LITTLE LUCY LANDMANOh, the day has set me dreamingIn a strange, half solemn wayOf the feelings I experiencedOn another long past day,—Of the way my heart made musicWhen the buds began to blow,And o' little Lucy LandmanWhom I loved long years ago.It 's in spring, the poet tells us,That we turn to thoughts of love,And our hearts go out a-wooingWith the lapwing and the dove.But whene'er the soul goes seekingIts twin-soul, upon the wing,I 've a notion, backed by mem'ry,That it's love that makes the spring.I have heard a robin singingWhen the boughs were brown and bare,And the chilling hand of winterScattered jewels through the air.And in spite of dates and seasons,It was always spring, I know,When I loved Lucy LandmanIn the days of long ago.Ah, my little Lucy Landman,I remember you as wellAs if 't were only yesterdayI strove your thoughts to tell,—When I tilted back your bonnet,Looked into your eyes so true,Just to see if you were lovingMe as I was loving you.Ah, my little Lucy LandmanIt is true it was deniedYou should see a fuller summerAnd an autumn by my side.But the glance of love's sweet sunlightWhich your eyes that morning gaveHas kept spring within my bosom,Though you lie within the grave.
Oh, the day has set me dreamingIn a strange, half solemn wayOf the feelings I experiencedOn another long past day,—Of the way my heart made musicWhen the buds began to blow,And o' little Lucy LandmanWhom I loved long years ago.
Oh, the day has set me dreaming
In a strange, half solemn way
Of the feelings I experienced
On another long past day,—
Of the way my heart made music
When the buds began to blow,
And o' little Lucy Landman
Whom I loved long years ago.
It 's in spring, the poet tells us,That we turn to thoughts of love,And our hearts go out a-wooingWith the lapwing and the dove.But whene'er the soul goes seekingIts twin-soul, upon the wing,I 've a notion, backed by mem'ry,That it's love that makes the spring.
It 's in spring, the poet tells us,
That we turn to thoughts of love,
And our hearts go out a-wooing
With the lapwing and the dove.
But whene'er the soul goes seeking
Its twin-soul, upon the wing,
I 've a notion, backed by mem'ry,
That it's love that makes the spring.
I have heard a robin singingWhen the boughs were brown and bare,And the chilling hand of winterScattered jewels through the air.And in spite of dates and seasons,It was always spring, I know,When I loved Lucy LandmanIn the days of long ago.
I have heard a robin singing
When the boughs were brown and bare,
And the chilling hand of winter
Scattered jewels through the air.
And in spite of dates and seasons,
It was always spring, I know,
When I loved Lucy Landman
In the days of long ago.
Ah, my little Lucy Landman,I remember you as wellAs if 't were only yesterdayI strove your thoughts to tell,—When I tilted back your bonnet,Looked into your eyes so true,Just to see if you were lovingMe as I was loving you.
Ah, my little Lucy Landman,
I remember you as well
As if 't were only yesterday
I strove your thoughts to tell,—
When I tilted back your bonnet,
Looked into your eyes so true,
Just to see if you were loving
Me as I was loving you.
Ah, my little Lucy LandmanIt is true it was deniedYou should see a fuller summerAnd an autumn by my side.But the glance of love's sweet sunlightWhich your eyes that morning gaveHas kept spring within my bosom,Though you lie within the grave.
Ah, my little Lucy Landman
It is true it was denied
You should see a fuller summer
And an autumn by my side.
But the glance of love's sweet sunlight
Which your eyes that morning gave
Has kept spring within my bosom,
Though you lie within the grave.
THE GOURDIn the heavy earth the minerToiled and laboured day by day,Wrenching from the miser mountainBrilliant treasure where it lay.And the artist worn and wearyWrought with labour manifoldThat the king might drink his nectarFrom a goblet made of gold.On the prince's groaning tableMid the silver gleaming brightMirroring the happy facesGiving back the flaming light,Shine the cups of priceless crystalChased with many a lovely line,Glowing now with warmer colour,Crimsoned by the ruby wine.In a valley sweet with sunlight,Fertile with the dew and rain,Without miner's daily labour,Without artist's nightly pain,There there grows the cup I drink from,Summer's sweetness in it stored,And my lips pronounce a blessingAs they touch an old brown gourd.Why, the miracle at CanaIn the land of Galilee,Tho' it puzzles all the scholars,Is no longer strange to me.For the poorest and the humblestCould a priceless wine afford,If they 'd only dip up waterWith a sunlight-seasoned gourd.So a health to my old comrade,And a song of praise to singWhen he rests inviting kissesIn his place beside the spring.Give the king his golden goblets,Give the prince his crystal hoard;But for me the sparkling waterFrom a brown and brimming gourd!
In the heavy earth the minerToiled and laboured day by day,Wrenching from the miser mountainBrilliant treasure where it lay.And the artist worn and wearyWrought with labour manifoldThat the king might drink his nectarFrom a goblet made of gold.
In the heavy earth the miner
Toiled and laboured day by day,
Wrenching from the miser mountain
Brilliant treasure where it lay.
And the artist worn and weary
Wrought with labour manifold
That the king might drink his nectar
From a goblet made of gold.
On the prince's groaning tableMid the silver gleaming brightMirroring the happy facesGiving back the flaming light,Shine the cups of priceless crystalChased with many a lovely line,Glowing now with warmer colour,Crimsoned by the ruby wine.
On the prince's groaning table
Mid the silver gleaming bright
Mirroring the happy faces
Giving back the flaming light,
Shine the cups of priceless crystal
Chased with many a lovely line,
Glowing now with warmer colour,
Crimsoned by the ruby wine.
In a valley sweet with sunlight,Fertile with the dew and rain,Without miner's daily labour,Without artist's nightly pain,There there grows the cup I drink from,Summer's sweetness in it stored,And my lips pronounce a blessingAs they touch an old brown gourd.
In a valley sweet with sunlight,
Fertile with the dew and rain,
Without miner's daily labour,
Without artist's nightly pain,
There there grows the cup I drink from,
Summer's sweetness in it stored,
And my lips pronounce a blessing
As they touch an old brown gourd.
Why, the miracle at CanaIn the land of Galilee,Tho' it puzzles all the scholars,Is no longer strange to me.For the poorest and the humblestCould a priceless wine afford,If they 'd only dip up waterWith a sunlight-seasoned gourd.
Why, the miracle at Cana
In the land of Galilee,
Tho' it puzzles all the scholars,
Is no longer strange to me.
For the poorest and the humblest
Could a priceless wine afford,
If they 'd only dip up water
With a sunlight-seasoned gourd.
So a health to my old comrade,And a song of praise to singWhen he rests inviting kissesIn his place beside the spring.Give the king his golden goblets,Give the prince his crystal hoard;But for me the sparkling waterFrom a brown and brimming gourd!
So a health to my old comrade,
And a song of praise to sing
When he rests inviting kisses
In his place beside the spring.
Give the king his golden goblets,
Give the prince his crystal hoard;
But for me the sparkling water
From a brown and brimming gourd!
THE KNIGHTOur good knight, Ted, girds his broadsword on(And he wields it well, I ween);He 's on his steed, and away has goneTo the fight for king and queen.What tho' no edge the broadsword hath?What tho' the blade be made of lath?'T is a valiant handThat wields the brand,So, foeman, clear the path!He prances off at a goodly pace;'T is a noble steed he rides,That bears as well in the speedy raceAs he bears in battle-tides.What tho' 't is but a rocking-chairThat prances with this stately air?'T is a warrior boldThe reins doth hold,Who bids all foes beware!
Our good knight, Ted, girds his broadsword on(And he wields it well, I ween);He 's on his steed, and away has goneTo the fight for king and queen.What tho' no edge the broadsword hath?What tho' the blade be made of lath?'T is a valiant handThat wields the brand,So, foeman, clear the path!
Our good knight, Ted, girds his broadsword on
(And he wields it well, I ween);
He 's on his steed, and away has gone
To the fight for king and queen.
What tho' no edge the broadsword hath?
What tho' the blade be made of lath?
'T is a valiant hand
That wields the brand,
So, foeman, clear the path!
He prances off at a goodly pace;'T is a noble steed he rides,That bears as well in the speedy raceAs he bears in battle-tides.What tho' 't is but a rocking-chairThat prances with this stately air?'T is a warrior boldThe reins doth hold,Who bids all foes beware!
