My days are tuned to finer chords,And lit by higher suns;,Through all my thoughts and all my wordsA purer purpose runs.
The blank page of my heart grows rifeWith wealth of tender lore;Her image, stamped upon my life,Gives value evermore.
She is so noble, firm, and true,I drink truth from her eyes,As violets gain the heaven's own blueIn gazing at the skies.
No matter if my hands attainThe golden crown or crossOnly to love is such a gainThat losing is not loss.
And thus whatever fate betideOf rapture or of pain,If storm or sun the future hide,My love is not in vain.
So only thanks are on my lips;And through my love I seeMy earliest dreams, like freighted ships,Come sailing home to me.
Words
When violets were springingAnd sunshine filled the day,And happy birds were singingThe praises of the May,A word came to me, blightingThe beauty of the scene,And in my heart was winter,Though all the trees were green.
Now down the blast go sailingThe dead leaves, brown and sere;The forests are bewailingThe dying of the year;A word comes to me, lightingWith rapture all the air,And in my heart is summer,Though all the trees are bare.
The Stirrup Cup
My short and happy day is done,The long and dreary night comes on;And at my door the Pale Horse stands,To carry me to unknown lands.
His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof,Sound dreadful as a gathering storm;And I must leave this sheltering roof,And joys of life so soft and warm.
Tender and warm the joys of life,—Good friends, the faithful and the true;My rosy children and my wife,So sweet to kiss, so fair to view.
So sweet to kiss, so fair to view,—The night comes down, the lights burn blue;And at my door the Pale Horse stands,To bear me forth to unknown lands.
A Dream of Bric-a-Brac
[C.K.loquitur.]
I dreamed I was in fair Niphon.Amid tea-fields I journeyed on,Reclined in my jinrikishaw;Across the rolling plains I sawThe lordly Fusi-yama rise,His blue cone lost in bluer skies.
At last I bade my bearers stopBefore what seemed a china-shop.I roused myself and entered in.A fearful joy, like some sweet sin,Pierced through my bosom as I gazed,Entranced, transported, and amazed.
For all the house was but one room,And in its clear and grateful gloom,Filled with all odors strange and strongThat to the wondrous East belong,I saw above, around, below,A sight to make the warm heart glow,And leave the eager soul no lack,An endless wealth of bric-a-brac.
I saw bronze statues, old and rare,Fashioned by no mere mortal skill,With robes that fluttered in the air,Blown out by Art's eternal will;And delicate ivory netsukes,Richer in tone than Cheddar cheese,Of saints and hermits, cats and dogs,Grim warriors and ecstatic frogs.
And here and there those wondrous masks,More living flesh than sandal-wood,Where the full soul in pleasure basksAnd dreams of love, the only good.The walls were all with pictures hung:Gay villas bright in rain-washed air,Trees to whose boughs brown monkeys clung,Outlineless dabs of fuzzy hair.And all about the opulent shelvesLittered with porcelain beyond price:Imari pots arrayed themselvesBeside Ming dishes; grain-of-riceVied with the Royal Satsuma,Proud of its sallow ivory beam;And Kaga's Thousand Hermits layTranced in some punch-bowl's golden gleam.Over bronze censers, black with age,The five-clawed dragons strife engage;A curled and insolent Dog of FooSniffs at the smoke aspiring through.
In what old days, in what far lands,What busy brains, what cunning hands,With what quaint speech, what alien thought,Strange fellow-men these marvels wrought!
As thus I mused, I was awareThere grew before my eager eyesA little maid too bright and fair,Too strangely lovely for surprise.It seemed the beauty of the placeHad suddenly become concrete,So full was she of Orient grace,From her slant eyes and burnished faceDown to her little gold-bronze feet.
She was a girl of old Japan;Her small hand held a gilded fan,Which scattered fragrance through the room;Her cheek was rich with pallid bloom,Her eye was dark with languid fire,Her red lips breathed a vague desire;Her teeth, of pearl inviolate,Sweetly proclaimed her maiden state.Her garb was stiff with broidered goldTwined with mysterious fold on fold,That gave no hint where, hidden well,Her dainty form might warmly dwell,—A pearl within too large a shell.So quaint, so short, so lissome, she,It seemed as if it well might beSome jocose god, with sportive whirl,Had taken up a long lithe girlAnd tied a graceful knot in her.I tried to speak, and found, oh, bliss!I needed no interpreter;I knew the Japanese for kiss,—I had no other thought but this;And she, with smile and blush divine,Kind to my stammering prayer did seem;My thought was hers, and hers was mine,In the swift logic of my dream.My arms clung round her slender waist,Through gold and silk the form I traced,And glad as rain that follows drouth,I kissed and kissed her bright red mouth.
What ailed the girl? No loving sighHeaved the round bosom; in her eyeTrembled no tear; from her dear throatBubbled a sweet and silvery noteOf girlish laughter, shrill and clear,That all the statues seemed to hear.The bronzes tinkled laughter fine;I heard a chuckle argentineRing from the silver images;Even the ivory netsukesUttered in every silent pauseDry, bony laughs from tiny jaws;The painted monkeys on the wallWaked up with chatter impudent;Pottery, porcelain, bronze, and allBroke out in ghostly merriment,—Faint as rain pattering on dry leaves,Or cricket's chirp on summer eves.
And suddenly upon my sightThere grew a portent: left and right,On every side, as if the airHad taken substance then and there,In every sort of form and face,A throng of tourists filled the place.I saw a Frenchman's sneering shrug;A German countess, in one handA sky-blue string which held a pug,With the other a fiery face she fanned;A Yankee with a soft felt hat;A Coptic priest from Ararat;An English girl with cheeks of rose;A Nihilist with Socratic nose;Paddy from Cork with baggage lightAnd pockets stuffed with dynamite;A haughty Southern ReadjusterWrapped in his pride and linen duster;Two noisy New York stock-brokèrsAnd twenty British globe-trottèrs.To my disgust and vast surpriseThey turned on me lack-lustre eyes,And each with dropped and wagging jawBurst out into a wild guffaw:They laughed with huge mouths opened wide;They roared till each one held his side;They screamed and writhed with brutal glee,With fingers rudely stretched to me,—Till lo! at once the laughter died,The tourists faded into air;None but my fair maid lingered there,Who stood demurely by my side."Who were your friends?" I asked the maid,Taking a tea-cup from its shelf."This audience is disclosed," she said,"Whenever a man makes a fool of himself."
