that garden
loved of yore,
That Eden lost unknown and found unsought.
Then just within the gate I saw a child,—
A stranger-child, yet to my
heart most dear;
He held his hands to me, and softly smiled
With eyes that knew no shade
of sin or fear:
“Come in,” he said, “and
play awhile with me;
I am the little child you used to be.”
LOVE’S REASON
For that thy face is fair I love thee
not;
Nor yet because thy brown
benignant eyes
Have sudden gleams of gladness
and surprise,
Like woodland brooks that cross a sunlit
spot:
Nor for thy body, born without a blot,
And loveliest when it shines
with no disguise
Pure as the star of Eve in
Paradise,—
For all these outward things I love thee
not:
But for a something in thy form and face,
Thy looks and ways, of primal
harmony;
A certain soothing charm, a vital grace
That breathes of the eternal
womanly,
And makes me feel the warmth of Nature’s
breast,
When in her arms, and thine, I sink to
rest.
It’s little I can tell
About the birds in books;
And yet I know them well,
By their music and their looks:
When
May comes down the lane,
Her
airy lovers throng
To
welcome her with song,
And
follow in her train:
Each
minstrel weaves his part
In
that wild-flowery strain,
And
I know them all again
By
their echo in my heart.
It’s little that I care
About my darling’s place
In books of beauty rare,
Or heraldries of race:
For
when she steps in view,
It
matters not to me
What
her sweet type may be,
Of
woman, old or new.
I
can’t explain the art,
But
I know her for my own,
Because
her lightest tone
Wakes
an echo in my heart.
“UNDINE”
’Twas far away and long ago,
When I was but a dreaming
boy,
This fairy tale of love and woe
Entranced my heart with tearful
joy;
And while with white Undine I wept
Your spirit,—ah,
how strange it seems,—
Was cradled in some star, and slept,
Unconscious of her coming
dreams.
“RENCONTRE”
Oh, was I born too soon, my dear, or were
you born too late,
That I am going out the door while you
come in the gate?
For you the garden blooms galore, the
castle is en fete;
You are the coming guest, my dear,—for
me the horses wait.
I know the mansion well, my dear, its
rooms so rich and wide;
If you had only come before I might have
been your guide,
And hand in hand with you explore the
treasures that they hide;
But you have come to stay, my dear, and
I prepare to ride.
Then walk with me an hour, my dear, and
pluck the reddest rose
Amid the white and crimson store with
which your garden glows,—
A single rose,—I ask no more
of what your love bestows;
It is enough to give, my dear,—a
flower to him who goes.
The House of Life is yours, my dear, for
many and many a day,
But I must ride the lonely shore, the
Road to Far Away:
So bring the stirrup-cup and pour a brimming
draught, I pray,
And when you take the road, my dear, I’ll
meet you on the way.
Let me but feel thy look’s embrace,
Transparent, pure, and warm,
And I’ll not ask to touch thy face,
Or fold thee in mine arm.
For in thine eyes a girl doth rise,
Arrayed in candid bliss,
And draws me to her with a charm
More close than any kiss.
A loving-cup of golden wine,
Songs of a silver brook,
And fragrant breaths of eglantine,
Are mingled in thy look.
More fair they are than any star,
Thy topaz eyes divine—
And deep within their trysting-nook
Thy spirit blends with mine.
MY APRIL LADY
When down the stair at morning
The sunbeams round her float,
Sweet rivulets of laughter
Are rippling in her throat;
The gladness of her greeting
Is gold without alloy;
And in the morning sunlight
I think her name is Joy.
When in the evening twilight
The quiet book-room lies,
We read the sad old ballads,
While from her hidden eyes
The tears are falling, falling,
That give her heart relief;
And in the evening twilight,
I think her name is Grief.
My little April lady,
Of sunshine and of showers
She weaves the old spring magic,
And my heart breaks in flowers!
But when her moods are ended,
She nestles like a dove;
Then, by the pain and rapture,
I know her name is Love.
I envy every flower that blows
Along the meadow where she goes,
And every bird that sings
to her,
And every breeze that brings
to her
The fragrance
of the rose.
I envy every poet’s rhyme
That moves her heart at eventime,
And every tree that wears
for her
Its brightest bloom, and bears
for her
The fruitage of
its prime.
I envy every Southern night
That paves her path with moonbeams white,
And silvers all the leaves
for her,
And in their shadow weaves
for her
A dream of dear
delight.
I envy none whose love requires
Of her a gift, a task that tires:
I only long to live to her,
I only ask to give to her,
All that her heart
desires.
FIRE-FLY CITY
Like a long arrow through the dark the
train is darting,
Bearing me far away, after
a perfect day of love’s delight:
Wakeful with all the sad-sweet memories
of parting,
I lift the narrow window-shade
and look out on the night.
Lonely the land unknown, and like a river
flowing,
Forest and field and hill
are gliding backward still athwart my dream;
Till in that country strange, and ever
stranger growing,
A magic city full of lights
begins to glow and gleam.
Wide through the landscape dim the
lamps are lit in millions;
Long avenues unfold clear-shining lines of gold
across the green;
Clusters and rings of light, and luminous pavilions,—
Oh, who will tell the city’s name, and what
these wonders mean?
Why do they beckon me, and what have
they to show me?
Crowds in the blazing street, mirth where the
feasters meet, kisses and
wine:
Many to laugh with me, but never one to know me:
A cityful of stranger-hearts and none to beat
with mine!
Look how the glittering lines are
wavering and lifting,—
Softly the breeze of night scatters the vision
bright: and, passing
fair,
Over the meadow-grass and through the forest drifting,
The Fire-Fly City of the Dark is lost in empty
air!
“Through many a land your journey
ran,
And showed the best the world can boast:
Now tell me, traveller, if you can,
The place that pleased you most.”
She laid her hands upon my breast,
And murmured gently in my
ear,
“The place I loved and liked the
best
Was in your arms, my dear!”
NEPENTHE
Yes, it was like you to forget,
And cancel in the welcome of your smile
My deep arrears of debt,
And with the putting forth of both your
hands
To sweep away the bars my folly set
Between us—bitter thoughts,
and harsh demands,
And reckless deeds that seemed untrue
To love, when all the while
My heart was aching through and through
For you, sweet heart, and only you.
Yet, as I turned to come to you again,
I thought there must be many a mile
Of sorrowful reproach to cross,
And many an hour of mutual pain
To bear, until I could make plain
That all my pride was but the fear of
loss,
And all my doubt the shadow of despair
To win a heart so innocent and fair;
And even that which looked most ill
Was but the fever-fret and effort vain
To dull the thirst which you alone could
still.
But as I turned, the desert miles were
crossed,
And when I came, the weary hours were
sped!
For there you stood beside the open door,
Glad, gracious, smiling as before,
And with bright eyes and tender hands
outspread
Restored me to the Eden I had lost.
Never a word of cold reproof,
No sharp reproach, no glances that accuse
The culprit whom they hold aloof,—
Ah, ’tis not thus that other women
use
The empire they have won!
For there is none like you, beloved,—none
Secure enough to do what you have done.
Where did you learn this heavenly art,—
You sweetest and most wise of all that
live,—
With silent welcome to impart
Assurance of the royal heart
That never questions where it would forgive?
None but a queen could pardon me like
this!
My sovereign lady, let me lay
Within each rosy palm a loyal kiss
Of penitence, then close the fingers up,
Thus—thus! Now give the
cup
Of full nepenthe in your crimson mouth,
And come—the garden blooms
with bliss,
The wind is in the south,
The rose of love with dew is wet—
Dear, it was like you to forget!
How long is the night, brother,
And how long is the day?
Oh, the day’s too short for a happy
task,
And the day’s too short
for play;
And the night’s too short for the
bliss of love,
For look, how the edge of
the sky grows gray,
While the stars die out in the blue above,
And the wan moon fades away.
How short is the day, brother,
And how short is the night?
Oh, the day’s too long for a heavy
task,
And long, long, long is the
night,
When the wakeful hours are filled with
pain,
And the sad heart waits for
the thing it fears,
And sighs for the dawn to come again,—
The night is a thousand years!
How long is a life, dear God,
And how fast does it flow?
The measure of life is a flame in the
soul:
It is neither swift nor slow.
But the vision of time is the shadow cast
By the fleeting world on the
body’s wall;
When it fades there is neither future
nor past,
But love is all in all.
HESPER
Her eyes are like the evening air,
Her voice is like a rose,
Her lips are like a lovely song,
That ripples as it flows,
And she herself is sweeter than
The sweetest thing she knows.
A slender, haunting, twilight form
Of wonder and surprise,
She seemed a fairy or a child,
Till, deep within her eyes,
I saw the homeward-leading star
Of womanhood arise.
Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred
leagues of land,
Along a path I had not traced and could
not understand,
I travelled fast and far for this,—to
take thee by the hand.
A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where
he would bend his knee,
A mariner without a dream of what his
port would be,
So fared I with a seeking heart until
I came to thee.
O cooler than a grove of palm in some
heat-weary place,
O fairer than an isle of calm after the
wild sea race,
The quiet room adorned with flowers where
first I saw thy face!
Then furl the sail, let fall the oar,
forget the paths of foam!
The fate that made me wander far at last
has brought me home
To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I
no more will roam.
DEPARTURE
Oh, why are you shining so bright, big
Sun,
And why is the garden so gay?
Do you know that my days of delight are
done,
Do you know I am going away?
If you covered your face with a cloud,
I’d dream
You were sorry for me in my
pain,
And the heavily drooping flowers would
seem
To be weeping with me in the
rain.
But why is your head so low, sweet heart,
And why are your eyes overcast?
Are you crying because you know we must
part,
Do you think this embrace
is our last?
Then kiss me again, and again, and again,
Look up as you bid me good-bye!
For your face is too dear for the stain
of a tear,
And your smile is the sun
in my sky.
Once, only once, I saw it clear,—
That Eden every human heart has dreamed
A hundred times, but always far away!
Ah, well do I remember how it seemed,
Through the still atmosphere
Of that enchanted day,
To lie wide open to my weary feet:
A little land of love and joy and rest,
With meadows of soft green,
Rosy with cyclamen, and sweet
With delicate breath of violets unseen,—
And, tranquil ’mid the bloom
As if it waited for a coming guest,
A little house of peace and joy and love
Was nested like a snow-white dove.
From the rough mountain where I stood,
Homesick for happiness,
Only a narrow valley and a darkling wood
To cross, and then the long distress
Of solitude would be forever past,—
I should be home at last.
But not too soon! oh, let me linger here
And feed my eyes, hungry with sorrow,
On all this loveliness, so near,
And mine to-morrow!
Then, from the wood, across the silvery
blue,
A dark bird flew,
Silent, with sable wings.
Close in his wake another came,—
Fragments of midnight floating through
The sunset flame,—
Another and another, weaving rings
Of blackness on the primrose sky,—
Another, and another, look, a score,
A hundred, yes, a thousand rising heavily
From that accursed, dumb, and ancient
wood,
They boiled into the lucid air
Like smoke from some deep caldron of despair!
And more, and more, and ever more,
The numberless, ill-omened brood
Flapping their ragged plumes,
Possessed the landscape and the evening
light
With menaces and glooms.
Oh, dark, dark, dark they hovered o’er
the place
Where once I saw the little house so white
Amid the flowers, covering every trace
Of beauty from my troubled sight,—
And suddenly it was night!
At break of day I crossed the wooded vale;
And while the morning made
A trembling light among the tree-tops
pale,
I saw the sable birds on every limb,
Clinging together closely in the shade,
And croaking placidly their surly hymn.
But, oh, the little land of peace and
love
That those night-loving wings had poised
above,—
Where was it gone?
Lost, lost, forevermore!
Only a cottage, dull and gray,
In the cold light of dawn,
With iron bars across the door:
Only a garden where the drooping head
Of one sad rose, foreboding its decay,
Hung o’er a barren bed:
Only a desolate field that lay
Untilled beneath the desolate day,—
Where Eden seemed to bloom I found but
these!
So, wondering, I passed along my way,
With anger in my heart, too deep for words,
Against that grove of evil-sheltering
trees,
And the black magic of the croaking birds.
WITHOUT DISGUISE
If I have erred in showing all my heart,
And lost your favour by a
lack of pride;
If standing like a beggar
at your side
With naked feet, I have forgot the art
Of those who bargain well in passion’s
mart,
And win the thing they want
by what they hide;
Be mine the fault as mine
the hope denied,
Be mine the lover’s and the loser’s
part.
The sin, if sin it was, I do repent,
And take the penance on myself
alone;
Yet after I have borne the punishment,
I shall not fear to stand
before the throne
Of Love with open heart, and make this
plea:
“At least I have not lied to her
nor Thee!”
You only promised me a single hour:
But in that hour I journeyed
through a year
Of life: the joy of finding
you,—the fear
Of losing you again,—the sense
of power
To make you all my own,—the
sudden shower
Of tears that came because
you were more dear
Than words could ever tell
you,—then,—the clear
Soft rapture when I plucked love’s
crimson flower.
An hour,—a year,—I
felt your bosom rise
And fall with mystic tides,
and saw the gleam
Of undiscovered stars within your eyes,—
A year,—an hour?
I knew not, for the stream
Of love had carried me to Paradise,
Where all the forms of Time
are like a dream.
“RAPPELLE-TOI”
Remember, when the timid light
Through the enchanted hall of dawn is gleaming;
Remember, when the pensive night
Beneath her silver-sprinkled veil walks dreaming;
When pleasure calls thee and thy heart beats
high,
When tender joys through evening shades draw
nigh,
Hark, from the woodland deeps
A gentle whisper creeps,
Remember!
Remember, when the hand of fate
My life from thine forevermore has parted;
When sorrow, exile, and the weight
Of lonely years have made me heavy-hearted;
Think of my loyal love, my last adieu;
Absence and time are naught, if we are true;
Long as my heart shall beat,
To thine it will repeat,
Remember!
Remember, when the cool, dark tomb
Receives my heart into its quiet keeping,
And some sweet flower begins to bloom
Above the grassy mound where I am sleeping;
Ah then, my face thou nevermore shalt see,
But still my soul will linger close to thee,
And in the holy place of night,
The litany of love recite,—
Remember!
Freely rendered from the French of Alfred de Musset.
I think of thee when golden sunbeams
glimmer
Across the sea;
And when the waves reflect the moon’s pale
shimmer
I think of thee.
I see thy form when down the distant
highway
The dust-clouds rise;
In darkest night, above the mountain by-way
I see thine eyes.
I hear thee when the ocean-tides
returning
Aloud rejoice;
And on the lonely moor in silence yearning
I hear thy voice.
I dwell with thee; though thou art
far removed,
Yet thou art near.
The sun goes down, the stars shine out,—Beloved
If thou wert here!
From the German of Goethe, 1898.
“EIN FICHTENBAUM”
A fir-tree standeth lonely
On a barren northern height,
Asleep, while winter covers
His rest with robes of white.
In dreams, he sees a palm-tree
In the golden morning-land;
She droops alone and silent
In burning wastes of sand.
“DU BIST WIE EINE BLUME”
Fair art thou as a flower
And innocent and shy:
I look on thee and sorrow;
I grieve, I know not why.
I long to lay, in blessing,
My hand upon thy brow,
And pray that God may keep thee
As fair and pure as now.
1872.
THE IVORY CRADLE
The cradle I have made for thee
Is carved of orient ivory,
And curtained round with wavy silk
More white than hawthorn-bloom or milk.
A twig of box, a lilac spray,
Will drive the goblin-horde away;
And charm thy childlike heart to keep
Her happy dream and virgin sleep.
Within that pure and fragrant nest,
I’ll rock thy gentle soul to rest,
With tender songs we need not fear
To have a passing angel hear.
Ah, long and long I fain would hold
The snowy curtain’s guardian fold
Around thy crystal visions, born
In clearness of the early morn.
But look, the sun is glowing red
With triumph in his golden bed;
Aurora’s virgin whiteness dies
In crimson glory of the skies.
The rapid flame will burn its way
Through these white curtains, too, one
day;
The ivory cradle will be left
Undone, and broken, and bereft.
DREAMS
Often I dream your big blue eyes,
Though loth their meaning
to confess,
Regard me with a clear surprise
Of dawning tenderness.
Often I dream you gladly hear
The words I hardly dare to
breathe,—
The words that falter in their fear
To tell what throbs beneath.
Often I dream your hand in mine
Falls like a flower at eventide,
And down the path we leave a line
Of footsteps side by side.
But ah, in all my dreams of bliss,
In passion’s hunger,
fever’s drouth,
I never dare to dream of this:
My lips upon your mouth.
And so I dream your big blue eyes,
That look on me with tenderness,
Grow wide, and deep, and sad, and wise,
And dim with dear distress.
THE GARLAND OF SLEEP
A wreath of poppy flowers,
With leaves of lotus blended,
Is carved on Life’s facade of hours,
From night to night suspended.
Along the columned wall,
From birth’s low portal
starting,
It flows, with even rise and fall,
To death’s dark door
of parting.
How short each measured arc,
How brief the columns’
number!
The wreath begins and ends in dark,
And leads from sleep to slumber.
The marble garland seems,
With braided leaf and bloom,
To deck the palace of our dreams
As if it were a tomb.
TRANQUIL HABIT
Dear tranquil Habit, with her silent hands,
Doth heal our deepest wounds
from day to day
With cooling, soothing oil,
and firmly lay
Around the broken heart her gentle bands.
Her nursing is as calm as Nature’s
care;
She doth not weep with us;
yet none the less
Her quiet fingers weave forgetfulness,—
We fall asleep in peace when she is there.
Upon the mirror of the mind her breath
Is like a cloud, to hide the
fading trace
Of that dear smile, of that
remembered face,
Whose presence were the joy and pang of
death.
And he who clings to sorrow overmuch,
Weeping for withered grief,
has cause to bless,
More than all cries of pity
and distress,—
Dear tranquil Habit, thy consoling touch!
THE OLD BRIDGE
On the old, old bridge, with its crumbling stones
All covered with lichens red and gray,
Two lovers were talking in sweet low tones:
And we were they!
As he leaned to breathe in her willing ear
The love that he vowed would never die,
He called her his darling, his dove most dear:
And he was I!
She covered her face from the pale moonlight
With her trembling hands, but her eyes looked through,
And listened and listened with long delight:
And she was you!
On the old, old bridge, where the lichens rust,
Two lovers are learning the same old lore;
He tells his love, and she looks her trust:
But we,—no more!
EYES AND LIPS
1
Our silent eyes alone interpreted
The new-born feeling in the heart of each:
In yours I read your sorrow without speech,
Your lonely struggle in their tears unshed.
Behind their dreamy sweetness, as a veil,
I saw the moving lights of trouble shine;
And then my eyes were brightened as with wine,
My spirit reeled to see your face grow pale!
Our deepening love, that is not yet allowed
Another language than the
eyes, doth learn
To speak it perfectly: above the
crowd
Our looks exchange avowals and desires,—
Like wave-divided beacon lights
that burn,
And talk to one another by their fires.
2
When I embrace her in a fragrant shrine
Of climbing roses, my first
kiss shall fall
On you, sweet eyes, that mutely
told me all,—
Through you my soul will rise to make
her mine.
Upon your drooping lids, blue-veined and
fair,
The touch of tenderness I
first will lay,
You springs of joy, lights
of my gloomy day,
Whose dear discovered secret bade me dare!
And when you open, eyes of my fond dove,
Your look will shine with
new delight, made sure
By this forerunner of a faithful love.
Tis just, dear eyes, so pensive
and so pure,
That you should bear the sealing kisses
true
Of love unhoped that came to me through
you.
3
This was my thought; but when beneath
the rose
That hides the lonely bench
where lovers rest,
In friendly dusk I held her
on my breast
For one brief moment,—while
I saw you close,
Dear, yielding eyes, as if your lids,
blue-veined
And pure, were meekly fain
at last to bear
The proffered homage of my
wistful prayer,—
In that high moment, by your grace obtained,
Forgetting your avowals, your alarms,
Your anguish and your tears,
sweet weary eyes,
Forgetting that you gave her to my arms,
I broke my promise; and my first caress,
Ungrateful, sought her lips
in sweet surprise,—
Her lips, which breathed a word of tenderness!
AN EVOCATION
When first upon my brow I felt your kiss,
A sudden splendour filled
me, like the ray
That promptly runs to crown the hills
with bliss
Of purple dawn before the
golden day,
And ends the gloom it crosses at one leap.
My brow was not unworthy your
caress;
For some foreboding joy had bade me keep
From all affront the place
your lips would bless.
Yet when your mouth upon my mouth did
lay
The royal touch, no rapture
made me thrill,
But I remained confused, ashamed,
and still.
Beneath your kiss, my queen
without a stain,
I felt,—like ghosts who rise
at Judgment Day,—
A throng of ancient kisses
vile and vain!
RESIGNATION
1
Well, you will triumph, dear and noble
friend!
The holy love that wounded
you so deep
Will bring you balm, and on
your heart asleep
The fragrant dew of healing will descend.
Your children,—ah,
how quickly they will grow
Between us, like a wall that
fronts the sun,
Lifting a screen with rosy
buds o’errun,
To hide the shaded path where I must go.
You’ll walk in light; and dreaming
less and less
Of him who droops in gloom
beyond the wall,
Your mother-soul will fill with happiness
When first you hear your grandchild’s
babbling call,
Beneath the braided bloom of flower and
leaf
That We has wrought to veil your vanished
grief.
2
Then I alone shall suffer! I shall
bear
The double burden of our grief
alone,
While I enlarge my soul to take your share
Of pain and hold it close
beside my own.
Our love is torn asunder; but the crown
Of thorns that love has woven
I will make
My relic sacrosanct, and press it down
Upon my bleeding heart that
will not break.
Ah, that will be the depth of solitude!
For my regret, that evermore
endures,
Will know that new-born hope
has conquered yours;
And when the evening comes, no gentle
brood
Of wondering children, gathered at my
side,
Will soothe away the tears I cannot hide.
Freely rendered from the French, 1911.
Come home, my love, come home!
The twilight is falling,
The whippoorwill calling,
The night is very near,
And the darkness full of fear,
Come home to my arms, come home!
Come home, my love, come home!
In folly we parted,
And now, lonely hearted,
I know you look in vain
For a love like mine again;
Come home to my arms, come home!
Come home, dear love, come home!
I’ve much to forgive
you,
And more yet to give you.
I’ll put a little light
In the window every night,—
Come home to my arms, come home.
THE RIVER OF DREAMS
The river of dreams runs quietly down
From its hidden
home in the forest of sleep,
With a measureless
motion calm and deep;
And my boat slips out on the current brown,
In a tranquil
bay where the trees incline
Far over the waves,
and creepers twine
Far over the boughs,
as if to steep
Their drowsy bloom
in the tide that goes
By a secret way
that no man knows,
Under the branches bending,
Under the shadows blending,
And the body rests,
and the passive soul
Is drifted along
to an unseen goal,
While the river of dreams runs down.
The river of dreams runs gently down,
With a leisurely
flow that bears my bark
Out of the visionless
woods of dark,
Into a glory that seems to crown
Valley and hill
with light from far,
Clearer than sun
or moon or star,
Luminous, wonderful,
weird, oh, mark
How the radiance
pulses everywhere,
In the shadowless
vault of lucid air!
Over the mountains shimmering,
Up from the fountains glimmering,—
Tis the mystical
glow of the inner light,
That shines in
the very noon of night,
While the river of dreams runs down.
The river of dreams runs murmuring down,
Through the fairest
garden that ever grew;
And now, as my
boat goes drifting through,
A hundred voices arise to drown
The river’s
whisper, and charm my ear
With a sound I
have often longed to hear,—
A magical music,
strange and new,
The wild-rose
ballad, the lilac-song,
The virginal chant
of the lilies’ throng,
Blue-bells silverly ringing,
Pansies merrily singing,—
For all the flowers
have found their voice;
And I feel no
wonder, but only rejoice,
While the river of dreams runs down.
The river of dreams runs broadening down,
Away from the
peaceful garden-shore,
With a current
that deepens more and more,
By the league-long walls of a mighty town;
And I see the
hurrying crowds of men
Gather like clouds
and dissolve again;
But never a face
I have seen before.
They come and
go, they shift and change,
Their ways and
looks are wild and strange,—
This is a city haunted,
A multitude enchanted!
At the sight of
the throng I am dumb with fear,
And never a sound
from their lips I hear,
While the river of dreams runs down.
The river of dreams runs darkly down
Into the heart
of a desolate land,
With ruined temples
half-buried in sand,
And riven hills, whose black brows frown
Over the shuddering,
lonely wave.
The air grows
dim with the dust of the grave;
No sign of life
on the dreary strand;
No ray of light
on the mountain’s crest;
And a weary wind
that cannot rest
Comes down the valley creeping,
Lamenting, wailing, weeping,—
I strive to cry
out, but my fluttering breath
Is choked with
the clinging fog of death,
While the river of dreams runs down.
The river of dreams runs trembling down,
Out of the valley
of nameless fear,
Into a country
calm and clear,
With a mystical name of high renown,—
A name that I
know, but may not tell,—
And there the
friends that I loved so well,
Old companions
forever dear,
Come beckoning
down to the river shore,
The river of dreams runs dimly down
By a secret way
that no man knows;
But the soul lives
on while the river flows
Through the gardens bright and the forests
brown;
And I often think
that our whole life seems
To be more than
half made up of dreams.
The changing sights
and the passing shows,
The morning hopes
and the midnight fears,
Are left behind
with the vanished years;
Onward, with ceaseless motion,
The life-stream flows to the ocean,
While we follow
the tide, awake or asleep,
Till we see the
dawn on Love’s great deep,
And the shadows
melt, and the soul is free,—
The river of dreams
has reached the sea.
1900.
A HOME SONG
I read within a poet’s book
A word that starred the page:
“Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage!”
Yes, that is true, and something more:
You’ll find, where’er
you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.
But every house where Love abides,
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
For there the heart can rest.
“LITTLE BOATIE”
Furl your sail, my little boatie;
Here’s the
haven still and deep,
Where the dreaming tides in-streaming
Up
the channel creep.
Now the sunset breeze is dying;
Hear the plover, landward flying,
Softly down the twilight crying;
Come to anchor,
little boatie,
In
the port of Sleep.
Far away, my little boatie,
Roaring waves
are white with foam;
Ships are striving, onward driving,
Day
and night they roam.
Father’s at the deep-sea trawling,
In the darkness, rowing, hauling,
While the hungry winds are calling,—
God protect him,
little boatie,
Bring
him safely home!
Not for you, my little boatie,
Is the wide and
weary sea;
You’re too slender, and too tender,
You
must bide with me.
All day long you have been straying
Up and down the shore and playing;
Come to harbour, no delaying!
Day is over, little
boatie,
Night
falls suddenly.
Furl your sail, my little boatie,
Fold your wings,
my weary dove.
Dews are sprinkling, stars are twinkling
Drowsily
above.
Cease from sailing, cease from rowing;
Rock upon the dream-tide, knowing
Safely o’er your rest are glowing,
All the night,
my little boatie,
Harbour-lights
of love.
1897.
Lord Jesus, Thou hast known
A mother’s love and
tender care:
And
Thou wilt hear,
While
for my own
Mother
most dear
I
make this birthday prayer.
Protect her life, I pray,
Who gave the gift of life
to me;
And
may she know,
From
day to day,
The
deepening glow
Of
joy that comes from Thee.
As once upon her breast
Fearless and well content
I lay,
So
let her heart,
On
Thee at rest,
Feel
fear depart
And
trouble fade away.
Ah, hold her by the hand,
As once her hand held mine;
And
though she may
Not
understand
Life’s
winding way,
Lead
her in peace divine.
I cannot pay my debt
For all the love that she
has given;
But
Thou, love’s Lord,
Wilt
not forget
Her
due reward,—
Bless
her in earth and heaven.
TRANSFORMATION
Only a little shrivelled seed,
It might be flower, or grass, or weed;
Only a box of earth on the edge
Of a narrow, dusty window-ledge;
Only a few scant summer showers;
Only a few clear shining hours;
That was all. Yet God could make
Out of these, for a sick child’s
sake,
A blossom-wonder, fair and sweet
As ever broke at an angel’s feet.
Only a life of barren pain,
Wet with sorrowful tears for rain,
Warmed sometimes by a wandering gleam
Of joy, that seemed but a happy dream;
A life as common and brown and bare
As the box of earth in the window there;
Yet it bore, at last, the precious bloom
Of a perfect soul in that narrow room;
Pure as the snowy leaves that fold
Over the flower’s heart of gold.
I count that friendship little worth
Which has not many things
untold,
Great longings that no words
can hold,
And passion-secrets waiting birth.
Along the slender wires of speech
Some message from the heart
is sent;
But who can tell the whole
that’s meant?
Our dearest thoughts are out of reach.
I have not seen thee, though mine eyes
Hold now the image of thy
face;
In vain, through form, I strive
to trace
The soul I love: that deeper lies.
A thousand accidents control
Our meeting here. Clasp
hand in hand,
And swear to meet me in that
land
Where friends hold converse soul to soul.
GRATITUDE
“Do you give thanks for this?—or
that?” No, God be thanked
I am not grateful
In that cold, calculating way, with blessings ranked
As one, two, three, and four,—that
would be hateful.
I only know that every day brings
good above
My poor deserving;
I only feel that in the road of Life true Love
Is leading me along and never swerving.
Whatever gifts and mercies to my
lot may fall,
I would not measure
As worth a certain price in praise, or great or
small;
But take and use them all with simple pleasure.
For when we gladly eat our daily
bread, we bless
The Hand that feeds us;
And when we tread the road of Life in cheerfulness,
Our very heart-beats praise the Love that leads
us.
With eager heart and will on fire,
I strove to win my great desire.
“Peace shall be mine,” I said; but life
Grew bitter in the barren strife.
My soul was weary, and my pride
Was wounded deep; to Heaven I cried,
“God grant me peace or I must die;”
The dumb stars glittered no reply.
Broken at last, I bowed my head,
Forgetting all myself, and said,
“Whatever comes, His will be done;”
And in that moment peace was won.
SANTA CHRISTINA
Saints are God’s flowers, fragrant
souls
That His own hand hath planted,
Not in some far-off heavenly place,
Or solitude enchanted,
But here and there and everywhere,—
In lonely field, or crowded
town,
God sees a flower when He
looks down.
Some wear the lily’s stainless white,
And some the rose of passion,
And some the violet’s heavenly blue,
But each in its own fashion,
With silent bloom and soft perfume,
Is praising Him who from above
Beholds each lifted face of
love.
One such I knew,—and had the
grace
To thank my God for knowing:
The beauty of her quiet life
Was like a rose in blowing,
So fair and sweet, so all-complete
And all unconscious, as a
flower,
That light and fragrance were
her dower.
No convent-garden held this rose,
Concealed like secret treasure;
No royal terrace guarded her
For some sole monarch’s
pleasure.
She made her shrine, this saint of mine,
In a bright home where children
played;
And there she wrought and
there she prayed.
In sunshine, when the days were glad,
She had the art of keeping
The clearest rays, to give again
In days of rain and weeping;
Her blessed heart could still impart
Some portion of its secret
grace,
And charity shone in her face.
In joy she grew from year to year;
And sorrow made her sweeter;
And every comfort, still more kind;
And every loss, completer.
Her children came to love her name,—
“Christina,”—’twas
a lip’s caress;
And when they called, they
seemed to bless.
No more they call, for she is gone
Too far away to hear them;
And yet they often breathe her name
As if she lingered near them;
They cannot reach her with love’s
speech,
But when they say “Christina”
now
’Tis like a prayer or
like a vow:
A vow to keep her life alive
In deeds of pure affection,
So that her love shall find in them
A daily resurrection;
A constant prayer that they may wear
Some touch of that supernal
light
With which she blossoms in
God’s sight.
What shall I give for thee,
Thou Pearl of greatest price?
For all the treasures I possess
Would not suffice.
I give my store of gold;
It is but earthly dross:
But thou wilt make me rich, beyond
All fear of loss.
Mine honours I resign;
They are but small at best:
Thou like a royal star wilt shine
Upon my breast.
My worldly joys I give,
The flowers with which I played;
Thy beauty, far more heavenly fair,
Shall never fade.
Dear Lord, is that enough?
Nay, not a thousandth part.
Well, then, I have but one thing more:
Take Thou my heart.
TO THE CHILD JESUS
THE NATIVITY
Could every time-worn heart but see Thee
once again,
A happy human child, among the homes of
men,
The age of doubt would pass,—the
vision of Thy face
Would silently restore the childhood of
the race.
THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT
Thou wayfaring Jesus, a pilgrim and stranger,
Exiled from heaven by love
at thy birth,
Exiled again from thy rest in the manger,
A fugitive child ’mid
the perils of earth,—
Cheer with thy fellowship all who are
weary,
Wandering far from the land
that they love;
Guide every heart that is homeless and
dreary,
Safe to its home in thy presence
above.
Just to give up, and trust
All to a Fate
unknown,
Plodding along life’s
road in the dust,
Bounded by walls
of stone;
Never to have a heart at peace;
Never to see when care will cease;
Just to be still when sorrows fall—
This is the bitterest lesson of all.
Just to give up, and rest
All on a Love
secure,
Out of a world that’s
hard at the best,
Looking to heaven
as sure;
Ever to hope, through cloud and fear,
In darkest night, that the dawn is near;
Just to wait at the Master’s feet—
Surely, now, the bitter is sweet.