He prances off at a goodly pace;
'T is a noble steed he rides,
That bears as well in the speedy race
As he bears in battle-tides.
What tho' 't is but a rocking-chair
That prances with this stately air?
'T is a warrior bold
The reins doth hold,
Who bids all foes beware!
THOU ART MY LUTEThou art my lute, by thee I sing,—My being is attuned to thee.Thou settest all my words a-wing,And meltest me to melody.Thou art my life, by thee I live,From thee proceed the joys I know;Sweetheart, thy hand has power to giveThe meed of love—the cup of woe.Thou art my love, by thee I leadMy soul the paths of light along,From vale to vale, from mead to mead,And home it in the hills of song.My song, my soul, my life, my all,Why need I pray or make my plea,Since my petition cannot fall;For I 'm already one with thee!
Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,—My being is attuned to thee.Thou settest all my words a-wing,And meltest me to melody.
Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,—
My being is attuned to thee.
Thou settest all my words a-wing,
And meltest me to melody.
Thou art my life, by thee I live,From thee proceed the joys I know;Sweetheart, thy hand has power to giveThe meed of love—the cup of woe.
Thou art my life, by thee I live,
From thee proceed the joys I know;
Sweetheart, thy hand has power to give
The meed of love—the cup of woe.
Thou art my love, by thee I leadMy soul the paths of light along,From vale to vale, from mead to mead,And home it in the hills of song.
Thou art my love, by thee I lead
My soul the paths of light along,
From vale to vale, from mead to mead,
And home it in the hills of song.
My song, my soul, my life, my all,Why need I pray or make my plea,Since my petition cannot fall;For I 'm already one with thee!
My song, my soul, my life, my all,
Why need I pray or make my plea,
Since my petition cannot fall;
For I 'm already one with thee!
THE PHANTOM KISSOne night in my room, still and beamless,With will and with thought in eclipse,I rested in sleep that was dreamless;When softly there fell on my lipsA touch, as of lips that were pressingMine own with the message of bliss—A sudden, soft, fleeting caressing,A breath like a maiden's first kiss.I woke-and the scoffer may doubt me—I peered in surprise through the gloom;But nothing and none were about me,And I was alone in my room.Perhaps 't was the wind that caressed meAnd touched me with dew-laden breath;Or, maybe, close-sweeping, there passed meThe low-winging Angel of Death.Some sceptic may choose to disdain it,Or one feign to read it aright;Or wisdom may seek to explain it—This mystical kiss in the night.But rather let fancy thus clear it:That, thinking of me here alone,The miles were made naught, and, in spirit,Thy lips, love, were laid on mine own.
One night in my room, still and beamless,With will and with thought in eclipse,I rested in sleep that was dreamless;When softly there fell on my lips
One night in my room, still and beamless,
With will and with thought in eclipse,
I rested in sleep that was dreamless;
When softly there fell on my lips
A touch, as of lips that were pressingMine own with the message of bliss—A sudden, soft, fleeting caressing,A breath like a maiden's first kiss.
A touch, as of lips that were pressing
Mine own with the message of bliss—
A sudden, soft, fleeting caressing,
A breath like a maiden's first kiss.
I woke-and the scoffer may doubt me—I peered in surprise through the gloom;But nothing and none were about me,And I was alone in my room.
I woke-and the scoffer may doubt me—
I peered in surprise through the gloom;
But nothing and none were about me,
And I was alone in my room.
Perhaps 't was the wind that caressed meAnd touched me with dew-laden breath;Or, maybe, close-sweeping, there passed meThe low-winging Angel of Death.
Perhaps 't was the wind that caressed me
And touched me with dew-laden breath;
Or, maybe, close-sweeping, there passed me
The low-winging Angel of Death.
Some sceptic may choose to disdain it,Or one feign to read it aright;Or wisdom may seek to explain it—This mystical kiss in the night.
Some sceptic may choose to disdain it,
Or one feign to read it aright;
Or wisdom may seek to explain it—
This mystical kiss in the night.
But rather let fancy thus clear it:That, thinking of me here alone,The miles were made naught, and, in spirit,Thy lips, love, were laid on mine own.
But rather let fancy thus clear it:
That, thinking of me here alone,
The miles were made naught, and, in spirit,
Thy lips, love, were laid on mine own.
COMMUNIONIn the silence of my heart,I will spend an hour with thee,When my love shall rend apartAll the veil of mystery:All that dim and misty veilThat shut in between our soulsWhen Death cried, "Ho, maiden, hail!"And your barque sped on the shoals.On the shoals? Nay, wrongly said.On the breeze of Death that sweepsFar from life, thy soul has spedOut into unsounded deeps.I shall take an hour and comeSailing, darling, to thy side.Wind nor sea may keep me fromSoft communings with my bride.I shall rest my head on theeAs I did long days of yore,When a calm, untroubled seaRocked thy vessel at the shore.I shall take thy hand in mine,And live o'er the olden daysWhen thy smile to me was wine,—Golden wine thy word of praise,For the carols I had wroughtIn my soul's simplicity;For the petty beads of thoughtWhich thine eyes alone could see.Ah, those eyes, love-blind, but keenFor my welfare and my weal!Tho' the grave-door shut between,Still their love-lights o'er me steal.I can see thee thro' my tears,As thro' rain we see the sun.What tho' cold and cooling yearsShall their bitter courses run,—I shall see thee still and beThy true lover evermore,And thy face shall be to meDear and helpful as before.Death may vaunt and Death may boast,But we laugh his pow'r to scorn;He is but a slave at most,—Night that heralds coming morn.I shall spend an hour with theeDay by day, my little bride.True love laughs at mystery,Crying, "Doors of Death, fly wide."
In the silence of my heart,I will spend an hour with thee,When my love shall rend apartAll the veil of mystery:
In the silence of my heart,
I will spend an hour with thee,
When my love shall rend apart
All the veil of mystery:
All that dim and misty veilThat shut in between our soulsWhen Death cried, "Ho, maiden, hail!"And your barque sped on the shoals.
All that dim and misty veil
That shut in between our souls
When Death cried, "Ho, maiden, hail!"
And your barque sped on the shoals.
On the shoals? Nay, wrongly said.On the breeze of Death that sweepsFar from life, thy soul has spedOut into unsounded deeps.
On the shoals? Nay, wrongly said.
On the breeze of Death that sweeps
Far from life, thy soul has sped
Out into unsounded deeps.
I shall take an hour and comeSailing, darling, to thy side.Wind nor sea may keep me fromSoft communings with my bride.
I shall take an hour and come
Sailing, darling, to thy side.
Wind nor sea may keep me from
Soft communings with my bride.
I shall rest my head on theeAs I did long days of yore,When a calm, untroubled seaRocked thy vessel at the shore.
I shall rest my head on thee
As I did long days of yore,
When a calm, untroubled sea
Rocked thy vessel at the shore.
I shall take thy hand in mine,And live o'er the olden daysWhen thy smile to me was wine,—Golden wine thy word of praise,
I shall take thy hand in mine,
And live o'er the olden days
When thy smile to me was wine,—
Golden wine thy word of praise,
For the carols I had wroughtIn my soul's simplicity;For the petty beads of thoughtWhich thine eyes alone could see.
For the carols I had wrought
In my soul's simplicity;
For the petty beads of thought
Which thine eyes alone could see.
Ah, those eyes, love-blind, but keenFor my welfare and my weal!Tho' the grave-door shut between,Still their love-lights o'er me steal.
Ah, those eyes, love-blind, but keen
For my welfare and my weal!
Tho' the grave-door shut between,
Still their love-lights o'er me steal.
I can see thee thro' my tears,As thro' rain we see the sun.What tho' cold and cooling yearsShall their bitter courses run,—
I can see thee thro' my tears,
As thro' rain we see the sun.
What tho' cold and cooling years
Shall their bitter courses run,—
I shall see thee still and beThy true lover evermore,And thy face shall be to meDear and helpful as before.
I shall see thee still and be
Thy true lover evermore,
And thy face shall be to me
Dear and helpful as before.
Death may vaunt and Death may boast,But we laugh his pow'r to scorn;He is but a slave at most,—Night that heralds coming morn.
Death may vaunt and Death may boast,
But we laugh his pow'r to scorn;
He is but a slave at most,—
Night that heralds coming morn.