Liberty
What man is there so bold that he should say"Thus, and thus only, would I have the sea"?For whether lying calm and beautiful,Clasping the earth in love, and throwing backThe smile of heaven from waves of amethyst;Or whether, freshened by the busy winds,It bears the trade and navies of the worldTo ends of use or stern activity;Or whether, lashed by tempests, it gives wayTo elemental fury, howls and roarsAt all its rocky barriers, in wild lustOf ruin drinks the blood of living things,And strews its wrecks o'er leagues of desolate shore,—Always it is the sea, and men bow downBefore its vast and varied majesty.
So all in vain will timorous ones essayTo set the metes and bounds of Liberty.For Freedom is its own eternal law;It makes its own conditions, and in stormOr calm alike fulfills the unerring Will.Let us not then despise it when it liesStill as a sleeping lion, while a swarmOf gnat-like evils hover round its head;Nor doubt it when in mad, disjointed timesIt shakes the torch of terror, and its cryShrills o'er the quaking earth, and in the flameOf riot and war we see its awful formRise by the scaffold, where the crimson axeRings down its grooves the knell of shuddering kings.Forever in thine eyes, O Liberty,Shines that high light whereby the world is saved,And though thou slay us, we will trust in thee!
The White Flag
I sent my love two roses,—oneAs white as driven snow,And one a blushing royal red,A flaming Jacqueminot.
I meant to touch and test my fate;That night I should divine,The moment I should see my love,If her true heart were mine.
For if she holds me dear, I said,She'll wear my blushing rose;If not, she'll wear my cold Lamarque,As white as winter's snows.
My heart sank when I met her: sureI had been overbold,For on her breast my pale rose layIn virgin whiteness cold.
Yet with low words she greeted me,With smiles divinely tender;Upon her cheek the red rose dawned,—The white rose meant surrender.
The Law of Death
The song of Kilvani: fairest sheIn all the land of Savatthi.She had one child, as sweet and gayAnd dear to her as the light of day.She was so young, and he so fair,The same bright eyes and the same dark hair;To see them by the blossomy way,They seemed two children at their play.
There came a death-dart from the sky,Kilvani saw her darling die.The glimmering shade his eyes invades,Out of his cheek the red bloom fades;His warm heart feels the icy chill,The round limbs shudder, and are stillAnd yet Kilvani held him fastLong after life's last pulse was past,As if her kisses could restoreThe smile gone out forevermore.
But when she saw her child was dead,She scattered ashes on her head,And seized the small corpse, pale and sweet,And rushing wildly through the street,She sobbing fell at Buddha's feet.
"Master, all-helpful, help me now!Here at thy feet I humbly bow;Have mercy, Buddha, help me now!"She groveled on the marble floor,And kissed the dead child o'er and o'er.And suddenly upon the airThere fell the answer to her prayer:"Bring me to-night a lotus tiedWith thread from a house where none has died."
She rose, and laughed with thankful joy,Sure that the god would save the boy.She found a lotus by the stream;She plucked it from its noonday dream.And then from door to door she fared,To ask what house by Death was spared.Her heart grew cold to see the eyesOf all dilate with slow surprise:"Kilvani, thou hast lost thy head;Nothing can help a child that's dead.There stands not by the Ganges' sideA house where none hath ever died."Thus, through the long and weary day,From every door she bore awayWithin her heart, and on her arm,A heavier load, a deeper harm.By gates of gold and ivory,By wattled huts of poverty,The same refrain heard poor Kilvani,The living are few, the dead are many.
The evening came—so still and fleet—And overtook her hurrying feet.And, heartsick, by the sacred faneShe fell, and prayed the god again.She sobbed and beat her bursting breast"Ah, thou hast mocked me, Mightiest!Lo! I have wandered far and wide;There stands no house where none hath died."And Buddha answered, in a toneSoft as a flute at twilight blown,But grand as heaven and strong as deathTo him who hears with ears of faith:"Child, thou art answered. Murmur not!Bow, and accept the common lot."
Kilvani heard with reverence meet,And laid her child at Buddha's feet.
Mount Tabor
On Tabor's height a glory came,And, shrined in clouds of lambent flame,The awestruck, hushed disciples sawChrist and the prophets of the law.Moses, whose grand and awful faceOf Sinai's thunder bore the trace,And wise Elias,—in his eyesThe shade of Israel's prophecies,—Stood in that wide, mysterious light,Than Syrian noons more purely bright,One on each hand, and high betweenShone forth the godlike Nazarene.
They bowed their heads in holy fright,—No mortal eyes could bear the sight,—And when they looked again, behold!The fiery clouds had backward rolled,And borne aloft in grandeur lonely,Nothing was left "save Jesus only."
Resplendent type of things to be!We read its mystery to-dayWith clearer eyes than even they,The fisher-saints of Galilee.We see the Christ stand out betweenThe ancient law and faith serene,Spirit and letter; but aboveSpirit and letter both was Love.Led by the hand of Jacob's God,Through wastes of eld a path was trodBy which the savage world could moveUpward through law and faith to love.And there in Tabor's harmless flameThe crowning revelation came.The old world knelt in homage due,The prophets near in reverence drew,Law ceased its mission to fulfill,And Love was lord on Tabor's hill.
So now, while creeds perplex the mindAnd wranglings load the weary wind,When all the air is filled with wordsAnd texts that ring like clashing swords,Still, as for refuge, we may turnWhere Tabor's shining glories burn,—The soul of antique Israel gone,And nothing left but Christ alone.
Religion and Doctrine
He stood before the Sanhedrim;The scowling rabbis gazed at him.He recked not of their praise or blame;There was no fear, there was no shame,For one upon whose dazzled eyesThe whole world poured its vast surprise.The open heaven was far too near,His first day's light too sweet and clear,To let him waste his new-gained kenOn the hate-clouded face of men.
But still they questioned, Who art thou?What hast thou been? What art thou now?Thou art not he who yesterdaySat here and begged beside the way;For he was blind.—And I am he;For I was blind, but now I see.
