“Nay, nay,” she whispered low,“I will not have these buds of folded snow,Nor yet the pallid bloomOf the chill tuberose, heavy with perfume,Nor lilies waxen white,To go with her into the grave’s dark night.But now that she is deadBring ye the royal roses blushing red,Roses that on her breastAll summer long, by these pale hands caressed,Have lain in happy calm,Breathing their lives away in bloom and balm!”Roses for all the joyOf perfect hours when life had no alloy;When hope was glad and gay,And young Love sang his blissful roundelay;And to her eager eyesEach new day oped the gates of Paradise.But, for that she hath wept,And over buried hopes long vigil kept,Bring mystic passion-flowers,To tell the tale of sacrificial hoursWhen, lifting up her cross,She bore it bravely on through pain and loss!Then at her blessèd feet,That never more shall haste on errands sweet,Lay fragrant mignonetteAnd fair sweet-peas in dainty garlands set,—Dear humble flowers, that makeEach passer-by the gladder for their sake!For she who lieth hereTrod not alone the high paths shining clear,With light of star and sunFalling undimmed her lofty place upon;But stooped to lowliest ways,Filling with fragrance all the passing days!
“Nay, nay,” she whispered low,“I will not have these buds of folded snow,Nor yet the pallid bloomOf the chill tuberose, heavy with perfume,Nor lilies waxen white,To go with her into the grave’s dark night.But now that she is deadBring ye the royal roses blushing red,Roses that on her breastAll summer long, by these pale hands caressed,Have lain in happy calm,Breathing their lives away in bloom and balm!”Roses for all the joyOf perfect hours when life had no alloy;When hope was glad and gay,And young Love sang his blissful roundelay;And to her eager eyesEach new day oped the gates of Paradise.But, for that she hath wept,And over buried hopes long vigil kept,Bring mystic passion-flowers,To tell the tale of sacrificial hoursWhen, lifting up her cross,She bore it bravely on through pain and loss!Then at her blessèd feet,That never more shall haste on errands sweet,Lay fragrant mignonetteAnd fair sweet-peas in dainty garlands set,—Dear humble flowers, that makeEach passer-by the gladder for their sake!For she who lieth hereTrod not alone the high paths shining clear,With light of star and sunFalling undimmed her lofty place upon;But stooped to lowliest ways,Filling with fragrance all the passing days!
“Nay, nay,” she whispered low,“I will not have these buds of folded snow,Nor yet the pallid bloomOf the chill tuberose, heavy with perfume,Nor lilies waxen white,To go with her into the grave’s dark night.
But now that she is deadBring ye the royal roses blushing red,Roses that on her breastAll summer long, by these pale hands caressed,Have lain in happy calm,Breathing their lives away in bloom and balm!”
Roses for all the joyOf perfect hours when life had no alloy;When hope was glad and gay,And young Love sang his blissful roundelay;And to her eager eyesEach new day oped the gates of Paradise.
But, for that she hath wept,And over buried hopes long vigil kept,Bring mystic passion-flowers,To tell the tale of sacrificial hoursWhen, lifting up her cross,She bore it bravely on through pain and loss!
Then at her blessèd feet,That never more shall haste on errands sweet,Lay fragrant mignonetteAnd fair sweet-peas in dainty garlands set,—Dear humble flowers, that makeEach passer-by the gladder for their sake!
For she who lieth hereTrod not alone the high paths shining clear,With light of star and sunFalling undimmed her lofty place upon;But stooped to lowliest ways,Filling with fragrance all the passing days!
O sailors sailing north,Where the wild white surges roar,And fierce winds and strong windsBlow down from Labrador—Have you seen my three brave laddies,My merry red-cheeked laddies,Three bold, adventurous laddies,On some tempestuous shore?O sailors sailing south,Where the seas are calm and blue,And light clouds and soft cloudsAre floating over you,Say, have you seen my laddies,My three bright, winsome laddies,My brown-haired, smiling laddies,With hearts so leal and true?O sailors sailing east,Ask the sea-gulls sweeping by;O sailors sailing west,Ask the eagles soaring high,If they have seen my laddies,My careless, heedless laddies,Three debonair young laddies,Beneath the wide, wide sky?O sailors, if you find them,Pray send them back to me;For them the winds go sighingThrough every lonely tree—For these three wandering laddies,My tender, bright-eyed laddies,The laughter-loving laddies,Whom they no longer see.There are three men who love me,Three men with bearded lips;But oh! ye gallant sailorsWho sail the sea in ships—In elf-land, or in cloud-land,Or on the dreamland shore,Can you find the little laddiesWhom I can find no more?Three quiet, thoughtful laddies,Three merry, winsome laddies,Three rollicking, frolicking laddies,On any far-off shore?
O sailors sailing north,Where the wild white surges roar,And fierce winds and strong windsBlow down from Labrador—Have you seen my three brave laddies,My merry red-cheeked laddies,Three bold, adventurous laddies,On some tempestuous shore?O sailors sailing south,Where the seas are calm and blue,And light clouds and soft cloudsAre floating over you,Say, have you seen my laddies,My three bright, winsome laddies,My brown-haired, smiling laddies,With hearts so leal and true?O sailors sailing east,Ask the sea-gulls sweeping by;O sailors sailing west,Ask the eagles soaring high,If they have seen my laddies,My careless, heedless laddies,Three debonair young laddies,Beneath the wide, wide sky?O sailors, if you find them,Pray send them back to me;For them the winds go sighingThrough every lonely tree—For these three wandering laddies,My tender, bright-eyed laddies,The laughter-loving laddies,Whom they no longer see.There are three men who love me,Three men with bearded lips;But oh! ye gallant sailorsWho sail the sea in ships—In elf-land, or in cloud-land,Or on the dreamland shore,Can you find the little laddiesWhom I can find no more?Three quiet, thoughtful laddies,Three merry, winsome laddies,Three rollicking, frolicking laddies,On any far-off shore?
O sailors sailing north,Where the wild white surges roar,And fierce winds and strong windsBlow down from Labrador—Have you seen my three brave laddies,My merry red-cheeked laddies,Three bold, adventurous laddies,On some tempestuous shore?
O sailors sailing south,Where the seas are calm and blue,And light clouds and soft cloudsAre floating over you,Say, have you seen my laddies,My three bright, winsome laddies,My brown-haired, smiling laddies,With hearts so leal and true?
O sailors sailing east,Ask the sea-gulls sweeping by;O sailors sailing west,Ask the eagles soaring high,If they have seen my laddies,My careless, heedless laddies,Three debonair young laddies,Beneath the wide, wide sky?
O sailors, if you find them,Pray send them back to me;For them the winds go sighingThrough every lonely tree—For these three wandering laddies,My tender, bright-eyed laddies,The laughter-loving laddies,Whom they no longer see.
There are three men who love me,Three men with bearded lips;But oh! ye gallant sailorsWho sail the sea in ships—In elf-land, or in cloud-land,Or on the dreamland shore,Can you find the little laddiesWhom I can find no more?Three quiet, thoughtful laddies,Three merry, winsome laddies,Three rollicking, frolicking laddies,On any far-off shore?
O Summer, thou fair laggard, where art thou?In what far sunlit land of balm and bloom,What slumbrous bowers of beauty and perfume,Are roses crowning thine imperial brow?Where art thou, Summer? We should see thy feetEven now upon the mountains. All the hillsRise up to greet thee. Nature’s great heart thrills,Faint with expectant joy. Where art thou, sweet?And Summer answered: “Lo! I wait! I wait!To the far North I bend my listening ear;By day, by night, my soul keeps watch to hearOne high, clear strain that rises soon nor late!Why should I haste where light and song have fled?The ‘Woodnotes’ wake no more the Master’s lyre;The ‘haughty day’ fills no ‘blue urn with fire’When its great lover lieth cold and dead!”
O Summer, thou fair laggard, where art thou?In what far sunlit land of balm and bloom,What slumbrous bowers of beauty and perfume,Are roses crowning thine imperial brow?Where art thou, Summer? We should see thy feetEven now upon the mountains. All the hillsRise up to greet thee. Nature’s great heart thrills,Faint with expectant joy. Where art thou, sweet?And Summer answered: “Lo! I wait! I wait!To the far North I bend my listening ear;By day, by night, my soul keeps watch to hearOne high, clear strain that rises soon nor late!Why should I haste where light and song have fled?The ‘Woodnotes’ wake no more the Master’s lyre;The ‘haughty day’ fills no ‘blue urn with fire’When its great lover lieth cold and dead!”
O Summer, thou fair laggard, where art thou?In what far sunlit land of balm and bloom,What slumbrous bowers of beauty and perfume,Are roses crowning thine imperial brow?
Where art thou, Summer? We should see thy feetEven now upon the mountains. All the hillsRise up to greet thee. Nature’s great heart thrills,Faint with expectant joy. Where art thou, sweet?
