TIMOR MORTIS CONTURBAT ME.

The leaf in the forest had budded, of verdure a billowy seaOver the woodland was flowing, o’erwhelming valley and lea.The great river, bright in the sunshine, set the isle in a circlet of goldAs it swept to its tryst with the ocean, through realms of riches untold.The slow-moving oar cleft the water, the balmy May breeze filled the sails,As the wanderers drew near their haven, afar from the sea and its gales;From the land of their fathers afar, and anear the keen Iroquois knives.But the pilgrims, to fear ever strangers, to the Cross had entrusted their lives.Not sordid were they. Not the treasures of earth they had come to pursue,Not for honor nor glory. Far nobler the object our sires had in view.To carry the cross to the savage, braving danger and hardship they came.They came for the love of the Virgin, a city to found in her name.Their hearts were o’erflowing with gladness. They sang as they drew near the strand.Their barks gently touched on the shingle, and Maisonneuve, leaping to land,Bent his knee, and the others knelt with him, uplifting their voices in prayerTo the Ruler of all, while, prophetic, the priest in his vestments stood there.The shadows of twilight were falling, the frog loudly piped in the marsh,The wild duck lurked in the shallows, and anear screamed the kingfisher harsh,High above swept the night-hawk in circles, in the meadow the fireflies gleamed brightAnd were caught, to adorn the rude altar with garlands of pulsating light.The wanderers calmly sought slumber. The sentinel stood at his ease,The rivulet gurgled and eddied, and answered the murmuring trees,The mountain loomed dark in the distance, and the wolf looking down from the height,In wonder and awe, saw the camp fire that burned on a city’s birth night.If you ask how that mustard seed flourished, and spread its great branches abroad,If you ask at what sacrifice nourished or watered with what noble blood?Lo! the pages of history answer. There ’tis written in letters of goldHow each was a Christian and soldier, who founded Ville Marie of old.They lived on the confines of chaos. Whenever the savage horde brokeOn the ill-fated colony, they were the first whose arm parried the stroke.They were Dollards in heart, and went even to torture and death with a smile,While the women, like angels of mercy, stanched their wounds and their woes did beguile.None braver, and no one more gentle, none wiser in council than he,Maisonneuve, this, the new world’s defender, who for God held his whole life in fee.He led them in worship, consoled them when thickly their troubles did fall,Maisonneuve the undaunted, the founder, Æneas of old Montreal.And here where he battled lone-handed with savages thirsting for blood,Where now beats the pulse of a city, the heart of a new nationhood,Long years may his monument stand that our children may ask and be toldOf the leader who founded Ville Marie, and honor the heroes of old.

The slow-moving oar cleft the water, the balmy May breeze filled the sails,As the wanderers drew near their haven, afar from the sea and its gales;From the land of their fathers afar, and anear the keen Iroquois knives.But the pilgrims, to fear ever strangers, to the Cross had entrusted their lives.

Not sordid were they. Not the treasures of earth they had come to pursue,Not for honor nor glory. Far nobler the object our sires had in view.To carry the cross to the savage, braving danger and hardship they came.They came for the love of the Virgin, a city to found in her name.

Their hearts were o’erflowing with gladness. They sang as they drew near the strand.Their barks gently touched on the shingle, and Maisonneuve, leaping to land,Bent his knee, and the others knelt with him, uplifting their voices in prayerTo the Ruler of all, while, prophetic, the priest in his vestments stood there.

The shadows of twilight were falling, the frog loudly piped in the marsh,The wild duck lurked in the shallows, and anear screamed the kingfisher harsh,High above swept the night-hawk in circles, in the meadow the fireflies gleamed brightAnd were caught, to adorn the rude altar with garlands of pulsating light.

The wanderers calmly sought slumber. The sentinel stood at his ease,The rivulet gurgled and eddied, and answered the murmuring trees,The mountain loomed dark in the distance, and the wolf looking down from the height,In wonder and awe, saw the camp fire that burned on a city’s birth night.

If you ask how that mustard seed flourished, and spread its great branches abroad,If you ask at what sacrifice nourished or watered with what noble blood?Lo! the pages of history answer. There ’tis written in letters of goldHow each was a Christian and soldier, who founded Ville Marie of old.

They lived on the confines of chaos. Whenever the savage horde brokeOn the ill-fated colony, they were the first whose arm parried the stroke.They were Dollards in heart, and went even to torture and death with a smile,While the women, like angels of mercy, stanched their wounds and their woes did beguile.

None braver, and no one more gentle, none wiser in council than he,Maisonneuve, this, the new world’s defender, who for God held his whole life in fee.He led them in worship, consoled them when thickly their troubles did fall,Maisonneuve the undaunted, the founder, Æneas of old Montreal.

