The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PoemsAuthor: John L. StoddardRelease date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #11091]Most recently updated: December 23, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Ted Garvin, Ginny Brewer and PG Distributed Proofreaders*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: PoemsAuthor: John L. StoddardRelease date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #11091]Most recently updated: December 23, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Ted Garvin, Ginny Brewer and PG Distributed Proofreaders
Title: Poems
Author: John L. Stoddard
Author: John L. Stoddard
Release date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #11091]Most recently updated: December 23, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Ted Garvin, Ginny Brewer and PG Distributed Proofreaders
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
Produced by Ted Garvin, Ginny Brewer and PG Distributed Proofreaders
1913
They called him mad,—the poor, old man,Whose white hair, worn and thin,Fell o'er his shoulders, as he playedHis cherished violin,Forever drawing to and froO'er silent strings a loosened bow.
At times on his pathetic faceA look of perfect rapture shone,Intent on some celestial chords,Discerned by him alone;And sometimes he would smile and pause,As if receiving loud applause.
So, many a humble poet dreamsHis songs will touch the human heart,And full of hope his offering laysBefore the shrine of Art;Poor dreamer, may he never knowThat he too draws a silent bow!
LINES WRITTEN FOR A GOLDEN WEDDINGTO THE WALKING-STICK OF MY DEAD FRIENDTO C.TO MR. AND MRS. A.H.S.To M.C. OF ATHENSTO J.B.TO M.P.TO MISS MARY C. LOWIN MEMORIAM. G.M.M.TO HON. CHARLES M. DICKINSONTO J.C.Y.TO HON. JESSE HOLDOM
* * * * *
Up and down in my garden fair,Under the trellis where grapes will bloom,With the breath of violets in the air,As pallid Winter for Spring makes room,I walk and ponder, free from care,In my beautiful Promenade Solitaire.
Back and forth in the checkered shadeTraced by the lattice that holds the vine,With the glory of snow-capped crests displayedOn the sapphire sky in a billowy line,I stroll, and ask what can compareWith the charm of my Promenade Solitaire.
To and fro 'neath the nascent greenWhich clambers over its slender frame,With white peaks lighting up the scene,As snowfields glow with the sunset flame,I saunter, halting here and thereFor the view from my Promenade Solitaire.
In and out through the silence sweet,Plash of fountain and song of birdAre the only sounds in my lov'd retreatBy which the air is ever stirred;It is like a long-drawn aisle of prayer,So hushed is my Promenade Solitaire.
Onward rushes the world without,But the breeze which over my garden stealsBrings from it merely a distant shoutOr the echo light of passing wheels;In its din and drive I have now no share,As I muse in my Promenade Solitaire.
Am I dead to the world, that I thus disdainIts moil and toil in the prime of life,When perhaps a score of years remainTo win more gold in its selfish strife?Am I foolish to choose the purer airOf my glorious Promenade Solitaire?
Ah no! From my mountain-girdled heightI watch the game of the world go on,And note the course of the bitter fight,And what is lost and what is won;And I judge of it better here than there,As I gaze from my Promenade Solitaire.
It is ever the same old tale of greed,Of robbing and killing the weaker race,Of the word proved false by the cruel deed,Of the slanderous tongue with the friendly face;'Tis enough to make one's heart despairEven here in my Promenade Solitaire.
They cheer, and struggle, and beat the airWith many a stroke and thrust intense,And urge each other to do and dare,To gain some good they deem immense;But they look like ants contending thereFrom the height of my Promenade Solitaire.
Backward and forward they run and crawl,Houses and treasures they heap up high,Hither and thither their booty haul, …Then suddenly drop in their tracks and die!For few are wise enough to repairIn time to a Promenade Solitaire.
Meantime the Earth speeds on through space,As the sun for a million years hath steered,And, an eon hence, the entire raceWill have played its part and disappeared;But what will the lifeless planet care,As it follows its Promenade Solitaire?
I know not how, I know not where,But from my own heart's mystic loreI feel that I have breathed this air,And walked this earth before;
And that in this, its latest formMy old-time spirit once more strives,As it has fought through many a stormIn past, forgotten lives.
Not inexperienced did my soulThis incarnation's threshold tread;Not recordless has proved the scrollIt brought back from the dead.
To certain, special lines of thoughtMy mind intuitively tends,And old affinities have broughtNot new, but ancient friends.
What thrilled me in a previous stateRekindles here its ancient flame;What I by instinct love and hateI knew before I came;
And lands, of which in youth I dreamedAnd read, heart-moved, and longed to see,When really visited, have seemedNot strange but known to me.
When Mozart, still a child, untaught,Ran joyous to the silent keys,And with inspired fingers wroughtMajestic harmonies,
There fell upon his psychic earFaint echoes of a music knownBefore his natal advent here,In former lives outgrown.
In many a dumb brute's wistful eyesA dawning human soul aspires,For thus from lower forms we rise,—Ourselves our spirits' sires.
Full many a thought that thrills my breastIs fruit resulting from a seedSown elsewhere,—on my soul impressedBy many an arduous deed;
Full many a fetter which hath lamedMy struggling spirit's upward flightWas once by that same spirit framed,When further from the Light;
With justice, therefore, comes the painThat o'er the tortured world extends;And hopeful is the lessening stain,As each life-cycle ends.