And Summer answered: “Lo! I wait! I wait!To the far North I bend my listening ear;By day, by night, my soul keeps watch to hearOne high, clear strain that rises soon nor late!
Why should I haste where light and song have fled?The ‘Woodnotes’ wake no more the Master’s lyre;The ‘haughty day’ fills no ‘blue urn with fire’When its great lover lieth cold and dead!”
“No rose may bloom without a thorn?”Come down the garden paths and seeHow brightly in the scented airThey bloom for you and me!See how, like rosy clouds, they lieAgainst the perfect, stainless blue!See how they toss their airy heads,And smile for me, for you!No scanty largess, meanly doled—No pallid blooms, by two, by three,But a whole crowd of pink-white wingsFluttering for you and me.So fair they are I cannot choose;I pluck the rich spoils here and there;I heap them on your waiting arms;I twine them in your hair.There is no thorn among them all—No sharp sting in the heart of bliss—No bitter in the honeyed cup—No burning in the kiss.Nay, quote the proverb if you must,And mock the truth you will not see;Nathless, Love’s thornless roses blowSomewhere for you and me.
“No rose may bloom without a thorn?”Come down the garden paths and seeHow brightly in the scented airThey bloom for you and me!See how, like rosy clouds, they lieAgainst the perfect, stainless blue!See how they toss their airy heads,And smile for me, for you!No scanty largess, meanly doled—No pallid blooms, by two, by three,But a whole crowd of pink-white wingsFluttering for you and me.So fair they are I cannot choose;I pluck the rich spoils here and there;I heap them on your waiting arms;I twine them in your hair.There is no thorn among them all—No sharp sting in the heart of bliss—No bitter in the honeyed cup—No burning in the kiss.Nay, quote the proverb if you must,And mock the truth you will not see;Nathless, Love’s thornless roses blowSomewhere for you and me.
“No rose may bloom without a thorn?”Come down the garden paths and seeHow brightly in the scented airThey bloom for you and me!
See how, like rosy clouds, they lieAgainst the perfect, stainless blue!See how they toss their airy heads,And smile for me, for you!
No scanty largess, meanly doled—No pallid blooms, by two, by three,But a whole crowd of pink-white wingsFluttering for you and me.
So fair they are I cannot choose;I pluck the rich spoils here and there;I heap them on your waiting arms;I twine them in your hair.
There is no thorn among them all—No sharp sting in the heart of bliss—No bitter in the honeyed cup—No burning in the kiss.
Nay, quote the proverb if you must,And mock the truth you will not see;Nathless, Love’s thornless roses blowSomewhere for you and me.
O beautiful, stately ships,Ye come from over the seas,With every sail full spreadTo the glad, rejoicing breeze!Ye come from the dusky East,Ye come from the golden West,As birds that out of the far blue skyFly each to its sheltered nest.All spoils of the earth ye bring;From the isles of far Cathay,From the fabled shores of the Orient,The realms of eternal day.The prisoned light of a thousand gems,The gleam of the virgin gold,Lustre of silver, and sheen of pearl,Shut up in the narrow hold.Shawls from the looms of Ispahan;Ivory white as milk;Shimmer of satin and rare brocade,And fold upon fold of silk;Gauzes that India’s maidens wear;Spices, and rare perfumes;Fruits that hold in their honeyed cupsThe wealth of the summer blooms.The blood of a thousand vines;The cotton’s drifted snow;The fragrant heart of the precious woodsThat deep in the tropics grow;The strength of the giant hills;The might of the iron ore;The golden corn, and the yellow wheatFrom earth’s broad threshing-floor.Yet, O ye beautiful ships!There are ships that come not back,With flying pennant and swelling sail,Over yon shining track!Who can reckon their precious stores,Or measure the might have been?Who can tell what they held for us—The ships that will ne’er come in?
O beautiful, stately ships,Ye come from over the seas,With every sail full spreadTo the glad, rejoicing breeze!Ye come from the dusky East,Ye come from the golden West,As birds that out of the far blue skyFly each to its sheltered nest.All spoils of the earth ye bring;From the isles of far Cathay,From the fabled shores of the Orient,The realms of eternal day.The prisoned light of a thousand gems,The gleam of the virgin gold,Lustre of silver, and sheen of pearl,Shut up in the narrow hold.Shawls from the looms of Ispahan;Ivory white as milk;Shimmer of satin and rare brocade,And fold upon fold of silk;Gauzes that India’s maidens wear;Spices, and rare perfumes;Fruits that hold in their honeyed cupsThe wealth of the summer blooms.The blood of a thousand vines;The cotton’s drifted snow;The fragrant heart of the precious woodsThat deep in the tropics grow;The strength of the giant hills;The might of the iron ore;The golden corn, and the yellow wheatFrom earth’s broad threshing-floor.Yet, O ye beautiful ships!There are ships that come not back,With flying pennant and swelling sail,Over yon shining track!Who can reckon their precious stores,Or measure the might have been?Who can tell what they held for us—The ships that will ne’er come in?
O beautiful, stately ships,Ye come from over the seas,With every sail full spreadTo the glad, rejoicing breeze!Ye come from the dusky East,Ye come from the golden West,As birds that out of the far blue skyFly each to its sheltered nest.
All spoils of the earth ye bring;From the isles of far Cathay,From the fabled shores of the Orient,The realms of eternal day.The prisoned light of a thousand gems,The gleam of the virgin gold,Lustre of silver, and sheen of pearl,Shut up in the narrow hold.
Shawls from the looms of Ispahan;Ivory white as milk;Shimmer of satin and rare brocade,And fold upon fold of silk;Gauzes that India’s maidens wear;Spices, and rare perfumes;Fruits that hold in their honeyed cupsThe wealth of the summer blooms.
The blood of a thousand vines;The cotton’s drifted snow;The fragrant heart of the precious woodsThat deep in the tropics grow;The strength of the giant hills;The might of the iron ore;The golden corn, and the yellow wheatFrom earth’s broad threshing-floor.
Yet, O ye beautiful ships!There are ships that come not back,With flying pennant and swelling sail,Over yon shining track!Who can reckon their precious stores,Or measure the might have been?Who can tell what they held for us—The ships that will ne’er come in?
Meadow-sweet or lily fair—Which shall it be?Clematis or brier-rose,Blooming for me?Spicy pink, or violetWith the dews of morning wet,Sweet peas or mignonette—Which shall it be?Flowers in the garden-beds,Flowers everywhere;Blue-bells and yellow-bellsSwinging in the air;Purple pansies, golden pied;Pink-white daisies, starry-eyed;Gay nasturtiums, deeply dyed,Climbing everywhere!Oh, the roses darkly red—See, how they burn!Glows with all the summer heatEach crimson urn.Bridal roses pure as snow,Yellow roses all a-blow,Sweet blush-roses drooping low,Wheresoe’er I turn!Life is so full, so sweet—How can I choose?If I gatherthisrose,ThatI must lose!All are not for me to wear;I can only have my share;Thorns are hiding here and there;How can I choose?
Meadow-sweet or lily fair—Which shall it be?Clematis or brier-rose,Blooming for me?Spicy pink, or violetWith the dews of morning wet,Sweet peas or mignonette—Which shall it be?Flowers in the garden-beds,Flowers everywhere;Blue-bells and yellow-bellsSwinging in the air;Purple pansies, golden pied;Pink-white daisies, starry-eyed;Gay nasturtiums, deeply dyed,Climbing everywhere!Oh, the roses darkly red—See, how they burn!Glows with all the summer heatEach crimson urn.Bridal roses pure as snow,Yellow roses all a-blow,Sweet blush-roses drooping low,Wheresoe’er I turn!Life is so full, so sweet—How can I choose?If I gatherthisrose,ThatI must lose!All are not for me to wear;I can only have my share;Thorns are hiding here and there;How can I choose?
Meadow-sweet or lily fair—Which shall it be?Clematis or brier-rose,Blooming for me?Spicy pink, or violetWith the dews of morning wet,Sweet peas or mignonette—Which shall it be?
Flowers in the garden-beds,Flowers everywhere;Blue-bells and yellow-bellsSwinging in the air;Purple pansies, golden pied;Pink-white daisies, starry-eyed;Gay nasturtiums, deeply dyed,Climbing everywhere!
Oh, the roses darkly red—See, how they burn!Glows with all the summer heatEach crimson urn.Bridal roses pure as snow,Yellow roses all a-blow,Sweet blush-roses drooping low,Wheresoe’er I turn!
Life is so full, so sweet—How can I choose?If I gatherthisrose,ThatI must lose!All are not for me to wear;I can only have my share;Thorns are hiding here and there;How can I choose?