HYMN OF JOY
Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee,
God of glory, Lord of love;
Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee,
Praising Thee their sun above.
Melt the clouds of sin and sadness;
Drive the dark of doubt away;
Giver of immortal gladness,
Fill us with the light of
day!
All Thy works with joy surround Thee,
Earth and heaven reflect Thy
rays,
Stars and angels sing around Thee,
Centre of unbroken praise:
Field and forest, vale and mountain,
Blooming meadow, flashing
sea,
Chanting bird and flowing fountain,
Call us to rejoice in Thee.
Thou art giving and forgiving,
Ever blessing, ever blest,
Well-spring of the joy of living,
Ocean-depth of happy rest!
Thou our Father, Christ our Brother,—
All who live in love are Thine:
Teach us how to love each other,
Lift us to the Joy Divine.
Mortals join the mighty chorus,
Which the morning stars began;
Father-love is reigning o’er us,
Brother-love binds man to
man.
Ever singing march we onward,
Victors in the midst of strife;
Joyful music lifts us sunward
In the triumph song of life.
1908.
March on, my soul, nor like a laggard
stay!
March swiftly on. Yet err not from
the way
Where all the nobly wise of old have trod,—
The path of faith, made by the sons of
God.
Follow the marks that they have set beside
The narrow, cloud-swept track, to be thy
guide:
Follow, and honour what the past has gained,
And forward still, that more may be attained.
Something to learn, and something to forget:
Hold fast the good, and seek the better
yet:
Press on, and prove the pilgrim-hope of
youth:
The Creeds are milestones on the road
to Truth.
ODE TO PEACE
IN EXCELSIS
Two dwellings, Peace, are thine.
One is the mountain-height,
Uplifted in the loneliness of light
Beyond the realm of shadows,—fine,
And far, and clear,—where advent
of the night
Means only glorious nearness of the stars,
And dawn unhindered breaks above the bars
That long the lower world in twilight
keep.
Thou sleepest not, and hast no need of
DE PROFUNDIS
But in the depth thou hast another home,
For hearts less
daring, or more frail.
Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale;
And
pilgrim-souls that roam
With weary feet
o’er hill and dale,
Bearing the burden
and the heat
Of
toilful days,
Turn
from the dusty ways
To find thee in thy green and still retreat.
Here is no vision
wide outspread
Before the lonely and exalted seat
Of all-embracing knowledge. Here,
instead,
A little cottage, and a garden-nook,
With
outlooks brief and sweet
Across the meadows, and along the brook,—
A little stream
that nothing knows
Of the great sea to which it gladly flows,—
A little field that bears a little wheat
To make a portion of earth’s daily
bread.
The vast cloud-armies
overhead
Are marshalled,
and the wild wind blows
Its trumpet, but
thou canst not tell
Whence comes the wind nor where it goes;
Nor dost thou greatly care, since all
is well.
Thy
daily task is done,
And now the wages of repose are won.
Here friendship lights the fire, and every
heart,
Sure of itself and sure of all the rest,
Dares to be true, and gladly takes its
part
In open converse, bringing forth its best:
BEDTIME
Ere thou sleepest gently lay
Every troubled thought away:
Put off worry and distress
As thou puttest off thy dress:
Drop thy burden and thy care
In the quiet arms of prayer.
Lord, Thou knowest how I live,
All I’ve done amiss forgive:
All of good I’ve tried to do,
Strengthen, bless, and carry through,
All I love in safety keep,
While in Thee I fall asleep.
NIGHT WATCH
If slumber should forsake
Thy pillow in the dark,
Fret not thyself to mark
How long thou liest awake.
There is a better way;
Let go the strife and strain,
Thine eyes will close again,
If thou wilt only pray.
Lord, Thy peaceful gift restore,
Give my body sleep once more:
While I wait my soul will rest
Like a child upon Thy breast.
NEW DAY
Ere thou risest from thy bed,
Speak to God Whose wings were spread
O’er thee in the helpless night:
Lo, He wakes thee now with light!
Lift thy burden and thy care
In the mighty arms of prayer.
Lord, the newness of this day
Calls me to an untried way:
Let me gladly take the road,
Give me strength to bear my load,
Thou my guide and helper be—
I will travel through with Thee.
The Mission Inn, California, Easter, 1913.
If on the closed curtain of my sight
My fancy paints thy portrait
far away,
I see thee still the same,
by night or day;
Crossing the crowded street, or moving
bright
’Mid festal throngs, or reading
by the light
Of shaded lamp some friendly
poet’s lay,
Or shepherding the children
at their play,—
The same sweet self, and my unchanged
delight.
But when I see thee near, I recognize
In every dear familiar way
some strange
Perfection, and behold in April guise
The magic of thy beauty that
doth range
Through many moods with infinite surprise,—
Never the same, and sweeter
with each change.
THE WIND OF SORROW
The fire of love was burning, yet so low
That in the peaceful
dark it made no rays,
And in the light
of perfect-placid days
The ashes hid the smouldering embers’
glow.
Vainly, for love’s delight, we sought
to throw
New pleasures
on the pyre to make it blaze:
In life’s
calm air and tranquil-prosperous ways
We missed the radiant heat of long ago.
Then in the night, a night of sad alarms,
Bitter with pain
and black with fog of fears
That drove us trembling to each other’s
arms,
Across the gulf
of darkness and salt tears
Into life’s calm the wind of sorrow
came,
And fanned the fire of love to clearest
name.
All the trees are sleeping, all the
winds are still,
All the fleecy flocks of cloud, gone beyond the
hill;
Through the noon-day silence, down the woods of
June,
Hark, a little hunter’s voice, running with
a tune.
“Hide and seek!
When I speak,
You must answer me:
Call again,
Merry men,
Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!”
Now I hear his footsteps rustling
in the grass:
Hidden in my leafy nook, shall I let him pass?
Just a low, soft whistle,—quick the hunter
turns,
Leaps upon me laughing loud, rolls me in the ferns.
“Hold him fast,
Caught at last!
Now you’re it, you see.
Hide your eye,
Till I cry,
Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!”
Long ago he left me, long and long
ago;
Now I wander thro’ the world, seeking high
and low.
Hidden safe and happy, in some pleasant place,—
If I could but hear his voice, soon I’d see
his face!
Far away,
Many a day,
Where can Barney be?
Answer, dear,
Don’t you hear?
Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!
Birds that every spring-time sung
him full of joy,
Flowers he loved to pick for me, mind me of my boy.
Somewhere he is waiting till my steps come nigh;
Love may hide itself awhile, but love can never
die.
Heart, be glad,
The little lad
Will call again to thee:
“Father dear,
Heaven is here,
Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!”
1898.
When the frosty kiss of Autumn in
the dark
Makes its mark
On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves
Over fallen leaves;
Then my olden garden, where the golden soil
Through the toil
Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep,
Whispers in its sleep.
’Mid the crumpled beds of marigold
and phlox,
Where the box
Borders with its glossy green the ancient walks,
There’s a voice that talks
Of the human hopes that bloomed and withered here
Year by year,—
And the dreams that brightened all the labouring
hours.
Fading as the flowers.
Yet the whispered story does not
deepen grief;
But relief
For the loneliness of sorrow seems to flow
From the Long-Ago,
When I think of other lives that learned, like mine,
To resign,
And remember that the sadness of the fall
Comes alike to all.
What regrets, what longings for the
lost were theirs I
And what prayers
For the silent strength that nerves us to endure
Things we cannot cure!
Pacing up and down the garden where they paced,
I have traced
All their well-worn paths of patience, till I find
Comfort in my mind.
Faint and far away their ancient
griefs appear:
Yet how near
Is the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face,
Of the human race!
Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart,—
Not apart!
They who know the sorrows other lives have known
Never walk alone.
October, 1903.
Waking from tender sleep,
My neighbour’s little child
Put out his baby hand to me,
Looked in my face, and smiled.
It seems as if he came
Home from a happy land,
To bring a message to my heart
And make me understand.
Somewhere, among bright dreams,
A child that once was mine
Has whispered wordless love to him,
And given him a sign.
Comfort of kindly speech,
And counsel of the wise,
Have helped me less than what I read
In those deep-smiling eyes.
Sleep sweetly, little friend,
And dream again of heaven:
With double love I kiss your hand,—
Your message has been given.
November, 1903.
Long, long ago I heard a little song,
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
So lowly, slowly wound the tune along,
That far into my heart it
found the way:
A melody consoling and endearing;
And now, in silent hours, I’m often
hearing
The small, sweet song that
does not die away.
Long, long ago I saw a little flower—
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
So fair of face and fragrant for an hour,
That something dear to me
it seemed to say,—
A wordless joy that blossomed into being;
And now, in winter days, I’m often
seeing
The friendly flower that does
not fade away.
Long, long ago we had a little child,—
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
Into his mother’s eyes and mine
he smiled
Unconscious love; warm in
our arms he lay.
An angel called! Dear heart, we could
not hold him;
Yet secretly your arms and mine infold
him—
Our little child who does
not go away.
Long, long ago? Ah, memory, make
it clear—
(It was not long ago, but
yesterday.)
So little and so helpless and so dear—
Let not the song be lost,
the flower decay!
His voice, his waking eyes, his gentle
sleeping:
The smallest things are safest in thy
keeping,—
Sweet memory, keep our child
with us alway.
November, 1903.
All night long, by a distant bell
The passing hours were notched
On the dark, while her breathing rose
and fell;
And the spark of life I watched
In her face was glowing, or fading,—who
could tell?—
And the open window of the
room,
With a flare of
yellow light,
Was peering out into the gloom,
Like an eye that
searched the night.
Oh, what do you see in the dark, little window,
and why do you peer?
“I see that the garden is crowded
with creeping forms of fear:
Little white ghosts in the locust-tree,
wave in the night-wind’s breath,
And low in the leafy laurels the lurking
shadow of death."
Sweet, clear notes of a waking bird
Told of the passing away
Of the dark,—and my darling
may have heard;
For she smiled in her sleep,
while the ray
Of the rising dawn spoke joy without a
word,
Till the splendour born in
the east outburned
The yellow lamplight,
pale and thin,
And the open window slowly
turned
To the eye of
the morning, looking in.
Oh, what do you see in the room,
little window, that makes you so
bright?
“I see that a child is asleep on her pillow,
soft and white:
With the rose of life on her lips, the pulse of
life in her breast,
And the arms of God around her, she quietly takes
her rest."
Neuilly, June, 1909.
The day returns by which we date our years:
Day of the joy of giving,—that
means love;
Day of the joy of living,—that
means hope;
Day of the Royal Child,—and
day that brings
To older hearts the gift of Christmas
tears!
Look, how the candles twinkle through
the tree,
The children shout when baby claps his
hands,
The room is full of laughter and of song!
Your lips are smiling, dearest,—tell
me why
Your eyes are brimming full of Christmas
tears?
Was it a silent voice that joined the
song?
A vanished face that glimmered once again
Among the happy circle round the tree?
Was it an unseen hand that touched your
cheek
And brought the secret gift of Christmas
tears?
Not dark and angry like the winter storm
Of selfish grief,—but full
of starry gleams,
And soft and still that others may not
weep,—
Dews of remembered happiness descend
To bless us with the gift of Christmas
tears.
Ah, lose them not, dear heart,—life
has no pearls
More pure than memories of joy love-shared.
See, while we count them one by one with
prayer,
The Heavenly hope that lights the Christmas
tree
Has made a rainbow in our Christmas tears!
1912.
1888-1912
A deeper crimson in the rose,
A deeper blue in sky and sea,
And ever, as the summer goes,
A deeper loss in losing thee!
A deeper music in the strain
Of hermit-thrush from lonely tree;
And deeper grows the sense of gain
My life has found in having thee.
A deeper love, a deeper rest,
A deeper joy in all I see;
And ever deeper in my breast
A silver song that comes from thee!
Seal Harbour, August 1, 1912.
FOR KATRINA’S SUN-DIAL
Hours fly,
Flowers die
New days,
New ways,
Pass by.
Love stays.
* * *
Time is
Too Slow for those who Wait,
Too Swift for those who Fear,
Too Long for those who Grieve,
Too Short for those who Rejoice;
But for those who Love,
Time is not.
FOR KATRINA’S WINDOW
This is the window’s message,
In silence, to the Queen:
“Thou hast a double kingdom
And I am set between:
Look out and see the glory,
On hill and plain and sky:
Look in and see the light of love
That nevermore shall die!”
L’ENVOI
Window in the Queen’s high tower,
This shall be thy magic power!
Shut the darkness and the doubt,
Shut the storm and conflict, out;
Wind and hail and snow and rain
Dash against thee all in vain.
Let in nothing from the night,—
Let in every ray of light!
THE HOUSE
The cornerstone in Truth is laid,
The guardian walls of Honour made,
The roof of Faith is built above,
The fire upon the hearth is Love:
Though rains descend and loud winds call,
This happy house shall never fall.
When the logs are burning free,
Then the fire is full of glee:
When each heart gives out its best,
Then the talk is full of zest:
Light your fire and never fear,
Life was made for love and cheer.
THE DOOR
The lintel low enough to keep out pomp
and pride:
The threshold high enough to turn deceit
aside:
The fastening strong enough from robbers
to defend:
This door will open at a touch to welcome
every friend.
Time can never take
What Time did not give;
When my shadows have all passed,
You shall live.
THE SUN-DIAL AT MORVEN
Two hundred years of blessing I record
For Morven’s house, protected by
the Lord:
And still I stand among old-fashioned
flowers
To mark for Morven many sunlit hours.
THE SUN-DIAL AT WELLS COLLEGE
The shadow by my finger cast
Divides the future from the past:
Before it, sleeps the unborn hour,
In darkness, and beyond thy power:
Behind its unreturning line,
The vanished hour, no longer thine:
One hour alone is in thy hands,—
The NOW on which the shadow stands.
March, 1904.
AT A BIRTHDAY FEAST
With memories old and wishes new
We crown our cups again,
And here’s to you, and here’s
to you
With love that ne’er shall wane!
And may you keep, at sixty-seven,
The joy of earth, the hope of heaven,
And fame well-earned, and friendship true,
And peace that comforts every pain,
And faith that fights the battle through,
And all your heart’s unbounded wealth,
And all your wit, and all your health,—
Yes, here’s a hearty health to you,
And here’s to you, and here’s
to you,
Long life to you, Mark Twain.
November 30, 1902.
AT THE MEMORIAL MEETING
We knew you well, dear Yorick of the West,
The very soul of large and friendly jest!
You loved and mocked the broad grotesque
of things
In this new world where all the folk are
kings.
Your breezy humour cleared the air, with
sport
Of shams that haunt the democratic court;
For even where the sovereign people rule,
A human monarch needs a royal fool.
Your native drawl lent flavour to your
wit;
Your arrows lingered but they always hit;
Homeric mirth around the circle ran,
But left no wound upon the heart of man.
We knew you kind in trouble, brave in
pain;
We saw your honour kept without a stain;
We read this lesson of our Yorick’s
years,—
True wisdom comes with laughter and with
tears.
November 30, 1910.
(TO CHARLES A. YOUNG, ASTRONOMER)
“Two things,” the wise man
said, “fill me with awe:
The starry heavens and the moral law.”
Nay, add another wonder to thy roll,—
The living marvel of the human soul!
Born in the dust and cradled in the dark,
It feels the fire of an immortal spark,
And learns to read, with patient, searching
eyes,
The splendid secret of the unconscious
skies.
For God thought Light before He spoke
the word;
The darkness understood not, though it
heard:
But man looks up to where the planets
swim,
And thinks God’s thoughts of glory
after Him.
What knows the star that guides the sailor’s
way,
Or lights the lover’s bower with
liquid ray,
Of toil and passion, danger and distress,
Brave hope, true love, and utter faithfulness?
But human hearts that suffer good and
ill,
And hold to virtue with a loyal will,
Adorn the law that rules our mortal strife
With star-surpassing victories of life.
So take our thanks, dear reader of the
skies,
Devout astronomer, most humbly wise,
For lessons brighter than the stars can
give,
And inward light that helps us all to
live.
(READING KEATS’ ODE ON A GRECIAN URN)
Long had I loved this “Attic shape,”
the brede
Of marble maidens round this
urn divine:
But when your golden voice began to read,
The empty urn was filled with
Chian wine.
May 4th, 1898.—To-day, fishing down the Swiftwater, I found Joseph Jefferson on a big rock in the middle of the brook, casting the fly for trout. He said he had fished this very stream three-and-forty years ago; and near by, in the Paradise Valley, he wrote his famous play.—Leaf from my Diary.
We met on Nature’s stage,
And May had set
the scene,
With bishop-caps standing in delicate
ranks,
And violets blossoming over the banks,
While the brook
ran full between.
The waters rang your call,
With frolicsome waves a-twinkle,—
They knew you as boy, and they knew you
as man,
And every wave, as it merrily ran,
Cried, “Enter Rip van
Winkle!”
In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon,
Catching the lilt of every easy tune;
But when the day departs he sings of love,—
His own wild song beneath the listening
moon.
THE EMPTY QUATRAIN
A flawless cup: how delicate and
fine
The flowing curve of every jewelled line!
Look, turn it up or down, ’tis perfect
still,—
But holds no drop of life’s heart-warming
wine.
FOR A SCULPTURE BY SARA GREENE
Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on
the rock,
Where is sweet Echo, and where is your
flock?
What are you making here? “Listen,”
said Pan,—
“Out of a river-reed music for man!”
The nymphs a shepherd
took
To guard their
snowy sheep;
He led them down along the brook,
And guided them with pipe and crook,
Until he fell
asleep.
But when the piping
stayed,
Across the flowery
mead
The milk-white nymphs ran out afraid:
O Thyrsis, wake! Your flock has strayed,—
The nymphs a shepherd
need.
ECHOES FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY
STARLIGHT
With two bright eyes, my star, my love,
Thou lookest on the stars above:
Ah, would that I the heaven might be
With a million eyes to look on thee.
Plato.
ROSELEAF
A little while the rose,
And after that the thorn;
An hour of dewy morn,
And then the glamour goes.
Ah, love in beauty born,
A little while the rose!
Unknown.
PHOSPHOR—HESPER
O morning star, farewell!
My love I now must leave;
The hours of day I slowly tell,
And turn to her with the twilight bell,—
O welcome, star of eve!
Meleager.
SEASONS
Sweet in summer, cups of snow,
Cooling thirsty lips aglow;
Sweet to sailors winter-bound,
Spring arrives with garlands crowned;
Sweeter yet the hour that covers
With one cloak a pair of lovers,
Living lost in golden weather,
While they talk of love together.
Asclepiades.
THE VINE AND THE GOAT
Although you eat me to the root,
I yet shall bear enough of fruit
For wine to sprinkle your dim eyes,
When you are made a sacrifice.
Euenus.
THE PROFESSOR
Seven pupils, in the class
Of Professor Callias,
Listen silent while he drawls,—
Three are benches, four are walls.
Unknown.
"The worlds in which
we live are two:
The world ‘I
am’ and the world ‘I do,’"
The worlds in which we live at heart are
one,
The world “I am,” the fruit
of “I have done”;
And underneath these worlds of flower
and fruit,
The world “I love,”—the
only living root.
JOY AND DUTY
“Joy is a Duty,”—so
with golden lore
The Hebrew rabbis taught in days of yore,
And happy human hearts heard in their
speech
Almost the highest wisdom man can reach.
But one bright peak still rises far above,
And there the Master stands whose name
is Love,
Saying to those whom weary tasks employ:
“Life is divine when Duty is a Joy.”
Self is the only prison that can ever
bind the soul;
Love is the only angel who can bid the
gates unroll;
And when he comes to call thee, arise
and follow fast;
His way may lie through darkness, but
it leads to light at last.
THE WAY
Who seeks for heaven alone to save his
soul,
May keep the path, but will not reach
the goal;
While he who walks in love may wander
far,
But God will bring him where the Blessed
are.
There are many kinds of love, as many
kinds of light,
And every kind of love makes a glory in
the night.
There is love that stirs the heart, and
love that gives it rest,
But the love that leads life upward is
the noblest and the best.
FACTA NON VERBA
Deeds not Words: I say so too! And yet I find it somehow true, A word may help a man in need, To nobler act and braver deed.
Four things a man must learn to do
If he would make his record true:
To think without confusion clearly;
To love his fellow-men sincerely;
To act from honest motives purely;
To trust in God and Heaven securely.
THE GREAT RIVER
"In la sua volontade e nostra pace."
O mighty river! strong, eternal Will,
Wherein the streams of human good and
ill
Are onward swept, conflicting, to the
sea!
The world is safe because it floats in
Thee.
Read here, O friend unknown,
Our grief, of her bereft;
Yet think not tears alone
Within our hearts are left.
The gifts she came to give,
Her heavenly love and cheer,
Have made us glad to live
And die without a fear.
1912.
What is Fortune, what is Fame?
Futile gold and phantom name,—
Riches buried in a cave,
Glory written on a grave.
What is Friendship? Something deep
That the heart can spend and keep:
Wealth that greatens while we give,
Praise that heartens us to live.
Come, my friend, and let us prove
Life’s true talisman is love!
By this charm we shall elude
Poverty and solitude.
January 21, 1914.
Far richer than a thornless rose
Whose branch with beauty never glows,
Is that which every June adorns
With perfect bloom among its thorns.
Merely to live without a pain
Is little gladness, little gain,
Ah, welcome joy tho’ mixt with grief,—
The thorn-set flower that crowns the leaf.
June 20, 1914.
“THE SIGNS”
Dedicated to the Zodiac Club
Who knows how many thousand years
ago
The twelvefold Zodiac was made to show
The course of stars above and men below?
The great sun plows his furrow by
its “lines”:
From all its “houses” mystic meaning
shines:
Deep lore of life is written in its “signs.”
Aries—Sacrifice.
Snow-white and sacred is the sacrifice
That Heaven demands for what our heart doth prize:
The man who fears to suffer, ne’er can rise.
Taurus—Strength.
Rejoice, my friend, if God has made you strong:
Put forth your force to move the world along:
Yet never shame your strength to do a wrong.
Gemini—Brotherhood.
Bitter his life who lives for self alone,
Poor would he be with riches and a throne:
But friendship doubles all we are and own.
Cancer—The Wisdom of Retreat.
Learn from the crab, O runner fresh and fleet,
Sideways to move, or backward, when discreet;
Life is not all advance,—sometimes retreat!
Leo—Fire.
The sign of Leo is the sign of fire.
Hatred we hate: but no man should desire
A heart too cold to flame with righteous ire.
Virgo—Love.
Mysterious symbol, words are all in vain
To tell the secret power by which you reign.
The more we love, the less we can explain.
Libra—Justice.
Examine well the scales with which you weigh;
Let justice rule your conduct every day;
For when you face the Judge you’ll need fair play.
Scorpio—Self-Defense.
There’s not a creature in the realm of night
But has the wish to live, likewise the right:
Don’t tread upon the scorpion, or he’ll fight.
Sagittarius—The Archer.
Life is an arrow, therefore you must know
What mark to aim at, how to use the bow,—
Then draw it to the head and let it go!
Capricornus—The Goat.
The goat looks solemn, yet he likes to run,
And leap the rocks, and gambol in the sun:
The truly wise enjoy a little fun.
Aquarius—Water.
“Like water spilt upon the ground,”—alas,
Our little lives flow swiftly on and pass;
Yet may they bring rich harvests and green grass!
Pisces—The
Fishes.
Last of the sacred signs, you bring to me
A word of hope, a word of mystery,—
We all are swimmers in God’s mighty sea.
February 28, 1918.
PATRIA
I would not even ask my heart to say
If I could love another land
as well
As thee, my country, had I
felt the spell
Of Italy at birth, or learned to obey
The charm of France, or England’s
mighty sway.
I would not be so much an
infidel
As once to dream, or fashion
words to tell,
What land could hold my heart from thee
away.
For like a law of nature in my blood,
America, I feel thy sovereignty,
And woven through
my soul thy vital sign.
My life is but a wave and thou the flood;
I am a leaf and thou the mother-tree;
Nor should I be
at all, were I not thine.
June, 1904.
I love thine inland seas,
Thy groves of giant trees,
Thy rolling plains;
Thy rivers’ mighty sweep,
Thy mystic canyons deep,
Thy mountains wild and steep,
All thy domains;
Thy silver Eastern strands,
Thy Golden Gate that stands
Wide to the West;
Thy flowery Southland fair,
Thy sweet and crystal air,—
O land beyond compare,
Thee I love best!
March, 1906.
Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings
of America,
Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts
of royal splendour;
They are simple enough to be great in
their friendly dignity,—
Homes that were built by the brave beginners
of a nation.
I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New England valleys,
Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feathering over them:
Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-fashioned roses,
A fan-light above the door, and little square panes in the windows,
The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and hickory ready for winter,
The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with household relics,—
All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of self-reliance.
I love the weather-beaten, shingled
houses that front the ocean;
They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is something
indomitable
about them:
Their backs are bowed, and their sides are covered
with lichens;
Soft in their colour as gray pearls, they are full
of a patient courage.
Facing the briny wind on a lonely shore they stand
undaunted,
While the thin blue pennant of smoke from the square-built
chimney
Tells of a haven for man, with room for a hearth
and a cradle.
I love the stately southern mansions
with their tall white columns,
They look through avenues of trees, over fields
where the cotton is
growing;
I can see the flutter of white frocks along their
shady porches,
Music and laughter float from the windows, the yards
In the towns I love the discreet
and tranquil Quaker dwellings,
With their demure brick faces and immaculate marble
doorsteps;
And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their high
stoops and iron
railings,
(I can see their little brass knobs shining in the
morning sunlight);
And the solid self-contained houses of the descendants
of the Puritans,
Frowning on the street with their narrow doors and
dormer-windows;
And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions
of Charleston,
Standing open sideways in their gardens of roses
and magnolias.
Yes, they are all dear to my heart,
and in my eyes they are beautiful;
For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts
that have made the
nation;
The glory and strength of America come from her
ancestral dwellings.
July, 1909.
THE SHALLOP ON HUDSON BAY
June 22, 1611
One sail in sight upon the lonely sea,
And only one! For never ship but
mine
Has dared these waters. We were first,
My men, to battle in between the bergs
And floes to these wide waves. This
gulf is mine;
I name it! and that flying sail is mine!
And there, hull-down below that flying
sail,
The ship that staggers home is mine, mine,
mine!
My ship Discoverie!
The
sullen dogs
Of mutineers, the bitches’ whelps
that snatched
Their food and bit the hand that nourished
them,
Have stolen her. You ingrate Henry
Greene,
I picked you from the gutter of Houndsditch,
And paid your debts, and kept you in my
house,
And brought you here to make a man of
you!
You Robert Juet, ancient, crafty man,
Toothless and tremulous, how many times
Have I employed you as a master’s
mate
To give you bread? And you Abacuck
Prickett,
You sailor-clerk, you salted puritan,
You knew the plot and silently agreed,
Salving your conscience with a pious lie!
Yes, all of you—hounds, rebels,
thieves! Bring back
My ship!
Too
late,—I rave,—they cannot hear
My voice: and if they heard, a drunken
laugh
Would be their answer; for their minds
have caught
The fatal firmness of the fool’s
resolve,
That looks like courage but is only fear.
They’ll blunder on, and lose my
ship, and drown;
Or blunder home to England and be hanged.
Their skeletons will rattle in the chains
Of some tall gibbet on the Channel cliffs,
While passing mariners look up and say:
“Those are the rotten bones of Hudson’s
men
Who left their captain in the frozen North!”
O God of justice, why hast Thou ordained
Plans of the wise and actions of the brave
Dependent on the aid of fools and cowards?
Look,—there she goes,—her
topsails in the sun
Gleam from the ragged ocean edge, and
drop
Clean out of sight! So let the traitors
go
Clean out of mind! We’ll think
of braver things!
Come closer in the boat, my friends.
John King,
You take the tiller, keep her head nor’west.
You Philip Staffe, the only one who chose
Freely to share our little shallop’s
fate,
Rather than travel in the hell-bound ship,—
Too good an English sailor to desert
Your crippled comrades,—try
to make them rest
More easy on the thwarts. And John,
my son,
My little shipmate, come and lean your
head
Against my knee. Do you remember
still
The April morn in Ethelburga’s church,
Five years ago, when side by side we kneeled
To take the sacrament with all our men,
Before the Hopewell left St. Catherine’s
docks
On our first voyage? It was then
I vowed
My sailor-soul and yours to search the
sea
Until we found the water-path that leads
From Europe into Asia.
I
believe
That God has poured the ocean round His
world,
Not to divide, but to unite the lands.
And all the English captains that have
dared
In little ships to plough uncharted waves,—
Davis and Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher,
Raleigh and Gilbert,—all the
other names,—
Are written in the chivalry of God
As men who served His purpose. I
would claim
A place among that knighthood of the sea;
And I have earned it, though my quest
should fail!
For, mark me well, the honour of our life
Derives from this: to have a certain
aim
Before us always, which our will must
seek
Amid the peril of uncertain ways.
Then, though we miss the goal, our search
is crowned
With courage, and we find along our path
A rich reward of unexpected things.
Press towards the aim: take fortune
as it fares!
I know not why, but something in my heart
Has always whispered, “Westward
seek your goal!”
Three times they sent me east, but still
I turned
The bowsprit west, and felt among the
floes
Of ruttling ice along the Greenland coast,
And down the rugged shore of Newfoundland,
And past the rocky capes and wooded bays
Where Gosnold sailed,—like
one who feels his way
With outstretched hand across a darkened
room,—
I groped among the inlets and the isles,
To find the passage to the Land of Spice.
I have not found it yet,—but
I have found
Things worth the finding!
Son,
have you forgot
Those mellow autumn days, two years ago,
When first we sent our little ship Half-Moon,—
The flag of Holland floating at her peak,—
But what a river! God has never poured
A stream more royal through a land more
rich.
Even now I see it flowing in my dream,
While coming ages people it with men
Of manhood equal to the river’s
pride.
I see the wigwams of the redmen changed
To ample houses, and the tiny plots
Of maize and green tobacco broadened out
To prosperous farms, that spread o’er
hill and dale
The many-coloured mantle of their crops.
I see the terraced vineyard on the slope
Where now the fox-grape loops its tangled
vine,
And cattle feeding where the red deer
roam,
And wild-bees gathered into busy hives
To store the silver comb with golden sweet;
And all the promised land begins to flow
With milk and honey. Stately manors
rise
Along the banks, and castles top the hills,
And little villages grow populous with
trade,
Until the river runs as proudly as the
Rhine,—
The thread that links a hundred towns
and towers!
Now looking deeper in my dream, I see
A mighty city covering the isle
They call Manhattan, equal in her state
To all the older capitals of earth,—
The gateway city of a golden world,—
A city girt with masts, and crowned with
spires,
And swarming with a million busy men,
While to her open door across the bay
The ships of all the nations flock like
doves.
My name will be remembered there, the
world
Will say, “This river and this isle
were found
By Henry Hudson, on his way to seek
The Northwest Passage.”
Yes,
I seek it still,—
My great adventure and my guiding star!
For look ye, friends, our voyage is not
done;
We hold by hope as long as life endures!
So point her up, John King, nor’west
by north
We’ll keep the honour of a certain
aim
Amid the peril of uncertain ways,
And sail ahead, and leave the rest to
God.
July, 1909.
Children of the elemental mother,
Born upon some lonely island
shore
Where the wrinkled ripples run and whisper,
Where the crested billows
plunge and roar;
Long-winged, tireless roamers and adventurers,
Fearless breasters of the
wind and sea,
In the far-off solitary places
I have seen you floating wild
and free!
Here the high-built cities rise around
you;
Here the cliffs that tower
east and west,
Honeycombed with human habitations,
Have no hiding for the sea-bird’s
nest:
Here the river flows begrimed and troubled;
Here the hurrying, panting
vessels fume,
Restless, up and down the watery highway,
While a thousand chimneys
vomit gloom.
Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion,
Clank and clamour of the vast
machine
Human hands have built for human bondage—
Yet amid it all you float
serene;
Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping lightly
Down to glean your harvest
from the wave;
In your heritage of air and water,
You have kept the freedom
Nature gave.
Even so the wild-woods of Manhattan
Saw your wheeling flocks of
white and gray;
Even so you fluttered, followed, floated,
Round the Half-Moon
creeping up the bay;
Even so your voices creaked and chattered.
Laughing shrilly o’er
the tidal rips,
While your black and beady eyes were glistening
Round the sullen British prison-ships.
Children of the elemental mother,
Fearless floaters ’mid
the double blue,
From the crowded boats that cross the
ferries
Many a longing heart goes
out to you.
Though the cities climb and close around
us,
Something tells us that our
souls are free,
While the sea-gulls fly above the harbour,
While the river flows to meet
the sea!
December, 1905.
The
roar of the city is low,
Muffled
by new-fallen snow,
And the sign of the wintry moon is small
and round and still.
Will
you come with me to-night,
To
see a pleasant sight
Away on the river-side, at the edge of
Claremont Hill?
“And
what shall we see there,
But
streets that are new and bare,
And many a desolate place that the city
is coming to fill;
And
a soldier’s tomb of stone,
And
a few trees standing alone—
Will you walk for that through the cold,
to the edge of Claremont Hill?”
