Book ■ T Ta /^^ 
 
 Copght ^. 
 
 copyRiGiiT DEPOsn: 
 
NEW POEMS 
 
NEW POEMS 
 
 By 
 RICHARD EDWIN DAY 
 
 THE GRAFTON PRESS 
 
 NEW YORK MCMIX 
 
<: 
 
 r 
 
 ■^k 
 
 Copyright, 1909 
 By RICHARD E. DAY 
 
 ©CI. A 25305.) 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Adventure of Gudrid 3 
 
 The Last King of Granada 12 
 
 Ino 16 
 
 The Voyage of Bacchus 21 
 
 The Conquest of Thebes 27 
 
 The Fall of Dionysus 35 
 
 Vashti . . ' 41 
 
 Ponce de Leon 44 
 
 To the Wood-thrush 47 
 
 The Dancing Pines 50 
 
 The Ephemerae 52 
 
 A Meditation in Spring 54 
 
 Swamp Grass 55 
 
 The Sea-flowers 57 
 
 In the Cavern 60 
 
 The Jewel 63 
 
 Nature and Man 64 
 
 To One Beloved by Children 66 
 
 November Hours 67 
 
 Transmutation 68 
 
 Fond Names 69 
 
 V 
 
PAGE 
 
 Good Morrow 70 
 
 Thy Garden 72 
 
 Submission 73 
 
 Under the Stars 75 
 
 Obedience 77 
 
 Unforgotten 80 
 
 The Face in the Water 81 
 
 On the Shore 82 
 
 Twin Mysteries 83 
 
 An Offering 84 
 
 In the Shadow of Azrael 85 
 
 Introspection 89 
 
 Immortality 92 
 
 Wisdom and Love 95 
 
 The Blue Lotus 98 
 
 Nirvana 101 
 
 To Memory 104 
 
 In St. Agnes Cemetery 106 
 
 In Memory of Richard Day 109 
 
 On the Manuscript Papers of Sir William John- 
 son 113 
 
 John Henry Newman 117 
 
 Incarnation 120 
 
 The Tranquil Mind 122 
 
 The Unused Talent 123 
 
 Service 124 
 
 Life's Unity 125 
 
 ▼i 
 
PAGE 
 
 The Invisible Sea 126 
 
 Whippoorwill 127 
 
 France 128 
 
 Germany 129 
 
 Italy 130 
 
 Dante 131 
 
 Don Quixote 136 
 
 Sea-Wine 137 
 
 The Seabird 138 
 
 The Petrel 139 
 
 Two Castaways 140 
 
 The Quest 141 
 
 The Portuguese Men-of-War 142 
 
 The Empty Nest 143 
 
 Fire of Driftwood 144 
 
 The Cruise of Mars 145 
 
 Vll 
 
NEW POEMS 
 
NEW POEMS 
 
 The Adventure of Gudrid^ 
 
 Up the blue fjord the summer, wooing the northland, 
 blows, 
 
 Round the bleak coast the sea-tide, bright in the sun- 
 shine, flows ; 
 
 The drakars fret at their moorings, eager their sails 
 to spread 
 
 Over a waste where never the Norseman's keel hath 
 sped. 
 
 But Gudrid, star of the host that dwell in the new 
 
 Norse home, 
 Frowning and silent sits when the flagon is crowned 
 
 with foam. 
 Seeing the long, bright days that out of the south 
 
 lands came. 
 Laden with promise and hope of glory, empty of 
 
 fame. 
 
 * The account of the Icelandic saga given by Edraond Neu- 
 komm in his " Rulers of the Sea " presents the theme in its main 
 features which is developed in this poem. 
 
 3 
 
And Aulaf, glory-giver, praiser of sword and shield, 
 Hating the easeful calm that slumbers on Brattehild, 
 Scorning the rule of Thorstein, Eric's slothful son, 
 Whose tame heart feels not through it the blood of 
 sea-kings run, 
 
 Sings of the roving vikings, music of ringing blades. 
 
 Battle mirth of heroes, feats of warrior maids, 
 
 Of Bjom, the son of Herwolf, and Leif, whose dragon 
 
 drave 
 Into the realm of sunset, far on the westering wave ; 
 
 Sings to the leaping harp-strings Gudrid's mighty 
 deeds, — 
 
 When, as the bride of Thorer, she goes where his hel- 
 met leads. 
 
 Harrying coast) and city, and under her falchion's 
 strokes. 
 
 The blood which the god Tyr loves bubbles like wine 
 and smokes. 
 
 Till up from the banquet board, cheering, the feasters 
 
 sprang. 
 With din of sudden arming and loud, resounding 
 
 clang ; — 
 Till, like the ice-hemmed bark that breaks from the 
 
 floe in spring, 
 From its torpor broke the spirit of the sluggard king. 
 
 4 
 
Then spake the son of Eric and brother of valiant 
 
 Leif: 
 " My peaceful dream surrenders to thy bold vision, 
 
 wife. 
 With deeds as great and gallant shall every soul be 
 
 thrilled, 
 When some new Vinland sends its spoils to Bratte- 
 
 hild." 
 
 And now the blood of oxen, of swine and wide-winged 
 
 fowl 
 Is poured on the stony altars set where the breakers 
 
 howl; 
 And, peering o'er the victims, some portent to descry, 
 Thorstein invokes the powers of changing sea and sky: 
 
 Aegir, whose fierce breath hurries the land-embracing 
 
 tides. 
 The crafty Ran, who, under the moonlit billow hides. 
 To snare th' unwary helmsman, nodding in sleep as 
 
 he floats. 
 And Thor, who round the mast drives his fire-breathing 
 
 goats. 
 
 So in the sweet, bland weather, so when the waves are 
 
 white. 
 Tumbling in tumult, so in the dreary arctic night, 
 
 5 
 
The Norsemen steer; and oft, as the pole-star mounts, 
 or reels 
 
 Down from the central heaven, they right their wan- 
 dering keels. 
 
 O'er them the weird aurora lifted its faint blue frame. 
 With violet shafts and hangings of purple and rosy 
 
 flame. 
 And Aulaf sang of Gladsheim, house of the Asa gods. 
 And Gimle, Avhere the blessed have their serene abodes. 
 
 They traversed the wastes of auk and plover and 
 
 white-winged gull. 
 Where the homed whale battles with the herds of the 
 
 tusked sea-bull; 
 Skirted the coast where the slain Thrym lies, o'er- 
 
 thrown by Thor, 
 The sunbeam on his idle panoply of war; 
 
 Saw many a floating horror, strayed from the iceberg 
 
 fleet, 
 In awful luster blazing, like Odin's glorious seat. 
 Where, sitting aloft, afar, untroubled by mortal ways. 
 The All-father scans the calm procession of his days. 
 
 But now the pride of Balder, circling the heaven, 
 
 swings 
 Into the sign of Aries ; loudly the trumpet rings, 
 
 6 
 
Set to the mouth of Marchtime ; full on the viking 
 
 fleet 
 All the weight of the springtide, keen as a sword, doth 
 
 beat. 
 
 Many a Northman mourns that not by the amber- 
 tressed 
 
 Valkyries he is borne to Odin's warrior rest; 
 
 Yet he dreams in Aegir's hall under the moaning deep. 
 
 And the glare of the phosphor lamps falls softly on 
 his sleep. 
 
 And they whom the succoring rock snatches from 
 
 Aegir's toils, 
 When his vasty caldron's brew murmurs and bubbles 
 
 and boils, 
 Tossing the bitter foam-wreaths dear to the Asa gods. 
 And high in the firmament his black plume wavers and 
 
 nods, — • 
 
 On a savage shore they crouch, where the far-flung 
 
 galleys pound, 
 While the sea pours in and out at many a gaping 
 
 wound ; 
 And as the drifting wreckage strewn on the hungering 
 
 main, 
 So is the hope that Gudrid cherished in heart and 
 
 brain. 
 
 7 
 
The lord of the wild west coast Thorstein the Black 
 was called. 
 
 He came to the mariners, and heard the voice of the 
 skald, 
 
 Singing of Thorwald Ericson, flower of vikinghood, 
 
 Smitten to death by the Skrellings in Vinland's dark- 
 some wood. 
 
 Listened the lord of the west coast, listened awhile 
 
 and spake: 
 " Dear is the name of Thorwald ; welcome are ye for 
 
 his sake. 
 But fitter it were, O friends, by the fire-log's ample 
 
 blaze 
 To wake the generous harp and the hero's deeds to 
 
 praise." 
 
 And Thorstein, son of Eric, was glad in a dreary land 
 To win some cheer and solace out of the ocean's hand ; 
 And under the friendly roof-tree day by day grew 
 
 light 
 The hearts of the castaways, forgetting the sea-gods' 
 
 spite. 
 
 The glad hours fled, and the sad hours followed upon 
 
 their track; 
 For, all unbidden, came to the house of Thorstein, the 
 
 Black— 
 
 8 
 
Not borne to its kindly hearth on a stranded ship — 
 
 a guest, 
 Like a ghost from the pallid wastes of polar grim- 
 
 ness — Pest. 
 
 Under its withering touch strong men in agony fall, 
 And the son of Eric lies, with white face toward the 
 
 wall; 
 And on to the barren coast, where the vapor never lifts 
 Around the ice-locked cruiser, the soul of the chieftain 
 
 drifts. 
 
 Now with a weight of darkness vision and sense are 
 
 sealed. 
 Nevermore will he ride up the fjord to Brattehild. 
 And, mixt with the moan of stricken men who strew 
 
 the ground. 
 Hearken the voice of Gudrid! hark to the wailing 
 
 sound ! 
 
 Keen is that cry of mourning, piercing the deadly 
 
 mists. 
 Till the spirit of Thorstein, passing, pauses, trembles, 
 
 lists. 
 Turns in the celestial way, back to the woeful place; 
 And again his eyes drink in the light of one sweet 
 
 face. 
 
" Weep not, Gudrid," he said. " Thine is a happier 
 fate 
 
 Than to plow the untoward wave, yoked with a listless 
 mate. 
 
 Out of this woe and disaster, thou shalt go, to explore, 
 
 Matched with a bold Norse eagle, fairer and friend- 
 lier shore. 
 
 " Under the new, sad sign, that conquers the kings of 
 
 the Earth, 
 And humbles the olden gods, in their fastness in the 
 
 North, 
 Thy brow, by battle lighted, the glory will excel 
 Of all that the skalds have chanted, all that the sagas 
 
 tell." 
 
 Up the blue fjord the summer, wooing the northland, 
 blows. 
 
 Round the bleak coast the sea-tide, bright in the sun- 
 shine flows ; 
 
 A drakar glides to the haven, bringing to Brattehild 
 
 All that the storm and shipwreck, plague and the stark 
 shore yield. 
 
 Then Aulaf, singer of sorrows, sang of the gods dis- 
 graced, 
 
 A song the sea-gods chanted, flung to him over the 
 waste ; 
 
 10 
 
For changed was the voice forever that floated on the 
 
 surge, 
 And the laughter of the gods rolled landward hke a 
 
 dirge. 
 
 So Gudrid came again to the city by the fjord, 
 Borne in a stranger galley, mourning her perished 
 
 lord. 
 Stories of kings and vikings gleamed through the 
 
 gloom of her mind ; 
 But brighter than all their glory the deed of Thor- 
 
 stein shined. 
 
 11 
 
The Last King Of Granada 
 
 It is night ; and the moon o'er Granada her glory doth 
 show ; 
 
 Mosques and minarets glisten; the rivers run spar- 
 kling below; 
 
 And the rays on Sierra Nevada gild brightly the snow. 
 
 But the people are bending in sorrow, in streetway 
 
 and gate; 
 For the foe o'er against the proud city, is lord of its 
 
 fate; 
 By Jenil and silvery Darro his stem cannon wait. 
 
 Ah ! happy the faithful, fair city, who fell by thy wall ! 
 At mom, when thy gates shall swing open, at the loud 
 
 trumpet-call, 
 They shall see not the Infidel's pity, nor weep at thy 
 
 fall. 
 
 The sword of the Prophet, which Allah gave into his 
 hand, 
 
 12 
 
Is broken and scorned, like the idols that fain would 
 
 withstand, 
 When forth flamed the son of Abdallah o'er Araby's 
 
 sand. 
 
 Thy master, O beauteous Alhambra, his sad vigil 
 
 keeps ; 
 In castle and temple and hovel no Mussulman sleeps; 
 And ever across Bivarambla the loud wailing sweeps. 
 
 They mourn for the kingdom whose glory their fathers 
 
 have told; 
 For the conquest of Arab and Berber, the silver and 
 
 gold; 
 For the heroes and warriors of story from Tarik, the 
 
 bold. 
 
 No more will the feast of the zambra in the gardens 
 
 resound, 
 While the lutes and the mirth of the tabrets by the 
 
 fountains abound, 
 And the dancers within the Alhambra spurn lightly 
 
 the ground. 
 
 No longer the mountaineers' rally a dread vengeance 
 
 wreaks, 
 Rolling death on the foe of the Moslem from Malaga's 
 
 peaks. 
 Where the vulture in wild gorge and valley his carrion 
 
 seeks. 
 
 13 
 
The monarch, high in the Red Palace, looks out o'er 
 the plain. 
 
 Where stream on the air, in their triumph, the stand- 
 ards of Spain ; 
 
 He writhes under destiny's malice, and bitter his pain. 
 
 " Ah ! never great Allah recalleth the word that He 
 
 saith. 
 And never to man maketh answer for life or for death: 
 As much doth the storm-wind, when falleth the leaf by 
 
 its breath. 
 
 " Once more unto deserts Saharan is Ishmael chased. 
 As when from the tent of his father he wandered, and 
 
 faced 
 The sands that are lifted on Paran and whirled o'er 
 
 the waste. 
 
 " The sinister star in the hollow of midnight, shines 
 
 forth, 
 That scattered its bale and its sorrow at the hour of 
 
 my birth; 
 It beckons away, and I follow, an outcast of Earth; — 
 
 " Not heeding, and recking not, whither, but bearing 
 
 the shame 
 Of the last Moorish king of Granada, and girt with 
 
 the flame 
 Of a curse that forever will wither Zogoiby's name. 
 
 14 
 
" Farewell, O beloved Granada, discrowned and for- 
 lorn! 
 In vain thou wilt hearken at even, and listen at morn, 
 To greet on Sierra Nevada the Arabian horn; 
 
 " Watching through the long cycle inglorious, till, 
 
 perchance, late or soon, 
 Over Mulahacen newly risen, appears Islam's moon, 
 And her sons return, marching, victorious, to some 
 
 wild desert tune." 
 
 15 
 
Ino 
 
 When Ino, white-browed and golden of locks, 
 With her boys, dared the mirth of the sea, 
 
 'Neath a cliff, most worn and ancient of rocks. 
 Her spouse, Athamas, in his glee, 
 
 Sat where the high crag jutted out, 
 
 And mixed with their tumult his shout. 
 
 When the Nereids flocked from the night of their caves. 
 Riding dolphins with sea-weed curbed. 
 