It is not mine to runWith eager feetAlong life’s crowded ways,My Lord to meet.It is not mine to pourThe oil and wine,Or bring the purple robeAnd linen fine.It is not mine to breakAt his dear feetThe alabaster-boxOf ointment sweet.It is not mine to bearheavy cross,Or suffer, for his sake,All pain and loss.It is not mine to walkThrough valleys dim,Or climb far mountain-heightsAlone with him.He hath no need of meIn grand affairs,Where fields are lost, or crownsWon unawares.Yet, Master, if I mayMake one pale flowerBloom brighter, for thy sake,Through one short hour;If I, in harvest-fieldsWhere strong ones reap,May bind one golden sheafFor Love to keep;May speak one quiet wordWhen all is still,Helping some fainting heartTo bear thy will;Or sing one high, clear song,On which may soarSome glad soul heavenward,I ask no more!
It is not mine to runWith eager feetAlong life’s crowded ways,My Lord to meet.It is not mine to pourThe oil and wine,Or bring the purple robeAnd linen fine.It is not mine to breakAt his dear feetThe alabaster-boxOf ointment sweet.It is not mine to bearheavy cross,Or suffer, for his sake,All pain and loss.It is not mine to walkThrough valleys dim,Or climb far mountain-heightsAlone with him.He hath no need of meIn grand affairs,Where fields are lost, or crownsWon unawares.Yet, Master, if I mayMake one pale flowerBloom brighter, for thy sake,Through one short hour;If I, in harvest-fieldsWhere strong ones reap,May bind one golden sheafFor Love to keep;May speak one quiet wordWhen all is still,Helping some fainting heartTo bear thy will;Or sing one high, clear song,On which may soarSome glad soul heavenward,I ask no more!
It is not mine to runWith eager feetAlong life’s crowded ways,My Lord to meet.
It is not mine to pourThe oil and wine,Or bring the purple robeAnd linen fine.
It is not mine to breakAt his dear feetThe alabaster-boxOf ointment sweet.
It is not mine to bearheavy cross,Or suffer, for his sake,All pain and loss.
It is not mine to walkThrough valleys dim,Or climb far mountain-heightsAlone with him.
He hath no need of meIn grand affairs,Where fields are lost, or crownsWon unawares.
Yet, Master, if I mayMake one pale flowerBloom brighter, for thy sake,Through one short hour;
If I, in harvest-fieldsWhere strong ones reap,May bind one golden sheafFor Love to keep;
May speak one quiet wordWhen all is still,Helping some fainting heartTo bear thy will;
Or sing one high, clear song,On which may soarSome glad soul heavenward,I ask no more!
One autumn day we three,Who long had borne each other company—Grief, and my Heart, and I—Walked out beneath a dull and leaden sky.The fields were bare and brown;From the still trees the dead leaves fluttered down;There were no birds to sing,Or cleave the air on swift, rejoicing wing.We sought the barren sandBeside the moaning sea, and, hand in hand,Paced its slow length, and talkedOf our supremest sorrows as we walked.Slow shaking each bowed head,“There is no anguish like to ours,” we said;“The glancing eyes of mornFall on no souls more utterly forlorn.”But suddenly, acrossA narrow fiord wherein wild billows toss,We saw before our eyes,High hung above the tide, a temple rise—A temple wondrous fair,Lifting its shining turrets in the air,All touched with golden gleams,Like the bright miracles we see in dreams.Grief turned and looked at me.“We must go thither, O my friends,” said she;Then, saying nothing more,With rapid, gliding step passed on before.And we—my Heart and I—Where Grief went, we went, following silently,Till in sweet solitudeBeneath the temple’s vaulted roof we stood.’Twas like a hollow pearl—A vast white sacred chamber, where the whirlOf passion stirred not, whereA luminous splendor trembled in the air.“O friends, I know this place,”Said Grief at last, “this lofty, silent space,Where, either soon or late,I and my kindred all shall lie in state.”“But do Griefs die?” I cried.“Some die—not all,” full calmly she replied.“Yet all at last will lieIn this fair chamber, slumbering quietly.Chamber of Silence, this;Who brings his Grief here doth not go amiss.Mine hour hath come. We threeWill walk, O friends, no more in company.”Then was I dumb. My HeartAnd I—how could we with our dear Grief part,Who for so many a dayHad walked beside us in our lonely way?But she, with matchless grace,And a sweet smile upon her tear-wet face,Said, “Leave me here to sleep,Where every Grief forgets at last to weep.”What could we do but go?We turned with slow, reluctant feet, but lo!The pearly door had closed,Shutting us in where all the Griefs reposed.“Nay, go not back,” she said;“Retrace no steps. Go farther on instead.”Then, on the other side,On noiseless hinge another door swung wide,Through which we onward passedInto a chamber lowlier than the last,But, oh! so sweet and calmThat the hushed air was like a holy psalm.“Chamber of Peace” was writWhere the low vaulted roof arched over it.Then knew we Grief must ceaseWhen sacred Silence leadeth unto Peace.
One autumn day we three,Who long had borne each other company—Grief, and my Heart, and I—Walked out beneath a dull and leaden sky.The fields were bare and brown;From the still trees the dead leaves fluttered down;There were no birds to sing,Or cleave the air on swift, rejoicing wing.We sought the barren sandBeside the moaning sea, and, hand in hand,Paced its slow length, and talkedOf our supremest sorrows as we walked.Slow shaking each bowed head,“There is no anguish like to ours,” we said;“The glancing eyes of mornFall on no souls more utterly forlorn.”But suddenly, acrossA narrow fiord wherein wild billows toss,We saw before our eyes,High hung above the tide, a temple rise—A temple wondrous fair,Lifting its shining turrets in the air,All touched with golden gleams,Like the bright miracles we see in dreams.Grief turned and looked at me.“We must go thither, O my friends,” said she;Then, saying nothing more,With rapid, gliding step passed on before.And we—my Heart and I—Where Grief went, we went, following silently,Till in sweet solitudeBeneath the temple’s vaulted roof we stood.’Twas like a hollow pearl—A vast white sacred chamber, where the whirlOf passion stirred not, whereA luminous splendor trembled in the air.“O friends, I know this place,”Said Grief at last, “this lofty, silent space,Where, either soon or late,I and my kindred all shall lie in state.”“But do Griefs die?” I cried.“Some die—not all,” full calmly she replied.“Yet all at last will lieIn this fair chamber, slumbering quietly.Chamber of Silence, this;Who brings his Grief here doth not go amiss.Mine hour hath come. We threeWill walk, O friends, no more in company.”Then was I dumb. My HeartAnd I—how could we with our dear Grief part,Who for so many a dayHad walked beside us in our lonely way?But she, with matchless grace,And a sweet smile upon her tear-wet face,Said, “Leave me here to sleep,Where every Grief forgets at last to weep.”What could we do but go?We turned with slow, reluctant feet, but lo!The pearly door had closed,Shutting us in where all the Griefs reposed.“Nay, go not back,” she said;“Retrace no steps. Go farther on instead.”Then, on the other side,On noiseless hinge another door swung wide,Through which we onward passedInto a chamber lowlier than the last,But, oh! so sweet and calmThat the hushed air was like a holy psalm.“Chamber of Peace” was writWhere the low vaulted roof arched over it.Then knew we Grief must ceaseWhen sacred Silence leadeth unto Peace.
One autumn day we three,Who long had borne each other company—Grief, and my Heart, and I—Walked out beneath a dull and leaden sky.
The fields were bare and brown;From the still trees the dead leaves fluttered down;There were no birds to sing,Or cleave the air on swift, rejoicing wing.
We sought the barren sandBeside the moaning sea, and, hand in hand,Paced its slow length, and talkedOf our supremest sorrows as we walked.
Slow shaking each bowed head,“There is no anguish like to ours,” we said;“The glancing eyes of mornFall on no souls more utterly forlorn.”
But suddenly, acrossA narrow fiord wherein wild billows toss,We saw before our eyes,High hung above the tide, a temple rise—
A temple wondrous fair,Lifting its shining turrets in the air,All touched with golden gleams,Like the bright miracles we see in dreams.
Grief turned and looked at me.“We must go thither, O my friends,” said she;Then, saying nothing more,With rapid, gliding step passed on before.
And we—my Heart and I—Where Grief went, we went, following silently,Till in sweet solitudeBeneath the temple’s vaulted roof we stood.
’Twas like a hollow pearl—A vast white sacred chamber, where the whirlOf passion stirred not, whereA luminous splendor trembled in the air.
“O friends, I know this place,”Said Grief at last, “this lofty, silent space,Where, either soon or late,I and my kindred all shall lie in state.”
“But do Griefs die?” I cried.“Some die—not all,” full calmly she replied.“Yet all at last will lieIn this fair chamber, slumbering quietly.
Chamber of Silence, this;Who brings his Grief here doth not go amiss.Mine hour hath come. We threeWill walk, O friends, no more in company.”
Then was I dumb. My HeartAnd I—how could we with our dear Grief part,Who for so many a dayHad walked beside us in our lonely way?
But she, with matchless grace,And a sweet smile upon her tear-wet face,Said, “Leave me here to sleep,Where every Grief forgets at last to weep.”
