EARLIER POEMS THE THREE SHIPS |
MAUD AND MADGE Maud in a crimson velvet chair Strings her pearls on a silken thread, While, lovingly lifting her golden hair, Soft airs wander about her head. She has silken robes of the softest flow, She has jewels rare and a chain of gold, And her two white hands flit to and fro, Fair as the dainty toys they hold. She has tropical birds and rare perfumes; Pictures that speak to the heart and eye; For her each flower of the Orient blooms,— For her the song and the lute swell high; But daintily stringing her gleaming pearls She dreams to-day in her velvet chair, While the sunlight sleeps in her golden curls, Lightly stirred by the odorous air. Down on the beach, when the tide goes out, Madge is gathering shining shells; The sea-breeze blows her locks about; O’er bare, brown feet the white sand swells. Coarsest serge is her gown of gray, Faded and torn her apron blue, And there in the beautiful, dying day The girl still thinks of the work to do. Stains of labor are on her hands, Lost is the young form’s airy grace; And standing there on the shining sands You read her fate in her weary face. Up with the dawn to toil all day For meagre fare and a place to sleep; Seldom a moment to dream or play, Little leisure to laugh or weep. Beautiful Maud, you think, maybe, Lying back in your velvet chair, There is naught in common with her and thee,— You scarce could breathe in the self-same air. But the warm blood in her girlish heart Leaps quick as yours at her nature’s call, And ye, though moving so far apart, Must share one destiny after all. Love shall come to you both one day, For still must be what aye hath been; And under satin or russet gray Hearts will open to let him in. Motherhood with its joy and woe Each must compass through burning pain,— You, fair Maud, with your brow of snow, Madge with her brown hands labor-stained. Each shall sorrow and each shall weep, Though one is in hovel, one in hall; Over your gold the frost shall creep, As over her jet the snows will fall. Exquisite Maud, you lift your eyes At Madge out yonder under the sun; Yet know ye both by the countless ties Of a common womanhood ye are one! A MOTHER’S QUESTION What mother-angel tended thee last night, Sweet baby mine? Cradled upon what breast all soft and white Didst thou recline? Who took thee, frail and tender as thou art, Within her arms? And shielded thee, close claspÉd to her heart, From all alarms? Surely that God who lured thee from the breast That hoped to be The softest pillow and the sweetest rest Thenceforth to thee, Sent thee not forth into the dread unknown Without a guide, To grope in darkness, treading all alone The path untried. Compassionate is He who called thee, child; And well I know He sent some Blessed One of aspect mild With thee to go Through the dark valley, where the shadows dim Forever brood, That the low music of an angel’s hymn Might cheer the solitude! OVER THE WALL I know a spot where the wild vines creep, And the coral moss-cups grow, And where, at the foot of the rocky steep, The sweet blue violets blow. There all day long, in the summer-time, You may hear the river’s dreamy rhyme; There all day long does the honey-bee Murmur and hum in the hollow tree. And there the feathery hemlock makes A shadow cool and sweet, While from its emerald wing it shakes Rare incense at your feet. There do the silvery lichens cling, There does the tremulous harebell swing; And many a scarlet berry shines Deep in the green of the tangled vines. Over the wall at dawn of day, Over the wall at noon, Over the wall when the shadows say That night is coming soon, A little maiden with laughing eyes Climbs in her eager haste, and hies Down to the spot where the wild vines creep, And violets bloom by the rocky steep. All wild things love her. The murmuring bee Scarce stirs when she draws near, And sings the bird in the hemlock-tree Its sweetest for her ear. The harebells nod as she passes by, The violet lifts its tender eye, The low ferns bend her steps to greet, And the mosses creep to her dancing feet. Up in her pathway seems to spring All that is sweet or rare,— Chrysalis quaint, or the moth’s bright wing, Or flower-buds strangely fair. She watches the tiniest bird’s-nest hid The thickly clustering leaves amid; And the small brown tree-toad on her arm Quietly hops, and fears no harm. Ah, child of the laughing eyes, and heart Attuned to Nature’s voice! Thou hast found a bliss that will ne’er depart While earth can say, “Rejoice!” The years must come, and the years must go; But the flowers will bloom, and the breezes blow, And bird and butterfly, moth and bee, Bring on their swift wings joy to thee! OUTGROWN Nay, you wrong her, my friend, she’s not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown; One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one’s own. Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say, And you know we were children together, have quarreled and “made up” in play. And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the truth, As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth. Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the self-same plane, Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls could be parted again. She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life’s early May, And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you to-day. Nature never stands still, nor souls either. They ever go up or go down; And hers has been steadily soaring,—but how has it been with your own? She has struggled, and yearned, and aspired,—grown stronger and wiser each year; The stars are not farther above you, in yon luminous atmosphere! For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, five summers ago, Has learned that the first of our duties to God and ourselves is to grow. Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer, but their vision is clearer as well; Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but it rings like a silver bell. Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his angels have talked; The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom she has walked. And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and prayed? Have you looked upon evil unsullied? have you conquered it undismayed? Have you, too, grown stronger and wiser, as the months and the years have rolled on? Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of victory won? Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you. When to-day in her presence you stood, Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her womanhood? Go measure yourself by her standard. Look back on the years that have fled; Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her girlhood is dead! She cannot look down to her lover; her love, like her soul, aspires; He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires. Now, farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth, As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth. A SONG FOR TWO Not for its sunsets burning clear and low, Its purple splendors on the eastern hills, Bless I the Year that now makes haste to go While sad Earth listens for its dying thrills. Not that its days were sweet with sun and showers; Its summer nights all luminous with stars: Not that its vales were studded thick with flowers; Not that its mountains pierced the azure bars; Not that from our dear land, by slow degrees, Some mists of error it hath blown away; Not for its noble deeds—ah! not for these— Fain would I twine this wreath of song to-day. But for one gift that it has brought to me My grateful heart would crown the dying Year: Because, O best-beloved, it gave me thee, I drop this garland on the passing bier! A PICTURE A lovely bit of dappled green Shut in the circling hills between, While farther off blue mountains stand Like giant guards on either hand. The quiet road in still repose Follows where’er the river flows; And in and out it glides along, Enchanted by the rippling song. Afar, I see the steepled town From yonder hillside looking down; And sometimes, when the south wind swells, Hear the faint chiming of its bells. But under these embowering trees, Lulled by the hum of droning bees, The old brown farmhouse seems to sleep, So calm its rest is and so deep. Yonder, beside the rustic bridge, From which the path climbs yonder ridge, The lazy cattle seek the shade By the umbrageous willows made. The sky is like a hollow pearl, Save where warm sunset clouds unfurl Their flaming colors. Lo! a star, Even as I gaze, gleams forth afar! HYMN TO LIFE Ah, Life, dear Life, how beautiful art thou! All day sweet, chiming voices in my heart Have hymned thy praises joyfully as now, Telling how fair thou art! This morn, while yet the dew was on the flowers, They sang like skylarks, soaring while they sing; This noon, like birds within their leafy bowers, Warbled with folded wing. Slow fades the twilight from the glowing west, And one pale star hangs o’er yon mountain’s brow; With deeper joy, that may not be repressed, O Life, they hail thee now! And not alone from this poor heart of mine Do these glad notes of grateful love ascend; Voices from mount and vale and woodland shrine In the full chorus blend. The young leaves feel thy presence and rejoice The while they frolic with the happy breeze; And pÆans sweeter than a seraph’s voice Rise from the swaying trees. Each flower that hides within the forest dim, Where mortal eye may ne’er its beauty see, Waves its light censer, while it breathes a hymn In humble praise of thee. Through quivering pines the gentle south winds stray, Singing low songs that bid the tear-drops start; And thoughts of thee are in each trembling lay, Thrilling the listener’s heart. Old Ocean lifts his solemn voice on high, Thy name, O Life, repeating evermore, While sweeping gales and rushing storms reply From many a far-off shore. The stars are gathering in the darkening skies, But our dull ears their music may not hear, Though, while we list, their swelling anthems rise Exultingly and clear! O Earth is beautiful! She weareth still The golden radiance of life’s early day; Still Love and Hope for me their chalice fill,— Life, turn not thou away! THE CHIMNEY SWALLOW One night as I sat by