And here where he battled lone-handed with savages thirsting for blood,Where now beats the pulse of a city, the heart of a new nationhood,Long years may his monument stand that our children may ask and be toldOf the leader who founded Ville Marie, and honor the heroes of old.

(The Fear of Death Affrights Me.)

Shall I too sing, as he sang of old,The tuneful singer beyond the sea,When life’s flame sank and his blood waxed cold,Timor mortis conturbat me.Earth is so fair to look upon,And life so sweet, though there sorrows be,Why welcome the summons to be gone?Timor mortis conturbat me.Wife that I love as the sea the moon,Babes that prattle about my knee;Has heaven itself a dearer boon?Timor mortis conturbat me.Is there heaven at all or only the graveWith the lisp of rain in the willow tree,Will the after death give all I crave?Timor mortis conturbat me.Will there be ideals still to follow,And truths, like nymphs my pursuit to flee,Or will the ancient faith prove hollow?Timor mortis conturbat me.Are there golden suns in a golden noon,Are there grey, still dawns on a dewy lea,Are there twilights there, with a crescent moon?Timor mortis conturbat me.Are there aims to spur me and goals to reach,Are there wondrous lands for the eye to see,Is melody there and dulcet speech?Timor mortis conturbat me.Does friend meet friend and love meet love,Greet and converse with sober glee,Or is all new in the courts above?Timor mortis conturbat me.Is heaven like earth on a nobler plan,As in dreams we image it, hopefully,Or does the Spirit forget the Man?Timor mortis conturbat me.Shall I be I when the death-throe’s past,Soul from the flesh set only free,Or in new mould shall I be recast?Timor mortis conturbat me.If heaven be not akin to earth,I shall not be I, if I happy be.If I be not I, what is heaven worth?Timor mortis conturbat me.

Shall I too sing, as he sang of old,The tuneful singer beyond the sea,When life’s flame sank and his blood waxed cold,Timor mortis conturbat me.

Earth is so fair to look upon,And life so sweet, though there sorrows be,Why welcome the summons to be gone?Timor mortis conturbat me.

Wife that I love as the sea the moon,Babes that prattle about my knee;Has heaven itself a dearer boon?Timor mortis conturbat me.

Is there heaven at all or only the graveWith the lisp of rain in the willow tree,Will the after death give all I crave?Timor mortis conturbat me.

Will there be ideals still to follow,And truths, like nymphs my pursuit to flee,Or will the ancient faith prove hollow?Timor mortis conturbat me.

Are there golden suns in a golden noon,Are there grey, still dawns on a dewy lea,Are there twilights there, with a crescent moon?Timor mortis conturbat me.

Are there aims to spur me and goals to reach,Are there wondrous lands for the eye to see,Is melody there and dulcet speech?Timor mortis conturbat me.

Does friend meet friend and love meet love,Greet and converse with sober glee,Or is all new in the courts above?Timor mortis conturbat me.

Is heaven like earth on a nobler plan,As in dreams we image it, hopefully,Or does the Spirit forget the Man?Timor mortis conturbat me.

Shall I be I when the death-throe’s past,Soul from the flesh set only free,Or in new mould shall I be recast?Timor mortis conturbat me.

If heaven be not akin to earth,I shall not be I, if I happy be.If I be not I, what is heaven worth?Timor mortis conturbat me.

The wintry moon was streamingThrough the window, silvery-clear,And I sat in my study, dreamingSweet dreams of the coming year.There was no sound save the laughterOf flames on the gusty hearth,As hour followed fleet hour afterTo welcome the Year with mirth.Then, sharp through the solemn quiet,I heard in the gloomy hallThe scamper of mice run riot,And I heard them in the wall.I leaned on my hand and listenedTo hear the cravens go,While paler the moonbeams glistenedAnd the fire on the hearth burned low.And was I awake, or sleeping,That, close by the door, I heardThe voice of a woman weepingThe sigh of a farewell word?And was it the night wind mockingThat tapped and opened the door,Or was it a woman knockingAnd a light step on the floor?I saw at my side a maidenWith tears in her gentle eyes,And her shapely arms were ladenWith gems from time’s argosies.On her brow was a white star shining,On her breast was a lily fair;But of rue was a sad wreath twiningAmong her golden hair.From my chair to her dear side springing,I greeted her with a kiss,For I thought her the New Year, bringingNew uncut jewels of bliss.She blushed at my warm embracesAnd joy in her sweet face shone,As sunlight a shadow chasesWhile a summer cloud floats on.I said: “I have long been yearning,New Year, to behold thy face.”Pale grew the maid, and, turning,She shrank from my close embrace,And wept: “Oh! thou fickle heartedThe depth of my love to prove,Yet ere from my bosom partedTo sigh for an untried love.“I brought thee the rarest treasuresTime’s treasury could bestow;I sated thy days with pleasures,And guarded thy heart from woe.“Thy wish I refused thee never.I granted thee love and peace;Yet thou scornest me now, or everMy labor for thee doth cease.“See, here are the gifts I showeredThy life’s pathway upon,And now that thou hast been doweredWith all, canst thou wish me gone?“O thankless heart, wilt thou neverBe satisfied with thy lot,Or must thou be pining everFor joys that as yet are not?“And turn from my fond embracesAn utter unknown to greet,As a child a butterfly chasesTreading flowers beneath his feet?”Then, like the great sun springingThrough night to a tropic dawn,My heart, to the Old Year clinging,Yearned for the joys nigh gone.And oh, what a wave of sorrowPassed over my grieving soul,As I thought of the new to-morrowThat led to some unknown goal!“Oh, stay,” I cried, soul-shaken,“Heed not the flight of time,Oh stay,”—But I was forsaken,And heard the New Year chime.