No changeless, endless states awaitThe good and evil souls set free;Each grave is a successive gateIn immortality.
Too long this mighty truth hath sleptAmong the darkened souls of men,—"Ye cannot see God's face, exceptYe shall be born again."
The God-like Christs and Buddhas yearn,However high their spirits' stage,For man's salvation to return,As Saviour or as Sage.
On our benighted, groping mindsTheir noble precepts, star-like, shine;Each soul, that wisely seeks them, findsThe truths that are divine.
Misunderstood and vilified,Their aims and motives scarcely known,How many of these Saints have died,Rejected by their own!
Yet, though their followers miss the way,In spite of precept and of prayer,And lead unnumbered souls astray,Committed to their care,
Upon the lofty spirit-plane,Where all lies open to their sight,The Masters know that not in vainThey left the Hills of Light.
O pallid spectre of the midnight skies,Whose phantom features in the dome of NightElude the keenest gaze of wistful eyes,Till amplest lenses aid the failing sight;On heaven's blue sea the farthest isle of fire,From thee, whose glories it would fain admire,Must vision, baffled, in despair retire!
What art thou, ghostly visitant of flame?Wouldst thou 'neath closer scrutiny resolveIn myriad suns that constellations frame,Around which life-blest satellites revolve,Like those unnumbered orbs which nightly creepIn dim procession o'er the azure steep,As white-winged caravans the desert sweep?
Or art thou still an incandescent mass,Acquiring form as hostile forces urge,Through whose vast length continuous lightnings pass,As to and fro its fiery billows surge?Whose glowing atoms, whirled in ceaseless strife,Where now chaotic anarchy is rife,Shall yet become the fair abodes of life?
We know not; for the faint, exhausted raysWhich hither on Light's winged coursers comeFrom fires which ages since first lit their blaze,One instant gleam, then perish, spent and dumb;How sad the thought that, howsoe'er we yearnOf life on yonder glittering orbs to learn,We read no message, and could none return!
Yet this we know:—yon ring of spectral light,Whose distance thrills the soul with solemn awe,Can ne'er escape in its majestic mightThe firm control of omnipresent law;This mote descending to its bounden place,Those suns whose radiance we can scarcely trace,Alike obey the Power pervading space.
I sit in my luxurious chair;Soft rugs caress my slippered feet;Within, a balmy, summer air;Without, a wintry storm of sleet.
A favorite book is in my hands,A thousand others line the walls;Some souvenir of distant landsIn every nook the Past recalls.
Upon a Turkish tabouretIn Dresden cups of peerless blueGleams on a pretty Cashmere trayThe fragrant Mocha's ebon hue.
Two dainty hands prepare the draught,While loving glances meet my own;Two lips repeat (the coffee quaffed),"To-night 'tis sweet to be alone."
Hark! in the court my faithful houndBreaks rudely on our tête-à-tête;Too well I understand that sound!A mendicant is at my gate.
Admit him? Yes; for none shall sayThat he who seeks in want my doorIs ever harshly turned away;His plea is heard, if nothing more.
I leave my comforts with a sigh,And, passing to the outer hall,Behold a wanderer doomed to die,—So ill, I look to see him fall.
I know his story ere he speaks;And listening to his labored breath,I trace, with tears upon my cheeks,His long and hopeless fight with death.
A poor, storm-beaten, lonely waif,Lured southward from a colder climeBy hope and that unfailing faithThat health will come again in time!
Alas! too late; the dread diseaseHath fixed its roots too firmly there;And now sick, friendless, at my knees,He pours forth his heart-breaking prayer.
What are his needs? Before all, food!Hot soup, bread, wine, until at lastA sense of human brotherhoodObliterates his cruel past;
Yet not for long; for though well-fed,With warmer garments than before,He hath no place to lay his head,On turning from my friendly door.
I slip some silver in his hand,('Twill purchase shelter for the night,)Then, silent and remorseful, standTo watch his bent form out of sight.
On, on he goes through snow and sleet,With nothing more of warmth and cheer!From such a home to such a street!Ah, should I not have kept him here?
My room is no less bright and warm,But all its charm and joy have fled;That lonely figure in the stormLeaves both our hearts uncomforted.
For this is but one tiny waveIn life's vast, shoreless sea of woe,—One note in man's hoarse cry to save,Resounding o'er its ebb and flow;
I ask myself in blank dismay,—Ought I my little wealth to own?Yet, should I give it all away,'Twere but a drop to ocean thrown!
Great God! if what I dimly see,In this small section of mankind,Of pain and want and misery,Can thus bring anguish to my mind,
How canstThouview the awfulwhole,As our ensanguined planet rollsFrom unknown source to unknown goalIts freight of suffering human souls?
Permitted pain!—the first and lastOf riddles that we strive to solve,More poignant ever, and more vast,As man's mentalities evolve,
I hear thy victims' ceaseless wails,I view the path my race hath trod,And at the sight my spirit quails,And cries in agony to God!
Within a home for captive beastsWhose world had dwindled to a cage,I noted in their mournful eyesSuch resignation, fear, and rage,I longed at once to set them free,And send them over land and seaTo live again in liberty.