But
there’s more than that for me,
In
the place that I fain would see:
There’s a glimpse of the grace that
helps us all to bear life’s ill,
A
touch of the vital breath
That
keeps the world from death,
A flower that never fades, on the edge
of Claremont Hill.
For
just where the road swings round,
In
a narrow strip of ground,
Where a group of forest trees are lingering
fondly still,
There’s
a grave of the olden time,
When
the garden bloomed in its prime,
And the children laughed and sang on the
edge of Claremont Hill.
The
marble is pure and white,
And
even in this dim light,
You may read the simple words that are
written there if you will;
You
may hear a father tell
Of
the child he loved so well,
A hundred years ago, on the edge of Claremont
Hill.
The
tide of the city has rolled
Across
that bower of old,
And blotted out the beds of the rose and
the daffodil;
But
the little playmate sleeps,
And
the shrine of love still keeps
A record of happy days, on the edge of
Claremont Hill.
The
river is pouring down
To
the crowded, careless town,
Where the intricate wheels of trade are
grinding on like a mill;
But
the clamorous noise and strife
Of
the hurrying waves of life
Flow soft by this haven of peace on the
edge of Claremont Hill.
And
after all, my friend,
When
the tale of our years shall end,
Be it long or short, or lowly or great,
as God may will,
What
better praise could we hear,
Than
this of the child so dear:
You have made my life more sweet, on the
edge of Claremont Hill?
December, 1896.
(Song for the City College of New York)
O youngest of the giant brood
Of cities far-renowned;
In wealth and glory thou hast passed
Thy rivals at a bound;
Thou art a mighty queen, New York;
And how wilt thou be crowned?
“Weave me no palace-wreath of Pride,”
The royal city said;
“Nor forge of frowning fortress-walls
A helmet for my head;
But let me wear a diadem
Of Wisdom’s towers instead.”
She bowed herself, she spent herself,
She wrought her will forsooth,
And set upon her island height
A citadel of Truth,
A house of Light, a home of Thought,
A shrine of noble Youth.
Stand here, ye City College towers,
And look both up and down;
Remember all who wrought for you
Within the toiling town;
Remember all their hopes for you,
And be the City’s
Crown.
June, 1908.
THE TURK’S WAY
Stand back, ye messengers of mercy!
Stand
Far off, for I will save my
troubled folk
In my own way. So the
false Sultan spoke;
And Europe, hearkening to his base command,
Stood still to see him heal his wounded
land.
Through blinding snows of
winter and through smoke
Of burning towns, she saw
him deal the stroke
Of cruel mercy that his hate had planned.
Unto the prisoners and the sick he gave
New tortures, horrible, without
a name;
Unto the thirsty,
blood to drink; a sword
Unto the hungry; with a robe
of shame
He clad the naked,
making life abhorred;
He saved by slaughter, and denied a grave.
AMERICA’S WAY
But thou, my country, though no fault
be thine
For that red horror far across
the sea;
Though not a tortured wretch
can point to thee,
And curse thee for the selfishness supine
Of those great Powers that cowardly combine
To shield the Turk in his
iniquity;
Yet, since thy hand is innocent
and free,
Arise, and show the world the way divine!
Thou canst not break the oppressor’s
iron rod,
But thou canst help and comfort
the oppressed;
Thou canst not
loose the captive’s heavy chain,
But thou canst
bind his wounds and soothe his pain.
Armenia calls thee, Sovereign
of the West,
To play the Good Samaritan for God.
1896.
O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea,
Whose bluest billows kiss
thy curving bays,
Whose light infolds thy hills
with golden rays,
Filling with fruit each dark-leaved orange-tree,
What hidden hatred hath the Earth for
thee,
That once again, in these
dark, dreadful days,
Breaks forth in trembling
rage, and swiftly lays
Thy beauty waste in wreck and agony!
Is Nature, then, a strife of jealous powers,
And man the plaything of unconscious
fate?
Not so, my troubled
heart! God reigns above,
And man is greatest in his darkest hours.
Walking amid the cities desolate,
Behold the Son
of God in human love!
Tertius and Henry van Dyke.
“COME BACK AGAIN, JEANNE D’ARC”
The land was broken in despair,
The princes quarrelled in
the dark,
When clear and tranquil, through the troubled
air
Of selfish minds and wills that did not
dare,
Your
star arose, Jeanne d’Arc.
O virgin breast with lilies white,
O sun-burned hand that bore
the lance,
You taught the prayer that helps men to
unite,
You brought the courage equal to the fight,
You
gave a heart to France!
Your king was crowned, your country free,
At Rheims you had your soul’s
desire:
And then, at Rouen, maid of Domremy,
The black-robed judges gave your victory
The
martyr’s crown of fire.
And now again the times are ill,
And doubtful leaders miss
the mark;
The people lack the single faith and will
To make them one,—your country
needs you still,—
Come
back again, Jeanne d’Arc!
O woman-star, arise once more
And shine to bid your land
advance:
The old heroic trust in God restore,
Renew the brave, unselfish hopes of yore,
And
give a heart to France!
Paris, July, 1909.
Count not the cost of honour to the dead!
The tribute that a mighty
nation pays
To those who loved her well
in former days
Means more than gratitude for glories
fled;
For every noble man that she hath bred,
Lives in the bronze and marble
that we raise,
Immortalised by art’s
immortal praise,
To lead our sons as he our fathers led.
These monuments of manhood strong and
high
Do more than forts or battle-ships
to keep
Our dear-bought liberty. They fortify
The heart of youth with valour
wise and deep;
They build eternal bulwarks, and command
Immortal hosts to guard our native land.
February, 1905.
(Presbyter of Christ in America, 1683-1708)
To thee, plain hero of a rugged race,
We bring the meed of praise
too long delayed!
Thy fearless word and faithful
work have made
For God’s Republic firmer resting-place
In this New World: for thou hast
preached the grace
And power of Christ in many
a forest glade,
Teaching the truth that leaves
men unafraid
Of frowning tyranny or death’s dark
face.
Oh, who can tell how much we owe to thee,
Makemie, and to labour such
as thine,
For all that makes America
the shrine
Of faith untrammelled and of conscience
free?
Stand here, gray stone, and consecrate
the sod
Where rests this brave Scotch-Irish man
of God!
April, 1908.
This is the soldier brave enough to tell
The glory-dazzled world that ‘war
is hell’:
Lover of peace, he looks beyond the strife,
And rides through hell to save his country’s
life.
April, 1904.
“AMERICA FOR ME”
’Tis fine to see the Old World,
and travel up and down
Among the famous palaces and cities of
renown,
To admire the crumbly castles and the
statues of the kings,—
But now I think I’ve had enough
of antiquated things.
So it’s home again, and
home again, America for me!
My heart is turning home again,
and there I long to be,
In the land of youth and freedom
beyond the ocean bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight
and the flag is full of stars.
Oh, London is a man’s town, there’s
power in the air;
And Paris is a woman’s town, with
flowers in her hair;
And it’s sweet to dream in Venice,
and it’s great to study Rome;
But when it comes to living there is no
place like home.
I like the German fir-woods, in green
battalions drilled;
I like the gardens of Versailles with
flashing fountains filled;
But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and
ramble for a day
In the friendly western woodland where
Nature has her way!
I know that Europe’s wonderful,
yet something seems to lack:
The Past is too much with her, and the
people looking back.
But the glory of the Present is to make
the Future free,—
We love our land for what she is and what
she is to be.
Oh, it’s home again, and
home again, America for me!
I want a ship that’s
westward bound to plough the rolling sea,
To the blessed Land of Room
Enough beyond the ocean bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight
and the flag is full of stars.
June, 1909.
ODE FOR THE HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF PRINCETON COLLEGE
October 21, 1896
Into the dust of the making of man
Spirit was breathed when his life began,
Lifting him up from his low estate,
With masterful passion, the wish to create.
Out of the dust of his making, man
Fashioned his works as the ages ran;
Fortress, and palace, and temple, and
tower,
Filling the world with the proof of his
power.
Over the dust that awaits him, man,
Building the walls that his pride doth
plan,
Dreams they will stand in the light of
the sun
Bearing his name till Time is done.
The monuments of mortals
Are as the glory of the grass;
Through Time’s dim portals
A voiceless, viewless wind doth pass,
The blossoms fall before it in a day,
The forest monarchs year by year decay,
And man’s great buildings slowly fade away.
One after one,
They pay to that dumb breath
The tribute of their death,
And are undone.
The towers incline to dust,
The massive girders rust,
The domes dissolve in air,
The pillars that upbear
The lofty arches crumble, stone by stone,
While man the builder looks about him in despair,
For all his works of pride and power are overthrown.
A Voice came from the sky:
“Set thy desires more high.
Thy buildings fade away
Because thou buildest clay.
Now make the fabric sure
With stones that will endure!
Hewn from the spiritual rock,
The immortal towers of the
soul
At Death’s dissolving touch shall
mock,
And stand secure while aeons
roll.”
Well did the wise in heart
rejoice
To hear the summons of that Voice,
And patiently begin
The builder’s work within,
Houses not made with hands,
Nor founded on the sands.
And thou, Revered Mother, at whose call
We come to keep thy joyous festival,
And celebrate thy labours on the walls of Truth
Through sevenscore years and ten of thine eternal
youth—
A master builder thou,
And on thy shining brow,
Like Cybele, in fadeless light dost wear
A diadem of turrets strong and fair.
I see thee standing in a lonely land,
But late and hardly won from solitude,
Unpopulous and rude,—
On that far western shore I see thee stand,
Like some young goddess from a brighter strand,
While in thine eyes a radiant thought is born,
Enkindling all thy beauty like the morn.
Sea-like the forest rolled, in waves of green,
And few the lights that glimmered, leagues between.
High in the north, for fourscore years alone
Fair Harvard’s earliest beacon-tower had shone
When Yale was lighted, and an answering ray
Flashed from the meadows by New Haven Bay.
But deeper spread the forest, and more dark,
Where first Neshaminy received the spark
Of sacred learning to a woodland camp,
And Old Log College glowed with Tennant’s
lamp.
Thine, Alma Mater, was the larger sight,
That saw the future of that trembling light,
And thine the courage, thine the stronger will,
That built its loftier home on Princeton Hill.
“New light!” men cried, and
murmured that it came
From an unsanctioned source with lawless
flame;
It shone too free, for still the church
and school
Must only shine according to their rule.
But Princeton answered, in her nobler
mood,
“God made the light, and all the
light is good.
There is no war between the old and new;
The conflict lies between the false and
true.
The stars, that high in heaven their courses
run,
In glory differ, but their light is one.
The beacons, gleaming o’er the sea
of life,
Are rivals but in radiance, not in strife.
Shine on, ye sister-towers, across the
night!
I too will build a lasting house of light.”
Brave was that word of faith and bravely
was it kept:
With never-wearying zeal that faltered
not, nor slept,
Our Alma Mater toiled, and while she firmly
laid
The deep foundation-walls, at all her
toil she prayed.
And men who loved the truth because it
made them free,
And clearly saw the twofold Word of God
agree,
Reading from Nature’s book and from
the Bible’s page
By the same inward ray that grows from
age to age,
Were built like living stones that beacon
to uplift,
And drawing light from heaven gave to
the world the gift.
Nor ever, while they searched the secrets
of the earth,
Or traced the stream of life through mystery
to its birth,
Nor ever, while they taught the lightning-flash
to bear
The messages of man in silence through
the air,
Fell from their home of light one false,
perfidious ray
To blind the trusting heart, or lead the
life astray.
But still, while knowledge grew more luminous
and broad
It lit the path of faith and showed the
way to God.
Yet not for peace alone
Labour the builders.
Work that in peace has grown
Swiftly is overthrown,
When in the darkening skies
Storm-clouds of wrath arise,
And through the cannon’s crash,
War’s deadly lightning-flash
Smites and bewilders.
Ramparts of strength must frown
Round every placid town
And city splendid;
All that our fathers wrought
With true prophetic thought,
Must be defended!
But who could raise protecting
walls for thee,
Thou young, defenceless land of liberty?
Or who could build a fortress strong enough,
Or stretch a mighty bulwark long enough
To hold thy far-extended coast
Against the overweening host
That took the open path across the sea,
And like a tempest poured
Their desolating horde,
To quench thy dawning light in gloom of tyranny?
Yet not unguarded thou wert found
When on thy shore with sullen sound
The blaring trumpets of an unjust king
Proclaimed invasion. From the ground,
In freedom’s darkest hour, there seemed
to spring
Unconquerable walls for her defence;
Not trembling, like those battlements of stone
That fell when Joshua’s horns were blown;
But firm and stark the living rampart rose,
To meet the onset of imperious foes
With a long line of brave, unyielding men.
This was thy fortress, well-defended land,
And on these walls, the patient, building hand
Of Princeton laboured with the force of ten.
Her sons were foremost in the furious fight;
Her sons were firmest to uphold the right
In council-chambers of the new-born State,
And prove that he who would be free must first be
great
In heart, and high in thought, and strong
Bear with us then a moment,
while we turn
From all the present splendours
of this place—
The lofty towers that like
a dream have grown
Where once old Nassau Hall
stood all alone—
Back to that ancient time,
with hearts that burn
In
filial gratitude, to trace
The glory of our mother’s
best degree,
In
that “high son of Liberty,”
Who
like a granite block,
Riven
from Scotland’s rock,
Stood loyal here to keep Columbia
free.
Born far away beyond the ocean’s
tide,
He found his fatherland upon this side;
And every drop of ardent blood that ran
Through his great heart, was true American.
He held no fealty to a distant throne,
But made his new-found country’s
cause his own.
In
peril and distress,
In
toil and weariness,
When
darkness overcast her
With
shadows of disaster,
And
voices of confusion
Proclaimed
her hope delusion,
Robed
in his preacher’s gown,
He
dared the danger down;
Like some old prophet chanting an inspired
rune
In freedom’s councils rang the voice
of Witherspoon.
And thou, my country, write
it on thy heart:
Thy sons are they who nobly take
thy part;
Who dedicates his manhood
at thy shrine,
Wherever born, is born a son
of thine.
Foreign in name, but not in
soul, they come
To find in thee their long
desired home;
Lovers of liberty and haters of disorder,
They shall be built in strength along
thy border.
Dream not thy
future foes
Will all be foreign-born!
Turn thy clear
look of scorn
Upon thy children
who oppose
Their passions wild and policies of shame
To wreck the righteous splendour of thy
name.
Untaught and overconfident
they rise,
With folly on their lips,
Softly, my harp, and let me lay the touch
Of silence on these rudely clanging strings;
For he who sings
Even of noble conflicts overmuch,
Loses the inward sense of better things;
And he who makes a boast
Of knowledge, darkens that which counts
the most,—
The insight of a wise humility
That reverently adores what none can see.
The glory of our life below
Comes not from what we do, or what we
know,
But dwells forevermore
in what we are.
There is an architecture
grander far
Than
all the fortresses of war,
More
inextinguishably bright
Than learning’s
lonely towers of light.
Framing its walls
of faith and hope and love
In
souls of men, it lifts above
The
frailty of our earthly home
An
everlasting dome;
The sanctuary
of the human host,
The living temple
of the Holy Ghost.
If music led the builders long
ago,
When Arthur planned the halls of Camelot,
And made the royal city grow,
Fair as a flower in that forsaken spot;
What sweeter music shall we bring,
To weave a harmony divine
Of prayer and holy thought
Into the labours of this loftier shrine,
This consecrated hill,
Where through so many a year
Our Alma Mater’s hand hath wrought,
With toil serene and still,
And heavenly hope, to rear
Eternal dwellings for the Only King?
Here let no martial trumpets blow,
Nor instruments of pride proclaim
The loud exultant notes of fame!
But let the chords be clear and low,
And let the anthem deeper grow,
And let it move more solemnly and slow;
For only such an ode
Can seal the harmony
Of that deep masonry
Wherein the soul of man is framed for God’s
abode.
O Thou whose boundless love bestows
The joy of earth, the hope
of Heaven,
And whose unchartered mercy flows
O’er all the blessings
Thou hast given;
Thou by whose light alone we see;
And by whose truth our souls set free
Are made imperishably strong;
Hear Thou the solemn music of our song.
Grant us the knowledge that we need
To solve the questions of
the mind,
And light our candle while we read,
To keep our hearts from going
blind;
Enlarge our vision to behold
The wonders Thou hast wrought of old;
Reveal thyself in every law,
And gild the towers of truth with holy
awe.
Be Thou our strength if war’s wild
gust
Shall rage around us, loud
and fierce;
Confirm our souls and let our trust
Be like a shield that none
can pierce;
Renew the courage that prevails,
The steady faith that never fails,
And make us stand in every fight
Firm as a fortress to defend the right.
O God, control us as Thou wilt,
And guide the labour of our
hand;
Let all our work be surely built
As Thou, the architect, hast
planned;
But whatso’er thy power shall make
Of these frail lives, do not forsake
Thy dwelling: let thy presence rest
For ever in the temple of our breast.
SPIRIT OF THE EVERLASTING BOY
June 11, 1910
The British bard who looked on Eton’s
walls,
Endeared by distance in the pearly gray
And soft aerial blue that ever falls
On English landscape with the dying day,
Beheld in thought his boyhood far away,
Its random raptures and its festivals
Of noisy mirth,
The brief illusion of its idle joys,
And mourned that none of these can stay
With men, whom life inexorably calls
To face the grim realities of earth.
His pensive fancy pictured there at play
From year to year the careless bands of
boys,
Unconscious victims kept in golden state,
While haply they
await
The dark approach of disenchanting Fate,
To hale them to
the sacrifice
Of Pain and Penury and Grief and Care,
Slow-withering Age, or Failure’s
swift despair.
Half-pity and half-envy dimmed the eyes
Of that old poet, gazing on the scene
Where long ago his youth had flowed serene,
And all the burden of his ode was this:
“Where ignorance
is bliss,
’Tis folly
to be wise.”
But not for us, O plaintive elegist,
Thine epicedial tone of sad farewell
To joy in wisdom and to thought in youth!
Our western Muse would keep her tryst
With sunrise, not with sunset, and foretell
In boyhood’s bliss the dawn of manhood’s
truth.
O spirit of the
everlasting boy,
Alert,
elate,
And confident
that life is good,
Thou knockest
boldly at the gate,
In
hopeful hardihood,
Eager to enter
and enjoy
Thy
new estate.
Through the old house thou runnest everywhere,
Bringing a breath of folly and fresh air.
Ready to make a treasure of each toy,
Or break them all in discontented mood;
Fearless
of Fate,
Yet strangely fearful of a
comrade’s laugh;
Reckless and timid, hard and
sensitive;
In talk a rebel, full of mocking
chaff,
At
heart devout conservative;
In love with love, yet hating
to be kissed;
Inveterate
optimist,
And
judge severe,
In reason cloudy but in feeling
clear;
Keen critic, ardent hero-worshipper,
Impatient of restraint in
little ways,
Yet
ever ready to confer
On chosen leaders boundless
power and praise;
Adventurous spirit burning
to explore
Untrodden paths where hidden
danger lies,
And homesick heart looking
with wistful eyes
Through every twilight to
a mother’s door;
Thou daring, darling, inconsistent
boy,
How
dull the world would be
Without thy presence, dear
barbarian,
And happy lord of high futurity!
Be what thou art, our trouble
and our joy,
Our hardest problem and our
brightest hope!
And while thine elders lead
thee up the slope
Of knowledge, let them learn
from teaching thee
That vital joy is part of
nature’s plan,
And he who keeps the spirit
of the boy
Shall gladly grow to be a
happy man.
What constitutes a school?
Not ancient halls and ivy-mantled towers,
Where dull traditions rule
With heavy hand youth’s lightly
springing powers;
Not spacious pleasure courts,
And lofty temples of athletic fame,
Where devotees of sports
Mistake a pastime for life’s highest
aim;
Not fashion, nor renown
Of wealthy patronage and rich estate;
No, none of these can crown
A school with light and make it truly
great.
But masters, strong and wise,
Who teach because they love the teacher’s
task,
And find their richest prize
In eyes that open and in minds that ask;
And boys, with heart aglow
To try their youthful vigour on their
work,
Eager to learn and grow,
And quick to hate a coward or a shirk:
These constitute a school,—
A vital forge of weapons keen and bright,
Where living sword and tool
Are tempered for true toil or noble fight!
But let not wisdom scorn
The hours of pleasure in the playing fields:
There also strength is born,
On Jersey’s rolling plain, where
Washington,
In midnight marching at the head
Of ragged regiments, his army led
To Princeton’s victory of the rising
sun;
Here in this liberal land, by battle won
For Freedom and
the rule
Of equal rights for every child of man,
Arose a democratic
school,
To train a virile race of sons to bear
With thoughtful joy the name American,
And serve the God who heard their father’s
prayer.
No cloister, dreaming in a world remote
From that real world wherein alone we
live;
No mimic court, where titled names denote
A dignity that only worth can give;
But here a friendly house of learning
stood,
With open door beside the broad highway,
And welcomed lads to study and to play
In generous rivalry of brotherhood.
A hundred years have passed, and Lawrenceville,
In beauty and in strength renewed,
Stands with her open portal still,
And neither time nor fortune brings
To her deep spirit any change of mood,
Or faltering from the faith she held of
old.
Still to the democratic creed she clings:
That manhood needs nor rank nor gold
To make it noble in our eyes;
That every boy is born with royal right,
From blissful ignorance to rise
To joy more lasting and more bright,
In mastery of body and of mind,
King of himself and servant of mankind.
Old Lawrenceville,
Thy happy bell
Shall ring to-day,
O’er vale
and hill,
O’er mead
and dell,
While far away,
With silent thrill,
The echoes roll
Through many a
soul,
That knew thee
well,
In boyhood’s
day,
And loves thee
still.
Ah, who can tell
How far away,
Some sentinel
Of God’s
good will,
In forest cool,
Or desert gray,
By lonely pool,
Or barren hill,
Shall faintly
hear,
With inward ear,
The chiming bell,
Of his old school,
Through darkness pealing;
And lowly kneeling,
Shall feel the
spell
Of grateful tears
His eyelids fill;
And softly pray
To Him who hears:
God bless old Lawrenceville!
TEXAS
A DEMOCRATIC ODE [1]
THE WILD-BEES
All along the Brazos river,
All along the Colorado,
In the valleys and the lowlands
Where the trees were tall and stately,
In the rich and rolling meadows
Where the grass was full of wild-flowers,
Came a humming and a buzzing,
Came the murmur of a going
To and fro among the tree-tops,
Far and wide across the meadows.
And the red-men in their tepees
Smoked their pipes of clay and listened.
“What is this?” they asked
in wonder;
“Who can give the sound a meaning?
Who can understand the language
Of this going in the tree-tops?”
Then the wisest of the Tejas
Laid his pipe aside and answered:
“O my brothers, these are people,
Very little, winged people,
Countless, busy, banded people,
Coming humming through the timber.
These are tribes of bees, united
By a single aim and purpose,
To possess the Tejas’ country,
Gather harvest from the prairies,
Store their wealth among the timber.
These are hive and honey makers,
Sent by Manito to warn us
That the white men now are coming,
With their women and their children.
Not the fiery filibusters
Passing wildly in a moment,
Like a flame across the prairies,
Like a whirlwind through the forest,
Leaving empty lands behind them!
Not the Mexicans and Spaniards,
Indolent and proud hidalgos,
Dwelling in their haciendas,
Dreaming, talking of tomorrow,
While their cattle graze around them,
And their fickle revolutions
Change the rulers, not the people!
Other folk are these who follow
When the wild-bees come to warn us;
These are hive and honey makers,
These are busy, banded people,
Roaming far to swarm and settle,
Working every day for harvest,
Fighting hard for peace and order,
Worshipping as queens their women,
Making homes and building cities
Full of riches and of trouble.
All our hunting-grounds must vanish,
All our lodges fall before them,
All our customs and traditions,
All our happy life of freedom,
Fade away like smoke before them.
Come, my brothers, strike your tepees,
Call your women, load your ponies!
Let us take the trail to westward,
Where the plains are wide and open,
Where the bison-herds are gathered
Waiting for our feathered arrows.
We will live as lived our fathers,
Gleaners of the gifts of nature,
Hunters of the unkept cattle,
Men whose women run to serve them.
If the toiling bees pursue us,
If the white men seek to tame us,
We will fight them off and flee them,
Break their hives and take their honey,
Moving westward, ever westward,
There to live as lived our fathers.”
So the red-men drove their ponies,
With the tent-poles trailing after,
THE LONE STAR
Behold a star appearing in the South,
A star that shines apart from other stars,
Ruddy and fierce
like Mars!
Out of the reeking smoke of cannon’s
mouth
That veils the slaughter of the Alamo,
Where heroes face
the foe,
One man against a score, with blood-choked
breath
Shouting the watchword, “Victory
or Death—”
Out of the dreadful cloud that settles
low
On Goliad’s
plain,
Where thrice a hundred prisoners lie slain
Beneath the broken word of Mexico—
Out of the fog of factions and of feuds
That ever drifts
and broods
Above the bloody path of border war,
Leaps the Lone
Star!
What light is this that does not dread
the dark?
What star is this that fights a stormy
way
To San Jacinto’s
field of victory?
It is the fiery
spark
That burns within
the breast
Of Anglo-Saxon men, who can not rest
Under a tyrant’s
sway;
The upward-leading
ray
That guides the brave who give their lives
away
Rather than not
be free!
O question not, but honour every name,
Travis and Crockett, Bowie, Bonham, Ward,
Fannin and King, and all who drew the
sword
And dared to die for Texan liberty!
Yea, write them all upon the roll of fame,
But no less love and equal honour give
To those who paid the longer sacrifice—
Austin and Houston, Burnet, Rusk, Lamar
And all the stalwart men who dared to
live
Long years of service to the lonely star.
Great is the worth of such heroic souls:
Amid the strenuous turmoil of their deeds,
They clearly speak of something that controls
The higher breeds of men by higher needs
Than bees, content with honey in their
hives!
Ah, not enough
the narrow lives
On profitable toil intent!
And not enough the guerdons of success
Garnered in homes of affluent selfishness!
Heirs of the rugged
pioneers
Who dreamed this
dream and made it true,
Remember that
they dreamed for you.
They did not fear
their fate
In those tempestuous
years,
But put their trust in God, and with keen
eyes,
Trained in the open air for looking far,
They saw the many-million-acred
land
Won from the desert
by their hand,
Swiftly among
the nations rise,—
Texas
a sovereign State,
And
on her brow a star!
THE CONSTELLATION
How strange that the nature of light is
a thing beyond our ken,
And the flame of the tiniest
candle flows from a fountain sealed!
How strange that the meaning of life,
in the little lives of men,
So often baffles our search
with a mystery unrevealed!
But the larger life of man, as it moves
in its secular sweep,
Is the working out of a Sovereign
Will whose ways appear;
And the course of the journeying stars
on the dark blue boundless deep,
Is the place where our science
rests in the reign of law most clear.
I would read the story of Texas as
if it were written on high;
I would look from afar to follow her path through
the calms and storms;
With a faith in the worldwide sway of the Reason
that rules in the sky,
And gathers and guides the starry host in clusters
and swarms.
When she rose in the pride of her
youth, she seemed to be moving apart,
As a single star in the South, self-limited, self-possessed;
But the law of the constellation was written deep
in her heart,
And she heard when her sisters called, from the
North and the East and
the West.
They were drawn together and moved
by a common hope and aim—
The dream of a sign that should rule a third of
the heavenly arch;
The soul of a people spoke in their call, and Texas
came
To enter the splendid circle of States in their
onward march.
So the glory gathered and grew and
spread from sea to sea,
And the stars of the great republic lent each
other light;
For all were bound together in strength, and each
was free—
Suddenly broke the tempest out of the ancient
night!
It came as a clash of the force that drives
and the force that draws;
And the stars were riven asunder,
the heavens were desolate,
While brother fought with brother, each
for his country’s cause:
But the country of one was
the Nation, the country of other the State.
Oh, who shall measure the praise or blame
in a strife so vast?
And who shall speak of traitors
or tyrants when all were true?
We lift our eyes to the sky, and rejoice
that the storm is past,
And we thank the God of all
that the Union shines in the blue.
Yea, it glows with the glory of peace
and the hope of a mighty race,
High over the grave of broken
chains and buried hates;
And the great, big star of Texas is shining
clear in its place
In the constellate symbol
and sign of the free United States.
AFTER THE PIONEERS
After the pioneers—
Big-hearted, big-handed lords of the axe and the plow and the rifle,
Tan-faced tamers of horses and lands, themselves remaining tameless,
Full of fighting, labour and romance, lovers of rude adventure—
After the pioneers have cleared the way to their homes and graves on the
prairies:
After the State-builders—
Zealous and jealous men, dreamers, debaters, often
at odds with each
other,
All of them sure it is well to toil and to die,
if need be,
Just for the sake of founding a country to leave
to their children—
After the builders have done their work and written
their names upon it:
After the civil war—
Wildest of all storms, cruel and dark and seemingly wasteful,
Tearing up by the root the vines that were splitting the old foundations,
Washing away with a rain of blood and tears the dust of slavery,
After the cyclone has passed and the sky is fair to the far horizon;
After the era of plenty and peace has come with full hands to Texas,
Then—what then?
Is it to be the life of an indolent heir,
fat-witted and self-contented,
Dwelling at ease in the house that others
have builded,
Boasting about the country for which he
has done nothing?
Is it to be an age of corpulent, deadly-dull
prosperity,
Richer and richer crops to nourish a race
of Philistines,
Bigger and bigger cities full of the same
confusion and sorrow,
The people increasing mightily but no
increase of the joy?
Is this what the forerunners wished and
toiled to win for you,
This the reward of war and the fruitage
of high endeavor,
This the goal of your hopes and the vision
that satisfies you?
Nay, stand up and answer—I
can read what is in your hearts—
You, the children of those who followed
the wild-bees,
You, the children of those who served
the Lone Star,
Now that the hives are full and the star
is fixed in the constellation,
I know that the best of you still are
lovers of sweetness and light!
You hunger for honey that comes from
invisible gardens;
Pure, translucent, golden thoughts and feelings
and inspirations,
Sweetness of all the best that has bloomed in the
mind of man.
You rejoice in the light that is breaking along
the borders of science;
The hidden rays that enable a man to look through
a wall of stone;
The unseen, fire-filled wings that carry his words
across the ocean;
The splendid gift of flight that shines, half-captured,
above him;
The gleam of a thousand half-guessed secrets, just
ready to be
discovered!
You dream and devise great things for the coming
race—
Children of yours who shall people and rule the
domain of Texas;
They shall know, they shall comprehend more than
their fathers,
They shall grow in the vigour of well-rounded manhood
and womanhood,
Riper minds, richer hearts, finer souls, the only
true wealth of a
nation—
The league-long fields of the State are pledged
to ensure this harvest!
Your old men have dreamed this dream
and your young men have seen this
vision.
The age of romance has not gone, it is only beginning;
Greater words than the ear of man has heard are
waiting to be spoken,
Finer arts than the eyes of man have seen are sleeping
to be awakened:
Science exploring the scope of the world,
Poetry breathing the hope of the world,
Music to measure and lead the onward march of man!
Come, ye honoured and welcome guests
from the elder nations,
Princes of science and arts and letters,
Look on the walls that embody the generous dream
of one of the old men
of Texas,
Enter these halls of learning that rise in the land
of the pioneer’s
log-cabin,
Read the confessions of faith that are carved on
the stones around you:
Faith in the worth of the smallest fact and the
laws that govern the
starbeams,
Faith in the beauty of truth and the truth of perfect
beauty,
Faith in the God who creates the souls of men by
knowledge and love and
worship.
This is the faith of the New Democracy—
Proud and humble, patiently pressing forward,
Praising her heroes of old and training her future leaders,
Seeking her crown in a nobler race of men and women—
After the pioneers, sweetness and light!
October, 1912.
[1] Read at the Dedication of the Rice Institute,
Houston, Texas,
October, 1912.
PHI BETA KAPPA ODE
June 30, 1910
All day long in the city’s canyon-street,
With its populous cliffs alive
on either side,
I saw a river of marching
men like a tide
Flowing after the flag: and the rhythmic
beat
Of the drums, and the bugles’
resonant blare
Metred the tramp, tramp, tramp of a myriad
feet,
While the red-white-and-blue was fluttering
everywhere,
And the heart of the crowd kept time to
a martial air:
O brave flag, O bright flag, O flag to lead
the free!
The glory of thy
silver stars,
Engrailed in blue
above the bars
Of red for courage,
white for truth,
Has brought the
world a second youth
And drawn a hundred million hearts to
follow after thee.
Old Cambridge saw thee first unfurled,
By Washington’s far-reaching
hand,
To greet, in Seventy-six, the wintry morn
Of a new year, and herald to the world
Glad tidings from a Western
land,—
A people and a hope new-born!
The double cross then filled thine azure
field,
In token of a spirit loath to yield
The breaking ties that bound thee to a
throne.
But not for long thine oriflamme could
bear
That symbol of an outworn trust in kings.
The wind that bore thee out on widening
wings
Called for a greater sign and all thine
own,—
A new device to speak of heavenly laws
And lights that surely guide the people’s
cause.
Oh, greatly did they hope, and greatly
dare,
Who bade the stars in heaven fight for
them,
And set upon their battle-flag a fair
New constellation as a diadem!