What could we do but go?We turned with slow, reluctant feet, but lo!The pearly door had closed,Shutting us in where all the Griefs reposed.
“Nay, go not back,” she said;“Retrace no steps. Go farther on instead.”Then, on the other side,On noiseless hinge another door swung wide,
Through which we onward passedInto a chamber lowlier than the last,But, oh! so sweet and calmThat the hushed air was like a holy psalm.
“Chamber of Peace” was writWhere the low vaulted roof arched over it.Then knew we Grief must ceaseWhen sacred Silence leadeth unto Peace.
“Oh, shall it be a red rose, a red rose, a red rose,A deep-tinted red rose?” said she.“In the sunny garden closes,How they burn, the dark-red roses,How they lift up their glowing cups to me!”“Oh, shall it be a blush rose, a blush rose, a blush rose,A dewy, dainty blush rose?” said she.“At its heart a flush so tender,With what veiled and softened splendorDroopeth now its languid head toward me!”“Oh, shall it be a white rose, a white rose, a white rose,A fair and fragrant white rose?” said she.“With its pale cheek tinted faintly,’Tis a vestal, pure and saintly,Yet its silver lamp is shining now for me!”
“Oh, shall it be a red rose, a red rose, a red rose,A deep-tinted red rose?” said she.“In the sunny garden closes,How they burn, the dark-red roses,How they lift up their glowing cups to me!”“Oh, shall it be a blush rose, a blush rose, a blush rose,A dewy, dainty blush rose?” said she.“At its heart a flush so tender,With what veiled and softened splendorDroopeth now its languid head toward me!”“Oh, shall it be a white rose, a white rose, a white rose,A fair and fragrant white rose?” said she.“With its pale cheek tinted faintly,’Tis a vestal, pure and saintly,Yet its silver lamp is shining now for me!”
“Oh, shall it be a red rose, a red rose, a red rose,A deep-tinted red rose?” said she.“In the sunny garden closes,How they burn, the dark-red roses,How they lift up their glowing cups to me!”
“Oh, shall it be a blush rose, a blush rose, a blush rose,A dewy, dainty blush rose?” said she.“At its heart a flush so tender,With what veiled and softened splendorDroopeth now its languid head toward me!”
“Oh, shall it be a white rose, a white rose, a white rose,A fair and fragrant white rose?” said she.“With its pale cheek tinted faintly,’Tis a vestal, pure and saintly,Yet its silver lamp is shining now for me!”
[In an old almanac of the year 1809, against the date August 29th, there is this record, “Son b.” The sand that was thrown upon the fresh ink seventy years ago can still be seen upon the page.]
Four letters on a yellow pageWrit when the century was young;A few small grains of shining sandAcross it lightly flung!A child was born—child nameless yet;A son to love till life was o’er;But did no strange, sweet prescience stir,Teaching of something more?Thy son! O father, hadst thou knownWhat now the wide world knows of him,How had thy pulses thrilled with joy,How had thine eye grown dim!Couldst thou, through all the swift, bright years,Have looked, with glad, far-reaching gaze,And seen him as he stands to-day,Crowned with unfading bays—While Love’s red roses at his feetPour all their wealth of rare perfume,And Truth’s white lilies, pure as snow,His lofty way illume—How had thy heart’s strong throbbing shookThe eager pen, the firm right hand,That threw upon this record quaintThese grains of glittering sand!O irony of Time and Fate!That saves and loses, makes and mars,Keeps the small dust upon the scales,And blotteth out the stars!Kingdoms and thrones have passed away;Conquerors have fallen, empires died,And countless sons of men gone downBeneath War’s crimson tide.The whole wide earth has changed its face;Nations clasp hands across the seas;They speak, and winds and waves repeatThe mighty symphonies.Mountains have bowed their haughty crests,And opened wide their ponderous doors;The sea hath gathered in its dead,Love-wept on alien shores.Proud cities, wrapped in fire and flame,Have challenged all the slumbering land;Yet neither Time nor Change has touchedThese few bright grains of sand!
Four letters on a yellow pageWrit when the century was young;A few small grains of shining sandAcross it lightly flung!A child was born—child nameless yet;A son to love till life was o’er;But did no strange, sweet prescience stir,Teaching of something more?Thy son! O father, hadst thou knownWhat now the wide world knows of him,How had thy pulses thrilled with joy,How had thine eye grown dim!Couldst thou, through all the swift, bright years,Have looked, with glad, far-reaching gaze,And seen him as he stands to-day,Crowned with unfading bays—While Love’s red roses at his feetPour all their wealth of rare perfume,And Truth’s white lilies, pure as snow,His lofty way illume—How had thy heart’s strong throbbing shookThe eager pen, the firm right hand,That threw upon this record quaintThese grains of glittering sand!O irony of Time and Fate!That saves and loses, makes and mars,Keeps the small dust upon the scales,And blotteth out the stars!Kingdoms and thrones have passed away;Conquerors have fallen, empires died,And countless sons of men gone downBeneath War’s crimson tide.The whole wide earth has changed its face;Nations clasp hands across the seas;They speak, and winds and waves repeatThe mighty symphonies.Mountains have bowed their haughty crests,And opened wide their ponderous doors;The sea hath gathered in its dead,Love-wept on alien shores.Proud cities, wrapped in fire and flame,Have challenged all the slumbering land;Yet neither Time nor Change has touchedThese few bright grains of sand!
Four letters on a yellow pageWrit when the century was young;A few small grains of shining sandAcross it lightly flung!
A child was born—child nameless yet;A son to love till life was o’er;But did no strange, sweet prescience stir,Teaching of something more?
Thy son! O father, hadst thou knownWhat now the wide world knows of him,How had thy pulses thrilled with joy,How had thine eye grown dim!
Couldst thou, through all the swift, bright years,Have looked, with glad, far-reaching gaze,And seen him as he stands to-day,Crowned with unfading bays—
While Love’s red roses at his feetPour all their wealth of rare perfume,And Truth’s white lilies, pure as snow,His lofty way illume—
How had thy heart’s strong throbbing shookThe eager pen, the firm right hand,That threw upon this record quaintThese grains of glittering sand!
O irony of Time and Fate!That saves and loses, makes and mars,Keeps the small dust upon the scales,And blotteth out the stars!
Kingdoms and thrones have passed away;Conquerors have fallen, empires died,And countless sons of men gone downBeneath War’s crimson tide.
The whole wide earth has changed its face;Nations clasp hands across the seas;They speak, and winds and waves repeatThe mighty symphonies.
Mountains have bowed their haughty crests,And opened wide their ponderous doors;The sea hath gathered in its dead,Love-wept on alien shores.
Proud cities, wrapped in fire and flame,Have challenged all the slumbering land;Yet neither Time nor Change has touchedThese few bright grains of sand!
