The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe White BeesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The White BeesAuthor: Henry Van DykeRelease date: February 1, 2003 [eBook #3757]Most recently updated: January 8, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Charles Franks, Robert Rowe, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE BEES ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The White BeesAuthor: Henry Van DykeRelease date: February 1, 2003 [eBook #3757]Most recently updated: January 8, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Charles Franks, Robert Rowe, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
Title: The White Bees
Author: Henry Van Dyke
Author: Henry Van Dyke
Release date: February 1, 2003 [eBook #3757]Most recently updated: January 8, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Charles Franks, Robert Rowe, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE BEES ***
Produced by Charles Franks, Robert Rowe, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
The White Bees
by
Henry van Dyke
SONGS FOR AMERICASea-Gulls of ManhattanUrbs CoronataAmericaDoors of DaringA Home SongA Noon SongAn American in EuropeThe Ancestral DwellingsFrancis MakemieNational Monuments
IN PRAISE OF POETSMother EarthMilton: Three SonnetsWordsworthKeatsShelleyRobert BrowningLongfellowThomas Bailey AldrichEdmund Clarence Stedman
LYRICS, DRAMATIC AND PERSONALLate SpringNepentheHesperArrivalDepartureThe Black BirdsWithout DisguiseGratitudeMaster of MusicStars and the SoulTo Julia MarlowePan Learns Music"Undine"Love in a LookMy April LadyA Lover's EnvyThe Hermit ThrushFire-Fly CityThe Gentle TravellerSicily, December, 1908The WindowTwilight in the AlpsJeanne D'ArcHudson's Last Voyage
Long ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngestof the shepherds,Saying, "I will make you keeper of my bees."Golden were the hives, and golden was the honey;golden, too, the music,Where the honey-makers hummed among the trees.
Happy Aristaeus loitered in the garden, wanderedin the orchard,Careless and contented, indolent and free;Lightly took his labour, lightly took his pleasure,till the fated momentWhen across his pathway came Eurydice.
Then her eyes enkindled burning love within him;drove him wild with longing,For the perfect sweetness of her flower-like face;Eagerly he followed, while she fled before him,over mead and mountain,On through field and forest, in a breathlessrace.
But the nymph, in flying, trod upon a serpent;like a dream she vanished;Pluto's chariot bore her down among the dead;Lonely Aristaeus, sadly home returning, found hisgarden empty,All the hives deserted, all the music fled.
Mournfully bewailing,—"ah, my honey-makers,where have you departed?"—Far and wide he sought them, over sea and shore;Foolish is the tale that says he ever found them,brought them home in triumph,—Joys that once escape us fly for evermore.
Yet I dream that somewhere, clad in downywhiteness, dwell the honey-makers,In aerial gardens that no mortal sees:And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us,gathering mystic harvest,—So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees.
Who can tell the hiding of the white bees'nest?Who can trace the guiding of their swift homeflight?Far would be his riding on a life-long quest:Surely ere it ended would his beard growwhite.
Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring,Never in the passing of the wine-red Fall,May you hear the humming of the white bee'swingMurmur o'er the meadow, ere the night bellscall.
Wait till winter hardens in the cold grey sky,Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks allfreeze,Then above the gardens where the dead flowerslie,Swarm the merry millions of the wild whitebees.
Out of the high-built airy hive,Deep in the clouds that veil the sun,Look how the first of the swarm arrive;Timidly venturing, one by one,Down through the tranquil air,Wavering here and there,Large, and lazy in flight,—Caught by a lift of the breeze,Tangled among the naked trees,—Dropping then, without a sound,Feather-white, feather-light,To their rest on the ground.
Thus the swarming is begun.Count the leaders, every onePerfect as a perfect starTill the slow descent is done.Look beyond them, see how farDown the vistas dim and grey,Multitudes are on the way.Now a sudden brightnessDawns within the sombre day,Over fields of whiteness;And the sky is swiftly aliveWith the flutter and the flightOf the shimmering bees, that pourFrom the hidden door of the hiveTill you can count no more.
Now on the branches of hemlock and pineThickly they settle and cluster and swing,Bending them low; and the trellised vineAnd the dark elm-boughs are traced with a lineOf beauty wherever the white bees cling.Now they are hiding the wrecks of the flowers,Softly, softly, covering all,Over the grave of the summer hoursSpreading a silver pall.Now they are building the broad roof ledge,Into a cornice smooth and fair,Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge,Into the sweep of a marble stair.Wonderful workers, swift and dumb,Numberless myriads, still they come,Thronging ever faster, faster, faster!Where is their queen? Who is their master?The gardens are faded, the fields are frore,—How will they fare in a world so bleak?Where is the hidden honey they seek?What is the sweetness they toil to storeIn the desolate day, where no blossoms gleam?Forgetfulness and a dream!