He told the story o'er and o'er;It was his full heart's only lore:A prophet on the Sabbath-dayHad touched his sightless eyes with clay,And made him see who had been blind.Their words passed by him like the wind,Which raves and howls, but cannot shockThe hundred-fathom-rooted rock.
Their threats and fury all went wide;They could not touch his Hebrew pride.Their sneers at Jesus and His band,Nameless and homeless in the land,Their boasts of Moses and his Lord,All could not change him by one word.
I know not what this man may be,Sinner or saint; but as for me,One thing I know,—that I am heWho once was blind, and now I see.
They were all doctors of renown,The great men of a famous town,With deep brows, wrinkled, broad, and wise,Beneath their wide phylacteries;The wisdom of the East was theirs,And honor crowned their silver hairs.The man they jeered and laughed to scornWas unlearned, poor, and humbly born;But he knew better far than theyWhat came to him that Sabbath-day;And what the Christ had done for himHe knew, and not the Sanhedrim.
Sinai and Calvary
There are two mountains hallowedBy majesty sublime,Which rear their crests unconqueredAbove the floods of Time.Uncounted generationsHave gazed on them with awe,—The mountain of the Gospel,The mountain of the Law.
From Sinai's cloud of darknessThe vivid lightnings play;They serve the God of vengeance,The Lord who shall repay.Each fault must bring its penance,Each sin the avenging blade,For God upholds in justiceThe laws that He hath made.
But Calvary stands to ransomThe earth from utter loss,In shade than light more glorious,The shadow of the Cross.To heal a sick world's trouble,To soothe its woe and pain,On Calvary's sacred summitThe Paschal Lamb was slain.
The boundless might of HeavenIts law in mercy furled,As once the bow of promiseO'erarched a drowning world.The Law said, As you keep me,It shall be done to you;But Calvary prays, Forgive them;They know not what they do.
Almighty God! direct usTo keep Thy perfect Law!O blessed Saviour, help usNearer to Thee to draw!Let Sinai's thunders aid usTo guard our feet from sin;And Calvary's light inspire usThe love of God to win.
The Vision of St. Peter
To Peter by night the faithfullest cameAnd said, "We appeal to thee!The life of the Church is in thy life;We pray thee to rise and flee.
"For the tyrant's hand is red with blood,And his arm is heavy with power;Thy head, the head of the Church, will fall,If thou tarry in Rome an hour."
Through the sleeping town St. Peter passedTo the wide Campagna plain;In the starry light of the Alban nightHe drew free breath again:
When across his path an awful formIn luminous glory stood;His thorn-crowned brow, His hands and feet,Were wet with immortal blood.
The godlike sorrow which filled His eyesSeemed changed to a godlike wrath,As they turned on Peter, who cried aloud,And sank to his knees in the path.
"Lord of my life, my love, my soul!Say, what wilt Thou with me?"A voice replied, "I go to RomeTo be crucified for thee."
The apostle sprang, all flushed, to his feet,—The vision had passed away;The light still lay on the dewy plain,But the sky in the east was gray.
To the city walls St. Peter turned,And his heart in his breast grew fire;In every vein the hot blood burnedWith the strength of one high desire.
And sturdily back he marched to his deathOf terrible pain and shame;And never a shade of fear againTo the stout apostle came.
Israel
When by Jabbok the patriarch waitedTo learn on the morrow his doom,And his dubious spirit debatedIn darkness and silence and gloom,There descended a Being with whomHe wrestled in agony sore,With striving of heart and of brawn,And not for an instant forboreTill the east gave a threat of the dawn;And then, as the Awful One blessed him,To his lips and his spirit there came,Compelled by the doubts that oppressed him,The cry that through questioning agesHas been wrung from the hinds and the sages,"Tell me, I pray Thee, Thy name!"
Most fatal, most futile, of questions!Wherever the heart of man beats,In the spirit's most sacred retreats,It comes with its sombre suggestions,Unanswered forever and aye.The blessing may come and may stay,For the wrestler's heroic endeavor;But the question, unheeded forever,Dies out in the broadening day.
In the ages before our traditions,By the altars of dark superstitions,The imperious question has come;When the death-stricken victim lay sobbingAt the feet of his slayer and priest,And his heart was laid smoking and throbbingTo the sound of the cymbal and drumOn the steps of the high Teocallis;When the delicate Greek at his feastPoured forth the red wine from his chaliceWith mocking and cynical prayer;When by Nile Egypt worshiping lay,And afar, through the rosy, flushed airThe Memnon called out to the day;Where the Muezzin's cry floats from his spire;In the vaulted Cathedral's dim shades,Where the crushed hearts of thousands aspireThrough art's highest miracles higher,This question of questions invadesEach heart bowed in worship or shame;In the air where the censers are swinging,A voice, going up with the singing,Cries, "Tell me, I pray Thee, Thy name!"
No answer came back, not a word,To the patriarch there by the ford;No answer has come through the agesTo the poets, the seers, and the sagesWho have sought in the secrets of scienceThe name and the nature of God,Whether cursing in desperate defianceOr kissing his absolute rod;But the answer which was and shall be,"My name! Nay, what is it to thee?"The search and the question are vain.By use of the strength that is in you,By wrestling of soul and of sinewThe blessing of God you may gain.
There are lights in the far-gleaming HeavenThat never will shine on our eyes;To mortals it may not be givenTo range those inviolate skies.The mind, whether praying or scorning,That tempts those dread secrets shall fail;But strive through the night till the morning,And mightily shalt thou prevail.
Crows at Washington
Slow flapping to the setting sunBy twos and threes, in wavering rows.As twilight shadows dimly close,The crows fly over Washington.
Under the crimson sunset skyVirginian woodlands leafless lie,In wintry torpor bleak and dun.Through the rich vault of heaven, which shinesLike a warmed opal in the sun,With wide advance in broken linesThe crows fly over Washington.
Over the Capitol's white dome,Across the obelisk soaring bareTo prick the clouds, they travel home,Content and weary, winnowingWith dusky vans the golden air,Which hints the coming of the spring,Though winter whitens Washington.
The dim, deep air, the level rayOf dying sunlight on their plumes,Give them a beauty not their own;Their hoarse notes fail and faint away;A rustling murmur floating downBlends sweetly with the thickening glooms;They touch with grace the fading day,Slow flying over Washington.