The wintry moon was streamingThrough the window, silvery-clear,And I sat in my study, dreamingSweet dreams of the coming year.

There was no sound save the laughterOf flames on the gusty hearth,As hour followed fleet hour afterTo welcome the Year with mirth.

Then, sharp through the solemn quiet,I heard in the gloomy hallThe scamper of mice run riot,And I heard them in the wall.

I leaned on my hand and listenedTo hear the cravens go,While paler the moonbeams glistenedAnd the fire on the hearth burned low.

And was I awake, or sleeping,That, close by the door, I heardThe voice of a woman weepingThe sigh of a farewell word?

And was it the night wind mockingThat tapped and opened the door,Or was it a woman knockingAnd a light step on the floor?

I saw at my side a maidenWith tears in her gentle eyes,And her shapely arms were ladenWith gems from time’s argosies.

On her brow was a white star shining,On her breast was a lily fair;But of rue was a sad wreath twiningAmong her golden hair.

From my chair to her dear side springing,I greeted her with a kiss,For I thought her the New Year, bringingNew uncut jewels of bliss.

She blushed at my warm embracesAnd joy in her sweet face shone,As sunlight a shadow chasesWhile a summer cloud floats on.

I said: “I have long been yearning,New Year, to behold thy face.”Pale grew the maid, and, turning,She shrank from my close embrace,

And wept: “Oh! thou fickle heartedThe depth of my love to prove,Yet ere from my bosom partedTo sigh for an untried love.

“I brought thee the rarest treasuresTime’s treasury could bestow;I sated thy days with pleasures,And guarded thy heart from woe.

“Thy wish I refused thee never.I granted thee love and peace;Yet thou scornest me now, or everMy labor for thee doth cease.

“See, here are the gifts I showeredThy life’s pathway upon,And now that thou hast been doweredWith all, canst thou wish me gone?

“O thankless heart, wilt thou neverBe satisfied with thy lot,Or must thou be pining everFor joys that as yet are not?

“And turn from my fond embracesAn utter unknown to greet,As a child a butterfly chasesTreading flowers beneath his feet?”

Then, like the great sun springingThrough night to a tropic dawn,My heart, to the Old Year clinging,Yearned for the joys nigh gone.

And oh, what a wave of sorrowPassed over my grieving soul,As I thought of the new to-morrowThat led to some unknown goal!

“Oh, stay,” I cried, soul-shaken,“Heed not the flight of time,Oh stay,”—But I was forsaken,And heard the New Year chime.

In the closing hours of night,When the latest guest has gone,By the hearth fire’s flickering lightSweet it is to dream alone.Sweet the social joy, and sweetStrife that ends in victory;Sweeter still the peace completeFollowing on the eager day.Then how sweet the lassitude,Revelling in romantic rest,Buoyed on dreams, whose mystic floodDraws the soul on happy quest.In the closing hours of life,When the friends of youth are gone,Ended lust of gain and strife,Peace approaches with the dawn.Sweet the rest and solitudeWhen the hair is turning white,While the past, with broadening flood,Murmurs through the closing night.

In the closing hours of night,When the latest guest has gone,By the hearth fire’s flickering lightSweet it is to dream alone.

Sweet the social joy, and sweetStrife that ends in victory;Sweeter still the peace completeFollowing on the eager day.

Then how sweet the lassitude,Revelling in romantic rest,Buoyed on dreams, whose mystic floodDraws the soul on happy quest.

In the closing hours of life,When the friends of youth are gone,Ended lust of gain and strife,Peace approaches with the dawn.

Sweet the rest and solitudeWhen the hair is turning white,While the past, with broadening flood,Murmurs through the closing night.