Along the blood-stained banks of Brandywine
The ragged troops were rallied to this
sign;
Through Saratoga’s woods it fluttered
bright
Amid the perils of the hard-won fight;
O’er Yorktown’s meadows broad
and green
It hailed the glory of the final scene;
And when at length Manhattan saw
The last invaders’ line of scarlet
coats
Pass Bowling Green, and fill the waiting
boats
And
sullenly withdraw,
The
flag that proudly flew
Above the battered line of buff and blue,
Marching, with rattling drums and shrilling
pipes,
Along the Bowery and down Broadway,
Was this that leads the great parade to-day,—
The glorious banner of the stars and stripes.
First of the flags
of earth to dare
A
heraldry so high;
First of the flags
of earth to bear
The
blazons of the sky;
Long may thy constellation
glow,
Foretelling
happy fate;
Wider thy starry
circle grow,
And
every star a State!
Pass on, pass on, ye flashing files
Of men who march in militant array;
Ye thrilling bugles, throbbing drums,
Ring out, roll on, and die away;
And fade, ye crowds, with the fading day!
Around the city’s
lofty piles
Of steel and stone
The lilac veil
of dusk is thrown,
Entangled full of sparks of fairy light;
And the never-silent heart of the city
hums
To a homeward-turning tune before the
night.
But far above, on the sky-line’s
broken height,
From all the towers and domes outlined
In gray and gold along the city’s
crest,
I see the rippling flag still take the
wind
With a promise of good to come for all
mankind.
O banner of the
west,
No proud and brief
parade,
That glorifies
a nation’s holiday
With show of troops for warfare dressed,
Can rightly measure
or display
The mighty army
thou hast made
Loyal to guard thy more than royal sway.
Millions have
come across the sea
To find beneath
thy shelter room to grow;
Millions were born beneath thy folds and
know
No other flag
but thee.
And other, darker millions bore the yoke
Of bondage in thy borders till the voice
Of Lincoln spoke,
And sent thee forth to set the bondmen
free.
Rejoice, dear
flag, rejoice!
Since thou hast proved and passed that
bitter strife,
Richer thy red with blood of heroes wet,
Purer thy white through sacrificial life,
Brighter thy blue wherein new stars are
set.
Thou art become
a sign,
Revealed in heaven to speak of things
divine:
Of Truth that
dares
To slay the lie
it sheltered unawares;
Of Courage fearless
in the fight,
Yet ever quick its foemen to forgive;
Of Conscience earnest to maintain its
right
And gladly grant the same to all who live.
Thy staff is deeply
planted in the fact
That nothing can
ennoble man
Save his own act,
And naught can make him worthy to be free
But practice in the school of liberty.
The cords are two that lift thee to the
sky:
Firm faith in God, the King who rules
on high;
And never-failing
trust
In human nature, full of faults and flaws,
Yet ever answering to the inward call
That bids it set the “ought”
above the “must,”
In all its errors wiser than it seems,
In all its failures full of generous dreams,
Through endless conflict rising without
pause
To self-dominion, charactered in laws
That pledge fair-play alike to great and
small,
And equal rights for each beneath the
rule of all.
These are thy
halyards, banner bold,
And while these
hold,
Thy brightness from the sky shall never
fall,
Thy broadening empire never know decrease,—
Thy strength is union and thy glory peace.
Look forth across thy widespread lands,
O flag, and let thy stars to-night be
eyes
To see the visionary
hosts
Of men and women grateful to be thine,
That joyfully
arise
From all thy borders and thy coasts,
And follow after thee in endless line!
They lift to thee a forest of saluting
hands;
They hail thee with a rolling ocean-roar
Of cheers; and
as the echo dies,
There comes a sweet and moving song
Of treble voices from the childish throng
Who run to thee from every school-house
door.
Behold thine army! Here thy power
My vision darkens as the night descends;
And through the mystic atmosphere
I feel the creeping coldness that portends
A change of spirit
in my dream
The multitude that moved with song and
cheer
Have vanished,
yet a living stream
Flows on and follows
still the flag,
But silent now, with leaden feet that
lag
And falter in
the deepening gloom,—
A weird battalion bringing up the rear.
Ah, who are these on whom the vital bloom
Of life has withered to the dust of doom?
These little pilgrims prematurely worn
And bent as if they bore the weight of
years?
These childish faces, pallid and forlorn,
Too dull for laughter and too hard for
tears?
Is this the ghost of that insane crusade
That led ten thousand children long ago,
A flock of innocents, deceived, betrayed,
Yet pressing on through want and woe
To meet their fate, faithful and unafraid?
Nay, for a million
children now
Are marching in the long pathetic line,
With weary step and early wrinkled brow;
And at their head appears no holy sign
Of hope in heaven;
For unto them
is given
No cross to carry, but a cross to drag.
Before their strength is ripe they bear
The load of labour, toiling underground
In dangerous mines and breathing heavy
air
Of crowded shops; their tender lives are
bound
To service of the whirling, clattering
wheels
That fill the factories with dust and
noise;
They are not girls
and boys,
But little “hands” who blindly,
dumbly feed
With their own blood the hungry god of
Greed.
Robbed of their
natural joys,
And wounded with a scar that never heals,
They stumble on with heavy-laden soul,
And fall by thousands on the highway lined
With little graves; or reach at last their
goal
Of stunted manhood and embittered age,
To brood awhile with dark and troubled
mind,
Beside the smouldering fire of sullen
rage,
On life’s unfruitful work and niggard
wage.
Are these the regiments that Freedom rears
To serve her cause
in coming years?
Nay, every life that Avarice doth maim
And beggar in the helpless days of youth,
Shall surely claim
A just revenge, and take it without ruth;
Look up, look up, ye downcast eyes!
The night is almost
gone:
Along the new horizon flies
The banner of
the dawn;
The eastern sky is banded low
With white and
crimson bars,
While far above the morning glow
The everlasting
stars.
O bright flag, O brave flag, O flag to lead
the free!
The hand of God
thy colours blent,
And heaven to
earth thy glory lent,
To shield the
weak, and guide the strong
To make an end
of human wrong,
And draw a countless human host to follow
after thee!
STAIN NOT THE SKY
Ye gods of battle, lords of
fear,
Who work your
iron will as well
As once ye did with sword
and spear,
With rifled gun
and rending shell,—
Masters of sea and land, forbear
The fierce invasion of the inviolate air!
With patient daring man hath
wrought
A hundred years
for power to fly;
And will you make his winged
thought
A hovering horror
in the sky,
Where flocks of human eagles
sail,
Dropping their bolts of death on hill
and dale?
Ah no, the sunset is too pure,
The dawn too fair,
the noon too bright
For wings of terror to obscure
Their beauty,
and betray the night
That keeps for man, above
his wars,
The tranquil vision of untroubled stars.
Pass on, pass on, ye lords
of fear!
Your footsteps
in the sea are red,
And black on earth your paths
appear
With ruined homes
and heaps of dead.
Pass on to end your transient
reign,
And leave the blue of heaven without a
stain.
The wrong ye wrought will fall to
dust,
The right ye shielded
will abide;
The world at last will learn
to trust
In law to guard,
and love to guide;
And Peace of God that answers
prayer
Will fall like dew from the inviolate
air.
March 5, 1914.
O Lord our God, Thy mighty hand
Hath made our country free;
From all her broad and happy land
May praise arise to Thee.
Fulfill the promise of her youth,
Her liberty defend;
By law and order, love and truth,
America befriend!
The strength of every State increase
In Union’s golden chain;
Her thousand cities fill with peace,
Her million fields with grain.
The virtues of her mingled blood
In one new people blend;
By unity and brotherhood,
America befriend!
O suffer not her feet to stray;
But guide her untaught might,
That she may walk in peaceful day,
And lead the world in light.
Bring down the proud, lift up the poor,
Unequal ways amend;
By justice, nation-wide and sure,
America befriend!
Thro’ all the waiting land proclaim
Thy gospel of good-will;
And may the music of Thy name
In every bosom thrill.
O’er hill and vale, from sea to
sea.
Thy holy reign extend;
By faith and hope and charity,
America befriend!
THE RED FLOWER AND GOLDEN STARS
These verses were written during the terrible world-war, and immediately after. The earlier ones had to be unsigned because America was still “neutral” and I held a diplomatic post. The rest of them were printed after I had resigned, and was free to speak out, and to take active service in the Navy, when America entered the great conflict for liberty and peace on earth.
Avalon, February 22, 1920.
June, 1914
In the pleasant time of Pentecost,
By the little river Kyll,
I followed the angler’s winding
path
Or waded the stream at will,
And the friendly fertile German land
Lay round me green and still.
But all day long on the eastern bank
Of the river cool and clear,
Where the curving track of the double
rails
Was hardly seen though near,
The endless trains of German troops
Went rolling down to Trier.
They packed the windows with bullet heads
And caps of hodden gray;
They laughed and sang and shouted loud
When the trains were brought
to a stay;
They waved their hands and sang again
As they went on their iron
way.
No shadow fell on the smiling land,
No cloud arose in the sky;
I could hear the river’s quiet tune
When the trains had rattled
by;
But my heart sank low with a heavy sense
Of trouble,—I knew
not why.
Then came I into a certain field
Where the devil’s paint-brush
spread
’Mid the gray and green of the rolling
hills
A flaring splotch of red,—
An evil omen, a bloody sign,
And a token of many dead.
I saw in a vision the field-gray horde
Break forth at the devil’s
hour,
And trample the earth into crimson mud
In the rage of the Will to
Power,—
All this I dreamed in the valley of Kyll,
At the sign of the blood-red
flower.
“Will you go to war just for a scrap
of paper?”—Question of the
German Chancellor to the British Ambassador,
August 5, 1914.
A mocking question! Britain’s
answer came
Swift as the light and searching as the
flame.
“Yes, for a scrap of paper we will
fight
Till our last breath, and God defend the
right!
“A scrap of paper where a name is
set
Is strong as duty’s pledge and honor’s
debt.
“A scrap of paper holds for man
and wife
The sacrament of love, the bond of life.
“A scrap of paper may be Holy Writ
With God’s eternal word to hallow
it.
“A scrap of paper binds us both
to stand
Defenders of a neutral neighbor land.
“By God, by faith, by honor, yes!
We fight
To keep our name upon that paper white.”
September, 1914.
Stand
fast, Great Britain!
Together England, Scotland, Ireland stand
One in the faith that makes a mighty land,—
True to the bond you gave and will not
break
And fearless in the fight for conscience’
sake!
Against the Giant Robber clad in steel,
With blood of trampled Belgium on his
heel,
Striding through France to strike you
down at last,
Britain,
stand fast!
Stand
fast, brave land!
The Huns are thundering toward the citadel;
They prate of Culture but their path is
Hell;
Their light is darkness, and the bloody
sword
They wield and worship is their only Lord.
O land where reason stands secure on right,
O land where freedom is the source of
light,
Against the mailed Barbarians’ deadly
blast,
Britain,
stand fast!
Stand
fast, dear land!
Thou island mother of a world-wide race,
Whose children speak thy tongue and love
thy face,
Their hearts and hopes are with thee in
the strife,
Their hands will break the sword that
seeks thy life;
Fight on until the Teuton madness cease;
Fight bravely on, until the word of peace
Is spoken in the English tongue at last,—
Britain,
stand fast!
September, 1914.
(1915)
“Lights out” along the land,
“Lights out” upon the sea.
The night must put her hiding hand
O’er peaceful towns where children
sleep,
And peaceful ships that darkly creep
Across the waves, as if they were not
free.
The dragons of the air,
The hell-hounds of the deep,
Lurking and prowling everywhere,
Go forth to seek their helpless prey,
Not knowing whom they maim or slay—
Mad harvesters, who care not what they
reap.
Out with the tranquil lights,
Out with the lights that burn
For love and law and human rights!
Set back the clock a thousand years:
All they have gained now disappears,
And the dark ages suddenly return.
Kaiser, who loosed wild death,
And terror in the night,
God grant you draw no quiet breath,
Until the madness you began
Is ended, and long-suffering man,
Set free from war lords, cries, “Let
there be Light.”
October, 1915.
Read at the meeting of the American Academy, Boston, November, 1915.
“God said I am tired of kings.”—EMERSON.
God said, “I am tired of kings,”—
But that was a long while ago!
And meantime man said, “No,—
I like their looks in their robes and
rings.”
So he crowned a few more,
And they went on playing the game as before,
Fighting and spoiling things.
Man said, “I am tired of kings!
Sons of the robber-chiefs of yore,
They make me pay for their lust and their
war;
I am the puppet, they pull the strings;
The blood of my heart is the wine they
drink.
I will govern myself for awhile I think,
And see what that brings!”
Then God, who made the first remark,
Smiled in the dark.
October, 1915.
Read at the meeting of the American Academy, Boston, November, 1915.
If Might made Right, life were a wild-beasts’
cage;
If Right made Might, this were the golden
age;
But now, until we win the long campaign,
Right must gain Might to conquer and to
reign.
July 1, 1915.
Peace without Justice is a low estate,—
A coward cringing to an iron Fate!
But Peace through Justice is the great
ideal,—
We’ll pay the price of war to make
it real.
December 28, 1916.
O Music hast thou only heard
The laughing river, the singing bird,
The murmuring wind in the poplar-trees,—
Nothing but Nature’s melodies?
Nay, thou hearest all her
tones,
As a Queen must
hear!
Sounds of wrath
and fear,
Mutterings, shouts,
and moans,
Madness, tumult, and despair,—
All she has that shakes the
air
With voices fierce and wild!
Thou art a Queen and not a dreaming child,—
Put on thy crown and let us hear thee
reign
Triumphant in a world of storm and strain!
Echo the long-drawn sighs
Of the mounting wind in the pines;
And the sobs of the mounting waves that
rise
In the dark of the troubled
deep
To break on the beach in fiery lines.
Echo the far-off roll of thunder,
Rumbling
loud
And ever louder, under
The blue-black curtain of
cloud,
Where the lightning serpents
gleam.
Echo the moaning
Of the forest in its sleep
Like a giant groaning
In the torment of a dream.
Now an interval of quiet
For a moment holds the air
In the breathless hush
Of a silent prayer.
Then the sudden rush
Of the rain, and the riot
Of the shrieking, tearing
gale
Breaks loose in the night,
With a fusillade of hail!
Hear the forest fight,
With its tossing arms that crack and clash
In the thunder’s cannonade,
While the lightning’s
forked flash
Brings the old hero-trees to the ground
with a crash!
Hear the breakers’ deepening roar,
Driven like a herd of cattle
In the wild stampede of battle,
Trampling, trampling, trampling, to overwhelm
the shore!
Is it the end
of all?
Will the land
crumble and fall?
Nay, for a voice
replies
Out of the hidden
skies,
“Thus far, O sea, shalt thou go,
So long, O wind, shalt thou blow:
Return to your bounds and cease,
And let the earth have peace!”
O Music, lead the way—
The stormy night
is past,
Lift up our hearts to greet the day,
And the joy of
things that last.
The dissonance and pain
That mortals must
endure,
Are changed in thine immortal strain
To something great
and pure.
True love will conquer strife,
And strength from
conflict flows,
For discord is the thorn of life
And harmony the
rose.
May, 1916.
August 17, 1914
The gabled roofs of old Malines
Are russet red and gray and green,
And o’er them in the sunset hour
Looms, dark and huge, St. Rombold’s
tower.
High in that rugged nest concealed,
The sweetest bells that ever pealed,
The deepest bells that ever rung,
The lightest bells that ever sung,
Are waiting for the master’s hand
To fling their music o’er the land.
And shall they ring to-night, Malines?
In nineteen hundred and fourteen,
The frightful year, the year of woe,
When fire and blood and rapine flow
Across the land from lost Liege,
Storm-driven by the German rage?
The other carillons have ceased:
Fallen is Hasselt, fallen Diest,
From Ghent and Bruges no voices come,
Antwerp is silent, Brussels dumb!
But in thy belfry, O Malines,
The master of the bells unseen
Has climbed to where the keyboard stands,—
To-night his heart is in his hands!
Once more, before invasion’s hell
Breaks round the tower he loves so well,
Once more he strikes the well-worn keys,
And sends aerial harmonies
Far-floating through the twilight dim
In patriot song and holy hymn.
O listen, burghers of Malines!
Soldier and workman, pale beguine,
And mother with a trembling flock
Of children clinging to thy frock,—
Look up and listen, listen all!
What tunes are these that gently fall
Around you like a benison?
“The Flemish Lion,” “Brabanconne,”
“O brave Liege,” and all the
airs
That Belgium in her bosom bears.
Ring up, ye silvery octaves high,
Whose notes like circling swallows fly;
And ring, each old sonorous bell,—
“Jesu,” “Maria,”
“Michael!”
Weave in and out, and high and low,
The magic music that you know,
And let it float and flutter down
To cheer the heart of the troubled town.
Ring out, “Salvator,” lord
of all,—
“Roland” in Ghent may hear
thee call!
O brave bell-music of Malines,
In this dark hour how much you mean!
The dreadful night of blood and tears
Sweeps down on Belgium, but she hears
Deep in her heart the melody
Of songs she learned when she was free.
She will not falter, faint, nor fail,
But fight until her rights prevail
And all her ancient belfries ring
“The Flemish Lion,” “God
Save the King!”
1914-1916
What hast thou done, O womanhood of France,
Mother and daughter, sister,
sweetheart, wife,
What hast thou done, amid
this fateful strife,
To prove the pride of thine inheritance
In this fair land of freedom and romance?
I hear thy voice with tears
and courage rife,—
Smiling against the swords
that seek thy life,—
Make answer in a noble utterance:
“I give France all I have, and all
she asks.
Would it were more! Ah,
let her ask and take:
My hands to nurse her wounded, do her
tasks,—
My feet to run her errands
through the dark,—
My heart to bleed in triumph for her sake,—
And all my soul to follow
thee, Jeanne d’Arc!”
April 16, 1916.
[2] This sonnet belongs with the poem on page 309,
“Come Back Again, Jeanne
D’Arc.”
Give us a name to fill the mind
With the shining thoughts that lead mankind,
The glory of learning, the joy of art,—
A name that tells of a splendid part
In the long, long toil and the strenuous
fight
Of the human race to win its way
From the feudal darkness into the day
Of Freedom, Brotherhood, Equal Right,—
A name like a star, a name of light.
I give you France!
Give us a name to stir the blood
With a warmer glow and a swifter flood,
At the touch of a courage that conquers
fear,—
A name like the sound of a trumpet, clear,
And silver-sweet, and iron-strong,
That calls three million men to their
feet,
Ready to march, and steady to meet
The foes who threaten that name with wrong,—
A name that rings like a battle-song.
I give you France!
Give us a name to move the heart
With the strength that noble griefs impart,
A name that speaks of the blood outpoured
To save mankind from the sway of the sword,—
A name that calls on the world to share
In the burden of sacrificial strife
When the cause at stake is the world’s
free life
And the rule of the people everywhere,—
A name like a vow, a name like a prayer.
I give you France!
The Hague, September, 1916.
They tell me thou art rich, my country:
gold
In glittering flood has poured
into thy chest;
Thy flocks and herds increase,
thy barns are pressed
With harvest, and thy stores can hardly
hold
Their merchandise; unending trains are
rolled
Along thy network rails of
East and West;
Thy factories and forges never
rest;
Thou art enriched in all things bought
and sold!
But dost thou prosper? Better
news I crave.
O dearest country, is it well
with thee
Indeed, and is
thy soul in health?
A nobler people, hearts more wisely brave,
And thoughts that lift men
up and make them free,—
These are prosperity
and vital wealth!
The Hague, October 1, 1916.
The glory of ships is an old, old song,
since the days when the sea-rovers
ran,
In their open boats through the roaring
surf,
and the spread of the world
began;
The glory of ships is a light on the sea,
and a star in the story of
man.
When Homer sang of the galleys of Greece
that conquered the Trojan
shore,
And Solomon lauded the barks of Tyre
that brought great wealth
to his door,
’Twas little they knew, those ancient
men,
what would come of the sail
and the oar.
The Greek ships rescued the West from
the East,
when they harried the Persians
home;
And the Roman ships were the wings of
strength
that bore up the empire, Rome;
And the ships of Spain found a wide new
world,
far over the fields of foam.
Then the tribes of courage at last saw
clear
that the ocean was not a bound,
But a broad highway, and a challenge to
seek
for treasure as yet unfound;
So the fearless ships fared forth to the
search,
in joy that the globe was
round.
Their hulls were heightened, their sails
spread out,
they grew with the growth
of their quest;
They opened the secret doors of the East,
and the golden gates of the
West;
And many a city of high renown
was proud of a ship on its
crest.
The fleets of England and Holland and
France
were at strife with each other
and Spain;
And battle and storm sent a myriad ships
to sleep in the depths of
the main;
But the seafaring spirit could never be
drowned,
and it filled up the fleets
again.
They greatened and grew, with the aid
of steam,
to a wonderful, vast array,
That carries the thoughts and the traffic
of men
into every harbor and bay;
And now in the world-wide work of the
ships
’tis England that leads
the way.
O well for the leading that follows the
law
of a common right on the sea!
But ill for the leader who tries to hold
what belongs to mankind in
fee!
The way of the ships is an open way,
and the ocean must ever be
free!
Remember, O first of the maritime folk,
how the rise of your greatness
began.
It will live if you safeguard the round-the-world
road
from the shame of a selfish
ban;
For the glory of ships is a light on the
sea,
and a star in the story of
man!
September 12, 1916.
You dare to say with perjured lips, “We fight to make the ocean free”? You, whose black trail of butchered ships Bestrews the bed of every sea Where German submarines have wrought Their horrors! Have you never thought,— What you call freedom, men call piracy!
Unnumbered ghosts that haunt the wave,
Where you have murdered, cry you down;
And seamen whom you would not save,
Weave now in weed-grown depths a crown
Of shame for your imperious head,
A dark memorial of the dead
Women and children whom you sent to drown.
Nay, not till thieves are set to guard
The gold, and corsairs called to keep
O’er peaceful commerce watch and
ward,
And wolves to herd the helpless sheep,
Shall men and women look to thee,
Thou ruthless Old Man of the Sea,
To safeguard law and freedom on the deep!
In nobler breeds we put our trust:
The nations in whose sacred lore
The “Ought” stands out above
the “Must,”
And honor rules in peace and war.
With these we hold in soul and heart,
With these we choose our lot and part,
Till Liberty is safe on sea and shore.
London Times, February 12, 1917.
“LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD”
Thou warden of the western gate, above
Manhattan Bay,
The fogs of doubt that hid thy face are
driven clean away:
Thine eyes at last look far and clear,
thou liftest high thy hand
To spread the light of liberty world-wide
for every land.
No more thou dreamest of a peace reserved
alone for thee,
While friends are fighting for thy cause
beyond the guardian sea:
The battle that they wage is thine; thou
fallest if they fall;
The swollen flood of Prussian pride will
sweep unchecked o’er all.
O cruel is the conquer-lust in Hohenzollern
brains:
The paths they plot to gain their goal
are dark with shameful stains;
No faith they keep, no law revere, no
god but naked Might;
They are the foemen of mankind. Up,
Liberty, and smite!
Britain, and France, and Italy, and Russia
newly born,
Have waited for thee in the night.
Oh, come as comes the morn!
Serene and strong and full of faith, America,
arise,
With steady hope and mighty help to join
thy brave Allies.
O dearest country of my heart, home of
the high desire,
Make clean thy soul for sacrifice on Freedom’s
altar-fire:
For thou must suffer, thou must fight,
until the warlords cease,
And all the peoples lift their heads in
liberty and peace.
London Times, April 12, 1917.
February, 1917
I never thought again to hear
The Oxford thrushes singing clear,
Amid the February rain,
Their sweet, indomitable strain.
A wintry vapor lightly spreads
Among the trees, and round the beds
Where daffodil and jonquil sleep;
Only the snowdrop wakes to weep.
It is not springtime yet. Alas,
What dark, tempestuous days must pass,
Till England’s trial by battle cease,
And summer comes again with peace.
The lofty halls, the tranquil towers,
Where Learning in untroubled hours
Held her high court, serene in fame,
Are lovely still, yet not the same.
The novices in fluttering gown
No longer fill the ancient town;
But fighting men in khaki drest,
And in the Schools the wounded rest.
Ah, far away, ’neath stranger skies
Full many a son of Oxford lies,
And whispers from his warrior grave,
“I died to keep the faith you gave.”
The mother mourns, but does not fail,
Her courage and her love prevail
O’er sorrow, and her spirit hears
The promise of triumphant years.
Then sing, ye thrushes, in the rain
Your sweet indomitable strain.
Ye bring a word from God on high
And voices in our hearts reply.
Home, for my heart still calls me;
Home, through the danger zone;
Home, whatever befalls me,
I will sail again to my own!
Wolves of the sea are hiding
Closely along the way,
Under the water biding
Their moment to rend and slay.
Black is the eagle that brands them,
Black are their hearts as
the nights
Black is the hate that sends them
To murder but not to fight.
Flower of the German Culture,
Boast of the Kaiser’s
Marine,
Choose for your emblem the vulture,
Cowardly, cruel, obscene!
Forth from her sheltered haven
Our peaceful ship glides slow,
Noiseless in flight as a raven,
Gray as a hoodie crow.
She doubles and turns in her bearing,
Like a twisting plover she
goes;
The way of her westward faring
Only the captain knows.
In a lonely bay concealing
She lingers for days, and
slips
At dusk from her covert, stealing
Thro’ channels feared
by the ships.
Brave are the men, and steady,
Who guide her over the deep,—
British mariners, ready
To face the sea-wolf’s
leap.
Lord of the winds and waters,
Bring our ship to her mark,
Safe from this game of hide-and-seek
With murderers in the dark!
On the S.S. Baltic, May, 1917.
The winds of war-news change and veer:
Now westerly and full of cheer,
Now easterly, depressing, sour
With tidings of the Teutons’ power.
But thou, America, whose heart
With brave Allies has taken part,
Be not a weathercock to change
With these wild winds that shift and range.
Be thou a compass ever true,
Through sullen clouds or skies of blue,
To that great star which rules the night,—
The star of Liberty and Right.
Lover of peace, oh set thy soul,
Thy strength, thy wealth, thy conscience
whole,
To win the peace thine eyes foresee,—
The triumph of Democracy.
December 19, 1917.
There are many kinds of anger, as many
kinds of fire;
And some are fierce and fatal with murderous
desire;
And some are mean and craven, revengeful,
sullen, slow,
They hurt the man that holds them more
than they hurt his foe.
And yet there is an anger that purifies
the heart:
The anger of the better against the baser
part,
Against the false and wicked, against
the tyrant’s sword,
Against the enemies of love, and all that
hate the Lord.
O cleansing indignation, O flame of righteous
wrath,
Give me a soul to feel thee and follow
in thy path!
Save me from selfish virtue, arm me for
fearless fight,
And give me strength to carry on, a soldier
of the Right!
January, 1918.
I have no joy in strife,
Peace is my great desire;
Yet God forbid I lose my life
Through fear to face the fire.
A peaceful man must fight
For that which peace demands,—
Freedom and faith, honor and right,
Defend with heart and hands.
Farewell, my friendly books;
Farewell, ye woods and streams;
The fate that calls me forward looks
To a duty beyond dreams.
Oh, better to be dead
With a face turned to the
sky,
Than live beneath a slavish dread
And serve a giant lie.
Stand up, my heart, and strive
For the things most dear to
thee!
Why should we care to be alive
Unless the world is free?
May, 1918.
AMERICAN FLAG SONG
1776
O dark the night and dim the day
When first our flag arose;
It fluttered bravely in the fray
To meet o’erwhelming
foes.
Our fathers saw the splendor shine,
They dared and suffered all;
They won our freedom by the sign—
The holy sign, the radiant sign—
Of the stars that never fall.
Chorus
All hail to thee, Young Glory!
Among the flags
of earth
We’ll ne’er forget
the story
Of thy heroic
birth.
1861
O wild the later storm that shook
The pillars of the State,
When brother against brother took
The final arms of fate.
But union lived and peace divine
Enfolded brothers all;
The flag floats o’er them with the
sign—
The loyal sign, the equal sign—
Of the stars that never fall.
Chorus
All hail to thee, Old Glory!
Of thee our heart’s
desire
Foretells a golden story,
For thou hast
come through fire.
1917
O fiercer than all wars before
That raged on land or sea,
The Giant Robber’s world-wide war
For the things that shall
not be!
Thy sister banners hold the line;
To thee, dear flag, they call;
And thou hast joined them with the sign—
The heavenly sign, the victor sign—
Of the stars that never fall.
Chorus
All hail to thee, New Glory!
We follow thee
unfurled
To write the larger story
Of Freedom for
the World.
September 4, 1918.
The rough expanse of democratic sea
Which parts the lands that live by liberty
Is no division; for their hearts are one.
To fight together till their cause is
won.
For land and water let us make our pact,
And seal the solemn word with valiant
act:
No continent is firm, no ocean pure,
Until on both the rights of man are sure.
April, 1917.
Sign of the Love Divine
That bends to bear the load
Of all who suffer, all who bleed,
Along life’s thorny
road:
Sign of the Heart Humane,
That through the darkest fight
Would bring to wounded friend and foe
A ministry of light:
O dear and holy sign,
Lead onward like a star!
The armies of the just are thine,
And all we have and are.
October 20, 1918.
For the Red Cross Christmas Roll Call.
1918
Under the cloud of world-wide war,
While earth is drenched with sorrow,
I have no heart for idle merrymaking,
Or for the fashioning of glad raiment.
I will retrace the divine footmarks,
On the Road of the first Easter.
Down through the valley of utter darkness
Dripping with blood and tears;
Over the hill of the skull, the little
hill of great anguish,
The ambuscade of Death.
Into the no-man’s-land of Hades
Bearing despatches of hope to spirits
in prison,
Mortally stricken and triumphant
Went the faithful Captain of Salvation.
Then upward, swiftly upward,—
Victory, liberty, glory,
The feet that were wounded walked in the
tranquil garden,
Bathed in dew and the light of deathless
dawn.
O my soul, my comrades, soldiers of freedom,
Follow the pathway of Easter, for there
is no other,
Follow it through to peace, yea, follow
it fighting.
This Armageddon is not darker than Calvary.
The day will break when the Dragon is
vanquished;
He that exalteth himself as God shall
be cast down,
And the Lords of war shall fall,
And the long, long terror be ended,
Victory, justice, peace enduring!
They that die in this cause shall live
forever,
And they that live shall never die,
They shall rejoice together in the Easter
of a new world.
March 31, 1918.
Oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki
and in blue,
America’s crusading host of warriors
bold and true;
They battled for the rights of man beside
our brave Allies,
And now they’re coming home to us
with glory in their eyes.
Oh, it’s home again, and
home again, America for me!
Our hearts are turning home
again and there we long to be,
In our beautiful big country
beyond the ocean bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight
and the flag is full of stars.
Our boys have seen the Old World as none
have seen before.
They know the grisly horror of the German
gods of war:
The noble faith of Britain and the hero-heart
of France,
The soul of Belgium’s fortitude
and Italy’s romance.
They bore our country’s great word
across the rolling sea,
“America swears brotherhood with
all the just and free.”
They wrote that word victorious on fields
of mortal strife,
And many a valiant lad was proud to seal
it with his life.
Oh, welcome home in Heaven’s peace,
dear spirits of the dead!
And welcome home ye living sons America
hath bred!
The lords of war are beaten down, your
glorious task is done;
You fought to make the whole world free,
and the victory is won.
Now it’s home again, and
home again, our hearts are turning west,
Of all the lands beneath the
sun America is best.
We’re going home to
our own folks, beyond the ocean bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight
and the flag is full of stars.
November 11, 1918.
A sequel to “America For Me,” written in 1909. Page 314.
Ship after ship, and every one with
a high-resounding name,
From the robber-nest of Heligoland the German war-fleet
came;
Not victory or death they sought, but a rendezvous
of shame.
Sing out, sing out,
A joyful shout,
Ye lovers of the sea!
The “Kaiser” and the “Kaiserin,”
The “Koenig” and the “Prinz,”
The potentates of piracy,
Are coming to surrender,
And the ocean shall be free.
They never dared the final fate of battle on the blue;
Their sea-wolves murdered merchantmen and mocked the drowning crew;
They stained the wave with martyr-blood,—but we sent our transports
through!
What flags are these that dumbly
droop from the gaff o’ the mainmast
tall?
The black of the Kaiser’s iron cross, the
red of the Empire’s fall!
Come down, come down, ye pirate flags. Yea,
strike your colors all.
The Union Jack and the Tricolor and the Starry Flag o’ the West
Shall guard the fruit of Freedom’s war and the victory confest,
The flags of the brave and just and free shall rule on the ocean’s
breast.
Sing out, sing out,
A mighty shout,
Ye lovers of the sea!
The “Kaiser” and the “Kaiserin,”
The “Koenig” and the “Prinz,”
The robber-lords of death and sin,
Have come to their surrender,
And the ocean shall be free!
November 20, 1918.
It was my lot of late to travel far
Through all America’s domain,
A willing, gray-haired servitor
Bearing the Fiery Cross of righteous war.
And everywhere, on mountain, vale and
plain,
In crowded street and lonely cottage door,
I saw the symbol of the bright blue star.