Within a city quaint and old,When reigned King Alcinor the Bold,There dwelt a sculptor whose renownWith pride and wonder filled the town.And yet he had not reached his prime;The first warm glow of summer-timeHad but just touched his radiant face,And moulded to a statelier graceThe stalwart form that trod the earthAs it had been of princely birth.So fair, so strong, so brave was he,With such a sense of mastery,That Alcinor upon his throneNo kinglier gifts from life could ownThan those it brought from near and farTo the young sculptor, Valdemar!Mayhap he was not rich—for Fame,To lend its magic to his name,Had outrun Fortune’s swiftest paceAnd conquered in the friendly race.But a fair home was his, where beesHummed in the laden mulberry-trees;Where cyclamens, with rosy flush,Brightened the lingering twilight hush,And the gladiolus’ fiery plumeMocked the red rose’s brilliant bloom;Where violet and wind-flower hidThe acacia’s golden gloom amid;Where starry jasmines climbed, and where,Serenely calm, divinely fair,Like a white lily, straight and tall,The loveliest flower among them all,His sweet young wife, Hermione,Sang to the child upon her knee!Here beauteous visions haunted him,Peopling the shadows soft and dim;Here the old gods around him castThe glamour of their splendors past.Jove thundered from the awful sky;Proud Juno trod the earth once more;Pale Isis, veiled in mystery,Her smile of mystic meaning wore;Apollo joyed in youth divine,And Bacchus wreathed the fragrant vine.Here chaste Diana, crescent-crowned,With virgin footsteps spurned the ground;Here rose fair Venus from the sea,And that sad ghost, Persephone,Wandered, a very shade of shades,Amid the moonlit myrtle glades.Nor they alone. The Heavenly Child,The Holy Mother, meek and mild,Angels on glad wing soaring free,Pale, praying saints on bended knee,Martyrs with palms, and heroes braveWho for their guerdon won a grave,Earth’s laughing children, rosy sweet,And the soul’s phantoms, fair and fleet—All these were with him night and day,Charming the happy hours away!Oh, who so rich as Valdemar?What ill his joyous life can mar?With home and glorious visions blest,Glad in the work he loveth best!But Love’s clear eyes are quick to see;And one fair spring, Hermione.Sitting beneath her mulberry-treeWith her young children at her knee,Saw Valdemar from day to day,As one whose thoughts were far away,With folded arms and drooping headPace the green aisles with silent tread;Saw him stand moodily apartWith idle hands and brooding heart,Or gaze at his still forms of clay,Himself as motionless as they!“O Valdemar!” she cried, “you bearSome burden that I do not share!I am your wife, your own true wife;Shut me not out from heart and life!Why brood you thus in silent pain?”As shifts the changing weather-vane,So came the old smile to his face,Saluting her with courtly grace.“Nay, nay, Hermione, not so!No secret, bitter grief I know;But, haunting all my dreams by nightAnd thoughts by day, one vision bright,One nameless wonder, near me stands,Claiming its birthright at my hands.It hath your eyes, Hermione,Your tender lips that smile for me;It hath your perfect, stately grace,The matchless beauty of your face.But it hath more! for never yetOn brow of earthly mould was setSuch splendor and such light as streamsFrom this rare phantom of my dreams!”Lightly she turned, and led him throughUnder the jasmines wet with dew,Into a wide, cool room, shut inFrom the great city’s whirl and din—Then, smiling, touched a heap of clay.“Dear idler, do thy work, I pray!Thy radiant phantom lieth hidThe mould of centuries amid,Waiting till thou shalt bid it riseAnd live beneath the wondering skies!”Then rose a hot flush to his cheek;His stammering lips were slow to speak.“Hermione,” he said at length,As one who gathers up his strength,“Hermione, my wife, I goFar from thee on a journey slowAnd long and perilous; for I knowSomewhere upon the earth there isA finer, purer clay than this,From which I’ll mould a shape more fairThan ever breathed in earthly air!I go to seek it!”“Ah!” she said,With smiling lips, but tearful eyes,Half lifted in a grieved surprise,“How shall I then be comforted?Not always do we find afarThe good we seek, my Valdemar!This common, way-side clay thy handHath been most potent to command.Yet I—I will not bid thee stay.Go, if thou must, and find thy clay!”Then his long journeyings began,And still his hope his steps outran.O’er desert sands he came and went;He crossed a mighty continent;Plunged into forests dark and lone;In jungles heard the panther’s moan;Climbed the far mountains’ lofty heights;Watched alien stars through weary nights;While more than once, on trackless seas,His white sails caught the eddying breeze.Yet all his labor was for nought,And never found he what he sought,Or far or near. The finer clayBut mocked his eager search alway.Ofttimes he came, with weary feet,Back to the home so still and sweetWhere his fair wife, Hermione,Dwelt with her children at her knee;But never once his eager handThrilled the mute clay with high command.One day she spoke: “O Valdemar,Cease from your wanderings wide and far!Life is not long. Why waste it, then,Chasing false fires through marsh and fen?Mould your fair statue while you may;High purpose sanctifies the clay.”He answered her, “My dream must wait,Fortune will aid me, soon or late!Perhaps the clay I may not find—But a strange tale is in the windOf an old man whose life has beenShut up wild solitudes withinOn Alpine mountains. He has foundWhat I have sought the world around.A learnèd, godly man, he knowsHow the full tide of being flows;And he, in some mysterious way,Makes, if he cannot find, the clay.He will his secret share with me—I go to him, Hermione!”“But, Valdemar,” she cried, “time flies,And while you dream, the vision dies!And look! Our children suffer lack;There is no coat for Claudio’s back;Theresa’s little feet, unshod,Are torn by shards on which they trod;And Marcius cried but yesterdayWhen the lads mocked him at their play.The very house is crumbling down;The broken hearth-stone needs repair;The roof is open to the air—It wakes the laughter of the town!O Valdemar! if you must goUp to those trackless fields of snow,Mould first from yonder common claySomething to keep the wolf away—A Virgin for some humble shrine,A soldier clad in armor fine,Or even such toys as AndrefelsTo laughing, wondering children sells.”“Now murmur not, Hermione,But be thou patient,” answered he.“Why mind the laughter of the town?It cannot shake my fair renown!A touch of hardship, now and then,Will never harm our little men;And as for this old, crumbling roof,Let rude winds put it to the proof,And fierce heats gnaw the hearth-stone! ISurely the Land of Promise spy,Where the fair vision of my dreams,Clothed in transcendent beauty, gleams!In its white hand it holdeth upFor us, my love, a brimming cupWhere wealth and fame and joy divineMingle in life’s most sparkling wine.Bid me God-speed, Hermione,And kiss me, ere I go from thee!”So on he sped, from day to day—Past wheat-fields yellowing in the sun,Where scarlet-coated poppies run,Gay soldiers ready for the fray—Past vineyards purpling on the hills,Past sleeping lakes and dancing rills,And homes like dovecotes nestling highMidway between the earth and sky!Then on he passed through valleys dimCrowded with shadows gaunt and grim,Up towering heights whence glaciers launchTheir swift-winged ships for seaward flight,Or where, dread messenger of fright,Sweeps down the awful avalanche!And still upon the mountain sideTo every man he met he cried,“Where shall I find, oh! tell me where,The hermit of this upper air,Who Nature’s inmost secret knows?”And, pointing to the eternal snows,Each man replied, with wagging head,“Up yonder, somewhere, it is said.”At length one day, as sank the sun,He reached a low hut, dark and dun,And, entering unbidden, foundAn old man stretched upon the ground:A white-haired, venerable man,Whose eyes had hardly light to scanThe face that, blanched with awful fear,Bent down, his failing breath to hear.“Pax vobiscum” he murmured low,“Shrive me, O brother, ere I go!”“No priest am I,” cried Valdemar.“Alas! alas! I came from farTo learn thy secret of the clay—Speak to me, sire, while yet you may!”But while he wet the parchèd lips,The dull eyes closed in death’s eclipse;And the old seer in silence lay,Himself a thing of pallid clay,With all his secrets closely hidAs Ramses’ in the pyramid.Long time within that lonely placeValdemar lived, but found no traceIn learnèd book or parchment scroll(The ink scarce dry upon the roll)Of aught the stars had taught to him.Within the wide horizon’s rim,Nor earth, nor sky, nor winds at play,Knew the lost secret of the clay.Then sought he, after journeyings hard,The holy monks of St. Bernard.But they—ah, yes!—they knew him well,A man not ruled by book and bell.Godly, perhaps—but much inclinedSome newer road to heaven to find.And was he dead? God rest his soul,After this life of toil and dole!And that was all! O Valdemar!Fly to thy desolate home afar,Where wasted, worn, Hermione,With her pale children at her knee,Beside the broken hearth-stone weeps!He finds her, smiling as she sleeps,For night more tender is than day,And softly wipes our tears away.“Oh, wake, Hermione!” he cries,As one whose spirit inly dies;“Hear me confess that I have beenFalse to thee in my pride and sin!God give me grace from this blest dayTo do His work in common clay! ”Next morn, in humble, sweet content,Into his studio he went,Eager to test his willing hand,And rule the clay with wise command.But no fair wonder first he wrought,No marvel of creative thought,Not even a Virgin for a shrine,Or soldier clad in armor fine—Only such toys as AndrefelsTo laughing, wondering children sells!One day he knelt him gravely downBeside the hearth-stone, rent and brown.“And now, my patient wife,” said he,“What can be done with this, we’ll see.”With straining arm and crimsoned faceHe pried the mortar from its place,Lifted the heavy stone aside,And left a cavern yawning wide.Oh, wondrous tale! At set of sunThe guerdon of his search was won;And where his broken hearth-stone layHe found at last the perfect clay!