I shall spend an hour with theeDay by day, my little bride.True love laughs at mystery,Crying, "Doors of Death, fly wide."
I shall spend an hour with thee
Day by day, my little bride.
True love laughs at mystery,
Crying, "Doors of Death, fly wide."
MARE RUBRUMIn Life's Red Sea with faith I plant my feet,And wait the sound of that sustaining wordWhich long ago the men of Israel heard,When Pharaoh's host behind them, fierce and fleet,Raged on, consuming with revengeful heat.Why are the barrier waters still unstirred?—That struggling faith may die of hope deferred?Is God not sitting in His ancient seat?The billows swirl above my trembling limbs,And almost chill my anxious heart to doubtAnd disbelief, long conquered and defied.But tho' the music of my hopeful hymnsIs drowned by curses of the raging rout,No voice yet bids th' opposing waves divide!
In Life's Red Sea with faith I plant my feet,And wait the sound of that sustaining wordWhich long ago the men of Israel heard,When Pharaoh's host behind them, fierce and fleet,Raged on, consuming with revengeful heat.Why are the barrier waters still unstirred?—That struggling faith may die of hope deferred?Is God not sitting in His ancient seat?
In Life's Red Sea with faith I plant my feet,
And wait the sound of that sustaining word
Which long ago the men of Israel heard,
When Pharaoh's host behind them, fierce and fleet,
Raged on, consuming with revengeful heat.
Why are the barrier waters still unstirred?—
That struggling faith may die of hope deferred?
Is God not sitting in His ancient seat?
The billows swirl above my trembling limbs,And almost chill my anxious heart to doubtAnd disbelief, long conquered and defied.But tho' the music of my hopeful hymnsIs drowned by curses of the raging rout,No voice yet bids th' opposing waves divide!
The billows swirl above my trembling limbs,
And almost chill my anxious heart to doubt
And disbelief, long conquered and defied.
But tho' the music of my hopeful hymns
Is drowned by curses of the raging rout,
No voice yet bids th' opposing waves divide!
IN AN ENGLISH GARDENIn this old garden, fair, I walk to-dayHeart-charmed with all the beauty of the scene:The rich, luxuriant grasses' cooling green,The wall's environ, ivy-decked and gray,The waving branches with the wind at play,The slight and tremulous blooms that show between,Sweet all: and yet my yearning heart doth leanToward Love's Egyptian fleshpots far away.Beside the wall, the slim Laburnum growsAnd flings its golden flow'rs to every breeze.But e'en among such soothing sights as these,I pant and nurse my soul-devouring woes.Of all the longings that our hearts wot of,There is no hunger like the want of love!
In this old garden, fair, I walk to-dayHeart-charmed with all the beauty of the scene:The rich, luxuriant grasses' cooling green,The wall's environ, ivy-decked and gray,The waving branches with the wind at play,The slight and tremulous blooms that show between,Sweet all: and yet my yearning heart doth leanToward Love's Egyptian fleshpots far away.
In this old garden, fair, I walk to-day
Heart-charmed with all the beauty of the scene:
The rich, luxuriant grasses' cooling green,
The wall's environ, ivy-decked and gray,
The waving branches with the wind at play,
The slight and tremulous blooms that show between,
Sweet all: and yet my yearning heart doth lean
Toward Love's Egyptian fleshpots far away.
Beside the wall, the slim Laburnum growsAnd flings its golden flow'rs to every breeze.But e'en among such soothing sights as these,I pant and nurse my soul-devouring woes.Of all the longings that our hearts wot of,There is no hunger like the want of love!
Beside the wall, the slim Laburnum grows
And flings its golden flow'rs to every breeze.
But e'en among such soothing sights as these,
I pant and nurse my soul-devouring woes.
Of all the longings that our hearts wot of,
There is no hunger like the want of love!
THE CRISISA man of low degree was sore oppressed,Fate held him under iron-handed sway,And ever, those who saw him thus distressedWould bid him bend his stubborn will and pray.But he, strong in himself and obdurate,Waged, prayerless, on his losing fight with Fate.Friends gave his proffered hand their coldest clasp,Or took it not at all; and Poverty,That bruised his body with relentless grasp,Grinned, taunting, when he struggled to be free.But though with helpless hands he beat the air,His need extreme yet found no voice in prayer.Then he prevailed; and forthwith snobbish Fate,Like some whipped cur, came fawning at his feet;Those who had scorned forgave and called him great—His friends found out that friendship still was sweet.But he, once obdurate, now bowed his headIn prayer, and trembling with its import, said:"Mere human strength may stand ill-fortune's frown;So I prevailed, for human strength was mine;But from the killing pow'r of great renown,Naught may protect me save a strength divine.Help me, O Lord, in this my trembling cause;I scorn men's curses, but I dread applause!"
A man of low degree was sore oppressed,Fate held him under iron-handed sway,And ever, those who saw him thus distressedWould bid him bend his stubborn will and pray.But he, strong in himself and obdurate,Waged, prayerless, on his losing fight with Fate.
A man of low degree was sore oppressed,
Fate held him under iron-handed sway,
And ever, those who saw him thus distressed
Would bid him bend his stubborn will and pray.
But he, strong in himself and obdurate,
Waged, prayerless, on his losing fight with Fate.
Friends gave his proffered hand their coldest clasp,Or took it not at all; and Poverty,That bruised his body with relentless grasp,Grinned, taunting, when he struggled to be free.But though with helpless hands he beat the air,His need extreme yet found no voice in prayer.
Friends gave his proffered hand their coldest clasp,
Or took it not at all; and Poverty,
That bruised his body with relentless grasp,
Grinned, taunting, when he struggled to be free.
But though with helpless hands he beat the air,
His need extreme yet found no voice in prayer.
Then he prevailed; and forthwith snobbish Fate,Like some whipped cur, came fawning at his feet;Those who had scorned forgave and called him great—His friends found out that friendship still was sweet.But he, once obdurate, now bowed his headIn prayer, and trembling with its import, said:
Then he prevailed; and forthwith snobbish Fate,
Like some whipped cur, came fawning at his feet;
Those who had scorned forgave and called him great—
His friends found out that friendship still was sweet.
But he, once obdurate, now bowed his head
In prayer, and trembling with its import, said:
"Mere human strength may stand ill-fortune's frown;So I prevailed, for human strength was mine;But from the killing pow'r of great renown,Naught may protect me save a strength divine.Help me, O Lord, in this my trembling cause;I scorn men's curses, but I dread applause!"
"Mere human strength may stand ill-fortune's frown;
So I prevailed, for human strength was mine;
But from the killing pow'r of great renown,
Naught may protect me save a strength divine.
Help me, O Lord, in this my trembling cause;
I scorn men's curses, but I dread applause!"
THE CONQUERORSTHE BLACK TROOPS IN CUBARound the wide earth, from the red field your valour has won,Blown with the breath of the far-speaking gun,Goes the word.Bravely you spoke through the battle cloud heavy and dun.Tossed though the speech toward the mist-hidden sun,The world heard.Hell would have shrunk from you seeking it fresh from the fray,Grim with the dust of the battle, and grayFrom the fight.Heaven would have crowned you, with crowns not of gold but of bay,Owning you fit for the light of her day,Men of night.Far through the cycle of years and of lives that shall come,There shall speak voices long muffled and dumb,Out of fear.And through the noises of trade and the turbulent hum,Truth shall rise over the militant drum,Loud and clear.Then on the cheek of the honester nation that grows,All for their love of you, not for your woes,There shall lieTears that shall be to your souls as the dew to the rose;Afterward thanks, that the present yet knowsNot to ply!
Round the wide earth, from the red field your valour has won,Blown with the breath of the far-speaking gun,Goes the word.Bravely you spoke through the battle cloud heavy and dun.Tossed though the speech toward the mist-hidden sun,The world heard.
Round the wide earth, from the red field your valour has won,
Blown with the breath of the far-speaking gun,
Goes the word.
Bravely you spoke through the battle cloud heavy and dun.
Tossed though the speech toward the mist-hidden sun,
The world heard.
Hell would have shrunk from you seeking it fresh from the fray,Grim with the dust of the battle, and grayFrom the fight.Heaven would have crowned you, with crowns not of gold but of bay,Owning you fit for the light of her day,Men of night.
Hell would have shrunk from you seeking it fresh from the fray,
Grim with the dust of the battle, and gray
From the fight.