For them no more the mountain range,The desert vast, the jungle's lair!Their meaner fate through grated barsTo feel the public's hateful stare;Poor prisoners! doomed henceforth to paceWith stinted strides a narrow space,And, daily, gaping crowds to face.
At length I stood before a cage,Where, guarded by a loftier screen,Were artificial rocks, and pools,And strips of vegetation green;There, perched upon some rocky mound,Or crouching on the miry ground,A flock of waterfowl I found.
Storks, poised upon a single leg,Stood dreaming of the eternal Nile,—The Mecca of their winter flight,When lured by Egypt's sunny smile;While ducks and geese, in gabbling mood,Explored the muddy pond for food,Attended by their noisy brood.
Their keeper brought their evening meal;And instantly on broad-webbed feet,And stilt-like legs, and flapping wings,The feathered bipeds rushed to greet,With snaps and cluckings of delight,The joyful, ever-welcome sightOf supper at the approach of night.
Yet all came not! Two stood apart,With plumage like fresh-fallen snow,—Two "Silver Herons," of a raceAs pure and fine as earth can show;Amid the tumult that was rife,These loathed the others' greedy strife,And looked disgusted with their life.
With closed eyes, shrinking from the mass,They seemed, in thought, removed as farFrom all their coarse environmentAs sun is separate from star!The very picture of disdain,From all such gorging, it was plain,They had determined to refrain.
The keeper murmured with reproach,—"Those Silver Herons are too proud!Why should they not partake of foodTogether with the common crowd?They eat a little from my hand,But would prefer to starve, than standBesmeared by that uncleanly band.
"A month hence, neither will be here;For both will grieve themselves to death;And when one falls, its mate expiresWith scarcely an additional breath;And, should there come another pair,In their turn they the fate will shareOf those two herons standing there."
Poor hapless birds! I see them yet,Alone and starving in their pride,—Their glittering plumage still intact,While standing bravely side by side;And, although put to hunger's test,Continuing mutely to protestAgainst defilement with the rest.
O Silver Herons, teach mankindTo cherish thus a stainless name!To shun the vile, ignoble crowd,Preferring death to smirch and shame!A foul, unfriendly mob to brave,And go, unspotted, to the grave,Is not toloseone's life, butsave.
O sleepless Sphinx!Thy sadly patient eyes,Forever gazing o'er the shifting sands,Have watched Earth's countless dynasties arise,Stalk forth like spectres waving gory hands,Then fade away with scarce a lasting traceTo mark the secret of their dwelling place:O sleepless Sphinx!
O changeless Sphinx!The very dawn of TimeBeheld thee sculptured from the living rock!Still wears thy face its primal look sublime,Surviving all the hoary ages' shock:Still royal art thou in thy proud repose,As when the sun on tuneful Memnon rose,O changeless Sphinx!
O voiceless Sphinx!Thy solemn lips are dumb;Time's awful secrets lie within thy breast;Age follows age; revering pilgrims comeFrom every clime to urge the same request,—That thou wilt speak! Poor creatures of a day,In calm disdain thou seest them die away:O voiceless Sphinx!
Majestic Sphinx!Thou crouchest by a seaWhose fawn-hued wavelets clasp thy buried feet:Whose desert-surface, petrified like thee,Gleams white with sails of many an Arab fleet:Whose tawny billows, surging with the storm,Break on thy flanks, and overleap thy form;Majestic Sphinx!
Eternal Sphinx!The Pyramids are thine;Their giant summits guard thee night and day,On thee they look when stars in splendor shine,Or while around their crests the sunbeams play:Thine own coevals, who with thee remainColossal Genii of the boundless plain!Eternal Sphinx!
"I will gain a fortune," the young man cried;"For Gold by the world is deified;Hence, whether the means be foul or fair,I will make myself a millionaire,My single talent shall grow to ten!"But an old man smiled, and asked "And then?"
"A peerless beauty," the young man said,"Shall be the woman I choose to wed.And men shall envy me my prize,And women scan her with jealous eyes;"And he looked annoyed, when once againThe old man smiled, and asked "And then?"
"I will build," he answered, "a home so fine,That kings in their castles shall covet mine;The rarest pictures shall clothe its walls,And statues stand in its stately halls;It shall lack no luxury known to men;"But still the old man asked "And then?"
"I will play a role in Church or StateThat all mankind shall acknowledge great;I will win at last such brilliant fame,That distant lands shall know my name,For I can wield both sword and pen;"But again the old man asked "And then?"
"Is your heart a stone," the young man cried,"Hath all ambition within you died,That nothing seems to you worth while?What mean you by that sphinx-like smile?Of what are you secretly thinking, whenYou utter those mournful words,—'And then?'"
Gently the old man said "O youth,The words I have spoken veil a truthLearned only through the lapse of years,And first discerned through a mist of tears;For youth is full of illusions fairWhich manhood sees dissolve in air.
"Your millions will not make you blest,They will rob you, instead, of peace and rest:Your beautiful wife may be the preyOf a treacherous friend or a skilled roué;And the splendid palace that you craveWill make you Society's gilded slave.