Millions of stars! Rejoice, dear
land, rejoice
That God hath made thee great enough to
give
Beneath thy starry flag unfurled
A gift to all the world,—
Thy living sons that Liberty might live.
It seems but yesterday they sallied forth Boys of the east, the west, the south, the north, High-hearted, keen, with laughter and with song, Fearless of lurking danger on the sea, Eager to fight in Flanders or in France Against the monstrous German wrong, And sure of victory! Brothers in soul with British and with French They held their ground in many a bloody trench; And when the swift word came— Advance! Over the top they went through waves of flame,— Confident, reckless, irresistible, Real Americans,— Their rush was never stayed Until the foe fell back, defeated and dismayed. O land that bore them, write upon thy roll Of battles won To liberate the human soul, Chateau Thierry and Saint Mihiel And the fierce agony of the Argonne; Yea, count among thy little rivers, dear Because of friends whose feet have trodden there, The Marne, the Meuse, and the Moselle.
Now the vile sword
In Potsdam forged and bathed in hell,
Is beaten down, the victory given
To the sword forged in faith and bathed
in heaven.
Now home again our heroes come:
Oh, welcome them with bugle and with drum,
Ring bells, blow whistles, make a joyful
noise
Unto the Lord,
And welcome home our blue-star boys,
Whose manhood has made known
To all the world America,
Unselfish, brave and free, the Great Republic,
Who lives not to herself alone.
But many a lad we hold
Dear in our heart of hearts
Is missing from the home-returning host.
Ah, say not they are lost,
For they have found and given their life
In sacrificial strife:
Their service stars have changed from
blue to gold!
That sudden rapture took them far away,
Yet are they here with us to-day,
Even as the heavenly stars we cannot see
Through the bright veil of sunlight,
Shed their influence still
On our vexed life, and promise peace
From God to all men of good will.
What wreaths shall we entwine
For our dear boys to deck their holy shrine?
Mountain-laurel, morning-glory,
Goldenrod and asters blue,
Purple loosestrife, prince’s-pine,
Wild-azalea, meadow-rue,
Nodding-lilies, columbine,—
All the native blooms that grew
In these fresh woods and pastures new,
Wherein they loved to ramble and to play.
Bring no exotic flowers:
America was in their hearts,
And they are ours
For ever and a day.
O happy warriors, forgive the tear
Falling from eyes that miss
you:
Forgive the word of grief from mother-lips
That ne’er on earth
shall kiss you;
Hear only what our hearts would have you
hear,—
Glory and praise and gratitude and pride
From the dear country in whose cause you
died.
Now you have run your race and won your
prize,
Old age shall never burden you, the fears
And conflicts that beset our lingering
years
Shall never vex your souls in Paradise.
Immortal, young, and crowned with victory,
From life’s long battle you have
found release.
And He who died for all on
Calvary
Has welcomed you, brave soldiers of the
cross,
Into eternal Peace.
Come, let us gird our loins and lift our
load,
Companions who are left on life’s
rough road,
And bravely take the way that we must
tread
To keep true faith with our beloved dead.
To conquer war they dared their lives
to give,
To safeguard peace our hearts must learn
to live.
Help us, dear God, our forward faith to
hold!
We want a better world than that of old.
Lead us on paths of high endeavor,
Toiling upward, climbing ever,
Ready to suffer for the right,
Until at last we gain a loftier height,
More worthy to behold
Our guiding stars, our hero-stars of gold.
Ode for the Memorial Service,
Princeton University, December 15, 1918.
In the blue heaven the clouds will come and go,
Scudding before the gale, or drifting slow
As galleons becalmed in Sundown Bay:
And through the air the birds will wing their way
Soaring to far-off heights, or flapping low,
Or darting like an arrow from the bow;
And when the twilight comes the stars will show,
One after one, their tranquil bright array
In the blue heaven.
But ye who fearless flew to meet the foe,
Eagles of freedom,—nevermore, we know,
Shall we behold you floating far away.
Yet clouds and birds and every starry ray
Will draw our heart to where your spirits glow
In the blue Heaven.
For the American Aviators who died in the war.
March, 1919.
FOR THE UNNAMED SOLDIERS WHO DIED IN FRANCE
Universal approval has been accorded the proposal made in the French Chamber that the ashes of an unnamed French soldier, fallen for his country, shall be removed with solemn ceremony to the Pantheon. In this way it is intended to honor by a symbolic ceremony the memory of all who lie in unmarked graves.
Here the great heart of France,
Victor in noble strife,
Doth consecrate a Poilu’s tomb
To those who saved her life!
Brave son without a name,
Your country calls you home,
To rest among her heirs of fame,
Beneath the Pantheon’s
dome!
Now from the height of Heaven,
The souls of heroes look;
Their names, ungraven on this stone,
Are written in God’s
book.
Women of France, who mourn
Your dead in unmarked ground,
Come hither! Here the man you loved
In the heart of France is
found!
MOTHER EARTH
Mother of all the high-strung poets
and singers departed,
Mother of all the grass that weaves over their graves
the glory of the
field,
Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep-bosomed,
patient,
impassive,
Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sorrows!
Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth
below thy breast,
Issued in some strange way, thou lying motionless,
voiceless,
All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate,
yearning.
Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth returning.
Dust are the blood-red hearts that
beat in time to these measures,
Thou hast taken them back to thyself, secretly,
irresistibly
Drawing the crimson currents of life down, down,
down
Deep into thy bosom again, as a river is lost in
the sand.
But the souls of the singers have entered into the
songs that revealed
them,—
Passionate songs, immortal songs of joy and grief
and love and longing,
Floating from heart to heart of thy children, they
echo above thee:
Do they not utter thy heart, the voices of those
that love thee?
Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed by some old enchantment
Into an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speechless,
Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thy Lord and Lover
Wakened the man-child within thee to tell thy secret.
All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flowing waters
Are but the rhythmical forms to reveal the life of the spirit;
Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain and meadow and ocean,
Holdest the poem of God, eternal thought and emotion.
December, 1905.
Lover of beauty, walking on the height
Of pure philosophy and tranquil
song;
Born to behold the visions
that belong
To those who dwell in melody and light;
Milton, thou spirit delicate and bright!
What drew thee down to join
the Roundhead throng
Of iron-sided warriors, rude
and strong,
Fighting for freedom in a world half night?
Lover of Liberty at heart wast thou,
Above all beauty bright, all
music clear:
To thee she bared her bosom and her brow,
Breathing her virgin promise
in thine ear,
And bound thee to her with a double vow,—
Exquisite Puritan, grave Cavalier!
The cause, the cause for which thy soul
resigned
Her singing robes to battle
on the plain,
Was won, O poet, and was lost
again;
And lost the labour of thy lonely mind
On weary tasks of prose. What wilt
thou find
To comfort thee for all the
toil and pain?
What solace, now thy sacrifice
is vain
And thou art left forsaken, poor, and
blind?
Like organ-music comes the deep reply:
“The cause of truth
looks lost, but shall be won.
For God hath given to mine inward eye
Vision of England soaring
to the sun.
And granted me great peace before I die,
In thoughts of lowly duty
bravely done.”
O bend again above thine organ-board,
Thou blind old poet longing
for repose!
Thy Master claims thy service
not with those
Who only stand and wait for His reward;
He pours the heavenly gift of song restored
Into thy breast, and bids
thee nobly close
A noble life, with poetry
that flows
In mighty music of the major chord.
Where hast thou learned this deep, majestic
strain,
Surpassing all thy youthful
lyric grace,
To sing of Paradise? Ah, not in vain
The griefs that won at Dante’s
side thy place,
And made thee, Milton, by thy years of
pain,
The loftiest poet of the English
race!
1908.
Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls
Among the mountains, and thy
song is fed
By living springs far up the
watershed;
No whirling flood nor parching drought
controls
The crystal current: even on the
shoals
It murmurs clear and sweet;
and when its bed
Deepens below mysterious cliffs
of dread,
Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our
souls.
But thou in youth hast known the breaking
stress
Of passion, and hast trod
despair’s dry ground
Beneath black
thoughts that wither and destroy.
Ah, wanderer, led by human tenderness
Home to the heart of Nature,
thou hast found
The hidden Fountain
of Recovered Joy.
October, 1906.
The melancholy gift Aurora gained
From Jove, that her sad lover
should not see
The face of death, no goddess
asked for thee,
My Keats! But when the scarlet blood-drop
stained
Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained,—
Brief life, wild love, a flight
of poesy!
And then,—a shadow
fell on Italy:
Thy star went down before its brightness
waned.
Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed:
Never to feel the pain of
growing old,
Nor lose the blissful
sight of beauty’s truth,
But with the ardent lips Urania kissed
To breathe thy song, and,
ere thy heart grew cold,
Become the Poet
of Immortal Youth.
August, 1906.
Knight-errant of the Never-ending Quest,
And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled
Desire;
For ever tuning thy frail
earthly lyre
To some unearthly music, and possessed
With painful passionate longing to invest
The golden dream of Love’s
immortal fire
With mortal robes of beautiful
attire,
And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast!
What wonder, Shelley, that the restless
wave
Should claim thee and the
leaping flame consume
Thy drifted form
on Viareggio’s beach?
These were thine elements,—thy
fitting grave.
But still thy soul rides on
with fiery plume,
Thy wild song
rings in ocean’s yearning speech!
August, 1906.
How blind the toil that burrows like the
mole,
In winding graveyard pathways
underground,
For Browning’s lineage!
What if men have found
Poor footmen or rich merchants on the
roll
Of his forbears? Did they beget his
soul?
Nay, for he came of ancestry
renowned
Through all the world,—the
poets laurel-crowned
With wreaths from which the autumn takes
no toll.
The blazons on his coat-of-arms are these:
The flaming sign of Shelley’s
heart on fire,
The golden globe
of Shakespeare’s human stage,
The staff and
scrip of Chaucer’s pilgrimage,
The rose of Dante’s
deep, divine desire,
The tragic mask of wise Euripides.
November, 1906.
In Lucem Transitus, October, 1892
From the misty shores of midnight, touched
with splendours of the moon,
To the singing tides of heaven, and the
light more clear than noon,
Passed a soul that grew to music till
it was with God in tune.
Brother of the greatest poets, true to
nature, true to art;
Lover of Immortal Love, uplifter of the
human heart;
Who shall cheer us with high music, who
shall sing, if thou depart?
Silence here—for love is silent,
gazing on the lessening sail;
Silence here—for grief is voiceless
when the mighty minstrels fail;
Silence here—but far beyond
us, many voices crying, Hail!
“IN MEMORIAM”
The record of a faith sublime,
And hope, through clouds,
far-off discerned;
The incense of a love that
burned
Through pain and doubt defying Time:
The story of a soul at strife
That learned at last to kiss
the rod,
And passed through sorrow
up to God,
From living to a higher life:
A light that gleams across the wave
Of darkness, down the rolling
years,
Piercing the heavy mist of
tears—
A rainbow shining o’er a grave.
1802-1902
Heart of France for a hundred years,
Passionate, sensitive, proud,
and strong,
Quick to throb with her hopes and fears,
Fierce to flame with her sense
of wrong!
You, who hailed with a morning
song
Dream-light gilding a throne of old:
You, who turned when the dream grew cold,
Singing still, to the light that shone
Pure from Liberty’s ancient throne,
Over the human
throng!
You, who dared in the dark eclipse,—
When the pygmy heir of a giant
name
Dimmed the face of the land
with shame,—
Speak the truth with indignant lips,
Call him little whom men called great,
Scoff at him,
scorn him, deny him,
Point to the blood on his robe of state,
Fling back his
bribes and defy him!
You, who fronted the waves of fate
As you faced the sea from
your island home,
Exiled, yet with a soul elate,
Sending songs o’er the
rolling foam,
Bidding the heart of man to wait
For the day when
all should see
Floods of wrath from the frowning
skies
Fall on an Empire founded
in lies,
And France again
be free!
You, who came in the Terrible Year
Swiftly back to your broken
land,
Now to your heart a thousand times more
dear,—
Prayed for her, sung to her,
fought for her,
Patiently, fervently wrought
for her,
Till
once again,
After the storm of fear and
pain,
High in the heavens the star of France
stood clear!
You, who knew that a man must
take
Good and ill with a steadfast soul,
Holding fast, while the billows roll
Over his head, to the things
that make
Life worth living for great and small,
Honour and pity
and truth,
The heart and
the hope of youth,
And the good God over all!
You, to whom work
was rest,
Dauntless Toiler of the Sea,
Following ever
the joyful quest
Of beauty on the shores of old Romance,
Bard of the poor
of France,
And warrior-priest of world-wide
March, 1902.
In a great land, a new land, a land
full of labour and riches and
confusion,
Where there were many running to and fro, and shouting,
and striving
together,
In the midst of the hurry and the troubled noise,
I heard the voice of
one singing.
“What are you doing there,
O man, singing quietly amid all this tumult?
This is the time for new inventions, mighty shoutings,
and blowings of
the trumpet.”
But he answered, “I am only shepherding my
sheep with music.”
So he went along his chosen way, keeping his little flock around him;
And he paused to listen, now and then, beside the antique fountains,
Where the faces of forgotten gods were refreshed with musically falling
waters;
Or he sat for a while at the blacksmith’s
door, and heard the cling-clang
of the anvils;
Or he rested beneath old steeples full of bells,
that showered their
chimes upon him;
Or he walked along the border of the sea, drinking
in the long roar of
the billows;
Or he sunned himself in the pine-scented
shipyard, amid the tattoo of
the mallets;
Or he leaned on the rail of the bridge, letting
his thoughts flow with
the whispering river;
He hearkened also to ancient tales, and made them
young again with his
singing.
Then a flaming arrow of death fell
on his flock, and pierced the heart
of his dearest!
Silent the music now, as the shepherd entered the
mystical temple of
sorrow:
Long he tarried in darkness there: but when
he came out he was singing.
And I saw the faces of men and women
and children silently turning toward
him;
The youth setting out on the journey of life, and
the old man waiting
beside the last mile-stone;
The toiler sweating beneath his load; and the happy
mother rocking her
cradle;
The lonely sailor on far-off seas;
and the gray-minded scholar in his
book-room;
The mill-hand bound to a clacking machine; and the
hunter in the forest;
And the solitary soul hiding friendless in the wilderness
of the city;
Many human faces, full of care and
longing, were drawn irresistibly
toward him,
By the charm of something known to every heart,
yet very strange and
lovely,
And at the sound of his singing wonderfully all
their faces were
lightened.
“Why do you listen, O you people,
to this old and world-worn music?
This is not for you, in the splendour of a new age,
in the democratic
triumph!
Listen to the clashing cymbals, the big drums, the
brazen trumpets of
your poets.”
But the people made no answer, following
in their hearts the simpler
music:
For it seemed to them, noise-weary, nothing could
be better worth the
hearing
Than the melodies which brought sweet order into
life’s confusion.
So the shepherd sang his way along, until he came unto a mountain:
And I know not surely whether the mountain was called Parnassus,
But he climbed it out of sight, and still I heard the voice of one
singing.
January, 1907.
BIRTHDAY VERSES, 1906
Dear Aldrich, now November’s mellow
days
Have brought another Festa
round to you,
You can’t refuse a loving-cup of
praise
From friends the fleeting
years have bound to you.
Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear
Bad Boy,
Prudence, and Judith the Bethulian,
And many more, to wish you birthday joy,
And sunny hours, and sky cerulean!
Your children all, they hurry to your
den,
With wreaths of honour they
have won for you,
To merry-make your threescore years and
ten.
You, old? Why, life has
just begun for you!
There’s many a reader whom your
silver songs
And crystal stories cheer
in loneliness.
What though the newer writers come in
throngs?
You’re sure to keep
your charm of only-ness.
You do your work with careful, loving
touch,—
An artist to the very core
of you,—
You know the magic spell of “not-too-much”:
We read,—and wish
that there was more of you.
And more there is: for while we love
your books
Because their subtle skill
is part of you;
We love you better, for our friendship
looks
Behind them to the human heart
of you.
MEMORIAL SONNET, 1908
This is the house where little Aldrich
read
The early pages of Life’s
wonder-book
With boyish pleasure:
in this ingle-nook
He watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy
shed
Bright colour on the pictures blue and
red:
Boy-like he skipped the longer
words, and took
His happy way, with searching,
dreamful look
Among the deeper things more simply said.
Then, came his turn to write: and
still the flame
Of Fancy played through all
the tales he told,
And still he won the laurelled poet’s
fame
With simple words wrought
into rhymes of gold.
Look, here’s the face to which this
house is frame,—
A man too wise to let his
heart grow old!
(Read at His Funeral, January 21, 1908)
Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch
Of beauty or of truth,
Rich in the thoughtfulness of age,
The hopefulness of youth,
The courage of the gentle heart,
The wisdom of the pure,
The strength of finely tempered souls
To labour and endure!
The blue of springtime in your eyes
Was never quenched by pain;
And winter brought your head the crown
Of snow without a stain.
The poet’s mind, the prince’s
heart,
You kept until the end,
Nor ever faltered in your work,
Nor ever failed a friend.
You followed, through the quest of life,
The light that shines above
The tumult and the toil of men,
And shows us what to love.
Right loyal to the best you knew,
Reality or dream,
You ran the race, you fought the fight,
A follower of the Gleam.
We lay upon your folded hands
The wreath of asphodel;
We speak above your peaceful face
The tender word Farewell!
For well you fare, in God’s good
care,
Somewhere within the blue,
And know, to-day, your dearest dreams
Are true,—and true,—and
true!
ON HIS “BOOK OF JOYOUS CHILDREN”
Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers;
Joyous children delight to
play there;
Weary men find rest in its bowers,
Watching the lingering light
of day there.
Old-time tunes and young love-laughter
Ripple and run among the roses;
Memory’s echoes, murmuring after,
Fill the dusk when the long
day closes.
Simple songs with a cadence olden—
These you learned in the Forest
of Arden:
Friendly flowers with hearts all golden—
These you borrowed from Eden’s
garden.
This is the reason why all men love you;
Truth to life is the finest
art:
Other poets may soar above you—
You keep close to the human
heart.
December, 1903.
IN MEMORIAM
Soul of a soldier in a poet’s frame,
Heart of a hero
in a body frail;
Thine was the
courage clear that did not quail
Before the giant champions of shame
Who wrought dishonour to the city’s
name;
And thine the
vision of the Holy Grail
Of Love, revealed
through Music’s lucid veil,
Filling thy life with heavenly song and
flame.
Pure was the light that lit thy glowing
eye,
And strong the
faith that held thy simple creed.
Ah, poet, patriot,
friend, to serve our need
Thou leavest two great gifts that will
not die:
Above the city’s noise, thy lyric
cry,—
Amid the city’s
strife, thy noble deed.
November, 1909.
The grief that is but feigning,
And weeps melodious tears
Of delicate complaining
From self-indulgent years;
The mirth that is but madness,
And has no inward gladness
Beneath its laughter straining,
To capture thoughtless ears;
The love that is but passion
Of amber-scented lust;
The doubt that is but fashion;
The faith that has no trust;
These Thamyris disperses,
In the Valley of Vain Verses
Below the Mount Parnassian,—
And they crumble into dust.
MUSIC
PRELUDE
1
Daughter of Psyche, pledge
of that wild night
When, pierced with pain and
bitter-sweet delight,
She knew her Love and saw
her Lord depart,
Then breathed her wonder and
her woe forlorn
Into a single cry, and thou
wast born!
Thou flower of rapture and
thou fruit of grief;
Invisible enchantress of the
heart;
Mistress of charms
that bring relief
To sorrow, and
to joy impart
A heavenly tone that keeps
it undefined,—
Thou
art the child
Of Amor, and by
right divine
A
throne of love is thine,
Thou flower-folded, golden-girdled, star-crowned
Queen,
Whose bridal beauty mortal eyes have never
seen!
2
Thou art the Angel of the
pool that sleeps,
While peace and joy lie hidden
in its deeps,
Waiting thy touch to make
the waters roll
In healing murmurs round the
weary soul.
Ah, when wilt
thou draw near,
Thou messenger of mercy robed
in song?
My lonely heart has listened
for thee long;
And now I seem
to hear
Across the crowded market-place of life,
Thy measured foot-fall, ringing
light and clear
Above unmeaning noises and unruly strife.
In quiet cadence,
sweet and slow,
Serenely pacing
to and fro,
Thy far-off steps are magical
and dear,—
Ah, turn this way, come close
and speak to me!
From this dull bed of languor set my spirit
free,
And bid me rise, and let me walk awhile
with thee.
INVOCATION
Where wilt thou lead me first?
In what still region
Of thy domain,
Whose provinces are legion,
Wilt thou restore me to myself again,
And quench my heart’s long thirst?
I pray thee lay thy golden girdle down,
And put away thy starry crown:
For one dear restful hour
Assume a state more mild.
Clad only in thy blossom-broidered gown
That breathes familiar scent of many a flower,
Take the low path that leads through pastures green;
And though thou art a Queen,
Be Rosamund awhile, and in thy bower,
By tranquil love and simple joy beguiled,
Sing to my soul, as mother to her child.
PLAY SONG
O lead me by the hand,
And let my heart have rest,
And bring me back to childhood land,
To find again the long-lost band
Of playmates blithe and blest.
Some quaint, old-fashioned
air,
That all the children knew,
Shall run before us everywhere,
Like a little maid with flying hair,
To guide the merry crew.
Along the garden ways
We chase the light-foot tune,
And in and out the flowery maze,
With eager haste and fond delays,
In pleasant paths of June.
For us the fields are new,
For us the woods are rife
With fairy secrets, deep and true,
And heaven is but a tent of blue
Above the game of life.
The world is far away:
The fever and the fret,
And all that makes the heart grow gray,
Is out of sight and far away,
Dear Music, while I hear thee play
That olden, golden roundelay,
“Remember and forget!”
SLEEP SONG
Forget, forget!
The tide of life is turning;
The waves of light ebb slowly down the west:
Along the edge of dark some stars are burning
To guide thy spirit safely to an isle of rest.
A little rocking on the tranquil deep
Of song, to soothe thy yearning,
A little slumber and a little sleep,
And so, forget, forget!
Forget, forget,—
The day was long in pleasure;
Its echoes die away across the hill;
Now let thy heart beat time to their slow measure,
That swells, and sinks, and faints, and falls, till
all is still.
Then, like a weary child that loves to keep
Locked in its arms some treasure,
Thy soul in calm content shall fall asleep,
And so forget, forget.
Forget, forget,—
And if thou hast been weeping,
Let go the thoughts that bind thee to thy grief:
Lie still, and watch the singing angels, reaping
The golden harvest of thy sorrow, sheaf by sheaf;
Or count thy joys like flocks of snow-white
sheep
That one by one come creeping
Into the quiet fold, until thou sleep,
And so forget, forget!
Forget, forget,—
Thou art a child and knowest
So little of thy life! But music tells
The secret of the world through which thou goest
To work with morning song, to rest with evening
bells:
Life is in tune with harmony so deep
That when the notes are lowest
Thou still canst lay thee down in peace and
sleep,
For God will not forget.
HUNTING SONG
Out of the garden of playtime, out
of the bower of rest,
Fain would I follow at daytime, music that calls
to a quest.
Hark, how the galloping measure
Quickens the pulses of pleasure;
Gaily saluting the morn
With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn,
Echoing up from the valley,
Over the mountain side,—
Rally, you hunters, rally,
Rally, and ride!
Drink of the magical potion music has
mixed with her wine,
Full of the madness of motion, joyful,
exultant, divine!
Leave
all your troubles behind you,
Ride
where they never can find you,
Into
the gladness of morn,
With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn,
Swiftly
o’er hillock and hollow,
Sweeping
along with the wind,—
Follow,
you hunters, follow,
Follow
and find!
What will you reach with your riding?
What is the charm of the chase?
Just the delight and the striding swing
of the jubilant pace.
Danger
is sweet when you front her,—
In
at the death, every hunter!
Now
on the breeze the mort is borne
In the long, clear note of the hunting-horn,
Winding
merrily, over and over,—
Come,
come, come!
Home
again, Ranger! home again, Rover!
Turn
again, home!
DANCE-MUSIC
1
Now let the sleep-tune blend with the
play-tune,
Weaving the mystical spell of the dance;
Lighten the deep tune, soften the gay
tune,
Mingle a tempo that turns in a trance.
Half of it sighing, half of it smiling,
Smoothly it swings, with a triplicate
beat;
Calling, replying, yearning, beguiling,
Wooing the heart and bewitching the feet.
Every
drop of blood
Rises
with the flood,
Rocking on the waves of the
strain;
Youth
and beauty glide
Turning
with the tide—
Music making one
out of twain,
Bearing them away, and away, and away,
Like
a tone and its terce—
Till the chord dissolves, and the dancers
stay,
And
reverse.
Violins leading, take up the measure,
Turn with the tune again,—clarinets
clear
Answer their pleading,—harps
full of pleasure
Sprinkle their silver like light on the
mere.
Semiquaver
notes,
Merry
little motes,
Tangled
in the haze
Of
the lamp’s golden rays,
Quiver
everywhere
In
the air,
Like
a spray,—
Till the fuller stream of the might of
the tune,
Gliding like a dream in the light of the
moon,
Bears them all away, and away, and away,
Floating in the
trance of the dance.
2
Then begins a measure stately,
Languid, slow,
serene;
All the dancers move sedately,
Stepping leisurely and straitly,
With a courtly
mien;
Crossing hands and changing places,
Bowing low between,
While the minuet inlaces
Waving arms and woven paces,—
Glittering damaskeen.
Where is she whose form is folden
In its royal sheen?
From our longing eyes withholden
By her mystic girdle golden,
Beauty sought
but never seen,
Music walks the maze, a queen.
WAR-MUSIC
Break
off! Dance no more!
Danger
is at the door.
Music
is in arms.
To
signal war’s alarms.
Hark, a sudden trumpet calling
Over the hill!
Why are you calling, trumpet,
calling?
What is your will?
Men, men, men!
Men who are ready to fight
For their country’s
life, and the right
Of a liberty-loving land to
be
Free, free, free!
Free from a tyrant’s
chain,
Free from dishonor’s
stain,
Free to guard and maintain
All that her fathers fought
for,
All that her sons have wrought
for,
Resolute, brave,
and free!
Call again, trumpet,
call again,
Call
up the men!
Do you hear the storm of cheers
Mingled with the women’s
tears
And the tramp, tramp, tramp of marching
feet?
Do you hear the throbbing
drum
As the hosts of battle come
Keeping time, time, time to its beat?
O Music give a song
To make their spirit strong
For the fury of the tempest they must
meet.
The hoarse roar
Of the monster
guns;
And the sharp
bark
Of the lesser
guns;
The whine of the
shells,
The rifles’
clatter
Where the bullets
patter,
The rattle, rattle,
rattle
Of the mitrailleuse
in battle,
And the yells
Of the men who
charge through hells
Where the poison
gas descends,
And the bursting
shrapnel rends
Limb from limb
In the dim
Chaos and clamor
of the strife
Where no man thinks
of his life
But only of fighting
through,
Blindly fighting
through, through!
’Tis
done
At
last!
The
victory won,
The dissonance
of warfare past!
O
Music mourn the dead
Whose
loyal blood was shed,
And sound the
taps for every hero slain;
Then
lead into the song
That
made their spirit strong,
And tell the world
they did not die in vain.
Thank God we can see, in the
glory of morn,
The invincible
flag that our fathers defended;
And our hearts can repeat
what the heroes have sworn,
That war shall
not end till the war-lust is ended.
Then the bloodthirsty sword
shall no longer be lord
Of the nations oppressed by
the conqueror’s horde,
But the banners
of Liberty proudly shall wave
O’er the
world of the free and the lands of the brave.
May, 1916.
THE SYMPHONY
Music, they do thee wrong who say thine
art
Is only to enchant
the sense.
For every timid motion of the heart,
And every passion
too intense
To bear the chain of the imperfect word,
And every tremulous
longing, stirred
By spirit winds that come we know not
whence
And
go we know not where,
And
every inarticulate prayer
Beating about the depths of pain or bliss,
Like
some bewildered bird
That seeks its nest but knows not where
it is,
And every dream that haunts, with dim
delight,
The drowsy hour between the day and night,
The wakeful hour between the night and
day,—
Imprisoned,
waits for thee,
Impatient,
yearns for thee,
The queen who comes to set
the captive free!
Thou lendest wings to grief
to fly away,
And wings to joy to reach
a heavenly height;
And every dumb desire that storms within
the breast
Thou leadest forth to sob or sing itself
to rest.
All these are thine, and therefore
love is thine.
For love is joy and grief,
And trembling doubt, and certain-sure belief,
And fear, and hope, and longing unexpressed,
In pain most human, and in rapture brief
Almost divine.
Love would possess, yet deepens when denied;
And love would give, yet hungers to receive;
Love like a prince his triumph would achieve;
And like a miser in the dark his joys would hide.
Love is most bold,
He leads his dreams like armed men in line;
Yet when the siege is set, and he must speak,
Calling the fortress to resign
Its treasure, valiant love grows weak,
And hardly dares his purpose to unfold.
Less with his faltering lips than with his eyes
He claims the longed-for prize:
Love fain would tell it all, yet leaves the best
untold.
But thou shalt speak for love. Yea, thou shalt
teach
The mystery of measured tone,
The Pentecostal speech
That every listener heareth as his own.
For on thy head the cloven tongues of fire,—
Diminished chords that quiver with desire,
And major chords that glow with perfect peace,—
Have fallen from above;
And thou canst give release
In music to the burdened heart of love.
Sound with the ‘cellos’
pleading, passionate strain
The yearning theme, and let the flute reply
In placid melody, while violins complain,
And sob, and sigh,
With muted string;
Then let the oboe half-reluctant sing
Of bliss that trembles on the verge of pain,
While ’cellos plead and plead again,
With throbbing notes delayed, that would impart
To every urgent tone the beating of the heart.
So runs the andante, making plain
The hopes and fears of love without a word.
Then comes the adagio, with a yielding theme
Through which the violas flow soft as in a dream,
While horns and mild bassoons are heard
In tender tune, that seems to float
IRIS
Light
to the eye and Music to the ear,—
These are the
builders of the bridge that springs
From earth’s
dim shore of half-remembered things
To
reach the heavenly sphere
Where nothing
silent is and nothing dark.
So
when I see the rainbow’s arc
Spanning the showery
sky, far-off I hear
Music,
and every colour sings:
And while the
symphony builds up its round
Full sweep of
architectural harmony
Above the tide
of Time, far, far away I see
A bow of colour
in the bow of sound.
Red
as the dawn the trumpet rings;
Blue
as the sky, the choir of strings
Darkens in double-bass
to ocean’s hue,
Rises in violins
to noon-tide’s blue,
With threads of quivering light shot through
and through;
Green as the mantle
that the summer flings
Around the world,
the pastoral reeds in tune
Embroider melodies
of May and June.
Purer
than gold,
Yea,
thrice-refined gold,
And richer than
the treasures of the mine,
Floods
of the human voice divine
Along the arch
in choral song are rolled.
So
bends the bow complete:
And
radiant rapture flows
Across the bridge,
so full, so strong, so sweet,
That the uplifted
spirit hardly knows
Whether
the Music-Light that glows
Within the arch of tones and
colours seven,
Is sunset-peace of earth or sunrise-joy
of Heaven.
SEA AND SHORE
Music,
I yield to thee
As
swimmer to the sea,
I give my spirit to the flood of song!
Bear
me upon thy breast
In
rapture and at rest,
Bathe me in pure delight and make me strong;
From
strife and struggle bring release,
And draw the waves of passion into tides
of peace.
Remembered
songs most dear
In
living songs I hear,
While blending voices gently swing and
sway,
In
melodies of love,
Whose
mighty currents move
With singing near and singing far away;
Sweet
in the glow of morning light,
And sweeter still across the starlit gulf
of night.
Music,
in thee we float,
And
lose the lonely note
Of self in thy celestial-ordered strain,
Until
at last we find
The
life to love resigned
In harmony of joy restored again;
And
songs that cheered our mortal days
Break on the shore of light in endless
hymns of praise.
December, 1901—May, 1903—May, 1916.
(In memory of Theodore Thomas, 1905)
Glory architect, glory of painter,
and sculptor, and bard,
Living forever in temple and picture and statue
and song,—
Look how the world with the lights that they lit
is illumined and
starred;
Brief was the flame of their life, but the lamps
of their art burn
long!
Where is the Master of Music, and
how has he vanished away?
Where is the work that he wrought with his wonderful
art in the air?
Gone,—it is gone like the glow on the
cloud at the close of the day!
The Master has finished his work and the glory
of music is—where?
Once, at the wave of his wand, all
the billows of musical sound
Followed his will, as the sea was ruled by the
prophet of old:
Now that his hand is relaxed, and his rod has dropped
to the ground,
Silent and dark are the shores where the marvellous
harmonies rolled!
Nay, but not silent the hearts that were
filled by that life-giving sea;
Deeper and purer forever the
tides of their being will roll,
Grateful and joyful, O Master, because
they have listened to thee;
The glory of music endures
in the depths of the human soul.
Great Nature had a million words,
In tongues of trees and songs of birds,
But none to breathe the heart of man,
Till Music filled the pipes o’ Pan.
1909.