 When they showed their fair forms in the rush of the 
 waves. 
 Nor yet the bright frolic disturbed, 
 
 Then he praised all the gods in his joy. 
 
 Giving thanks for each venturesome boy. 
 
 And, when from the waste the green Tritons, gay- 
 crowned. 
 Rose and winded each horn full loud, 
 Till the rock-nested sea-fowl flew wide at the sound. 
 An offering to Neptune he vowed, — 
 16 
 
Of swine and black bullocks and sheep, 
 With wine running dark as the deep. 
 
 And there, when the breaker is boist'rous and dread, 
 
 Is the infant Bacchus at play, 
 A light that is not of the sun on his head. 
 
 And he rosily shines through the spray; 
 While the nymphs and Tritons wild 
 Proclaim the immortal child. 
 
 But Juno, the white-armed, brooded of scath 
 
 To Bacchus, the son of Jove; 
 From mora until even she nourished her wrath 
 
 At the child of a wanton love ; 
 And oft, as she sat, lily-crowned, 
 While the cup of the gods went round. 
 
 The eyes of the goddess in anger forsook 
 
 The Olympian asphodel turf. 
 And she cast o'er the azure expanses a look — 
 
 To the emerald Euboean surf. 
 To the swimmers that dived through the spume, 
 And knew not the hovering doom. 
 
 Did slumber ensnare the all-quickening eye 
 
 Of Zeus, that he little wist, 
 When Hera along the cloud-pasturing sky, 
 
 Took her way in a mantle of mist? 
 How slight, if that glance awoke. 
 Were the gray, gray mist of her cloak! 
 
 17 
 
But a wonderful terror the infant divine 
 
 Has seized 'mid the Nereid flocks ; 
 He is fled, he is hid, where the shimmering wine 
 
 Bursts the grapes that empurple the rocks ; 
 And Athamas saw, at his side. 
 The down-floating cloud divide. 
 
 He trembled and gazed as the billowy cloak 
 
 Let the radiant goddess appear; 
 And trembled as from the thin drapery spoke 
 
 A voice, that was silvery-clear — 
 But lost, ere it sank to the waves, 
 In the wind round the swallows' caves. 
 
 " Behold in the midst of the Tritons thy queen ; 
 
 And see! from the breaker's crest 
 Young Love, golden-pinioned, in laughter doth lean, 
 
 While he wings a light shaft to her breast. 
 But thou hast a mortal's sight, 
 Nor seest the gentle sprite. 
 
 " Lo ! the king of the Tritons has brought her a wreath. 
 
 Nor amber nor coral it lacks, 
 And thy boys, ere they dive in the billow beneath, 
 
 How they climb on the dolphins' backs ! 
 No more will they reverence thee, 
 For they sport with the gods of the sea." 
 
 18 
 
She said, and was gone. Northward driven, the cloud 
 Toward the peak of Olympus strove. 
 
 As when a gray eagle the heaven has plowed, 
 Wheeling off to the mount of Jove, 
 
 The swimmers a portent saw, 
 
 And paused in foreboding awe. 
 
 As frightened wild birds that are skimming the foam 
 Nest-ward fly when the eagle has passed, 
 
 The children of Ino in terror turn home. 
 Up the rocky steep clambering fast. 
 
 Not knowing of Athamas' ire, 
 
 Not heeding his glance of fire. 
 
 To his sire young Learchus is springing, a cry 
 
 Of alarm on his lisping tongue; 
 (Does the goddess behold from her seat in the sky.f^) 
 
 On the weltering rock he is flung, — 
 Dead in a jagged rift 
 Where the sea boils up the clift. 
 
 But the boy, Melicertes, the mother drew 
 To her breast in an agonized strain, 
 
 (Did the goddess behold from her throne in the blue?) 
 And she leaped down the sheltering main. 
 
 While Neptune, with jarring and thunder. 
 
 Cleft the dark nether tides flowing under. 
 
 19 
 
A translucence bright lit the galleried brine, 
 
 And told of the god not far; 
 The sea-flower shone with a pallor divine, 
 
 As it shook with the rush of his car; 
 And, far from the breath of the morn, 
 In their breasts life immortal was born. 
 
 They are gods; and forever their joy is to swim 
 In the Earth-shaker's frolicking train, 
 
 Or the white phosphor lamps at his portals to trim, 
 When the steeds have been loosed from his wain. 
 
 And he wassails in musical caves. 
 
 And laughs as the rebel sea raves. 
 
 But their thought speeds away when the surges are 
 loud. 
 
 To the toil of the shuddering keel, — 
 When the vast by his chariot's motion is plowed, 
 
 And the fisher boats wander and reel; 
 Then they pilot the craft through the gale, 
 And strengthen the swimmers that fail. 
 
 Once, when whistled the tempest and whitened the wave, 
 
 Fair Ino, ascending the sea, 
 The hero, much-suffering Ulysses, did save, 
 
 Though hated by Neptune was he; 
 And the surge sings of her evermore. 
 Sweeping round the Phaeacian shore. 
 
 20 
 
The Voyage of Bacchus 
 
 The weeping Bacchus gazed and feared, 
 When down the deep, green hollow 
 
 His foster mother disappeared, 
 
 And much he yearned to follow; 
 
 But soon the waves together sHd, 
 
 And all the strange abyss was hid. 
 
 Beneath the cliff his playmate lay, 
 
 Where the wild surf was singing; 
 
 His hair was mingled with the spray 
 Upspringing and upspringing; 
 
 His cheek was paler than the foam 
 
 Which flew from off the billow's comb. 
 
 " Come back! Come back! " the child-god cried; 
 
 " Oh ! hide not, cruel mother. 
 Come Melicertes ! Here I bide ; 
 
 And slumber chains our brother. 
 The jagged stone is now his bed. 
 And with his blood the wave is red. 
 21 
 
" Learchus, wake ! His eyes I fear ; 
 
 They glare but have no brightness. 
 His face did ne'er so pale appear. 
 
 I wonder whence its whiteness. 
 See how the hungry surges swim 
 Up to the cliff and gnash at him." 
 
 Out where the baffled breaker curves, 
 
 Around a headland sweeping, 
 A painted galley rolls and swerves, 
 
 Along the shore-line creeping; 
 The anchor dropped from wind-browned hands 
 Before the rock where Bacchus stands. 
 
 About the cliff the wild grapes hung 
 
 In many a sea-blue cluster. 
 To one low tree the ivy clung. 
 
 And all around a luster, 
 That might some sacred radiance be 
 Or just the sun upon the sea. 
 
 " Hail, dainty boy ! " the seamen cried. 
 
 " Pray go with us a-s ailing. 
 To happy islands we will glide. 
 
 So cease your tears and wailing. 
 Our ship is like a swan of oak. 
 That oars herself with noiseless stroke." 
 22 
 
" This way she went, my mother fair, — 
 Adown the deep, green hollow. 
 
 Good sailors, shall we journey there? 
 For much I yearn to follow. 
 
 Just now the waves together slid. 
 
 And all the strange abyss was hid." 
 
 " Yes, pretty babe, there journey we, 
 For, near the blessed islands, 
 
 A deep, green lane divides the sea 
 
 To Neptune's groves and by-lands. 
 
 No breezes blow, nor breaker curls, 
 
 When we go down for shells and pearls." 
 
 " Nay, weave no more your wicked charm.' 
 
 The pilot spake in anger. 
 " Ye must not lure him to his harm. 
 
 Nor mock the tiny stranger." 
 But him with threats they overbore; 
 And rowed their galley to the shore. 
 
 Again they climbed the crested swell. 
 Toward Egypt's coast a-riding. 
 
 Young Bacchus for a slave to sell, 
 The impious price dividing. 
 
 Sometimes the main was azure glass ; 
 
 Then Neptune mowed his fields like grass. 
 23 
 
And, when the captive cried, " How near 
 Are now the blessed islands? 
 
 When shall I clasp my mother dear, 
 
 'Mid Neptune's groves and by-lands ? " 
 
 The seamen laughed with boisterous roar. 
 
 And rowed their boat toward Egypt's shore. 
 
 But, when the wind was in the sail, 
 And gradual evening darkled, 
 
 And in the rudder's moonlit trail 
 The rushing water sparkled. 
 
 While on their banks the rowers slept, 
 
 The child god to the pilot crept. 
 
 Upon the sailor's breast he lay ; 
 
 The lulling tides did tinkle. 
 On many an isle, in many a bay. 
 
 Where rising stars did twinkle; 
 And often from some shaggy fell 
 Was heard the pard's and tiger's yell. 
 
 One night a blush came on the deep, 
 
 Like thick wine in a flagon. 
 Richer than when the horses leap 
 
 With Helius' flaming wagon 
 Out of the brine, and at their charge 
 The sea runs fire, from marge to marge. 
 S4 
 
" Behold, sweet boy," the pilot said ; 
 
 " And cease thy tears and wailing. 
 The gods they keep thy sunny head, 
 
 And go with thee a-s ailing. 
 Thy captors shall not cheat thee long, 
 Nor mock thy plaint with jest and song." 
 
 Then to his mates, at dawn, he cried: 
 " The gods give fearful warning. 
 
 Last night the sea like blood was dyed. 
 As with the fires of morning." 
 
 But him with jests they overbore; 
 
 And rowed their boat toward Egypt's shore. 
 
 But now those mocking faces mark. 
 With ghastly terror written. 
 
 The oars hang poised; the full-sailed bark 
 Tugs in the wind, fast-smitten ; 
 
 And round the god and faithful guard 
 
 Gambol the tiger and the pard. 
 
 About the ship the wild grapes hung 
 
 In many a sea-blue cluster. 
 To its low mast the ivy clung. 
 
 And on the sea a luster, 
 A dancing light of rosy hue. 
 That melted off into the blue. 
 25 
 
Beneath the wave the traitors slip, 
 
 Drawn by some weird dominion ; 
 
 Whereat the disenchanted ship 
 Looses its straining pinion ; 
 
 And, as the splendors o'er them break. 
 
 They turn to dolphins in her wake. 
 
 Then the god, Bacchus, saw anear. 
 Robed in immortal graces, 
 
 Ino and Melicertes dear. 
 
 The old joy on their faces. 
 
 Driving the dolphin crew like sheep 
 
 In the sunny hollows of the deep. 
 
 26 
 
The Conquest of Thebes 
 
 An army, but not of warriors, with the thyrsus, not 
 
 the spear; 
 Wreathed with the oak and ivy, wearing the skins of 
 
 deer ; 
 Laden with sweet yew branches, to the city of Thebes 
 
 draws near. 
 
 Laughing-eyed women of Lydia, playing the seven- 
 stringed lute, 
 
 Ruddy-hpped maidens of Phrygia, breathing soft airs 
 on the flute. 
 
 Nor the drums of the Coryb antes, nor the cymbals of 
 Tmolus, are mute. 
 
 O'er the bright locks of their chieftain no helmet of 
 
 bronze is drawn ; 
 Nor battle has scarred his white body, half-clothed with 
 
 the hide of the fawn ; 
 And the foot of the stag is not lighter, coming forth 
 
 on the mountain at dawn. 
 2T 
 
The waters of ancient Ismenus exult m his presence 
 
 and dance, 
 The flowers start upward and quiver, as they feel his 
 
 proud footstep advance; 
 And the grapes, that yet linger unripened, behold how 
 
 they blush at his glance. 
 
 " Euoi ! Euoi ! Hail Bacchus ! " the dames of Cad- 
 
 mea sing; 
 " Euoi ! Euoi ! Hail Bacchus ! " The gates of Cad- 
 
 mea swing. 
 " Euoi ! Euoi ! Hail Bacchus, for Bacchus is lord and 
 
 king." 
 
 " Euoi ! Euoi ! Hail Bacchus ! " Shall the warriors 
 
 of Thebes be dumb? 
 " Euoi ! Euoi ! Hail Bacchus ! " They dance to the 
 
 pipe and drum. 
 " Euoi ! Euoi ! Hail Bacchus ! The lord of delight 
 
 has come." 
 
 " Euoi ! Euoi ! Hail Bacchus ! " the dames of Cadmea 
 
 sing. 
 "Euoi! Euoi! Hail Bacchus!" The pines of Ci- 
 
 thaeron ring. 
 " Euoi ! Euoi ! Hail Bacchus, for Bacchus is lord 
 
 and king." 
 
 S8 
 
*' But where is the king of the Thebans ? " sweetly the 
 
 wine god said. 
 " Pentheus, the king of the Thebans, comes not at the 
 
 dancers' head. 
 By him should the song be chanted, and the choral 
 
 dance be led. 
 
 " Ride, O merry Silenus, with the nymphs and satyrs 
 
 all. 
 To the palace of great Pentheus, to the midst of the 
 
 royal hall, 
 And bid him to the revels, where the feet of the dancers 
 
 fall." 
 
 So rides the merry Silenus, with the nymphs and 
 satyrs all. 
 
 To the palace of great Pentheus, to the midst of the 
 royal hall, 
 
 And bids him to the revels, where the feet of the dan- 
 cers fall. 
 
 The king from his throne hath risen. " Great Pallas- 
 Athene I know, 
 
 I revere the twin births of Latona, the gods of the 
 silvery bow. 
 
 And oft with the dogs of Diana to the chase on the 
 mountains I go. 
 
 29 
 
" But the wandering Dionysus, who cometh across the 
 
 sea, 
 With a troop of ribald dancers and pipes blowing 
 
 wantonly, — 
 How shall I learn his worship, or know him a god to 
 
 be?" 
 
 " Come," spake the merry Silenus, " O king whom the 
 
 Thebans fear; 
 Wreathe thee with oak and ivy, wearing the skin of 
 
 deer; 
 Come with the sweet yew branches where the peaks their 
 
 fir tops rear. 
 
 " They have gone, the Lydian dancers, where the 
 
 solemn fountains gush; 
 And often the wild euoi will ravish the sacred hush; 
 And sweetly the Phrygian fluters will startle the lonely 
 
 thrush. 
 
 " They have gone, the Cadmean women, to turn in the 
 
 Bacchic dance; 
 Where the sun-rift is bright on Cithaeron, their white 
 
 feet will twinkle and glance 
 Like the wavelets that over the bosom of ancient Is- 
 
 menus advance." 
 
 30 
 
The king on his throne is seated, and the wanton crew 
 
 is fled, 
 Like the flock of twittering swallows that down 
 
 through the palace sped. 
 And long and deep he ponders what the merry silen 
 
 said. 
 
 " Dark are the eyes of the Lydians, that burn with 
 
 the fire they fling; 
 Red are the lips of the Phrygians, and sweet is their 
 
 honied sting; 
 And white are the arms the Cadmeans in the wildering 
 
 orgies swing. 
 
 " There Aphrodite wanders, crowned with the flame 
 
 of the rose; 
 Around the eddying Bacchants the Paphian swallow 
 
 goes; 
 And a celestial madness in the heart of the Bacchant 
 
 glows. 
 