I stand and watch with clouded eyesThese dim battalions move along;Out of the distance memory criesOf days when life and hope were strong,When love was prompt and wit was gay;Even then, at evening, as to-day,I watched, while twilight hovered dimOver Potomac's curving rim,This selfsame flight of homing crowsBlotting the sunset's fading rose,Above the roofs of Washington.
Remorse
Sad is the thought of sunniest daysOf love and rapture perished,And shine through memory's tearful hazeThe eyes once fondliest cherished.Reproachful is the ghost of toysThat charmed while life was wasted.But saddest is the thought of joysThat never yet were tasted.
Sad is the vague and tender dreamOf dead love's lingering kisses,To crushed hearts haloed by the gleamOf unreturning blisses;Deep mourns the soul in anguished prideFor the pitiless death that won them,—But the saddest wail is for lips that diedWith the virgin dew upon them.
Esse Quam Videri
The knightly legend of thy shield betraysThe moral of thy life; a forecast wise,And that large honor that deceit defies,Inspired thy fathers in the elder days,Who decked thy scutcheon with that sturdy phrase,To be rather than seem. As eve's red skiesSurpass the morning's rosy prophecies,Thy life to that proud boast its answer pays.Scorning thy faith and purpose to defendThe ever-mutable multitude at lastWill hail the power they did not comprehend,—Thy fame will broaden through the centuries;As, storm and billowy tumult overpast,The moon rules calmly o'er the conquered seas.
When the Boys Come Home
There's a happy time coming,When the boys come home.There's a glorious day coming,When the boys come home.We will end the dreadful storyOf this treason dark and goryIn a sunburst of glory,When the boys come home.
The day will seem brighterWhen the boys come home,For our hearts will be lighterWhen the boys come home.Wives and sweethearts will press themIn their arms and caress them,And pray God to bless them,When the boys come home.
The thinned ranks will be proudestWhen the boys come home,And their cheer will ring the loudestWhen the boys come home.The full ranks will be shattered,And the bright arms will be battered,And the battle-standards tattered,When the boys come home.
Their bayonets may be rusty,When the boys come home,And their uniforms dusty,When the boys come home.But all shall see the tracesOf battle's royal graces,In the brown and bearded faces,When the boys come home.
Our love shall go to meet them,When the boys come home,To bless them and to greet them,When the boys come home;And the fame of their endeavorTime and change shall not disseverFrom the nation's heart forever,When the boys come home.
Lèse-Amour
How well my heart remembersBeside these camp-fire embersThe eyes that smiled so far away,—The joy that was November's.
Her voice to laughter moving,So merrily reproving,—We wandered through the autumn woods,And neither thought of loving.
The hills with light were glowing,The waves in joy were flowing,—It was not to the clouded sunThe day's delight was owing.
Though through the brown leaves straying,Our lives seemed gone a-Maying;We knew not Love was with us there,No look nor tone betraying.
How unbelief still missesThe best of being's blisses!Our parting saw the first and lastOf love's imagined kisses.
Now 'mid these scenes the drearestI dream of her, the dearest,—Whose eyes outshine the Southern stars,So far, and yet the nearest.
And Love, so gayly taunted,Who died, no welcome granted,Comes to me now, a pallid ghost,By whom my life is haunted.
With bonds I may not sever,He binds my heart forever,And leads me where we murdered him,—The Hill beside the River.
CAMP SHAW, FLORIDA, February, 1864.
Northward
Under the high unclouded sunThat makes the ship and shadow one,I sail away as from the fortBooms sullenly the noonday gun.
The odorous airs blow thin and fine,The sparkling waves like emeralds shine,The lustre of the coral reefsGleams whitely through the tepid brine.
And glitters o'er the liquid milesThe jewelled ring of verdant isles,Where generous Nature holds her courtOf ripened bloom and sunny smiles.
Encinctured by the faithful seasInviolate gardens load the breeze,Where flaunt like giant-warders' plumesThe pennants of the cocoa-trees.
Enthroned in light and bathed in balm,In lonely majesty the PalmBlesses the isles with waving hands,—High-Priest of the eternal Calm.
Yet Northward with an equal mindI steer my course, and leave behindThe rapture of the Southern skies,—The wooing of the Southern wind.
For here o'er Nature's wanton bloomFalls far and near the shade of gloom,Cast from the hovering vulture-wingsOf one dark thought of woe and doom.
I know that in the snow-white pinesThe brave Norse fire of freedom shines,And fain for this I leave the landWhere endless summer pranks the vines.
O strong, free North, so wise and brave!O South, too lovely for a slave!Why read ye not the changeless truth,—The free can conquer but to save?
May God upon these shining sandsSend Love and Victory clasping hands,And Freedom's banners wave in peaceForever o'er the rescued lands!
And here, in that triumphant hour,Shall yielding Beauty wed with Power;And blushing earth and smiling seaIn dalliance deck the bridal bower.
In the Firelight
My dear wife sits beside the fireWith folded hands and dreaming eyes,Watching the restless flames aspire,And wrapped in thralling memories.I mark the fitful firelight flingIts warm caresses on her brow,And kiss her hands' unmelting snow,And glisten on her wedding-ring.
The proud free head that crowns so wellThe neck superb, whose outlines glideInto the bosom's perfect swellSoft-billowed by its peaceful tide,The cheek's faint flush, the lip's red glow,The gracious charm her beauty wears,Fill my fond eyes with tender tearsAs in the days of long ago.
Days long ago, when in her eyesThe only heaven I cared for lay,When from our thoughtless ParadiseAll care and toil dwelt far away;When Hope in wayward fancies throve,And rioted in secret sweets,Beguiled by Passion's dear deceits,—The mysteries of maiden love.
One year had passed since first my sightWas gladdened by her girlish charms,When on a rapturous summer nightI clasped her in possessing arms.And now ten years have rolled away,And left such blessings as their dower,I owe her tenfold at this hourThe love that lit our wedding-day.
For now, vague-hovering o'er her form,My fancy sees, by love refined,A warmer and a dearer charmBy wedlock's mystic hands intwined,—golden coil of wifely caresThat years have forged, the loving joyThat guards the curly-headed boyAsleep an hour ago up stairs.
A fair young mother, pure as fair,A matron heart and virgin soul!The flickering light that crowns her hairSeems like a saintly aureole.A tender sense upon me fallsThat joy unmerited is mine,And in this pleasant twilight shineMy perfect bliss myself appalls.