Oh, what do you know of the song, my dear,
And how have you
made it your own?
You have caught the turn of the melody
clear,
And you give it
again with a golden tone,
Till the wonder-word
and the wedded note
Are flowing out
of your beautiful throat
With a liquid
charm for every ear:
And they talk
of your art,—but for you alone
The song is a
thing, unheard, unknown;
You only have
learned it by rote.
But when you have lived for awhile, my
dear,
I think you will
learn it anew!
For a joy will come, or a grief, or a
fear,
That will alter
the look of the world for you;
And the lyric
you learned as a bit of art,
Will wake to life
as a wonderful part
Of the love you
feel so deep and true;
And the thrill
of a laugh or the throb of a tear,
Will come with
your song to all who hear;
For then you will
know it by heart.
April, 1911.
The time will come when I no more can
play
This polished flute: the stops will
not obey
My gnarled fingers; and the air it weaves
In modulations, like a vine with leaves
Climbing around the tower of song, will
die
In rustling autumn rhythms, confused and
dry.
My shortened breath no more will freely
fill
This magic reed with melody at will;
My stiffened lips will try and try in
vain
To wake the liquid, leaping, dancing strain;
The heavy notes will falter, wheeze, and
faint,
Or mock my ear with shrillness of complaint.
Then let me hang this faithful friend
of mine
Upon the trunk of some old, sacred pine,
And sit beneath the green protecting boughs
To hear the viewless wind, that sings
and soughs
Above me, play its wild, aerial lute,
And draw a ghost of music from my flute!
So will I thank the gods; and most of
all
The Delian Apollo, whom men call
The mighty master of immortal sound,—
Lord of the billows in their chanting
round,
Lord of the winds that fill the wood with
sighs,
Lord of the echoes and their sweet replies,
Lord of the little people of the air
That sprinkle drops of music everywhere,
Lord of the sea of melody that laves
The universe with never silent waves,—
Him will I thank that this brief breath
of mine
Has caught one cadence of the song divine;
And these frail fingers learned to rise
and fall
In time with that great tune which throbs
thro’ all;
And these poor lips have lent a lilt of
joy
To songless men whom weary tasks employ!
My life has had its music, and my heart
In harmony has borne a little part,
And now I come with quiet, grateful breast
To Death’s dim hall of silence and
of rest.
Freely rendered from the French of Auguste Angellier, 1911.
TO OLIVE WHEELER
Winter on Mount Shasta,
April down below;
Golden hours of glowing sun,
Sudden showers of snow!
Under leafless thickets
Early wild-flowers cling;
But, oh, my dear, I’m fain to hear
The first bird o’ Spring!
Alders are in tassel,
Maples are in bud;
Waters of the blue McCloud
Shout in joyful flood;
Through the giant pine-trees
Flutters many a wing;
But, oh, my dear, I long to hear
The first bird o’ Spring!
Candle-light and fire-light
Mingle at “the Bend;”
’Neath the roof of Bo-hai-pan
Light and shadow blend.
Sweeter than a wood-thrush
A maid begins to sing;
And, oh, my dear, I’m glad to hear
The first bird o’ Spring!
The Bend, California, April 29, 1913.
A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS
BENHADAD: King of Damascus.
REZON: High Priest of the House of Rimmon.
SABALLIDIN: A Noble.
HAZAEL }
IZDUBHAR } Courtiers.
RAKHAZ }
SHUMAKIM: The King’s Fool.
ELISHA: Prophet of Israel.
NAAMAN: Captain of the Armies of Damascus.
RUAHMAH: A Captive Maid of Israel.
TSARPI: Wife to Naaman.
KHAMMA }
NUBTA } Attendants of Tsarpi.
Soldiers, Servants, Citizens, etc., etc.
SCENE: Damascus and the Mountains of Samaria.
TIME: 850 B. C.
SCENE I
Night, in the garden of NAAMAN at Damascus. At the left the palace, with softly gleaming lights and music coming from the open latticed windows. The garden is full of oleanders, roses, pomegranates, abundance of crimson flowers; the air is heavy with their fragrance: a fountain at the right is plashing gently: behind it is an arbour covered with vines. Near the centre of the garden stands a small, hideous image of the god Rimmon. Beyond the arbour rises the lofty square tower of the House of Rimmon, which casts a shadow from the moon across the garden. The background is a wide, hilly landscape, with the snow-clad summit of Mount Herman in the distance. Enter by the palace door, the lady TSARPI, robed in red and gold, and followed by her maids, KHAMMA and NUBTA. She remains on the terrace: they go down into the garden, looking about, and returning to her.
KHAMMA:
There’s no one here;
the garden is asleep.
NUBTA:
The flowers are nodding, all
the birds abed,—
Nothing awake except the watchful
stars!
KHAMMA:
The stars are sentinels discreet
and mute:
How many things they know
and never tell!
TSARPI: [Impatiently.]
Unlike the stars, how many
things you tell
And do not know! When
comes your master home?
NUBTA:
Lady, his armour-bearer brought
us word,—
At moonset, not before.
TSARPI:
He
haunts the camp
And leaves me much alone;
yet I can pass
The time of absence not unhappily,
If I but know the time of
his return.
An hour of moonlight yet!
Khamma, my mirror!
These curls are ill arranged,
this veil too low,—
So,—that is better,
careless maids! Withdraw,—
But bring me word if Naaman
appears!
KHAMMA:
Mistress, have no concern;
for when we hear
The clatter of his horse along
the street,
We’ll run this way and
lead your dancers down
With song and laughter,—you
shall know in time.
[Exeunt KHAMMA and NUBTA laughing,
TSARPI descends
the steps.]
TSARPI:
My guest is late; but he will
surely come!
The man who burns to drain
the cup of love,
The priest whose greed of
glory never fails,
Both, both have need of me,
and he will come.
And I,—what do
I need? Why everything
That helps my beauty to a
higher throne;
All that a priest can promise,
all a man
Can give, and all a god bestow,
I need:
This may a woman win, and
this will I.
[Enter REZON quietly from the
shadow of the trees.
He stands behind TSARPI and listens, smiling,
to her last words. Then he drops his
mantle of
leopard-skin, and lifts his high priest’s
rod of
bronze, shaped at one end like a star.]
REZON:
Tsarpi!
TSARPI: [Bowing low before him.]
The
mistress of the house of Naaman
Salutes the master of the
House of Rimmon.
REZON:
Rimmon receives you with his
star of peace,
For you were once a handmaid
of his altar.
[He lowers the star-point of
the rod, which glows
for a moment with rosy light above her head.]
And now the keeper of his temple
asks
The welcome of the woman for the man.
TSARPI: [Giving him her hand, but holding off
his embrace.]
No more,—till I
have heard what brings you here
By night, within the garden
of the one
Who scorns you most and fears
you least in all
Damascus.
REZON:
Trust
me, I repay his scorn
With double hatred,—Naaman,
the man
Who stands against the nobles
and the priests,
This powerful fool, this impious
devotee
Of liberty, who loves the
people more
Than he reveres the city’s
ancient god:
This frigid husband who sets
you below
His dream of duty to a horde
of slaves:
This man I hate, and I will
humble him.
TSARPI:
I think I hate him too.
He stands apart
From me, ev’n while
he holds me in his arms,
By something that I cannot
understand.
He swears he loves his wife
next to his honour!
Next? That’s too
low! I will be first or nothing.
REZON:
With me you are the first,
the absolute!
When you and I have triumphed
you shall reign;
And you and I will bring this
hero down.
TSARPI:
But how? For he is strong.
REZON:
By
this, the hand
Of Tsarpi; and by this, the
rod of Rimmon.
TSARPI:
Your plan?
REZON:
You
know the host of Nineveh
Is marching now against us.
Envoys come
To bid us yield before a hopeless
war.
Our king is weak: the
nobles, being rich,
Would purchase peace to make
them richer still:
Only the people and the soldiers,
TSARPI: [Throwing out her arms in exultation.]
All, all I wish! What
must I do for this?
REZON:
Turn Naaman away from thoughts
of war.
TSARPI:
But if I fail? His will
is proof against
The lure of kisses and the
wile of tears.
REZON:
Where woman fails, woman and
priest succeed.
Before the King decides, he
must consult
The oracle of Rimmon.
This my hands
Prepare,—and you
shall read the signs prepared
In words of fear to melt the
brazen heart
Of Naaman.
TSARPI:
But
if it flame instead?
REZON:
I know a way to quench that
flame. The cup,
The parting cup your hand
shall give to him!
What if the curse of Rimmon
should infect
That sacred wine with poison,
secretly
To work within his veins,
week after week
Corrupting all the currents
of his blood,
Dimming his eyes, wasting
his flesh? What then?
Would he prevail in war?
Would he come back
To glory, or to shame?
What think you?
TSARPI:
I?—
I do not think; I only do
my part.
But can the gods bless this?
REZON:
The
gods can bless
Whatever they decree; their
will makes right;
And this is for the glory
of the House
Of Rimmon,—and
for thee, my queen. Come, come!
The night grows dark:
we’ll perfect our alliance.
[REZON draws her with him,
embracing her, through
the shadows of the garden. RUAHMAH,
who has been
sleeping in the arbour, has been awakened
during
the dialogue, and has been dimly visible
in her
white dress, behind the vines. She parts
them and
comes out, pushing back her long, dark hair
from
her temples.]
RUAHMAH:
What have I heard? O
God, what shame is this
Plotted beneath Thy pure and
silent stars!
Was it for this that I was
brought away
A captive from the hills of
[Music and laughter heard within
the palace. The
doors fly open and a flood of men and women,
dancers, players, flushed with wine, dishevelled,
pour down the steps, KHAMMA and NUBTA with
them.
They crown the image with roses and dance
around
it. RUAHMAH is discovered crouching
beside the
arbour. They drag her out beside the
image.]
NUBTA:
Look!
Here’s the Hebrew maid,—
She’s homesick; let
us comfort her!
KHAMMA: [They put their arms around her.]
Yes, dancing is the cure for
homesickness.
We’ll make her dance.
RUAHMAH: [She slips away.]
I
pray you, let me go!
I cannot dance, I do not know
your measures.
KHAMMA:
Then sing for us,—a
song of Israel!
RUAHMAH:
How can I sing the songs of
Israel
In this strange country?
O my heart would break!
A SERVANT:
A stubborn and unfriendly
maid! We’ll whip her.
[They circle around her, striking
her with
rose-branches; she sinks to her knees, covering
her face with her bare arms, which bleed.]
NUBTA:
Look, look! She kneels
to Rimmon, she is tamed.
RUAHMAH: [Springing up and lifting her arms.]
Nay, not to this dumb idol,
but to Him
Who made Orion and the seven
stars!
ALL:
She raves,—she
mocks at Rimmon! Punish her!
The fountain! Wash her
blasphemy away!
[They push her toward the fountain,
laughing and
shouting. In the open door of the palace
NAAMAN
appears, dressed in blue and silver, bareheaded
and unarmed. He comes to the top of
the steps
and stands for a moment, astonished and angry.]
NAAMAN:
Silence! What drunken
rout is this? Begone,
Ye barking dogs and mewing
cats! Out, all!
Poor child, what have they
done to thee?
[Exeunt all except RUAHMAH,
who stands with her
face covered by her hands. NAAMAN comes
to her,
laying his hand on her shoulder.]
RUAHMAH: [Looking up in his face.]
Nothing,
My lord and master! They
have harmed me not.
NAAMAN: [Touching her arm.]
Dost call this nothing?
RUAHMAH:
Since
my lord is come!
NAAMAN:
I do not know thy face,—who
art thou, child?
RUAHMAH:
The handmaid of thy wife.
NAAMAN:
Whence
comest thou?
Thy voice is like thy mistress,
but thy looks
Have something foreign.
Tell thy name, thy land.
RUAHMAH:
Ruahmah is my name, a captive
maid,
The daughter of a prince in
Israel,
Where once, in olden days,
I saw my lord
Ride through our highlands,
when Samaria
Was allied with Damascus to
defeat
Our common foe.
NAAMAN:
And
thou rememberest this?
RUAHMAH:
As clear as yesterday!
Master, I saw
Thee riding on a snow-white
horse beside
Our king; and all we joyful
little maids
Strewed boughs of palm along
the victors’ way,
For you had driven out the
enemy,
Broken; and both our lands
were friends and free.
NAAMAN: [Sadly.]
Well, they are past, those
noble days! The days
When nations would imperil
all to keep
Their liberties, are only
memories now.
The common cause is lost,—and
thou art brought,
The captive of some mercenary
raid,
Some skirmish of a gold-begotten
war,
To serve within my house.
Dost thou fare well?
RUAHMAH:
Master, thou seest.
NAAMAN:
Yes,
I see! My child,
Why do they hate thee so?
RUAHMAH:
I
do not know,
Unless because I will not
bow to Rimmon.
NAAMAN:
Thou needest not. I fear
he is a god
Who pities not his people,
will not save.
My heart is sick with doubt
of him. But thou
Shalt hold thy faith,—I
care not what it is,—
Worship thy god; but keep
thy spirit free.
[He takes the amulet from his neck and gives it to her.]
Here, take this chain and
wear it with my seal,
None shall molest the maid
who carries this.
Thou hast found favour in
thy master’s eyes;
Hast thou no other gift to
ask of me?
RUAHMAH: [Earnestly.]
My lord, I do entreat thee
not to go
To-morrow to the council.
Seek the King
And speak with him in secret;
but avoid
The audience-hall.
NAAMAN:
Why,
what is this? Thy wits
Are wandering. My honour
is engaged
To speak for war, to lead
in war against
The Assyrian Bull and save
Damascus.
RUAHMAH: [With confused earnestness.]
Then, lord, if thou must go,
I pray thee speak,—
I know not how,—but
so that all must hear.
With magic of unanswerable
words
Persuade thy foes. Yet
watch,—beware,—
NAAMAN:
Of
what?
RUAHMAH: [Turning aside.]
I am entangled in my speech,—no
light,—
How shall I tell him?
He will not believe.
O my dear lord, thine enemies
are they
Of thine own house. I
pray thee to beware,—
Beware,—of Rimmon!
NAAMAN:
Child,
thy words are wild:
Thy troubles have bewildered
all thy brain.
Go, now, and fret no more;
but sleep, and dream
Of Israel! For thou shalt
see thy home
Among the hills again.
RUAHMAH:
Master,
good-night.
And may thy slumber be as
sweet and deep
As if thou camped at snowy
Hermon’s foot,
Amid the music of his waterfalls.
There friendly oak-trees bend
their boughs above
The weary head, pillowed on
earth’s kind breast,
And unpolluted breezes lightly
breathe
A song of sleep among the
murmuring leaves.
There the big stars draw nearer,
and the sun
Looks forth serene, undimmed
by city’s mirk
Or smoke of idol-temples,
to behold
The waking wonder of the wide-spread
world.
There life renews itself with
every morn
In purest joy of living.
May the Lord
Deliver thee, dear master,
from the nets
Laid for thy feet, and lead
thee out along
The open path, beneath the
open sky!
[Exit RUAHMAH: NAAMAN stands looking after her.]
TIME: The following morning
The audience-hall in BENHADAD’S palace.
The sides of the hall are lined with lofty columns:
the back opens toward the city, with descending steps:
the House of Rimmon with its high tower is seen in
the background. The throne is at the right in
front: opposite is the royal door of entrance,
guarded by four tall sentinels.
Enter at the rear between the columns, RAKHAZ,
SABALLIDIN, HAZAEL,
IZDUBHAR.
IZDUBHAR: [An excited old man.]
The city is all in a turmoil.
It boils like a pot of lentils.
The people are
foaming and bubbling round and round like
beans in the pottage.
HAZAEL: [A lean, crafty man.]
Fear is a hot fire.
RAKHAZ: [A fat, pompous man.]
Well may they fear, for the
Assyrians are not three days
distant.
They are blazing along like a waterspout to
chop Damascus
down like a pitcher of spilt milk.
SABALLIDIN: [Young and frank.]
Cannot Naaman drive them back?
RAKHAZ: [Puffing and blowing.]
Ho! Naaman? Where
have you been living? Naaman is a broken
reed whose claws
have been cut. Build no hopes on that
foundation, for
it will run away and leave you all adrift
in the conflagration.
SABALLIDIN:
He clatters like a windmill.
What would he say, Hazael?
HAZAEL:
Naaman can do nothing without
the command of the King; and
the King fears
to order the army to march without the
approval of the
gods. The High Priest is against it. The
House of Rimmon
is for peace with Asshur.
RAKHAZ:
Yes, and all the nobles are
for peace. We are the men whose
wisdom lights
the rudder that upholds the chariot of state.
Would we be rich
if we were not wise? Do we not know better
than the rabble
what medicine will silence this fire that
threatens to drown
us?
IZDUBHAR:
But if the Assyrians come,
we shall all perish; they will
despoil us all.
HAZAEL:
Not us, my lord, only the
common people. The envoys have
offered favourable
terms to the priests, and the nobles,
and the King.
No palace, no temple, shall be plundered.
Only the shops,
and the markets, and the houses of the
multitude shall
be given up to the Bull. He will eat
his supper from
the pot of lentils, not from our golden
plate.
RAKHAZ:
Yes, and all who speak for
peace in the council shall be
enriched; our
heads shall be crowned with seats of honour
in the procession
of the Assyrian king. He needs wise
counsellors to
help him guide the ship of empire onto the
solid rock of
prosperity. You must be with us, my lords
Izdubhar and Saballidin,
and let the stars of your wisdom
roar loudly for
peace.
IZDUBHAR:
He talks like a tablet read
upside down,—a wild ass braying
in the wilderness.
Yet there is policy in his words.
SABALLIDIN:
I know not. Can a kingdom
live without a people or an army?
If we let the
Bull in to sup on the lentils, will he not
make his breakfast
in our vineyards?
[Enter other courtiers following
SHUMAKIM, a hump-backed
jester, in blue, green and red, a wreath
of poppies
around his neck and a flagon in his hand.
He walks
unsteadily, and stutters in his speech.]
HAZAEL:
Here is Shumakim, the King’s
fool, with his legs full of
last night’s
wine.
SHUMAKIM: [Balancing himself in front of them
and chuckling.]
Wrong, my lords, very wrong!
This is not last night’s wine,
but a draught
the King’s physician gave me this morning
for a cure.
It sobers me amazingly! I know you all,
my lords:
any fool would know you. You, master, are a
statesman; and
you are a politician; and you are a patriot.
RAKHAZ:
Am I a statesman? I felt
something of the kind about me.
But what is a
statesman?
SHUMAKIM:
A politician that is stuffed
with big words; a fat man in a
mask; one that
plays a solemn tune on a sackbut full o’ wind.
HAZAEL:
And what is a politician?
SHUMAKIM:
A statesman that has dropped
his mask and cracked his sackbut.
Men trust him
for what he is, and he never deceives them,
because he always
lies.
IZDUBHAR:
Why do you call me a patriot?
SHUMAKIM:
Because you know what is good
for you; you love your country
as you love your
pelf. You feel for the common people,—as
the wolf feels
for the sheep.
SABALLIDIN:
And what am I?
SHUMAKIM:
A fool, master, just a plain
fool; and there is hope of thee
for that reason.
Embrace me, brother, and taste this; but
not too much,—it
will intoxicate thee with sobriety.
[The hall has been slowly filling
with courtiers and
soldiers; a crowd of people begin to come
up the steps
at the rear, where they are halted by a chain
guarded
by servants of the palace. A bell tolls;
the royal door
is thrown open; the aged King totters across
the hall
and takes his seat on the throne with the
four tall
sentinels standing behind him. All bow
down shading
their eyes with their hands.]
BENHADAD:
The hour of royal audience
is come.
I’ll hear the envoys.
Are my counsellors
At hand? Where are the
priests of Rimmon’s house?
[Gongs sound. REZON comes
in from the side, followed
by a procession of priests in black and yellow.
The
courtiers bow; the King rises; REZON takes
his stand
on the steps of the throne at the left of
the King.]
BENHADAD:
Where is my faithful servant
Naaman,
The captain of my host?
[Trumpets sound from the city.
The crowd on the steps
divide; the chain is lowered; NAAMAN enters,
followed
by six soldiers. He is dressed in chain-mail
with a
silver helmet and a cloak of blue. He
uncovers, and
kneels on the steps of the throne at the
King’s right.]
NAAMAN:
My
lord the King,
The bearer of thy sword is
here.
BENHADAD: [Giving NAAMAN his hand, and sitting
down.]
Welcome,
My strong right arm that never
me failed yet!
I am in doubt,—but
stay thou close to me
While I decide this cause.
Where are the envoys?
Let them appear and give their
message.
[Enter the Assyrian envoys;
one in white and the other
in red; both with the golden Bull’s
head embroidered
on their robes. They come from the right,
rear, bow
slightly before the throne, and take the
centre of
the hall.]
WHITE ENVOY: [Stepping forward.]
Greeting from Shalmaneser,
Asshur’s son,
Who rules the world from Nineveh,
Unto Benhadad, monarch in
Damascus!
The conquering Bull has led
his army forth;
The south has fallen before
[He lays a yoke on the steps of the throne.]
BENHADAD:
What of the city? Said
your king no word
Of our Damascus, and the many
folk
That do inhabit her and make
her great?
What of the soldiers who have
fought for us?
WHITE ENVOY:
Of these my royal master did
not speak.
BENHADAD:
Strange silence! Must
we give them up to him?
Is this the price at which
he offers us
The yoke of peace? What
if we do refuse?
RED ENVOY: [Stepping forward.]
Then ruthless war! War
to the uttermost.
No quarter, no compassion,
no escape!
The Bull will gore and trample
in his fury
Nobles and priests and king,—none
shall be spared!
Before the throne we lay our
second gift;
This bloody horn, the symbol
of red war.
[He lays a long bull’s
horn, stained with blood, on
the steps of the throne.]
WHITE ENVOY:
Our message is delivered.
We return
Unto our master. He will
wait three days
To know your royal choice
between his gifts.
Keep which you will and send
the other back.
The red bull’s horn
your youngest page may bring;
But with the yoke, best send
your mightiest army!
[The ENVOYS retire, amid confused
murmurs of the
people, the King silent, his head, sunken
on his
breast.]
BENHADAD:
Proud words, a bitter message,
hard to endure!
We are not now that force
which feared no foe:
Our old allies have left us.
Can we face the Bull
Alone, and beat him back?
Give me your counsel.
[Many speak at once, confusedly.]
What babblement is this? Were
ye born at Babel?
Give me clear words and reasonable speech.
RAKHAZ: [Pompously.]
O King, I am a reasonable
man!
And there be some who call
me very wise
And prudent; but of this I
will not speak,
For I am also modest.
Let me plead,
Persuade, and reason you to
choose for peace.
This golden yoke may be a
bitter draught,
But better far to fold it
in our arms,
Than risk our cargoes in the
savage horn
Of war. Shall we imperil
all our wealth,
Our valuable lives? Nobles
are few,
Rich men are rare, and wise
men rarer still;
The precious jewels on the
tree of life,
Wherein the common people
are but bricks
And clay and rubble.
Let the city go,
But save the corner-stones
that float the ship!
Have I not spoken well?
BENHADAD: [Shaking his head.]
Excellent
well!
Most eloquent! But misty
in the meaning.
HAZAEL: [With cold decision.]
Then let me speak, O King,
in plainer words!
The days of independent states
are past:
The tide of empire sweeps
across the earth;
Assyria rides it with resistless
power
And thunders on to subjugate
the world.
Oppose her, and we fight with
Destiny;
Submit to her demands, and
we shall ride
With her to victory.
Therefore accept
The golden yoke, Assyria’s
gift of peace.
NAAMAN: [Starting forward eagerly.]
There is no peace beneath
a conqueror’s yoke!
For every state that barters
liberty
To win imperial favour, shall
be drained
Of her best blood, henceforth,
in endless wars
To make the empire greater.
Here’s the choice,
My King, we fight to keep
our country free,
Or else we fight forevermore
to help
Assyria bind the world as
we are bound.
I am a soldier, and I know
the hell
Of war! But I will gladly
ride through hell
To save Damascus. Master,
bid me ride!
Ten thousand chariots wait
for your command;
And twenty thousand horsemen
strain the leash
Of patience till you let them
go; a throng
Of spearmen, archers, swordsmen,
like the sea
Chafing against a dike, roar
for the onset!
O master, let me launch your
mighty host
Against the Bull,—we’ll
bring him to his knees!
[Cries of “war!”
from the soldiers and the people;
“peace!” from the courtiers and
the priests. The
King rises, turning toward NAAMAN, and seems
about
to speak. REZON lifts his rod.]
REZON:
Shall not the gods decide
when mortals doubt?
Rimmon is master of the city’s
fate;
We read his will, by our most
ancient-faith,
In omens and in signs of mystery.
Must we not hearken to his
high commands?
BENHADAD: [Sinking back on the throne, submissively.]
I am the faithful son of Rimmon’s
House.
Consult the oracle. But
who shall read?
REZON:
Tsarpi, the wife of Naaman,
who served
Within the temple in her maiden
years,
Shall be the mouth-piece of
the mighty god,
To-day’s high-priestess.
Bring the sacrifice!
[Gongs and cymbals sound:
enter priests carrying
an altar on which a lamb is bound. The
altar is
placed in the centre of the hall. TSARPI
follows
the priests, covered with a long transparent
veil
of black, sown with gold stars; RUAHMAH,
in white,
bears her train. TSARPI stands before
the altar,
facing it, and lifts her right hand holding
a
knife. RUAHMAH steps back, near the
throne, her
hands crossed on her breast, her head bowed.
The
priests close in around TSARPI and the altar.
The
knife is seen to strike downward. Gongs
and cymbals
sound: cries of “Rimmon, hear
us!” The circle of
priests opens, and TSARPI turns slowly to
face the
King.]
TSARPI: [Monotonously.]
Black is the blood of the victim,
Rimmon is unfavourable,
Asratu is unfavourable;
They will not war against
Asshur,
They will make a league with
the God of Nineveh.
Evil is in store for Damascus,
A strong enemy will lay waste
the land.
Therefore make peace with
the Bull;
Hearken to the voice of Rimmon.
[She turns again to the altar,
and the priests close
in around her. REZON lifts his rod toward
the tower
of the temple. A flash of lightning
followed by
thunder; smoke rises from the altar; all
except
NAAMAN and RUAHMAH cover their faces.
The circle
of priests opens again, and TSARPI comes
forward
slowly, chanting.]
CHANT:
Hear the words of Rimmon!
Thus your Maker speaketh:
I, the god of thunder, riding on the whirlwind,
I, the god of lightning leaping from the storm-cloud,
I will smite with vengeance him who dares defy
me!
He who leads Damascus into war with Asshur,
Conquering or conquered, bears my curse upon him.
Surely shall my arrow strike his heart in secret,
Burn his flesh with fever, turn his blood to poison.
Brand him with corruption, drive him into darkness;
He shall surely perish by the doom of Rimmon.
[All are terrified and look
toward NAAMAN,
shuddering. RUAHMAH alone seems not
to heed the
curse, but stands with her eyes fixed on
NAAMAN.]
RUAHMAH:
Be not afraid! There
is a greater God
Shall cover thee with His
almighty wings:
Beneath his shield and buckler
shalt thou trust.
BENHADAD:
Repent, my son, thou must
not brave this curse.
NAAMAN:
My King, there is no curse
as terrible
As that which lights a bosom-fire
for him
Who gives away his honour,
to prolong
A craven life whose every
breath is shame!
If I betray the men who follow
me,
The city that has put her
trust in me,
What king can shield me from
my own deep scorn
What god release me from that
self-made hell?
The tender mercies of Assyria
I know; and they are cruel
as creeping tigers.
Give up Damascus, and her
streets will run
Rivers of innocent blood;
the city’s heart,
That mighty, labouring heart,
wounded and crushed
Beneath the brutal hooves
of the wild Bull,
Will cry against her captain,
sitting safe
Among the nobles, in some
pleasant place.
I shall be safe,—safe
from the threatened wrath
Of unknown gods, but damned
forever by
The men I know,—that
is the curse I fear.
BENHADAD:
Speak not so high, my son.
Must we not bow
Our heads before the sovereignties
of heaven?
The unseen rulers are Divine.
NAAMAN:
O
King,
I am unlearned in the lore
of priests;
Yet well I know that there
are hidden powers
About us, working mortal weal
and woe
Beyond the force of mortals
to control.
And if these powers appear
in love and truth,
I think they must be gods,
and worship them.
But if their secret will is
manifest
In blind decrees of sheer
omnipotence,
That punish where no fault
is found, and smite
The poor with undeserved calamity,
And pierce the undefended
in the dark
With arrows of injustice,
and foredoom
The innocent to burn in endless
pain,
I will not call this fierce
almightiness
Divine. Though I must
bear, with every man,
The burden of my life ordained,
I’ll keep
My soul unterrified, and tread
the path
Of truth and honour with a
steady heart!
Have ye not heard, my lords?
The oracle
Proclaims to me, to me alone,
the doom
Of vengeance if I lead the
army out.
“Conquered or conquering!”
I grip that chance!
Damascus free, her foes all
beaten back,
The people saved from slavery,
the King
Upheld in honour on his ancient
throne,—
O what’s the cost of
this? I’ll gladly pay
Whatever gods there be, whatever
price
They ask for this one victory.
Give me
This gilded sign of shame
to carry back;
I’ll shake it in the
face of Asshur’s king,
And break it on his teeth.
BENHADAD: [Rising.]
Then go, my never-beaten captain,
go!
And may the powers that hear
thy solemn vow
Forgive thy rashness for Damascus’
sake,
Prosper thy fighting, and
remit thy pledge.
REZON: [Standing beside the altar.]
The pledge, O King, this man
must seal his pledge
At Rimmon’s altar.
He must take the cup
Of soldier-sacrament, and
bind himself
By thrice-performed libation
to abide
The fate he has invoked.
NAAMAN: [Slowly.]
And
so I will.
[He comes down the steps, toward
the altar, where
REZON is filling the cup which TSARPI holds.
RUAHMAH throws herself before NAAMAN, clasping
his knees.]
RUAHMAH: [Passionately and wildly.]
My lord, I do beseech you,
stay! There’s death
Within that cup. It is
an offering
To devils. See, the wine
blazes like fire,
It flows like blood, it is
a cursed cup,
Fulfilled of treachery and
hate.
Dear master, noble master,
touch it not!
NAAMAN:
Poor maid, thy brain is still
distraught. Fear not,
But let me go! Here,
treat her tenderly!
[Gives her into the hands of SABALLIDIN.]
Can harm befall me from the
wife who bears
My name? I take the cup
of fate from her.
I greet the unknown powers;
[Pours libation.]
I will perform my vow; [Again.]
I will abide my fate; [Again.]
I pledge my life to keep Damascus
free.
[He drains the cup, and lets it fall.]
CURTAIN.
TIME: A week later
The fore-court of the House of Rimmon. At the back the broad steps and double doors of the shrine; above them the tower of the god, its summit invisible. Enter various groups of citizens, talking, laughing, shouting: RAKHAZ, HAZAEL, SHUMAKIM and others.
FIRST CITIZEN:
Great news, glorious news,
the Assyrians are beaten!
SECOND CITIZEN:
Naaman is returning, crowned
with victory. Glory to our noble
captain!
THIRD CITIZEN:
No, he is killed. I had
it from one of the camp-followers who
saw him fall at
the head of the battle. They are bringing
his body to bury
it with honour. O sorrowful victory!
RAKHAZ:
Peace, my good fellows, you
are ignorant, you have not been
rightly informed,
I will misinform you. The accounts of
Naaman’s
death are overdrawn. He was killed, but his life
has been preserved.
One of his wounds was mortal, but the
other three were
curable, and by these the physicians have
saved him.
SHUMAKIM: [Balancing himself before RAKHAZ in
pretended admiration.]
O wonderful! Most admirable
logic! One mortal, and three
curable, therefore
he must recover as it were, by three
to one. Rakhaz,
do you know that you are a marvelous man?
RAKHAZ:
Yes, I know it, but I make
no boast of my knowledge.
SHUMAKIM:
Too modest, for in knowing
this you know more than any other
in Damascus!
[Enter, from the right, SABALLIDIN
in armour: from
the left, TSARPI with her attendants, among
whom
is RUAHMAH.]
HAZAEL:
Here is Saballidin, we’ll
question him;
He was enflamed by Naaman’s
wild words,
And rode with him to battle.
Give us news,
Of your great captain!
Is he safe and well?
When will he come? Or
will he come at all?
[All gather around him listening eagerly.]
SABALLIDIN:
He comes but now, returning
from the field
Where he hath gained a crown
of deathless fame!
Three times he led the charge;
three times he fell
Wounded, and the Assyrians
beat us back.
Yet every wound was but a
spur to urge
His valour onward. In
the last attack
He rode before us as the crested
wave
That leads the flood; and
lo, our enemies
Were broken like a dam of
river-reeds.
The flying King encircled
by his guard
Was lodged like driftwood
on a little hill.
Then Naaman, who led our foremost
band
Of whirlwind riders, hammered
through the hedge
Of spearmen, brandishing the
golden yoke.
“Take back this gift,”
he cried; and shattered it
[Shouts of joy and applause.]
RUAHMAH: [Coming close to SABALLIDIN.]
But what of him who won it?
Fares he well?
My mistress would receive
some word of him.