 " But the light on the brow of Pallas, the strength in 
 
 her steadfast look, 
 The cheer in her words, outringing like bronze by the 
 
 spearpoint strook, 
 Win the soul by a nobler wooing, and never its trust 
 
 forsook. 
 
 31 
 
" O king, shall thy city be stricken by the woes which 
 the strangers bring? 
 
 Or wilt thou stand forth where this vagrant is draw- 
 ing his maddening ring, 
 
 And know if these Asian wonders be more than the 
 might of a king? 
 
 " If ever, ye gods most ancient, the fanes of the Theban 
 
 grove 
 Seemed goodly and fair to your vision, being bright 
 
 with the gifts ye love, 
 And the savor of pleasant altars rose up to your seats 
 
 above. 
 
 " Save Thebes from her shame and frenzy. Or, if ye 
 
 have lost your joy 
 In her many-towered beauty, let Ares his spear employ, 
 And here by the fountains of Dirce her towers and 
 
 gates destroy. 
 
 *' In the dance and the orgies of Ares and the blood 
 
 that he loves to drain, 
 In the crash of the empty chariots that cumber the 
 
 smoking plain. 
 Let Cadmea fall, nor a vestige to tell of her pride 
 
 remain. 
 
" By thy plague-winged arrows, Apollo, let her 
 strength waste away from the earth. 
 
 Or lie prone in her ruins, Poseidon, entombed by thy 
 terrible mirth. 
 
 So she guard the high soul the gods gave her, and 
 leave the pure fame of her worth ! " 
 
 Strange and wild are the glades of Cithaeron, where 
 
 the Bacchant winds and raves, 
 And the pine-tree, back and forward, in a stately 
 
 measure waves. 
 And they weave a chant that wanders for aye in the 
 
 dells and caves. 
 
 But the revel is stilled on Cithaeron, and the roar of 
 
 its ribaldry. 
 " Behold ! " cries the merry Silenus. " One cometh 
 
 mockingly. 
 Not bearing the branch or thyrsus, nor crowned as the 
 
 Bacchants be." 
 
 " Draw hither, O mighty Pentheus," sweetly the wine- 
 god said. 
 
 But the eyes of the Cadmean women shone with a 
 luster dread. 
 
 While the fury of the wine-god through all their senses 
 sped. 
 
 33 
 
Alas for the king of the Thebans and the city of the 
 
 plain ! 
 At the hands of the Cadmean women, he lies on the 
 
 mountain, slain — 
 At the hands of his dear kinswomen. And hark to 
 
 their fierce refrain: 
 
 " Euoi ! Euoi ! Hail Bacchus ! " the dames of Cad- 
 
 mea sing. 
 "Euoi! Euoi! Hail Bacchus!" The pines of Ci- 
 
 thaeron ring. 
 " Euoi ! Euoi ! Hail Bacchus, for Bacchus is lord 
 
 and king." 
 
 34 
 
The Fall of Dionysus 
 
 Again on the mountain are gathered the daughters of 
 
 mirth ; 
 And rapture descendeth, too keen for the dwellers of 
 
 earth ; 
 And Bacchus is leading the chorus that sings of his 
 
 birth. 
 
 The thyrsus is lifted before liim ; the cymbals advance ; 
 The Maenads, aglow at his presence, melt into the 
 
 dance ; 
 And the eyes of the fluters are gazing like those in a 
 
 trance. 
 
 Wild and sweet are the notes which the flutes in their 
 
 ecstasy breathe, 
 Bright and gay are the garlands the tiger's whelp 
 
 ramps beneath. 
 Or under whose leaves the sinuous serpents wreathe. 
 
 35 
 
As they weave, the women of Hellas, the choral 
 
 maze, — 
 As they weave and unweave the web where the light 
 
 foot strays. 
 They chant to the lute's soft measure the young god's 
 
 praise. 
 
 " See ! the merry conqueror comes ! From Ausonian 
 
 meads 
 To the rivers of Ind, that murmur and flash 'mid their 
 
 reeds, 
 He hath wandered; and nations are drunk with the 
 
 fame of his deeds. 
 
 " Praise Bacchus, the holy ! the youngest and might- 
 iest god! 
 
 Where the impious stood, their heads are laid low as 
 the sod; 
 
 The lion and leopard crouch under liis ivy-wreathed 
 rod. 
 
 " Vain the wrath of the queen of the sky, that hung 
 
 over the head 
 Of the infant divine — as vain as an arrow that's sped ; 
 From his foes overthrown he hath gotten a name that 
 
 is dread. 
 
 36 
 
" As stars that wheel downward, and fade when the 
 
 morning is nigh — 
 Ere the torch of the light-giver flames in the roof of 
 
 the sky, 
 The gods of the withering darkness behold him and 
 
 %• 
 
 " Henceforth from Olympus the eyes of the world are 
 
 withdrawn ; 
 They turn to Cithaeron, where dances the rose-footed 
 
 dawn, 
 And the revelers reel, arrayed in the pride of the fawn." 
 
 Then sudden the melody died of the lyre many-stringed ; 
 And the player they knew by the wand which an olive 
 
 branch ringed. 
 And the petasus bearing wings and the sandals winged. 
 
 " mountain of Bacchus and dark, immemorial grove," 
 Cried the fair son of Maia and swift message-bringer 
 
 of Jove, 
 " No more through your haunts the Bacchants in frenzy 
 
 will rove; — 
 
 ** For the glory will fail that crowns the Cambunian 
 
 range ; 
 Disenchantment will fall upon Delphi; on Helicon, 
 
 change ; 
 And Asian Tmolus and Ida be names that are strange. 
 
 37 
 
" A mountain there is where the blaze of the mom 
 
 kindles first; 
 There the grim tree of death spreads its gaunt arms, 
 
 abhorred and accurst, 
 And the fruit which it bears nor sunbeam nor rain-drop 
 
 hath nursed. 
 
 " 'Tis the cross — name of terror! yet on that hard 
 
 bosom to die 
 Will be sweeter to men than in flowers Idalian to lie. 
 When the turtle doth murmur, and blest Cytheraea 
 
 doth sigh. 
 
 " The kingdom immortal is passing to one who hath 
 
 lain 
 On that bed of reproach ; life's scepter is given to pain ; 
 And Zeus, god of pleasure, is yielding to him that was 
 
 slain. 
 
 " O Chronos, gray father of eld, by thy son over- 
 thrown, 
 
 O Titans primeval, whose brute fronts are humbled and 
 prone. 
 
 The Thunderer falls, and the day of his empire hath 
 flown." 
 
 Listened naiads and oreiads as the wise god spoke; 
 And many a dryad looked out from a sheltering oak; 
 No sound from those savage abodes did the ear pro- 
 voke. 
 
 38 
 
Then Bacchus ; and flung from his forehead the fair 
 
 ivy crown. 
 " O man, thou dost make and unmake, dost enthrone 
 
 and pull down; 
 The gods come and go, as thy spirit doth own and 
 
 disown. 
 
 " Thou hast brought us the myrtle and olive, the laurel 
 
 and pine ; 
 Thou hast offered the flower-crowned bullock, the 
 
 sweet-breathed kine ; 
 And poured the libation of honey and bright flashing 
 
 wine. 
 
 " In joy thou wast reared, in joy thou hast wrought 
 
 and hast striven ; 
 In joy thou hast served, and joy unto thee hath been 
 
 given ; 
 In joy thou hast sinned, in joy hast been healed and 
 
 been shriven. 
 
 " Thyself now alone shalt the fillet of sacrifice wear. 
 No victim the pangs of thy soul's expiation will share. 
 Nor thy vigil of pain when the night vapor drenches 
 thy hair. 
 
 " By smitings and stripes till the dolorous day-course 
 
 is run. 
 By watchings and prayers till the night is cast out 
 
 by the sun, 
 
 39 
 
By penitent tears shall the smile of thy Heaven be 
 won. 
 
 " Ye daughters of gladness, strip from you the ivy 
 
 and vine, 
 Veil the delicate flesh which in sackcloth and hair-cloth 
 
 will pine. 
 And scatter the blossoms that with your dark tresses 
 
 entwine. 
 
 " The rapture and rage of Cithaeron no longer are 
 
 meet 
 For the souls which in vision and wasting shall strive 
 
 to repeat 
 The tokens of Calvary's passion on hands and on feet. 
 
 " The lion and tiger are loosed from their flowery 
 
 yoke. 
 Ye shall front them again, where the sands with the 
 
 red slaughter smoke ; 
 And your thoughts will turn hither when bend your 
 
 fair heads to the stroke." 
 
 Dionysus and Hermes are gone, and the daughters of 
 
 mirth; 
 And pine-clad Cithaeron, with silence about its grim 
 
 girth, 
 Stands gloomily waiting the light newly risen on 
 
 earth. 
 
 40 
 
Vashti 
 
 Repeat your message, chamberlains. Forget 
 
 What sudden anger burned into my face. 
 
 My lord is mirthful, as his beaker laughs 
 
 The oft-poured, oft-drained bubbles from its brim; 
 
 Or, setting off his riches, he would boast 
 
 The chasteness of his queen, that will not enter. 
 
 Unveiled, before ten thousand eyes, whose glare 
 
 Is kindled by a wanton week of wine. 
 
 How seemed he as he spake? Did not a smile 
 
 Flash into the dark edges of his beard? 
 
 If I refuse, think ye not he will say : 
 
 " Nobles and satraps, does our Persia hold 
 
 Another wife as modest-faced as she — 
 
 Wearing her purity, though I bid doff? " 
 
 No loving boast, no jest, lurked in his speech? 
 
 Then woe is me that I was ever queen. 
 
 Answer my lord thus : " ' Vashti thinks you set 
 
 Less than a kingly price on her poor blushes.' " 
 
 With marveling looks they go ; they shudder, too. 
 
 That a weak woman bids a king be wroth. 
 
 41 
 
Like horror on the bacchanalian throng 
 
 Mj mutiny will fasten, and a palsy 
 
 Lock up each bibbing and each babbling lip. 
 
 What suffering will meted be to her 
 
 Who matches royal whim with will as royal, 
 
 And him abases who would her abase? 
 
 Perhaps his slaves will come to scourge thee forth, 
 
 O most presumptuous Vashti; or, himself, 
 
 Ahasuerus will, with bloody hand 
 
 From thy dead features tear the jealous veil. 
 
 There's nothing may confront the pride of monarchs. 
 
 That is as slender as a woman's throat. 
 
 Yet only yester, as we twain stood here. 
 
 He vowed my face was fairer in his sight 
 
 Than all the flowers in the gardens of Babylon ; 
 
 And, when I sang my native village songs, 
 
 He praised me to this nightingale, that rains 
 
 Fountains of melod}^ from her slight beak. 
 
 He seemed a lover only ; not my king. 
 
 Banished. No more Ahasuerus' queen. 
 From my dishonored head will the tiara 
 Be plucked, and set upon another's brow. 
 She will be queen ; and I shall do her honor, 
 What time I sit not, clad in wretchedness. 
 With the discarded women who remember 
 The hour they bloomed upon their sovereign's breast. 
 And in that blighted group there will be none 
 
 42 
 
As miserable as Vashti, or as proud. 
 As each new favorite her light shall bring 
 Into the harem, shall the menials whisper, 
 " Yonder is Vashti ; she that was discrowned." 
 Yes, throbbing heart, thy fate is hard to bear. 
 It shall be heavier than thou hast conceived; 
 And life's most loathed bitterness must be 
 To love the oppressor, and forever love. 
 Ah! that his favor ever fell on me! 
 The day when I, in Shushan, was bedecked 
 With regal raiment and the king's high choice. 
 It had been better, if, in pale repose 
 'Neath roses white as death, I had been borne 
 By sad-faced kinsmen to the Tower of Silence — 
 E'en to the banquet of the screaming birds. 
 For faithlessness queens have been put away; 
 Vashti's misdeed is only that her beauty 
 Too jealously she guarded for her king. 
 And now this veil will never by his hand 
 Be lifted. Will some constant, heavenly light 
 Repel its dreadful darkness from my soul.f^ 
 Great spirit, Ormuzd, feed the blessed flame 
 That keeps the midnight from a soul in shadow. 
 I must depart. A happier woman here 
 Will pluck the rose and hear the water tinkle. 
 My bulbul, tilting on his golden perch, 
 Mingling his gurgle with the fountain's laugh, 
 Mellows the bubbling strain to a farewell. 
 
 43 
 
Ponce De Leon 
 
 'TwAS Easter morning. By the yellow shoals 
 The sunbeams glittered on a languid surf; 
 The brilliant blossoms of the Flowery Land 
 Waved in a light breeze blowing from the main, 
 Where crept a little bark that idly flew 
 The emblem of Castile and Aragon. 
 " Here blooms, I trust, the country of our dreams," 
 Spake the stout soldier to his hardy men. 
 " For this we ride into the teeth of storms. 
 Or tempt the tide that rolls around the reef. 
 No Eldorado makes the night watch brighter 
 As we are sailing toward the northern stars. 
 Or haunts us when we lie becalmed by day. 
 Straining our sight across the burnished sea. 
 Let others hunt the red ore where it hides. 
 Or clutch the ruby's and the topaz's flame — 
 Suns blazing in the temples of strange gods, — 
 Or emeralds greener than the seas they cross. 
 Somewhere on yonder shore a fountain lurks, 
 Pouring its crystal wealth in sweeter sound 
 Than piled gold pieces in a miser's hands. 
 Gold wins all things that mortals prize save youth, 
 
 44 
 
It cannot counterfeit the fiery ore 
 
 Which paints the vital tide in youthful veins: 
 
 Yon laughing spring holds that which buyeth all. 
 
 " Ah, grizzled Pedro, in that magic pool 
 Thy locks will match the wing of rooks once more, 
 And all thy wrinkles will be washed away. 
 Old Juan, thy crooked form shall be as straight 
 As the pine upon thine Andalusian mountains. 
 Perhaps — ^Who knows? — we'll revel in the stream, 
 Then prone upon the fragrant meadows slumber; 
 And time, that sleeps not, with soft step will leave us. 
 Bearing the grievous burden of the years. 
 Those waters famed in olden time, the rills 
 Of Helicon and sacred Castaly, 
 Where blest Apollo bathed his shining hair. 
 Could charm a poet's stammering tongue to sing. 
 That tiny current, 'twixt its banks of flowers, 
 Brings back the poet in the human heart, — 
 Whence he retires with many sighs when Youth 
 Whispers : ' The mom is spent. We must be gone.' 
 Sometimes in sleep the jocund twain return. 
 Again we stand beneath the balcony, 
 With heart quick beating. Star-lit eyes look down. 
 The lute-strings tremble into stillness. Only 
 The zephyr breathes, and love's delicious sigh. 
 Oh, fount that murmurest somewhere in the shade, 
 Dreams oft restore the dead: thou canst not that." 
 