Come back! my darling, strayed so farInto the realm of fantasy,—Let thy dear face shine like a starIn love-light beaming over me.My melting soul is jealous, sweet,Of thy long silence' drear eclipse,O kiss me back with living lipsTo life, love, lying at thy feet!
In a Graveyard
In the dewy depths of the graveyardI lie in the tangled grass,And watch, in the sea of azure,The white cloud-islands pass.
The birds in the rustling branchesSing gayly overhead;Gray stones like sentinel spectresAre guarding the silent dead.
The early flowers sleep shadedIn the cool green noonday glooms;The broken light falls shudderingOn the cold white face of the tombs,
Without, the world is smilingIn the infinite love of God,But the sunlight fails and faltersWhen it falls on the churchyard sod.
On me the joyous raptureOf a heart's first love is shed,But it falls on my heart as coldlyAs sunlight on the dead.
The Prairie
The skies are blue above my head,The prairie green below,And flickering o'er the tufted grassThe shifting shadows go,Vague-sailing, where the feathery cloudsFleck white the tranquil skies,Black javelins darting where aloftThe whirring pheasant flies.
A glimmering plain in drowsy tranceThe dim horizon bounds,Where all the air is resonantWith sleepy summer sounds,The life that sings among the flowers,The lisping of the breeze,The hot cicala's sultry cry,The murmurous dream of bees.
The butterfly—a flying flower—Wheels swift in flashing rings,And flutters round his quiet kin,With brave flame-mottled wings.The wild Pinks burst in crimson fire,The Phlox' bright clusters shine,And Prairie-Cups are swinging freeTo spill their airy wine.
And lavishly beneath the sun,In liberal splendor rolled,The Fennel fills the dipping plainWith floods of flowery gold;And widely weaves the Iron-WeedA woof of purple dyesWhere Autumn's royal feet may treadWhen bankrupt Summer flies.
In verdurous tumult far awayThe prairie-billows gleam,Upon their crests in blessing restsThe noontide's gracious beam.Low quivering vapors steaming dimThe level splendors breakWhere languid Lilies deck the rimOf some land-circled lake.
Far in the East like low-hung cloudsThe waving woodlands lie;Far in the West the glowing plainMelts warmly in the sky.No accent wounds the reverent air,No footprint dints the sod,—Lone in the light the prairie lies,Rapt in a dream of God
Centennial
A hundred times the bells of BrownHave rung to sleep the idle summers,And still to-day clangs clamoring downA greeting to the welcome comers.
And far, like waves of morning, poursHer call, in airy ripples breaking,And wanders to the farthest shores,Her children's drowsy hearts awaking.
The wild vibration floats along,O'er heart-strings tense its magic plying,And wakes in every breast its songOf love and gratitude undying.
My heart to meet the summons leapsAt limit of its straining tether,Where the fresh western sunlight steepsIn golden flame the prairie heather.
And others, happier, rise and fareTo pass within the hallowed portal,And see the glory shining thereShrined in her steadfast eyes immortal.
What though their eyes be dim and dull,Their heads be white in reverend blossom;Our mother's smile is beautifulAs when she bore them on her bosom!
Her heavenly forehead bears no lineOf Time's iconoclastic fingers,But o'er her form the grace divineOf deathless youth and wisdom lingers.
We fade and pass, grow faint and old,Till youth and joy and hope are banished,And still her beauty seems to foldThe sum of all the glory vanished.
As while Tithonus faltered onThe threshold of the Olympian dawnings,Aurora's front eternal shoneWith lustre of the myriad mornings.
So joys that slip like dead leaves down,And hopes burnt out that die in ashes,Rise restless from their graves to crownOur mother's brow with fadeless flashes.
And lives wrapped in tradition's mistThese honored halls to-day are haunting,And lips by lips long withered kissedThe sagas of the past are chanting.
Scornful of absence' envious barBROWN smiles upon the mystic meetingOf those her sons, who, sundered far,In brotherhood of heart are greeting;
Her wayward children wandering onWhere setting stars are lowly burning,But still in worship toward the dawnThat gilds their souls' dear Mecca turning;
Or those who, armed for God's own fight,Stand by his word through fire and slaughter.Or bear our banner's starry lightFar-flashing through the Gulf's blue water.
For where one strikes for light and truthThe right to aid, the wrong redressing,The mother of his spirit's youthSheds o'er his soul her silent blessing.
She gained her crown a gem of flameWhen KNEASS fell dead in victory gory;New splendor blazed upon her nameWhen IVES' young life went out in glory!
Thus bright forever may she keepHer fires of tolerant Freedom burning,Till War's red eyes are charmed to sleepAnd bells ring home the boys returning.
And may she shed her radiant truthIn largess on ingenuous comers,And hold the bloom of gracious youthThrough many a hundred tranquil summers!
A Winter Night
The winter wind is raving fierce and shrillAnd chides with angry moan the frosty skies,The white stars gaze with sleepless Gorgon eyesThat freeze the earth in terror fixed and stillWe reck not of the wild night's gloom and chill,Housed from its rage, dear friend; and fancy flies,Lured by the hand of beckoning memories,Back to those summer evenings on the hillWhere we together watched the sun go downBeyond the gold-washed uplands, while his firesTouched into glittering life the vanes and spiresPiercing the purpling mists that veiled the town.The wintry night thy voice and eyes beguile,Till wake the sleeping summers in thy smile.
Student-Song
When Youth's warm heart beats high, my friend,And Youth's blue sky is bright,And shines in Youth's clear eye, my friend,Love's early dawning light,Let the free soul spurn care's control,And while the glad days shine,We'll use their beams for Youth's gay dreamsOf Love and Song and Wine.
Let not the bigot's frown, my friend,O'ercast thy brow with gloom,For Autumn's sober brown, my friend,Shall follow Summer's bloom.Let smiles and sighs and loving eyesIn changeful beauty shine,And shed their beams on Youth's gay dreamsOf Love and Song and Wine.
For in the weary years, my friend,That stretched before us lie,There'll be enough of tears, my friend,To dim the brightest eye.So let them wait, and laugh at fate,While Youth's sweet moments shine,—Till memory gleams with golden dreamsOf Love and Song and Wine.