"'Tis a weary road to political fame;Its price you must often pay in shame;And the world-known name for which you yearnOn a bulletin board or a funeral urn,Is scarcely worth the toil and strifeWhich poison the peaceful joys of life.
"For be you ever so wise and good,By some you will be misunderstood,And fame will bring you envious foesTo spoil for you many a night's repose;And alas! as your pathway upward tends,You will find self-interest in your friends!
"The loudest shout of the mob's applauseWill die out after a moment's pause;And what is the greatest public praiseTo one whose form in the earth decays?The cruel world will always laughAt the fulsome lie of an epitaph.
"But Spring recks not of Winter's snow,And you will not believe, I know,That all those boons that tempt your powers,If gained, will be like fragile flowers,Whose freshness wilts in the fevered hand,Like roses dropped on the desert sand.
"And much of the work you deem sublimeIs like the grain of pink-hued limeWhich once was a coral insect's shell,But now is a microscopic cell,Entombed with countless billions moreIn a lonely reef on an unknown shore!"
"Alas!" said the youth,—and his eyes were wet,—"Is old age merely a vain regret,The retrospect of wasted years,Of false ideals and lost careers?Advise me! What must I reject,And what for my permanent good select?"
"Belovd youth," the old man said,"All is not vain, be comforted!Seek not thine own, but others' joy;Ring true, like gold without alloy;Waste not thy time in asking Why,Or Whence, or Whither when we die;
"The actual world, the present hoursWill give enough to tax thy powers;At no clear duty hesitate;Serve well thy neighbor and the State;So shalt thou add thy tiny formTo bind the reef that breasts the storm!"
The sun is low;Yon peak of snowIs reddening 'neath the sunset glow;The rosy lightMakes richly brightThe Jungfrau's veil of snowy white.
From vales that sleepNight's shadows creepTo take possession of the steep;While, as they rise,The western skiesSeem loath to leave so fair a prize.
The light of dayStill loves to stayAnd round that pearly summit play;How fair a sightThat realm of light,Contended for by Day and Night!
Now fainter shines,As Day declines,The lustrous height which he resigns;The shadows gainTh' illumined plane;The Jungfrau pales, as if in pain.
When daylight dies,The azure skiesSeem sparkling with a thousand eyes,Which watch with graceFrom depths of spaceThe sleeping Jungfrau's lovely face.
And when the LightHath put to flightNight's shadows from each Alpine height,Along the skiesIt quickly flies,To kiss the Maiden's opening eyes.
The timid flushAnd rosy blushWhich then from brow to bosom rush,Are pure and fairBeyond compare,Resplendent in the crystal air.
And thus alwayBy night and dayHer varying suitors homage pay;And tinged with rose,Or white with snows,The same fair, radiant form she shows.
The breath of summer stirs the trees,A thousand roses round me bloom,Whose saffron petals give the breezeA wealth of exquisite perfume,As, climbing high, with tendrils bold,They clothe the walls with cups of gold.
No sound disturbs the silence sweet,The weary birds have sunk to rest;For where the snow and sunset meetThe light is fading in the west,And now the carking cares of daySlip lightly from my heart away.
The emptiness of social strife,The pettiness of human souls,The cheap frivolities of life,The keen pursuit of paltry goals,—How small they seem beneath the domeThat shelters my Tyrolean home!
A shining mote, our tiny earthNo furrow leaves in shoreless space!What is one brief existence worth,Which disappears, and leaves no trace?That silent, star-strewn vault survivesThe dawns and dusks of countless lives.
Why grieve, dear heart? Oblivion deepWill soon enshroud both friend and foe,And those who laugh and those who weepMust join the hosts of long ago,Whose transient hours of smiles and tearsMake up earth's wilderness of years.
The sunset's glowing embers die,The snow-peaks lose their crimson hue,Through deepening shades the ruddy skyBurns slowly down to darkest blue,Wherein a million worlds of lightAnnounce the coming of the night.
I gaze, and slowly my despairAt human wretchedness and crimeGives place to hopes and visions fair,—So much may be evolved by time!So much may yet men's souls surpriseBeneath the splendor of God's skies!
Some day, somewhere, in realms afarHis light may make all problems plain,And justice on some happier starMay recompense this planet's pain,And earth's bleak Golgothas of woeGrow lovely in life's afterglow.
In Bordighera's groves of palmI linger at the close of day,And watch, beyond the ocean's calm,A range of mountains far away.
Their snowy summits, white and cold,Flush crimson like a tinted shell,As sinks the sun in clouds of goldBehind the peaks of Esterel.
No unsubstantial shapes are they,—The offspring of the mist and sea;No splendid vision of Cathay,Recalled in dreamful revery;
Their solid bastions,—towering highThough rooted in earth's primal plan,—Proclaim to every passer byThe cradle of the Corsican.
What martial soul there found rebirth,When on those cliffs, then scarcely known,There once more visited the earthThe spirit called Napoleon?