 45 
 
While all the mariners, impatient, scanned 
 The shimmering beach in search of cove or bay, 
 The grave commander stood in reverj. 
 Slowly the by-gone days before him swam. 
 Like caravels returning from strange climes. 
 That found no port, and bring their cargoes home. 
 In field and camp and on the unconquered deep. 
 In fierce campaign and siege and perilous cruise, 
 Toil, hardship, all the weary weight of war 
 And of seafaring — shock from doughty Moor 
 In single fight beneath Granada's towers, 
 And surges battering the adventurous bark — 
 Had bent the spirit and the rugged frame. 
 Clashing with fate, oft was he ridden down. 
 Oft was he dashed against the reefs of fortune. 
 Little of all the New World gave to Courage 
 And Avarice, that with a mailed hand 
 Rudely entreated, fell to this rough knight: 
 A brief dominion, in whose story gleams 
 A crimson strand of cruelty and crime, 
 Woven with disappointment and with shame. 
 Then rose on Hope's fond eye a bright mirage: 
 The wasted fount of opportunity, 
 Welling up from the sands where it was quenched. 
 Nor fades the vision soon. By flowery strand, 
 Or where the coral reef beats back the surf, 
 Through many a year around the coast-line wanders, 
 Forlornly wanders. Ponce de Leon. 
 
 46 
 
To the Wood-Thrush 
 
 Another year has past, 
 
 Minstrel divine; 
 And on the ground myself I cast, 
 
 Beneath that bough of thine, 
 And where thy realm of song thou hast, 
 
 A weary heart resign. 
 
 Sing in that peerless way 
 
 Thy quiet theme. 
 Caught where the pine-tops all the day 
 
 Gaze at the blue and dream. 
 And where with mild, monotonous lay 
 
 Retreats the timid stream. 
 
 The pine's and brooklet's strain 
 
 Has gained a note, 
 Amid the shadows of thy brain 
 
 And in thy mellow throat — 
 A lilt whose burden is from pain 
 
 And joy alike remote. 
 47 
 
Let thy deep calm distill — 
 
 Voice of the woods — 
 And this too care-full spirit fill. 
 
 In thy clear-hearted moods, 
 Something less sad than Earth doth thrill, 
 
 Less glad than Heaven broods. 
 
 With such pellucid song 
 
 Didst thou begin .f^ 
 Man wrestles much and travails long. 
 
 His life a maddening din. 
 Ere he gives forth, unvexed and strong, 
 
 The note he fain would win. 
 
 So near, sweet bird, thou art, 
 
 With breast and ear. 
 To Nature's lips and tranquil heart. 
 
 Her thought is always clear — 
 What we, who stray from her apart, 
 
 Are loth and late to hear. 
 
 That sovereign content, 
 
 In other days, 
 I heard not with thy music blent. 
 
 Walking these shadowy ways ; 
 Nor could I know such wisdom meant 
 
 For me, nor could I praise. 
 48 
 
still from its placid spring 
 
 That note of might! 
 Thou heedest not what voice may sing 
 
 Victorious delight. 
 Raptures must pass , the abiding thing 
 
 Is clear and peaceful sight. 
 
 49 
 
The Dancing Pines 
 
 Far from the seas resounding, 
 Within the meadow lands — 
 
 Far from the billows bounding, 
 A grove of pine-trees stands. 
 
 Often in windy weather. 
 
 When a sigh from the sea is sped, 
 Dance all the pines together, 
 
 Nodding each verdant head. 
 
 Surely the pines are dreaming 
 Of life with a sea-craft brave; 
 
 In a delicious seeming 
 
 They rock on the rolling wave. 
 
 In the green sails they carry, 
 Fanning the cone-strewn ground, 
 
 Glad is the wind to tarry. 
 Breathing an ocean sound. 
 50 
 
Over one pine-top lurching, 
 
 As mast-tops swiftly sag, 
 Wings of a raven perching 
 
 Flap like a pirate flag. 
 
 Masts from the pine grove taken 
 
 Toss in the ocean blasts ; 
 So, when the strong winds waken. 
 
 Fain would the pines be masts. 
 
 Happy your inland dances, 
 
 O leafy pines, to know 
 Only in wind-rocked fancies 
 
 How the great sea tempests blow ! 
 
 51 
 
The Ephemerae 
 
 When summ'er winds at nightfall brush 
 
 The woodland waters cool, 
 And bear the scent they gently crush 
 
 From flowers beside the pool; 
 
 When moon and stars are fain to lave 
 Their foreheads in the lake, 
 
 And on the shore the dying wave 
 Swanlike its song doth make, — 
 
 Wee things of night, whose vital gift 
 
 Is rendered with the mom. 
 Let every breeze their light wings lift. 
 
 And let the moon adorn. 
 
 Such charm the sky and waters throw 
 
 Around each insect spark, 
 It spends the hours and cannot know 
 
 The world is sometimes dark. 
 
But — sad reflection ! nights there be 
 When black mists drape the air, 
 
 And lives are passed that never see 
 The world when it is fair. 
 
 53 
 
A Meditation in Spring 
 
 The beeches rustle musingly their sear, 
 White leaves — old missives from the vanished year, 
 And, turning the poor keepsakes o'er and o'er, 
 Which once could charm, but now can please no more, 
 Murmur, " Good bye, old love ! The young year trips 
 Along the vale with warm sighs on his lips." 
 
 Not so the maples. When the autumn's chill 
 Was on the hill-side, and the glen was still, 
 I saw the blaze that lighted all the grove. 
 In which they flung the tokens of their love ; 
 And marked the ashy relics as they sped 
 Up the wide chimney of the gorge o'erhead. 
 
 54> 
 
Swamp Grass 
 
 Beneath the waters of the lake, 
 Grasses and flowers and mosses lie, 
 
 The cold and slanting beams that make 
 
 A shimmer in the fishes' wake, 
 Their only portion of the sky. 
 
 No breezes bid their pennons wave; 
 
 No honey-bee invades their bloom. 
 Where, in the dusky depths, they lave. 
 The dragon nymph lurks in its cave, 
 
 To strike its prey with sudden doom. 
 
 Well does the fox-fire's eerie ray 
 Hint of the secrets of the swamp. 
 
 In pools and shallows hid away ; 
 
 There the pale visage of decay 
 
 Floats ghostlike o'er the buried pomp. 
 
 And still from out the drear, dead mold, 
 Spring other children of the pond — 
 55 
 
The new life rising on the old, 
 Where sleep, in multitude untold, 
 
 The perished blade and withered frond. 
 
 Out of the watery desert grows 
 
 The spacious ruin of their bloom, — 
 Till from the lifted moorland flows 
 The last complaining wave, and blows 
 The wind o'er leagues of sunlit broom. 
 
 And here the feet of men will tread ; 
 
 Here will their habitations rise; 
 And, where the heath flower Hfts its head, 
 Battle will dye its blossom red. 
 
 And stricken warriors close their eyes. 
 
 Yet, when the wind of evening drives 
 Along the moorland's sky-girt length. 
 
 What smothered utterance upward strives? 
 
 The sigh of all the flowers whose lives 
 Were built into the heather's strength. 
 
 56 
 
The Sea-flowers 
 
 The living splendors of the main, 
 The pink and purple companies, 
 
 That spangle the untraveled plain 
 Beneath the azure seas. 
 
 Grow ever to an alien bloom. 
 
 And sow the deep with buds and leaves- 
 Blossoms that light the cold, vast gloom 
 
 O'er which the billow heaves. 
 
 Fashions of beauty round them float. 
 Or slumber in some coral dell, — 
 
 The blue sea nettle, like a boat. 
 The curious, red-lipped shell. 
 
 Parrot and rainbow fishes splash, 
 And jellyfish clear as the brine; 
 
 While wide-winged angel fishes flash 
 Their hues almost divine. 
 57 
 
But vacant is each silent court, 
 And desolate each flowery way ; 
 
 For in these paths no children sport, 
 Nor whispering lovers stray. 
 
 No breeze of morning bends the stalks. 
 No evening zephyr lifts the boughs ; 
 
 That tremble only when these walks, 
 Slowly, the dead ship plows. 
 
 Or when the shark, on stealthy cruise, 
 Seeking his prey with hideous grin, 
 
 Doth fan the creatures of the ooze 
 With his o'ershadowing fin. 
 
 And never rude and heedless hand 
 
 Shall tear the clusters of their crown, 
 
 Nor impious storms that scourge the strand 
 Shall beat their blossoms down. 
 
 Yellow and purple, pink and rose. 
 Orange and snowy fair, they range; 
 
 Nor blight of autumn any knows. 
 Nor winter's deadly change. 
 
 Yet violets on a bank of green. 
 
 Tossing blue bonnets in the sun, — 
 
 A part of some bright human scene, 
 Then gathered one by one, 
 58 
 
Have their own glory, better far 
 
 Than that which dwells the seas belo\^', 
 
 Though inaccessible as a star 
 And deathless as its glow. 
 
 59 
 
In the Cavern 
 
 How distant seems the world o'erhead ! 
 Not more I hear its echoing sound 
 Than one who, laid within the ground, 
 
 Listens though dead. 
 
 Time's scythe is dropped, where naught to reap 
 Is found within its deadly swing. 
 Save bats that brush with filmy wing 
 
 His heavy sleep; 
 
 And, like an ancient water-clock. 
 The huge stalactite's stony lip 
 Tells out the centuries, drip by drip, 
 
 Upon the rock. 
 
 Man's voice, through wandering silence hurled, 
 Back from the arch of night rebounds. 
 Till in some lampless vault, it sounds 
 
 Old as the world. 
 
 60 
 
From the abysses of the dark 
 
 No planet lifts a taper pale; 
 
 Nor sun, his torch, wherewith to scale 
 The aerial arc. 
 
 Hark where the strong-voiced rivers run. 
 Singing to Midnight's heedless ear! 
 Children of peak and plain, why here 
 
 Mourn ye the sun? 
 
 Hark where they leap the horrid wall, 
 And rush into some deeper tomb. 
 As if they heard amid their gloom 
 
 The ocean call! 
 
 Palace and temple, old and grand. 
 New risen when a million years 
 Were counted in that pendant's tears. 
 
 Are heaped with sand. 
 
 Pillar and frieze and arch have gone, 
 Builded for honor and delight ; 
 But, reared away from man's proud sight, 
 
 These walls last on. 
 
 Little of man these echoing stones 
 
 Reveal. He lived his crouching life; 
 Conquered wild beasts in dreadful strife; 
 
 And left his bones. 
 
 61 
 
To such a place old Time might steal, 
 When the last earthly day shall close, 
 And let the leaden last repose 
 
 His eyelids seal, — 
 
 In such a crypt his dust to lay, 
 
 While the dread change from pole to pole 
 Shall smite, and over all shall roll 
 
 The eternal day. 
 
 Then Darkness, by some edict fell. 
 Driven from shining star and sphere, 
 In these void chambers still may rear 
 
 Her citadel; 
 
 And Silence build her ebon throne. 
 
 When in the vast, vague realm of air. 
 Remains no dumb, dead empire where 
 
 Her name is known. 
 
The Jewel 
 
 The jewel, cradled in the rock's retreat, 
 Darkly abiding, waits the destined hour. 
 
 When in its breast the ray of noon shall beat, 
 Kindling in power. 
 
 Mark the transforming of the stubborn mold 
 
 To something beauteous, where the light shall range, 
 
 Ever recoiling as it doth behold 
 Its own swift change ! 
 
 The raindrop, trickling down the long crevasse. 
 Glides to its heart. One day that drop will hear 
 
 The beating of a maiden's heart, and glass 
 The kindred tear. 
 
Nature and Man 
 
 Spirit of earth and sky, 
 Where is the buoyant rapture that I knew, 
 When the mild heavens marked a kindred blue 
 
 Set in the violet's eye? 
 
 O Nature, once, in truth, 
 I deemed I loved thy gladsome steps and face. 
 Not so; I only loved in thee to trace 
 
 The image of my youth. 
 
 And thou didst never care 
 For fretful man. He is no child of thee. 
 Thou fondlest him, to spurn him from thy knee 
 
 When days no more are fair. 
 
 A lineage too high 
 Is his, that he should come when perils loom, 
 And list for comfort, in his hour of gloom, 
 
 Thine inarticulate cry. 
 
 64 
 
Yet doth the earth rejoice 
 In the all-kindhng sun; the streams are free; 
 The wildwood, thrilhng with the common glee, 
 
 Wakes to the robin's voice. 
 
 Again the snow is blown 
 From out the pathways of the April wind, 
 And there the first hepaticas I find, 
 
 Happy because unknown ; 
 
 Once more the bluebird shrills 
 His mellow pipe, with its untroubled strain. 
 The clear notes dropping new as April rain 
 
 Upon the woods and hills. 
 
 And softly overhead 
 Moves the immortal spirit of the air, 
 Robed in delight, without regret or care 
 
 For all the springtimes dead. 
 
 65 
 
To One Beloved by Children 
 
 Tell me, Dear Heart, why children greet 
 You always, and, with faltering feet, 
 The infant hastes your face to meet. 
 
 Or is it just as plain to you 
 Why they with quiet glee pursue 
 The violet's eye, the wild rose's hue? 
 
November Hours 
 
 Sweet doves that wing November's air, 
 And brighten all the realm of rain ; 
 
 That circle by the window where 
 One watches on her bed of pain, 
 
 The dreary day with hope ye deck. 
 Ye fetch the springtime when ye list ; 
 
 For, as ye turn with iris neck, 
 A bow is painted on the mist. 
 
 But brighter than the plume of dove 
 The airy shapes her fancies form. 
 
 To circle in the sky above. 
 
 And flash their beauty on the storm! 
 
 67 
 
Transmutation 
 
 If the silver of the moon, 
 
 As it floats upon the ground, 
 
 Were transmuted into tune. 
 It, methinks, would be a sound 
 Like thy voice. 
 
 If the tremble of a rose. 
 
 Shaken by the zephyr's wing, 
 
 Could the door of speech unclose, 
 
 Something 'mid its leaves would sing 
 Like thy words. 
 
Fond Names 
 
 The names which from my heart I bring 
 
 In blessing thee, 
 Are such as often do upspring 
 
 In pleasantry. 
 
 Their sparkle is the sunny mirth 
 
 Which careless flows, — 
 So like the dew, at morning's birth, 
 
 Upon the rose. 
 
 From deepest founts of tenderness 
 
 They quickly rise. 
 And fall as light as a caress 
 
 On lips or eyes. 
 
 69 
 
Good Morrow 
 
 Good morrow, sweet ! The day's huge star is bom ; 
 
 The arrows of the light are speeding free; 
 They chase the darkness from the brow of mom ; 
 
 They drive the shadows from the mom and thee. 
 
 Ere light was, love was not, that love might be 
 Companioned ever by the bright and pure. 
 
 And, faithful to its own divinity, 
 
 Even as the fair, unf alien beam, endure; 
 
 That love might seek the beauty which is blent 
 With virtue, and with trembling rapture trace 
 
 The radiance in look and lineament 
 
 Which they reflect from the eternal face. 
 
 So, when the sunshine floods the skies afar. 
 
 And crowns each hill, and fills each valley's bowl. 
 