When the babe is swung in its pearly cot, the warm sun shining, the song-birds gay,Cool shades among, in its lacework grot, the child reclining doth dreamful sway.Hope’s hand, entwining life’s harp new strung with joyous garlands, its sound doth stay,And he thinks earth heaven, to him God-given, nor cares though the passing hours delay.From the threshold of life on the bright pathway that stretches afar to the infinite,Youth yearns for the strife, as a child for play, and his dreamings are of a well-won height.As at dawn of day when the Morning Star unbinds the zone of the virgin Light,We watch, all breathless, for beauty deathless, so heaven’s beyond us, yet seems in sight.And then, ah, then, as the years go by, and hope grows weary with waiting long,When trust in men we must fain deny, themisererereplaces song.Like slaves that ply in the galley’s den the laboring oar, through sin and wrong,The soul plods on, and heaven is gone; we can but suffer and yet be strong.When the snows of age fall thick and fast, and passion has faded like flowers that grow,The memory sage dreams dreams of the past and all that has made it have joys below.When the friends long laid in the grave, at last, stand beckoning us in the twilight glow,And wrongs endured prove that which cured, the heaven behind us too late we know.The heaven of man is never here; it always is where his treasures are.To-day’s brief span arches little dear; the stream of bliss seems wider afar.From this to this the path is drear; there’s always something each joy to mar,Till the past that is real becomes ideal under the gold of life’s twilight star.

From the threshold of life on the bright pathway that stretches afar to the infinite,Youth yearns for the strife, as a child for play, and his dreamings are of a well-won height.As at dawn of day when the Morning Star unbinds the zone of the virgin Light,We watch, all breathless, for beauty deathless, so heaven’s beyond us, yet seems in sight.

And then, ah, then, as the years go by, and hope grows weary with waiting long,When trust in men we must fain deny, themisererereplaces song.Like slaves that ply in the galley’s den the laboring oar, through sin and wrong,The soul plods on, and heaven is gone; we can but suffer and yet be strong.

When the snows of age fall thick and fast, and passion has faded like flowers that grow,The memory sage dreams dreams of the past and all that has made it have joys below.When the friends long laid in the grave, at last, stand beckoning us in the twilight glow,And wrongs endured prove that which cured, the heaven behind us too late we know.

The heaven of man is never here; it always is where his treasures are.To-day’s brief span arches little dear; the stream of bliss seems wider afar.From this to this the path is drear; there’s always something each joy to mar,Till the past that is real becomes ideal under the gold of life’s twilight star.

Hark! the tolling of the bells.How it sinks and how it swells!O’er the sleeping town it knells,“Fare thee well, Old Year.”Far across the snowy plainRolls the many-tongued refrain,And the echoes cry again,“Fare thee well, Old Year.”Thou hast been a kindly year,Thou hast spared us many a tear,Thou hast vanquished many a fear,Fare thee well, Old Year.Lightly touched by summer showers,Budding hopes have grown to flowers,Happy days have flown like hours,Fare thee well, Old Year.Many a lesson thou hast taught,Precious favors thou hast brought,Pleasant changes thou hast wrought,Fare thee well, Old Year.Now thy rule is near an end,Thy last records have been penned,We must part at last, true friend.Fare thee well, Old Year.Close and seal the book of fate,With whate’er it may relate,Sin and goodness, love and hate,Fare thee well, Old Year.One more volume is complete,Take it to the Mercy Seat,Lay it at the Master’s feet,Fare thee well, Old Year.

Thou hast been a kindly year,Thou hast spared us many a tear,Thou hast vanquished many a fear,Fare thee well, Old Year.Lightly touched by summer showers,Budding hopes have grown to flowers,Happy days have flown like hours,Fare thee well, Old Year.

Many a lesson thou hast taught,Precious favors thou hast brought,Pleasant changes thou hast wrought,Fare thee well, Old Year.

Now thy rule is near an end,Thy last records have been penned,We must part at last, true friend.Fare thee well, Old Year.

Close and seal the book of fate,With whate’er it may relate,Sin and goodness, love and hate,Fare thee well, Old Year.One more volume is complete,Take it to the Mercy Seat,Lay it at the Master’s feet,Fare thee well, Old Year.

Fare thee well, Old Year,Fare thee well, Old Year,Thou hast been a faithful friend,Fare thee well, Old Year.

If you find Pegasus a steedScornful of your control,Who canters well enough, indeed,But will not caracole,So much the better, poet mine,’Tis bottom wins the race.Let poetasters prance, in fine;Keep you the steady pace.Let poetasters hunt for sound,Chase metres, out of breath;Great thoughts are not thus run to ground,Nor fame in at the death.So, let your Pegasus be freeTo hunt some thought sublime,While you sit still, with clinging knee,And gallop simple rhyme.Ah, friend, of all the joys of earth,There’s nothing like the hunt,The good horse straining at the girth,The clear-tongued hounds in front.And if your Pegasus can bearYou well before the rout,Don’t curb and make him beat the air;Loose rein, and let him out.Oft when a poet’s rhymes I read,With ornate language wrought,Its cadences, though sweet indeed,But hide the lack of thought.Be yours the poem that can standFrom trappings wholly free,Each thought a Phryne, to be scannedIn fearless nudity.

Let poetasters hunt for sound,Chase metres, out of breath;Great thoughts are not thus run to ground,Nor fame in at the death.So, let your Pegasus be freeTo hunt some thought sublime,While you sit still, with clinging knee,And gallop simple rhyme.

Ah, friend, of all the joys of earth,There’s nothing like the hunt,The good horse straining at the girth,The clear-tongued hounds in front.

And if your Pegasus can bearYou well before the rout,Don’t curb and make him beat the air;Loose rein, and let him out.

Oft when a poet’s rhymes I read,With ornate language wrought,Its cadences, though sweet indeed,But hide the lack of thought.Be yours the poem that can standFrom trappings wholly free,Each thought a Phryne, to be scannedIn fearless nudity.

Who walks the paths of righteousnessOr follows ways of evil,Who knows the joys that angels blessOr sin’s insensate revel,At last, too well has understoodSin is not worth a feather.—It would be easy to be good,If all were good together.Waiving the conscience we offend,And weighing but the pleasure,Though we all sinful joys might blend,They make a sorry treasure.The loftiest joys must be subdued,The soul we fain must tether.—It would be easy to be goodIf all were good together.Oh, would that man might give free scopeTo every gentle feeling!The soul would realize its hopeIts noblest side revealing.Would man might trust man’s brotherhoodIn calm and stormy weather.—It would be easy to be goodIf all were good together.If no one schemed to do a wrong,No need for wrong were given;If each his neighbor helped along,This earth would be a heaven;If men once met in rectitude,Farewell, the regions nether.—It would be easy to be good,If all were good together.

Waiving the conscience we offend,And weighing but the pleasure,Though we all sinful joys might blend,They make a sorry treasure.The loftiest joys must be subdued,The soul we fain must tether.—It would be easy to be goodIf all were good together.

Oh, would that man might give free scopeTo every gentle feeling!The soul would realize its hopeIts noblest side revealing.

Would man might trust man’s brotherhoodIn calm and stormy weather.—It would be easy to be goodIf all were good together.

If no one schemed to do a wrong,No need for wrong were given;If each his neighbor helped along,This earth would be a heaven;If men once met in rectitude,Farewell, the regions nether.—It would be easy to be good,If all were good together.

Swift troopers twain ride side by sideThroughout life’s long campaign.They make a jest of all man’s pride,And oh, the havoc! As they ride,They cannot count their slain.The one is young and debonair,And laughing swings his blade.The zephyrs toss his golden hair,His eyes are blue; he is so fairHe seems a masking maid.The other is a warrior grim,Dark as a midnight storm.There is no man can cope with him.We shrink and tremble in each limbBefore his awful form.Yet though men fear the sombre foeMore than the gold-tressed youth,The boy with every careless blowMore than the trooper grim lays low,And causes earth more ruth.Keener his mocking sword doth proveThan flame or winter’s breath.Men bear his wounds to the realm above,For the little trooper’s name is Love,His comrade’s only Death.

Swift troopers twain ride side by sideThroughout life’s long campaign.They make a jest of all man’s pride,And oh, the havoc! As they ride,They cannot count their slain.

The one is young and debonair,And laughing swings his blade.The zephyrs toss his golden hair,His eyes are blue; he is so fairHe seems a masking maid.

The other is a warrior grim,Dark as a midnight storm.There is no man can cope with him.We shrink and tremble in each limbBefore his awful form.

Yet though men fear the sombre foeMore than the gold-tressed youth,The boy with every careless blowMore than the trooper grim lays low,And causes earth more ruth.

Keener his mocking sword doth proveThan flame or winter’s breath.Men bear his wounds to the realm above,For the little trooper’s name is Love,His comrade’s only Death.

Dan Cupid wears disguises.We never see his form,Till suddenly he surprisesAnd takes the heart by storm.He hides at times in the blushesThat tinge a cheek so fair,Or oft in the moonlit hushesIn a sweet voice on the air.Sometimes he’s in the dancingOf mirth in azure eyes,Sometimes in the curve entrancingOf lips that part in sighs.And sometimes in the glimmerOf arm, rich lace beneath;Sometimes in the tresses’ shimmer,Sometimes in the peep of teeth.Oh, he’s a little bandit,And bold as bold can be.He leads us, single-handed,Into captivity.For none is a match for Cupid.He swifter is than thought.The keenest mind is but stupidWhen he begins to plot.

Dan Cupid wears disguises.We never see his form,Till suddenly he surprisesAnd takes the heart by storm.

He hides at times in the blushesThat tinge a cheek so fair,Or oft in the moonlit hushesIn a sweet voice on the air.

Sometimes he’s in the dancingOf mirth in azure eyes,Sometimes in the curve entrancingOf lips that part in sighs.

And sometimes in the glimmerOf arm, rich lace beneath;Sometimes in the tresses’ shimmer,Sometimes in the peep of teeth.

Oh, he’s a little bandit,And bold as bold can be.He leads us, single-handed,Into captivity.

For none is a match for Cupid.He swifter is than thought.The keenest mind is but stupidWhen he begins to plot.

Life hath such longings, bitter sweet,And yet so few it satisfiesThat man fain dreams life is completeOnly beyond the skies.And like the mystic cloud of fireThat guided Israel’s way by night,Every unsatisfied desireLeads man towards the right.Around him, mingling with the dust,Youth’s pure ideals, shattered, lie;Hope, virtue, charity and trustAmid life’s deserts die.Fade aspirations, fades each dreamOf goodness, honor and renown.Man floats on a polluted stream,Which fain would drag him down.But music, like the nightingaleThat sweetly sings in woodland brakes,When hope and trust and virtue fail,Man’s nobler nature wakes.Only in music doth man findAn echo of the dreams of youth,When he saw gods among mankind,In woman only truth.

Life hath such longings, bitter sweet,And yet so few it satisfiesThat man fain dreams life is completeOnly beyond the skies.

And like the mystic cloud of fireThat guided Israel’s way by night,Every unsatisfied desireLeads man towards the right.

Around him, mingling with the dust,Youth’s pure ideals, shattered, lie;Hope, virtue, charity and trustAmid life’s deserts die.

Fade aspirations, fades each dreamOf goodness, honor and renown.Man floats on a polluted stream,Which fain would drag him down.

But music, like the nightingaleThat sweetly sings in woodland brakes,When hope and trust and virtue fail,Man’s nobler nature wakes.

Only in music doth man findAn echo of the dreams of youth,When he saw gods among mankind,In woman only truth.

Baby’s dainty little stockingHangs beside his wicker cot,Darling mother’s wishes mockingAnd the treasures she has brought.For it is so small that neverGift can find a place inside.Was there doting mother everSo distressed at Christmas tide?Baby’s eyes are closed and dreamingOf the gentle mother face;Baby’s hands are clasped and seemingInterlocked in fond embrace.Baby’s lips are softly smiling,And the Rubicon of youthHe has passed, for lo! beguilingMother’s kisses, peeps a tooth.Naught for gifts is baby caring.Santa Claus has many a gem,But, God’s love and mother’s sharing,Baby has no need of them.

Baby’s dainty little stockingHangs beside his wicker cot,Darling mother’s wishes mockingAnd the treasures she has brought.

For it is so small that neverGift can find a place inside.Was there doting mother everSo distressed at Christmas tide?

Baby’s eyes are closed and dreamingOf the gentle mother face;Baby’s hands are clasped and seemingInterlocked in fond embrace.

Baby’s lips are softly smiling,And the Rubicon of youthHe has passed, for lo! beguilingMother’s kisses, peeps a tooth.

Naught for gifts is baby caring.Santa Claus has many a gem,But, God’s love and mother’s sharing,Baby has no need of them.

I am a god; yes, I,—(Smile, if you will, at the claim)Mote though I am in the ambient sky,Housed, I confess, in putrescible frame,Still, a divinity.My sceptre I claim, and, perchance,My altars as well,—who knows?You would prick my pride with your wit’s keen lance,You know my radius. Well, supposeYou pipe, I dance.Am I the Primary Cause?That’s my affair, not my creatures’.Did I create nature’s adamant laws,Or am I but one of her manifold features?Fellow gods can pick flaws!But the little corpuscles of bloodI create by millions each hour,Do you fancy the witless ephemeral brood,As each lives its life, can my limits and powerDeclare understood?Alone in the grey of my brainI sit and my universe rule.What can they know of their god, though they fainQuestion, perhaps, each contemptible fool,What joy is, why pain?Do they brag of their universe, boast,Worsting some hostile bacillus,Fight over their God, sect term other sect lost,Read my ways or complain, “Why torment us and kill us?”What fate has each ghost?Perfecting some large thought that mayMove the earth that I dwell on,A million my creatures, remorseless, I slay.Am I annoyed if they call me a felon!It is I, or they.My work, for their sake, shall I cease,My very nature disjoint?Is there aught but destruction for all in such peace?Must I miracle work for a microscope point,—Corpuscles to please?We are not one, we are twain,Yet are we one and not two.They are the universe, I am the brain,In and about them, knit through and through,—Chords in one strain.In common we have, at least, this,Creator and creature, that weMust rise to the height of our powers, or missLife’s best for ourselves, and each other decreeFrustrate of bliss.. . . . . . . . . .Is, now, this godhead of mine,My limits, this difference vastBetween creature and maker, a symbol? In fineIs mankind but a host of blood corpuscles, massedThrough the Divine?

I am a god; yes, I,—(Smile, if you will, at the claim)Mote though I am in the ambient sky,Housed, I confess, in putrescible frame,Still, a divinity.

My sceptre I claim, and, perchance,My altars as well,—who knows?You would prick my pride with your wit’s keen lance,You know my radius. Well, supposeYou pipe, I dance.

Am I the Primary Cause?That’s my affair, not my creatures’.Did I create nature’s adamant laws,Or am I but one of her manifold features?Fellow gods can pick flaws!

But the little corpuscles of bloodI create by millions each hour,Do you fancy the witless ephemeral brood,As each lives its life, can my limits and powerDeclare understood?

Alone in the grey of my brainI sit and my universe rule.What can they know of their god, though they fainQuestion, perhaps, each contemptible fool,What joy is, why pain?

Do they brag of their universe, boast,Worsting some hostile bacillus,Fight over their God, sect term other sect lost,Read my ways or complain, “Why torment us and kill us?”What fate has each ghost?

Perfecting some large thought that mayMove the earth that I dwell on,A million my creatures, remorseless, I slay.Am I annoyed if they call me a felon!It is I, or they.

My work, for their sake, shall I cease,My very nature disjoint?Is there aught but destruction for all in such peace?Must I miracle work for a microscope point,—Corpuscles to please?

We are not one, we are twain,Yet are we one and not two.They are the universe, I am the brain,In and about them, knit through and through,—Chords in one strain.

In common we have, at least, this,Creator and creature, that weMust rise to the height of our powers, or missLife’s best for ourselves, and each other decreeFrustrate of bliss.. . . . . . . . . .Is, now, this godhead of mine,My limits, this difference vastBetween creature and maker, a symbol? In fineIs mankind but a host of blood corpuscles, massedThrough the Divine?

Will ever thy soul awake,Awake and come smiling to greet my own?Will ever the love-light breakFrom thine eyes upon me, like the sunOn the billows that shoreward run,Into foam by the winds of the ocean blown?To me seems thy pure soul sleeping.Thou hast in thy heart a bird,But its head is under its wing.I watch it and think with weepingHow sweet a song it might sing;Yet by love it is never stirred.Oft in the hush of a drowsy nightI dream that I hear that low bird voiceLilting so merrily,Singing so cheerily,Bidding my heart to its depths rejoice;But alas, takes flightMy dream before the dawn’s lance of light.Alas, it is not for meTo kiss thy soul, as the prince in storyKissed the Sleeping Beauty’s lips,And to a life-love waken thee.Round thee there is a maiden gloryFairer than circles the sun that dipsInto the sea while chill night comes creepingSlowly, silently through the sky;But as well might IReach out my hand to the sun and tryTo make his glory my very ownAs think to touch with my finger tipsThy glorious beauty that shrinks from me.

To me seems thy pure soul sleeping.Thou hast in thy heart a bird,But its head is under its wing.I watch it and think with weepingHow sweet a song it might sing;Yet by love it is never stirred.

Oft in the hush of a drowsy nightI dream that I hear that low bird voiceLilting so merrily,Singing so cheerily,Bidding my heart to its depths rejoice;But alas, takes flightMy dream before the dawn’s lance of light.

Alas, it is not for meTo kiss thy soul, as the prince in storyKissed the Sleeping Beauty’s lips,And to a life-love waken thee.Round thee there is a maiden gloryFairer than circles the sun that dipsInto the sea while chill night comes creepingSlowly, silently through the sky;But as well might IReach out my hand to the sun and tryTo make his glory my very ownAs think to touch with my finger tipsThy glorious beauty that shrinks from me.

Down the bright pathway of life, where joy, like the throstle, was singing,She passed, like a sungleam at dawn, through mistlands of sorrows and fears,Seeking the soul of the babe at her bosom now nursing and clinging,And stood in the valley of death, gloomed with the shadow of tears.Ghost glided past after ghost, and shook ghastly arms at the mortalWho dared to the valley of pain go down for the winning of life.Hour after hour trembled by, as we crouched in our woe at the portal,Made strangers to her whom we loved by strangers who looked on her strife.Angels spake hope to her there, as she stood in the vale of the shadow,Demons snarled at her heels, she was haunted by visions abhorred;But Love was a lamp to her feet as she passed through the woe-blossomed meadow,Seeking the soul of her child. She was brave, for her trust was the Lord.Death turned his sword as she came, and she passed through the gateways of heaven,Treading the pavements of pearl and haloed with shimmering gleams,On, till the veil hung between immortal and mortal was riven,And she brought from the garden of God the blue-eyed flower of her dreams.

Ghost glided past after ghost, and shook ghastly arms at the mortalWho dared to the valley of pain go down for the winning of life.Hour after hour trembled by, as we crouched in our woe at the portal,Made strangers to her whom we loved by strangers who looked on her strife.