How It Happened
I pray you, pardon me, Elsie,And smile that frown awayThat dims the light of your lovely faceAs a thunder-cloud the day.I really could not help it,—Before I thought, 't was done,—And those great gray eyes flashed bright and cold,Like an icicle in the sun.
I was thinking of the summersWhen we were boys and girls,And wandered in the blossoming woods,And the gay winds romped with your curls.And you seemed to me the same little girlI kissed in the alder-path,I kissed the little girl's lips, and alas!I have roused a woman's wrath.
There is not so much to pardon,—For why were your lips so red?The blond hair fell in a shower of goldFrom the proud, provoking head.And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes,And played round the tender mouth,Rushed over my soul like a warm sweet windThat blows from the fragrant south.
And where, after all, is the harm done?I believe we were made to be gay,And all of youth not given to loveIs vainly squandered away.And strewn through life's low labors,Like gold in the desert sands,Are love's swift kisses and sighs and vowsAnd the clasp of clinging hands.
And when you are old and lonely,In Memory's magic shineYou will see on your thin and wasting hands,Like gems, these kisses of mine.And when you muse at eveningAt the sound of some vanished name,The ghost of my kisses shall touch your lipsAnd kindle your heart to flame.
God's Vengeance
Saith the Lord, "Vengeance is mine;I will repay," saith the Lord;Ours be the anger divine,Lit by the flash of his word.
How shall his vengeance be done?How, when his purpose is clear?Must he come down from his throne?Hath he no instruments here?
Sleep not in imbecile trustWaiting for God to begin,While, growing strong in the dust,Rests the bruised serpent of sin.
Right and Wrong,—both cannot liveDeath-grappled. Which shall we see?Strike! only Justice can giveSafety to all that shall be.
Shame! to stand paltering thus,Tricked by the balancing odds;Strike! God is waiting for us!Strike! for the vengeance is God's.
Too Late
Had we but met in other days,Had we but loved in other ways,Another light and hope had shoneOn your life and my own.
In sweet but hopeless reveriesI fancy how your wistful eyesHad saved me, had I known their powerIn fate's imperious hour;
How loving you, beloved of God,And following you, the path I trodHad led me, through your love and prayers.To God's love unawares:
And how our beings joined as oneHad passed through checkered shade and sun,Until the earth our lives had given,With little change, to heaven.
God knows why this was not to be.You bloomed from childhood far from me,The sunshine of the favored placeThat knew your youth and grace.
And when your eyes, so fair and free,In fearless beauty beamed on me,I knew the fatal die was thrown,My choice in life was gone.
And still with wild and tender artYour child-love touched my torpid heart,Gilding the blackness where it fell,Like sunlight over hell.
In vain, in vain! my choice was gone!Better to struggle on aloneThan blot your pure life's blameless shineWith cloudy stains of mine.
A vague regret, a troubled prayer,And then the future vast and fairWill tempt your young and eager eyesWith all its glad surprise.
And I shall watch you, safe and far,As some late traveller eyes a starWheeling beyond his desert sandsTo gladden happier lands.
Love's Doubt
'Tis love that blinds my heart and eyes,—I sometimes say in doubting dreams,—The face that near me perfect seemsCold Memory paints in fainter dyes.
'T was but love's dazzled eyes—I say—That made her seem so strangely bright;The face I worshipped yesternight,I dread to meet it changed to-day.
As, when dies out some song's refrain,And leaves your eyes in happy tears,Awake the same fond idle fears,—It cannot sound so sweet again.
You wait and say with vague annoy,"It will not sound so sweet again,"Until comes back the wild refrainThat floods your soul with treble joy.
So when I see my love againFades the unquiet doubt away,While shines her beauty like the dayOver my happy heart and brain.
And in that face I see no moreThe fancied faults I idly dreamed,But all the charms that fairest seemed,I find them, fairer than before.
Lagrimas
God send me tears!Loose the fierce band that binds my tired brain,Give me the melting heart of other years,And let me weep again!
Before me passThe shapes of things inexorably true.Gone is the sparkle of transforming dewFrom every blade of grass.
In life's high noonAimless I stand, my promised task undone,And raise my hot eyes to the angry sunThat will go down too soon.
Turned into gallAre the sweet joys of childhood's sunny reign;And memory is a torture, love a chainThat binds my life in thrall.
And childhood's painCould to me now the purest rapture yield;I pray for tears as in his parching fieldThe husbandman for rain.
We pray in vain!The sullen sky flings down its blaze of brass;The joys of life all scorched and withering pass;I shall not weep again.
On the Bluff
O grandly flowing River!O silver-gliding River!Thy springing willows shiverIn the sunset as of old;They shiver in the silenceOf the willow-whitened islands,While the sun-bars and the sand-barsFill air and wave with gold.
O gay, oblivious River!O sunset-kindled River!Do you remember everThe eyes and skies so blueOn a summer day that shone here,When we were all alone here,And the blue eyes were too wiseTo speak the love they knew?
O stern impassive River!O still unanswering River!The shivering willows quiverAs the night-winds moan and rave.From the past a voice is calling,From heaven a star is falling,And dew swells in the bluebellsAbove her hillside grave.
Una
In the whole wide world there was but one,Others for others, but she was mine,The one fair woman beneath the sun.
From her gold-flax curls' most marvellous shineDown to the lithe and delicate feetThere was not a curve nor a waving line
But moved in a harmony firm and sweetWith all of passion my life could know.By knowledge perfect and faith complete
I was bound to her,—as the planets goAdoring around their central star,Free, but united for weal or woe.
She was so near and Heaven so far—She grew my heaven and law and fateRounding my life with a mystic bar
No thought beyond could violate.Our love to fulness in silence nursedGrew calm as morning, when through the gate
Of the glimmering East the sun has burst,With his hot life filling the waiting air.She kissed me once,—that last and first
Of her maiden kisses was placid as prayer.Against all comers I sat with lanceIn rest, and, drunk with my joy, I sware
Defiance and scorn to the world's worst chance.In vain! for soon unhorsed I layAt the feet of the strong god Circumstance—
And never again shall break the day,And never again shall fall the nightThat shall light me, or shield me, on my way
To the presence of my sad soul's delight.Her dead love comes like a passionate ghostTo mourn the Body it held so light,
And Fate, like a hound with a purpose lost,Goes round bewildered with shame and fright.