 Quickly my heart discovers its day-star. 
 
 And, like a sunlit flower, expands my soul, — 
 
 70 
 
Receiving light that is not all from thee ; 
 
 For, with the thrilling smile, the twinkling glance, 
 Is sometimes that which gleams more gloriously; 
 
 Something divine is mixed with their romance. 
 
 Tell me: What is the angel's gift in Heaven, 
 The fire incorporate with the seraph's frame. 
 
 If love, the holy thing to mortals given. 
 Be not one ray of that undying flame? 
 
 Oh! well I know that, in the meadows ranged 
 By spirits glad, when one rich dawn shall greet, 
 
 I shall behold thee, and, with love unchanged. 
 
 Murmur as gayly then : " Good morrow, sweet ! " 
 
 71 
 
Thy Garden 
 
 Fain wouldst thou plant with fervent skill 
 Some virtue mild, some lowly grace, 
 
 Outside the field that owns thy will, 
 Thy spirit's flowering place. 
 
 Perchance thy neighbor's husbandry 
 Spares many a weed or noxious thing; 
 
 And where he labors languidly, 
 A few faint blossoms spring. 
 
 Yet must thou till, when daylight cheers. 
 The soil within thy narrow close; 
 
 Content if he, in after years. 
 Shall ask thee for a rose. 
 
 72 
 
Submission 
 
 When surges start from out the ocean's rest, 
 
 And shatter on the beach their foam and shine, 
 Howe'er they move o'er that awakening breast, 
 Some master curbs in gracefulness each crest. 
 And bends their wildest sweep to beauty's line. 
 
 Thence is the beauty of the tossing sea, 
 
 And of the breakers in their rhythmic roll; 
 
 It is not that the mighty wave is free, 
 
 But that in all its motion it must be 
 Under a sovereign and divine control. 
 
 From the slight pebble which the sea's lip spurns, 
 
 Or the frail sea-weeds, glistening as they cling. 
 To the huge star, obedient as it turns. 
 Where on creation's silent verge it bums, 
 
 Lives not, nor shall, one self-concentered thing. 
 
 " Haste ! haste ! " the stars of heaven responsive sing ; 
 " Haste ! haste ! We do His will ; nor faint nor tire ; 
 With pauseless flight the unfathomed concave wing, 
 
 73 
 
Until the flames that ever round us spring, 
 On the cold tomb of Nature shall expire." 
 
 Submission is the hymn that smites mine ear. 
 
 The sea voice chants it; and the stars at night. 
 How loth thou art, my soul, that word to hear. 
 Yet sounds no other word so loud and clear; 
 
 None other hath been written so in light. 
 
 74 
 
 j 
 
Under the Stars 
 
 To charm away in human souls 
 
 The discord which their music mars, 
 
 Perpetually the planet rolls 
 
 In sight of the harmonious stars. 
 
 Each moment as the shadows sweep 
 Upon their round across the skies, 
 
 Somewhere the eyes that never sleep 
 Look gravely down on mortal eyes. 
 
 Last night with wonder new I gazed 
 Where famed Orion's pathway led. 
 
 A bluish orb before him blazed; 
 One followed with a luster red. 
 
 Yonder lay Sirius' mighty span. 
 
 Ascending the eternal steeps ; 
 While, sundered far, Aldebaran 
 
 Sank, glowing, through the ether deeps. 
 75 
 
I heard from zenith and from pole 
 The word the constellations speak, 
 
 With which they once attuned the soul 
 Of old Egyptian and of Greek; 
 
 And thought those lights of tranquil ray, 
 That ever fly nor know their quest, 
 
 Might the tempestuous fires allay 
 That rage in the impatient breast; 
 
 And that the stars' unbounded flight 
 Might give to us a mind more free ; 
 
 For we are speeding through the night, 
 And are too fain the mark to see. 
 
 76 
 
Obedience 
 
 I CALL not him a bondsman who obeys 
 
 The will of God with gladness ; he is free, 
 Because he runs the heavenly way with glee, 
 
 Though with the vision set before his gaze 
 Of perfect love, no other way may be. 
 
 He breasts the crags of duty, for no choice 
 Can be to him that loveth; and his soul 
 Salutes the lightnings flashing from its goal ; 
 
 He hears the thunders of the living Voice 
 That round the mount of God forever roll. 
 
 The winds whose strength makes glorious the heights, 
 Storming the sky in their wide-winged sweep. 
 Whisper to him the music that they keep. 
 
 Sometimes he views the morning's ruddy lights 
 Ere yet they rise upon a world asleep. 
 
 Thus, dearer seems the yoke by which he bears 
 Sunward and starward his familiar load; 
 And, if he faints on the celestial road, 
 
 77 
 
Lighter than eagles soar his heavy cares. 
 Till lost in their invisible abode. 
 
 I count not him a freeman who hath given 
 His rights to rebel passion or caprice. 
 He knoweth not the power he doth release, 
 
 Nor whither by its will he shall be driven, 
 
 And that he shall not ransom back his peace. 
 
 Through winding ways he treads the sloping turf; 
 The heaven above him ever narrower grows, 
 And round his head the heavy vapors close, 
 
 Borne from a sea that hath no sound of surf. 
 Nor wind nor tide to chafe its dead repose. 
 
 This noisome air is not the breath divine 
 Which in his first enfranchisement he drew; 
 Far from the joyous fever which he knew 
 
 The dull distastes that now his heart entwine, 
 And on the strugghng hght project their hue. 
 
 Sometimes, from wood and tarn, the wandering call 
 Of his lost self rings keen and piteously 
 Across the silence of that pulseless sea, — 
 
 Until the last retreating echoes fall 
 
 From the o'erhanging chfTs immensity. 
 
 T8 
 
And once at length the foul mist is dispersed, 
 As o'er the waste the evening shadows draw, 
 And he one brilliant star beholds with awe. 
 
 In some vast constellation flaming first, — 
 Moving obedient to eternal law. 
 
 79 
 
Unforgotteo 
 
 Thy sentries keep, when day is done, 
 The single soldier, fallen prone, 
 
 'Mid battle heaps. 
 The sailor lashed upon his spar, 
 Dead, underneath the evening star, 
 
 Well guarded sleeps. 
 
 Out of the undistinguished grave. 
 Thy trumpet note will call the brave. 
 
 Who f eU in fight ; 
 And the wan sea-sands that drift 
 Above the mariner will lift 
 
 At morning light. 
 
 80 
 
The Face in the Water 
 
 I SAW my features in a brook, 
 
 Clear-shining as the sky o'erhead. 
 
 A sudden cloud itself betook 
 
 Across the sun : the image fled. 
 
 " Thus will it be when thou art dead," 
 
 I whispered; and my spirit shook. 
 
 The sun dispersed the gloomy cloud; 
 
 And I beheld the image break 
 Out of the waters' limpid shroud. 
 
 " Thus it will be when thou shalt wake," 
 
 Unto myself I softly spake ; 
 And all my soul in worship bowed. 
 
 81 
 
On the Shore 
 
 Only the sea and skj; 
 Only the sun and strand. 
 No other scene is nigh. 
 Alone with the sea am I; 
 Alone on the surf-plowed sand. 
 
 Only the sea and sky ; 
 
 Only the sun and strand. 
 
 One other scene is nigh: 
 
 God, and, before mine eye, 
 
 The universe poured from His hand. 
 
 89 
 
Twin Mysteries 
 
 The mysteries of evil and of pain, 
 
 Within the lighted spaces hedged by sleep, 
 Sometimes assail the wakeful heart and brain, — 
 
 Then glide unanswered back into the deep. 
 
 " Pain were not evil were it viewed aright." 
 The easy sophistry contents not long; 
 
 For soon the tempter whispers me outright, 
 
 " Nor evil evil were thy mind more strong." 
 
 Then doth my spirit flame in righteous mood. 
 
 " Go, Satan ! Thy base logic is in vain. 
 Ere I believe that evil is a good. 
 
 Thou shalt persuade me that pain is not pain." 
 
 83 
 
An Offering 
 
 What shall I bring, O God, to Thee, — 
 
 Fit for Thine altar's flame? 
 My heart? But that was wrought by Thee, 
 With all its strange inconstancy, 
 
 And every fitful frame. 
 
 What shall I bring, O God? My tears? 
 
 Ah ! surely that were much. 
 But, if they come, those grateful tears. 
 From fountains clogged with dust of years, 
 
 They flow but at Thy touch. 
 
 What shall I bring, O God? My love? 
 
 For that is most of all. 
 But, of a truth, that sacred love 
 Was sent in favor from above. 
 
 And starts but at Thy call. 
 
 If it were mine a gift to bring, 
 
 Created quite by me, 
 I should not dare, O God, to bring 
 Unto Thine altar pure a thing 
 
 So Httle hke to Thee. 
 84 
 
In the Shadow of Azrael 
 
 Dreaming, I stood with Azrael, 
 
 The angel sad and stem. 
 Two worlds met where his shadow fell. 
 On one that shade lay many an ell; 
 
 On one the sun did bum. 
 
 Deep into the still, shadowed land 
 
 I vainly sought to look. 
 Though not a cloud its heaven spanned. 
 No moon arose o'er that dim land ; 
 
 No stars the twilight shook. 
 
 Sometimes a fitful wind that blew 
 
 Wafted a scent of flowers 
 That in the gloomy meadows grew. 
 Such fragrance out of meadows blew 
 
 Ne'er in this world of ours. 
 
 Across the mystical frontier, 
 
 From where the sunlight lies. 
 Pale figures passed in outline clear. 
 
 85 
 
No sigh was on their lips, no tear 
 Was in their solemn eyes. 
 
 Their ceaseless foot-falls did not wake 
 
 The atmosphere to sound. 
 They turned not once their eyes, nor spake; 
 Like men not sleeping or awake. 
 
 They crossed the sunless ground. 
 
 Upon their brows were withered leaves, 
 
 Twisted in wreath and crown; 
 And oft the mournful wind unweaves 
 Some chaplet, and the dying leaves 
 Are whirled in eddies down. 
 
 In each the spirit's ray did shine 
 
 As out of mist a star; 
 And in their features' every line 
 The struggling luster seemed to shine 
 
 As something sent from far. 
 
 In some that journeyed in the gloom 
 
 The strange beam was so low, 
 A taper glimmering in a tomb. 
 And dwindling in the deadly gloom. 
 Has not so faint a glow. 
 86 
 
In other sprites the wondrous spark 
 
 Shone sinister and foul; 
 Mine eye full many a stain did mark, 
 Discoloring the native spark 
 
 Of some self-tortured soul. - 
 
 Around the disembodied host, 
 Treading its somber way, 
 
 There flitted many a paler ghost ; 
 
 And soon I saw a vaster host 
 Within the twilight gray. 
 
 Then Azrael, to rend the spell 
 In which my soul did bide: 
 
 " They sought in light alone to dwell. 
 
 And beauty's solitary spell; 
 So light is now denied. 
 
 " They knew not the Eternal Truth ; 
 
 Nor deemed they, in their scorn. 
 That beauty's everlasting youth 
 Springs from the bosom of the Truth, 
 
 And light in Him is bom." 
 
 A pulseless river glided round 
 The lorn and moonless lea. 
 
 " They strove for glory : none is found. 
 
 Oblivion runs its changeless round," 
 The angel said to me. 
 87 
 
" For sweeter was the trumpet's blare 
 
 Than any voice within. 
 Its clamor lives in yonder glare; 
 But here is neither idle blare 
 
 Nor echo of that din." 
 
 Beside the still and doleful stream 
 
 Lone figures seemed to stray, 
 As if to seek a vanished beam, 
 That once had gilded every stream. 
 And ht each common way. 
 
 " Love is the radiance they miss," 
 Once more the angel spake. 
 
 " 'Tis contemplation's joy, the bliss 
 
 Of meditation, which to miss 
 
 Doth here their misery make." 
 
 Waking, I stood with Azrael, 
 The angel sad and stem. 
 Two worlds met where his shadow fell. 
 On this that shade lay many an ell. 
 Though bright the sun did burn. 
 
 88 
 
Introspection 
 
 Somewhat of the soul is lit 
 
 By its own abundant light; 
 Somewhat doth in shadow flit, 
 
 Far removed from usual sight. 
 But sometimes a milder ray 
 Than the soul's accustomed day — 
 Too serene and faint to show 
 Life's full ardor, passion's glow- 
 When the strong beam dies away. 
 Doth like timid moonlight play. 
 
 From a realm whose mystery 
 Is as that of farthest sky, — 
 When the mind's familiar light 
 
 Sinks and leaves a rosy trail. 
 And upon the inner sight 
 
 Rests a revery thin and frail, — 
 Forth the substance of our dreams 
 In phantasmal order teems. 
 
 Out of silence, out of shade. 
 
 Troops the showy cavalcade: 
 
Things that were and shall not be, 
 Things that never were with me, 
 Ever come and ever flee, 
 
 Like the stars when night is rude, 
 
 And light clouds awhile intrude. 
 
 Through that dimmer atmosphere 
 Lights that never do appear 
 In a radiance too clear. 
 
 Tokens of the limitless, 
 
 Glimmer with a tenderness. 
 
 Yet I would not always stray 
 
 Where the moon-lamp, introspection. 
 Gilds the pathway of reflection. 
 And the spirit's constellations. 
 Flaming in their solemn stations, 
 
 Send from far their steadfast ray. 
 In the lusty, common sunlight 
 More than in the mystic moonlight 
 
 Duty tracks her winding way ; 
 
 Joy is there, no mate of Pleasure, 
 Keeping in her heart the treasure. 
 
 Peace, and on her lips a song ; 
 
 Close beside her. Mirth is walking. 
 And the twain with Love are talking, 
 
 Love whose words are wise and strong. 
 90 
 
But, when all too weary grown 
 
 Of the spirit's glaring daylight, 
 Or its frequent cloudy, gray light, 
 
 Let me wander then alone 
 
 In the weird light, introspection, — 
 
 Where the lands and streams are fairy ; 
 Where the elfin. Recollection, 
 
 Builds his landscape sublunary ; 
 
 Where the sylph, Imagination, 
 
 And the goblin known as Fancy, 
 
 Play fantastic necromancy. 
 
 And with many an incantation 
 
 Weave their witch-work bright and airy. 
 In that blest supernal quiet 
 Comes no vexing noise to riot ; 
 
 Still as birds at nest-time's call 
 
 Are the pleasant sounds that haunt me ; 
 If a specter seek to daunt me, 
 
 'Tis but shadow after all. 
 
 Far above, the lights unchanging 
 Through the eternal deep are ranging; 
 
 And on me their strength doth fall. 
 
 91 
 
Immortality 
 
 The variant beauty of the arching dome 
 And spacious floods and flower-bespangled meads 
 Is flashed from that which Hes 
 Beyond the skies 
 And evermore recedes 
 As the illumined vision tracks it home. 
 
 Beyond the changing deep — 
 The lightning-wreathed storm and seas acalm, 
 Where verdant islands sleep, 
 Breathing Elysian balm, 
 And phosphorescent seas whose shimmerings creep 
 Behind the keel that cuts their flakes of fire, 
 And luminous seas that in their fastness keep 
 
 Beauty that thrills the soul with strange desire; 
 Beyond the concave blue, 
 Night's cavern and retreat. 
 Where in eternal tides the great stars go 
 
 Down heights which none can view. 
 And sunset's bravery most fantastical and fleet. 
 And the aurora's glow, 
 An Uncreated Light doth beat. 
 That gleams on all below. 
 92 
 
It is the iris of the lover's dream ; 
 And gilds the fantasy 
 Wherewith youth paints the morn; 
 It doth adorn 
 
 Thy heaven-soaring thought, philosophy; 
 
 And beauteous doth the poet's fabric seem 
 
 Even as it mingles with that clear, transcendent beam. 
 
 Sometimes this fair material veil is shifted, 
 For one rapt moment, and the sight uplifted 
 Is set upon the Beauty Everlasting; 
 The spirit, every weary load down casting. 
 Doth briefly mix with scenes that intimate 
 Her fitting habitation and estate. 
 
 Yet with a natural sigh the soul receives. 
 
 As fades the revelation transitory, 
 The world again and its dull scenery. 
 
 Too strange and far appears that fleeting glory ; 
 Too faint a prescience leaves 
 To lift the terror of mortality. 
 
 But blessed he whose sight 
 Likewise hath the Eternal Goodness hailed; 
 
 Not in the ocean tide, 
 Nor in the mellow mists by autumn trailed 
 Languidly o'er the landscape, nor the flight 
 
 Of the sure stars at night. 
 But face to face in gaze beatified. 
 
 93 
 
The smile of Heaven 
 Is flashed across his fears ; 
 Death, like a troubling vapor which is driven 
 
 Athwart the sun at noonday, disappears ; 
 And in the brightness of that wondrous Love, 
 
 The soul doth look above 
 And see her part in the eternal years. 
 
 The heavenly desire 
 Mounts by the pathway of obedience 
 Above the views of sense. 
 
 Where the stem way winds higher, 
 
 The luring wild hangs dark and dense, 
 Hiding the prospect, though the heart doth tire, 
 And shutting out the far magnificence. 
 But, when upon the summit of endeavor 
 
 The soul serenely stands. 
 While on the hills low hangs life's westering fire, 
 The blue horizon which two worlds doth sever 
 
 Leaps like a prisoner from his bands, 
 
 And flows into illimitable lands 
 And shining seas that roll away forever. 
 
 94 
 
Wisdom and Love 
 
 Is knowing the end of our being? 
 
 To love is to know. 
 Knowing is being and seeing; 
 
 And loving, the height of its glow. 
 Light, as it waxes and brightens. 
 
 Bursts at last into fire: 
 
 Sight, grown strong, lifted higher. 
 
 Kindles quick and is love. 
 And fire again lightens 
 
 With the fervor thereof; 
 And love at its height 
 Is once again sight. 
 
 The gleams that fall round us, transcendently bright, 
 Brief glimpses of infinite force. 
 
 Of the good and the one. 
 Of a wisdom that broods o'er the worlds in their 
 course, — 
 From what star are they cast, or what sun? 
 The effulgence of right? 
 The white flash on the sight 
 95 
 
Like a bolt from the cloud, 
 When duty doth smite? 
 The rapture the merciful feels? 
 The flame in the conscience that turns 
 And writhes as it bums? 
 The assurance that steals 
 
 Through the spirit in penitence bowed? 
 In some moment that raises up man from the sod, 
 These gleams in one splendor are mixt, and are God. 
 
 Here knowledge begins, and it ends, 
 
 In the vision supreme. 
 
 No deep as profound as its beam; 
 No gulf but its wisdom subtends. 
 
 The soul, that did seem 
 But a Bedouin, homeless and driven 
 
 O'er deserts and wastes. 
 
 Is a pilgrim that hastes 
 To the house of his rest, even Heaven, — 
 
 In a light that is more than a dream, 
 For his comfort and ecstasy given. 
 
 Shall love be outrun, 
 Too feeble to soar in the blaze of that sun. 
 When reason, strong eagle, forth, upward doth spring. 
 With glance fixed above? 
 Falters love? 
 96 
 
Or in widening ring, 
 
 From out his broad shadow emerging, 
 Shall she rise, side by side with that conquering wing, 
 
 To the source whence the glory is surging? 
 
 What guides thee, strong eagle of reason, 
 
 And thee, singing lark of love. 
 That ye stray not, ye faint not, nor falter? 
 
 Before you the Heavenly Dove, 
 Whose flight not the tempest can alter. 
 Nor change of the day or the season, 
 
 Flies ever, and points you above. 
 And ye mount to the Infinite Reason, 
 
 To the Infinite Love. 
 
 97 
 
The Blue Lotus 
 
 Beside an Indian lake, the lotus waves 
 Above its vague reflection dreamily, 
 Above the picture, on that liquid breast, 
 Of cloud and sun, of tree and hovering bird. 
 Well doth the meditative Hindu soul 
 Appoint the symbol of its gazing rest 
 And the long dream the centuries cannot shake. 
 Beneath its vision lies the Eternal Quiet, 
 And, mirrored in those depths, life's shadows float. 
 Mysterious flower, forever thou dost speak 
 Of that sweet prince who, in the Ganges' vale. 
 Did put away the monarch's robe to wear 
 The mendicant's and all the gray world's sorrow, 
 Preaching the life contemplative, with loss 
 Of self and misery in the Infinite. 
 In that deep look which grave Gautama cast 
 Into the Absolute the soul appeared 
 But as a wavering picture in the water. 
 Quickly confused with images as vain. 
 Thus, caught in such dim trance, he darkly deemed 
 That so the time-rocked spirit flees away — 
 
 98 
 
E'en as the lotus droops in its brief hour, 
 Its image passing with the withered leaf. 
 A common cure behold for grief and sin. 
 The worm dies with the blossom in whose heart 
 It blindly hollows its luxurious tomb. 
 Too much that gaze was on the withering flower, 
 The vagrant wing, the flesh corruptible. 
 One look within, and he had found his God ; 
 One upward glance, and Hope had stood beside him- 
 Hope, eldest watcher of the morning stars. 
 Ah, patient walker in the Noble Path, 
 The way of righteousness, with thorns beset. 
 Is not to calm Nirs^ana's drear abyss. 
 But blessedness in the compassionate arms. 
 " Come unto me, and I will give you rest. 
 All ye that labor and are heavy laden," 
 Spake One who also came to lead the soul 
 From suff*ering — but not by that strange journey 
 Which circles down an ever-narrowing stair 
 To where the fluttering spark of mind is quenched 
 In darkness on the lowliest round of fate ; 
 Nor by the spiral of a thousand births. 
 That mounts to light and strength and nothingness. 
 " Within my Father's house are many mansions," 
 He likewise said. And there, I deem, shall none, 
 His feet being set inside the House of Life, 
 Desert the banquet and the wine of God, 
 The shining wedding garment to lay off^ — 
 
 99 
 
Turn back to tread again the pilgrim road, 
 And, many times the course fulfilled, throw down 
 His travel-stained habiliments where sleeps 
 The waveless ocean of obhvion. 
 Not so the Master of the Feast ordains. 
 When they who through great tribulation come. 
 Behold at last through joyful tears his face. 
 Life, and not death, to yearning hearts he gives. 
 Life more abundantly forevermore. 
 
 100 
 
Nirvana 
 
 When good Gautama knew the end was near, 
 He sought a shelter from the beams of day 
 Within a grotto's shadow, where the Ganges 
 Rolled downward to the sea its solemn tide. 
 His followers, whom he had taught so well 
 To pity none but them that love the world. 
 Deemed not that loss should come to him, but grieved 
 That death should hide the Master from their sight. 
 So to Ananda, best beloved one. 
 Lord Buddha said: " Mourn not because I go. 
 All bonds which Nature weaves shall be dissolved ; 
 All things into Nirvana's lap shall pour." 
 The Lord of Sacrifice and Suffering 
 Left this last word to Asia — weary Mother, 
 Who craved some syllable of joy and hope. 
 This scentless blossom, on her bosom laid. 
 Hath never eased the hunger of her heart. 
 As still, to some impassive idol turning. 
 She searches those dead eyes for sign of love. 
 Trained was Siddhartha in the art to cure 
 The passion for the world, and wean away 
 
 101 
 
From mad, intemperate joys; well versed to trace 
 
 The misery lurking at the core of sin ; 
 
 Yet Kttle taught in that elusive thing 
 
 Called spirit, and its mystic buoyancy. 
 
 Ah! Buddha, did thy early vanquished self 
 
 Ne'er reappear, with rosy, smiling face, 
 
 In the austere, sad portal of thy days. 
 
 And ask the scepter back? Perchance in dreams. 
 
 Under the fig-tree or a rock's cold shade. 
 
 He stood before thee, beautiful, unchanged. 
 
 And redolent of youth's morning. If such charm 
 
 Our old, rejected selves possess to thwart 
 
 Forgetfulness, shall not the better soul. 
 
 Victorious over every lesser foe. 
 
 All fearless challenge the proud front of Death .^^ 
 
 'Twas thine to strip illusion from the world, 
 
 And show the death's-head 'neath the frolic mask ; 
 
 Not knowing that this too is but a mask. 
 
 Whose fleshless features veil immortal life. 
 
 Nirvana is the winter pall which cloaks 
 
 The next good blossom time ; a light which floods 
 
 The stars at morning, in whose blinding beam 
 
 They quench a little while their regal ray. 
 
 The Hindu seer, when his strong gaze is fixed 
 
 On truth's pure substance, thought's clear, luminous 
 
 void. 
 Beholds the crystal vortex open fly. 
 And Nature like a new creation rise, 
 
 103 
 
As all things from Nirvana's urn are poured. 
 
 Afloat upon the Universal Mind, 
 
 He skirts vast isles and continents of thought, 
 
 Hearing the surf-beat of eternal force. 
 
 So hardy voyager, who puttest out, 
 
 All uncommissioned, to explore that main, 
 
 When thou art summoned to the last, long cruise, 
 
 Shall not the ocean, that upbore thy bark. 
 
 Still bear it, safely pillowed on the wave.? 
 
 Nirvana is the end and the beginning. 
 
 Man's last adventure, and, we trust, the best. 
 
 On its gray beach begins a gentler cruise, 
 
 I deem, than any on life's inland waters. 
 
 And, as we touch at unfamiliar ports. 
 
 The fellow mariners of long ago 
 
 Will ship with us again. No pleasant mates 
 
 Will e'er be lost upon those sunny seas. 
 
 103 
 
To Memory 
 
 Come, dewy-lidded Memory. 
 
 For daylight doth depart; 
 And I would fain commune with thee, 
 
 Sweet sister of my heart. 
 
 Ah, more and more thy face is dear, 
 When thought is backward cast. 
 
 As deepens on each distant year 
 The purple of the past. 
 
 Hope, with the large and wondrous eyes, 
 Where'er I walked once led. 
 
 These days she often comes with sighs, 
 Or sends thee in her stead. 
 
 I marked her steps with gladsomeness ; 
 
 But I have lived to care 
 Much for the rustle of thy dress 
 
 Beside my evening chair. 
 104 
 
The images that heed her wand 
 Strange and elusive shine; 
 
 But thou uncoverest with thy hand 
 The pictures that are mine. 
 
 Thy touch doth all the mists unroll 
 That clog the wistful sight, 
 
 Until the landscapes of the soul 
 Gleam in their pristine light; 
 
 But with a more entrancing sheen 
 Than bathed those fields before, 
 
 The glow of that which once hath been. 
 And will be nevermore. 
 
 Come, dewy-lidded Memory. 
 
 For daylight doth depart ; 
 And I would now commune with thee. 
 
 Sweet sister of my heart. 
 
 105 
 
In St. Agnes' Cemetery 
 
 (By the grave of Brother Azarias.) 
 
 Here would I sometimes stray, with reverent tread, 
 Where, faint with flight, the city's murmurs cease. 
 And tranquil symbols of man's hope and peace, 
 
 Fit for sweet musing, guard each verdant bed. 
 
 Beside one mound would linger, linger still. 
 While haunting cares in meditation clear 
 Dissolved like yonder clouds that disappear 
 
 In the serene above the azure hill. 
 
 Summer is here, and decks the earth mth bloom; 
 It brims with happy song the oriole's beak. 
 Even as he springs the sheltering woods to seek, 
 
 Flashing his ruddy hues from carven tomb. 
 
 The joyous note mars not the silence blest, 
 Nor tender revery ; but seems to me 
 The sudden strain of immortahty 
 Which swift-winged Faith pours from her glorious 
 breast. 
 
 106 
 
Even so that soul its shelter and its nest 
 Was wont to seek in shadow with its God, 
 Where, distant from the ways by worldlings trod, 
 
 Early it built the fabric of its rest. 
 
 Strong spirit, on whose sight, with touch so fresh, 
 The awful charm of Calvary was laid; 
 Who showedst how One in perfectness arrayed 
 
 Is imitated in the trembling flesh. 
 
 In silence and in prayer, in pain and loss. 
 
 Thy strength was nurtured, and thy victory earned. 
 
 Ever the life divine; the proud world spumed; 
 Ever the dragging of the weary cross. 
 
 Perchance that labor seemeth bare and grim. 
 Something that ripens in the common lot, 
 Of sweetness and of bitterness, put not 
 
 Its vari-colored fruitage forth for him; 
 
 Yet other banquet and diviner meat 
 
 Daily its secret cheer and solace spread — 
 Renunciation, that forbidding bread. 
 
 Whose bitter savor at the last is sweet. 
 
 Far, far from Calvary's rock the winding road 
 Where Earthly Wisdom's willful children stray. 
 The babble of their voices fills the day. 
 
 And night with murmuring sound is overflowed. 
 
 107 
 
There pleasure's moon is glassed in singing seas; 
 
 And honor's bow hangs o'er the perilous wold; 
 
 Nor doth the traveler his hand withhold 
 From any flower that lures the wandering breeze. 
 
 Not there, O pilgrim all too quickly sped 
 To thy fair City, caredst thou to roam; 
 For Heavenly Wisdom whispered of thy home. 
 
 And past Earth's short-lived blooms thy footsteps 
 led;— 
 
 Beyond the fight with Error, and the grief 
 
 Whose shadow in these wavering skies doth lower. 
 To gardens in whose happy close the flower 
 
 Of holiness puts forth its shining leaf. 
 
 108 
 
In Memory of Richard Day* 
 
 How shines across this troubled scene 
 
 The light of one dear Christmas time! 
 
 The house is gay with festal green; 
 Without are storm and rime; 
 
 Festooning snow the windows folds ; 
 
 And, by the crackling fire, I see 
 A man with grave, bright face, who holds 
 
 A child upon his knee. 
 
 The child through changing years doth tread 
 The way that then was all untrod ; 
 
 The man hath passed unto the dead, 
 With soul reclined on God. 
 
 The old house stands in vacant gloom — 
 A symbol of the things of Earth; 
 
 The cold wind sighs in every room 
 And round the cheerless hearth. 
 
 * The author's father, born June 25, 1824, died June 11, 1901. 
 
 109 
 
Yet oft I am that musing lad, 
 
 And pray that, when life's best and worst 
 For me shall end, that face will glad 
 
 The last scene, as the first. 
 
 Another picture crowds my view. 
 
 I hear the hoarse, stern call, " To arms ! " 
 It rings the peaceful hamlet through, 
 
 The harvest-laden farms. 
 
 The volunteers' white tents are set 
 
 In the green space within the fort, 
 
 And 'neath the ancient parapet 
 Ontario's white-caps sport. 
 
 And there are tears and sad good-byes. 
 And glory's light on sword and gun, 
 
 And high the Nation's banner flies 
 In the proud autumn sun. 
 
 Sometimes within a pillared hall, 
 
 'Mid relics of the martial plain. 
 
 Where many a furled memorial. 
 Faded by sun and rain, 
 
 Tom by the winds, by missiles rent, 
 Tells an unwearying tale anew. 
 
 The colors of his regiment 
 
 With quickening pulse I view; 
 110 
 
And once again those colors fly 
 
 O'er winter march, in trench and swamp, 
 Or catch the dying soldier's eye 
 
 In fever-smitten camp, 
 
 And wave above the thin blue line 
 
 That stemmed the advance, that July mom, 
 Which, under proud Disunion's sign. 
 
 Swept to its fate forlorn. 
 
 The wheat-field which the bullets reap, 
 
 The railroad cut, the ridge with men 
 
 Thick strewn, into the foreground leap ; 
 Capture and prison pen. 
 
 O darksome days of wrath and tears. 
 No more your shadows I invoke ; 
 
 The sunshine of the better years 
 
 Rests where your thunders broke; 
 
 Rests bright on many a soldier's mound, 
 Thrown up on the ensanguined sward. 
 
 Or gently heaped in hallowed ground 
 Which peace did ever guard. 
 
 He lived to keep the civic creed — 
 
 When the loud war-drum ceased to roll — 
 With valiant word and honest deed 
 
 And ardor of the soul ; 
 111 
 
Yet heedless of the world's poor wreath 
 
 As when, a boy, fair-haired, blue-eyed, 
 
 He stood upon his English heath. 
 And watched the Bristol tide; 
 
 An earnest man, who did rejoice 
 
 The periled cause his own to make ; 
 
 Not quick to hear men's flattering voice, 
 But quick when Duty spake; — 
 
 Holding the plowshare firm and true, 
 
 Against the stubborn sward and rock. 
 
 The rifle where the old flag flew 
 In battle's foremost shock. 
 
 He was of those who toil to build 
 The hving city that shall be. 
 
 Yet cannot know what glories gild 
 Its viewless masonry; 
 
 But shall behold each shining dome. 
 
 And trace with joy each soaring spire. 
 
 Within humanity's last home — 
 The flower of its desire. 
 
 For which 'mid doubt and gloom they strove, 
 With weary arm and failing breath. 
 
 And overcame by faith and love, 
 Victors o'er self and death. 
 119 
 
On the Manuscript Papers of Sir William 
 Johnson 
 
 Within these huge and dusty tomes, 
 Is written more than doth engage 
 
 The listless eye, which sometimes roams 
 Along the yellow page. 
 
 Some gain or loss in border trade, 
 
 Some happy stroke in forest land, 
 
 Account of money lent or paid, 
 A bill, a note of hand, 
 
 Are duly kept and handed down, 
 
 With phrase of olden courtesy, 
 
 'Mid weighty matters of the crown 
 And of the colony. 
 
 And, following that hurrying pen 
 
 Through dingy scrap and faded scroll, 
 
 I catch the tramp of armed men, 
 And hear the war-drum roll. 
 113 
 
Against the greenwood's waving mass, 
 The plumes of eager warriors dance ; 
 
 And through some gloomy vista pass 
 The grenadiers of France; 
 
 While, quicker, louder yet, I hear. 
 
 First beating now, with sudden start, 
 
 And thrilling all the wide frontier. 
 The valiant common heart. 
 
 Here one proud name begins to shine, 
 
 Piercing through Braddock's black eclipse, 
 
 A name to be men's rallying sign. 
 When heard from Freedom's lips. 
 
 Here Putnam lights the fierce foreground. 
 In every peril trained that lurks 
 
 By Horican's clear wave or round 
 Ticonderoga's works. 
 
 Upon Oswego's triple fort. 
 
 And William Henry's bastioned walls. 
 Startling the wild with strange report. 
 
 The martial lightning falls. 
 
 And Abercrombie's columns reel 
 
 From Carillon's infernal chime. 
 As bold Montcalm, with clutch of steel, 
 
 Holds back the clock of time. 
 114 
 
And, as the variant note of war 
 
 In echoes through the Long House runs, 
 I feel the discords wakened far 
 
 In Nature's dusky sons ; 
 
 Around the doubtful council fire. 
 
 Rages the rude though high debate, 
 
 When in the scales of proud empire 
 Hangs poised the savage state. 
 
 Honor to him whose wisdom charmed 
 
 The lifted axe and brandished knife, 
 
 And held the hovering wrath disarmed 
 Through the long, dubious strife: 
 
 The pale chief of the Iroquois, 
 
 Well taught in all their lore and arts. 
 
 And strong to wake to fear or joy 
 Those stern barbarian hearts ; 
 
 Yet with no weapon in his hand. 
 
 Though long he wielded purse and sword,- 
 No attribute of high command. 
 
 As strong as his pledged word. 
 
 Gone are the fleurs-de-lis of France; 
 
 Gone is the banner of St. George ; 
 Vanished the bloody, old romance 
 
 From wood and stream and gorge. 
 115 
 
The student's delving spade explores 
 
 The relics of primeval man; 
 And painfully his art restores 
 
 The life of tribe and clan. 
 
 And where Fort Johnson's roof-tree rose, 
 Within the Mohawk's storied vale, 
 
 Swift traffic murmurs, as it flows, 
 A mild, untroubled tale. 
 
 So, as I trace along the past 
 
 Old lines of conflict, and behold 
 
 The ancient barriers upcast 
 
 To stay some power o'er bold, 
 
 I seem as one who stands beside 
 
 The beach-marks where in days of eld 
 
 A sea hath rolled, and where the tide 
 Alternate ebbed and swelled; 
 
 And scarce believes what storm-notes rang, 
 What billows rode in angry chase, 
 
 And how was wrought, with shock and clang, 
 The landscape's kindly face. 
 
 116 
 
John Henry Newman 
 
 From other teachers oft I turn to thee, 
 O tranquil master of our highest thought, 
 Whose sweet discourse is with a wisdom fraught, 
 
 For rest and healing of humanity. 
 
 'Tis of the soul and of its primal hurt 
 
 Thou speakest ever; this is all thy theme; 
 And for its cure thou hast no pagan dream 
 
 Of beauty, with deceitful promise girt. 
 
 Nor hast thou found, in Nature's sullen waste, 
 Aught of her patterning but snare and lure. 
 Aught, 'mid her turbulence, that stands secure, 
 
 Whereon the fashion of her hand is placed. 
 
 Nature, the savage, whose divinest speech 
 
 Is caught from man ; whose highest hint is blind 
 Until deciphered by a wiser mind. 
 
 Hath in herself no word of God to teach. 
 
 117 
 
Seated above the prophets who foreshow 
 The kingdoms of the flesh, thou dost descry 
 One kingdom hovering in the misty sky, 
 
 And all the rest dislustered and brought low. 
 
 Whether it come in Armageddon's wake, 
 With sanguine terrors of Esdraelon, 
 Or as the gradual glory of the sun 
 
 At morning- time, it shall all kingdoms break: — 
 
 The city of our peace, of which thou fain 
 Wouldst find a type and symbol, set sublime 
 Amid the mournful, shifting ways of time, 
 
 A beacon to the wanderers of the plain. 
 
 The spark that did above thy pathway hang. 
 From out the shadows of the past appeared. 
 The solemn signals which thy journey cheered. 
 
 From out tradition's olden silence rang, — 
 
 Guiding thee ever toward thy spirit's home, 
 Even as, at nightfall, on the traveler's ear. 
 The summons of a distant bell falls clear. 
 
 With glad recurrence, as his footsteps roam. 
 
 Thus many, following that broken ray. 
 
 Have sought the traces of thy pilgrim feet. 
 And listened for the token, far and sweet. 
 
 That quivers on the darkness where they stray. 
 
 118 
 
The soul upon some visible si^ would rest. 
 What though the wisdom of an iron age, 
 Too self-sufficing, count such pilgrimage 
 
 Void as the palmer's and crusader's quest? 
 
 Forever thou wilt be the hero saint 
 
 Of those who battle with their gloom and doubt. 
 Adventurers for truth, who dare set out 
 
 To pierce the solitude, nor fall nor faint. 
 
 119 
 
Incarnation 
 
 This thought, once cherished by the saints, doth steal 
 
 Across the centuries : when Christ was bom. 
 
 The sinful flesh was freed from ancient scorn, 
 Made spotless by the glory it did feel; 
 Thenceforth a heavenly brightness and a seal 
 
 Ineffable the house of man adorn ; 
 
 And whoso hath this clay in reverence worn, 
 He doth the body of the Lord reveal. 
 High thought, and sweet! exalting mortal frame. 
 
 And gladdening the heart that it doth feed; 
 
 Of such our proud humanity hath need. 
 Yet I must keep this temple, too, from shame. 
 
 The soul can hallow it ; and bid recede 
 The unclean spirits, scourged with living flame. 
 
 II 
 
 " O thou life of my flesh ! " so Behmen saith. 
 That mystic sigh, from out the stormy years. 
 Is freighted with the joy of welling tears, 
 120 
 
Exulting in the Man of Nazareth; — 
 
 Who breaks the bonds of wantonness and death. 
 Above the soul his guarding sign uprears, 
 And from the brows of men the image clears 
 
 Of Aphrodite and of Ashtoreth. 
 
 Such love to the Incarnate Purity 
 
 The ascetic breathes from passionless retreat. 
 Yet the resounding place where champions meet 
 
 Hath heard as well that prayer of victory, 
 When one who hath contended, yields afresh 
 To armor and to arms his shrinking flesh. 
 
 121 
 
The Tranquil Mind 
 
 To things most dear — to peace and quietude — 
 
 The world, camped round me, with its martial roar, 
 Seemeth unfriendly, uttering evermore 
 
 Its enmity against the soul's high mood. 
 
 Some place must be unfretted by this feud, 
 
 Safe from alarm and challenge, when they pour 
 Forth from the brazen trump — some spot before 
 
 Whose charm retire the clangors that intrude. 
 
 Nay! nay! my soul. Not such thy peace must be; 
 But such as when above the battlefield, 
 
 Betwixt the evening's and the morning's fray. 
 
 The stars ascend in their serenity, 
 
 And in the Heavenly order is revealed 
 The victory which doth on Earth delay. 
 
 122 
 
The Unused Talent 
 
 III fared that servant, keen in sophistries, 
 Who hid from sight the talent of his Lord, 
 And gave his bounty back, ignobly stored. 
 
 Without increase from gainful usuries. 
 
 Reft of the wealth his bold heart did despise, 
 Cast from the house of labor and reward, 
 He strives with darkness in a place abhorred, — 
 
 Some gulf of lamentations and of sighs. 
 
 Like seas that idly waste a sandy bar. 
 
 His labors are, that fret against their bound; 
 And ever, as he treads th' unresting round. 
 
 The Heaven of Opportunity afar. 
 
 Afar and dim, gleams over the profound. 
 
 An inaccessible, reproachful star. 
 
 123 
 
Service 
 
 The world unto its service seeks to bind 
 
 All goodly gifts, all fair and generous powers ; 
 
 The courage high wherewith the good God dowers 
 The sons of men ; the will, that crowns our kind ; 
 Genius, that radiant angel of the mind, 
 
 Who sows his path along the earth with flowers ; 
 
 Beauty and youth ; and Wisdom, whose mute hours 
 Are changed to gold for sordid hands to find. 
 But, when the Saviour, by Gennesaret's marge, 
 
 Wearing the wounds where late the Roman drove 
 The spikes, the spear, to Peter gave such charge 
 
 As death should be the last fulfilling of, 
 Three things He asked to make that sersdce large — 
 
 Three things were nobly pledged — and each was 
 love. 
 
 124 
 
Life's Unity 
 
 Life, like a many-branched and blossomed tree, 
 Lifts its perpetual burden to the throne 
 Of Him who is the Infinite and One, 
 
 And in His works Himself delights to see. 
 
 The type which is the soul of things that be, 
 Unfolds its varied pattern, zone by zone. 
 With many a splendid hierarchy shown 
 
 Against the azure of eternity. 
 
 In Him alone such unity can rest ; 
 In Him can such infinitude repose; — 
 
 This truth the star by which we shall explore 
 The force which ever through creation flows ; 
 
 Nor thought sink down, by the obscure opprest, 
 Voyaging on a sea without a shore. 
 
 125 
 
The Invisible Sea 
 
 (" The sound of the sea distinctly heard on the tops of the 
 hills, which we could never hear in summer" — Dorothy Words- 
 worth's Journal^ entry of Jan. 23.) 
 
 And now the dreary earth is bare and bleak ; 
 
 A wondrous quiet broods upon the hill; 
 
 The voices of the tuneful days are still; 
 And, inland far, the invisible waters speak. 
 Too grave to drown light Summer's mirth, too weak 
 
 To stifle Autumn's plaint, morose and shrill. 
 
 The awful murmurs of the ocean fill 
 Winter's white spaces over vale and peak. 
 Note of the Everlasting, thus I hear. 
 
 When sorrow strips the foliage from the soul, 
 And all the days are silent and austere. 
 
 Thy music break on Time's dissolving shoal. 
 
 Then do I hear the long incoming roll 
 And its outgoing, not without a fear. 
 
 196 
 
Whippoorwill 
 
 When the first star gives vision to the night, 
 Thou giv'st a voice to silence, whippoorwill, 
 Telling too mockingly a tale of ill. 
 
 Poor truant Will ! He was a friendless wight, 
 
 Who fled away at mom from scourge and slight, 
 To weave strange, boyish dreams by woodland rill 
 And, when the gloaming fell on dale and hill. 
 
 Thou heardst his bitter cry, wood-haunting sprite. 
 
 Now, where the wind raves on a rocky shore. 
 The truant boy sleeps on and on, within 
 
 A ship engulfed below an island's wall — 
 Loiters in death beneath the stormy din ; 
 
 And him disturbs the billows' play no more 
 Than, far away, thy lone, persistent call. 
 
 127 
 
France 
 
 When shall the livid Furies that torment 
 
 Thy glorious spirit be forever gone? 
 
 And thou obey the star that beckons on 
 Thy heavenly strength, in direful transports spent? 
 Thou wast the light of men, and nations went 
 
 With upraised vision when thy radiance shone; 
 
 And none may tread thy path, which far and yon 
 Pierces the shadows of the steep ascent. 
 Ah! the unconquerable rage that makes 
 
 Thy breast its home, and wields its fitful scourge 
 As the grim sisters ply their whip of snakes, 
 
 This is thy destiny, whose star doth urge, — 
 
 A star that shall not touch the western surge 
 'Till all things fail, and dawn the night o'ertakes. 
 
 128 
 
Germany 
 
 We knew thee once a shadow-loving maid, 
 In Wisdom's secret haunt, content to lean 
 Where gliding springs gave back thy forehead's 
 sheen ; 
 
 And on thy soul unworldly calm was laid. 
 
 For thee the trumpet blew, the war-horse neighed; 
 Death rode beside thee in the crimson scene : 
 There scarce the war-seamed field again is green; 
 
 And in thy hand glitters the unsheathed blade. 
 
 Lives there beneath the battle's lingering scowl 
 No thought of Wisdom's sweet obscurity — 
 
 Sacred to stillness and the musing owl? 
 By her clear fountains better 't were to be 
 Than spy through rifted smoke winged Victory, 
 
 Around whose head circle the vultures foul. 
 
 129 
 
Italy 
 
 " AiiAS 1 thou sleepest, drunken Italy," 
 
 Quoth Ariosto, in heroic line, 
 
 To the great mother, in whose veins, like wine, 
 Her inspiration beat with ecstasy. 
 Crowned with a rare and bright authority, 
 
 Seeing the vision, in a light divine, 
 
 Which Greece did see across her morning shine, 
 All privilege was hers save to be free. 
 She wakens now and casts away the spell ; 
 
 No more the alien kings may do her wrong. 
 But this no son with voice like his doth tell, 
 
 Who in Ferrara poured his ample song; 
 And from her gaze the vision doth retire. 
 That in her soul such frenzy did inspire. 
 
 130 
 
Dante 
 
 The pagan bard who fought at Marathon, 
 
 And showed of Pelops' house, in his stem verse, 
 The monstrous doom, and Thebes' revolving curse, 
 
 Borne and bequeathed by Laius' hapless son, 
 
 Saw from art's blameless height each sinful one 
 On whom the ire of Heaven beat ever worse. 
 But thou, O Tuscan, bidden to rehearse 
 
 The woes that in their endless circuit run. 
 
 And the harsh toils that purge the soul from blame, 
 Didst move 'mid torments, hear Francesca tell 
 
 Of deathless passion and of deathless shame, 
 And Ugolino how they hate in hell. 
 From lips celestial hear thy sin as well, 
 
 And plunge all eager in the cleansing flame. 
 
 II 
 
 When thou hadst learned how bitter is the bread 
 The stranger gives, how steep another's stairs, 
 
 131 
 
Bologna (still that tale her fame upbears) 
 
 Would crown thy temples, yet ungarlanded. 
 
 But thou, toward Florence, mother stem and dread. 
 So oft entreated by thy sword, thy prayers. 
 Still gazing with the love which ne'er despairs, 
 
 Wouldst that no other hand should deck thy head. 
 
 What wouldst thou with the bay, or other wreath 
 Than the keen circle of thy platted thorns. 
 Thou on whose brows the light of living moms 
 
 Bides with the shadows from the gulfs of death? 
 Last weakness of a soul which all else scorns 
 
 That lies the level of its sight beneath ! 
 
 in 
 
 " Behold the man who once went down to hell ! " 
 
 So did the woman of Verona speak, 
 
 Seeing the furrowed brow and haggard cheek. 
 The glance no mystery of pain could quell; 
 Noting the strength which did uphold so well 
 
 That haughty head 'mid woes not few or weak. 
 
 Even that strength, refusing to be meek, 
 Seemed of the ruined spirits that rebel. 
 Too long thou tarriedst where the sun and lark 
 
 Mount never upward to rejoice the sky; 
 Too deeply on thy soul the living mark 
 
 Was graven of relentless misery. 
 As in Verona long ago, thou still 
 Art he who most hath sounded human ill. 
 
 132 
 
IV 
 
 To Dante's mother, sleeping, ere his birth. 
 There came (so doth Boccaccio's story run) 
 A vision of the bay-tree, and her son 
 
 Clutching the wreath desired of all the Earth. 
 
 'Twas such a dream as oftentimes makes mirth 
 
 Of mothers' hearts, — from their fond wishes spun ;- 
 Whose blind love only sees the victory won. 
 
 And not the scars beneath the laurel's girth. 
 
 Mother of Dante, if thou couldst perceive 
 All that the unawakened years enfold. 
 
 The sword of prophecy thy soul would cleave. 
 
 Like that which once on Mary's spirit fell. 
 When in the temple Simeon foretold 
 
 The coming of the day of Israel. 
 
 Unto Ravenna, on whose generous breast. 
 When he had closed the weary pilgrimage. 
 He turned his vision from a troublous age 
 
 To gaze into the city of his rest. 
 
 Came those, before the end, who loved him best. 
 Bringing such cheer as might his griefs assuage; 
 And one who bore the name he did engage 
 
 To make among the names of women blest. 
 
 Then flashed the poet's thought across the years, 
 
 133 
 
And tremblingly he saw a little maid, 
 
 All in a goodly crimson stuff arrayed, 
 And beauty such as stirred the source of tears ; 
 Then viewed again the calm eternal skies, 
 More glorious, lit by Beatrice's eyes. 
 
 VI 
 
 Where Caprione rises from the sea, 
 A monastery stood, before whose gate 
 The master halted once, on arch and grate 
 
 Keeping his gaze full long and wistfully ; 
 
 And, being asked of what his quest might be. 
 
 He thus made answer : " Peace," — that happy state 
 Which he should hardly win, nor win till late. 
 
 On fields where camped the exultant enemy. 
 
 So to the cloister of his song I come. 
 
 Where the loud world's pursuing echoes fail; 
 
 And, if the hearts which make this house their home. 
 Ask what I seek within its quiet pale. 
 
 My answer is none other than he gave 
 
 At Caprione, by blue Spezzia's wave. 
 
 VII 
 
 We know the sources whence thy spirit drew. 
 
 Angel and Seraph of the Schools, they brought 
 To thee the shining substance of their thought. 
 
 Hellas and Rome poured out their souls anew. 
 
 Thy mystic alchemy did all pursue 
 
 134 
 
That might by still or crucible be caught; 
 
 And systems of gray Eld, thy patience wrought 
 Into a wisdom more divinely true. 
 But lo ! a higher hath thee in his debt — 
 
 Than sage or singer lends a greater part. 
 In Florence's street a beauteous figure stands, 
 Greeting upon her lips, her eyes, her hands. 
 All blessedness in her sweet speech is met; 
 
 Then Love, the tyrannous, cries : " Behold thy 
 heart ! " 
 
 VIII 
 
 If death had never reaped thy heart's young flower. 
 Nor the stem angel of thy fortune sent 
 Thee forth most desolate, how hadst thou spent 
 
 The ardor of thy spirit and its power? 
 
 Perhaps thy late enamored lute in bower 
 Of troubadour a rarer note had lent. 
 And in some Court of Love thy argument 
 
 Worn the Proven9al rose a little hour. 
 
 But not in languorous strife of troubadour 
 
 Thou wast to learn how love should honored be ; 
 
 The song that makes his ecstasy seem poor 
 Was nurtured in no school of gallantry. 
 
 'Mid combats grim as death thy spirit wove 
 
 Such thoughts as angels breathe in praising love. 
 
 135 
 
Don Quixote 
 
 Not many heroes do I hold, rare knight, 
 
 Dearer than thee. Not one on loftier quest 
 Has bared his pure escutcheon to the light; 
 
 And never shame defiles thy roving crest. 
 Mirth, victor o'er thine onset, comes with tears 
 
 Back from the tilt, regretful that his lance 
 Devotes so brave a heart to cruel jeers, 
 
 And half he quails at thy unhumbled glance. 
 Thou art of that immortal company 
 
 Who challenge wrong in Folly's ample lists. 
 And Charlemagne's and Arthur's chivalry 
 
 Fade on our vision in the far-ofF mists ; 
 But thou on Rozinante forth dost fare. 
 Seeking the foe who foils thy spear in air. 
 
 136 
 
Sea-Wine 
 
 The wind that blows from the main 
 Is a strong wine for the brain, 
 And the surges dashed with rain, 
 Or touched by the sunbeam's feet, 
 Are a wine for the heart full sweet. 
 
 This liquor the sea-gods quaff. 
 Laying by the three-pronged staff, 
 While the vintage as they laugh. 
 Into bubbles and white foam shakes, 
 And over the huge brim breaks. 
 
 Oh ! it kindles a daring mood. 
 
 When mixed with a brave man's blood. 
 
 And stout as the lion's brood 
 
 Are the hearts that upward leap 
 
 When they drink of that bowl full deep. 
 
 137 
 
The Sea-Bird 
 
 The wind rests on the sea; 
 But rests not, stays not, he; 
 And his liberty must be 
 Ever and ever to haste 
 Over the muttering^ waste. 
 
 In the sea's trough rest the ships ; 
 But the wing which the sea-bird dips, 
 This wing whence the salt spray drips. 
 In the furrow of death must fail 
 Or instant the storm-heights scale. 
 
 Sprite of the stormy air. 
 All free things onward fare. 
 Nor the wing that's freest dare. 
 For a stolen moment blest, 
 Fold over the panting breast. 
 
 138 
 
The Petrel 
 
 The petrel's wing, though frail, 
 Is set against the gale . 
 Which rends the mariner's sail ; 
 And his joy it is to fly 
 In the vortex of the sky. 
 
 Up ! little bird, and sweep 
 With the spray across the deep, 
 While playmate billows leap; 
 The storm's breath and its strife 
 Are thy heart's breath and its life. 
 
 Blithe seafarer! thy home 
 Under the limitless dome, 
 Over the measureless foam. 
 Storms are as down to thy breast ; 
 Betwixt wing-beats is thy rest. 
 
 139 
 
Two Castaways 
 
 There are two islands bare 
 
 Under the torrid air, 
 
 In ocean's desolate glare; 
 
 On each a sun-browned face 
 
 Turns from the sea-birds' chase,- 
 
 Turns to the rim of sky 
 Where the unseen ships go by, 
 And not a ship doth lie 
 In the level offing near. 
 While lusty sailors cheer. 
 
 One castaway shall mark 
 At last a rescuing bark 
 Heeding his signal spark; 
 But one shall live and die 
 Alone with sea and sky. 
 
 140 
 
The Quest 
 
 The isle which the mariner finds, 
 Sphered by the waves and winds, 
 The beach which his surf boat grinds, 
 Long in his heart hath lain, 
 Long in the sleepless brain. 
 
 Forever we seek the known, 
 Out of whose perilous zone 
 Light on the soul hath shone. 
 Who for the unknown cares. 
 Struggles and prays and dares? 
 
 Pierces the waste which lies 
 Round the islands of surprise? 
 Only a change of skies. 
 And out of the mist, behold ! 
 The vision dear and old. 
 
 141 
 
The Portuguese Men-of-War 
 
 Sometimes, when the course is dim, 
 Where the barks of the merchants swim, 
 Soft lights fill the sea-trough's brim, 
 And luminous squadrons wheel 
 Around the mariner's keel. 
 
 Wee craft are they, and frail. 
 If the storm-wind's whistling flail 
 Shall strike on the scarlet sail. 
 And the wave with a quicker shock 
 On the purple hull shall knock. 
 
 Never will navies reel 
 
 Back from their broadside's peal, 
 
 Nor cities their lightnings feel. 
 
 Calm, 'neath their effulgence unfurled, 
 
 Rests the wide watery world. 
 
 142 
 
The Empty Nest 
 
 Deep in the cliff's ragged breast, 
 Which welter and spray invest, 
 Lonely, deserted, a nest! 
 The wings that once roofed it are fled; 
 The notes that once cheered it are sped. 
 
 Oh! the gray, beaten rock, austere 
 As its ages piled year on year. 
 Sees life as a brief dream here. 
 The bird and nest in the rift 
 Are dust which the wind doth lift. 
 
 Yet the days when a glory shone 
 From the vast of the gray, old stone. 
 From the timeless, trackless unknown. 
 Are the days when its calm was stirred 
 By the wing and note of a bird. 
 
 143 
 
Fire of Drift- Wood 
 
 Crackle and sparkle and shine, 
 Drift of the ship-heaving brine! 
 From these red embers of thine, 
 Flits through my heart and my brain 
 All the romance of the main. 
 
 Hissing and murmur and roar! 
 On is the tempest once more. 
 Lo ! now a wave-plowing prore ; 
 Now a wave- weltering deck; 
 Now but a mast-traihng wreck. 
 
 On that wreck sea-nymphs have danced. 
 When the night to its noon advanced, 
 And the hull 'neath the moon lay tranced. 
 Now in thy embers they reel. 
 Mingle and sever and wheel. 
 
 144 
 
The Cruise of Mars 
 
 In the blue ether far, 
 Signahng mortals with its evening glow, 
 Hangs the red star. 
 
 In the years long ago, 
 Like a strong ship, it caught the viewless gales 
 That always blow. 
 
 Vain is the voice that hails 
 The ruddy voyager, and would inquire 
 Whither it sails. 
 
 Vast is that sea and dire; 
 But safe it rides, convoyed by the great sun 
 With sails of fire. 
 
 Since the brave cruise begun, 
 What souls have voyaged in that ancient bark. 
 Whose hour is run? 
 
 145 
 
Did they the haven mark? 
 Mark where in distant seas the harbor lies, 
 Lit by some spark? 
 
 Knows one the ship's emprise? 
 Or do the mariners with orders sealed 
 Sail the bright skies? 
 
 If Sin her scepter wield 
 O'er them I know not ; nor if War there lift 
 His sanguine shield. 
 
 Nor if the drowsy gift 
 Loathly they take, when round them solemnly 
 Death's visions drift. 
 
 As thou, weird bark, so we 
 Journey across the tideless, voiceless waste, 
 Nor whither see. 
 
 Our ship, too grand for haste. 
 Plows the serene, and bears a watchful crew, 
 Sad-eyed, stem-faced. 
 
 Here Sorrow doth pursue 
 Her round, and Misery fold her bloodless brood 
 'Neath the night dew. 
 146 
 
With faith and hardihood, 
 We go in quest of what no soul of man 
 Hath understood; 
 
 Hoping that One doth scan 
 The fleets celestial, and with strength unworn 
 Their courses plan. 
 
 Thus on some sliining mom 
 The worlds may draw together, where the tide 
 Flows round their bourn; 
 
 And Earth, red Mars, may ride 
 Through the charmed ether, and, her voyage o'er, 
 Moor by thy side. 
 
 147 
 
&£.>*i -»-'• =^ iis''<^^ 
 
 One copy del. to Oat. Div. 
 
 JAN 3 1910 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 988 619