SABALLIDIN:
Hath she not heard?
RUAHMAH:
But
one brief message came:
A letter saying, “We
have fought and conquered,”
No word of his own person.
Fares he well?
SABALLIDIN:
Alas, most ill! For he
is like a man
Consumed by some strange sickness:
wasted, wan,—
His eyes are dimmed so that
he scarce can see;
His ears are dulled; his fearless
face is pale
As one who walks to meet a
certain doom
Yet will not flinch.
It is most pitiful,—
But you shall see.
RUAHMAH:
Yea,
we shall see a man
Who dared to face the wrath
of evil powers
Unknown, and hazard all to
save his country.
[Enter BENHADAD with courtiers.]
BENHADAD:
Where is my faithful servant
Naaman,
The captain of my host?
SABALLIDIN:
My
lord, he comes.
[Trumpet sounds. Enter
company of soldiers in
armour. Then four soldiers bearing captured
standards of Asshur. NAAMAN follows,
very pale,
armour dinted and stained; he is blind, and
guides himself by cords from the standards
on
each side, but walks firmly. The doors
of the
temple open slightly, and REZON appears at
the
top of the steps. NAAMAN lets the cords
fall,
and gropes his way for a few paces.]
NAAMAN: [Kneeling.]
Where
is my King?
Master, the bearer of thy
sword returns.
The golden yoke thou gavest
me I broke
On him who sent it. Asshur’s
Bull hath fled
Dehorned. The standards
of his host are thine!
Damascus is all thine, at
peace, and free!
BENHADAD: [Holding out his arms.]
Thou art a mighty man of valour!
Come,
And let me fold thy courage
to my heart.
REZON: [Lifting his rod.]
Forbear, O King! Stand
back from him, all men!
By the great name of Rimmon
I proclaim
This man a leper! See,
upon his brow,
This little mark, the death-white
seal of doom!
That tiny spot will spread,
eating his flesh,
Gnawing his fingers bone from
bone, until
The impious heart that dared
defy the gods
Dissolves in the slow death
which now begins.
Unclean! unclean! Henceforward
he is dead:
No human hand shall touch
him, and no home
[All shrink back horrified.
REZON retires into the
temple; the crowd melts away, wailing; TSARPI
is
among the first to go, followed by her attendants,
except RUAHMAH, who crouches, with her face
covered, not far from NAAMAN.]
BENHADAD: [Lingering and turning back.]
Alas, my son! O Naaman,
my son!
Why did I let thee go?
I must obey.
Who can resist the gods?
Yet none shall take
Thy glorious title, captain
of my host!
I will provide for thee, and
thou shalt dwell
With guards of honour in a
house of mine
Always. Damascus never
shall forget
What thou hast done!
O miserable words
Of crowned impotence!
O mockery of power
Given to kings who cannot
even defend
Their dearest from the secret
wrath of heaven!
O Naaman, my son, my son!
[Exit.]
NAAMAN: [Slowly passing his hand over his eyes,
and looking up.]
Am
I alone
With thee, inexorable one,
whose pride
Offended takes this horrible
revenge?
I must submit my mortal flesh
to thee,
Almighty, but I will not call
thee god!
Yet thou hast found the way
to wound my soul
Most deeply through the flesh;
and I must find
The way to let my wounded
soul escape!
[Drawing his sword.]
Come, my last friend, thou
art more merciful
Than Rimmon. Why should
I endure the doom
He sends me? Irretrievably
cut off
From all dear intercourse
of human love,
From all the tender touch
of human hands,
From all brave comradeship
with brother-men,
With eyes that see no faces
through this dark,
With ears that hear all voices
far away,
Why should I cling to misery,
and grope
My long, long way from pain
to pain, alone?
RUAHMAH: [At his feet.]
Nay, not alone, dear lord,
for I am here;
And I will never leave thee,
nor forsake thee!
NAAMAN:
What voice is that? The
silence of my tomb
Is broken by a ray of music,—whose?
RUAHMAH: [Rising.]
The one who loves thee best
in all the world.
NAAMAN:
Why that should be,—O
dare I dream it true?
Tsarpi, my wife? Have
I misjudged thy heart
As cold and proud? How
nobly thou forgivest!
Thou com’st to hold
me from the last disgrace,—
The coward’s flight
into the dark. Go back
Unstained, my sword!
Life is endurable
While there is one alive on
earth who loves us.
RUAHMAH:
My lord,—my lord,—O
listen! You have erred,—
You do mistake me now,—this
dream—
NAAMAN:
Ah, wake me not! For
I can conquer death
Dreaming this dream.
Let me at last believe,
Though gods are cruel, a woman
can be kind.
Grant me but this! For
see,—I ask so little,—
Only to know that thou art
faithful,
That thou art near me, though
I touch thee not,—
O this will hold me up, though
it be given
From pity more than love.
RUAHMAH: [Trembling, and speaking slowly.]
Not
so, my lord!
My pity is a stream; my pride
of thee
Is like the sea that doth
engulf the stream;
My love for thee is like the
sovereign moon
That rules the sea. The
tides that fill my soul
Flow unto thee and follow
after thee;
And where thou goest I will
go; and where
Thou diest I will die,—in
the same hour.
[She lays her hand on his arm. He draws back.]
NAAMAN:
O touch me not! Thou
shalt not share my doom.
RUAHMAH:
Entreat me not to go.
I will obey
In all but this; but rob me
not of this,—
The only boon that makes life
worth the living,—
To walk beside thee day by
day, and keep
Thy foot from stumbling; to
prepare thy food
When thou art hungry, music
for thy rest,
And cheerful words to comfort
thy black hour;
And so to lead thee ever on,
and on,
Through darkness, till we
find the door of hope.
NAAMAN:
What word is that? The
leper has no hope.
RUAHMAH:
Dear lord, the mark upon thy
brow is yet
No broader than my little
finger-nail.
Thy force is not abated, and
thy step
Is firm. Wilt thou surrender
to the enemy
Before thy strength is touched?
Why, let me put
A drop of courage from my
breast in thine!
There is a hope for thee.
The captive maid
Of Israel who dwelt within
thy house
Knew of a god very compassionate,
Long-suffering, slow to anger,
one who heals
The sick, hath pity on the
fatherless,
And saves the poor and him
who has no helper.
His prophet dwells nigh to
Samaria;
And I have heard that he hath
brought the dead
To life again. We’ll
go to him. The King,
If I beseech him, will appoint
a guard
Of thine own soldiers and
Saballidin,
Thy friend, to convoy us upon
our journey.
He’ll give us royal
letters to the King
Of Israel to make our welcome
sure;
And we will take the open
road, beneath
The open sky, to-morrow, and
go on
Together till we find the
door of hope.
Come, come with me!
[She grasps his hand.]
NAAMAN: [Drawing back.]
Thou must not touch me!
RUAHMAH: [Unclasping her girdle and putting the
end in his hand.]
Take
my girdle, then!
NAAMAN: [Kissing the clasp of the girdle.]
I do begin to think there
is a God,
Since love on earth can work
such miracles:
CURTAIN.
TIME: A month later: dawn
NAAMAN’S tent, on high ground among the mountains
near Samaria: the city below. In the distance,
a wide and splendid landscape.
SABALLIDIN and soldiers on guard below the tent.
Enter RUAHMAH in hunter’s dress, with a lute
slung from her shoulder.
RUAHMAH:
Peace and good health to you,
Saballidin.
Good morrow to you all.
How fares my lord?
SABALLIDIN:
The curtains of his tent are
folded still:
They have not moved since
we returned, last night,
And told him what befell us
in the city.
RUAHMAH:
Told him! Why did you
make report to him
And not to me? Am I not
captain here,
Intrusted by the King’s
command with care
Of Naaman until he is restored?
’Tis mine to know the
first of good or ill
In this adventure: mine
to shield his heart
From every arrow of adversity.
What have you told him?
Speak!
SABALLIDIN:
Lady,
we feared
To bring our news to you.
For when the King
Of Israel had read our monarch’s
letter,
He rent his clothes, and cried,
“Am I a god,
To kill and make alive, that
I should heal
A leper? Ye have come
with false pretence,
Damascus seeks a quarrel with
me. Go!”
But when we told our lord,
he closed his tent,
And there remains enfolded
in his grief.
I trust he sleeps; ’twere
kind to let him sleep!
For now he doth forget his
misery,
And all the burden of his
hopeless woe
Is lifted from him by the
gentle hand
Of slumber. Oh, to those
bereft of hope
Sleep is the only blessing
left,—the last
Asylum of the weary, the one
sign
Of pity from impenetrable
heaven.
Waking is strife; sleep is
the truce of God!
Ah, lady, wake him not.
The day will be
Full long for him to suffer,
and for us
To turn our disappointed faces
home
On the long road by which
we must return.
RUAHMAH:
Return! Who gave you
that command? Not I!
The King made me the leader
of this quest,
And bound you all to follow
me, because
He knew I never would return
without
The thing for which he sent
us. I’ll go on
Day after day, unto the uttermost
parts
Of earth, if need be, and
beyond the gates
Of morning, till I find that
which I seek,—
New life for Naaman.
Are ye ashamed
To have a woman lead you?
Then go back
And tell the King, “This
huntress went too far
For us to follow: she
pursues the trail
Of hope alone, refusing to
forsake
The quarry: we grew weary
of the chase;
SOLDIERS:
Not
I, not I!
SABALLIDIN:
Lady, lead on, we’ll
follow you forever!
RUAHMAH:
Why, now you speak like men!
Brought you no word
Out of Samaria, except that
cry
Of impotence and fear from
Israel’s King?
SABALLIDIN:
I do remember while he spoke
with us
A rustic messenger came in,
and cried
“Elisha saith, bring
Naaman to me
At Dothan, he shall surely
know there is
A God in Israel.”
RUAHMAH:
What
said the King?
SABALLIDIN:
He only shouted “Go!”
more wildly yet,
And rent his clothes again,
as if he were
Half-maddened by a coward’s
fear, and thought
Only of how he might be rid
of us.
What comfort could there be
for him, what hope
For us, in the rude prophet’s
misty word?
RUAHMAH:
It is the very word for which
I prayed!
My trust was not in princes;
for the crown,
The sceptre, and the purple
robe are not
Significant of vital power.
The man
Who saves his brother-men
is he who lives
His life with Nature, takes
deep hold on truth,
And trusts in God. A
prophet’s word is more
Than all the kings on earth
can speak. How far
Is Dothan?
SOLDIER:
Lady,
‘tis but three hours’ ride
Along the valley southward.
RUAHMAH:
Near!
so near?
I had not thought to end my
task so soon!
Prepare yourselves with speed
to take the road.
I will awake my lord.
[Exeunt all but SABALLIDIN
and RUAHMAH. She goes
toward the tent.]
SABALLIDIN:
Ruahmah,
stay! [She turns back.]
I’ve been your servant
in this doubtful quest,
Obedient, faithful, loyal
to your will,—
What have I earned by this?
RUAHMAH:
The
gratitude
Of him we both desire to serve:
your friend,—
My master and my lord.
SABALLIDIN:
No
more than this?
RUAHMAH:
Yes, if you will, take all
the thanks my hands
Can hold, my lips can speak.
SABALLIDIN:
I
would have more.
RUAHMAH:
My friend, there’s nothing
more to give to you.
My service to my lord is absolute.
There’s not a drop of
blood within my veins
But quickens at the very thought
of him;
And not a dream of mine but
he doth stand
Within its heart and make
it bright. No man
To me is other than his friend
or foe.
You are his friend, and I
believe you true!
SABALLIDIN:
I have been true to him,—now,
I am true
To you.
RUAHMAH:
Why,
then, be doubly true to him.
O let us match our loyalties,
and strive
Between us who shall win the
higher crown!
Men boast them of a friendship
stronger far
Than love of woman. Prove
it! I’ll not boast,
But I’ll contend with
you on equal terms
In this brave race: and
if you win the prize
I’ll hold you next to
him: and if I win
He’ll hold you next
to me; and either way
We’ll not be far apart.
Do you accept
My challenge?
SABALLIDIN:
Yes!
For you enforce my heart
By honour to resign its great
desire,
And love itself to offer sacrifice
Of all disloyal dreams on
its own altar.
Yet love remains; therefore
I pray you, think
How surely you must lose in
our contention.
For I am known to Naaman:
but you
He blindly takes for Tsarpi.
’Tis to her
He gives his gratitude:
the praise you win
Endears her name.
RUAHMAH:
Her
name? Why, what is that?
A name is but an empty shell,
a mask
That does not change the features
of the face
Beneath it. Can a name
rejoice, or weep,
Or hope? Can it be moved
by tenderness
To daily services of love,
or feel the warmth
Of dear companionship?
How many things
We call by names that have
no meaning! Kings
That cannot rule; and gods
that are not good;
And wives that do not love!
It matters not
What syllables he utters when
he calls,
’Tis I who come,—’tis
I who minister
Unto my lord, and mine the
living heart
That feels the comfort of
his confidence,
The thrill of gladness when
he speaks to me,—
I do not hear the name!
SABALLIDIN:
And
yet, be sure
There’s danger in this
error,—and no gain!
RUAHMAH:
I seek no gain: I only
tread the path
Marked for me daily by the
hand of love.
And if his blindness spared
my lord one pang
Of sorrow in his black, forsaken
hour,—
And if this error makes his
burdened heart
More quiet, and his shadowed
way less dark,
Whom do I rob? Not her
who chose to stay
At ease in Rimmon’s
House! Surely not him!
Only myself! And that
enriches me.
Why trouble we the master?
Let it go,—
To-morrow he must know the
truth,—and then
He shall dispose of me e’en
as he will!
SABALLIDIN:
To-morrow?
RUAHMAH:
Yes,
for I will tarry here,
While you conduct him to Elisha’s
house
To find the promised healing.
I forebode
A sudden danger from the craven
King
Of Israel, or else a secret
ambush
From those who hate us in
Damascus. Go,
But leave me twenty men:
this mountain-pass
Protects the road behind you.
Make my lord
Obey the prophet’s word,
whatever he commands,
And come again in peace.
Farewell!
[Exit SABALLIDIN. RUAHMAH
goes toward the tent, then
pauses and turns back. She takes her
lute and sings.]
SONG
Above the edge of dark appear
the lances of the sun;
Along the mountain-ridges clear his rosy heralds
run;
The vapours down the valley go
Like broken armies, dark and low.
Look up, my heart, from every hill
In folds of rose and daffodil
The sunrise banners flow.
O fly away on silent wing, ye
boding owls of night!
O welcome little birds that
sing the coming-in of light!
For
new, and new, and ever-new,
The
golden bud within the blue;
And
every morning seems to say:
“There’s
something happy on the way,
And
God sends love to you!"
NAAMAN: [Appearing at the entrance of his tent.]
O let me ever wake to music!
For the soul
Returns most gently then,
and finds its way
By the soft, winding clue
of melody,
Out of the dusky labyrinth
of sleep,
Into the light. My body
feels the sun
Though I behold naught that
his rays reveal.
Come, thou who art my daydawn
and my sight,
Sweet eyes, come close, and
make the sunrise mine!
RUAHMAH: [Coming near.]
A fairer day, dear lord, was
never born
In Paradise! The sapphire
cup of heaven
Is filled with golden wine:
the earth, adorned
With jewel-drops of dew, unveils
her face
A joyful bride, in welcome
to her king.
And look! He leaps upon
the Eastern hills
All ruddy fire, and claims
her with a kiss.
Yonder the snowy peaks of
Hermon float
Unmoving as a wind-dropt cloud.
The gulf
Of Jordan, filled with violet
haze, conceals
The river’s winding
trail with wreaths of mist.
Below us, marble-crowned Samaria
thrones
Upon her emerald hill amid
the Vale
Of Barley, while the plains
to northward change
Their colour like the shimmering
necks of doves.
The lark springs up, with
morning on her wings,
To climb her singing stairway
in the blue,
And all the fields are sprinkled
with her joy!
NAAMAN:
Thy voice is magical:
thy words are visions!
I must content myself with
them, for now
My only hope is lost:
Samaria’s King
Rejects our monarch’s
message,—hast thou heard?
“Am I a god that I should
cure a leper?”
He sends me home unhealed,
with angry words,
Back to Damascus and the lingering
death.
RUAHMAH:
What matter where he sends?
No god is he
To slay or make alive.
Elisha bids
You come to him at Dothan,
there to learn
There is a God in Israel.
NAAMAN:
I
fear
That I am grown mistrustful
of all gods;
Their secret counsels are
implacable.
RUAHMAH:
Fear not! There’s
One who rules in righteousness
High over all.
NAAMAN:
What
knowest thou of Him?
RUAHMAH:
Oh, I have heard,—the
maid of Israel,—
Rememberest thou? She
often said her God
Was merciful and kind, and
slow to wrath,
And plenteous in forgiveness,
pitying us
Like as a father pitieth his
children.
NAAMAN:
If there were such a God,
I’d worship Him
Forever!
RUAHMAH:
Then
make haste to hear the word
His prophet promises to speak
to thee!
Obey it, my dear lord, and
thou shalt find
Healing and peace. The
light shall fill thine eyes.
Thou wilt not need my leading
any more,—
Nor me,—for thou
wilt see me, all unveiled,—
I tremble at the thought.
NAAMAN:
Why,
what is this?
Why shouldst thou tremble?
Art thou not mine own?
RUAHMAH: [Turning to him and speaking in broken
words.]
I am,—thy handmaid,—all
and only thine,—
The very pulses of my heart
are thine!
Feel how they throb to comfort
thee to-day—
To-day! Because it is
thy time of trouble.
[She takes his hand and puts
it to her forehead and
her lips, but before she can lay it upon
her heart,
he draws away from her.]
NAAMAN:
Thou art too dear to injure
with a kiss,—
How should I take a gift may
bankrupt thee,
Or drain the fragrant chalice
of thy love
With lips that may be fatal?
Tempt me not
To sweet dishonour; strengthen
me to wait
Until thy prophecy is all
fulfilled,
And I can claim thee with
a joyful heart.
RUAHMAH: [Turning away.]
Thou wilt not need me then,—and
I shall be
No more than the faint echo
of a song
Heard half asleep. We
shall go back to where
We stood before this journey.
NAAMAN:
Never
again!
For thou art changed by some
deep miracle.
The flower of womanhood hath
bloomed in thee,—
Art thou not changed?
RUAHMAH:
Yea,
I am changed,—and changed
Again,—bewildered,—till
there’s nothing clear
To me but this: I am
the instrument
In an Almighty hand to rescue
thee
From death. This will
I do,—and afterward—
[A trumpet is blown without.]
Hearken, the trumpet sounds, the
chariot waits.
Away, dear lord, follow the road to light!
The house of Elisha, upon a terraced hillside. A low stone cottage with vine-trellises and flowers; a flight of steps, at the foot of which is NAAMAN’S chariot. He is standing in it; SABALLIDIN beside it. Two soldiers come down the steps.
FIRST SOLDIER:
We have delivered my lord’s
greeting and his message.
SECOND SOLDIER:
Yes, and near lost our noses
in the doing of it! For
the servant slammed
the door in our faces. A most
unmannerly reception!
FIRST SOLDIER:
But I take that as a good
omen. It is a mark of holy
men to keep ill-conditioned
servants. Look, the
door opens, the
prophet is coming.
SECOND SOLDIER:
No, by my head, it is that
notable mark of his master’s
holiness, that
same lantern-jawed lout of a servant.
[GEHAZI loiters down the steps
and comes to NAAMAN
with a slight obeisance.]
GEHAZI:
My master, the prophet of
Israel, sends word to Naaman
the Syrian,—are
you he?—–“Go wash in Jordan
seven
times and be healed.”
[GEHAZI turns and goes slowly up the steps.]
NAAMAN:
What insolence is this?
Am I a man
To be put off with surly messengers?
Has not Damascus rivers more
renowned
Than this rude muddy Jordan?
Crystal streams,
Abana! Pharpar! flowing
smoothly through
A paradise of roses?
Might I not
Have bathed in them and been
restored at ease?
Come up, Saballidin, and guide
me home!
SABALLIDIN:
Bethink thee, master, shall
we lose our quest
Because a servant is uncouth?
The road
That seeks the mountain leads
us through the vale.
The prophet’s word is
friendly after all;
For had it been some mighty
task he set,
Thou wouldst perform it.
How much rather then
This easy one? Hast thou
not promised her
Who waits for thy return?
Wilt thou go back
To her unhealed?
NAAMAN:
No!
not for all my pride!
I’ll make myself most
humble for her sake,
And stoop to anything that
gives me hope
Of having her. Make haste,
Saballidin,
Bring me to Jordan. I
will cast myself
Into that river’s turbulent
embrace
A hundred times, until I save
my life
Or lose it!
[Exeunt. The light fades:
musical interlude.
The light increases again with ruddy sunset
shining on the door of ELISHA’S house.
The
prophet appears and looks off, shading his
eyes with his hand as he descends the steps.
Trumpet blows,—NAAMAN’S
call;—sound of
horses galloping and men shouting. NAAMAN
enters joyously, followed by SABALLIDIN and
soldiers, with gifts.]
NAAMAN:
Behold a man delivered from
the grave
By thee! I rose from
Jordan’s waves restored
To youth and vigour, as the
eagle mounts
Upon the sunbeam and renews
his strength!
O mighty prophet deign to
take from me
These gifts too poor to speak
my gratitude;
Silver and gold and jewels,
damask robes,—
ELISHA: [Interrupting.]
As thy soul liveth I will
not receive
A gift from thee, my son!
Give all to Him
Whose mercy hath redeemed
thee from thy plague.
NAAMAN:
He is the only God! I
worship Him!
Grant me a portion of the
blessed soil
Of this most favoured land
where I have found
His mercy; in Damascus will
I build
An altar to His name, and
praise Him there
Morning and night. There
is no other God
In all the world.
ELISHA:
Thou
needst not
This load of earth to build
a shrine for Him;
Yet take it if thou wilt.
But be assured
God’s altar is in every
loyal heart,
And every flame of love that
kindles there
Ascends to Him and brightens
with His praise.
There is no other God!
But evil Powers
Make war against Him in the
darkened world;
And many temples have been
built to them.
NAAMAN:
I know them well! Yet
when my master goes
To worship in the House of
Rimmon, I
Must enter with him; for he
trusts me, leans
Upon my hand; and when he
bows himself
I cannot help but make obeisance
too,—
But not to Rimmon! To
my country’s King
I’ll bow in love and
honour. Will the Lord
Pardon thy servant in this
thing?
ELISHA:
My
son,
Peace has been granted thee.
’Tis thine to find
The only way to keep it.
Go in peace.
NAAMAN:
Thou hast not answered me,—may
I bow down?
ELISHA:
The answer must be thine.
The heart that knows
The perfect peace of gratitude
and love,
Walks in the light and needs
no other rule.
When next thou comest into
Rimmon’s House,
Thy heart will tell thee how
to go in peace.
CURTAIN.
[3] Note that this scene is not intended to be put
upon the stage,
the effect of the action upon
the drama being given at the
beginning of Act IV.
SCENE I
The interior of NAAMAN’S tent, at night. RUAHMAH alone, sleeping on the ground. A vision appears to her through the curtains of the tent: ELISHA standing on the hillside at Dothan: NAAMAN, restored to sight, comes in and kneels before him. ELISHA blesses him, and he goes out rejoicing. The vision of the prophet turns to RUAHMAH and lifts his hand in warning.
ELISHA:
Daughter of Israel, what dost
thou here?
Thy prayer is granted.
Naaman is healed:
Mar not true service with
a selfish thought.
Nothing remains for thee to
do, except
Give thanks, and go whither
the Lord commands.
Obey,—obey!
Ere Naaman returns
Thou must depart to thine
own house in Shechem.
[The vision vanishes.]
RUAHMAH: [Waking and rising slowly.]
A dream, a dream, a messenger
of God!
O dear and dreadful vision,
art thou true?
Then am I glad with all my
broken heart.
Nothing remains,—nothing
remains but this,—
Give thanks, obey, depart,—and
so I do.
Farewell, my master’s
sword! Farewell to you,
My amulet! I lay you
on the hilt
His hand shall clasp again:
bid him farewell
For me, since I must look
upon his face
No more for ever!—Hark,
what sound was that?
[Enter soldier hurriedly.]
SOLDIER:
Mistress, an armed troop,
footmen and horse,
Mounting the hill!
RUAHMAH:
My
lord returns in triumph.
SOLDIER:
Not so, for these are enemies;
they march
In haste and silence, answering
not our cries.
RUAHMAH:
Our enemies? Then hold
your ground,—on guard!
Fight! fight! Defend
the pass, and drive them down.
[Exit soldier. RUAHMAH
draws NAAMAN’S sword from
the scabbard and hurries out of the tent.
Confused
noise of fighting outside. Three or
four soldiers
are driven in by a troop of men in disguise.
RUAHMAH follows: she is beaten to her
knees,
and her sword is broken.]
REZON: [Throwing aside the cloth which covers
his face.]
Hold her! So, tiger-maid,
we’ve found your lair
And trapped you. Where
is Naaman,
Your master?
RUAHMAH: [Rising, her arms held by two of REZON’S
followers.]
He
is far beyond your reach.
REZON:
Brave captain! He has
saved himself, the leper,
And left you here?
RUAHMAH:
The
leper is no more.
REZON:
What mean you?
RUAHMAH:
He
has gone to meet his God.
REZON:
Dead? Dead? Behold
how Rimmon’s wrath is swift!
Damascus shall be mine; I’ll
terrify
The King with this, and make
my terms. But no!
False maid, you sweet-faced
harlot, you have lied
To save him,—speak.
RUAHMAH:
I
am not what you say,
Nor have I lied, nor will
I ever speak
A word to you, vile servant
of a traitor-god.
REZON:
Break off this little flute
of blasphemy,
This ivory neck,—twist
it, I say!
Give her a swift despatch
after her leper!
But stay,—if he
[Exeunt, forcing RUAHMAH with
them. Musical
interlude. A wounded soldier crawls
from a
dark corner of the tent and finds the chain
with NAAMAN’S seal, which has fallen
to the
ground in the struggle.]
WOUNDED SOLDIER:
The signet of my lord, her
amulet!
Lost, lost! Ah, noble
lady,—let me die
With this upon my breast.
[The tent is dark. Enter
NAAMAN and his company
in haste, with torches.]
NAAMAN:
What
bloody work
Is here? God, let me
live to punish him
Who wrought this horror!
Treacherously slain
At night, by unknown hands,
my brave companions:
Tsarpi, my best beloved, light
of my soul,
Put out in darkness!
O my broken lamp
Of life, where art thou?
Nay, I cannot find her.
WOUNDED SOLDIER: [Raising himself on his arm.]
Master!
NAAMAN: [Kneels beside him.]
One
living? Quick, a torch this way!
Lift up his head,—so,—carefully!
Courage, my friend, your captain
is beside you.
Call back your soul and make
report to him.
WOUNDED SOLDIER:
Hail, captain! O my captain,—here!
NAAMAN:
Be patient,—rest
in peace,—the fight is done.
Nothing remains but render
your account.
WOUNDED SOLDIER:
They fell upon us suddenly,—we
fought
Our fiercest,—every
man,—our lady fought
Fiercer than all. They
beat us down,—she’s gone.
Rezon has carried her away
a captive. See,—
Her amulet,—I die
for you, my captain.
NAAMAN: [He gently lays the dead soldier on the
ground, and rises.]
Farewell. This last report
was brave; but strange
Beyond my thought! How
came the High Priest here?
And what is this? my chain,
my seal! But this
Has never been in Tsarpi’s
hand. I gave
This signet to a captive maid
one night,—
A maid of Israel. How
long ago?
Ruahmah was her name,—almost
forgotten!
So long ago,—how
comes this token here?
What is this mystery, Saballidin?
SABALLIDIN:
Ruahmah is her name who brought
you hither.
NAAMAN:
Where then is Tsarpi?
SABALLIDIN:
In
Damascus.
She left you when the curse
of Rimmon fell,—
Took refuge in his House,—and
there she waits
Her lord’s return,—Rezon’s
return.
NAAMAN:
’Tis
false!
SABALLIDIN:
The falsehood is in her.
She hath been friend
With Rezon in his priestly
plot to win
Assyria’s favour,—friend
to his design
To sell his country to enrich
his temple,—
And friend to him in more,—I
will not name it.
NAAMAN:
Nor will I credit it.
Impossible!
SABALLIDIN:
Did she not plead with you
against the war,
Counsel surrender, seek to
break your will?
NAAMAN:
She did not love my work,
a soldier’s task.
She never seemed to be at
one with me
Until I was a leper.
SABALLIDIN:
From
whose hand
Did you receive the sacred
cup?
NAAMAN:
From
hers.
SABALLIDIN:
And from that hour the curse
began to work.
NAAMAN:
But did she not have pity
when she saw
Me smitten? Did she not
beseech the King
For letters and a guard to
make this journey?
Has she not been the fountain
of my hope,
My comforter and my most faithful
guide
In this adventure of the dark?
All this
Is proof of perfect love that
would have shared
A leper’s doom rather
than give me up.
Can I doubt her who dared
to love like this?
SABALLIDIN:
O master, doubt her not,—but
know her name;
Ruahmah! It was she alone
who wrought
This wondrous work of love.
She won the King
To furnish forth this company.
She led
Our march, kept us in heart,
fought off despair,
Watched over you as if you
were her child,
Prepared your food, your cup,
with her own hands,
Sang you asleep at night,
awake at dawn,—
NAAMAN: [Interrupting.]
Enough! I do remember
every hour
Of that sweet comradeship!
And now her voice
Wakens the echoes in my lonely
breast.
Shall I not see her, thank
her, speak her name?
Ruahmah! Let me live
till I have looked
Into her eyes and called her
my Ruahmah!
[To his soldiers.]
Away! away! I burn to
take the road
That leads me back to Rimmon’s
House,—
But not to bow,—by
God, never to bow!
TIME: Three days later
Inner court of the House of Rimmon; a temple with
huge pillars at each side. In the right foreground
the seat of the King; at the left, of equal height,
the seat of the High Priest. In the background
a broad flight of steps, rising to a curtain of cloudy
gray, embroidered with two gigantic hands holding
thunderbolts.
The temple is in half darkness at first.
Enter KHAMMA and NUBTA, robed as Kharimati, or religious
dancers, in gowns of black gauze with yellow embroideries
and mantles.
KHAMMA:
All is ready for the rites
of worship; our lady will play
a great part in
them. She has put on her Tyrian robes,
and all her ornaments.
NUBTA:
That is a sure sign of a religious
purpose. She is most
devout, our lady
Tsarpi!
KHAMMA:
A favourite of Rimmon, too!
The High Priest has assured
her of it.
He is a great man,—next to the King, now
that Naaman is
gone.
NUBTA:
But if Naaman should come
back, healed of the leprosy?
KHAMMA:
How can he come back?
The Hebrew slave that went away
with him, when
they caught her, said that he was dead.
The High Priest
has shut her up in the prison of the
temple, accusing
her of her master’s death.
NUBTA:
Yet I think he does not believe
it, for I heard him telling
our mistress what
to do if Naaman should return.
KHAMMA:
What, then?
NUBTA:
She will claim him as her
husband. Was she not wedded to
him before the
god? That is a sacred bond. Only the High
Priest can loose
it. She will keep her hold on Naaman
for the sake of
the House of Rimmon. A wife knows her
husband’s
secrets, she can tell—
[Enter SHUMAKIM, with his flagon, walking unsteadily.]
KHAMMA:
Hush! here comes the fool
Shumakim. He is never sober.
SHUMAKIM: [Laughing.]
Are there two of you?
I see two, but that is no proof.
I think there
is only one, but beautiful enough for
two. What
were you talking to yourself about, fairest
one!
KHAMMA:
About the lady Tsarpi, fool,
and what she would do if
her husband returned.
SHUMAKIM:
Fie! fie! That is no
talk for an innocent fool to hear.
Has she a husband?
NUBTA:
You know very well that she
is the wife of Lord Naaman.
SHUMAKIM:
I remember that she used to
wear his name and his jewels.
But I thought
he had exchanged her,—for a leprosy.
KHAMMA:
You must have heard that he
went away to Samaria to look
for healing.
Some say that he died on the journey; but
others say he
has been cured, and is on his way home
to his wife.
SHUMAKIM:
It may be, for this is a mad
world, and men never know
when they are
well off,—except us fools. But he must
come soon if he
would find his wife as he parted from
her,—or
the city where he left it. The Assyrians have
returned with
a greater army, and this time they will
make an end of
us. There is no Naaman now, and the Bull
will devour Damascus
like a bunch of leeks, flowers and
all,—flowers
and all, my double-budded fair one! Are
you not afraid?
NUBTA:
We belong to the House of
Rimmon. He will protect us.
SHUMAKIM:
What? The mighty one
who hides behind the curtain there,
and tells his
secrets to Rezon? No doubt he will take
care of you, and
of himself. Whatever game is played,
the gods never
lose. But for the protection of the
common people
and the rest of us fools, I would rather
have Naaman at
the head of an army than all the sacred
images between
here and Babylon.
KHAMMA:
You are a wicked old man.
You mock the god. He will
punish you.
SHUMAKIM: [Bitterly.]
How can he punish me?
Has he not already made me a fool?
Hark, here comes
my brother the High Priest, and my
brother the King.