But now the fretful wind awakes;I hear him girding at the trees;He strikes the bending boughs, and shakesThe quiet clusters of the beesTo powdery drift;He tosses them away,He drives them like spray;He makes them veer and shiftAround his blustering path.In clouds blindly whirling,In rings madly swirling,Full of crazy wrath,So furious and fast they flyThey blur the earth and blot the skyIn wild, white mirk.They fill the air with frozen wingsAnd tiny, angry, icy stings;They blind the eyes, and choke the breath,They dance a maddening dance of deathAround their work,Sweeping the cover from the hill,Heaping the hollows deeper still,Effacing every line and mark,And swarming, storming in the darkThrough the long night;Until, at dawn, the wind lies down,Weary of fight.The last torn cloud, with trailing gown,Passes the open gates of light;And the white bees are lost in flight.
Look how the landscape glitters wide and still,Bright with a pure surprise!The day begins with joy, and all past ill,Buried in white oblivion, liesBeneath the snowdrifts under crystal skies.New hope, new love, new life, new cheer,Flow in the sunrise beam,—The gladness of Apollo when he sees,Upon the bosom of the wintry year,The honey-harvest of his wild white bees,Forgetfulness and a dream!
Listen, my beloved, while the silver morning,like a tranquil vision,Fills the world around us and our hearts withpeace;Quiet is the close of Aristaeus' legend, happy isthe ending—Listen while I tell you how he found release.
Many months he wandered far away in sadness,desolately thinkingOnly of the vanished joys he could not find;Till the great Apollo, pitying his shepherd, loosedhim from the burdenOf a dark, reluctant, backward-looking mind.
Then he saw around him all the changeful beautyof the changing seasons,In the world-wide regions where his journeylay;Birds that sang to cheer him, flowers that bloomedbeside him, stars that shone to guide him,—Traveller's joy was plenty all along the way!
Everywhere he journeyed strangers made himwelcome, listened while he taught themSecret lore of field and forest he had learned:How to train the vines and make the olives fruit-ful; how to guard the sheepfolds;How to stay the fever when the dog-star burned.
Friendliness and blessing followed in his foot-steps; richer were the harvests,Happier the dwellings, wheresoe'er he came;Little children loved him, and he left behind him,in the hour of parting,Memories of kindness and a god-like name.
So he travelled onward, desolate no longer,patient in his seeking,Reaping all the wayside comfort of his quest;Till at last in Thracia, high upon Mount Haemus,far from human dwelling,Weary Aristaeus laid him down to rest.
Then the honey-makers, clad in downy whiteness,fluttered soft around him,Wrapt him in a dreamful slumber pure anddeep.This is life, beloved: first a sheltered garden,then a troubled journey,Joy and pain of seeking,—and at last we sleep!
The other night I had a dream, most clearAnd comforting, completeIn every line, a crystal sphere,And full of intimate and secret cheer.Therefore I will repeatThat vision, dearest heart, to you,As of a thing not feigned, but very true,Yes, true as ever in my life befell;And you, perhaps, can tellWhether my dream was really sad or sweet.
The shadows flecked the elm-embowered streetI knew so well, long, long ago;And on the pillared porch where MargueriteHad sat with me, the moonlight lay like snow.But she, my comrade and my friend of youth,Most gaily wise,Most innocently loved,—She of the blue-grey eyesThat ever smiled and ever spoke the truth,—From that familiar dwelling, where she movedLike mirth incarnate in the years before,Had gone into the hidden house of Death.I thought the garden woreWhite mourning for her blessed innocence,And the syringa's breathCame from the corner by the fence,Where she had made her rustic seat,With fragrance passionate, intense,As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite.My heart was heavy with a senseOf something good forever gone. I soughtVainly for some consoling thought,Some comfortable word that I could sayTo the sad father, whom I visited againFor the first time since she had gone away.The bell rang shrill and lonely,—thenThe door was opened, and I sent my nameTo him,—but ah! 't was Marguerite who came!There in the dear old dusky room she stoodBeneath the lamp, just as she used to stand,In tender mocking mood."You did not ask for me," she said,"And so I will not let you take my hand;"But I must hear what secret talk you planned"With father. Come, my friend, be good,"And tell me your affairs of state:"Why you have stayed away and made me wait"So long. Sit down beside me here,—"And, do you know, it seemed a year"Since we have talked together,—why so late?"
Amazed, incredulous, confused with joyI hardly dared to show,And stammering like a boy,I took the place she showed me at her side;And then the talk flowed on with brimming tideThrough the still night,While she with influence lightControlled it, as the moon the flood.She knew where I had been, what I had done,What work was planned, and what begun;My troubles, failures, fears she understood,And touched them with a heart so kind,That every care was melted from my mind,And every hope grew bright,And life seemed moving on to happy ends.(Ah, what self-beggared fool was heThat said a woman cannot beThe very best of friends?)Then there were memories of old times,Recalled with many a gentle jest;And at the last she brought the book of rhymesWe made together, trying to translateThe Songs of Heine (hers were always best)."Now come," she said,"To-night we will collaborate"Again; I'll put you to the test."Here's one I never found the way to do,—"The simplest are the hardest ones, you know,—"I give this song to you."And then she read:Mein kind, wir waren Kinder,Zwei Kinder, jung und froh.