Through the long days and yearsWhat will my loved one be,Parted from me?Through the long days and years.
Always as then she wasLoveliest, brightest, best,Blessing and blest,—Always as then she was.
Never on earth againShall I before her stand,Touch lip or hand,—Never on earth again.
But while my darling livesPeaceful I journey on,Not quite alone,Not while my darling lives.
A Phylactery
Wise men I hold those rakes of oldWho, as we read in antique story,When lyres were struck and wine was poured,Set the white Death's Head on the board—Memento mori.
Love well! love truly! and love fast!True love evades the dilatory.Life's bloom flares like a meteor past;A joy so dazzling cannot last—Memento mori.
Stop not to pluck the leaves of bayThat greenly deck the path of glory,The wreath will wither if you stay,So pass along your earnest way—Memento mori.
Hear but not heed, though wild and shrill,The cries of faction transitory;Cleave toyourgood, eschewyourill,A Hundred Years and all is still—Memento mori.
When Old Age comes with muffled drums,That beat to sleep our tired life's story,On thoughts of dying, (Rest is good!)Like old snakes coiled i' the sun, we brood—Memento mori.
Blondine
I wandered through a careless worldDeceived when not deceiving,And never gave an idle heartThe rapture of believing.The smiles, the sighs, the glancing eyes,Of many hundred comersSwept by me, light as rose-leaves blownFrom long-forgotten summers.
But never eyes so deep and brightAnd loyal in their seeming,And never smiles so full of lightHave shone upon my dreaming.The looks and lips so gay and wise,The thousand charms that wreathe them,—Almost I dare believe that truthIs safely shrined beneath them.
Ah! do they shine, those eyes of thine,But for our own misleading?The fresh young smile, so pure and fine,Does it but mock our reading?Then faith is fled, and trust is dead,And unbelief grows duty,If fraud can wield the triple armOf youth and wit and beauty.
Distichs
Wisely a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her.This one may love her some day, some day the lover will not.
There are three species of creatures who when they seem coming are going,When they seem going they come: Diplomates, women, and crabs.
Pleasures too hastily tasted grow sweeter in fond recollection,As the pomegranate plucked green ripens far over the sea.
As the meek beasts in the Garden came flocking for Adam to name them,Men for a title to-day crawl to the feet of a king.
What is a first love worth, except to prepare for a second?What does the second love bring? Only regret for the first.
Health was wooed by the Romans in groves of the laurel and myrtle.Happy and long are the lives brightened by glory and love.
Wine is like rain: when it falls on the mire it but makes it the fouler,But when it strikes the good soil wakes it to beauty and bloom.
Break not the rose; its fragrance and beauty are surely sufficient:Resting contented with these, never a thorn shall you feel.
When you break up housekeeping, you learn the extent of your treasures;Till he begins to reform, no one can number his sins.
Maidens! why should you worry in choosing whom you shall marry?Choose whom you may, you will find you have got somebody else.
Unto each man comes a day when his favorite sins all forsake him,And he complacently thinks he has forsaken his sins.
Be not too anxious to gain your next-door neighbor's approval:Live your own life, and let him strive your approval to gain.
Who would succeed in the world should be wise in the use of his pronouns.Utter the You twenty times, where you once utter the I.
The best loved man or maid in the town would perish with anguishCould they hear all that their friends say in the course of a day.
True luck consists not in holding the best of the cards at the table:Luckiest he who knows just when to rise and go home.
Pleasant enough it is to hear the world speak of your virtues;But in your secret heart 't is of your faults you are proud.
Try not to beat back the current, yet be not drowned in its waters;Speak with the speech of the world, think with the thoughts of the few.
Make all good men your well-wishers, and then, in the years' steady sifting,Some of them turn into friends. Friends are the sunshine of life.
Regardant
As I lay at your feet that afternoon,Little we spoke,—you sat and mused,Humming a sweet old-fashioned tune,
And I worshipped you, with a sense confusedOf the good time gone and the bad on the way,While my hungry eyes your face perused
To catch and brand on my soul for ayeThe subtle smile which had grown my doom.Drinking sweet poison hushed I lay
Till the sunset shimmered athwart the room.I rose to go. You stood so fairAnd dim in the dead day's tender gloom:
All at once, or ever I was aware,Flashed from you on me a warm strong waveOf passion and power; in the silence there
I fell on my knees, like a lover, or slave,With my wild hands clasping your slender waist;And my lips, with a sudden frenzy brave,
A madman's kiss on your girdle pressed,And I felt your calm heart's quickening beat,And your soft hands on me one instant rest.
And if God had loved me, how endlessly sweetHad he let my heart in its rapture burst,And throb its last at your firm small feet!
And when I was forth, I shuddered at firstAt my imminent bliss. As a soul in pain,Treading his desolate path accursed,
Looks back and dreams through his tears' dim rainThat by Heaven's wide gate the angels smile,Relenting, and beckon him back again,
And goes on, thrice damned by that devil's wile,—So sometimes burns in my weary brainThe thought that you loved me all the while.
Guy of the Temple
Down the dim West slow fails the stricken sun,And from his hot face fades the crimson flushVeiled in death's herald-shadows sick and gray.Silent and dark the sombre valley liesForgotten; happy in the late fond beamsGlimmer the constant waves of Galilee.Afar, below, in airy music ringThe bugles of my host; the column halts,A wearied serpent glittering in the vale,Where rising mist-like gleam the tented camps.
Pitch my pavilion here, where its high crossMay catch the last light lingering on the hill.The savage shadows, struggling by the shore,Have conquered in the valley; inch by inchThe vanquished light fights bravely to these cragsTo perish glorious in the sunset fire;Even as our hunted Cause so pressed and tornIn Syrian valleys, and the trampled margeOf consecrated streams, displays at lastIts narrowing glories from these steadfast walls.Here in God's name we stand, and brighter farShines the stern virtue of my martyr-hostThrough these invidious fortunes, than of old,When the still sunshine glinted on their helms,And dallying breezes woke their bridle-bellsTo tinkling music by the reedy shoreOf calm Tiberias, where our angry Lord,Wroth at the deadly sin that cursed our camp,Denied and blinded us, and gave us upTo the avenging sword of Saladin.Yet would he not permit his truth to sinkTo utter loss amid that foundering fight,But led us, scarred and shattered from the spoilOf Paynim rage, the desert's thirsty death,To where beneath the sheltering crags we prayedAnd rested and grew strong. Heroes and saintsTo alien peoples shall they be, my braveAnd patient warriors; for in their stout heartsGod's spirit dwells forever, and their handsAre swift to do his service on his foes.The swelling music of their vesper-hymnIs rising fragrant from the shadowed valeFamiliar to the welcoming gates of heaven.