Three islands, like the sister Fates,His life-thread wove upon their loomFrom fair Ajaccio's silvered gatesTo Saint Helena's mournful tomb;—
The first, his birthplace; whence appearedHis baleful star with lurid glow;Next, Elba, where the world still fearedThe fugitive from Fontainebleau;
Last, England's lonely prison-block,Grim fragment 'neath a tropic sky,Where, like Prometheus on his rock,The captive Caesar came to die,
O Corsica, sublimely wildAnd riven by the winds and waves,Thy fame is deathless from thy child,Whose glory filled a million graves.
O goddess of that Grecian isleWhose shores the blue Aegean laves,Whose cliffs repeat with answering smileTheir features in its sun-kissed waves!
An exile from thy native place,We view thee in a northern clime;Yet mark on thy majestic faceA glory still undimmed by Time.
Through those calm lips, proud goddess, speak!Portray to us thy gorgeous fane,Where Melian lovers thronged to seekThine aid, Love's paradise to gain;
And where, as in the saffron east,Day's jewelled gates were open flung,With stately pomp the attendant priestDrew back the veil before thee hung;
And when the daring kiss of morn,Empurpling, made thy charms more fair,Sweet strains from unseen minstrels borneAwoke from dreams the perfumed air.
Vouchsafe at last our minds to freeFrom doubts pertaining to thy charms,—The meaning of thy bended knee,The secret of thy vanished arms.
Wast thou in truth conjoined with Mars?Did thy fair hands his shield embrace,The surface of whose golden barsGrew lovely from thy mirrored face?
Or was it some bright scroll of fameThus poised on thine extended knee,Upon which thou didst trace the nameOf that fierce god so dear to thee?
Whate'er thou hadst, no mere delightWas thine the glittering prize to hold;Not thine the form that met thy sight,Replying from the burnished gold;
Unmindful what thy hands retained,Thy gaze is fixed beyond, above;Some dearer object held enchainedThe goddess of immortal love.
We mark the motion of thine eyes,And smile; for, heldst thou shield or scroll,A tender love-glance we surprise,That tells the secret of thy soul.
When o'er the agèd lion stealsThe instinct of approaching death,Whose numbing grasp he vaguely feelsIn trembling limbs and labored breath,He shuns the garish light of day,And leaving mate and whelps at play,In mournful silence creeps away.
From bush to bush, by devious trails,He drags himself from hill to hill,And, as his old strength slowly fails,Drinks long at many a mountain rill,Until he gains, with stifled moan,A height, to hated man unknown,Where he may die, at least alone.
Relaxing now his mighty claws,He lies, half shrouded by his mane,His grand head resting on his paws,And heeding little save his pain,As o'er his eyes, so sad and deep,The film of death begins to creep,—The prelude to eternal sleep.
As Caesar, reeling 'neath the strokeAnd dagger-thrust of many a friend,Drew o'er his face his Roman cloak,To meet, unseen, his tragic end,So hath this desert-monarch triedWith noble dignity to hideFrom others how and where he died.
And now his spirit is serene;For here no stranger can intrudeTo view this last, pathetic scene,Or mar its sombre solitude;Prone on the lonely mountain crest,Confronting the resplendent west,The dying lion sinks to rest.
Proud king of beasts! thy death should teachMankind the cheapness of display;More eloquent than human speech,Thy grand example shows the wayTo pass from life, unheard, unseen,And with composed, majestic mienDeath's awful sacredness to screen.
Nay, more! thou didst select a placeWhere, unobserved, thy form could rest,Till Mother Earth with fond embraceShould hide it in her ample breast;Like Moses in lone Nebo's land,Thou hast been sepulchred in sand,Unseen by eye, untouched by hand.
No pompous tomb shall ever riseAbove thy lonely, sun-bleached frame;No epitaph of well-turned liesShall be inscribed beneath thy name;No bells for thee a dirge shall ring,No choir beside thy grave shall sing,Yet hast thou perished like a king!
Were you ever told the legend oldOf the birth of storms at sea?You should hear the tale in a Channel gale,As happened once to me,On a fearful night off Fastnet Light,With Ireland on our lee.
In the good old days, which poets praiseAs the best that man hath seen,The storm-king's hand might smite the land,But the sea remained serene;Blow east, blow west, its sun-kissed breastKept ever its tranquil sheen.
Not a single trace came o'er its faceOf the storms that raged elsewhere;No misty screen e'er crept betweenThe sun and its image there;And its depths at night were gemmed with lightBy stars in the crystal air.
The fisherman laughed in his little craft,If a landsman felt alarm,For never did gale a ship assail,Or a sailor suffer harm;There was nothing to fear, for the skies were clear,And the ocean always calm.
But on the shore, where more and moreThe human race increased,There were cold and heat, and snow and sleet,And troubles never ceased;For wind and rain beat down the grain,And the plague slew man and beast.
And even worse was the moral curse,That came like a deadly blightThrough men who seized whate'er they pleased,On the plea that might makes right,Till the fatal seed of selfish greedMade life a bitter fight.
Hence many sighed, as they watched the tideGlide out to the sunset sea,And longed to go with its gentle flowTo where they hoped might beA realm of peace, where sorrows cease,And souls from pain are free.
At last they said,—"We were better dead,Than endure this anguish more;Let us seek relief from care and griefFar out from the storm-swept shore;The sea can bring no sadder thingThan the life we lived before."