Heaven would have crowned you, with crowns not of gold but of bay,
Owning you fit for the light of her day,
Men of night.
Far through the cycle of years and of lives that shall come,There shall speak voices long muffled and dumb,Out of fear.And through the noises of trade and the turbulent hum,Truth shall rise over the militant drum,Loud and clear.
Far through the cycle of years and of lives that shall come,
There shall speak voices long muffled and dumb,
Out of fear.
And through the noises of trade and the turbulent hum,
Truth shall rise over the militant drum,
Loud and clear.
Then on the cheek of the honester nation that grows,All for their love of you, not for your woes,There shall lieTears that shall be to your souls as the dew to the rose;Afterward thanks, that the present yet knowsNot to ply!
Then on the cheek of the honester nation that grows,
All for their love of you, not for your woes,
There shall lie
Tears that shall be to your souls as the dew to the rose;
Afterward thanks, that the present yet knows
Not to ply!
ALEXANDER CRUMMELL—DEADBack to the breast of thy mother,Child of the earth!E'en her caress can not smotherWhat thou hast done.Follow the trail of the westering sunOver the earth.Thy light and his were as one—Sun, in thy worth.Unto a nation whose sky was as night,Camest thou, holily, bearing thy light:And the dawn came,In it thy fameFlashed up in a flame.Back to the breast of thy mother—To rest.Long hast thou striven;Dared where the hills by the lightning of heaven were riven;Go now, pure shriven.Who shall come after thee, out of the clay—Learned one and leader to show us the way?Who shall rise up when the world gives the test?Think thou no more of this—Rest!
Back to the breast of thy mother,Child of the earth!E'en her caress can not smotherWhat thou hast done.Follow the trail of the westering sunOver the earth.Thy light and his were as one—Sun, in thy worth.Unto a nation whose sky was as night,Camest thou, holily, bearing thy light:And the dawn came,In it thy fameFlashed up in a flame.
Back to the breast of thy mother,
Child of the earth!
E'en her caress can not smother
What thou hast done.
Follow the trail of the westering sun
Over the earth.
Thy light and his were as one—
Sun, in thy worth.
Unto a nation whose sky was as night,
Camest thou, holily, bearing thy light:
And the dawn came,
In it thy fame
Flashed up in a flame.
Back to the breast of thy mother—To rest.Long hast thou striven;Dared where the hills by the lightning of heaven were riven;Go now, pure shriven.Who shall come after thee, out of the clay—Learned one and leader to show us the way?Who shall rise up when the world gives the test?Think thou no more of this—Rest!
Back to the breast of thy mother—
To rest.
Long hast thou striven;
Dared where the hills by the lightning of heaven were riven;
Go now, pure shriven.
Who shall come after thee, out of the clay—
Learned one and leader to show us the way?
Who shall rise up when the world gives the test?
Think thou no more of this—
Rest!
WHEN ALL IS DONEWhen all is done, and my last word is said,And ye who loved me murmur, "He is dead,"Let no one weep, for fear that I should know,And sorrow too that ye should sorrow so.When all is done and in the oozing clay,Ye lay this cast-off hull of mine away,Pray not for me, for, after long despair,The quiet of the grave will be a prayer.For I have suffered loss and grievous pain,The hurts of hatred and the world's disdain,And wounds so deep that love, well-tried and pure,Had not the pow'r to ease them or to cure.When all is done, say not my day is o'er,And that thro' night I seek a dimmer shore:Say rather that my morn has just begun,—I greet the dawn and not a setting sun,When all is done.
When all is done, and my last word is said,And ye who loved me murmur, "He is dead,"Let no one weep, for fear that I should know,And sorrow too that ye should sorrow so.
When all is done, and my last word is said,
And ye who loved me murmur, "He is dead,"
Let no one weep, for fear that I should know,
And sorrow too that ye should sorrow so.
When all is done and in the oozing clay,Ye lay this cast-off hull of mine away,Pray not for me, for, after long despair,The quiet of the grave will be a prayer.
When all is done and in the oozing clay,
Ye lay this cast-off hull of mine away,
Pray not for me, for, after long despair,
The quiet of the grave will be a prayer.
For I have suffered loss and grievous pain,The hurts of hatred and the world's disdain,And wounds so deep that love, well-tried and pure,Had not the pow'r to ease them or to cure.
For I have suffered loss and grievous pain,
The hurts of hatred and the world's disdain,
And wounds so deep that love, well-tried and pure,
Had not the pow'r to ease them or to cure.
When all is done, say not my day is o'er,And that thro' night I seek a dimmer shore:Say rather that my morn has just begun,—I greet the dawn and not a setting sun,When all is done.
When all is done, say not my day is o'er,
And that thro' night I seek a dimmer shore:
Say rather that my morn has just begun,—
I greet the dawn and not a setting sun,
When all is done.
THE POET AND THE BABYHow's a man to write a sonnet, can you tell,—How's he going to weave the dim, poetic spell,—When a-toddling on the floorIs the muse he must adore,And this muse he loves, not wisely, but too well?Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows,One must always be as quiet as a mouse;But to write one seems to meQuite superfluous to be,When you 've got a little sonnet in the house.Just a dainty little poem, true and fine,That is full of love and life in every line,Earnest, delicate, and sweet,Altogether so completeThat I wonder what's the use of writing mine.
How's a man to write a sonnet, can you tell,—How's he going to weave the dim, poetic spell,—When a-toddling on the floorIs the muse he must adore,And this muse he loves, not wisely, but too well?
How's a man to write a sonnet, can you tell,—
How's he going to weave the dim, poetic spell,—
When a-toddling on the floor
Is the muse he must adore,
And this muse he loves, not wisely, but too well?
Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows,One must always be as quiet as a mouse;But to write one seems to meQuite superfluous to be,When you 've got a little sonnet in the house.
Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows,
One must always be as quiet as a mouse;
But to write one seems to me
Quite superfluous to be,
When you 've got a little sonnet in the house.
Just a dainty little poem, true and fine,That is full of love and life in every line,Earnest, delicate, and sweet,Altogether so completeThat I wonder what's the use of writing mine.
Just a dainty little poem, true and fine,
That is full of love and life in every line,
Earnest, delicate, and sweet,
Altogether so complete
That I wonder what's the use of writing mine.
DISTINCTION"I am but clay," the sinner plead,Who fed each vain desire."Not only clay," another said,"But worse, for thou art mire."
"I am but clay," the sinner plead,Who fed each vain desire."Not only clay," another said,"But worse, for thou art mire."
"I am but clay," the sinner plead,
Who fed each vain desire.
"Not only clay," another said,
"But worse, for thou art mire."
THE SUMA little dreaming by the way,A little toiling day by day;A little pain, a little strife,A little joy,—and that is life.A little short-lived summer's morn,When joy seems all so newly born,When one day's sky is blue above,And one bird sings,—and that is love.A little sickening of the years,The tribute of a few hot tearsTwo folded hands, the failing breath,And peace at last,—and that is death.Just dreaming, loving, dying so,The actors in the drama go—A flitting picture on a wall,Love, Death, the themes; but is that all?
A little dreaming by the way,A little toiling day by day;A little pain, a little strife,A little joy,—and that is life.
A little dreaming by the way,
A little toiling day by day;
A little pain, a little strife,
A little joy,—and that is life.
A little short-lived summer's morn,When joy seems all so newly born,When one day's sky is blue above,And one bird sings,—and that is love.
A little short-lived summer's morn,
When joy seems all so newly born,
When one day's sky is blue above,
And one bird sings,—and that is love.
A little sickening of the years,The tribute of a few hot tearsTwo folded hands, the failing breath,And peace at last,—and that is death.
A little sickening of the years,
The tribute of a few hot tears
Two folded hands, the failing breath,
And peace at last,—and that is death.
Just dreaming, loving, dying so,The actors in the drama go—A flitting picture on a wall,Love, Death, the themes; but is that all?
Just dreaming, loving, dying so,
The actors in the drama go—
A flitting picture on a wall,
Love, Death, the themes; but is that all?
SONNETON AN OLD BOOK WITH UNCUT LEAVESEmblem of blasted hope and lost desire,No finger ever traced thy yellow pageSave Time's. Thou hast not wrought to noble rageThe hearts thou wouldst have stirred. Not any fireSave sad flames set to light a funeral pyreDost thou suggest. Nay,—impotent in age,Unsought, thou holdst a corner of the stageAnd ceasest even dumbly to aspire.How different was the thought of him that writ.What promised he to love of ease and wealth,When men should read and kindle at his wit.But here decay eats up the book by stealth,While it, like some old maiden, solemnly,Hugs its incongruous virginity!