Mother of God! as evening fallsUpon the silent sea.
Mother of God! as evening fallsUpon the silent sea,And shadows veil the mountain walls,We lift our souls to thee!From lurking perils of the night,The desert's hidden harms,From plagues that waste, from blasts that smite,Defend thy men-at-arms!
Ay! Heaven keep them! and ye angel-hostsThat wait with fluttering plumes around the greatWhite throne of God, guard them from scathe and harm!For in your starry records never shoneThe memory of desert so great as theirs.I hold not first, though peerless else on earth,That knightly valor, born of gentle bloodAnd war's long tutelage, which hath made their nameBlaze like a baleful planet o'er these lands;Firm seat in saddle, lance unmoved, a handWedding the hilt with death's persistent grasp;One-minded rush in fight that naught can stay.Not these the highest, though I scorn not these,But rather offer Heaven with humble heartThe deeds that heaven hath given us arms to do.For when God's smile was with us we were strongTo go like sudden lightning to our mark:As on that summer day when Saladin—Passing in scorn our host at Antioch,Who spent the days in revel, and shamed the starsWith nightly scandal—came with all his host,Its gay battalia brave with saffron silks,Flaunting the banners of the CaliphateBeneath the walls of fair Jerusalem:And white and shaking came the Leper-King,Great Baldwin's blasted scion, and TripoliAnd I, and twenty score of Temple Knights,To meet the myriads marshalled by the brightUntarnished flower of Eastern chivalry;A moment paused with level-fronting spearsAnd moveless helms before that shining host,Whose gay attire abashed the morning light,And then struck spur and charged, while from the massOf rushing terror burst the awful cry,God and the Temple! As the avalanche slidesDown Alpine slopes, precipitous, cold and dark,Unpitying and unwrathful, grinds and crushesThe mountain violets and the valley weeds,And drags behind a trail of chaos and death;So burst we on that field, and through and throughThe gay battalia brave with saffron silks,Crushed and abolished every grace and gleam,And dragged where'er we rode a sinuous trackOf chaos and death, till all the plain was filledWith battered armor, turbaned trunkless heads,With silken mantles blushing angry gulesAnd Bagdad's banners trampled and forlorn.And Saladin, stunned and bewildered sore,—The greatest prince, save in the grace of God,That now wears sword,—mounted his brother's barb,And, followed by a half-score followers,Sped to his castle Shaubec, over againstThe cliffs by Ascalon, and there abode:And sullenly made order that no moreThe royal nouba should be played for himUntil he should erase the rusting stainUpon his knightly honor; and no moreThe nouba sounded by the Sultan's tent,Morning nor evening by the silent tent,Until the headlong greed of ChatillonSpread ruin on our cause from Montreale.But greatest are my warriors, as I deem,In that their hearts, nearer than any elseKeep true the pledge of perfect purityThey pledged upon their sword-hilts long ago.For all is possible to the pure in heart.
Mother of God! thy starry smileStill bless us from above!Keep pure our souls from passion's guile,Our hearts from earthly love!Still save each soul from guilt apartAs stainless as each swordAnd guard undimmed in every heartThe image of our Lord!
O goodliest fellowship that the world has known,True hearts and stalwart arms! above your breastsGlitters no flash of wreathen amuletForged against sword-stroke by the chanted rhythmOf charms accurst; but in each steadfast heartBlazes the light of cloudless purity,That like a splendid jewel glorifiesWith restless fire the gold that spheres it round,And marks you children of our God, whose livesHe guards with the awful jealousy of love.And even me that generous love has spared,—Me, trustless knight and miserable man,—Sad prey of dark and mutinous thoughts that temptMy sick soul into perjury and death—Since his great love had pity of my pain,Has spared to lead these blameless warriors safeInto the desert from the blazing towns,Out of the desert to the inviolate hillsWhere God has roofed them with his hollow shield.Through all these days of tempest and eclipseHis hand has led me and his wrath has flashedIts lightnings in the pathway of my sword.And so I hope, and so my crescent faithGains daily power, that all my prayers and tearsAnd toils and blood and anguish borne for himMay blot the accusing of my deadly sinFrom heaven's high compt, and give me rest in death;And lay the pallid ghost of mortal love,That fills with banned and mournful loveliness,Unblest, the haunted chambers of my soul.My misery will atone,—my misery,Dear God, will surely atone! for not the stingOf macerating thongs, nor the slow horrorOf crowns of thorny iron maddening the brows,Nor all that else pale hermits have devisedTo scourge the rebel senses in their shadeOf caverned desolation, have the powerTo smart and goad and lash and mortifyLike the great love that binds my ruined heartRelentless, as the insidious ivy bindsThe shattered bulk of some deserted tower,Enlacing slow and riving with strong handsOf pitiless verdure every seam and jut,Till none may tear it forth and save the tower.So binds and masters me my hopeless love.So through the desert, in the silent hills,I' the current of the battle's storm and stress,One thought has driven me,—that though men may callMe stainless Paladin, Knight leal and trueTo Christ and Our Lady, still I know myselfA knight not after God's own heart, a soulRecreant, and whelmed in the forbidden sin.For dearer to my sad heart than the crossI give my heart's best blood for are the eyesThat long ago, when youth and hope were mine,I loved in thy still valleys, far Provence!And sweeter to my spirit than the bellsOf rescued Salem are the loving tonesOf her dear voice, soft echoing o'er the years.They haunt me in the stillness and the glareOf desert noontide when the horizon's lineSwims faintly throbbing, and my shadow hidesSkulking beneath me from the brassy sky.And when night comes to soothe with breath of balmAnd pomp of stars the worn and weary world,Her eyes rise in my soul and make its day.And even into the battle comes my love,Snatching the duty that I offer Heaven.