So a ship was framed, which they fondly named"The Peace of the Human Mind,"And the weary band soon left the landAnd its ceaseless strife behind;But unattained the goal remainedThey had so longed to find.
For the souls that came were quite the sameAs they were before they sailed;And, as pride and hate did not abate,The hope of the voyagers failed;And, facing alone the great Unknown,The bravest spirits quailed.
Meanwhile the ship began to dip,And labored to and fro,For the sea, though fair, could no more bearThis load of human woe;And at last the boat, with all afloat,Sank helplessly below.
Down, down it swirled to the nether world;While up from the riven mainCame the gurgling sound of those who drowned,As the vortex closed again;The sea surged back to its wonted track;Once more 'twas a sun-lit plain!
But soon men saw, with deepening awe,That sea grow white with spray;Its brilliant hue was changed from blueTo a deathlike, leaden gray;And a sullen roar approached the shoreWhence the ship had sailed away.
Huge waves rolled in with frightful din,And spat out hissing foam,And smote the sand along the strand,And swept off many a home;And lightnings flashed and thunder crashedFrom heaven's ink-black dome.
"Alas!" they cried, "that our brothers diedIn the depths of the sea of peace;They have brought unrest to its quiet breast,Which nevermore shall cease;For the peace it lost we must pay the cost;And behold! our woes increase!"
In truth, since then how many menHave learned that the mighty deepCan heave and swell to a seething hell,When storms its surface sweep!For its calm hath fled, and countless deadAre the spoils it loves to heap.
But at its best, when it lies at restOn a cloudless summer day,And, tiger-like, forbears to strike,But, sated, basks at play,One seems to hear, with the psychic ear,Its murmuring wavelets say,—
"No real relief from care and griefIs found o'er distant waves;The men who sail to find it, fail,And sink to lonely graves;In the firm control of man's own soulIs alone the peace he craves."
Dear, old-time tunes of prayer and praise,Heard first beside my mother's knee,Your music on my spirit laysA spell from which I should be free,If lapse of time gave liberty.
I listen, and the crowded yearsFade, dream-like, from my life, and lo!I find my eyelids wet with tears,—So much I loved, so well I knowThose plaintive airs of long ago!
They tell me of my vanished youth,Of faith in what so flawless seemed,Before the painful quest of truthHad proved how much I then esteemedWas other than I fondly dreamed!
They make my childhood live again;And life's fair dawn grows once more bright,While listening to the sweet refrain,Sung in the Sabbath's waning light,—"Glory to Thee, my God, this night!"
My mother's voice, so pure and strong,My father's flute of silvery tone,The little household's strength of song,The childish treble of my own,—I hear them once more, but … alone!
Sweet obligato to some hymnWhose words those vanished tones recall,Float o'er me, when earth's scenes grow dim,And life's last, lingering echoes fall,Till silence settles over all!
O Buddha, of the mystic smileAnd downcast, dreamful eyes,To whom unnumbered sacred shrinesAnd gilded statues rise,
Whose fanes are filled with worshippers,Whose hallowed name is sungBy myriads of the human raceIn every Eastern tongue,
What means thy sweet serenity?Our planet, as it rolls,Sweeps through the starry universeA mass of burdened souls,
Still agonized and pitiful,Despite the countless yearsThat man has spent in wanderingThrough paths of blood and tears!
O Lord of love and sympathyFor all created life,How canst thou view thus placidlyThe world's incessant strife,
The misery and massacreOf war's destructive train,The martyrdom of animals,The tragedy of pain,
The infamous brutalitiesTo helpless children shown,The pathos of whose joyless livesMight melt a heart of stone?
Preeminently merciful,Does not thy spirit longTo guard from inhumanityThe weak against the strong?
Thou biddest us deal tenderlyWith every breathing-thing,—The horse that drags the heavy load,The bird upon the wing,
The flocks along the riverside,The cattle on the lea,And every living denizenOf earth and air and sea;
Yet daily in the shamblesA sea of blood is spilled,And man is nourished chieflyFrom beasts that he has killed!
And hunters still find happinessIn seeing, red with wounds,A sobbing deer, with liquid eyes,Dragged down by yelping hounds!
What is the real significanceOf thine unchanging smile?Hast thou the secret consciousnessThat grief is not worth while?
That sorrow is the consequenceOf former lives of sin,—The spur that goads us on and upA nobler life to win?
That pain is as impermanentAs shadows on the hills,And that Nirvana's blessednessWill cure all mortal ills?
But agony is agony,And small is the reliefIf, measured with eternity,Life's anguish be but brief.
To hearts that break with misery,To every tortured frameThe present pain is paramount,Nirvana but a name.
Moreover, why should former livesBequeath their weight of woe,If with it comes no memoryTo guide us, as we go?
If o'er the dark, prenatal voidNo mental bridge be cast,No thread, however frail, to linkThe present to the past?
Still silent and dispassionate!Ah, would that I might findThe key to the serenityThat fills thy lofty mind!
Thou hast a joy we do not feel,A light we cannot see;Injustice, sin, and wretchednessNo longer sadden thee;
No doubt to thy sublimer gazeLife's mystery grows plain,As finally full recompenseAtones for earthly pain.