Within a city quaint and old,When reigned King Alcinor the Bold,There dwelt a sculptor whose renownWith pride and wonder filled the town.And yet he had not reached his prime;The first warm glow of summer-timeHad but just touched his radiant face,And moulded to a statelier graceThe stalwart form that trod the earthAs it had been of princely birth.So fair, so strong, so brave was he,With such a sense of mastery,That Alcinor upon his throneNo kinglier gifts from life could ownThan those it brought from near and farTo the young sculptor, Valdemar!Mayhap he was not rich—for Fame,To lend its magic to his name,Had outrun Fortune’s swiftest paceAnd conquered in the friendly race.But a fair home was his, where beesHummed in the laden mulberry-trees;Where cyclamens, with rosy flush,Brightened the lingering twilight hush,And the gladiolus’ fiery plumeMocked the red rose’s brilliant bloom;Where violet and wind-flower hidThe acacia’s golden gloom amid;Where starry jasmines climbed, and where,Serenely calm, divinely fair,Like a white lily, straight and tall,The loveliest flower among them all,His sweet young wife, Hermione,Sang to the child upon her knee!Here beauteous visions haunted him,Peopling the shadows soft and dim;Here the old gods around him castThe glamour of their splendors past.Jove thundered from the awful sky;Proud Juno trod the earth once more;Pale Isis, veiled in mystery,Her smile of mystic meaning wore;Apollo joyed in youth divine,And Bacchus wreathed the fragrant vine.Here chaste Diana, crescent-crowned,With virgin footsteps spurned the ground;Here rose fair Venus from the sea,And that sad ghost, Persephone,Wandered, a very shade of shades,Amid the moonlit myrtle glades.Nor they alone. The Heavenly Child,The Holy Mother, meek and mild,Angels on glad wing soaring free,Pale, praying saints on bended knee,Martyrs with palms, and heroes braveWho for their guerdon won a grave,Earth’s laughing children, rosy sweet,And the soul’s phantoms, fair and fleet—All these were with him night and day,Charming the happy hours away!Oh, who so rich as Valdemar?What ill his joyous life can mar?With home and glorious visions blest,Glad in the work he loveth best!But Love’s clear eyes are quick to see;And one fair spring, Hermione.Sitting beneath her mulberry-treeWith her young children at her knee,Saw Valdemar from day to day,As one whose thoughts were far away,With folded arms and drooping headPace the green aisles with silent tread;Saw him stand moodily apartWith idle hands and brooding heart,Or gaze at his still forms of clay,Himself as motionless as they!“O Valdemar!” she cried, “you bearSome burden that I do not share!I am your wife, your own true wife;Shut me not out from heart and life!Why brood you thus in silent pain?”As shifts the changing weather-vane,So came the old smile to his face,Saluting her with courtly grace.“Nay, nay, Hermione, not so!No secret, bitter grief I know;But, haunting all my dreams by nightAnd thoughts by day, one vision bright,One nameless wonder, near me stands,Claiming its birthright at my hands.It hath your eyes, Hermione,Your tender lips that smile for me;It hath your perfect, stately grace,The matchless beauty of your face.But it hath more! for never yetOn brow of earthly mould was setSuch splendor and such light as streamsFrom this rare phantom of my dreams!”Lightly she turned, and led him throughUnder the jasmines wet with dew,Into a wide, cool room, shut inFrom the great city’s whirl and din—Then, smiling, touched a heap of clay.“Dear idler, do thy work, I pray!Thy radiant phantom lieth hidThe mould of centuries amid,Waiting till thou shalt bid it riseAnd live beneath the wondering skies!”Then rose a hot flush to his cheek;His stammering lips were slow to speak.“Hermione,” he said at length,As one who gathers up his strength,“Hermione, my wife, I goFar from thee on a journey slowAnd long and perilous; for I knowSomewhere upon the earth there isA finer, purer clay than this,From which I’ll mould a shape more fairThan ever breathed in earthly air!I go to seek it!”“Ah!” she said,With smiling lips, but tearful eyes,Half lifted in a grieved surprise,“How shall I then be comforted?Not always do we find afarThe good we seek, my Valdemar!This common, way-side clay thy handHath been most potent to command.Yet I—I will not bid thee stay.Go, if thou must, and find thy clay!”Then his long journeyings began,And still his hope his steps outran.O’er desert sands he came and went;He crossed a mighty continent;Plunged into forests dark and lone;In jungles heard the panther’s moan;Climbed the far mountains’ lofty heights;Watched alien stars through weary nights;While more than once, on trackless seas,His white sails caught the eddying breeze.Yet all his labor was for nought,And never found he what he sought,Or far or near. The finer clayBut mocked his eager search alway.Ofttimes he came, with weary feet,Back to the home so still and sweetWhere his fair wife, Hermione,Dwelt with her children at her knee;But never once his eager handThrilled the mute clay with high command.One day she spoke: “O Valdemar,Cease from your wanderings wide and far!Life is not long. Why waste it, then,Chasing false fires through marsh and fen?Mould your fair statue while you may;High purpose sanctifies the clay.”He answered her, “My dream must wait,Fortune will aid me, soon or late!Perhaps the clay I may not find—But a strange tale is in the windOf an old man whose life has beenShut up wild solitudes withinOn Alpine mountains. He has foundWhat I have sought the world around.A learnèd, godly man, he knowsHow the full tide of being flows;And he, in some mysterious way,Makes, if he cannot find, the clay.He will his secret share with me—I go to him, Hermione!”“But, Valdemar,” she cried, “time flies,And while you dream, the vision dies!And look! Our children suffer lack;There is no coat for Claudio’s back;Theresa’s little feet, unshod,Are torn by shards on which they trod;And Marcius cried but yesterdayWhen the lads mocked him at their play.The very house is crumbling down;The broken hearth-stone needs repair;The roof is open to the air—It wakes the laughter of the town!O Valdemar! if you must goUp to those trackless fields of snow,Mould first from yonder common claySomething to keep the wolf away—A Virgin for some humble shrine,A soldier clad in armor fine,Or even such toys as AndrefelsTo laughing, wondering children sells.”“Now murmur not, Hermione,But be thou patient,” answered he.“Why mind the laughter of the town?It cannot shake my fair renown!A touch of hardship, now and then,Will never harm our little men;And as for this old, crumbling roof,Let rude winds put it to the proof,And fierce heats gnaw the hearth-stone! ISurely the Land of Promise spy,Where the fair vision of my dreams,Clothed in transcendent beauty, gleams!In its white hand it holdeth upFor us, my love, a brimming cupWhere wealth and fame and joy divineMingle in life’s most sparkling wine.Bid me God-speed, Hermione,And kiss me, ere I go from thee!”So on he sped, from day to day—Past wheat-fields yellowing in the sun,Where scarlet-coated poppies run,Gay soldiers ready for the fray—Past vineyards purpling on the hills,Past sleeping lakes and dancing rills,And homes like dovecotes nestling highMidway between the earth and sky!Then on he passed through valleys dimCrowded with shadows gaunt and grim,Up towering heights whence glaciers launchTheir swift-winged ships for seaward flight,Or where, dread messenger of fright,Sweeps down the awful avalanche!And still upon the mountain sideTo every man he met he cried,“Where shall I find, oh! tell me where,The hermit of this upper air,Who Nature’s inmost secret knows?”And, pointing to the eternal snows,Each man replied, with wagging head,“Up yonder, somewhere, it is said.”At length one day, as sank the sun,He reached a low hut, dark and dun,And, entering unbidden, foundAn old man stretched upon the ground:A white-haired, venerable man,Whose eyes had hardly light to scanThe face that, blanched with awful fear,Bent down, his failing breath to hear.“Pax vobiscum” he murmured low,“Shrive me, O brother, ere I go!”“No priest am I,” cried Valdemar.“Alas! alas! I came from farTo learn thy secret of the clay—Speak to me, sire, while yet you may!”But while he wet the parchèd lips,The dull eyes closed in death’s eclipse;And the old seer in silence lay,Himself a thing of pallid clay,With all his secrets closely hidAs Ramses’ in the pyramid.Long time within that lonely placeValdemar lived, but found no traceIn learnèd book or parchment scroll(The ink scarce dry upon the roll)Of aught the stars had taught to him.Within the wide horizon’s rim,Nor earth, nor sky, nor winds at play,Knew the lost secret of the clay.Then sought he, after journeyings hard,The holy monks of St. Bernard.But they—ah, yes!—they knew him well,A man not ruled by book and bell.Godly, perhaps—but much inclinedSome newer road to heaven to find.And was he dead? God rest his soul,After this life of toil and dole!And that was all! O Valdemar!Fly to thy desolate home afar,Where wasted, worn, Hermione,With her pale children at her knee,Beside the broken hearth-stone weeps!He finds her, smiling as she sleeps,For night more tender is than day,And softly wipes our tears away.“Oh, wake, Hermione!” he cries,As one whose spirit inly dies;“Hear me confess that I have beenFalse to thee in my pride and sin!God give me grace from this blest dayTo do His work in common clay! ”Next morn, in humble, sweet content,Into his studio he went,Eager to test his willing hand,And rule the clay with wise command.But no fair wonder first he wrought,No marvel of creative thought,Not even a Virgin for a shrine,Or soldier clad in armor fine—Only such toys as AndrefelsTo laughing, wondering children sells!One day he knelt him gravely downBeside the hearth-stone, rent and brown.“And now, my patient wife,” said he,“What can be done with this, we’ll see.”With straining arm and crimsoned faceHe pried the mortar from its place,Lifted the heavy stone aside,And left a cavern yawning wide.Oh, wondrous tale! At set of sunThe guerdon of his search was won;And where his broken hearth-stone layHe found at last the perfect clay!
Within a city quaint and old,When reigned King Alcinor the Bold,There dwelt a sculptor whose renownWith pride and wonder filled the town.And yet he had not reached his prime;The first warm glow of summer-timeHad but just touched his radiant face,And moulded to a statelier graceThe stalwart form that trod the earthAs it had been of princely birth.So fair, so strong, so brave was he,With such a sense of mastery,That Alcinor upon his throneNo kinglier gifts from life could ownThan those it brought from near and farTo the young sculptor, Valdemar!Mayhap he was not rich—for Fame,To lend its magic to his name,Had outrun Fortune’s swiftest paceAnd conquered in the friendly race.But a fair home was his, where beesHummed in the laden mulberry-trees;Where cyclamens, with rosy flush,Brightened the lingering twilight hush,And the gladiolus’ fiery plumeMocked the red rose’s brilliant bloom;Where violet and wind-flower hidThe acacia’s golden gloom amid;Where starry jasmines climbed, and where,Serenely calm, divinely fair,Like a white lily, straight and tall,The loveliest flower among them all,His sweet young wife, Hermione,Sang to the child upon her knee!