But all the while a silent question stirredWithin me, though I dared not speak the word:"Is it herself, and is she truly here,"And was I dreaming when I heard"That she was dead last year?"Or was it true, and is she but a shade"Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear,"Cold though so kind, and will she gently fade"When her sweet ghostly part is played"And the light-curtain falls at dawn of day?"But while my heart was troubled by this fearSo deeply that I could not speak it out,Lest all my happiness should disappear,I thought me of a cunning wayTo hide the question and dissolve the doubt."Will you not give me now your hand,"Dear Marguerite," I asked, "to touch and hold,"That by this token I may understand"You are the same true friend you were of old?"She answered with a smile so bright and calmIt seemed as if I saw new stars ariseIn the deep heaven of her eyes;And smiling so, she laid her palmIn mine. Dear God, it was not coldBut warm with vital heat!"You live!" I cried, "you live, dear Marguerite!"Then I awoke; but strangely comforted,Although I knew again that she was dead.
Yes, there's the dream! And was it sweet orsad?Dear mistress of my waking and my sleep,Present reward of all my heart's desire,Watching with me beside the winter fire,Interpret now this vision that I had.But while you read the meaning, let me keepThe touch of you: for the Old Year with stormIs passing through the midnight, and doth shakeThe corners of the house,—and oh! my heartwould breakUnless both dreaming and awakeMy hand could feel your hand was warm, warm,warm!
SEA-GULLS OF Manhattan
Children of the elemental mother,Born upon some lonely island shoreWhere the wrinkled ripples run and whisper,Where the crested billows plunge and roar;Long-winged, tireless roamers and adventurers,Fearless breasters of the wind and sea,In the far-off solitary placesI have seen you floating wild and free!
Here the high-built cities rise around you;Here the cliffs that tower east and west,Honeycombed with human habitations,Have no hiding for the sea-bird's nest:Here the river flows begrimed and troubled;Here the hurrying, panting vessels fume,Restless, up and down the watery highway,While a thousand chimneys vomit gloom.
Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion,Clank and clamor of the vast machineHuman hands have built for human bondage—Yet amid it all you float serene;Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping lightlyDown to glean your harvest from the wave;In your heritage of air and water,You have kept the freedom Nature gave.
Even so the wild-woods of ManhattanSaw your wheeling flocks of white and grey;Even so you fluttered, followed, floated,Round the Half-Moon creeping up the bay;Even so your voices creaked and chattered,Laughing shrilly o'er the tidal rips,While your black and beady eyes were glisteningRound the sullen British prison-ships.
Children of the elemental mother,Fearless floaters 'mid the double blue,From the crowded boats that cross the ferriesMany a longing heart goes out to you.Though the cities climb and close around us,Something tells us that our souls are free,While the sea-gulls fly above the harbor,While the river flows to meet the sea!
(Song for the City College of New York)
O youngest of the giant broodOf cities far-renowned;In wealth and power thou hast passedThy rivals at a bound;And now thou art a queen, New York;And how wilt thou be crowned?
"Weave me no palace-wreath of pride,"The royal city said;"Nor forge an iron fortress-wallTo frown upon my head;But let me wear a diademOf Wisdom's towers instead."
And so upon her island heightShe worked her will forsooth,She set upon her rocky browA citadel of Truth,A house of Light, a home of Thought,A shrine of noble Youth.
Stand here, ye City College towers,And look both up and down;Remember all who wrought for youWithin the toiling town;Remember all they thought for you,And all the hopes they brought for you,And be the City's Crown.
I Love thine inland seas,Thy groves of giant trees,Thy rolling plains;Thy rivers' mighty sweep,Thy mystic canyons deep,Thy mountains wild and steep,All thy domains;
Thy silver Eastern strands,Thy Golden Gate that standsWide to the West;Thy flowery Southland fair,Thy sweet and crystal air,—O land beyond compare,Thee I love best!
Additional verses for the National Hymn, March, 1906.
The mountains that enfold the valeWith walls of granite, steep and high,Invite the fearless foot to scaleTheir stairway toward the sky.
The restless, deep, dividing seaThat flows and foams from shore to shore,Calls to its sunburned chivalry,"Push out, set sail, explore!"And all the bars at which we fret,That seem to prison and control,Are but the doors of daring, setAjar before the soul.
Say not, "Too poor," but freely give;Sigh not, "Too weak," but boldly try.You never can begin to liveUntil you dare to die.
I Read within a poet's bookA word that starred the page:"Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage!"
Yes, that is true; and something moreYou'll find, where'er you roam,That marble floors and gilded wallsCan never make a home.
But every house where Love abides,And Friendship is a guest,Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:For there the heart can rest.
There are songs for the morning and songsfor the night,For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon;But who will give praise to the fulness of light,And sing us a song of the glory of noon?Oh, the high noon, and the clear noon,The noon with golden crest;When the sky burns, and the sun turnsWith his face to the way of the west!
How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength;How slowly he crept as the morning wore by;Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at lengthTo the height of his throne in the blue summersky.Oh, the long toil, and the slow toil,The toil that may not rest,Till the sun looks down from his journey'scrown,To the wonderful way of the west!
'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel upand downAmong the famous palaces and cities of renown,To admire the crumbly castles and the statues ofthe kings,—But now I think I've had enough of antiquatedthings.