Here ends at last the Inland Sea!Still seems its outlet, as of yore,The anteroom of Mystery,As, through its westward-facing door,I see the vast Atlantic lieIn splendor 'neath a sunset sky.
Above its distant, glittering rimStreams o'er the waves a flood of gold,To gild the mountains, bare and grim,Which guard this exit, as of old,—The sombre sentries of two seas,The Pillars reared by Hercules;—
Gibraltar,—on the northern shore,By conquering Moors once proudly trod,—And, to the south a league or more,Huge Abyla, the "Mount of God",Whence burdened Atlas watched with easeThe Gardens of Hesperides.
How many slow-paced centuries passed,Before brave sailors dared to creepBeyond the gloom these monsters cast,And venture on the unknown deep,At last resolving to defyThe "God-established" termini!
Yet no fierce gods opposed their path;No lurid bolt or arrow spedTo crush them with celestial wrath,And number them among the dead;The dreadful Pillars proved as tameAs other rocks of lesser fame.
Hence, when before them stretched the sea,Majestic, limitless and clear,A rapturous sense of being freeDispelled all vestiges of fearThe longed-for ocean to exploreFrom pole to pole, from shore to shore.
Thus all men learn the God they dreadIs kinder than they had supposed,And that, not God, but Man hath said,—"The door to freedom must be closed!"Once past that door, with broadened view,They find Him better than they knew.
Meanwhile, along the sunlit straitMy ship glides toward the saffron west,Beyond the old Phenician gateTo ocean's gently heaving breast,Whence, on the ever-freshening breeze,There greet my spirit words like these;—
Sail bravely on! the morning lightShall find thee far beyond the land;Gibraltar's battlemented heightAnd Afric's tawny hills of sandShall soon completely sink from viewBeneath the ocean's belt of blue.
Sail on! nor heed the shadows vastOf fabled Powers, whose fear enslaves!Their spectral shapes shall sink at lastBelow the night's abandoned waves;Rest not confined by shoals and bars;Steer oceanward by God's fixed stars!
'Tis not in the bitterest woes of lifeThat the love of friends, as a rule, grows cold;Still less does it melt in the heat of strife,Or die from the canker of borrowed gold;
For pity comes when they see us grieved,Or forced to lie on a couch of pain,And a hasty word is soon retrieved,And the loan of money may leave no stain.
'Tis oftenest lost through the deadly blightOf Society's pestilential air,Which blackens the robe of purest white,And fouls what once was sweet and fair.
An envious woman's whispered word,A slander born of a cruel smile,The repetition of something heard,The imputation of something vile,
Or possibly even a fancied slightFor a feast declined, or a call delayed,Or jealousy caused by petty spite,Or the wish for a higher social grade,—
'Tis one, or all of these combined,That saps the love of our dearest friends,And slowly poisons heart and mind,Till the joy of generous friendship ends.
Last night they were in a cordial mood,To-day they suddenly seem estranged!Shall we, then, grieve and sadly broodO'er the unknown cause that has made them changed?
Ask once, that they make the matter clear,But ask no more, if the lesson fail;Let changelings go, however dear,And shed no tears for a love so frail.
Be not the slave of a friend's migraine,Nor let him play, now hot, now cold;The master of thyself remain,And the key of thine inmost heart withhold!
For they who weep and sue and plead,Are used and dropped, like a worn-out glove,And the friends with "moods" are the friends who needTo learn that they are not worth our love.
All is noiseless;Cold and voicelessLies the form I've oft caressed;Heedless now of blame or praises,'Neath the sunshine and the daisiesDear, old Leo lies at rest.
Eager greeting,Joy at meeting,Watching for my step to come,Grief at briefest separation,Sorrow without affectation,—These are over,—he is dumb!
Loyal ever,Treacherous never,Lifelong love he well expressed;Ah! may we deserve like praisesWhen beneath the sun-kissed daisiesWe, like Leo, lie at rest!
"The sun will set at day's decline";Qu'importe?Quaff off meanwhile life's sparkling wine!Of what avail are mournful fears,Foreboding sighs and idle tears,They hinder not the hurrying years;Buvons!
"This fleeting hour will soon be past";Qu'importe?Enrich its moments while they last!To-day is ours; be ours its joy!Let not to-morrow's cares annoy!Enough the present to employ;Vivons!
"These pleasures will not come again";Qu'importe?Enjoy their keenest transport then!If but of these we are secure,Be of their sweetness doubly sure,That long their memory may endure!Rions!
"With time love's ardor always cools";Qu'importe?Leave that lugubrious chant to fools!Must doubt destroy our present bliss?Shall we through fear love's rapture miss,Or lose the honey of its kiss?Aimons!
"The sun will set at day's decline";Qu'importe?Will not the eternal stars still shine?So even in life's darkest nightA thousand quenchless suns are bright,—Blest souvenirs of past delight;Allons!