my table, Tired of books and pen, With wandering thoughts far straying Out into the world of men;— That world where the busy workers Such magical deeds are doing, Each one with a steady purpose His own pet plans pursuing; When the house was wrapt in silence, And the children were all asleep, And even the mouse in the wainscot Had ceased to run and leap, All at once from the open chimney Came a hum and a rustle and whirring, That startled me out of my dreaming, And set my pulses stirring. What was it? I paused and listened; The roses were all in bloom, And in from the garden floated The violet’s rich perfume. So it could not be Kriss Kringle, For he only comes, you know, When the Christmas bells are chiming, And the hills are white with snow. Hark! a sound as of rushing waters, Or the rustle of falling leaves, Or the patter of eager raindrops Yonder among the eaves! Then out from the dark, old chimney, Blackened with soot and smoke, With a whir of fluttering pinions A startled birdling broke. Dashing against the window; Lighting a moment where My sculptured angel folded Its soft white wings in prayer; Swinging upon the curtains; Perched on the ivy-vine; At last it rested trembling In tender hands of mine. No stain upon its plumage; No dust upon its wings; No hint of its companionship With darkly soiling things! O, happy bird, thou spirit! Stretch thy glad plumes and soar Where breath of soil or sorrow Shall reach thee nevermore! HEIRSHIP Little store of wealth have I; Not a rood of land I own; Nor a mansion fair and high Built with towers of fretted stone. Stocks, nor bonds, nor title-deeds, Flocks nor herds have I to show; When I ride, no Arab steeds Toss for me their manes of snow. I have neither pearls nor gold, Massive plate, nor jewels rare; Broidered silks of worth untold, Nor rich robes a queen might wear. In my garden’s narrow bound Flaunt no costly tropic blooms, Ladening all the air around With a weight of rare perfumes. Yet to an immense estate Am I heir, by grace of God,— Richer, grander than doth wait Any earthly monarch’s nod. Heir of all the Ages, I— Heir of all that they have wrought, All their store of emprise high, All their wealth of precious thought. Every golden deed of theirs Sheds its lustre on my way; All their labors, all their prayers, Sanctify this present day! Heir of all that they have earned By their passion and their tears,— Heir of all that they have learned Through the weary, toiling years! Heir of all the faith sublime On whose wings they soared to heaven; Heir of every hope that Time To Earth’s fainting sons hath given! Aspirations pure and high— Strength to dare and to endure— Heir of all the Ages, I— Lo! I am no longer poor! HILDA, SPINNING Spinning, spinning, by the sea, All the night! On a stormy, rock-ribbed shore, Where the north winds downward pour, And the tempests fiercely sweep From the mountains to the deep, Hilda spins beside the sea, All the night! Spinning, at her lonely window, By the sea! With her candle burning clear, Every night of all the year, And her sweet voice crooning low, Quaint old songs of love and woe, Spins she at her lonely window, By the sea. On a bitter night in March, Long ago, Hilda, very young and fair, With a crown of golden hair, Watched the tempest raging wild, Watched the roaring sea—and smiled Through that woeful night in March, Long ago! What though all the winds were out In their might? Richard’s boat was tried and true; Stanch and brave his hardy crew; Strongest he to do or dare. Said she, breathing forth a prayer, “He is safe, though winds are out In their might!” But at length the morning dawned, Still and clear! Calm, in azure splendor, lay All the waters of the bay; And the ocean’s angry moans Sank to solemn undertones, As at last the morning dawned, Still and clear! With her waves of golden hair Floating free, Hilda ran along the shore, Gazing off the waters o’er; And the fishermen replied, “He will come in with the tide,” As they saw her golden hair Floating free! Ah! he came in with the tide— Came alone! Tossed upon the shining sands— Ghastly face and clutching hands— Seaweed tangled in his hair— Bruised and torn his forehead fair— Thus he came in with the tide, All alone! Hilda watched beside her dead, Day and night. Of those hours of mortal woe Human ken may never know; She was silent, and his ear Kept the secret, close and dear, Of her watch beside her dead, Day and night! What she promised in the darkness, Who can tell? But upon that rock-ribbed shore Burns a beacon evermore! And beside it, all the night, Hilda guards the lonely light, Though what vowed she in the darkness, None may tell! Spinning, spinning by the sea, All the night! While her candle, gleaming wide O’er the restless, rolling tide, Guides with steady, changeless ray The lone fisher up the bay, Hilda spins beside the sea, Through the night! Fifty years of patient spinning By the sea! Old and worn, she sleeps to-day, While the sunshine gilds the bay; But her candle, shining clear, Every night of all the year, Still is telling of her spinning By the sea! HEREAFTER O land beyond the setting sun! O realm more fair