So it's home again, and home again, America forme IMy heart is turning home again, and there I long tobe,In the land of youth and freedom beyond the oceanbars,Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is fullof stars.
Oh, London is a man's town, there's power inthe air;And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers inher hair;And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's greatto study Rome;But when it comes to living there is no place likehome.
I like the German fir-woods, in green battalionsdrilled;I like the gardens of Versailles with flashingfountains filled;But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramblefor a dayIn the friendly western woodland where Naturehas her way!
I know that Europe's wonderful, yet somethingseems to lack:The Past is too much with her, and the peoplelooking back.But the glory of the Present is to make theFuture free,—We love our land for what she is and what sheis to be.
Oh, it's home again, and home again, America forme II want a ship that's westward bound to plough therotting sea.To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond theocean bars,Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is fullof stars.
Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellingsof America,Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts ofroyal splendour;These are the homes that were built by the bravebeginners of a nation,They are simple enough to be great, and full ofa friendly dignity.
I love the old white farmhouses nestled in NewEngland valleys,Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feather-ing over them:Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-fashioned flowers,A fan-light above the door, and little square panesin the windows,The wood-shed piled with maple and birch andhickory ready for winter,The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded withhousehold relics,—All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit ofself-reliance.
I love the look of the shingled houses that frontthe ocean;Their backs are bowed, and their lichened sidesare weather-beaten;Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are fullof patience and courage.They seem to grow out of the rocks, there issomething indomitable about them:Pacing the briny wind in a lonely land they standundaunted,While the thin blue line of smoke from thesquare-built chimney rises,Telling of shelter for man, with room for a hearthand a cradle.
I love the stately southern mansions with theirtall white columns,They look through avenues of trees, over fieldswhere the cotton is growing;I can see the flutter of white frocks along theirshady porches,Music and laughter float from the windows, theyards are full of hounds and horses.They have all ridden away, yet the houses havenot forgotten,They are proud of their name and place, andtheir doors are always open,For the thing they remember best is the prideof their ancient hospitality.
In the towns I love the discreet and tranquilQuaker dwellings,With their demure brick faces and immaculatewhite-stone doorsteps;And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with theirhigh stoops and iron railings,(I can see their little brass knobs shining in themorning sunlight);And the solid houses of the descendants of thePuritans,Fronting the street with their narrow doors anddormer-windows;And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansionsof Charleston,Standing sideways in their gardens full of rosesand magnolias.
Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in myeyes they are beautiful;For under their roofs were nourished the thoughtsthat have made the nation;The glory and strength of America came fromher ancestral dwellings.
(Presbyter of Christ in America, 1683-1708)
To thee, plain hero of a rugged race,We bring the meed of praise too long delayed!Thy fearless word and faithful work have madeFor God's Republic firmer path and placeIn this New World: thou hast proclaimed thegraceAnd power of Christ in many a forest glade,Teaching the truth that leaves men unafraidOf frowning tyranny or death's dark face.
Oh, who can tell how much we owe to thee,Makemie, and to labour such as thine,For all that makes America the shrineOf faith untrammeled and of conscience free?Stand here, grey stone, and consecrate the sodWhere rests this brave Scotch-Irish man of God!
Count not the cost of honour to the dead!The tribute that a mighty nation paysTo those who loved her well in former daysMeans more than gratitude for glories fled;For every noble man that she hath bred,Lives in the bronze and marble that we raise,Immortalized by art's immortal praise,To lead our sons as he our fathers led.
These monuments of manhood strong and highDo more than forts or battle-ships to keepOur dear-bought liberty. They fortifyThe heart of youth with valour wise and deep;They build eternal bulwarks, and commandEternal strength to guard our native land.
Mother of all the high-strung poets andsingers departed,Mother of all the grass that weaves over theirgraves the glory of the field,Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep-bosomed, patient, impassive,Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sor-rows!Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depthbelow thy breast,Issued in some Strange way, thou lying motion-less, voiceless,All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate,yearning,Coming in music from earth, but not unto earthreturning.
Dust are the blood-red hearts that beat in timeto these measures,Thou hast taken them back to thyself, secretly,irresistiblyDrawing the crimson currents of life down, down,downDeep into thy bosom again, as a river is lost inthe sand.
But the souls of the singers have entered intothe songs that revealed them,—Passionate songs, immortal songs of joy andgrief and love and longing:Floating from heart to heart of thy children, theyecho above thee:Do they not utter thy heart, the voices of thosethat love thee?
Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed bysome old enchantmentInto an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speech-less,Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thyLord and LoverWorking within thee awakened the man-child tobreathe thy secret.All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flow-ing watersAre but enchanted forms to embody the life ofthe spirit;Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain andmeadow and ocean,Holdest the poem of God, eternal thought andemotion.
Lover of beauty, walking on the heightOf pure philosophy and tranquil song;Born to behold the visions that belongTo those who dwell in melody and light;Milton, thou spirit delicate and bright!What drew thee down to join the RoundheadthrongOf iron-sided warriors, rude and strong,Fighting for freedom in a world half night?
Lover of Liberty at heart wast thou,Above all beauty bright, all music clear:To thee she bared her bosom and her brow,Breathing her virgin promise in thine ear,And bound thee to her with a double vow,—Exquisite Puritan, grave Cavalier!