Rimmon made us all; but nobody knows
who made Rimmon,
except the High Priest; and he will
never tell.
[Gongs and cymbals sound. Enter REZON with priests,
and the
King with courtiers. They take their seats.
A throng of Khali and Kharimati come in, TSARPI presiding;
a sacred dance is performed with torches, burning
incense, and chanting, in which TSARPI leads.]
CHANT
Hail, mighty Rimmon, ruler of
the whirl-storm,
Hail, shaker of mountains,
breaker-down of forests,
Hail, thou who roarest terribly
in the darkness,
Hail, thou whose arrows flame
across the heavens!
Hail, great destroyer, lord
of flood and tempest,
In thine anger almighty, in
thy wrath eternal,
Thou who delightest in ruin,
maker of desolations,
Immeru, Addu, Berku, Rimmon!
See we tremble before thee,
low we bow at thine altar,
Have mercy upon us, be favourable
unto us,
Save us from our enemy, accept
our sacrifice,
Barku, Immeru, Addu, Rimmon!
[Silence follows, all bowing down.]
REZON:
O King, last night the counsel
from above
Was given in answer to our
divination.
Ambassadors must go forthwith
to crave
Assyria’s pardon, and
a second offer
Of the same terms of peace
we did reject
Not long ago.
BENHADAD:
Dishonour!
Yet I see
No other way! Assyria
will refuse,
Or make still harder terms.
Disaster, shame
For this gray head, and ruin
for Damascus!
REZON:
Yet may we trust Rimmon will
favour us,
If we adhere devoutly to his
worship.
He will incline his brother-god,
the Bull,
To spare us, if we supplicate
him now
With costly gifts. Therefore
I have prepared
A sacrifice: Rimmon shall
be well pleased
With the red blood that bathes
his knees to-night!
BENHADAD:
My mind is dark with doubt,—I
do forebode
Some horror! Let me go,—I
am an old man,—
If Naaman my captain were
alive!
But he is dead,—the
glory is departed!
[He rises, trembling, to leave
the throne. Trumpet
sounds,—NAAMAN’S call;—enter
NAAMAN, followed
by soldiers; he kneels at the foot of the
throne.]
BENHADAD: [Half-whispering.]
Art thou a ghost escaped from
Allatu?
How didst thou pass the seven
doors of death?
O noble ghost I am afraid
of thee,
And yet I love thee,—let
me hear thy voice!
NAAMAN:
No ghost, my King, but one
who lives to serve
Thee and Damascus with his
heart and sword
As in the former days.
The only God
Has healed my leprosy:
my life is clean
To offer to my country and
my King.
BENHADAD: [Starting toward him.]
O welcome to thy King!
Thrice welcome!
REZON: [Leaving his seat and coming toward NAAMAN.]
Stay!
The leper must appear before
the priest,
The only one who can pronounce
him clean.
[NAAMAN turns; they stand looking each other in the face.]
Yea,—thou art cleansed:
Rimmon hath pardoned thee,—
In answer to the daily prayers of her
Whom he restores to thine embrace,—thy
wife.
[TSARPI comes slowly toward NAAMAN.]
NAAMAN:
From him who rules this House
will I receive
Nothing! I seek no pardon
from his priest,
No wife of mine among his
votaries!
TSARPI: [Holding out her hands.]
Am I not yours? Will
you renounce our vows?
NAAMAN:
The vows were empty,—never
made you mine
In aught but name. A
wife is one who shares
Her husband’s thought,
incorporates his heart
With hers by love, and crowns
him with her trust.
She is God’s remedy
for loneliness,
And God’s reward for
all the toil of life.
This you have never been to
me,—and so
I give you back again to Rimmon’s
House
Where you belong. Claim
what you will of mine,—
Not me! I do renounce
you,—or release you,—
According to the law.
If you demand
A further cause than what
I have declared,
I will unfold it fully to
the King.
REZON: [Interposing hurriedly.]
No need of that! This
duteous lady yields
To your caprice as she has
ever done:
She stands a monument of loyalty
And woman’s meekness.
NAAMAN:
Let
her stand for that!
Adorn your temple with her
piety!
But you in turn restore to
me the treasure
You stole at midnight from
my tent.
REZON:
What treasure! I have
stolen none from you.
NAAMAN:
The very jewel of my soul,—Ruahmah!
My King, the captive maid
of Israel,
To whom thou didst commit
my broken life
With letters to Samaria,—my
light,
My guide, my saviour in this
pilgrimage,—
Dost thou remember?
BENHADAD:
I
recall the maid,—
But dimly,—for
my mind is old and weary,
She was a fearless maid, I
trusted her
And gave thee to her charge.
Where is she now?
NAAMAN:
This robber fell upon my camp
by night,—
While I was with Elisha at
the Jordan,—
Slaughtered my soldiers, carried
off the maid,
And holds her somewhere in
imprisonment.
O give this jewel back to
me, my King,
And I will serve thee with
a grateful heart
For ever. I will fight
for thee, and lead
Thine armies on to glorious
victory
Over all foes! Thou shalt
no longer fear
The host of Asshur, for thy
throne shall stand
Encompassed with a wall of
dauntless hearts,
And founded on a mighty people’s
love,
And guarded by the God of
righteousness.
BENHADAD:
I feel the flame of courage
at thy breath
Leap up among the ashes of
despair.
Thou hast returned to save
us! Thou shalt have
The maid; and thou shalt lead
my host again!
Priest, I command you give
her back to him.
REZON:
O master, I obey thy word
as thou
Hast ever been obedient to
the voice
Of Rimmon. Let thy fiery
captain wait
Until the sacrifice has been
performed,
And he shall have the jewel
that he claims.
Must we not first placate
the city’s god
With due allegiance, keep
the ancient faith,
And pay our homage to the
Lord of Wrath?
BENHADAD: [Sinking back upon his throne in fear.]
I am the faithful son of Rimmon’s
House,—
And lo, these many years I
worship him!
My thoughts are troubled,—I
am very old,
But still a King! O Naaman,
be patient!
Priest, let the sacrifice
be offered.
[The High Priest lifts his
rod. Gongs and cymbals
sound. The curtain is rolled back, disclosing
the image of Rimmon; a gigantic and hideous
idol,
with a cruel human face, four horns, the
mane of
a lion, and huge paws stretched in front
of him
enclosing a low altar of black stone.
RUAHMAH
stands on the altar, chained, her arms are
bare
and folded on her breast. The people
prostrate
themselves in silence, with signs of astonishment
and horror.]
REZON:
Behold the sacrifice!
Bow down, bow down!
NAAMAN: [Stabbing him.]
Bow thou, black priest!
Down,—down to hell!
Ruahmah! do not die!
I come to thee.
[NAAMAN rushes toward her,
attacked by the priests,
crying “Sacrilege! Kill him!”
But the soldiers
stand on the steps and beat them back.
He springs
upon the altar and clasps her by the hand.
Tumult
and confusion. The King rises and speaks
with a
loud voice, silence follows.]
BENHADAD:
Peace, peace! The King
commands all weapons down!
O Naaman, what wouldst thou
do? Beware
Lest thou provoke the anger
of a god.
NAAMAN:
There is no God but one, the
Merciful,
Who gave this perfect woman
to my soul
That I might learn through
her to worship Him,
And know the meaning of immortal
Love.
BENHADAD: [Agitated.]
Yet she is consecrated, bound,
and doomed
To sacrificial death; but
thou art sworn
To live and lead my host,—Hast
thou not sworn?
NAAMAN:
Only if thou wilt keep thy
word to me!
Break with this idol of iniquity
Whose shadow makes a darkness
in the land;
Give her to me who gave me
back to thee;
And I will lead thine army
to renown
And plant thy banners on the
hill of triumph.
But if she dies, I die with
her, defying Rimmon.
[Cries of “Spare them!
Release her! Give us back
our Captain!” and “Sacrilege!
Let them die!” Then
silence, all turning toward the King.]
BENHADAD:
Is this the choice? Must
we destroy the bond
Of ancient faith, or slay
the city’s living hope!
I am an old, old man,—and
yet the King!
Must I decide?—O
let me ponder it!
[His head sinks upon his breast.
All stand eagerly
looking at him.]
NAAMAN:
Ruahmah, my Ruahmah!
I have come
To thee at last! And
art thou satisfied?
RUAHMAH: [Looking into his face.]
Beloved, my beloved, I am
glad
Of all, and glad for ever,
come what may.
Nothing can harm me,—since
my lord is come!
CARMINA FESTIVA
A modern verse-sequence, showing how a native American subject, strictly realistic, may be treated in various manners adapted to the requirements of different magazines, thus combining Art-for-Art’s-Sake with Writing-for-the-Market. Read at the First Dinner of the American Periodical Publishers’ Association, in Washington, April, 1904.
THE ANTI-TRUST CLAM
For McClure’s Magazine
The clam that once, on Jersey’s
banks,
Was like the man who dug it, free,
Now slave-like thro’ the market
clanks
In chains of corporate tyranny.
The Standard Fish-Trust of New York
Holds every clam-bank in control;
And like base Beef and menial Pork,
The free-born Clam has lost its soul.
No more the bivalve treads the sands
In freedom’s rapture, free from
guilt:
It follows now the harsh commands
Of Morgiman and Rockabilt.
Rise, freemen, rise! Your wrath is
just!
Call on the Sherman Act to dam
The floods of this devouring Trust,
And liberate the fettered Clam.
THE WHITMANIAC CLAM
For the Bookman
Not Dante when he wandered by the river
Arno,
Not Burns who plowed the banks and braes
of bonnie Ayr,
Not even Shakspere on the shores of Avon,—ah,
no!
Not one of those great bards did taste
true Poet’s Fare.
But Whitman, loafing in Long Island and
New Jersey,
Found there the sustenance of mighty ode
and psalm,
And while his rude emotions swam around
in verse, he
Fed chiefly on the wild, impassioned,
sea-born clam.
Thus in his work we feel the waves’
bewildering motion,
And winds from mighty mud-flats, weird
and wild:
His clam-filled bosom answered to the
voice of ocean,
And rose and fell responsively with every
tide.
IL MERCATORE ITALIANO DELLA CLAMMA
For the Century Magazine
“Clam O! Fres’ Clam!”
How strange it sounds and sweet,
The Dago’s cry along the New York
street!
“Dago” we call him, like the
thoughtless crowd;
And yet this humble man may well be proud
To hail from Petrarch’s land, Boccaccio’s
home,—
Firenze, Gubbio, Venezia, Rome,—
From fair Italia, whose enchanted soil
Transforms the lowly cotton-seed to olive-oil.
To me his chant, with alien accent sung,
Brings back an echo of great Virgil’s
tongue:
It seems to cry against the city’s
woe,
In liquid Latin syllables,—Clamo!
As thro’ the crowded street his
cart he jams
And cries aloud, ah, think of more than
clams!
Receive his secret plaint with pity warm,
And grant Italia’s plea for Tenement-House
Reform!
THE SOCIAL CLAM
For the Smart Set
Fair Phyllis is another’s bride:
Therefore I like to sit beside
Her at a very smart set dinner,
And whisper love, and try to win her.
The little-necks,—in number
six,—
That from their pearly shells she picks
And swallows whole,—ah, is
it selfish
To wish my heart among those shell-fish?
“But Phyllis is another’s
wife;
And if she should absorb thy life
’Twould leave thy bosom vacant.”—Well,
I’d keep at least the empty shell!
THE RECREANT CLAM
For the Outlook
Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze,
Because thy slothful spirit doth refuse
The bliss of battle and the strain of
strife.
Rise, craven clam, and lead the strenuous
life!
For the Mark Twain Dinner, December 5, 1905
Some three-score years and
ten ago
A prince was born at Florida,
Mo.;
And though he came incognito,
With just the usual yells
of woe,
The watchful fairies seemed
to know
Precisely
what the row meant;
For when he was but five days
old,
(December fifth as I’ve
been told,)
They pattered through the
midnight cold,
And came around his crib,
to hold
A
“Council of Endowment.”
“I give him Wit,”
the eldest said,
And stooped above the little
bed,
To touch his forehead round
and red.
“Within this bald, unfurnished
head,
Where wild luxuriant locks
shall spread
And
wave in years hereafter,
I kindle now the lively spark,
That still shall flash by
day and dark,
And everywhere he goes shall
mark
His
way with light and laughter.”
The fairies laughed to think
of it
That such a rosy, wrinkled
bit
Of flesh should be endowed
with Wit!
But something serious seemed
to hit
The mind of one, as if a fit
Of
fear had come upon her.
“I give him Truth,”
she quickly cried,
“That laughter may not
lead aside
To paths where scorn and falsehood
hide,—
I
give him Truth and Honour!”
“I give him Love,”
exclaimed the third;
And as she breathed the mystic
word,
I know not if the baby heard,
But softly in his dream he
stirred,
And twittered like a little
bird,
And
stretched his hands above him.
The fairy’s gift was
sealed and signed
With kisses twain the deed
to bind:
“A heart of love to
human-kind,
And
human-kind to love him!”
“Now stay your giving!”
cried the Queen.
“These gifts are passing
rich I ween;
And if reporters should be
mean
Enough to spy upon this scene,
’Twould make all other
babies green
With
envy at the rumour.
Yet since I love this child,
forsooth,
I’ll mix your gifts,
Wit, Love and Truth,
With spirits of Immortal Youth,
And
call the mixture Humour!”
The fairies vanished with their glittering
train;
But here’s the Prince with all their
gifts,—Mark Twain.
Recited at the Century Club, New York: Twelfth Night. 1906
Come all ye good Centurions and wise men
of the times,
You’ve made a Poet Laureate, now
you must hear his rhymes.
Extend your ears and I’ll respond
by shortening up my tale:—
Man cannot live by verse alone, he must
have cakes and ale.
So while you wait for better things and
muse on schnapps and salad,
I’ll try my Pegasus his wings and
sing a little ballad:
A legend of your ancestors, the Wise Men
of the East,
Who brought among their baggage train
a quaint and curious beast.
Their horses were both swift and strong,
and we should think it lucky
If we could buy, by telephone, such horses
from Kentucky;
Their dromedaries paced along, magnificent
and large,
Their camels were as stately as if painted
by La Farge.
But this amazing little ass was never
satisfied,
He made more trouble every day than all
the rest beside:
His ears were long, his legs were short,
his eyes were bleared and dim,
But nothing in the wide, wide world was
good enough for him.
He did not like the way they went, but
lifted up his voice
And said that any other way would be a
better choice.
He braced his feet and stood his ground,
and made the wise men wait,
While with his heels at all around he
did recalcitrate.
It mattered not how fair the land through
which the road might run,
He found new causes for complaint with
every Morning Sun:
And when the shades of twilight fell and
all the world grew nappy,
They tied him to his Evening Post, but
still he was not happy.
He thought his load was far too large,
he thought his food was bad,
He thought the Star a poor affair, he
thought the Wise Men mad:
He did not like to hear them laugh,—’twas
childish to be jolly;
And if perchance they sang a hymn,—’twas
sentimental folly!
So day by day this little beast performed
his level best
To make their life, in work and play,
a burden to the rest:
And when they laid them down at night,
he would not let them sleep,
But criticized the Universe with hee-haws
loud and deep.
One evening, as the Wise Men sat before
their fire-lit tent,
And ate and drank and talked and sang,
in grateful merriment,
The solemn donkey butted in, in his most
solemn way,
And broke the happy meeting up with a
portentous bray.
“Now by my head,” Balthazar
said (his real name was Choate),
“We’ve had about enough of
this! I’ll put it to the vote.
I move the donkey be dismissed; let’s
turn him out to grass,
And travel on our cheerful way, without
the solemn ass.”
The vote was aye! and with a whack the
Wise Men drove him out;
But still he wanders up and down, and
all the world about;
You’ll know him by his long, sad
face and supercilious ways,
And likewise by his morning kicks and
by his evening brays.
But while we sit at Eagle Roost and make
our Twelfth Night cheer,
Full well we know the solemn ass will
not disturb us here:
For pleasure rules the roost to-night,
by order of the King,
And every one must play his part, and
laugh, and likewise sing.
The road of life is long, we know, and
often hard to find,
And yet there’s many a pleasant
turn for men of cheerful mind:
We’ve done our day’s work
honestly, we’ve earned the right to rest,
We’ll take a cup of friendship now
and spice it with a jest.
A silent health to absent friends, their
memories are bright!
A hearty health to all who keep the feast
with us to-night!
A health to dear Centuria, oh, may she
long abide!
A health, a health to all the world,—and
the solemn ass, outside!
For the St. Nicholas Society of New York
Among the earliest saints of old, before
the first Hegira,
I find the one whose name we hold, St.
Nicholas of Myra:
The best-beloved name, I guess, in sacred
nomenclature,—
The patron-saint of helpfulness, and friendship,
and good-nature.
A bishop and a preacher too, a famous
theologian,
He stood against the Arian crew and fought
them like a Trojan:
But when a poor man told his need and
begged an alms in trouble,
He never asked about his creed, but quickly
gave him double.
Three pretty maidens, so they say, were longing to be married;
But they were paupers, lack-a-day, and so the suitors tarried.
St. Nicholas gave each maid a purse of golden ducats chinking,
And then, for better or for worse, they wedded quick as winking.
Once, as he sailed, a storm arose;
wild waves the ship surrounded;
The sailors wept and tore their clothes, and shrieked
“We’ll all be
drownded!”
St. Nicholas never turned a hair; serenely shone
his halo;
He simply said a little prayer, and all the billows
lay low.
The wicked keeper of an inn had three small urchins taken,
And cut them up in a pickle-bin, and salted them for bacon.
St. Nicholas came and picked them out, and put their limbs together,—
They lived, they leaped, they gave a shout, “St. Nicholas forever!”
And thus it came to pass, you know, that maids without a nickel,
And sailor-lads when tempest blow, and children in a pickle,
And every man that’s fatherly, and every kindly matron,
In choosing saints would all agree to call St. Nicholas patron.
He comes again at Christmas-time and stirs
us up to giving;
He rings the merry bells that chime good-will
to all the living;
He blesses every friendly deed and every
free donation;
He sows the secret, golden seed of love
through all creation.
Our fathers drank to Santa Claus, the
sixth of each December,
And still we keep his feast because his
virtues we remember.
Among the saintly ranks he stood, with
smiling human features,
And said, “Be good! But
not too good to love your fellow-creatures!”
December 6, 1907.
An Ode for the “Farmer’s Dinner,”
University Club, New York,
January 23, 1913
All hail, ye famous Farmers!
Ye vegetable-charmers,
Who know the art of making barren earth
Smile with prolific mirth
And bring forth twins or triplets at a
birth!
Ye scientific fertilizers of the soil,
And horny-handed sons of toil!
To-night from all your arduous cares released,
With manly brows no longer sweat-impearled,
Ye hold your annual feast,
And like the Concord farmers long ago,
Ye meet above the “Bridge”
below,
And draw the cork heard round the world!
What memories are yours! What tales
Of triumph have your tongues rehearsed,
Telling how ye have won your first
Potatoes from the stubborn mead,
(Almost as many as ye sowed for seed!)
And how the luscious cabbages and kails
Have bloomed before you in their bed
At seven dollars a head!
And how your onions took a prize
For bringing tears into the eyes
Of a hard-hearted cook! And how ye
slew
The Dragon Cut-worm at a stroke!
And
how ye broke,
Routed, and put to flight the horrid crew
Of vile potato-bugs and Hessian flies!
And how
ye did not quail
Before th’ invading armies of San
Jose Scale,
But met them bravely
with your little pail
Of poison, which
ye put upon each tail
O’ the dreadful beasts and made
their courage fail!
And
how ye did acquit yourselves like men
In
fields of agricultural strife, and then,
Like
generous warriors, sat you down at ease
And
gently to your gardener said, “Let us have Pease!”
But were there Pease? Ah,
no, dear Farmers, no!
The course of Nature is not ordered so.
For when we want
a vegetable most,
She
holds it back;
And
when we boast
To our week-endly
friends
Of what we’ll
give them on our farm, alack,
Those things the old dam, Nature, never
sends.
O Pease in bottles, Sparrow-grass in jars,
How often have ye saved from scars
Of shame, and deep embarrassment,
The disingenuous farmer-gent,
To whom some wondering
guest has cried,
“How do
you raise such Pease and Sparrow-grass?”
Whereat the farmer-gent
has not denied
The compliment,
but smiling has replied,
“To raise
such things you must have lots of glass.”
From wiles like these, true Farmers, hold
aloof;
Accept no praise unless you have the proof.
If niggard Nature should withhold the
green
And sugary Pea, welcome the humble Bean.
Even the easy Radish, and the Beet,
If grown by your own toil are extra sweet.
Let malefactors of great wealth and banker-felons
Rejoice in foreign artichokes, imported
melons;
But you, my Farmers, at your frugal board
Spread forth the fare your Sabine Farms
afford.
Say to Maecenas, when he is your guest,
“No peaches! try this turnip, ’tis
my best.”
Thus shall ye learn from labors in the
field
What honesty a farmer’s life may
yield,
And like G. Washington in early youth,
Though cherries fail, produce a crop of
truth.
But think me not too strict, O followers
of the plough;
Some place for fiction in your lives I
would allow.
In January when the world is drear,
And bills come in, and no results appear,
And snow-storms
veil the skies,
Why, then, should Doctor Starr
declare
That modern habits mental force impair?
And why should H. Marquand complain
That jokes as good as his will never come again?
And why should Bridges wear a gloomy mien
About the lack of fiction for his Magazine?
The seedsman’s catalogue is all we need
To stir our dull imaginations
To new creations,
And lead us, by the hand
Of Hope, into a fairy-land.
So dream, my friendly Farmers, as you will;
And let your fancy all your garners fill
With wondrous crops; but always recollect
That Nature gives us less than we expect.
Scorn not the city where you earn the wealth
That, spent upon your farms, renews your health;
And tell your wife, whene’er the bills have shocked her,
“A country-place is cheaper than a doctor.”
May roses bloom for you, and may you find
Your richest harvest in a tranquil mind.
[Transcriber’s note: “fertilizers” above was “fetilizers” in the original.]
Oh, the angler’s path is a very
merry way,
And his road through the world
is bright;
For he lives with the laughing stream
all day,
And he lies by the fire at
night.
Sing
hey nonny, ho nonny
And
likewise well-a-day!
The
angler’s life is a very jolly life
And
that’s what the anglers say!
Oh, the angler plays for the pleasure
of the game,
And his creel may be full
or light,
But the tale that he tells will be just
the same
When he lies by the fire at
night.
Sing
hey nonny, ho nonny
And
likewise well-a-day!
We
love the fire and the music of the lyre,
And
that’s what the anglers say!
To the San Francisco Fly-Casting Club, April, 1913.
I never seen no “red gods”;
I dunno wot’s a “lure”;
But if it’s sumpin’ takin’,
then Spring has got it sure;
An’ it doesn’t need no Kiplins,
ner yet no London Jacks,
To make up guff about it, w’ile
settin’ in their shacks.
It’s sumpin’ very simple ’at
happens in the Spring,
But it changes all the lookin’s
of every blessed thing;
The buddin’ woods look bigger, the
mounting twice as high,
But the house looks kindo smaller, tho
I couldn’t tell ye why.
It’s cur’ous wot a show-down
the month of April makes,
Between the reely livin’, an’
the things ’at’s only fakes!
Machines an’ barns an’ buildin’s,
they never give no sign;
But the livin’ things look lively
w’en Spring is on the line.
She doesn’t come too suddin, ner
she doesn’t come too slow;
Her gaits is some cayprishus, an’
the next ye never know,—
A single-foot o’ sunshine, a buck
o’ snow er hail,—
But don’t be disapp’inted,
fer Spring ain’t goin’ ter fail.
She’s loopin’ down the hillside,—the
driffs is fadin’ out.
She’s runnin’ down the river,—d’ye
see them risin’ trout?
She’s loafin’ down the canyon,—the
squaw-bed’s growin’ blue,
An’ the teeny Johnny-jump-ups is
jest a-peekin’ thru.
A thousan’ miles o’ pine-trees,
with Douglas firs between,
Is waitin’ fer her fingers to freshen
up their green;
With little tips o’ brightness the
firs ’ill sparkle thick,
An’ every yaller pine-tree, a giant
candle-stick!
The underbrush is risin’ an’
spreadin’ all around,
Jest like a mist o’ greenness ’at
hangs above the ground;
A million manzanitas ‘ill soon be
full o’ pink;
So saddle up, my sonny,—it’s
time to ride, I think!
We’ll ford er swim the river, becos
there ain’t no bridge;
We’ll foot the gulches careful,
an’ lope along the ridge;
We’ll take the trail to Nowhere,
an’ travel till we tire,
An’ camp beneath a pine-tree, an’
sleep beside the fire.
We’ll see the blue-quail chickens,
an’ hear ’em pipin’ clear;
An’ p’raps we’ll sight
a brown-bear, er else a bunch o’ deer;
But nary a heathen goddess or god ’ill
meet our eyes;
For why? There isn’t any!
They’re jest a pack o’ lies!
Oh, wot’s the use o’ “red
gods,” an’ “Pan,” an’
all that stuff?
The natcheral facts o’ Springtime
is wonderful enuff!
An’ if there’s Someone made
’em, I guess He understood,
To be alive in Springtime would make a
man feel good.
California, 1913.
For Archie Rutledge
Here’s a half-a-dozen flies,
Just about the proper size
For the trout of Dickey’s Run,—
Luck go with them every one!
Dainty little feathered beauties,
Listen now, and learn your duties:
Not to tangle in the box;
Not to catch on logs or rocks,
Boughs that wave or weeds that float,
Nor in the angler’s “pants”
or coat!
Not to lure the glutton frog
From his banquet in the bog;
Nor the lazy chub to fool,
Splashing idly round the pool;
Nor the sullen horned pout
From the mud to hustle out!
None of this vulgarian crew,
Dainty flies, is game for you.
Darting swiftly through the air
Guided by the angler’s care,
Light upon the flowing stream
Like a winged fairy dream;
Float upon the water dancing,
Through the lights and shadows glancing,
Till the rippling current brings you,
And with quiet motion swings you,
Where a speckled beauty lies
Watching you with hungry eyes.
Here’s your game and here’s your prize! Hover near him, lure him, tease him, Do your very best to please him, Dancing on the water foamy, Like the frail and fair Salome, Till the monarch yields at last; Rises, and you have him fast! Then remember well your duty,— Do not lose, but land, your booty; For the finest fish of all is Salvelinus Fontinalis.
So, you plumed illusions, go,
Let my comrade Archie know
Every day he goes a-fishing
I’ll be with him in well-wishing.
Most of all when lunch is laid
In the dappled orchard shade,
With Will, Corinne, and Dixie too,
Sitting as we used to do
Round the white cloth on the grass
While the lazy hours pass,
And the brook’s contented tune
Lulls the sleepy afternoon,—
Then’s the time my heart will be
With that pleasant company!
June 17, 1913.
A deeper crimson in the rose,
A fir-tree standeth lonely
A flawless cup: how delicate and
fine
A little fir grew in the midst of the
wood
A mocking question! Britain’s
answer came
A silent world,—yet full of
vital joy
A silken curtain veils the skies,
A tear that trembles for a little while
Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred
leagues of land,
Afterthought of summer’s bloom!
Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden
days,
All along the Brazos River,
All day long in the city’s canyon-street,
All hail, ye famous Farmers!
All night long, by a distant bell
All the trees are sleeping, all the winds
are still,
Among the earliest saints of old, before
the first Hegira
At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream,
At sunset, when the rosy light was dying
Children of the elemental mother,
“Clam O! Fres’ Clam!”
How strange it sounds and sweet,
Come all ye good Centurions and wise men
of the times,
Come, give me back my life again, you
heavy-handed Death!
Come home, my love, come home!
Could every time-worn heart but see Thee
once again,
Count not the cost of honour to the dead!
Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night Dear Aldrich, now November’s mellow days Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America, Deeds not Words: I say so too! Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing; “Do you give thanks for this?—or that?” No, God be thanked Do you remember, father,— Does the snow fall at sea?
Ere thou sleepest gently lay
Fair Phyllis is another’s bride:
Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine
Far richer than a thornless rose
Flowers rejoice when night is done,
For that thy face is fair I love thee
not:
Four things a man must learn to do
From the misty shores of midnight, touched
with splendours of the moon,
Furl your sail, my little boatie:
Give us a name to fill the mind
Glory of architect, glory of painter,
and sculptor, and bard,
God said, “I am tired of kings,”—
Great Nature had a million words,
Hear a word that Jesus spake Heart of France for a hundred years, Her eyes are like the evening air, Here’s a half-a-dozen flies, Here the great heart of France, Home, for my heart still calls me: Honour the brave who sleep Hours fly, How blind the toil that burrows like the mole, “How can I tell,” Sir Edmund said, How long is the night, brother, How long the echoes love to play
I count that friendship little worth
I envy every flower that blows
I have no joy in strife,
I love thine inland seas,
I never seen no “red gods”;
I dunno wot’s a “lure”;
I never thought again to hear
I put my heart to school
I read within a poet’s book
I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer
I would not even ask my heart to say
If all the skies were sunshine,
If I have erred in showing all my heart,
If Might made Right, life were a wild-beasts’
cage:
If on the closed curtain of my sight
In a great land, a new land, a land full
of labour and riches and
confusion,
In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon,
In robes of Tynan blue the King was drest,
In the blue heaven the clouds will come
and go,
In the pleasant time of Pentecost,
Into the dust of the making of man,
In warlike pomp, with banners flowing,
It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise
His name!)
It’s little I can tell
It was my lot of late to travel far
“Joy is a Duty,”—so
with golden lore
Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee,
Just to give up, and trust
Knight-Errant of the Never-ending Quest,
Let me but do my work from day to day,
Let me but feel thy look’s embrace,
“Lights out” along the land,
Like a long arrow through the dark the
train is darting,
Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on
the rock,
Lord Jesus, Thou hast known
Long ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngest
of the shepherds,
Long had I loved this “Attic shape,”
the brede
Long, long ago I heard a little song,
Long, long, long the trail
Lover of beauty, walking on the height
Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze,
March on, my soul, nor like a laggard
stay!
Mother of all the high-strung poets and
singers departed,
Not Dante when he wandered by the river
Arno,
Not to the swift, the race:
Now in the oak the sap of life is welling,
O dark the night and dim the day
O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea,
O Lord our God, Thy mighty hand
O mighty river! strong, eternal Will,
O Mother mountains! billowing far to the
snow-lands,
O Music hast thou only heard
O who will walk a mile with me
Peace without Justice is a low estate,—
Read here, O friend unknown,
Remember, when the timid light
Saints are God’s flowers, fragrant
souls
Self is the only prison that can ever
bind the soul:
Ship after ship, and every one with a
high-resounding name,
Sign of the Love Divine
Some three-score years and ten ago
Soul of a soldier in a poet’s frame,
Stand back, ye messengers of mercy!
Stand
Stand fast, Great Britain!
The British bard who looked on Eton’s
walls,
The clam that once, on Jersey’s
banks,
The cornerstone in Truth is laid,
The cradle I have made for thee
The day returns by which we date our years:
The fire of love was burning, yet so low
The gabled roofs of old Malines
The glory of ships is an old, old song,
The grief that is but feigning,
The heavenly hills of Holland,—
The laggard winter ebbed so slow
The land was broken in despair,
The melancholy gift Aurora gained
The moonbeams over Arno’s vale in
silver flood were pouring,
The mountains that inclose the vale
The nymphs a shepherd took
The other night I had a dream, most clear
The record of a faith sublime,
The river of dreams runs quietly down
The roar of the city is low,
The rough expanse of democratic sea
The shadow by my finger cast
The tide, flows in to the harbour,—
The time will come when I no more can
play
The winds of war-news change and veer:
The worlds in which we live at heart are
one,
There are many kinds of anger, as many
kinds of fire:
There are many kinds of love, as many
kinds of light,
There are songs for the morning and songs
for the night,
There is a bird I know so well,
They tell me thou art rich, my country:
gold
This is the soldier brave enough to tell
This is the window’s message,
Thou warden of the western gate, above
Manhattan Bay,
Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair
“Through many a land your journey
ran,
’Tis fine to see the Old World,
and travel up and down
To thee, plain hero of a rugged race,
Two dwellings, Peace, are thine
Two hundred years of blessing I record
“Two things,” the wise man
said, “fill me with awe:
’Twas far away and long ago,
Under the cloud of world-wide war,
Waking from tender sleep,
We men that go down for a livin’
in ships to the sea,—
We met on Nature’s stage,
What hast thou done, O womanhood of France,
What is Fortune, what is Fame?
What makes the lingering Night so cling
to thee?
What shall I give for thee,
What time the rose of dawn is laid across
the lips of night,
When down the stair at morning
When May bedecks the naked trees
When Staevoren town was in its prime
When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the
dark
When tulips bloom in Union Square,
When to the garden of untroubled thought
Where’s your kingdom, little king?
Who knows how many thousand years ago
Who seeks for heaven alone to save his
soul,
Who watched the worn-out Winter die?
Winter on Mount Shasta,
With eager heart and will on fire,
With memories old and wishes new
With two bright eyes, my star, my love
Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls
Ye gods of battle, lords of fear,
Yes, it was like you to forget,
You dare to say with perjured lips,
You only promised me a single hour:
Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers;