Songs After Noon And Other Poems £y ALVIN B. BISHOP Class / ..... -^ ^LJjLd O Book c_^J*~-Li (Copyright N?___ COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/songsafternoonOObish SONGS AFTER NOON BY ALVIN B. BISHOP BOSTON RICHARD G. BADGER The Gorham Press 1906 Copyiight 1906 by Alvin B. Bishop All Rights Reserved LIBRARY of CONGRESS Two Copies Received OCT 17 1906 Copyright Entry ®&2 /?./?* c* CLASS CL XXc.No, COPY B. Printed at THE GORHAM PRESS Boston, U. S. A. *% DEDICATION TO MY MOTHER My little Mother: — My most heartfelt song — / zuould it were my best — flies hack to you, The tenderest critic poet ever knew. From wider, wilder flight pursued too long. But ah! home-flying wings are ever strong, No matter what the storm they struggle through; For spite of all home-love is stanch and true, And, though it stray, can never quite go wrong. So the dear home and you that make it dear Shall have amid my verse a corner here, Sacred to faith and love and that sweet past Which teaches through the years what love is best; Which brings your boy for comfort to one breast, His life's first solace — might it be his last! O mother-love, most blest, O sweet, in joy or rest, And first — and last — and best! Sweet mother-love. The keys of life thou hast, The future and the past. O first — and best — and last! Strong mother-love. PROEM / sing, though from life's afternoon, The joys of morning, and the tune Of just-awakened birds, that call Into the heart hope's madrigal. I sing of Beauty, as it lies Enskied in heaven or woman's eyes: I sing of Truth, that "better part" Which giveth grace to heart or art'. I sing the Good, and would not reach A strain too rare its worth to teach. From grove and grot and crannied flower; From bursting buds and April shower; From violet and pink and rose; From vernal vines and winter snows, From sea-hid pearls and stars above — / tell the myriad charms of Love'. Then weary-winged I cease to roam, And sing the songs of home, sweet home! CONTENTS Page Eventide 9 Morning Glories 9 An April Afternoon 10 Soul Wealth 10 Fear Not, Doubt Not 1 1 The Metamorphosis 1 1 Let Your Light So Shine 12 To Sleep 12 To the Children 13 The Children 13 Children's Kisses 15 Dream Song 16 Faith 17 Bedtime Song 17 Far Away 18 Wish Song 20 Evening Hymn 20 The Evening Star 21 Night's Nirvana 22 Growing Old 23 NOTES OF ALTRUISM AND OPTIMISM Optimisms 26 The Joy of Living 27 News Comments 27 Holy Ground 28 The Pledge of Peace 29 Life-Lore 30 5 CONTENTS Page Look Beyond 31 Cast Thy Bread 32 Song 32 Wealth 33 TYPES AND CHARACTERS Forgiven 36 Her Telegram 40 The Cobbler's Daughter 42 My Oriole in the Morning 48 The Climbers 50 Vacation Thoughts 51 A Poet 52 The Aged Poet 53 The Poet Dead 54 Consider the Flowers 54 The Battle of Violets 55 Appreciation 57 Poet and Farmer 57 Dandelions 59 Helene 60 A Maiden's Ideal 61 Happier Days 61 June in October 62 The Lesson 63 A Bride 64 To a Fair Little Stranger 64 Envoi . 64 6 CONTENTS THE POESY OF A RING Page To My Wife 68 Revelations 7 2 Love's Elation . 72 A New Old Song 73 The Tryst 73 Love and Life 74 Hymn to Woman 75 Numen 76 The Shadow on the Dream; a Fragment. ... 76 OCCASIONAL AND MISCELLANEOUS PIECES AND TRANSLATIONS To My Father 82 The One Word 82 Kesha 83 To My Son 85 The Old Year 88 Easter 89 Baby's Catechism 90 A Baby in the Home . 91 Little Things 92 Unconditional Surrender 93 Requiem 94 Requiescat 95 Strivings 96 The Kingfisher 96 7 CONTENTS Page Redundancy 97 A Hint to Artists 97 The World's View of Him. 98 The Light of Russia 99 The Two Fathers 100 "Eternal Memory" 101 Altgeld's Last Thought 102 To An English Poet 102 On Re-Reading a Favorite Poet 103 An American Poet . 103 On Another 104 To D. F. S 104 Song 105 Sunday Religion 106 A Baby's Face 106 Of Such are the Kingdoms 107 Graduation 107 Fragment 107 Notes 108 Achievement 109 The Fate 109 The Silent Land no The Mountain Voice in The Brooklet 112 On the Death of a Pet Sparrow 113 Song 114 EVENTIDE Old Age, though thou be neighbor unto death, Thou art no kin of his. He, dark as night, In valleys lurks. Thou walk'st the hills of white Where Hope still chants and Memory slumbereth On what she cannot praise ; where peaceful breath And leisure and calm moods lend fresh delight To sunset and the evestar. So the sight Hath cheer at eventide, as Scripture saith. So, as the seasons rush, I dread thee not, But hail thy silvered crown with placid joy; So near the end as once, a dreamy boy, I sought the shadows of my trundle-cot — Thither by mother's kiss made bold to creep — ■ And murmured "Now I lay me down to sleep." MORNING GLORIES "The glory of the morn is passed away. The toil abides until the set of sun, The tears and travail till the day is done. Lo! where the pride and promise of the day?" So, with a sigh, I heard one murmur. "Nay," Another answered, "day is scarce begun. Beneath the stars the deepest joys are won. Greet dusk with feast and mirth." Still better, pray, "Let not for dark the voice of praise be dumb." 'The morning and the evening' does it say Marked off the primal splendors done and blessed ? Stages by which Creation marched to rest? 'The evening and the morning' are His day, The glory of the morn is yet to come ! 9 AN APRIL AFTERNOON Beauty is ever with us. Though the day Was dreariest of the lagging days of spring, So filled with cloud and sleet and murmuring Of winds about the sodden fields, that lay Snow-clad till noon; of sunshine not a ray! Yet — one shrill twitter and a rustling wing — A redbreast dropped and made his sportive swinj The dead bough at my window. Lo ! away Fly April and her mist and gust and rain. The flooding pulse of June throngs on my soul. I hear the swarming chorus of the lea, The joy of lambs and children, and I see In gold-green waves the molten sunlight roll Across the happy deeps of summer grain. SOUL-WEALTH He is not poor who has the mind to hold The treasures of this garden world of God, Though not a rood of it his foot has trod, Saying '"Tis mine." I have been young, am old, But ne'er met Soul a-begging. Wealth untold My neighbor's acres yield me. His the clod ; Mine is the largess of the flowery sod. For me at sunset are the hills of gold. I grudge him not the coinage of his hopes, Who mints the garnered corn, the cellared wine, When heaven's caress upon the sunny slopes Flings me the glory of the shock and vine ; Or his thick sleep when I go dreaming through The moonlit vales he owns, but never knew. 10 FEAR NOT, DOUBT NOT Fear not too much, though life hold much to affright ; Doubt not too far, though little can be known. 'T is what man dares that brings him to his own, What he believes that gives him heart to fight. Doubt never led the vanguard of the right, Fear never planted truth upon its throne. That lesson, youth, carve as in living stone, And, for thine age, write this in sunset light: Fear not at all; for what can life or death Do unto thee, the soul being all in all? The first — thine own — make meet for Heaven's review ; The other — His gift — may then be smiled on, too. Then face the future with unbated breath, And — thy best done — await the final call. THE METAMORPHOSIS Far spent the night and hush each sleeper's breath — My dreaming left me, (near my slumber's end,) Without the cheer of light or hand of friend, And faced by her whom, whispering, men call Death. Nun-garbed and haggard, pallid as a wraith, She beckoned me that nearer I should wend. The closer view did strange enchantment lend, And growing sweetness bathed her as she saith : "Come unto me, O tearful, heavy-laden." Her robe unfolded and her breast shone bare — Beyond the dreams of youth ah! she was fair. II She drew me to herself, a rose-lipped maiden! She balmed my weeping with her glorious hair, And all my dream was sweetly buried there. LET YOUR LIGHT SO SHINE I met an old man in a shop one day, Whom 1 had often greeted on the street, But ne'er held converse with. On trembling feet Feeble and bowed he shambled ; yet a ray Of cheer he left behind him. Almost gay His wan face smiled — for saintly halo meet! And now he grasped my hand and thus did greet: 'My friend, and are you on the Heavenly way? And shall we — promise me! — at God's throne meet?" And I, as best one worldly-thoughted might, Left answering "I trust . . ." or ". . . hope I may . . ." Then mused : What creed, with churchly chant- ing sweet, Could hymn such faith as does that face's light, Or breathe such hope against the oncoming Night? TO SLEEP Beloved, by poets feigned the roseate twin Of one who shall be nameless here, since I Would image nothing somber as I lie Waiting, like promised swain, to be let in To sweetheart dear as life ; O let me win, By wooings tender and soft minstrelsy Of airiest revery, one caress from thee, Happy as child-love, as my own has been! 12 Not thy full amorous embrace, O Sweet, I ask; not a long night of dreamless rest, Pillowed upon the ripeness of thy breast; Such boon in these grey days were all unmeet. Give me one mother-kiss, glad balm of yore ! That I may dream myself a child once more. TO THE CHILDREN When I behold your joys, ye children dear, In you recall the beauty of past days, Blessings upon you and unending praise I shall invoke while memory hold clear. For at the portal of the circling year Ye stand — the flowery parting of life's ways, Amassing violets, hoarding vernal lays And fairy myths, our wintry hearths to cheer. Poets are ye from out the virgin clime Where nature builds and love attunes the lay, Bards with no need of rhythm or of rime, Lyrists and laureates of the glad To-day. Still lapped are ye in immortality — Sing on, sweet bards, the songs that never die. THE CHILDREN Let me have children around me As, the years of my life gliding o'er, I catch the first sound of the ripples That break on the farther Shore. I think that I never should chide them In their noisy but innocent glee, For the days of my own dear childhood They would ever bring back to me. 13 » _>. I should cherish their smiles and sweetness Though I drank of the river of tears That comes, with so startling a fleetness, Down the valley and shadow of years. Alas! for a home without them, Though garnished with songsters and flowers: A fragrance and song would be lacking In these heart-chambers of ours. For they are the blossoms immortal The Father has sent from above, The perennial birds at life's portal, To teach us the song of His love. Then welcome, their mirth and their laughter, Their prattle and clatter and noise! (There '11 be a long Silence, hereafter! God bless them, the girls and the boys!) Ah ! no : I never could chide them In their maddest and merriest glee, But smile till my own sweet childhood Were vanished from memory. And oft, as the deepening twilight Merged with the fireside glare, Plow I should love to gather The little ones 'round my chair! The wee maiden, willowy-slender, Half-grown, but in beauty complete ; The stout lad, masterful — tender, And the baby, the house-bud sweet. H Ah ! dearer than fleece of an Argo, The wealth of their flaxen hair! More precious than garnet or sapphire, Their eyes in the hearth-glow there! Then, taking the kingliest urchin, To reign on the throne of my knee, As a laureate I would sing them The old songs dearest to me. And thus, in a sweet second childhood, If to me length of days should be given, May I cherish the words of the Master, "Of such is the kingdom of Heaven." CHILDREN'S KISSES Baby, blow me a kiss Up from your cradled bliss, Up from the valleys of down and white, Dotted with flowers of love and light, To the clouded hills of Afternoon, Of the setting sun and the waning moon, For your twinkling sight too far away, Yet the white bud feet must climb some day. Baby throw me a kiss Up from your cradled bliss; The mists will lift, and clouds will rift At the sunshine of your play. Childhood, blow us a kiss From your world up to this : With a breath of the far-off violet's birth Wafted along, and a note of the mirth Of the wildbird's earliest madrigal: 15 With a hint of strawberries, (crushed by tips Of chubby fingers,) off your lips: For we are here on the hills above, With little but memories — and your love, As shadows lengthen and snowflakes fall. Darling, throw us a kiss From your world up to this, And cloud and snows are gone, Love's spring is over all. DREAM SONG Skylamps are lighted And playtime past, And we go jogging To dreamland fast. Smooth is the way And paved with flowers; Like birds the horses, Minutes the hours. From tricks and toys To Mamma's breast, And low-sung joys That she knows best. From Mamma's knee To Slumber's lap — We are passing, see, The hills of Nap. And now to the bed And under the clothes — This, Golden-head, Is the valley of Doze. 16 And so jog on Through silence deep, To the beautiful, mystical City of Sleep. There fairies caress thee, Golden-head, Good angels bless thee And guard thy bed ! FAITH My wide-eyed boy, fear-wakened in the night, From out the bourne of dreams' mysterious deep Called for his father's kisses — not for light! Then, smiling through the gloom, slipped back to sleep. So to my quickening faith may Love's caress, The gentle clasping of the unseen Hand, Be all I ask the darkening way to bless; Be with me when the Night is on the land ! BEDTIME SONG Folded in slumber is each little flower, With shadow and dewdrop blest, And the birdie that swings in the tree-top bower, With head tucked under its breast. "Peep, peep," says the bird in her bower, "Sleep, sleep," says the mother flower. Through the dark night, Till the morning light, Flower and birdie must slumber and rest. 17 Fold thee to rest, my little white flower, Tucked in thy cradle warm. Motherly love and fatherly power Shield thee from every harm. Smile, smile, by fairies caressed, Dream, dream, in the gardens of rest, Through the dark night, Till the morning light Kisses the bloom of our little white flower. Fold thee to sleep, my little white bird, Swung in thy nestlike home. Sweet though thy song as ever was heard, Silence and night must come! Smile, smile, by angels caressed, Dream, dream, of the fields of the blest, Through the long night, Till the morning light Wakens to song our little white bird. FAR AWAY A dream of the dear old home, Whither only the heart may stray ! O dear ones, when shall your wanderer come Leaping the lilac way ? — Far, far away, Farther than ever to-day! A dream of the old white school ; Of lads and lasses at play; Of a sweet-voiced woman, whose gentle rule Made happy the humdrum day. — Far, far away, Far away! 18 Where are the dreams of youth, The visions of broadening day ? The passionate quest of beauty and truth We thought to abide alway? — Far, far away, Farther than ever to-day ! Where is the heaven of love, Starred as by night its day? Gone, like the twinkling sparks above, In the sullen morning's ray? — Far, far away, Far away! Where are the treasures untold, To come like the plot of a play? The crown of glory, the crest of gold, And the spoils of strife and sway? — Far, far away, Farther than ever to-day ! Where is the peace of mind, The dream of our life's noonday? The walks with Nature, the leisure refined, To smoothen our twilight way? — Far, far away, Far away ! Where is the promised rest, Forgotten too many a day? The mother-taught, prayer-sought, ever blest? Be thankful if thou can say, "Not far away — Nearer than ever to-day !" 19 WISH SONG O may the scent of flowers breathe To hallow my last breath ; ; May beauty's iris ringers wreathe A chaplet for my death, And furl glad banners that shall sheathe Sorrow in hues of hope and faith! O may the voice of music creep Upon me as I die, And softly me allure to sleep Like a mother's lullaby, That soothed child griefs to slumbers deep In days of happy memory! And, with it all, O grant me this, As I near the Silent Land, To feel my loved-one's parting kiss And the pressure of her hand! Their comfort, enough to crown life's bliss, Their meaning, enough to understand. EVENING HYMN As the flower at dusky eve, Ere its blossom closes, Doth the gracious dews receive, Then in peace reposes, So may we with grace be blest, And as gently sink to rest. Then, O Father, while we sleep, In Thy love confiding, All Thy trustful children keep, 20 (Near to Thee abiding,) Safe from ill and night's alarms, Folded in Thy sheltering arms. May the rest we now enjoy, (Naught our souls accusing,) Fit us for our life's employ And the Master's using. Such repose by Thee is given, Emblem of the rest in Heaven. As the flower, when morn returns, To the air unclosing, Bends to where the sunlight burns, Sweets, like praise, disposing. Thus, each newborn day, may we, Father, turn our hearts to Thee! THE EVENING STAR Star of the eve, whose mellow ray Follows the lingering train of day With more of grace and peace and power Than many a garish sunlit hour; That bringst the songbird to his nest, Glad Love unto the lover's breast, And dewy rest from regions far To earth and me, sweet evening star! After the fitful hours of day, Its thankless tasks, its fruitless play, Thou comest like the balm of peace That falleth on a soul's release. 21 And I could wish that, when I die, The last look of my closing eye, As the freed spirit should wing afar, Might rest on thee, sweet evening star. NIGHT'S NIRVANA. A hush is on this midnight air Like an infant's sleep, Or a maid's unuttered prayer Ere to bed she creep. And here a planet, there a star, Darts me a meaning, clear and far, — And clear as far, in such an hour — That One is all, and that is Power? That all is One, and that is Rest, To merge with, when the futile fret, The sombre turmoil, husht regret, Are over, and inurned our tears For cycles that outlive the spheres? — That Love comes here, and that is best! So footworn pilgrims, doomed to keep The dusty road, pause unawares, And meek-eyed women cease to weep O'er faded blossoms, thorny cares; And, wrapt in circling silence deep, Worldwide the playworn children sleep. 22 GROWING OLD Down the slopes of Afternoon, Toward the foothills fringed with gold- Hark! the twilight whispers croon — Dear, the day is growing old. Children hush at curfew bell; Sheep go tinkling to the fold — - Hark! the dew-fays ring a knell — Dear, the day is growing old. Birds a-peeping in the nest — Glow-lamps glimmering in the grass — Hush ! the day has gone to rest — Thus the sweets of life must pass. Draws the long, long Silence near, Purple grow the hills of gold. Lean a little closer, Dear, For the day is growing old. One sweet darling gone to sleep — One afar in other fold — Lullabies to requiems creep, (Such a pace!) as day grows old. Yet, above, clear blue! (oh, sing!) Smiles the eve star "All is well." Let the new day "Welcome!" ring, Ere to this we chant "Farewell!" 23 NOTES OF ALTRUISM AND OPTIMISM. ,. OPTIMISMS What a drear morn! Snow but half gone — Leafless — forlorn — '■ Spring still afar: Yet — a bird's throat, From greyest dawn, Stretched with a note Clear as a star. What a rough shell! Hid fathoms deep; Lighted as well Midnight as morn. Never sunbeam Kissed its dull sleep : Yet — fairy-dream ! — The pearl was born. What a rude home! Rugless the floor: Not a rose-bloom A-blush at the pane: Yet — voices ring From the low door — "Child of a King!" Comes the refrain. What a hard world! Meedless its strife — Wish it impearled? A-glow with the spring? Of thy own art, The jewels of life: Out of the heart Be glad and sing! 26 THE JOY OF LIVING Oh, benison of the good free air; Ah, bliss of this mere breathing! When the year and life are both at spring, And Love, too, garlands wreathing. Hoping than having seems more fair, Getting less blest than giving, As, freed from the atom self, a-wing The soul soars, just with the joy of living. Such — and so taught — that joy, just now, As, up from the dun earth swinging, That rusty-coated poet, (above On the bough there,) took to singing. Not a blossom, not a leaf, on the bough, Yet he set all the airs a-quiver, With brown breast nigh to his nested love, And heart throbbing, throatvvise, up to the Giver. NEWS COMMENTS Foully had he marred our nature, Stooped to ignominious crime. "Sin without redeeming feature," Justice said at sentence-time. Yet he faced unblanched the scaffold, Marched to death almost sublime. Swindler, rake and — worse, his calling Than the press would care to name ! — Scarred from many a brutal brawling Over deeds of fraud and shame ; Yet he sent that miscreant sprawling, Who had slurred a woman's fame. 27 Wretch and vagrant, drunken, thieving, Bestial from his trampings wild, Yesterday — now, all retrieving, (Crushed to death and dust-defiled,) Knighted by the crowd's husht plaudits, Who had died to save a child. Thus — despite its self-defiling — Clay shall own the Potter's plan, Spite of pessimist reviling The God-image smiles in man, And the spark divine, long smoldered, Flames, to point where hope began. Men are base, but Man is glorious! In the type abides God's grace. Myriads fail and fall: victorious Move the standards of the race — And the failures and the fallen In the Triumph shall have place. HOLY GROUND Tell me, what is holy ground? Is it where the goodly priest, With his urn or censer, 'round Sprinkles waters he has blest, Sows sweet savor to the air? Yes : with heart sincere and true If he look those symbols through, Loving and with utter prayer; That the place is holy there Freely grant I, if you will, But I know a holier still. 28 Where the dear departed sleep, All the loyal souls and true Whom we glory that we knew, For that they Love's faith did keep — Where the good and lovely rest Who have lived for man and God — Counted joy and duty one, Counted loss each good undone, Thought their noblest, wrought their best- Yea, and every spot they trod In unselfish, glad unrest, That is holy, that is blest. THE PLEDGE OF PEACE False seers, who call our hope of peace A childhood dream, a woman's whim, 'Tis not alone an angel's hymn That tells us martial crime shall cease. The Ages chant: "From grace to grace Mankind moves on in spite of man." Yea, something of immortal plan Shines in the progress of the race. From paths in shame and darkness trod We see, despite the mist of doubt And gloom that all the valley fills, The Gospel feet upon the hills — Organic Purpose working out The far-off flowering thought of God. 29 AS A BIRD O bird, sing on, the morn of spring is clear. Sing on, for twilight and the frosts are near. Forest and field and flower Await thy songful power. Sing on, nor wait for any world to hear. Sing on, glad heart, if thou have hope and love. Sing on, if there be any blue above. Some barefoot child, tiptoe, May wait thy warble's flow. Sing on, and, for thy meed — the joy thereof! Sing on, sweet bard, though ashen be the sky. Sing on, though love and hope have passed thee by. Sing on, still brave, nor deem Thine an immortal's dream — 'Tis not thou, but thy song, that shall not die! LIFE-LORE Life's meaning is not ready given With life, but out of brimming years The lesson comes, (as saints gain Heaven,) By care and prayer and faithful tears. As he that runs sees flowers full-blown Along the summer wayside fair. Nor dreams of tiny seedlings sown By winged stealth upon the air ; So life, its essence or its seed, We know not, yet the worth thereof Each soul self-teaches when in deed And truth it blossoms into love. 30 ^z LOOK BEYOND Do the storm-clouds thickly lower? Look beyond! Do you dread the shock and shower? Look beyond, To the beauty of the flower, To the fruitage, and the dower Yours — if sturdy to the end, Day by day and hour by hour — Look beyond! Hard and dusty is the road ? Look beyond ! Heavy, heavier, is the load? Look beyond, Where the sun-fed landscape lies, Merging into cloudless skies : There shall rest the bruised feet, There shall close the weary eyes. Look beyond! Have you laid in frost-bound grave The one blossom summer gave ? Look beyond! Do you, through the rush of tears, See but shadow down the years? Look beyond. Out of grief let hope awaken — Love hath given, Love hath taken ! ( Blessed be the name of Love ! ) Onward, then, with faith unshaken — - Look beyond. 31 Do you dread the Shadow's fall, And the dusky Boatman's call? Look beyond ! Though the chilling waves be near, And the summons stern and clear, Meet it with a heart of cheer — Look beyond, Though with dim and fading eyes, Where the Better Country lies; To the promise of the prize, To the glory of the skies — And beyond ! CAST THY BREAD Be not discouraged, thou true heart, Thou life seem bare, as barren, art. Still the glad deed, the loving word, Send forth — Godspeed! — and, down the years, Somewhere, 'mid smiles or fragrant tears, It shall have fruit, it shall be heard. SONG Why, little maiden, Dost thou fear me? I have no evil At heart for thee. If I spy thee at dawn Or at golden midday, Like a startled fawn Thou art flitting away; 32 Or a minnow that darts At a splash in the stream ; And the light of thine eyes Is gone from my dream. Is it those loving looks That I cast upon thee ? So I do at the flowers, And the bird on its tree. But I never pluck them, Blossom or leaf, Nor feathered songster Would bring to grief ; The fields rove never With rod or with gun: But I love all fair things Under the sun. From all things living This lesson I find, " 'Tis the best of life's giving To love and be kind." Thus by my duty Do I love thee, As the flower in its beauty, The bird on its tree. So, little maiden, Fear no ill art For the bloom on thy cheek Or the song in thy heart. 33 GRACE BEFORE MEAT Lord, the blessings thou art giving Fit unto our better living, And our hearts with kindness bless, That, then, With our grateful praises blending Neighbor thought we may be sending Those who thank thee, Lord, for less. Amen! WEALTH Once, in a dream, came Happiness, And, with a smiling kiss: Wouldst thou have wealth, thy life to bless? Then hear and ponder this: Wealth hath two elements, no less, In its analysis. The first is what thou hast ; the other, and chief, part, What thou desirest not — there lies life's Midas-art: 34 TYPES AND CHARACTERS FORGIVEN This is the coroner, Doctor Pue? Well, here is the strangest case for you ! A dead man came to my house last night, (Just a block up, the street to your right,) My foe that was once my dearest friend. Not to tell the story from end to end And weary you, we were boys together And chums in every kind of weather ; In the same yard all summer played, And, cheek by jowl in sun or shade, Rollicked and frolicked to each heart's fill And dinned and dared at each other's will ; Both teased the same sweet neighbor girl, Yet loved her, both, from the flaxen curl, Caressing her fair, low brow, to the feet We scarce would chase, they were so fleet — (Just a note of her, for the case will bear — Reminiscent — upon her here and there.) Together we went to boarding-school, Where we kept or scorned, as one, the rule; Played truant, to fish or bathe in the cool Still waters of a wondrous pool We called our own — such a secret, quite ! — And, by the same tutor caned at night, Crept in disgrace into one small bed, And dreamt, by each other comforted, His black locks close to my auburn head. Well, so it went through college days And on, till the maddening love of her, With her bright moon-face and her big grey eyes- In the right light, though, as blue as the skies — 36 With her sparkling, veering, vexing ways — Our fairy neighbor, (her name was Kate,) As the moon in eclipse will blacken and blur The sun, turned our boy love to hate. I was saying? — he came to me last night; But whence or how I cannot say, For I had not seen him since the day When we squared our difference, there in a dell Of the Kershon wood, as twilight fell, And the moon came up, to add to the white Fresh-fallen pall of the stark November The "Pax vobiscum" of her light — The trouble then? — As I remember, We had some words — about her, you know, (That is the story since Eve began, By flirting with serpents! to trouble man.) Words blossomed to blows, then — blood — and so I left him — abed, there in the snow — And thought him — asleep ! — but to my story : A knock at the door, and he was in. "Be seated," and, with his favorite frown, In my one whole chair he sat him down : Much the same as ever, but very thin, And pale, yet dark, as he seemed that night, (What a blot on the moon's and the snow-sheen's glory!) And he sat there now in the yellow light Of my one oil lamp, and under his hat Looked at me with the same old sneer Upon his face, half smirk, half leer — ( Since youth a smile was as alien to him As a water-lily would be on the brim Of a lava-stream,) and just for that I hated him with a good round hate, 37 But more, no doubt, for the fact that she Thought him handsome, my lovely Kate, And had told me so, one night in June. Under the smile of the full round moon ; So I scarce could hate him more, you see, When the very next day she jilted me. I never can look on a full moon since, Of a summer night, but I shudder and wince As I did that night, ten years — is it ten ? — Ago, when I read in her eyes my fate, The fate that fell to me on the morrow — But without a tear or the taste of sorrow ; For heart was gone with the love of Kate, My feet took hold on the Hell of hate, And God had not seen my tears since then Till- But small's the gap from June to November, When the heart's no roses to remember, (And a decade of Junes could not bring back The roses she took, or clear life's track Of the thorns she left, or quench hate's ember.) And there he lay — huh ! — there he sat, Leering from under his tilted hat, And, in a waned and whining voice, , (No echo of the ringing past!) Spoke of old times, and of her, at last, Reviewing the tale of a maiden's choice Of godlike beauty o'er manly worth! And the sad sequel's doom and dearth ; Of the soul-pearl sniffed by the unmasked swine ; Of the rended heart, that once was mine ! How long I know not, but an age It seemed, that I pent my gathering rage, Till "What do you want?" at length I cried, Diminuendo, for I descried 38 That the lifelong sneer on his lips had died, And, faint and fading, I glimpsed at last The ghost of a smile from the days long past ! "Forgiveness!" — a queer little nod of the head — A whisper — "for sake of" — a gurgle — "the dead !" I had sprung on him — one hot hand at his throat- But how still he sat ! and seemed to gloat On my impotent wrath — O God ! what was this ? My fire was low : with a feeble hiss It spluttered out its last faint flaring: Yet why he was quite so cold, while I So hot, with this surging hell in my head, I wondered — an instant — then read the why, As I dragged him to his feet at my will, In the scare-crow limpness, (I feel it still,) And the coal-black eyeballs, glazed and staring, (When I close mine I see them glaring!) For there, in my clasp, he stood — stone-dead! "Forgive? Well, yes, since you ask it," I said, And carried him — light as that boy, grown old In a dream — and laid him upon my bed. But come, you will find it as I have told. 39 THE TELEGRAM What, boys, another round? Well, leave me out. I'm feeling dull to-night — No, well enough, But out of humor for a time like this, Yet hardly feel like — walking home just yet. The matter? Ha! you'd laugh to hear me tell. You always laugh at aught of sentiment That breaks in on our revel here — No, no, 'Tis nothing, nothing. . . . Well, if you insist, At risk of making you as dull as I, I'll tell the little story of the day That makes me such a dullard here to-night. The wife is gone from home, called suddenly, (Illness of kinsfolk in a distant town,) Right from her daily work, our little house Not put to rights; and I, left all alone, To ease my loneliness, (at which you smile,) And busy idle hands, set to right The tumbled household gods; that is, to clear Away the morning's meal and order straight The looks of things about the vacant rooms. So, off with coat and waistcoat, sleeves rolled up, I fell to work — No doubt 'twas comical, And you may smile, as you would sure have laughed To see me. Boys, I did not laugh, somehow, A sense of loss there was, a dreariness, My life had never known before — to you Mere sentiment, at which you fellows sneer — - Long rid the useless cumbrance of a heart! — So smile at the queer picture that I made: A man turned housemaid, aproned to his task, In tears because his wife a day or so Is gone. 40 But fancy she should not come back ! That those poor vacant rooms should know no more Her face's sunshine and her laughter's song: That her poor pets — her great black tom-cat, there, Drowsily stretching by the kitchen fire; The yellow bird, (that I forgot to feed!) Dressing its feathers in its silent cage — Should never brighten at her step again, Nor sing, each in its way, spurred by her voice, Striving half foolishly with baby-talk To frame a tongue that they might comprehend : That I, her biggest pet of all, and whom She humors like a four-years' child, that I Should never lift her in these arms again — She's but a child herself, you know — and feel Her sweet warm breath rain kisses on my face — This bearded face — she says it scratches her, Calls me her bear, and so — (oh, what a thing To tell to such as you ! ) — she takes my nose Between her tiny fingers, thus, and plants One swift caress upon a nameless spot — ■ Disputed ground, we'll say, 'twixt cheek and nose — And with a rippling laugh bids me let go. What's that, boy, you young blue-coat there Handling my name? Here, I'm the man you want. 'S that yellow scrap you carry meant for me? Don't stand there grinning, but let's see, let's see! "This morning's zvest express collided — found A lady's cardcase with — "O Heaven ! her name ! — "The woman bearing it — my girl — is dead!" 4i THE COBBLER'S DAUGHTER A Fragment I An Inquest Here, by his little stall, My friend, the old cobbler, dwelt, Who was found afloat one morning In his back door-yard — the canal! — Whether some miscreant dealt Him a blow, or, his poor life scorning, He plunged to its shadowy sequel, Putting the riddle of time Blunt to the sphinx of the ages, Need not be told in these pages. Thp coroner scarce thought it equal To the dignity of his task With much of vigor to ask H a case so lowly and poor — (that I grace it with my rime.) Vft, suicide? — Coroner, nay! v ou took for evidence, (if you please,) In your ^leek-headed love of ease, The silent and outraged clay, And the gossip of neighbors, who knew Among a million, they said , The massive and silvered head, And plain strong features, but never looked through, To the soul that had flitted away, Nor knew its honor and truth, as I — 42 For which alone, be sure, he would die — Not to speak of the heart bereft, The dear little daughter he left. I have called him friend, For I knew him of old To the very eve of his ghastly end : A man of soul and heart Above the hammer and last, Who lived a life apart From the herd where his lot was cast. Almost of Socratic mold He seemed, as, between the strokes on a shoe, He discoursed of life and its meaning, Of manly love and duty, Of soul and its hidden beauty, While I, a youth, sat gleaning, The well-assorted grain That fell from his riper brain, Charmed by his kindly voice and eyes of calm grey-blue. A philosopher and a man! Yet there he lay, What was left of him ooze and clay, A sight unfit to scan ; And his matted silvery hair, Tangled with shreds of water-weed, Streamed back from a forehead smooth and fair, All that was left of the beautiful there. A man of science, indeed, Would resolve the putrescent mass Into carbon, phosphates, this or that gas; And give to a nicety, too, In a mathematical sum, 43 The proportions and balances due By which the poor molecules come To this malodorous end. But the Light, the Being, the Soul, The sweetness that I called friend, That he used to say, In contempt of "this hut of clay," Was the Self and its all ; That made and kept the whole A flower of worth and an engine divine ; Can Science's alchemy call That godhead back to its fallen shrine? Call back, O friend, the light that was thine, And the love that was that sweet daughter's and mine? II I remember her as a child. Five times the meadow's violet eyes Have glanced to kindred skies Since hers, as shyly mild In spite of their deep brown, Last looked to mine in love by passion unbeguiled : And a dewy gleam shot down With the long lashes' fall, And sweetly, sweetly I recall How o'er the April lea Came the dream of the June to be. Thus I remember the child, And dream what the maiden may be! I remember her as a child. Five times, from fragrant orchard-wall, The first sweet robin's call! 44 Since her keen notes beguiled Last, as the first time heard, The heart of the growing boy from musings vague and wild. And with the lay of the bird Of spring there came along A wish for the fuller song And passionate minstrelsy, That the full-choired summer must be. So I remember the child, And dream what the woman will be ! Ill Ah! for the maiden grown From the maidenly child I knew ; For the fair white flower full-blown From the bud that still looks through The few years that have flown — Gladly the world's end I would seek, to call her more than friend. If in a woman's love, As in that child friendship, true, And grave and thoughtful a little above The girlish lightness I knew — O what a treasure-trove, Even at the world's end, To find — and a little dearer than friend- That creature just less than angel, And still just higher than man, Woman, last and best, (And nighest His sabbath-rest!) In God's good Eden plan. 45 IV Among the Rocks Here is a tiny flower That grew there on the rock. Through many a stormy hour It stood the west wind's shock. A little sand, a little sod Of moss, gave it footing there, Till soil and sun and dew and air And — Something — why not call it God? — Wrought up and out This little upturned heaven of blue, With its yellow stars — not shining through, But held out — -see? — -on finger ends Around the center. Are we friends, Little bud, or have I done you wrong, To take you ere your time And weave you into rambling rime, And conjure with you in a song Of wonder and of doubt? For Science, that doeth marvels great And solveth mysteries Along these pregnant years, Until her thunderous progress, trod Through mountains and the seas, To vulgar thought appears The march of very god, Yet cannot make your duplicate, Or woo it from the sod Without life's primal gift at hand — Now gives us — something fresh and grand— 46 Perhaps miraged, an oasis 'Mid deserts of hypothesis, A dream a poet might understand Of you here, blossom in my hand. That root, stem, bloom are not your whole, But wax to the impulse of all-soul For a shadowy self, that feels and knows In sphere minute a glimmer of life ; In changeful light that comes and goes, In warmth of sun and wind that blows, Its fragment of the great world-strife; Its meagre little pleasure thrill, Its feeble little feats of will, Its little sympathies and woes, Its little sleep when all is still. Howbeit, marvel and mysteries Lie in you, more than sky's or sea's, And a child that knew you through and through, As you were, and are, and how you grew From dust strewn by a frolic breath — What willed your tender shoots to pierce The clod that hid your universe, Lacking this little azure bell — Would fathom the all of life and death ; Might more than Dante visioned view, And more than Plato argued tell. Alas! you have no voice To preach the how or why, As in the beginning choice Had neither you nor I, Where to be born or how, 'Mid what rude storms to bow, Or where or when to die — 47 Nay! here we part: he who, just now, Tiny Prometheus of the dell — With blue light given, Not stolen, from heaven — Peering so fondly and well Into your purple heart, That the tears of a kindred spell From the deep of his own did start, Plucked you from your rock And the moss's tendril-chains, Where you had tossed in the shock Of the winds and bowed in the rains, Could, by a stroke almost as slight As the finger-pressure on your stock, Take his plunge into the Night! And farewell to the winds and the rains, And farewell to the chains And the rock. MY ORIOLE IN THE MORNING I never heard the heavenly lark Shower with mirth an English park, Or brushed its dews at dawn, to mark How song rays sun a misty morning. I never woke to catch the wail Mellifluous of the nightingale, Borne from some moonlit Thracian vale, (Repose her deathless passion scorning!) But 'neath the broad and azure dome There is one little cottage home, Better than storied lands to roam Or palaces their parks adorning; And there are blossoms red and white, And there is love from morn till night, 48 Then sleep as deep till broad daylight, And there's my oriole in the morning! God, who made many sweet things be, Has made that happy bird for me. Else why haunts he that one small tree, Green-togaed forest patriarchs scorning? Has he, like me, a love-bower built, And darlings found, as sweet, to fill 't? Is that the meaning of thy lilt, My golden minstrel of the morning? Then doubly welcome, neighbor mine, My song is kindred unto thine. Both, drunk with the same Eden wine, Contemn or claque's or clan's adorning. Content to dwell with love apart, And pour a full and faithful heart, I hail thee, poet as thou art, My golden oriole in the morning! Sing on: "O sweet the days of spring, And sweet the summer flowering! But love could sweeten anything — " That be thy burden — this thy warning : "Summer joys will pass away, Southward fade the oriole's lay ; But love abideth every day, For mirth or mourning hearts adorning." And, when the wintry night is gone That flowers to endless summer dawn, Rather might souls yet slumber on Than what they prized here to be scorning! For waking were not Heaven, to me, — ■ In Heaven the seventh! — without these three: My Love's low call, my boy's loud glee, And that gold oriole, in the morning! 49 THE CLIMBERS High in the branches of a tree, (Full twice as old, I guessed, as I,} With nails and hammer merrily I wrought in careless days gone by. And there I built a house, and, oft Climbing, I furnished it with toys — No heights since reached or views aloft Have brought the heart, undimmeu, such joys. I heard the pigeons coo and croon, That flitted 'round my father's shed ; I saw the clouds, the cloudlike moon, Float in a blue sea overhead ; And, while the oriole's mellow call From loftier, leafier bowers fell, I spied, beyond an ivied wall, My little neighbor, Isabel. Then to her treble trill I made An answer shrill with puckered lips, And, merging to the ivy's shade, Her moon-face hid in brief eclipse. Where, ranged along the trailers' green, Were rosy blossoms in a row, And, towering, in their day were seen The big sunflowers and goldenglow, I watched until up-reaching gleamed Her white and chubby finger-tips, And, 'mid the roses, rosier seemed The dawning blush of cheeks and lips ; 50 Till, on the wall enthroned to view, (Forbidden more at large to go,) She taught me from those eyes of blue The deep child-lore I cherish so. No more with lonely toys to play Was I content, but fain would share With her, forever and a day, My green-walled castle in the air. That tree still shades the ivied wall; The flowers return; but never more Will come, (though I should climb and call,) The little girl that dwelt next door. Sweet comrade climber, through my tears I see thee seated, princes mine, Unchanged, upon the wall of years That rose between my heart and thine. VACATION THOUGHTS O to be home, now summer is there! Awake some morn to greet an air That paints the blush of roses sweetlier, And sets the red throats throbbing fleetlier; To hail an earth that blossoms up In clover-poll and buttercup ; To glimpse such lights as make quaint places Smile like long beloved faces, And bask in shades that brighter are Than sunshine any other where! O to walk down the lilac lane — Treading on pomp and gilded gain — 51 Till by the old familiar stream The grass-slopes woo to loll and dream, Roofed by willowy forms cloud-blending, (Like dear old men with hoar heads bending To counsel,) where I used to swing Above the water's mirroring, While all the lyrists of the air Made music to my heart-rhythm there! Then on! till sways the ancient gate Whence Youth leaped fain to laugh at Fate, To see the endearing form once more Stand in the rose-embowered door — A light about her lovely lips Which no rose-witchery could eclipse; A comelier crown, those silvered tresses, Than ever empress' brow caresses — As queenly, in her calico, The mother that has blessed me so! A POET Clear seer, where others dimly dream, Dreamer, where others but see, Outbuilding to-be of the things that seem, The all-in-all opens to thee. To thee is the heaven more than blue, And the star-stream more than light. Thou lookest not at, but through and through, Walking by vision, not sight. Thou knowest the balm of sun and of shower, And the year's awakening breath ; Soul of songster and heart of flower, And the meaning of life and of death. 52 The psalm the sentient spheres outroll Is prattle to thine ears, All the wild myths of sense and soul The nurse-rimes of thy years. 'T was beauty wrought thy myriad mind, But made thy heart all love — Thou duty sole in dreams shalt find, Thy wage must reap thereof ! Therefore dream on, in love with thy soul, Abiding thine own good time. Thou art true bard and at one with the Whole, Though thou never have forged a rime. THE AGED POET He sings no more the songs of youth, But he is still the bard of truth. He dreams not now alone of Beauty, But with her hymns the vestal, Duty, The chaste, antiphonal, sister-born — Cheer of life's eve as charm of morn. Though dim his eyes they do not grope, For in them lies a growing hope That reads in starred or sunset skies Of twin-born immortalities. Yet the green slopes of memories Are still entrancing. Flowery years Bring back their smiles; the dew of tears Is fragrant, too. Along the street He loves the ring of children's feet. And trembling leans upon his staff To catch the music of their laugh. And then, again, his dear grey hairs, 53 Press like the load of lifelong cares; For thus in dwindling echoes go The voices of the long-ago! So tasked is he to draw his breath, He fain would chant the hymn of Death — Translated as "Amen!" he saith. THE POET DEAD Toll the bells. The poet is dead. Make haste to crown the good gray head With the meed for which he never wrought. Now to the winged winds be giving The praises ye denied him living; And the honored name which he but sought To write in hearts with tongue of flame, Carve on the cold grey shaft of fame. Then reverently breathe above That brow serene and hoary The words of a too tardy love, And leave him to his glory. CONSIDER THE FLOWERS Consider the lilies that blow, That strive not neither do sin ; But fair and stately and pure they grow To the beauty God dreamed them in, Chastening His sunlight, shaming His snow — All pearl be the vases that win With love to ensconce such beauties ! and so Thank the Giver there are such flowers below, That Heaven may here begin. 54 Consider the lilies that grow — Consider the roses as well, That warm and fragrant and crimson glow With a story of thorns to tell : Of yearning and clinging and daring a woe, (So the Rose of Paradise fell!) Consider them tenderly, Gardener — Oh ! Ingather them all ere the bleak winds blow, In Thy palace of lilies to dwell.. Consider the lilies that blow — Remember the violets too; The heart's-ease blossoms that nestle low To the love of the sun and the dew: Warm as the rose is, no lily discloses Heart purer — and tender and true! Thank the Father there are such blossoms that grow, As I in my heart of hearts do know; For such, my Beloved, are you. THE BATTLE OF VIOLETS Oft in the dim mid watches I hear a low refrain, Which comes in gusty catches 'Mid the night wind and the rain. And O that the dear departed Were with me once again ! For with it a sweet girl face Peers out of the dark and the past ; Eyes with a certain wild-flower's grace Linked in their love-light fast; And all, in its charm and spirit, Too flower-like to last! 55 Life no such hopes can yield Nor such raptures bring to pass As when I roved the summer field With that little blue-eyed lass, And we waged a mimic battle With violets in the grass. And ah! the dimpled laughter And all the roguish arts! Spite the long vistas after That vision ne'er departs Of the Blue-caps we were linking Head-to-head, as were our hearts. And many a blue head tumbled To its grave on the grassy plain — ■ Thus human hearts are humbled Unto dust by Fortune's pain; Thus I have waged life's battle And am numbered with the slain. What meant those happy hours, To pass without a tear, Now she is dust beneath those flowers This many and many a year, Whilst I, her laughing comrade, Lie watching and weeping here? What — more than the fitful rime That the night wind brought to me, If never again in time — In time or the eons to be — The love of that little maiden In her eyes of blue I see? 56 APPRECIATION Poor yellow flower! Child of the wayside dusty and dry, Tramp and millionaire passed it by; The farmer, plodding with rhythmic scythe A-field ; a cowboy whistling blithe ; Twilight lovers loitering nigh ; Children dawdling schoolward ; aye, A tethered cow, in the dockweed high Browsing, with big, mild, ruminant eye; Scorned, ignored, and passed it by. Hour after hour Amid the grasses it nestled shy, And not a friend — but the dew and the sky, Sunshine and shower — Till — of all days! — the day the Queen, Keenest of Beauty's worshipers, And loveliest, too, rode grandly by, And, sweeping her fair blue gaze to the green, The one gold glint just caught her eye. A wave of the small gloved hand, 't was hers. Then — the bliss Of the full lips' kiss! Then — the rest Of that opulent breast! And not the least of the bud's joy, this: To have been so happily scorned by the rest ! POET AND FARMER The poet-boy lay in the shadow Of an oak tree in the meadow, Dreaming away the drowsy summer morn, At full-length ease, 57 Fanned by the lazy breeze. And the farmer, seeing him there From cock-crow to dinner-horn, Said "What an idler! I declare." But the boy dreamed on: With eyes half shut but soul intent On the living beauty around ; With ear awake to the divers sound Of bird and bee that came and went, With gust and lull of the breeze, From far-off clumps of poplar trees, And the knee-deep grass where the noontide sun Made the June air visible, curling up From beds of clover and butter-cup. Asleep ? No, no : from the deep of the sky — - The cloud that skimmed a sea-bird there-— The sparrow playing see-saw in air On the oak-bough nigh — To the gilt flower in his finger-tips, All was glassed in the camera of his eye, Darkened to make the picture real Ere he fashioned it to a song-ideal: For a whisper was going on his lips. And the farmer said "The lazy fellow ! To dally there with that pesky yellow But of a weed. What a fool, indeed!" But the boy dreamed on. The farmer went to his supper that night, From supper to early bed, With naught but his crops and his stock in his head. I 58 But the poet-boy wrote by candle-light A song of sweetness, a song of might, That is not dead, And a century's praise has crowned his head. And the farmer's grandchildren at school , With reading and spelling and gramn ar rule, Learned of his fame And revered his name — And never called the poet a fool. DANDELIONS Blossoms meet, though lowly, For these golden hours, Yet not unblest wholly By the chastening showers; Modestest of beauties, Nestling in the grasses, Springing with the springtime, Passing as it passes; Sunning by the wayside, Gilding park and lawn — Spring would scarce be springtime If your gold were gone. Never fabled Argo, Winged from other skies, Wafted such a cargo As you bring — to children's eyes! Childish feet are pressing All about your haunts of green, Childish hearts and voices blessing Each new glory seen. E)impled hands are culling, Rosebud lips are kissing — 59 Childhood were less childhood If your bloom were missing! Gold that never tempted But to guileless arts — Happy little blossoms! Happy little hearts! Happier far than we Whc, each flower caressing, Find our spirits presently Inly vexed with guessing This riddle of our living, Which the All-mother giving No firm or answering rapture with her gift im- parts. Yet I cherish dearly And I ever shall, Dreams grown dimmer yearly, Yet perpetual, Of the springtime olden When life — like you, all golden — Found no weed's bud too homely to be its coronal. HELENE What might have been ! O stranger, more than friend, Whose eyes alone have daily held with me Sweet byway chat — ah! what might even be, Should we but follow childlike to its end 'The wildrose path where wayward fancies tend! This is the dream which haunts me ceaselessly, Flits round me like an eager bird set free, Just ere in cloud its soaring songheart blend : 60 So, too, must fade. Yet nightly, as I hark, The fancied footfalls ripple the chill air To dreams of summer wings — and you are there! With rose-flush, breathed, to greet me through the dark, With whiteness, felt, to fold me archly in — To teach my slumbering soul, what might have been ! A MAIDEN'S IDEAL Be a lover; bring me Thy heart's store. Be a poet ; sing me Songs of yore, Linking past to present sweetly evermore. Be mv teacher ; school me To the fill. Be my master; rule me By thy will — Gently, though, since ever mine, thy pleasure still! Be my god — ah! never, Nor I thine, Lest not Love forever Be divine — He, as all things, ours be, nothing thine or mine! HAPPIER DAYS You came, O heart of hearts, in springtide bloom, And laid love's happy burden at my feet. And I, in simple faith, gave all myself To you and flowery rovings day by day, And dreams by night of sweeter days to come — The dreams of happier days! 61 You came, O heart of hearts, 'mid summer showers, And gentle griefs, half sweet to dewy eyes; For dark departings glad returnings brought, Like fragrance of strewn roses after storm. But Love, unsated, fed on buds of hope, And dreams of happier days. You came, O heart of hearts, with harvest gold, And spectral splendors of the dying year. And, as that newborn summer, out of time, Might silly birds beguile till winter-bound, I waded through the autumn leaves alone, To dream of happier days. You came, O heart of hearts, 'mid winter frosts, And laid a frozen blossom on a tomb — A thorn within the bleeding heart of Love, That, in that grave unresting, night or day, Dreams over the dear past, forever dead — The dreams of happier days! JUNE IN OCTOBER When the dun leaves fall With the age of the year, And the robin's call No longer I hear; When the last sweet flowers Have faded from view, Like youth's dream hours And the friends gone, too — ■ Then O for a day At the heart of June, A little away From its golden noon; 62 Clouds high and rare On a violet sky ; Not a stir to the air, Not a mar to the eye — With the green to my side And my face to the blue, Hail! dreams that have died, And the friends gone, too ! Birds on the wing And their song in my soul, And life at the spring Of the deified Whole ! THE LESSON With head bowed low, but sense alert, I walked beside the rivulet, Whereon the day its seal had set In diamond splendor, emerald-girt. Beneath the ripples, at their play, I watched the minnows flash and dart — But not without a pang at heart, That I was not as free as they. The butterfly upon the wing I saw, the bee, half in the flower — And sighed for life of sweet and ease: Then heard, cloud-high, the brave lark sing- Nay, soul, work out thy songful power, To mount o'er idlers such as these. 63 A BRIDE Tall, yet graceful more than stately; Still of a mood to walk sedately ; In she came in her bridal sheen ; As calm her air as an inland lake, Whose placid rest no zephyrs break — In every step this truth is seen : Born in the country, bred for the city, Born a dairy-maid, meant for a queen! TO A FAIR LITTLE STRANGER O for a longer glimpse of thee, my sweet, Thy flaxen ringlets and thy clear blue eyes, That woke within my heart a mild surprise That aught so lovely should my vision greet In even this lovely world. Ah ! it were meet Thou hadst a little kingdom of thine own, Peopled with birds and flowers ; with a throne Of heaped-up gems and blossoms for thy seat. There gentle zephyrs and a mellow light Should ever play about thy plumed brow, While fay, elf, fairy — every kindly sprite Should throng to homage thee, as I do now. There but admit me of thy court, I pray, And thou shalt reign forever and a day. ENVOI Good-bye, dear friends, of various ages, Whom I have lived with in these pages ; Who ne'er did see me, never will — And yet I dream ye love me still, 64 As I do you, and still shall bring you From the pages where I sing you. If any of you chance to be Endowed with reality, And read what I have written of you, Ye thus may guess how much I love you: And may you have as pleasant times In life as I do in my rimes! THE POESY OF A RING TO MY WIFE I He who by love's law strives to live Little will have but love to give, Little but love to cheer his way along. Take, then, my sweetheart and my wife, These fragments from a half-spent life, Wasted — but for thy love and this small gift of song! And may, though slight, the offering be Far wealthier, worthier than he Who humbly, fondly, lays it at thy shrine; And, even then, it scarce shall be One tithe or tittle worthy thee, And the sweet excellencies which are thine. II Sweetest of women ever made By the God who gave to man Woman, in his perfect plan, To walk with him through sun and shade; Sweetheart, comrade, lover, wife, Star and sunny flower of life, 68 Hither I come and bring, Of blossoms wreathed, a poesy-ring — Bright as thy spirit, Love- — And of whitest pearls a string — Pure as thy heart-of-dove — ■ All in a quaint-hewn casket laid, Sweetest of women ever made, III O Love, to what shall I liken our love? From the world's heart-center, home, In vain will our fancy roam Through earth, the sea and the sphere above The Babylonian gardens of air, For images as bright and fair. A flower? A pearl? A bird? A star? A butter-fly or a honey-bee? Though sweetness or glory their dower, These too self-centered are; For the love that has its being in me, Has elsewhere its grace and its power. A flower in the forest, sun-kissed ; A butterfly on the wing; A lark afloat o'er the mist, With no thought but to soar and to sing ; A star at the kiss of the moon, When cloudless she rides to her noon ; May picture the joy, in part, Of love's sweet ministering. But the bee at the blossom's heart; The fawn athirst at the spring; The babe at the mother breast ! — Is nearer its bliss and its rest. 69 IV When Fate so kindly merged our ways, Thy love awoke from out the gloom That had enfolded other days, Like sweet Alkestis from the tomb ; Whom, in her ghastly cerements white, Yet glorious in her youthful bloom, The mirthful mighty Herakles — Amongst his happy ministries — Gave back to old Admetos' sight From death and Stygian night; And Love, recrowned by sacrifice, Made that Greek home a paradise. So in the gloom I oft had said, "Ah! love for me is dead, is dead!" I saw thy face : it blessed my sight. I read thy heart, and all was light! V Louise, thy love has been to me As a light-winged bird, that flies Out of the mist of lowering skies To sailors on a storm-tossed sea, And with a potent melody, That with the winds doth cope, Poureth a song of peace and hope, Of harbors where they long to be ; Of flowery walks in valleys near, And friends, and bowers of rest and cheer. 70 So, on life's unquiet sea, Has been thy gentle love for me. I hear the music of thy voice : It makes my somber hours rejoice. I catch the flutterings of new hope ; I see the green-hilled haven ope ! THE PEBBLE AND THE PEARL Walking one day by the sounding sea, I picked up a pebble that pleased me. For on its face, by sea-fay penned, I thought I read the sweet name, Friend. Careless I placed it next my heart, And daily conned its faery art. As time passed on the pebble grew Rounder and fairer to my view; Fairer and rounder day by day, And strengthened on my heart its sway, Till there was nothing I prized above The pebble — become the pearl, called Love. And who in the world can take from me The treasure I found by the sounding sea? (Canst thou the parable read, dear girl? For thou wert the pebble, and thou art the pearl.) 71 REVELATIONS Not alone, with the spring, Wakens the world. With the field's flowering Hope is unfurled, Faith rebuds fragrant, and, with the lark's carol- ing, Love, with like yearning, is heavenward hurled. I, who with trembling knelt, Sweet, at thy shrine, Felt the last coyness melt, Warmed as by wine, Woman, thee wooing, the heart of the All I felt, "God is Love!" buoyantly beating with thine. LOVE'S ELATION Love! my dull life, strangely stirred, At your image soars to meet Life anew and just complete. All because I have that dream That is why the commonest bird Flings me music never heard ; Why, from dun earth at my feet, There is showered a wealth of gleam Never shot from star or stream ; Why, recalling your last word, Child or dog along the street Gaily unawares I greet! 72 A NEW OLD SONG If I were her true lover, And she true love to me, About her I would hover As 'round his flower the bee ; The bee that knoweth only, In a garden, one sweet flower, And for that blossom lonely Doth languish every hour; Not to suck sweetness solely From her fair companie, But to find rapture wholly In her felicitie. If I were her true lover, And she to me true love, I should be jealous of her As turtle of his dove. As any bird of summer So faithful would I live, And, drawing sweetness from her, I strength for sweet would give. To watch and guard above her The joy of life would be, If I were her true lover, And she true love to me. THE TRYST At eve in the scented field I stood, By the sombre edge of the darkening wood; Mid the new-mown hay and tangled flowers The mowers had left from brighter hours. 73 Deeper and deeper the shadows lay On wood and field and ricks of hay ; Till the dying blossoms at my feet Were present but in spirit sweet. Then, just as I murmur "Will she come?'" I hear a low voice softly hum — A quaint old strain, yet ever new, "O heart of mine, so tender and true." Then bluebells crushed grow doubly sweet At the tender touch of fairy feet, And a form beloved grows out of the gloom, Like a fresh warm spirit from a tomb. Fairer than all the stars that shine Are the deep brown eyes looking into mine; Dearer than dreams of an Eden blest, The throb of her life upon my breast! LOVE AND LIFE Seated one evening hand in hand, My brown-eyed little love and I, Roving in Fancy's fairy-land, She put this query, (with a sigh,) "Why is this life, so sweet a thing, Doomed to fade like flowers of spring, While love, (our love,) still dearer far, Would bloom immortal as a star?" And I, her laureate in that time, Made answer in a trifling rime. 74 Love and Life, one day, Asleep on the selfsame bed, Pillowed in banked-up flowers lay, That the wings of May had shed. And in that day it used to be That Love was a naked and wingless sprite, While Life had wings and a garb of light Called Immortality. Then, as in dreams they lay, Came an angel from above, Took Life's shining dress away, And decked the form of Love In his brother's bright array. Then Love flew up on buoyant wings. And ever since that day The aerial elfin still flies on, And flying ever sings ; While day by day the other one Dwindles and pines and dies away. Thus life was made a thing to die, Thus love gained immortality. HYMN TO WOMAN From chaos and the realm of night Whence shoreless space yawned blank and blind, From the repose of quenchless Mind There bloomed a thought, "Let there be light!" The starry cycles then began. The Spirit moved upon the deep And woke the splendors from its sleep, And from God's head sprang forth the Man. 75 But all was cold and void of charm, Till, hymned by all the spheres above, Came the new thought, "Let there be love!" The breath divine grew wondrous warm. Then life to flowering beauty grew, And all the twinkling sparks divine Like lovers' eyes began to shine, When God's heart gave the Woman, too ! NUMEN! Ah ! Love, I dreamed thee, nude to view, The Cyprian fond, in face and form ; Though sunshine-bathed, still flecked with foam; But, Sweet, thy self I never knew Until I clasped thee in the storm, And kissed thy tears and led thee home. Then all the painted clay was fled; The godhead stood transfigured. THE SHADOW ON THE DREAM; A FRAGMENT. ] Ah ! Love, how shall the hand of Love, That happy, heartful limner whose Palette has only brighter hues, Paint in that Shadow from above? O Shadow, on the landscape's sheen, O Cloud, upon the heaven's blue, 76 Can Love, thy mystery looking through, Keep the hand firm, the eye serene ? Let Love with Sorrow join in tears : So Love to sweeten pain may learn, And Sorrow strengthen Love in turn ; Thus each help other through the years. Let Hope and Faith with both abide, A strong, courageous brotherhood : Not all alike, yet each his good Shall carry up the eternal tide. II Yes: though the Loved be lost in sleep, The sweets of thought can never die Which throng about their memory, And bring us solace while we weep. If thus the hallowed influence stay Of the Departed ; as a star May still shine on this world afar, Though quenched in space ; may we not say That, as the brightness was and is All that was real of that light That sparkled in the dome of night In ages gone ; so haply 'tis With that we called, in life, the Soul, Which once through sense made sweet impress Upon our own : yet now no less Has on our spirit-ken control? 77 And, since its influence still subsists, The brightness of a vanished soul ; That spark from the irradiant Whole, We err to think, no more exists. Ill "Ah! but small comfort, this," you say, "That out of airy memory rears A palace for the heart in tears, Still compassed in its hut of clay." But is it a mere memory That hovers o'er us in the dreams Of kindly sleep, until there gleams A presence that we hear and see? A form of darkness or of light, A sainted friend, forgotten foe, Bearing a thought of love or woe, Then vanishing into the night? Or is it fancy of our own, That often brings such wild surprise Or terror, that, with staring eyes Awakened, we still quake or moan? Are we but children that the toys Of our own making can affright? That shadows mirrored in the night From daily thoughts, can bring us joys Or pains, as real as we know 'Mid light and fullest play of sense? What then, if, when we travel hence, But to an endless dream we go? 78 Did sage or mystic ever sound The deep from whence our dreams arise, The sphere to which the spirit flies, When freed from sense's prison-bound? And, since we know not, let us deem Things best and brightest while we stay Here earth-bound; and the future may Prove its life real and this the dream. 79 OCCASIONAL AND MISCELLANEOUS PIECES AND TRANSLATIONS TO MY FATHER Father — the book, I feel, were not complete Without that name beloved to grace it here, (Stout Saxon word, by early teaching dear; Though lisped by baby tongues, robust as sweet, And prized by manly lips, how doubly meet!) Nor were the work quite worthy of the son, Without thy calm, judicial meed, "Well done," Never vouchsafed unworthy deed to greet. If 'mid the frippery and the flowers of song, These airy trifles, of scant leisure wrought, Thou stoopest not, to find, serene and strong, Some trace of kinship in a fruitful thought — For that, and the men's love that crowns our days, And my best self, I give thee thanks and praise. THE ONE WORD One day unto Paradise' gate Came a sprite that had died in his sin; And unto the seraph which sate At sentry: "Pray, let me therein! For I do repent me, though late, Of the wild, erring wight I have been." Then the seraph: "Too lately, I think, Thou hast bended that obdurate heart — " Just then, through an emerald chink Of the wall, he espied a tear start, And he leaned to the amethyst brink — "Yet tarry, though tardy thou art; 82 O mortal, methinketh one test May yet open this gate unto sin : In one word if thou name me the best That thou lovedst on earth, and herein Most desirest, then enter thy rest. God's ecstacy sweetly begin." Just here — 't is a cherub outwings — The jewel-hung gate slips ajar. Lo ! a silver-haired woman yon sings Nigh the throne, where the saintliest are, And, a-harping a prayer, sweeps the strings, And her face beameth love like a star. Then he knew the sweet saint that had died, The fount where his life did begin, And her prayer he divined. Then he cried, "O Mother!" and, spite of his sin, The portals of pearl swung a-wide, And he with the ransomed went in. KESHA A tomb there is hard by the city gate, Which tells of Kesha and her noble fate. "Here lieth one so well beloved by two, She unto death to one alone was true." Fairest was she of old Bernareth's kin, Darkest of eye, purest of heart within. For whose dear love Abdul and Amelik -vied, And either in her sweet cause had gladly died. 83 Now Abdul's suit was passionate and wild, Amelik's the glad devotion of a child — By which the maiden's choice at length was led, And in her father's tent the two were wed. But dark-browed Abdul would not brook her will, He ever dogged the faithful Kesha still ; Brooded or menaced as his feelings turned : And she, with gentle force, his passion spurned, Till once, his blade unsheathed, he hissing said, "I come this night for thee, or — Amelik's head ! It chanced that day far from his loved abode In chase, unknown to Abdul, Amelik rode. And Kesha's trembling lips the whole day long Murmured these words, recalled from some old song: "If love be love, whatever Fate may send, Still love's sweet thought will meet the bitterest end." She knew dark Abdul's heart, the fearful fate Awaiting the tired huntsman, coming late. So Kesha, with her heart at pause of beat And rose-lips whitening to the awful feat, At evening crept into her husband's bed, And on his pillow laid her raven head — 84 Whether to sleep or watch the gods above Know only, who regard such deeds of love. At midnight Abdul came, his soul as dark, And barely paused his victim's form to mark, But reared aloft his gleaming scimitar. It lightened downward like a falling star. A fair round thing rolled softly to the floor. The slayer caught it toward the open door, And, in the pitiless glimmer of the night, Beheld the face of Kesha, calm and white. TO MY SON Edwin Goodrich Bishop, (aetate 6.) "Red Head." If that dear head — as they say — be red. May Saxon beauty be never dead ! 'T is mines to me, and in my rime Shall golden be to the end of time. With ruddy locks and eyes of blue The spirits glow, the heart beams true ; As the skin is fair the soul is pure, Quick in impulse, stout to endure. 85 Wheresoe'er your path may lead, May you be such in thought and deed. But howsoe'er your feet may err, One heart will be your worshiper! At Twilight Come, little man, our tasks are done, And we may rest with the resting sun. Over the hills the shadows creep, The flowers nid-nod, the birds "peep-peep.' The clock tick-ticks, away flies time, Few are the hours for romp and rime. So let us play and sing together. And laugh through every kind of weather; Until our jolly youth be gone, And our shoulders wiser heads put on. Marching Since we cannot stay let us merrily go Over the grass and over the snow. On little man, to Grown-up Land ; Forward — march ! to its visions grand. Eyes — front ! — yet oft to the hills above For the gift of gifts, and that is love. 86 And, amid the world of tramping feet, May you keep the songs of childhood sweet: And the fairy-tales of morn and May, As your father does this winter day ! Holiday Come, Golden-head, 'tis holiday, Brimful hours of fun and play. What shall it be ? The house of blocks, Fife and drum, or horse that rocks? Donkey that bucks and backs and balks? Doll that blinks and all but talks? Engine that puffs across the floor? License to ride on the parlor door? Or — to London-town on papa's knee, To good Dame Goose's minstrelsy, (Dear old doggerel!) jogging along — What's that? No worse than papa's song? Hush! my critic Golden-head, Here comes Mamma — off to bed! Trading Fair exchange, no larceny, this is. I give songs to you for kisses. 87 You let me into your games at times, And I let you into my rimes. So let us join our playful arts, Forever linked our names and hearts ; And — when all's done — sleep, and see whether We shall awaken famed together. THE OLD YEAR Light be thy footfalls, Father Time, Measured thy tread and softly slow. Of late it seems thou hurriest so To ring thy oft-repeated chime, Recurring like a poet's rime. Just now it came upon my ear, And this is what it said : Soft! the dear, Dear old Year Is dying — dying — dead ! Ye who will Revere him still, Compose the dear hands, close the eyes. His light has vanished. His days are done, His sands are run, His shroud is falling from the skies. Ah, Father Time, upon thy wing Our treasures one by one are borne, Till each grey eve and rosy morn Seems but the grave of some sweet thing That we have erred in cherishing : So that we only sighed to hear, Just now, the chime that said : Hush! the dear, Dear old Year Is dying — dying — dead ! Ye who will Revere him still, Close the dear eyes, compose the hands. His blessings all are shed. His days are done. His sands are run, His flowers lie withered o'er the lands. EASTER What new thing can we say To herald this glad day? What new song can we sing For the coming of the spring? I heard a voice that said : "The spirit of song is dead. The world is growing old, And the dwarfing lust of power And the starving greed of gold More than ever rule the hour, And the poet's blood is cold. The face of him who smiles with the flower, The voice of him who sings with the bird, Is seldom seen, is little heard, No coronal his dower ! From the bustling of the street, The forum or the mart, He needs must live his sweet And solemn life apart." 89 Yet, year on year, The season is here, When a new heaven, a new earth, Come like a morning-glory's birth. Earth-girdling the green hosts creep Forth from their frost-bound prison ; And blossoms spring, And songbirds sing — (Never before!) So out of the shadowy ages' sleep Our Christ is risen Forever more! What new song need we sing For the coming of the spring? What new thing need we say To herald this glad day? BABY'S CATECHISM (With a parent's commentary.) What are you, Baby? — A little white bud, Dropped to you from the gardens of God — (Bloom on, little one, Until the summer of life be done!) What are these, so bright? — Twin stars of light, To twinkle by day and hide by night — ( Grey, brown or blue, May they ever shine with a light that's true!) 90 And what are these, pray ? — Pink sea-shells, they, Picked up where the ripples dance and play — - ( In sound of a sea, Whose murmur is of eternity!) What are these, so sweet ? —Wee messengers fleet, To carry love's letters down life's street — (May they never stray Into a dark or stony way!) And what are these, say? — Busy workers, they, The stout young master, Will, to obey — (Kind deeds, not strong, Will make of life the sweetest song.) What is within? — A little spark That God has struck out of the dark — (Shine out, little ray, Till He call you to His perfect day.) A BABY IN THE HOME "A baby in the house," 't is writ At large in every room. You cannot go amiss of it, Where'er you walk or stand or sit — A baby in the home ! In gay disorder here and there; In scattered toys and tumbled clothes, To vex the eye and catch the toes; In puzzled queries, "How?" and "Where?" 91 In volumes torn and inky stains ; In penciled walls and littered floors; In finger-marks upon the doors, And palmistry upon the panes : In changing looks, of frown and smile; In hurryings up and down the stair; In startling calls upon the air — In loving heart-throbs all the while! In stir and bustle at odd times: In nightly lights that come and go; In lullabies and murmured rimes, And midnight croonings soft and low, Weaving bright fancies out of gloom ; In babble-song and bantam-crow, At the hush dawn of morning-glow — To elder slumberers below A mimic trump of doom ! — 'Tis published near and far — (God bless The little bud of happiness!) A baby in the home ! LITTLE THINGS Little feet, fit for kisses ! Toddling 'round in quest of blisses, Day by day May your way Find no thornier path than this is ! Little hands, free from stain, Serving that wee busy brain, May your deeds — Flowers, not weeds — Grow, nor cause your dear ones pain ! 92 Little face — cherub light Play around it day and night ! Roselights hover, Which discover Never shame for Beauty's sight! Little heart, flowerlike one, Opening daily to the Sun, May your life, Fragrance-rife, Bless us till life's day be done ! UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER Bud, that have blown into our lives, so suddenly, so sweetly, Wonder of all — a thing so small, to have captured us so completely ! What shall we sing or what shall we say, To make for you fit roundelay, To welcome you here most meetly? To welcome you here, and to keep you, Dear, While the years run on so fleetly ? Just tell you this — and with it a kiss! — That the days have been shorter, brighter, Since you came this way from the far-away, Our burdens more, yet lighter: Just say to you, by all that is true As the ring of your voice, as your eyes are blue, That we are yours by all that is fair As the rose of your lips, as the gold of your hair, By the rules of all schools, and of law, love and war, Here and everywhere, now and hence ever more! 93 REQUIEM (Margaret Louise Bishop; died Nov. 30, 1903.) Strew naught but white bud roses Upon the little grave; For here the sweetest bud reposes That summer ever gave. The smile of earth grew sweeter For the blossoming surprise. The vaulted azure was completer For what it gave her eyes. We deemed the birds from Heaven That sang while she was ours, And only now to feel, 'tis given, How earthly are these flowers! Pitying He bent to view us Who called her from the earth — The love that only lent her to us Knew best her heavenly worth. So heavenward back we lend thee, And thither look for pay. Daughter, adieu ! 'tis home we send thee — Glad spirit, lead the way ! 94 REQUIESCAT The new buds start, The grasses creep Above her sleep — Ah ! wounded heart, No longer moan "Alone! alone!" Go, carve this verse upon her stone, Her name adorning: O Sorrow, have thy night — Twilight ! Starlight! Twilight ! Then, morning! For floral bowers Be quickly seen, Ye grasses green. Grow statelier, flowers, Above your own Queen blossom blown — Awhile must Love here sleep alone, Then — Heaven's adorning! Twilight ! Starlight ! Dawn bright! And so, Sweetheart, good night, Till morning! 95 STRIVINGS In childhood tirelessly we prize Fleet Pleasure's flitting butterflies. In youth we chase the nimble dove — Oft caught, ne'er caged, by mortal — Love. In manhood, re-enthroning self, We grasp the irised bubble, Pelf ; Or climb to write an empty name High on the cenotaph of Fame. In age, when other strivings cease, We woo, nor gain, the siren, Peace. And then — the surest and the best — ■ There comes, unsought, an angel, Rest! THE KINGFISHER Above the mirror of the stream He hangs. His eyes are like a dream, Till, from the water's placid flow, Enkindled by a silvery gleam. The spark has fired his kingly heart. His pinions from their slumber start, And, drawn into the deep below, His beak sinks like an iron dart. 96 REDUNDANCY (On seeing a book entitled:) "Woman, Home and Heaven!" O blessed trinity! Ah, heart, what ecstacy, To whom these all be given ! But stay : why name the three ? For where the first resides The second, too, abides — Where they, the last shall be. A HINT TO ARTISTS Would you glimpse the stars sublime Spite of garish day? Clouds to pierce or peaks to climb Do not point the way. Diver, delver, ye can tell — Sink the shaft or drive the well. Ye who would the glaring world Reach by cunning art, Your creative might be hurled Deeply from the heart. There your nights and days prolong, Carve the statue, build the song ! 97 THE WORLD'S VIEW OF HIM (On the death of Cecil Rhodes.) So he is gone — too tardy fate ! — To his dishonored tomb, Who made republics desolate And plunged a world in gloom ; Who drank in blood and widows' tears A toast to sordid self, And made the pang of shadowed years Pay tribute unto pelf. Where were thy thunderbolts, O Heaven, When he in triumph stood O'er the embattled yeomen, driven To seal their faith in blood ? When in the trenches matrons fair Their beardless sons beside Commingled battlesmoke and prayer, And like the Spartans died ? What of the nation and the bard That dare affront the times, And make the laurel-wreathed reward — Ignoble as its rimes — Pay tribute to the last and least And worst of humankind? Colossus? Nay, but satyr-beast, Titanic of its kind. Nay, "Laureate," tyrants cannot "link Nations with ties of steel" While yet the general mind can think, Or man to God can kneel. 98 Sure as the sun of day sets not Upon your Edward's reign, The God of light has not forgot : His truth shall rise again. Britain, has he for nothing wrought, Thy nobler bard, who saw Seer-like a commonwealth of thought And universal law? Where lust of gold and war should cease, And love's new ministry Bring in the glad millennial peace, "The Christ that is to be?" THE LIGHT OF RUSSIA In dreams I saw the Empire free! Her continental plains Half girdling still the Unconquered Sea, Yet virgin as her snows From lust of antique tyrannies: And, as the tropic rains Strew flowery isles 'mid sapphire seas With every wind that blows, The bloom of liberty and peace upon her bosom rose. Ah, marvel of the happy dream ! Clio, unfold the cause. The blood of patriots, free to stream As Dionysian wine? Charters from cringeing despots wrung? The tardy balm of laws? Nay: Tolstoi reigns! (the goddess sung,) —See! "Love" his standards shine — - Tsar by the might of kindly light, the only "right divine." 99 THE TWO FATHERS (Red Sunday in St. Petersburg.) Up from the trampled people Still the cry, "O Lord, how long — (For the heart of his saints with waiting faints) Shall the weak make bricks for the strong? Shall the Right bow down to the Wrong?" "We will go to the Little Father, We will stand before his throne. When he hears the prayer of the hungry there, Will he not honor his own ? Will he give his children a stone?" So forth from the homes of the humble Goes the wan and weaponless host ; A priest of Heaven the leader given — The Cross his banner and boast, His comfort the Holy Ghost. And right through the heart of the city Moves that living prayer for bread, Till down from the horde of the Caesar lord Rains a manna of fire instead, Comes the hail of steel and lead. And the gutters are runnels of crimson With the deaths of brave and. good, And the hoary-haired and women, who fared, And babes that toddling stood, Fall dabbled in blameless blood. 100 And up from the hearths of the humble Goes still the cry for bread ; But the burden rolls from starving souls Of Rachels uncomforted For the loved forever fled. But they go to the Great Good Father, They stand before His throne. Freedom, thy prayer they are hymning there ; And will He not honor His own? Will He give His daughter a stone? "ETERNAL MEMORY" "Eternal memory!" Eternal fame! For those whose blood cries up for Godly rage On Cossack crime, that spared not reverend age, The blameless flower of child-life or the flame Of womanly devotion. In God's name, For them who slaughtered such or bade to slay- Hell's masked marauders in our human clay — Eternal infamy! eternal shame! "Eternal memory!" — Freedom, make thine, now, The cry which rises o'er the sacred dead, With savor of saints' tears, unto the Lord, And for thy darlings, who in thy sight bled, No more a Rachel in thy sackcloth bow, But rise, avenging queen, gird on thy sword. IOI ALTGELD'S LAST THOUGHT To fall as men have fallen — are falling still In that dark land beyond the southern sea — Bondmen to Death to make the living free; Red-badged for faith and self-effacing will; Were noblest in the files of time ; to fill A grave with such as wrought for liberty At Concord bridge or old Thermopylae — Ages smile back on such. Yet, Angel chill, With next the kindliest touch thy chastening rod Falls welcome, when a great soul, taking flight, Breathes forth in a great cause this creed, sub- blime As seer hath dreamed or minstrel wreathed in rime: That, howe'er swings the pendulum of right, Its poise is ever toward the throne of God! TO AN ENGLISH POET High priest of Beauty, darling of the gods, Laurelled of virgins and the sons of Love, The poets' poet and the joy thereof — What more could fit thee for the blest abodes Whereto the Muses lured thee through the night? What more for azure deeps whence critic rage Once sought to blot thine orb? (that a vain age Might see and homage stars of lesser light!) O that such herald passion as did inspire Thy humdrum London youth to ecstacy Pastoral as Pan, Hellenic as the Greek, Full as a lark's throat of high melody, As a June rose of sensuous sweet, might fire To-day's rude tongues, or silence, or make meek! 102 ON RE-READING A FAVORITE POET (Unappreciated in his life, and neglected now.) Erewhile I deemed you deaf and blind, O world, But ye were merely dead, as unformed clay. As children housed with irised suds will play Whilst out of doors stark nature lies impearled, Or God, His ancient promise fresh unfurled, Is sifting out the myriad hues of day, Ye dance to each new Pan's poor piping lay, While Orphean raptures to the rocks are hurled. So would it be though to your ears and eyes (Unheralded) the mighty dead should rise; Though Dante clasped by Beatrice should sing The blisses of unfancied Paradise, Or Milton some new epic of the skies Should from the throne of unsunned splendors bring. AN AMERICAN POET A sweet and gentle nature, and yet strong: Strong in a purpose lofty and sincere ; Strong to awake the smile or start the tear Or lift the soul with hopeful, helpful song; To cheer the traveler who plods along In life's low vale with trembling and with fear ; To ease his doubtings, as the sun shall clear The mists from off the hilltops where they throng. The chosen laureate of a people's will, He charmed our ears with strains serenely sweet, 103 Yet touched our hearts and lives in all our deeds. His people loved him and they love him still; And so his words shall live as ages fleet, And plenteous fruit shall crown the well-sown seeds. ON ANOTHER There is another, of a sterner mould To outward view, yet wondrous soft of heart, Whose tongue and pen have borne a hero's part In freedom's holy cause ; for loud and bold The story of oppression's wrongs he told, And, deftly woven with the singer's art, The fervor of the zealot did impart: And in the cause of truth no strain was cold. And still he walks among us, full of days, Teaching the lesson of a well-spent life To all who read the epoch's glowing page. O may he linger long, laurelled with praise Above the martial victors of the strife, Crowned with the crown of venerable old ase. TO D. F. S. Call me not "failure," though not yet you see Me coming from the harvest with full hand Of fortune's favors, or, more rich and grand, Gems from the deep of immortality — The fairy future yet belongs to me! I may but pluck some pebbles from the strand — Pearls unto me alone in the broad land — A sparrow's chirp my all of song may be. 104 But stay your judgment till the clearer light Of other days shall crown the aspiring brow Of him condemned to linger with you now In this sepulchral valley of the night. The flood of years shall float me from this dark, And land on sun-kissed Ararat my bark. SONG Star in the summer sky, Beautiful spark, Like a winged spirit-eye Piercing the dark, Though deep in heaven thou be, I do not envy thee. Ship of the western sea, Cleaving the foam, Far through the ocean free Gem-bringing home, Though a stored argosy, I do not envy thee. Bird, in the forest dell Soaring and dwelling, Thou hast a joy to tell Past human telling! Thou art so fair and free, I almost envy thee. Flower, at my Lady's breast Fragrantly lying, One with its perfect rest, One with its sighing — Ah, how I envy thee! Thus I at rest would be. 105 SUNDAY RELIGION (On an Old Church) Its tower points the way to Heaven, The belfry chimes, the organ groans, People and priest in solemn tones "Te Deum" chant — one day in seven! From windows dimmed with saintly dreams The sunshine falls in rainbow smiles Along the tessellated aisles: — Heaven's gate and house of God it seems. But praise or prayer, through all the week, Or godly help, you there may seek, O child of faith, and be shut out: Whilst on the walls and all about Are empty words on whited stones, Silence and dust and dead men's bones. A BABY'S FACE Sweet Baby-face, untouched by care Nor marred by sorrow's trace, But haloed 'round with flaxen hair, Sweet Baby-face. O prince in state, O cherub grace, Embowered in cradle, 'throned on chair, Making a Heaven this homely place — Where hast thou breathed celestial air? Whence come with creeping pace ? No matter: thou art here, not there: Sweet Baby-face. 1 06 OF SUCH ARE THE KINGDOMS Each night with its stars sings heaven, As daily old earth with its flowers, "To the little ones be it given To come unto us: they are ours." So, as daylight comes, or it closes, They come to us, — and they go! Welcome and sweet as the roses, Blameless and pure as the snow. GRADUATION To graduate — it means, a step to take ; From school to school, from life to larger life ; From bud to bloom, from bloom to fruitage rife, Through seasons slow the harvest-home to make ; Youth's greenness, not its growing, to forsake ; No triumph yet, but ever nobler strife, Finding life's crown each hour in each hour's life, And only at set of sun thy rest to take. It means, a little more into the light; A little clearer in the inner sight ; A little farther on the widening way By worth and wisdom of the ages trod ; A little lifted from this sordid clay, A little nearer to the stars of God. FRAGMENT With every tick of time from sun to sun Some sweet-eyed baby draws its first faint breath, And still, each night, the circling stars shine on An ever-crowding commonwealth of death. 107 NOTES Of an Unwritten Drama, entitled "LIFE." First of all, an accident, Of two souls in joyance blent, Heedless of the Consequent. Then, a darkness and a sleeping, (Whether with or without dreaming Is not clear.) Then, a groping and a creeping Out of twilight into gleaming Now and Here. Next, a smiling and a laughing — Here and there — some dew-sweet quaffing, As of early dawn ; Then, a roving and a yearning Upward till the noon is burning And that sweetness — gone ! Then, a sighing and a turning, Face regretful, to the past, Blossoms one by one inurning, Till the Shadow falls at last. Then — a silence and a sleeping — (Is there waking? Is there dreaming? Ask no more.) Then, some true heart memories keeping, And a name from fault redeeming — All is o'er: Save a little dust and bone Slowly mingling with its own, And a name carved on a stone ! 1 08 ACHIEVEMENT Maker am I of opportunity, And lord of fate beside. Naught hems my view Or bars my way. I leap the bounds of blue. I tunnel mountains, bridge the lashing sea. I sift the ores of twinkling worlds. To me The whirling systems twilight eons through Bring tribute vast — yet nothing ever new ; For ere they were I am — shall after be. Such are my realm and reign. My throne is man. I make him god, to know both good and ill ; To taste all fruits, but choose the higher still. I, aimless never, work my patient plan, Till of my stuff his final self be wrought — His will the tool, but I the master, Thought! THE FATE From the Italian of Nicola Gigliotti Master am I of human destiny. Fame, Grandeur, Love my willing vassals are. I walk through fields and cities near and fat, Knocking, once only, at each door I see; Then seek I other paths half aimlessly. If sleeping, wake. If feasting now thou share In wine and sin, to bring surcease of care, Arise, (for I am Fate,) and follow me. Else woe betide! for I give horses, gold, Fame, honor, woman and the sweets of life, And only death shall worst thee in the strife. Seize thy sole chance or my revenge behold. "I stay: leave me," I answered, "'tis by thought Alone that man to bliss and strength is brought." 109 THE SILENT LAND From the German of Salis ; (And imitating the original form.) Into the Silent Land ! Ah, who will guide us over ? Already the dark-winged clouds in the evensky gloomily hover, And the wrecks of fair vessels are strewn on the strand. Who will lead us, with gentle hand. Thither, ah! thither, Into the Silent Land? Into the Silent Land! To you, ye regions spacious, Ye airs ennobling to souls, ye visions supernal and gracious. To answer the promise, immortal and grand : Who true in life's struggle shall stand Shall carry the buds of his hope Into the Silent Land. O Land, O Silent Land! Where waits — ah! blessed evangel! — For all the storm-beaten pilgrims our destiny's ten- derest angel, Who beckons and guides, with up-turned brand, And leads, with a gentle hand, To the land of the vanished Great. Into the Silent Land ! no THE MOUNTAIN-VOICE From the German of Heine A cavalier through the valley rode, And trotted in silent gloom. "Ah, is it to my loved-one's arms I go, or the darksome tomb ?" Then answered the voice from the mountain gloom, "The darksome tomb." And further rode the cavalier And sighing heaved his breast. "If then so soon to the grave I go, Ah, well, in the grave is rest." Again the voice his mood expressed, "In the grave is rest." Then down the cheeks of the cavalier The tears of his sorrow fell. "If only the grave hath rest for me, To me in the grave 'tis well." And the hollow voice on his ear still fell, "In the grave — 'tis well." Ill THE BROOKLET From the German of Goethe Thou brooklet, silver-bright and clear, That hurriest on forever here, Upon thy bank I musing stray : Whence comest thou, where goest away? From out the cliff's dark womb I find My way. O'er flower and moss I wind ; And mirrored in my breast the sweep Of azure heavens I gladly keep. A childlike spirit thus I bear, My course still on — I know not where. Who bade me from yon rock to flee, I think will still my Leader be. 112 ON THE DEATH OF A PET SPARROW From the Latin of Catullus O weep, ye loves and cupids, And men of kindred mind, For that my sweetheart's sparrow Is dead: which she did find A joy, and did as dearly prize As light of her delicious eyes. Ah ! sweet he was, and knew her As any child its mother ; Clung ever to her bosom And would not brook another ; But, hopping to and fro, would stay And pipe to her alone his lay. But now that shadowy journey He goes, whence, as they say, Never returneth mortal Unto the light of day. Ah, ill betide thee, darksome Death ! All fair things vanish in thy breath. So, with our pretty sparrow, Which thou hast snatched away — Ah ! woe is me, poor birdie, Thy doing 'tis, to-day, That my fair sweetheart's eyes, so dear, Are swoln and red with many a tear. ! "3 1 SONG From the Latin of Catullus Sweetheart, let us live — and love! And thus the sweets of living prove. A fig for greybeards preaching duty To us, while we have youth and beauty. Suns may set and suns may rise ; Not so the light in loving eyes. For us when once the brief day goes, An endless night we must repose. 114 L =2