Like one who, homeward bound from distant lands,Describes strange climes and visions passing fair,Yet deftly hides from others' eyes and handsA private casket filled with treasures rare,So, favored Countess, all that thou dost sayIs nothing to thy secrets left unsaid;Thy printed souvenirs are but the sprayAbove the depths of ocean's briny bed.For, oh! how often must thy mind retraceSoft phrases whispered in the Tuscan tongue,Love's changes sweeping o'er his mobile face,And kisses sweeter far than he had sung;The gleam of passion in his glorious eyes,The hours of inspiration when he wrote,Recalled to Earth in sudden, sweet surpriseAt feeling thy white arms about his throat;To have been loved by Byron! Not in youthWhen ardent senses tempt to reckless choice,But in maturer years, when keen-eyed TruthReveals the folly of the siren's voice.Last love is best, and this thou didst enjoy;Thy happy fate to see no rival claimA share in what was thine without alloy;How must the remnant of thy life seem tame!Yet this thy recompense,—that thou dost keepThy friend and lover safe from every change;For, loyal to thy love, he fell asleep,And life it is, not death, that can estrange.
Through the marble gates of Ostia,Where the Tiber meets the sea,And a hundred Roman galleysStrain their leashes to be free,Streams a flood of sunset gloryFrom the classic sea of old,Till Rome's seven hills stand gleaming,And the Tiber turns to gold.
Why, indifferent to this splendor,Do the people throng the streets?What is everyone demandingOf the stranger whom he meets?They have heard alas! the rumorThat, ere dawn regilds the sky,All the world may be in mourning,For the Emperor must die.
Search, O Romans, through the annalsOf the rulers of your race,From the zenith of their gloryTo their ultimate disgrace,—And as earth's most perfect master,And the noblest of your line,You will yield your greatest homageTo this dying Antonine.
For he holds a Caesar's sceptreIn a loving father's hand,And his heart and soul are givenTo the welfare of his land;Through his justice every nationHath beheld its warfare cease,And he leaves to his successorRome's gigantic world at peace.
Hence these nations now are waitingIn an anguish of suspense,For their future is as doubtful,As their love for him intense;By the Nile and on the Danube,From the Tagus to the Rhine,There is mourning among millionsFor the man they deem divine.
Now the sunset glow is fading,And the evening shadows creepO'er the ashen face of Caesar,As he lies in seeming sleep;But he slumbers not; for, faithfulTo his duties, small and great,He is not alone the sovereign,But the servant of the State.
Unrebuked, then, his Centurion,As the sun-god sinks from sight,Makes his wonted way to CaesarFor the password of the night;And great Antonine, though consciousThat ere dawn his soul must pass,As his last, imperial watchword,Utters "Aequanimitas!"
O thou noblest of the Caesars,Whose transcendent virtues shine,Like a glorious constellation,O'er the blood-stained Palatine,When the latest sands are runningFrom my life's exhausted glass,May I have thy calm and courage,And thine Aequanimitas!
I watched to-day a butterfly,With gorgeous wings of golden sheen,Flit lightly 'neath a sapphire skyAmid the springtime's tender green;—
A creature so divinely fair,So frail, so wraithlike to the sight,I feared to see it melt in air,As clouds dissolve in morning light.
With sudden swoop, a brutal boyCaught in his cap its fans of gold,And forced them down with savage joyUpon the path's defiling mould;
Then cautiously, the ground well scanned,He clutched his darkened, helpless prey,And, pinched within his grimy hand,Withdrew it to the light of day.
Alas! its fragile bloom was gone,Its gracile frame was sorely hurt,Its silken pinions drooped forlorn,Disfigured by the dust and dirt;
Its life, a moment since so gay,So joyous in its dainty flight,Was slowly ebbing now away,—Its too-brief day eclipsed by night.
Meantime, the vandal, face aflame,Surveyed it dying in his grasp,Yet knew no grief nor sense of shameIn watching for its final gasp.
At last its sails of gold and brown,Of texture fine and colors rare,Came, death-struck, slowly fluttering down,No more to cleave the sunlit air;
One happy, harmless being less,To bid us dream the world is sweet!Gone like a gleam of happiness,A glimpse of rapture … incomplete!
Yet who shall say this creature fairIn God's sight had a smaller worthThan that dull lout who watched it there,And in its death found cause for mirth?
For what, in truth, are we who claimAn endless life beyond the grave,But insects of a larger frame,Whose souls may be too small to save?
Since far-off times, when Cave Men foughtLike famished brutes for bloody food,And through unnumbered centuries soughtTo rear their naked, whelp-like brood,
How many million men have died,From pole to pole through every clime,—An awful, never-ending tideSwept deathward on the shores of Time!
Like insects swarming in the sun,They flutter, struggle, mate, and die,And, with their life-work scarce begun,Are struck down like the butterfly;
A million more, a million less,What matters it? The Earth rolls on,Unmindful of mankind's distress,Or if the race be here, or gone.
Thus rolled our globe ere man appeared,And thus will roll, with wrinkled crust,Deserted, lifeless, old, and seared,When man shall have returned to dust.
And IT at last shall also die!Hence, measured by the eternal scale,It ranks but as the butterfly,—A world, ephemeral, fair and frail.
Man, insect, earth, or distant star,—They differ only in degree;Their transient lives, or near or far,Are moments in eternity!
Yet somehow to my spirit clingsThe faith that man survives the sod,For this poor insect's broken wingsHave raised my thoughts from earth to God.