Angels spake hope to her there, as she stood in the vale of the shadow,Demons snarled at her heels, she was haunted by visions abhorred;But Love was a lamp to her feet as she passed through the woe-blossomed meadow,Seeking the soul of her child. She was brave, for her trust was the Lord.

Death turned his sword as she came, and she passed through the gateways of heaven,Treading the pavements of pearl and haloed with shimmering gleams,On, till the veil hung between immortal and mortal was riven,And she brought from the garden of God the blue-eyed flower of her dreams.

Pluck flowers in youth, nor heed how old tongues prate;Pluck flowers in youth, in age it is too late;Pluck flowers when it is morn with flowers and you.So soon they wither, do not hesitate,Lest you should gather roses not, but rue.Pluck flowers ere life grows cold and desolate,And love turns hate.Pluck flowers in youth; age is the time for wheat;To age not even the rose itself is sweet,Pluck flowers, pluck flowers in youth, while faith is great,Ere life and joy grow cankered with deceit.Pluck flowers in youth; no sadder thought brings FateThan memory of scorned joys crushed by our feetIn flight too fleet.

Pluck flowers in youth; age is the time for wheat;To age not even the rose itself is sweet,Pluck flowers, pluck flowers in youth, while faith is great,Ere life and joy grow cankered with deceit.Pluck flowers in youth; no sadder thought brings FateThan memory of scorned joys crushed by our feetIn flight too fleet.

O foolish heart, to flutter soWith hope and fear;O treacherous blush, to come and goWhen he is near;Why do ye to the world revealThe passion I would fain conceal?O ears, that love to hear him speak;O downcast eyes,Whose lashes droop upon each cheek,Nor dare to rise;Do ye not know she sees and hearsFond looks and words that cost me tears?Be brave, mine heart, if he despise,Give scorn for scorn;Be deaf, mine ears, be blind, mine eyes,—Yet soul, why mourn?Though she may claim him for her own,My love, my love is mine alone.

O foolish heart, to flutter soWith hope and fear;O treacherous blush, to come and goWhen he is near;Why do ye to the world revealThe passion I would fain conceal?

O ears, that love to hear him speak;O downcast eyes,Whose lashes droop upon each cheek,Nor dare to rise;Do ye not know she sees and hearsFond looks and words that cost me tears?

Be brave, mine heart, if he despise,Give scorn for scorn;Be deaf, mine ears, be blind, mine eyes,—Yet soul, why mourn?Though she may claim him for her own,My love, my love is mine alone.

My heart’s a merry rover,Though innocent of wrong;Forever beauty’s lover,Yet never constant long.When coral lips are pouting,Their smiling to disguise,He kneels and loves, not doubtingThey are his richest prize.Yet when, amid his dreaming,He spies a bosom fair,At once the rogue is schemingTo gain admittance there;Though should he see the tressesThat frame a pretty head,His love and his caressesHe spends on them instead.Then, if bright eyes confuse himWith many a saucy stare,The lips, the curls, the bosomMust mourn their worshipper.And yet this merry roverIs nothing if not true,He’s but one maiden’s lover,And, dearest, she is you.

My heart’s a merry rover,Though innocent of wrong;Forever beauty’s lover,Yet never constant long.

When coral lips are pouting,Their smiling to disguise,He kneels and loves, not doubtingThey are his richest prize.

Yet when, amid his dreaming,He spies a bosom fair,At once the rogue is schemingTo gain admittance there;

Though should he see the tressesThat frame a pretty head,His love and his caressesHe spends on them instead.

Then, if bright eyes confuse himWith many a saucy stare,The lips, the curls, the bosomMust mourn their worshipper.

And yet this merry roverIs nothing if not true,He’s but one maiden’s lover,And, dearest, she is you.

Mark her as she stands,Blue eyes bright, match alight,Shielding with her handsThe growing flame,Holding to her lips, where the bee, love, sips,The fragrant pleasure of man’s leisure,Cigarette by name.There! it makes her cough.If she smoke, must she chokeWhen blue whirls come off?Now she deniesThe cigarette the bliss of her lips’ sweet kiss,Holds it burning, to ash turning,Till at last it dies.Thus she lit my heart,By the fell magic spellOf love’s witching art,And just as IBurned with passion’s fire, shrank from my desire,Let my yearning and heart-burningInto ashes die.

There! it makes her cough.If she smoke, must she chokeWhen blue whirls come off?Now she deniesThe cigarette the bliss of her lips’ sweet kiss,Holds it burning, to ash turning,Till at last it dies.

Thus she lit my heart,By the fell magic spellOf love’s witching art,And just as IBurned with passion’s fire, shrank from my desire,Let my yearning and heart-burningInto ashes die.

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