Here beauteous visions haunted him,Peopling the shadows soft and dim;Here the old gods around him castThe glamour of their splendors past.Jove thundered from the awful sky;Proud Juno trod the earth once more;Pale Isis, veiled in mystery,Her smile of mystic meaning wore;Apollo joyed in youth divine,And Bacchus wreathed the fragrant vine.Here chaste Diana, crescent-crowned,With virgin footsteps spurned the ground;Here rose fair Venus from the sea,And that sad ghost, Persephone,Wandered, a very shade of shades,Amid the moonlit myrtle glades.Nor they alone. The Heavenly Child,The Holy Mother, meek and mild,Angels on glad wing soaring free,Pale, praying saints on bended knee,Martyrs with palms, and heroes braveWho for their guerdon won a grave,Earth’s laughing children, rosy sweet,And the soul’s phantoms, fair and fleet—All these were with him night and day,Charming the happy hours away!Oh, who so rich as Valdemar?What ill his joyous life can mar?With home and glorious visions blest,Glad in the work he loveth best!
But Love’s clear eyes are quick to see;And one fair spring, Hermione.Sitting beneath her mulberry-treeWith her young children at her knee,Saw Valdemar from day to day,As one whose thoughts were far away,With folded arms and drooping headPace the green aisles with silent tread;Saw him stand moodily apartWith idle hands and brooding heart,Or gaze at his still forms of clay,Himself as motionless as they!“O Valdemar!” she cried, “you bearSome burden that I do not share!I am your wife, your own true wife;Shut me not out from heart and life!Why brood you thus in silent pain?”As shifts the changing weather-vane,So came the old smile to his face,Saluting her with courtly grace.“Nay, nay, Hermione, not so!No secret, bitter grief I know;But, haunting all my dreams by nightAnd thoughts by day, one vision bright,One nameless wonder, near me stands,Claiming its birthright at my hands.It hath your eyes, Hermione,Your tender lips that smile for me;It hath your perfect, stately grace,The matchless beauty of your face.But it hath more! for never yetOn brow of earthly mould was setSuch splendor and such light as streamsFrom this rare phantom of my dreams!”
Lightly she turned, and led him throughUnder the jasmines wet with dew,Into a wide, cool room, shut inFrom the great city’s whirl and din—Then, smiling, touched a heap of clay.“Dear idler, do thy work, I pray!Thy radiant phantom lieth hidThe mould of centuries amid,Waiting till thou shalt bid it riseAnd live beneath the wondering skies!”
Then rose a hot flush to his cheek;His stammering lips were slow to speak.“Hermione,” he said at length,As one who gathers up his strength,“Hermione, my wife, I goFar from thee on a journey slowAnd long and perilous; for I knowSomewhere upon the earth there isA finer, purer clay than this,From which I’ll mould a shape more fairThan ever breathed in earthly air!I go to seek it!”
“Ah!” she said,With smiling lips, but tearful eyes,Half lifted in a grieved surprise,“How shall I then be comforted?Not always do we find afarThe good we seek, my Valdemar!This common, way-side clay thy handHath been most potent to command.Yet I—I will not bid thee stay.Go, if thou must, and find thy clay!”
Then his long journeyings began,And still his hope his steps outran.O’er desert sands he came and went;He crossed a mighty continent;Plunged into forests dark and lone;In jungles heard the panther’s moan;Climbed the far mountains’ lofty heights;Watched alien stars through weary nights;While more than once, on trackless seas,His white sails caught the eddying breeze.Yet all his labor was for nought,And never found he what he sought,Or far or near. The finer clayBut mocked his eager search alway.
Ofttimes he came, with weary feet,Back to the home so still and sweetWhere his fair wife, Hermione,Dwelt with her children at her knee;But never once his eager handThrilled the mute clay with high command.One day she spoke: “O Valdemar,Cease from your wanderings wide and far!Life is not long. Why waste it, then,Chasing false fires through marsh and fen?Mould your fair statue while you may;High purpose sanctifies the clay.”
He answered her, “My dream must wait,Fortune will aid me, soon or late!Perhaps the clay I may not find—But a strange tale is in the windOf an old man whose life has beenShut up wild solitudes withinOn Alpine mountains. He has foundWhat I have sought the world around.A learnèd, godly man, he knowsHow the full tide of being flows;And he, in some mysterious way,Makes, if he cannot find, the clay.He will his secret share with me—I go to him, Hermione!”
“But, Valdemar,” she cried, “time flies,And while you dream, the vision dies!And look! Our children suffer lack;There is no coat for Claudio’s back;Theresa’s little feet, unshod,Are torn by shards on which they trod;And Marcius cried but yesterdayWhen the lads mocked him at their play.The very house is crumbling down;The broken hearth-stone needs repair;The roof is open to the air—It wakes the laughter of the town!O Valdemar! if you must goUp to those trackless fields of snow,Mould first from yonder common claySomething to keep the wolf away—A Virgin for some humble shrine,A soldier clad in armor fine,Or even such toys as AndrefelsTo laughing, wondering children sells.”
“Now murmur not, Hermione,But be thou patient,” answered he.“Why mind the laughter of the town?It cannot shake my fair renown!A touch of hardship, now and then,Will never harm our little men;And as for this old, crumbling roof,Let rude winds put it to the proof,And fierce heats gnaw the hearth-stone! ISurely the Land of Promise spy,Where the fair vision of my dreams,Clothed in transcendent beauty, gleams!In its white hand it holdeth upFor us, my love, a brimming cupWhere wealth and fame and joy divineMingle in life’s most sparkling wine.Bid me God-speed, Hermione,And kiss me, ere I go from thee!”
So on he sped, from day to day—Past wheat-fields yellowing in the sun,Where scarlet-coated poppies run,Gay soldiers ready for the fray—Past vineyards purpling on the hills,Past sleeping lakes and dancing rills,And homes like dovecotes nestling highMidway between the earth and sky!Then on he passed through valleys dimCrowded with shadows gaunt and grim,Up towering heights whence glaciers launchTheir swift-winged ships for seaward flight,Or where, dread messenger of fright,Sweeps down the awful avalanche!And still upon the mountain sideTo every man he met he cried,“Where shall I find, oh! tell me where,The hermit of this upper air,Who Nature’s inmost secret knows?”And, pointing to the eternal snows,Each man replied, with wagging head,“Up yonder, somewhere, it is said.”
At length one day, as sank the sun,He reached a low hut, dark and dun,And, entering unbidden, foundAn old man stretched upon the ground:A white-haired, venerable man,Whose eyes had hardly light to scanThe face that, blanched with awful fear,Bent down, his failing breath to hear.“Pax vobiscum” he murmured low,“Shrive me, O brother, ere I go!”
“No priest am I,” cried Valdemar.“Alas! alas! I came from farTo learn thy secret of the clay—Speak to me, sire, while yet you may!”But while he wet the parchèd lips,The dull eyes closed in death’s eclipse;And the old seer in silence lay,Himself a thing of pallid clay,With all his secrets closely hidAs Ramses’ in the pyramid.
Long time within that lonely placeValdemar lived, but found no traceIn learnèd book or parchment scroll(The ink scarce dry upon the roll)Of aught the stars had taught to him.Within the wide horizon’s rim,Nor earth, nor sky, nor winds at play,Knew the lost secret of the clay.
Then sought he, after journeyings hard,The holy monks of St. Bernard.But they—ah, yes!—they knew him well,A man not ruled by book and bell.Godly, perhaps—but much inclinedSome newer road to heaven to find.And was he dead? God rest his soul,After this life of toil and dole!
And that was all! O Valdemar!Fly to thy desolate home afar,Where wasted, worn, Hermione,With her pale children at her knee,Beside the broken hearth-stone weeps!
He finds her, smiling as she sleeps,For night more tender is than day,And softly wipes our tears away.“Oh, wake, Hermione!” he cries,As one whose spirit inly dies;“Hear me confess that I have beenFalse to thee in my pride and sin!God give me grace from this blest dayTo do His work in common clay! ”
Next morn, in humble, sweet content,Into his studio he went,Eager to test his willing hand,And rule the clay with wise command.But no fair wonder first he wrought,No marvel of creative thought,Not even a Virgin for a shrine,Or soldier clad in armor fine—Only such toys as AndrefelsTo laughing, wondering children sells!