Emblem of blasted hope and lost desire,No finger ever traced thy yellow pageSave Time's. Thou hast not wrought to noble rageThe hearts thou wouldst have stirred. Not any fireSave sad flames set to light a funeral pyreDost thou suggest. Nay,—impotent in age,Unsought, thou holdst a corner of the stageAnd ceasest even dumbly to aspire.
Emblem of blasted hope and lost desire,
No finger ever traced thy yellow page
Save Time's. Thou hast not wrought to noble rage
The hearts thou wouldst have stirred. Not any fire
Save sad flames set to light a funeral pyre
Dost thou suggest. Nay,—impotent in age,
Unsought, thou holdst a corner of the stage
And ceasest even dumbly to aspire.
How different was the thought of him that writ.What promised he to love of ease and wealth,When men should read and kindle at his wit.But here decay eats up the book by stealth,While it, like some old maiden, solemnly,Hugs its incongruous virginity!
How different was the thought of him that writ.
What promised he to love of ease and wealth,
When men should read and kindle at his wit.
But here decay eats up the book by stealth,
While it, like some old maiden, solemnly,
Hugs its incongruous virginity!
ON THE SEA WALLI sit upon the old sea wall,And watch the shimmering sea,Where soft and white the moonbeams fall,Till, in a fantasy,Some pure white maiden's funeral pallThe strange light seems to me.The waters break upon the shoreAnd shiver at my feet,While I dream old dreams o'er and o'er,And dim old scenes repeat;Tho' all have dreamed the same before,They still seem new and sweet.The waves still sing the same old songThat knew an elder time;The breakers' beat is not more strong,Their music more sublime;And poets thro' the ages longHave set these notes to rhyme.But this shall not deter my lyre,Nor check my simple strain;If I have not the old-time fire,I know the ancient pain:The hurt of unfulfilled desire,—The ember quenched by rain.I know the softly shining seaThat rolls this gentle swellHas snarled and licked its tongues at meAnd bared its fangs as well;That 'neath its smile so heavenly,There lurks the scowl of hell!But what of that? I strike my string(For songs in youth are sweet);I 'll wait and hear the waters bringTheir loud resounding beat;Then, in her own bold numbers singThe Ocean's dear deceit!
I sit upon the old sea wall,And watch the shimmering sea,Where soft and white the moonbeams fall,Till, in a fantasy,Some pure white maiden's funeral pallThe strange light seems to me.
I sit upon the old sea wall,
And watch the shimmering sea,
Where soft and white the moonbeams fall,
Till, in a fantasy,
Some pure white maiden's funeral pall
The strange light seems to me.
The waters break upon the shoreAnd shiver at my feet,While I dream old dreams o'er and o'er,And dim old scenes repeat;Tho' all have dreamed the same before,They still seem new and sweet.
The waters break upon the shore
And shiver at my feet,
While I dream old dreams o'er and o'er,
And dim old scenes repeat;
Tho' all have dreamed the same before,
They still seem new and sweet.
The waves still sing the same old songThat knew an elder time;The breakers' beat is not more strong,Their music more sublime;And poets thro' the ages longHave set these notes to rhyme.
The waves still sing the same old song
That knew an elder time;
The breakers' beat is not more strong,
Their music more sublime;
And poets thro' the ages long
Have set these notes to rhyme.
But this shall not deter my lyre,Nor check my simple strain;If I have not the old-time fire,I know the ancient pain:The hurt of unfulfilled desire,—The ember quenched by rain.
But this shall not deter my lyre,
Nor check my simple strain;
If I have not the old-time fire,
I know the ancient pain:
The hurt of unfulfilled desire,—
The ember quenched by rain.
I know the softly shining seaThat rolls this gentle swellHas snarled and licked its tongues at meAnd bared its fangs as well;That 'neath its smile so heavenly,There lurks the scowl of hell!
I know the softly shining sea
That rolls this gentle swell
Has snarled and licked its tongues at me
And bared its fangs as well;
That 'neath its smile so heavenly,
There lurks the scowl of hell!
But what of that? I strike my string(For songs in youth are sweet);I 'll wait and hear the waters bringTheir loud resounding beat;Then, in her own bold numbers singThe Ocean's dear deceit!
But what of that? I strike my string
(For songs in youth are sweet);
I 'll wait and hear the waters bring
Their loud resounding beat;
Then, in her own bold numbers sing
The Ocean's dear deceit!
TO A LADY PLAYING THE HARPThy tones are silver melted into sound,And as I dreamI see no walls around,But seem to hearA gondolierSing sweetly down some slow Venetian stream.Italian skies—that I have never seen—I see above.(Ah, play again, my queen;Thy fingers whiteFly swift and lightAnd weave for me the golden mesh of love.)Oh, thou dusk sorceress of the dusky eyesAnd soft dark hair,'T is thou that mak'st my skiesSo swift to changeTo far and strange:But far and strange, thou still dost make them fair.Now thou dost sing, and I am lost in theeAs one who drownsIn floods of melody.Still in thy artGive me this part,Till perfect love, the love of loving crowns.
Thy tones are silver melted into sound,And as I dreamI see no walls around,But seem to hearA gondolierSing sweetly down some slow Venetian stream.
Thy tones are silver melted into sound,
And as I dream
I see no walls around,
But seem to hear
A gondolier
Sing sweetly down some slow Venetian stream.
Italian skies—that I have never seen—I see above.(Ah, play again, my queen;Thy fingers whiteFly swift and lightAnd weave for me the golden mesh of love.)
Italian skies—that I have never seen—
I see above.
(Ah, play again, my queen;
Thy fingers white
Fly swift and light
And weave for me the golden mesh of love.)
Oh, thou dusk sorceress of the dusky eyesAnd soft dark hair,'T is thou that mak'st my skiesSo swift to changeTo far and strange:But far and strange, thou still dost make them fair.
Oh, thou dusk sorceress of the dusky eyes
And soft dark hair,
'T is thou that mak'st my skies
So swift to change
To far and strange:
But far and strange, thou still dost make them fair.
Now thou dost sing, and I am lost in theeAs one who drownsIn floods of melody.Still in thy artGive me this part,Till perfect love, the love of loving crowns.
Now thou dost sing, and I am lost in thee
As one who drowns
In floods of melody.
Still in thy art
Give me this part,
Till perfect love, the love of loving crowns.
CONFESSIONALSearch thou my heart;If there be guile,It shall departBefore thy smile.Search thou my soul;Be there deceit,'T will vanish wholeBefore thee, sweet.Upon my mindTurn thy pure lens;Naught shalt thou findThou canst not cleanse.If I should pray,I scarcely knowIn just what wayMy prayers would go.So strong in meI feel love's leaven,I 'd bow to theeAs soon as Heaven!
Search thou my heart;If there be guile,It shall departBefore thy smile.
Search thou my heart;
If there be guile,
It shall depart
Before thy smile.
Search thou my soul;Be there deceit,'T will vanish wholeBefore thee, sweet.
Search thou my soul;
Be there deceit,
'T will vanish whole
Before thee, sweet.
Upon my mindTurn thy pure lens;Naught shalt thou findThou canst not cleanse.
Upon my mind
Turn thy pure lens;
Naught shalt thou find
Thou canst not cleanse.
If I should pray,I scarcely knowIn just what wayMy prayers would go.
If I should pray,
I scarcely know
In just what way
My prayers would go.
So strong in meI feel love's leaven,I 'd bow to theeAs soon as Heaven!
So strong in me
I feel love's leaven,
I 'd bow to thee
As soon as Heaven!
MISAPPREHENSIONOut of my heart, one day, I wrote a song,With my heart's blood imbued,Instinct with passion, tremulously strong,With grief subdued;Breathing a fortitudePain-bought.And one who claimed much love for what I wrought,Read and considered it,And spoke:"Ay, brother,—'t is well writ,But where's the joke?"
Out of my heart, one day, I wrote a song,With my heart's blood imbued,Instinct with passion, tremulously strong,With grief subdued;Breathing a fortitudePain-bought.And one who claimed much love for what I wrought,Read and considered it,And spoke:"Ay, brother,—'t is well writ,But where's the joke?"
Out of my heart, one day, I wrote a song,
With my heart's blood imbued,
Instinct with passion, tremulously strong,
With grief subdued;
Breathing a fortitude
Pain-bought.
And one who claimed much love for what I wrought,
Read and considered it,
And spoke:
"Ay, brother,—'t is well writ,
But where's the joke?"
PROMETHEUSPrometheus stole from Heaven the sacred fireAnd swept to earth with it o'er land and sea.He lit the vestal flames of poesy,Content, for this, to brave celestial ire.Wroth were the gods, and with eternal hatePursued the fearless one who ravished HeavenThat earth might hold in fee the perfect leavenTo lift men's souls above their low estate.But judge you now, when poets wield the pen,Think you not well the wrong has been repaired?'Twas all in vain that ill Prometheus fared:The fire has been returned to Heaven again!We have no singers like the ones whose noteGave challenge to the noblest warbler's song.We have no voice so mellow, sweet, and strongAs that which broke from Shelley's golden throat.The measure of our songs is our desires:We tinkle where old poets used to storm.We lack their substance tho' we keep their form:We strum our banjo-strings and call them lyres.
Prometheus stole from Heaven the sacred fireAnd swept to earth with it o'er land and sea.He lit the vestal flames of poesy,Content, for this, to brave celestial ire.
Prometheus stole from Heaven the sacred fire
And swept to earth with it o'er land and sea.
He lit the vestal flames of poesy,
Content, for this, to brave celestial ire.
Wroth were the gods, and with eternal hatePursued the fearless one who ravished HeavenThat earth might hold in fee the perfect leavenTo lift men's souls above their low estate.
Wroth were the gods, and with eternal hate
Pursued the fearless one who ravished Heaven
That earth might hold in fee the perfect leaven
To lift men's souls above their low estate.
But judge you now, when poets wield the pen,Think you not well the wrong has been repaired?'Twas all in vain that ill Prometheus fared:The fire has been returned to Heaven again!
But judge you now, when poets wield the pen,
Think you not well the wrong has been repaired?
'Twas all in vain that ill Prometheus fared:
The fire has been returned to Heaven again!
We have no singers like the ones whose noteGave challenge to the noblest warbler's song.We have no voice so mellow, sweet, and strongAs that which broke from Shelley's golden throat.
We have no singers like the ones whose note
Gave challenge to the noblest warbler's song.
We have no voice so mellow, sweet, and strong
As that which broke from Shelley's golden throat.
The measure of our songs is our desires:We tinkle where old poets used to storm.We lack their substance tho' we keep their form:We strum our banjo-strings and call them lyres.
The measure of our songs is our desires:
We tinkle where old poets used to storm.
We lack their substance tho' we keep their form:
We strum our banjo-strings and call them lyres.
LOVE'S PHASESLove hath the wings of the butterfly,Oh, clasp him but gently,Pausing and dipping and fluttering byInconsequently.Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh;Love hath the wings of the butterfly.Love hath the wings of the eagle bold,Cling to him strongly—What if the look of the world be cold,And life go wrongly?Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold;Love hath the wings of the eagle bold.Love hath the voice of the nightingale,Hearken his trilling—List to his song when the moonlight is pale,—Passionate, thrilling.Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail;Love hath the voice of the nightingale.Love hath the voice of the storm at night,Wildly defiant.Hear him and yield up your soul to his might,Tenderly pliant.None shall regret him who heed him aright;Love hath the voice of the storm at night.
Love hath the wings of the butterfly,Oh, clasp him but gently,Pausing and dipping and fluttering byInconsequently.Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh;Love hath the wings of the butterfly.
Love hath the wings of the butterfly,
Oh, clasp him but gently,
Pausing and dipping and fluttering by
Inconsequently.
Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh;
Love hath the wings of the butterfly.
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold,Cling to him strongly—What if the look of the world be cold,And life go wrongly?Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold;Love hath the wings of the eagle bold.
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold,
Cling to him strongly—
What if the look of the world be cold,
And life go wrongly?
Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold;
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold.
Love hath the voice of the nightingale,Hearken his trilling—List to his song when the moonlight is pale,—Passionate, thrilling.Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail;Love hath the voice of the nightingale.
Love hath the voice of the nightingale,
Hearken his trilling—
List to his song when the moonlight is pale,—
Passionate, thrilling.
Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail;
Love hath the voice of the nightingale.
Love hath the voice of the storm at night,Wildly defiant.Hear him and yield up your soul to his might,Tenderly pliant.None shall regret him who heed him aright;Love hath the voice of the storm at night.
Love hath the voice of the storm at night,
Wildly defiant.
Hear him and yield up your soul to his might,
Tenderly pliant.
None shall regret him who heed him aright;
Love hath the voice of the storm at night.
FOR THE MAN WHO FAILSThe world is a snob, and the man who winsIs the chap for its money's worth:And the lust for success causes half of the sinsThat are cursing this brave old earth.For it 's fine to go up, and the world's applauseIs sweet to the mortal ear;But the man who fails in a noble causeIs a hero that 's no less dear.'T is true enough that the laurel crownTwines but for the victor's brow;For many a hero has lain him downWith naught but the cypress bough.There are gallant men in the losing fight,And as gallant deeds are doneAs ever graced the captured heightOr the battle grandly won.We sit at life's board with our nerves highstrung,And we play for the stake of Fame,And our odes are sung and our banners hungFor the man who wins the game.But I have a song of another kindThan breathes in these fame-wrought gales,—An ode to the noble heart and mindOf the gallant man who fails!The man who is strong to fight his fight,And whose will no front can daunt,If the truth be truth and the right be right,Is the man that the ages want.Tho' he fail and die in grim defeat,Yet he has not fled the strife,And the house of Earth will seem more sweetFor the perfume of his life.
The world is a snob, and the man who winsIs the chap for its money's worth:And the lust for success causes half of the sinsThat are cursing this brave old earth.For it 's fine to go up, and the world's applauseIs sweet to the mortal ear;But the man who fails in a noble causeIs a hero that 's no less dear.
The world is a snob, and the man who wins
Is the chap for its money's worth:
And the lust for success causes half of the sins
That are cursing this brave old earth.
For it 's fine to go up, and the world's applause
Is sweet to the mortal ear;
But the man who fails in a noble cause
Is a hero that 's no less dear.
'T is true enough that the laurel crownTwines but for the victor's brow;For many a hero has lain him downWith naught but the cypress bough.There are gallant men in the losing fight,And as gallant deeds are doneAs ever graced the captured heightOr the battle grandly won.
'T is true enough that the laurel crown
Twines but for the victor's brow;
For many a hero has lain him down
With naught but the cypress bough.
There are gallant men in the losing fight,
And as gallant deeds are done
As ever graced the captured height
Or the battle grandly won.
We sit at life's board with our nerves highstrung,And we play for the stake of Fame,And our odes are sung and our banners hungFor the man who wins the game.But I have a song of another kindThan breathes in these fame-wrought gales,—An ode to the noble heart and mindOf the gallant man who fails!
We sit at life's board with our nerves highstrung,
And we play for the stake of Fame,
And our odes are sung and our banners hung
For the man who wins the game.
But I have a song of another kind
Than breathes in these fame-wrought gales,—
An ode to the noble heart and mind
Of the gallant man who fails!
The man who is strong to fight his fight,And whose will no front can daunt,If the truth be truth and the right be right,Is the man that the ages want.Tho' he fail and die in grim defeat,Yet he has not fled the strife,And the house of Earth will seem more sweetFor the perfume of his life.
The man who is strong to fight his fight,
And whose will no front can daunt,
If the truth be truth and the right be right,
Is the man that the ages want.
Tho' he fail and die in grim defeat,
Yet he has not fled the strife,
And the house of Earth will seem more sweet
For the perfume of his life.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWEShe told the story, and the whole world weptAt wrongs and cruelties it had not knownBut for this fearless woman's voice alone.She spoke to consciences that long had slept:Her message, Freedom's clear reveille, sweptFrom heedless hovel to complacent throne.Command and prophecy were in the toneAnd from its sheath the sword of justice leapt.Around two peoples swelled a fiery wave,But both came forth transfigured from the flame.Blest be the hand that dared be strong to save,And blest be she who in our weakness came—Prophet and priestess! At one stroke she gaveA race to freedom and herself to fame.
She told the story, and the whole world weptAt wrongs and cruelties it had not knownBut for this fearless woman's voice alone.She spoke to consciences that long had slept:Her message, Freedom's clear reveille, sweptFrom heedless hovel to complacent throne.Command and prophecy were in the toneAnd from its sheath the sword of justice leapt.Around two peoples swelled a fiery wave,But both came forth transfigured from the flame.Blest be the hand that dared be strong to save,And blest be she who in our weakness came—Prophet and priestess! At one stroke she gaveA race to freedom and herself to fame.
She told the story, and the whole world wept
At wrongs and cruelties it had not known
But for this fearless woman's voice alone.
She spoke to consciences that long had slept:
Her message, Freedom's clear reveille, swept
From heedless hovel to complacent throne.
Command and prophecy were in the tone
And from its sheath the sword of justice leapt.
Around two peoples swelled a fiery wave,
But both came forth transfigured from the flame.
Blest be the hand that dared be strong to save,
And blest be she who in our weakness came—
Prophet and priestess! At one stroke she gave
A race to freedom and herself to fame.
VAGRANTSLong time ago, we two set out,My soul and I.I know not why,For all our way was dim with doubt.I know not whereWe two may fare:Though still with every changing weather,We wander, groping on together.We do not love, we are not friends,My soul and I.He lives a lie;Untruth lines every way he wends.A scoffer heWho jeers at me:And so, my comrade and my brother,We wander on and hate each other.Ay, there be taverns and to spare,Beside the road;But some strange goadLets me not stop to taste their fare.Knew I the goalToward which my soulAnd I made way, hope made life fragrant:But no. We wander, aimless, vagrant!
Long time ago, we two set out,My soul and I.I know not why,For all our way was dim with doubt.I know not whereWe two may fare:Though still with every changing weather,We wander, groping on together.
Long time ago, we two set out,
My soul and I.
I know not why,
For all our way was dim with doubt.
I know not where
We two may fare:
Though still with every changing weather,
We wander, groping on together.
We do not love, we are not friends,My soul and I.He lives a lie;Untruth lines every way he wends.A scoffer heWho jeers at me:And so, my comrade and my brother,We wander on and hate each other.
We do not love, we are not friends,
My soul and I.
He lives a lie;
Untruth lines every way he wends.
A scoffer he
Who jeers at me:
And so, my comrade and my brother,
We wander on and hate each other.
Ay, there be taverns and to spare,Beside the road;But some strange goadLets me not stop to taste their fare.Knew I the goalToward which my soulAnd I made way, hope made life fragrant:But no. We wander, aimless, vagrant!
Ay, there be taverns and to spare,
Beside the road;
But some strange goad
Lets me not stop to taste their fare.
Knew I the goal
Toward which my soul
And I made way, hope made life fragrant:
But no. We wander, aimless, vagrant!
A WINTER'S DAYAcross the hills and down the narrow ways,And up the valley where the free winds sweep,The earth is folded in an ermined sleepThat mocks the melting mirth of myriad Mays.Departed her disheartening duns and grays,And all her crusty black is covered deep.Dark streams are locked in Winter's donjon-keep,And made to shine with keen, unwonted rays.O icy mantle, and deceitful snow!What world-old liars in your hearts ye are!Are there not still the darkened seam and scarBeneath the brightness that you fain would show?Come from the cover with thy blot and blur,O reeking Earth, thou whited sepulchre!
Across the hills and down the narrow ways,And up the valley where the free winds sweep,The earth is folded in an ermined sleepThat mocks the melting mirth of myriad Mays.Departed her disheartening duns and grays,And all her crusty black is covered deep.Dark streams are locked in Winter's donjon-keep,And made to shine with keen, unwonted rays.O icy mantle, and deceitful snow!What world-old liars in your hearts ye are!Are there not still the darkened seam and scarBeneath the brightness that you fain would show?Come from the cover with thy blot and blur,O reeking Earth, thou whited sepulchre!
Across the hills and down the narrow ways,
And up the valley where the free winds sweep,
The earth is folded in an ermined sleep
That mocks the melting mirth of myriad Mays.
Departed her disheartening duns and grays,
And all her crusty black is covered deep.
Dark streams are locked in Winter's donjon-keep,
And made to shine with keen, unwonted rays.
O icy mantle, and deceitful snow!
What world-old liars in your hearts ye are!
Are there not still the darkened seam and scar
Beneath the brightness that you fain would show?
Come from the cover with thy blot and blur,
O reeking Earth, thou whited sepulchre!
MY LITTLE MARCH GIRLCome to the pane, draw the curtain apart,There she is passing, the girl of my heart;See where she walks like a queen in the street,Weather-defying, calm, placid and sweet.Tripping along with impetuous grace,Joy of her life beaming out of her face,Tresses all truant-like, curl upon curl,Wind-blown and rosy, my little March girl.Hint of the violet's delicate bloom,Hint of the rose's pervading perfume!How can the wind help from kissing her face,—Wrapping her round in his stormy embrace?But still serenely she laughs at his rout,She is the victor who wins in the bout.So may life's passions about her soul swirl,Leaving it placid,—my little March girl.What self-possession looks out of her eyes!What are the wild winds, and what are the skies,Frowning and glooming when, brimming with life,Cometh the little maid ripe for the strife?Ah! Wind, and bah! Wind, what might have you now?What can you do with that innocent brow?Blow, Wind, and grow, Wind, and eddy and swirl,But bring her to me, Wind,—my little March girl.
Come to the pane, draw the curtain apart,There she is passing, the girl of my heart;See where she walks like a queen in the street,Weather-defying, calm, placid and sweet.Tripping along with impetuous grace,Joy of her life beaming out of her face,Tresses all truant-like, curl upon curl,Wind-blown and rosy, my little March girl.
Come to the pane, draw the curtain apart,
There she is passing, the girl of my heart;
See where she walks like a queen in the street,
Weather-defying, calm, placid and sweet.
Tripping along with impetuous grace,
Joy of her life beaming out of her face,
Tresses all truant-like, curl upon curl,
Wind-blown and rosy, my little March girl.
Hint of the violet's delicate bloom,Hint of the rose's pervading perfume!How can the wind help from kissing her face,—Wrapping her round in his stormy embrace?But still serenely she laughs at his rout,She is the victor who wins in the bout.So may life's passions about her soul swirl,Leaving it placid,—my little March girl.
Hint of the violet's delicate bloom,
Hint of the rose's pervading perfume!
How can the wind help from kissing her face,—
Wrapping her round in his stormy embrace?
But still serenely she laughs at his rout,
She is the victor who wins in the bout.
So may life's passions about her soul swirl,
Leaving it placid,—my little March girl.
What self-possession looks out of her eyes!What are the wild winds, and what are the skies,Frowning and glooming when, brimming with life,Cometh the little maid ripe for the strife?Ah! Wind, and bah! Wind, what might have you now?What can you do with that innocent brow?Blow, Wind, and grow, Wind, and eddy and swirl,But bring her to me, Wind,—my little March girl.
What self-possession looks out of her eyes!
What are the wild winds, and what are the skies,
Frowning and glooming when, brimming with life,
Cometh the little maid ripe for the strife?
Ah! Wind, and bah! Wind, what might have you now?
What can you do with that innocent brow?
Blow, Wind, and grow, Wind, and eddy and swirl,
But bring her to me, Wind,—my little March girl.
REMEMBEREDShe sang, and I listened the whole song thro'.(It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.)The stars were out and the moon it grewFrom a wee soft glimmer way out in the blueTo a bird thro' the heavens winging.She sang, and the song trembled down to my breast,—(It was sweet, so sweet the singing.)As a dove just out of its fledgling nest,And, putting its wings to the first sweet test,Flutters homeward so wearily winging.She sang and I said to my heart "That song,That was sweet, so sweet i' the singing,Shall live with us and inspire us long,And thou, my heart, shalt be brave and strongFor the sake of those words a-winging."The woman died and the song was still.(It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.)But ever I hear the same low trill,Of the song that shakes my heart with a thrill,And goes forever winging.
She sang, and I listened the whole song thro'.(It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.)The stars were out and the moon it grewFrom a wee soft glimmer way out in the blueTo a bird thro' the heavens winging.
She sang, and I listened the whole song thro'.
(It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.)
The stars were out and the moon it grew
From a wee soft glimmer way out in the blue
To a bird thro' the heavens winging.
She sang, and the song trembled down to my breast,—(It was sweet, so sweet the singing.)As a dove just out of its fledgling nest,And, putting its wings to the first sweet test,Flutters homeward so wearily winging.
She sang, and the song trembled down to my breast,—
(It was sweet, so sweet the singing.)
As a dove just out of its fledgling nest,
And, putting its wings to the first sweet test,
Flutters homeward so wearily winging.
She sang and I said to my heart "That song,That was sweet, so sweet i' the singing,Shall live with us and inspire us long,And thou, my heart, shalt be brave and strongFor the sake of those words a-winging."
She sang and I said to my heart "That song,
That was sweet, so sweet i' the singing,
Shall live with us and inspire us long,
And thou, my heart, shalt be brave and strong
For the sake of those words a-winging."
The woman died and the song was still.(It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.)But ever I hear the same low trill,Of the song that shakes my heart with a thrill,And goes forever winging.
The woman died and the song was still.
(It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.)
But ever I hear the same low trill,
Of the song that shakes my heart with a thrill,
And goes forever winging.
LOVE DESPOILEDAs lone I sat one summer's day,With mien dejected, Love came by;His face distraught, his locks astray,So slow his gait, so sad his eye,I hailed him with a pitying cry:"Pray, Love, what has disturbed thee so?"Said I, amazed. "Thou seem'st bereft;And see thy quiver hanging low,—What, not a single arrow left?Pray, who is guilty of this theft?"Poor Love looked in my face and cried:"No thief were ever yet so boldTo rob my quiver at my side.But Time, who rules, gave ear to Gold,And all my goodly shafts are sold."
As lone I sat one summer's day,With mien dejected, Love came by;His face distraught, his locks astray,So slow his gait, so sad his eye,I hailed him with a pitying cry:
As lone I sat one summer's day,
With mien dejected, Love came by;
His face distraught, his locks astray,
So slow his gait, so sad his eye,
I hailed him with a pitying cry:
"Pray, Love, what has disturbed thee so?"Said I, amazed. "Thou seem'st bereft;And see thy quiver hanging low,—What, not a single arrow left?Pray, who is guilty of this theft?"
"Pray, Love, what has disturbed thee so?"
Said I, amazed. "Thou seem'st bereft;
And see thy quiver hanging low,—
What, not a single arrow left?
Pray, who is guilty of this theft?"
Poor Love looked in my face and cried:"No thief were ever yet so boldTo rob my quiver at my side.But Time, who rules, gave ear to Gold,And all my goodly shafts are sold."
Poor Love looked in my face and cried:
"No thief were ever yet so bold
To rob my quiver at my side.
But Time, who rules, gave ear to Gold,
And all my goodly shafts are sold."
THE LAPSEThis poem must be done to-day;Then, I 'll e'en to it.I must not dream my time away,—I 'm sure to rue it.The day is rather bright, I knowThe Muse will pardonMy half-defection, if I goInto the garden.It must be better working there,—I 'm sure it's sweeter:And something in the balmy airMay clear my metre.[In the Garden.]Ah this is noble, what a sky!What breezes blowing!The very clouds, I know not why,Call one to rowing.The stream will be a paradiseTo-day, I 'll warrant.I know the tide that's on the riseWill seem a torrent;I know just how the leafy boughsAre all a-quiver;I know how many skiffs and scowsAre on the river.I think I 'll just go out awhileBefore I write it;When Nature shows us such a smile,We should n't slight it.For Nature always makes desireBy giving pleasure;And so 't will help me put more fireInto my measure.[On the River.]The river's fine, I 'm glad I came,That poem 's teasing;But health is better far than fame,Though cheques are pleasing.I don't know what I did it for,—This air 's a poppy.I 'm sorry for my editor,—He 'll get no copy!
This poem must be done to-day;Then, I 'll e'en to it.I must not dream my time away,—I 'm sure to rue it.The day is rather bright, I knowThe Muse will pardonMy half-defection, if I goInto the garden.It must be better working there,—I 'm sure it's sweeter:And something in the balmy airMay clear my metre.
This poem must be done to-day;
Then, I 'll e'en to it.
I must not dream my time away,—
I 'm sure to rue it.
The day is rather bright, I know
The Muse will pardon
My half-defection, if I go
Into the garden.
It must be better working there,—
I 'm sure it's sweeter:
And something in the balmy air
May clear my metre.
[In the Garden.]
[In the Garden.]
Ah this is noble, what a sky!What breezes blowing!The very clouds, I know not why,Call one to rowing.The stream will be a paradiseTo-day, I 'll warrant.I know the tide that's on the riseWill seem a torrent;I know just how the leafy boughsAre all a-quiver;I know how many skiffs and scowsAre on the river.I think I 'll just go out awhileBefore I write it;When Nature shows us such a smile,We should n't slight it.For Nature always makes desireBy giving pleasure;And so 't will help me put more fireInto my measure.
Ah this is noble, what a sky!
What breezes blowing!
The very clouds, I know not why,
Call one to rowing.
The stream will be a paradise
To-day, I 'll warrant.
I know the tide that's on the rise
Will seem a torrent;
I know just how the leafy boughs
Are all a-quiver;
I know how many skiffs and scows
Are on the river.
I think I 'll just go out awhile
Before I write it;
When Nature shows us such a smile,
We should n't slight it.
For Nature always makes desire
By giving pleasure;
And so 't will help me put more fire
Into my measure.
[On the River.]
[On the River.]
The river's fine, I 'm glad I came,That poem 's teasing;But health is better far than fame,Though cheques are pleasing.I don't know what I did it for,—This air 's a poppy.I 'm sorry for my editor,—He 'll get no copy!
The river's fine, I 'm glad I came,
That poem 's teasing;
But health is better far than fame,
Though cheques are pleasing.
I don't know what I did it for,—
This air 's a poppy.
I 'm sorry for my editor,—
He 'll get no copy!
THE WARRIOR'S PRAYERLong since, in sore distress, I heard one pray,"Lord, who prevailest with resistless might,Ever from war and strife keep me away,My battles fight!"I know not if I play the Pharisee,And if my brother after all be right;But mine shall be the warrior's plea to thee—Strength for the fight.I do not ask that thou shalt front the fray,And drive the warring foeman from my sight;I only ask, O Lord, by night, by day,Strength for the fight!When foes upon me press, let me not quailNor think to turn me into coward flight.I only ask, to make mine arms prevail,Strength for the fight!Still let mine eyes look ever on the foe,Still let mine armor case me strong and bright;And grant me, as I deal each righteous blow,Strength for the fight!And when, at eventide, the fray is done,My soul to Death's bedchamber do thou light,And give me, be the field or lost or won,Rest from the fight!
Long since, in sore distress, I heard one pray,"Lord, who prevailest with resistless might,Ever from war and strife keep me away,My battles fight!"
Long since, in sore distress, I heard one pray,
"Lord, who prevailest with resistless might,
Ever from war and strife keep me away,
My battles fight!"
I know not if I play the Pharisee,And if my brother after all be right;But mine shall be the warrior's plea to thee—Strength for the fight.
I know not if I play the Pharisee,
And if my brother after all be right;
But mine shall be the warrior's plea to thee—
Strength for the fight.
I do not ask that thou shalt front the fray,And drive the warring foeman from my sight;I only ask, O Lord, by night, by day,Strength for the fight!
I do not ask that thou shalt front the fray,
And drive the warring foeman from my sight;
I only ask, O Lord, by night, by day,
Strength for the fight!
When foes upon me press, let me not quailNor think to turn me into coward flight.I only ask, to make mine arms prevail,Strength for the fight!
When foes upon me press, let me not quail
Nor think to turn me into coward flight.
I only ask, to make mine arms prevail,
Strength for the fight!
Still let mine eyes look ever on the foe,Still let mine armor case me strong and bright;And grant me, as I deal each righteous blow,Strength for the fight!
Still let mine eyes look ever on the foe,
Still let mine armor case me strong and bright;
And grant me, as I deal each righteous blow,
Strength for the fight!
And when, at eventide, the fray is done,My soul to Death's bedchamber do thou light,And give me, be the field or lost or won,Rest from the fight!
And when, at eventide, the fray is done,
My soul to Death's bedchamber do thou light,
And give me, be the field or lost or won,
Rest from the fight!