The cause, the cause for which thy soul resignedHer singing robes to battle on the plain,Was won, O poet, and was lost again;And lost the labour of thy lonely mindOn weary tasks of prose. What wilt thou findTo comfort thee for all the toil and pain?What solace, now thy sacrifice is vainAnd thou art left forsaken, poor, and blind?
Like organ-music comes the deep reply:"The cause of truth looks lost, but shall bewon.For God hath given to mine inward eyeVision of England soaring to the sun.And granted me great peace before I die,In thoughts of lowly duty bravely done."
O bend again above thine organ-board,Thou blind old poet longing for repose!Thy Master claims thy service not with thoseWho only stand and wait for his reward.He pours the heavenly gift of song restoredInto thy breast, and bids thee nobly closeA noble life, with poetry that flowsIn mighty music of the major chord.
Where hast thou learned this deep, majesticstrain,Surpassing all thy youthful lyric grace,To sing of Paradise? Ah, not in vainThe griefs that won at Dante's side thy place,And made thee, Milton, by thy years of pain,The loftiest poet of the Saxon race!
Wordsworth, thy music like a river rollsAmong the mountains, and thy song is fedBy living springs far up the watershed;No whirling flood nor parching drought controlsThe crystal current; even on the shoalsIt murmurs clear and sweet; and when its bedDarkens below mysterious cliffs of dread,Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our souls.
But thou in youth hast known the breaking stressOf passion, and hast trod despair's dry groundBeneath black thoughts that wither and de-stroy.Ah, wanderer, led by human tendernessHome to the heart of Nature, thou hast foundThe hidden Fountain of Recovered Joy.
The melancholy gift Aurora gainedFrom Jove, that her sad lover should notseeThe face of death, no goddess asked for thee,My Keats! But when the crimson blood-dropstainedThy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained,—Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy!And then,—a shadow fell on Italy:Thy star went down before its brightness waned.
Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed:Never to feel the pain of growing old,Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty's truth,But with the ardent lips that music kissedTo breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grewcold,Become the Poet of Immortal Youth.
Knight-errant of the Never-endingQuest,And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled Desire;For ever tuning thy frail earthly lyreTo some unearthly music, and possessedWith painful passionate longing to investThe golden dream of Love's immortal fireIn mortal robes of beautiful attire,And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast!
What wonder, Shelley, if the restless waveShould claim thee and the leaping flame con-sumeThy drifted form on Viareggio's beach?Fate to thy body gave a fitting grave,And bade thy soul ride on with fiery plume,Thy wild song ring in ocean's yearningspeech!
How blind the toil that burrows like the mole,In winding graveyard pathways under-ground,For Browning's lineage! What if men havefoundPoor footmen or rich merchants on the rollOf his forbears? Did they beget his soul?Nay, for he came of ancestry renownedThrough all the world,—the poets laurel-crownedWith wreaths from which the autumn takes notoll.
The blazons on his coat-of-arms are these:The flaming sign of Shelley's heart on fire,The golden globe of Shakespeare's humanstage,The staff and scrip of Chaucer's pilgrimage,The rose of Dante's deep, divine desire,The tragic mask of wise Euripides.
In a great land, a new land, a land full of labourand riches and confusion,Where there were many running to and fro, andshouting, and striving together,In the midst of the hurry and the troubled noise,I heard the voice of one singing.
"What are you doing there, O man, singingquietly amid all this tumult?This is the time for new inventions, mightyshoutings, and blowings of the trumpet."But he answered, "I am only shepherding mysheep with music."
So he went along his chosen way, keeping hislittle flock around him;And he paused to listen, now and then, besidethe antique fountains,Where the faces of forgotten gods were refreshedwith musically falling waters;
Or he sat for a while at the blacksmith's door,and heard the cling-clang of the anvils;Or he rested beneath old steeples full of bells,that showered their chimes upon him;Or he walked along the border of the sea, drink-ing in the long roar of the billows;
Or he sunned himself in the pine-scented ship-yard, amid the tattoo of the mallets;Or he leaned on the rail of the bridge, lettinghis thoughts flow with the whispering river;He hearkened also to ancient tales, and madethem young again with his singing.
Then a flaming arrow of death fell on his flock,and pierced the heart of his dearest!Silent the music now, as the shepherd enteredthe mystical temple of sorrow:Long he tarried in darkness there: but when hecame out he was singing.
And I saw the faces of men and women andchildren silently turning toward him;The youth setting out on the journey of life, andthe old man waiting beside the last mile-stone;The toiler sweating beneath his load; and thehappy mother rocking her cradle;
The lonely sailor on far-off seas; and the grey-minded scholar in his book-room;The mill-hand bound to a clacking machine; andthe hunter in the forest;And the solitary soul hiding friendless in thewilderness of the city;
Many human faces, full of care and longing, weredrawn irresistibly toward him,By the charm of something known to every heart,yet very strange and lovely,And at the sound of that singing wonderfullyall their faces were lightened.
"Why do you listen, O you people, to this oldand world-worn music?This is not for you, in the splendour of a newage, in the democratic triumph!Listen to the clashing cymbals, the big drums, thebrazen trumpets of your poets."