One day he knelt him gravely downBeside the hearth-stone, rent and brown.“And now, my patient wife,” said he,“What can be done with this, we’ll see.”With straining arm and crimsoned faceHe pried the mortar from its place,Lifted the heavy stone aside,And left a cavern yawning wide.Oh, wondrous tale! At set of sunThe guerdon of his search was won;And where his broken hearth-stone layHe found at last the perfect clay!
Jubilate! Jubilate!Christ the Lord is risen to-day!Hear the mighty chorus swellingOver land and over sea!River calls aloud to river,Mountain peak to mountain peak—Jubilate! Jubilate!Christ the Lord is risen to-day!Waken, roses, from your slumbers!Lilies, wake—for he is near!Happy bells in wild-wood arches,Ring and swing in sweet accord!Lift your voices, O ye maples,Sing aloud, ye stately pines,Jubilate! Jubilate!Christ the Lord is risen to-day!O thou goddess of the springtime,Fair Ostera, thou art dead!Never more shall priests and vestalsWeave fresh garlands for thy shrine;But the happy voices ringingOver land and over sea,Swell the mighty jubilate—“Christ the Lord is risen to-day!”
Jubilate! Jubilate!Christ the Lord is risen to-day!Hear the mighty chorus swellingOver land and over sea!River calls aloud to river,Mountain peak to mountain peak—Jubilate! Jubilate!Christ the Lord is risen to-day!Waken, roses, from your slumbers!Lilies, wake—for he is near!Happy bells in wild-wood arches,Ring and swing in sweet accord!Lift your voices, O ye maples,Sing aloud, ye stately pines,Jubilate! Jubilate!Christ the Lord is risen to-day!O thou goddess of the springtime,Fair Ostera, thou art dead!Never more shall priests and vestalsWeave fresh garlands for thy shrine;But the happy voices ringingOver land and over sea,Swell the mighty jubilate—“Christ the Lord is risen to-day!”
Jubilate! Jubilate!Christ the Lord is risen to-day!Hear the mighty chorus swellingOver land and over sea!River calls aloud to river,Mountain peak to mountain peak—Jubilate! Jubilate!Christ the Lord is risen to-day!
Waken, roses, from your slumbers!Lilies, wake—for he is near!Happy bells in wild-wood arches,Ring and swing in sweet accord!Lift your voices, O ye maples,Sing aloud, ye stately pines,Jubilate! Jubilate!Christ the Lord is risen to-day!
O thou goddess of the springtime,Fair Ostera, thou art dead!Never more shall priests and vestalsWeave fresh garlands for thy shrine;But the happy voices ringingOver land and over sea,Swell the mighty jubilate—“Christ the Lord is risen to-day!”
O ye dear and blessed ones who are done with sighing,Do the Easter Lilies blow for you to-day?Do the shining angels, through Heaven’s arches flying,Bear the snow-white blossoms on your breasts to lay?For we cannot reach you, O our well belovèd—Nothing can we do for you save to hold you dear;From our close embraces ye are far removèd,And our empty yearnings cannot bring you near.Once on Easter mornings glad we gave you greeting—Gave you fair flowers, singing, “Christ is risen to-day!”Hands were clasped together, hearts and lips were meeting—Earth and we together sang a roundelay!Now—yet why repine we?—ye are done with sorrow;Life and Lent are over, with their prayers and tears;After night of watching came the glad to-morrow,Came the blessed sunshine of the eternal years.Surely in Jerusalem, where the Lord Christ reigneth,Ye with saints and martyrs keep this festal day—And the holy angels, ere its glory waneth,Heaven’s own Easter Lilies on your breasts shall lay!
O ye dear and blessed ones who are done with sighing,Do the Easter Lilies blow for you to-day?Do the shining angels, through Heaven’s arches flying,Bear the snow-white blossoms on your breasts to lay?For we cannot reach you, O our well belovèd—Nothing can we do for you save to hold you dear;From our close embraces ye are far removèd,And our empty yearnings cannot bring you near.Once on Easter mornings glad we gave you greeting—Gave you fair flowers, singing, “Christ is risen to-day!”Hands were clasped together, hearts and lips were meeting—Earth and we together sang a roundelay!Now—yet why repine we?—ye are done with sorrow;Life and Lent are over, with their prayers and tears;After night of watching came the glad to-morrow,Came the blessed sunshine of the eternal years.Surely in Jerusalem, where the Lord Christ reigneth,Ye with saints and martyrs keep this festal day—And the holy angels, ere its glory waneth,Heaven’s own Easter Lilies on your breasts shall lay!
O ye dear and blessed ones who are done with sighing,Do the Easter Lilies blow for you to-day?Do the shining angels, through Heaven’s arches flying,Bear the snow-white blossoms on your breasts to lay?
For we cannot reach you, O our well belovèd—Nothing can we do for you save to hold you dear;From our close embraces ye are far removèd,And our empty yearnings cannot bring you near.
Once on Easter mornings glad we gave you greeting—Gave you fair flowers, singing, “Christ is risen to-day!”Hands were clasped together, hearts and lips were meeting—Earth and we together sang a roundelay!
Now—yet why repine we?—ye are done with sorrow;Life and Lent are over, with their prayers and tears;After night of watching came the glad to-morrow,Came the blessed sunshine of the eternal years.
Surely in Jerusalem, where the Lord Christ reigneth,Ye with saints and martyrs keep this festal day—And the holy angels, ere its glory waneth,Heaven’s own Easter Lilies on your breasts shall lay!
O wind that blows out of the West,Thou hast swept over mountain and sea,Dost thou bear on thy swift, glad wingsThe breath of my love to me?Hast thou kissed her warm, sweet lips?Or tangled her soft brown hair?Or fluttered the fragrant heartOf the rose she loves to wear?O sun that goes down in the West,Hast thou seen my love to-day,As she sits in her beautiful primeUnder skies so far away?Hast thou gilded a path for her feet,Or deepened the glow on her cheeks,Or bent from the skies to hearThe low, sweet words she speaks?O stars that are bright in the WestWhen the hush of the night is deep,Do ye see my love as she liesLike a chaste, white flower asleep?Does she smile as she walks with meIn the light of a happy dream,While the night winds rustle the leaves,And the light waves ripple and gleam?O birds that fly out of the West,Do ye bring me a message from her,As sweet as your love-notes are,When the warm spring breezes stir?Did she whisper a word of meAs your tremulous wings swept by,Or utter my name, mayhap,In a single passionate cry?O voices out of the West,Ye are silent every one,And never an answer comesFrom wind, or stars, or sun!And the blithe birds come and goThrough the boundless fields of space,As reckless of human prayersAs if earth were a desert place!
O wind that blows out of the West,Thou hast swept over mountain and sea,Dost thou bear on thy swift, glad wingsThe breath of my love to me?Hast thou kissed her warm, sweet lips?Or tangled her soft brown hair?Or fluttered the fragrant heartOf the rose she loves to wear?O sun that goes down in the West,Hast thou seen my love to-day,As she sits in her beautiful primeUnder skies so far away?Hast thou gilded a path for her feet,Or deepened the glow on her cheeks,Or bent from the skies to hearThe low, sweet words she speaks?O stars that are bright in the WestWhen the hush of the night is deep,Do ye see my love as she liesLike a chaste, white flower asleep?Does she smile as she walks with meIn the light of a happy dream,While the night winds rustle the leaves,And the light waves ripple and gleam?O birds that fly out of the West,Do ye bring me a message from her,As sweet as your love-notes are,When the warm spring breezes stir?Did she whisper a word of meAs your tremulous wings swept by,Or utter my name, mayhap,In a single passionate cry?O voices out of the West,Ye are silent every one,And never an answer comesFrom wind, or stars, or sun!And the blithe birds come and goThrough the boundless fields of space,As reckless of human prayersAs if earth were a desert place!
O wind that blows out of the West,Thou hast swept over mountain and sea,Dost thou bear on thy swift, glad wingsThe breath of my love to me?Hast thou kissed her warm, sweet lips?Or tangled her soft brown hair?Or fluttered the fragrant heartOf the rose she loves to wear?
O sun that goes down in the West,Hast thou seen my love to-day,As she sits in her beautiful primeUnder skies so far away?Hast thou gilded a path for her feet,Or deepened the glow on her cheeks,Or bent from the skies to hearThe low, sweet words she speaks?
O stars that are bright in the WestWhen the hush of the night is deep,Do ye see my love as she liesLike a chaste, white flower asleep?Does she smile as she walks with meIn the light of a happy dream,While the night winds rustle the leaves,And the light waves ripple and gleam?
O birds that fly out of the West,Do ye bring me a message from her,As sweet as your love-notes are,When the warm spring breezes stir?Did she whisper a word of meAs your tremulous wings swept by,Or utter my name, mayhap,In a single passionate cry?
O voices out of the West,Ye are silent every one,And never an answer comesFrom wind, or stars, or sun!And the blithe birds come and goThrough the boundless fields of space,As reckless of human prayersAs if earth were a desert place!