But the people made no answer, following intheir hearts the simpler music:For it seemed to them, noise-weary, nothingcould be better worth the hearingThan the melodies which brought sweet orderinto life's confusion.
So the shepherd sang his way along, until hecame unto a mountain:And I know not surely whether it was calledParnassus,But he climbed it out of sight, and still I heardthe voice of one singing.
Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow daysHave brought another Festa round to you,You can't refuse a loving-cup of praiseFrom friends the fleeting years have bound toyou.
Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear BadBoy,Prudence, and Judith the Bethulian,And many more, to wish you birthday joy,And sunny hours, and sky caerulean!
Your children all, they hurry to your den,With wreaths of honour they have won foryou,To merry-make your threescore years and tenYou, old? Why, life has just begun for you!
There's many a reader whom your silver songsAnd crystal stories cheer in loneliness.What though the newer writers come in throngs?You're sure to keep your charm of only-ness.
You do your work with careful, loving touch,—An artist to the very core of you,—you know the magic spell of "not-too-much":We read,—and wish that there was more ofyou.
And more there is: for while we love your booksBecause their subtle skill is part of you;We love you better, for our friendship looksBehind them to the human heart of you.
November 24,1906.
This is the house where little Aldrich readThe early pages of Life's wonder-book:With boyish pleasure, in this ingle-nookHe watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy spreadBright colours on the pictures, blue and red:Boy-like he skipped the longer words, and tookHis happy way, with searching, dreamful lookAmong the deeper things more simply said.
Then, came his turn to write: and still the flameOf Fancy played through all the tales he told,And still he won the laurelled poet's fameWith simple words wrought into rhymes ofgold.Look, here's the face to which this house isframe,—A man too wise to let his heart grow old!
(Dedication of the Aldrich Memorial at Portsmouth, June 11, 1908.)
Oh, quick to feel the lightest touchOf beauty or of truth,Rich in the thoughtfulness of age,The hopefulness of youth,The courage of the gentle heart,The wisdom of the pure,The strength of finely tempered soulsTo labour and endure!
The blue of springtime in your eyesWas never quenched by pain;And winter brought your head the crownOf snow without a stain.The poet's mind, the prince's heart,You kept until the end,Nor ever faltered in your work,Nor ever failed a friend.
You followed, through the quest of life,The light that shines aboveThe tumult and the toil of men,And shows us what to love.Right loyal to the best you knew,Reality or dream,You ran the race, you fought the fight,A follower of the Gleam.
We lay upon your well-earned graveThe wreath of asphodel,We speak above your peaceful faceThe tender word Farewell!For well you fare, in God's good care,Somewhere within the blue,And know, to-day, your dearest dreamsAre true,—and true,—and true!
(Read at the funeral of Mr. Stedman, January 21, 1908.)
Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days,Why the sweet Spring delays,And where she hides,—the dear desireOf every heart that longsFor bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fireOf maple-buds along the misty hills,And that immortal call which fillsThe waiting wood with songs?The snow-drops came so long ago,It seemed that Spring was near!But then returned the snowWith biting winds, and all the earth grew sere,And sullen clouds drooped lowTo veil the sadness of a hope deferred:Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rainBeat on the window-pane,Through which I watched the solitary birdThat braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed,With rumpled feathers, down the wind again.Oh, were the seeds all lostWhen winter laid the wild flowers in their tomb?I searched their haunts in vainFor blue hepaticas, and trilliums white,And trailing arbutus, the Spring's delight,Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom.The woods were bare: and every night the frostTo all my longings spoke a silent nay,And told me Spring was far and far away.Even the robins were too cold to sing,Except a broken and discouraged note,—Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throatMusic has put her triple finger-print,Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint,—"Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!"
But now, Carina, what divine amendsFor all delay! What sweetness treasured up,What wine of joy that blendsA hundred flavours in a single cup,Is poured into this perfect day!For look, sweet heart, here are the early flowers,That lingered on their way,Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of May,And mingled with the bloom of later hours,—Anemonies and cinque-foils, violets blueAnd white, and iris richly gleaming throughThe grasses of the meadow, and a blazeOf butter-cups and daisies in the field,Filling the air with praise,As if a silver chime of bells had pealed!The frozen songs within the breastOf silent birds that hid in leafless woods,Melt into rippling floodsOf gladness unrepressed.Now oriole and blue-bird, thrush and lark,Warbler and wren and vireo,Confuse their music; for the living sparkOf Love has touched the fuel of desire,And every heart leaps up in singing fire.It seems as if the landWere breathing deep beneath the sun's caress,Trembling with tenderness,While all the woods expand,In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green,To veil the joys too sacred to be seen.
Come, put your hand in mine,True love, long sought and found at last,And lead me deep into the Spring divineThat makes amends for all the wintry past.For all the flowers and songs I feared to missArrive with you;And in the lingering pressure of your kissMy dreams come true;And in the promise of your generous eyesI read the mystic signOf joy more perfect madeBecause so long delayed,And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise.Ah, think not early love alone is strong;He loveth best whose heart has learned to waitDear messenger of Spring that tarried long,You're doubly dear because you come so late.
Yes it was like you to forget,And cancel in the welcome of your smileMy deep arrears of debt,And with the putting forth of both your handsTo sweep away the bars my folly setBetween us—bitter thoughts, and harsh de-mands,And reckless deeds that seemed untrueTo love, when all the whileMy heart was aching through and throughFor you, sweet heart, and only you.
Yet, as I turned to come to you again,I thought there must be many a mileOf sorrowful reproach to cross,And many an hour of mutual painTo bear, until I could make plainThat all my pride was but the fear of loss,And all my doubt the shadow of despairTo win a heart so innocent and fair;And even that which looked most illWas but the fever-fret and effort vainTo dull the thirst which you alone could still.
But as I turned the desert miles were crossed,And when I came the weary hours were sped!For there you stood beside the open door,Glad, gracious, smiling as before,And with bright eyes and tender hands outspreadRestored me to the Eden I had lost.Never a word of cold reproof,No sharp reproach, no glances that accuseThe culprit whom they hold aloof,—Ah, 't is not thus that other women useThe power they have won!For there is none like you, beloved,—noneSecure enough to do what you have done.Where did you learn this heavenly art,—You sweetest and most wise of all that live,—With silent welcome to impartAssurance of the royal heartThat never questions where it would forgive?
None but a queen could pardon me like this!My sovereign lady, let me layWithin each rosy palm a loyal kissOf penitence, then close the fingers up,Thus—thus! Now give the cupOf full nepenthe in your crimson mouth,And come—the garden blooms with bliss,The wind is in the south,The rose of love with dew is wet—Dear, it was like you to forget!
Her eyes are like the evening air,Her voice is like a rose,Her lips are like a lovely song,That ripples as it flows,And she herself is sweeter thanThe sweetest thing she knows.
A slender, haunting, twilight formOf wonder and surprise,She seemed a fairy or a child,Till, deep within her eyes,I saw the homeward-leading starOf womanhood arise.
Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundredleagues of land,Along a path I had not traced and could notunderstand,I travelled fast and far for this,—to take theeby the hand.
A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he wouldbend his knee,A mariner without a dream of what his portwould be,So fared I with a seeking heart until I came tothee.
O cooler than a grove of palm in some heat-wearyplace,O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild searace,The quiet room adorned with flowers where firstI saw thy face!
Then furl the sail, let fall the oar, forget the pathsof foam!The Power that made me wander far at last hasbrought me homeTo thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no morewill roam.
Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun,And why is the garden so gay?Do you know that my days of delight are done,Do you know I am going away?If you covered your face with a cloud, I'd dreamYou were sorry for me in my pain,And the heads of the flowers all bowed wouldseemTo be weeping with me in the rain.
But why is your head so low, sweet heart,And why are your eyes overcast?Are they clouded because you know we must part,Do you think this embrace is our last?Then kiss me again, and again, and again,Look up as you bid me good-bye!For your face is too dear for the stain of a tear,And your smile is the sun in my sky.
Once, only once, I saw it clear,—That Eden every human heart has dreamedA hundred times, but always far away!Ah, well do I remember how it seemed,Through the still atmosphereOf that enchanted day,To lie wide open to my weary feet:A little land of love and joy and rest,With meadows of soft green,Rosy with cyclamen, and sweetWith delicate breath of violets unseen,—And, tranquil 'mid the bloomAs if it waited for a coming guest,A little house of peace and joy and loveWas nested like a snow-white dove
From the rough mountain where I stood,Homesick for happiness,Only a narrow valley and a darkling woodTo cross, and then the long distressOf solitude would be forever past,—I should be home at last.But not too soon! oh, let me linger hereAnd feed my eyes, hungry with sorrow,On all this loveliness, so near,And mine to-morrow!
Then, from the wood, across the silvery blue,A dark bird flew,Silent, with sable wings.Close in his wake another came,—Fragments of midnight floating throughThe sunset flame,—Another and another, weaving ringsOf blackness on the primrose sky,—Another, and another, look, a score,A hundred, yes, a thousand rising heavilyFrom that accursed, dumb, and ancient wood,—They boiled into the lucid airLike smoke from some deep caldron of despair!And more, and more, and ever more,The numberless, ill-omened brood,Flapping their ragged plumes,Possessed the landscape and the evening lightWith menaces and glooms.Oh, dark, dark, dark they hovered o'er the placeWhere once I saw the little house so whiteAmid the flowers, covering every traceOf beauty from my troubled sight,—And suddenly it was night!
At break of day I crossed the wooded vale;And while the morning madeA trembling light among the tree-tops pale,I saw the sable birds on every limb,Clinging together closely in the shade,And croaking placidly their surly hymn.But, oh, the little land of peace and loveThat those night-loving wings had poisedabove,—Where was it gone?Lost, lost forevermore!Only a cottage, dull and gray,In the cold light of dawn,With iron bars across the door:Only a garden where the withering headsOf flowers, presaging decay,Hung over barren beds:Only a desolate field that layUntilled beneath the desolate day,—Where Eden seemed to bloom I found but these!So, wondering, I passed along my way,With anger in my heart, too deep for words,Against that grove of evil-sheltering trees,And the black magic of the croaking birds.
If I have erred in showing all my heart,And lost your favour by a lack of pride;If standing like a beggar at your sideWith naked feet, I have forgot the artOf those who bargain well in passion's mart,And win the thing they want by what theyhide;Be mine the fault as mine the hope denied,Be mine the lover's and the loser's part.
The sin, if sin it was, I do repent,And take the penance on myself alone;Yet after I have borne the punishment,I shall not fear to stand before the throneOf Love with open heart, and make this plea:"At least I have not lied to her nor Thee!"
Do you give thanks for this?—or that?"No, God be thankedI am not gratefulIn that cold, calculating way, with blessingrankedAs one, two, three, and four,—that would behateful.
I only know that every day brings good aboveMy poor deserving;I only feel that, in the road of Life, true LoveIs leading me along and never swerving.
Whatever gifts and mercies in my lot may fall,I would not measureAs worth a certain price in praise, or great orsmall;But take and use them all with simple pleasure.
For when we gladly eat our daily bread, we blessThe Hand that feeds us;And when we tread the road of Life in cheer-fulness,Our very heart-beats praise the Love that leadsus.
(In memory of Theodore Thomas, 1905)
Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculp-tor, and bard,Living forever in temple and picture and statueand song,—Look how the world with the lights that they litis illumined and starred,Brief was the flame of their life, but the lampsof their art burn long!
Where is the Master of Music, and how has hevanished away?Where is the work that he wrought with hiswonderful art in the air?Gone,—it is gone like the glow on the cloudat the close of the day!The Master has finished his work, and the gloryof music is—where?
Once, at the wave of his wand, all the billows ofmusical soundFollowed his will, as the sea was ruled by theprophet of old:Now that his hand is relaxed, and his rod hasdropped to the ground,Silent and dark are the shores where the mar-vellous harmonies rolled!
Nay, but not silent the hearts that were filled bythat life-giving sea;Deeper and purer forever the tides of theirbeing will roll,Grateful and joyful, O Master, because they havelistened to thee,—The glory of music endures in the depths ofthe human soul.
(To Charles A. Young, Astronomer)
"Two things," the wise man said, "fill mewith awe:The starry heavens and the moral law."Nay, add another wonder to thy roll,—The living marvel of the human soul!
Born in the dust and cradled in the dark,It feels the fire of an immortal spark,And learns to read, with patient, searching eyes,The splendid secret of the unconscious skies.
For God thought Light before He spoke the word;The darkness understood not, though it heard:But man looks up to where the planets swim,And thinks God's thoughts of glory after Him.
What knows the star that guides the sailor's way,Or lights the lover's bower with liquid ray,Of toil and passion, danger and distress,Brave hope, true love, and utter faithfulness?
But human hearts that suffer good and ill,And hold to virtue with a loyal will,Adorn the law that rules our mortal strifeWith star-surpassing victories of life.
So take our thanks, dear reader of the skies,Devout astronomer, most humbly wise,For lessons brighter than the stars can give,And inward light that helps us all to live.
The world has brought the laurel-leaves to crownThe star-discoverer's name with high, renown;Accept the flower of love we lay with theseFor influence sweeter than the Pleiades!
(Reading Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn)
Long had I loved this "Attic shape," the bredeOf marble maidens round this urn divine:But when your golden voice began to read,The empty urn was filled with Chian wine.
Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on therock,Where is sweet Echo, and where is your flock?What are you making here? "Listen," saidPan,—"Out of a river-reed music for man!"
'Twas far away and long ago,When I was but a dreaming boy,This fairy tale of love and woeEntranced my heart with tearful joy;And while with white Undine I wept,Your spirit,—ah, how strange it seems,Was cradled in some star, and slept,Unconscious of her coming dreams.
Let me but feel thy look's embrace,Transparent, pure, and warm,And I'll not ask to touch thy face,Or fold thee with mine arm.For in thine eyes a girl doth rise,Arrayed in candid bliss,And draws me to her with a charmMore close than any kiss.
A loving-cup of golden wine,Songs of a silver brook,And fragrant breaths of eglantine,Are mingled in thy look.More fair they are than any star,Thy topaz eyes divine—And deep within their trysting-nookThy spirit blends with mine.
When down the stair at morningThe sunbeams round her float,Sweet rivulets of laughterAre bubbling in her throat;The gladness of her greetingIs gold without alloy;And in the morning sunlightI think her name is Joy.
When in the evening twilightThe quiet book-room lies,We read the sad old ballads,While from her hidden eyesThe tears are falling, falling,That give her heart relief;And in the evening twilight,I think her name is Grief.
My little April lady,Of sunshine and of showers,She weaves the old spring magic,And breaks my heart in flowers!But when her moods are ended,She nestles like a dove;Then, by the pain and rapture,I know her name is Love.
I envy every flower that blowsAlong the meadow where she goes,And every bird that sings to her,And every breeze that brings to herThe fragrance of the rose.
I envy every poet's rhymeThat moves her heart at eventime,And every tree that wears for herIts brightest bloom, and bears for herThe fruitage of its prime.