than poet’s dream! How clear thy silver rivers run, How bright thy golden glories gleam! Earth holds no counterpart of thine; The dark-browed Orient, jewel-crowned, Pales as she bows before thy shrine, Shrouded in mystery profound. The dazzling North, the stately West, Whose waters flow from mount to sea; The South, flower-wreathed in languid rest— What are they all, compared with thee? All lands, all realms beneath yon dome, Where God’s own hand hath hung the stars, To thee with humblest homage come, O world beyond the crystal bars! Thou blest Hereafter! Mortal tongue Hath striven in vain thy speech to learn, And Fancy wanders, lost among The flowery paths for which we yearn. But well we know that fair and bright, Far beyond human ken or dream, Too glorious for our feeble sight, Thy skies of cloudless azure beam. We know thy happy valleys lie In green repose, supremely blest; We know against thy sapphire sky Thy mountain-peaks sublimely rest. For sometimes even now we catch Faint gleamings from thy far-off shore, While still with eager eyes we watch For one sweet sign or token more. The loved, the deeply loved, are there! The brave, the fair, the good, the wise, Who pined for thy serener air, Nor shunned thy solemn mysteries. There are the hopes that, one by one, Died even as we gave them birth; The dreams that passed ere well begun, Too dear, too bea
utiful for earth. The aspirations, strong of wing, Aiming at heights we could not reach; The songs we tried in vain to sing; The thoughts too vast for human speech; Thou hast them all, Hereafter! Thou Shalt keep them safely till that hour When, with God’s seal on heart and brow, We claim them in immortal power! WITHOUT AND WITHIN Softly the gold has faded from the sky, Slowly the stars have gathered one by one, Calmly the crescent moon mounts up on high, And the long day is done. With quiet heart my garden-walks I tread, Feeling the beauty that I cannot see; Beauty and fragrance all around me shed By flower, and shrub, and tree. Often I linger where the roses pour Exquisite odors from each glowing cup; Or where the violet, brimmed with sweetness o’er, Lifts its small chalice up. With fragrant breath the lilies woo me now, And softly speaks the sweet-voiced mignonette, While heliotropes, with meekly lifted brow, Say to me, “Go not yet.” So for awhile I linger, but not long. High in the heavens rideth fiery Mars, Careering proudly ’mid the glorious throng, Brightest of all the stars. But softly gleaming through the curtain’s fold, The home-star beams with more alluring ray, And, as a star led sage and seer of old, So it directs my way; And leads me in where my young children lie, Rosy and beautiful in tranquil rest; The seal of sleep is on each fast-shut eye, Heaven’s peace within each breast. I bring them gifts. Not frankincense nor myrrh— Gifts the adoring Magi humbly brought The young child, cradled in the arms of her Blest beyond mortal thought; But love—the love that fills my mother-heart With a sweet rapture oft akin to pain; Such yearning love as bids the tear-drops start And fall like summer rain. And faith—that dares, for their dear sakes, to climb Boldly, where once it would have feared to go, And calmly standing upon heights sublime, Fears not the storm below. And prayer! O God! unto thy throne I come, Bringing my darlings—but I cannot speak. With love and awe oppressed, my lips are dumb: Grant what my heart would seek! VASHTI’S SCROLL Dethroned and crownless, I so late a queen! Forsaken, poor and lonely, I who wore The crown of Persia with such stately grace! But yesterday a royal wife; but now From my estate cast down, and fallen so low That beggars scoff at me! Men toss my name Backward and forward on their mocking tongues. In all the king’s broad realm there is not one To do poor Vashti homage. Even the dog My hand had fondled, in the palace walls Fawns on my rival. When I left the court, Weeping and sore distressed, he followed me, Licking my fingers, leaping in my face, And frisking round me till I reached the gates. Then with long pauses, as of one perplexed, And frequent lookings backward, and low whines Of puzzled wonder—that had made me smile If I had been less lorn—with drooping ears, Dropt eyes, and downcast forehead he went back, Leaving me desolate. So went they all Who, when Ahasuerus on my brow Set his own royal crown and called me queen, Made the air ring with plaudits! Loud they cried, “Long live Queen Vashti, Persia’s fairest Rose, Mother of Princes, and the nation’s Hope!” The rose is withered now; the queen’s no more. To these lorn breasts no princely boy shall cling Or now, or ever. Yet on this poor scroll I will rehearse the story of my woes, And bid them lay it in the grave with me When I depart to join the unnumbered dead.
Oh, thou unknown, unborn, who through the gloom And mists of ages in my vaulted tomb Shalt find this parchment, and with reverent care Shalt bear it outward to the sun and air: Oh, thou whose patient fingers shall unroll With slow, persuasive touch this little scroll: Oh, loving, tender eyes that, like twin stars, I seem to see through yonder cloudy bars: Read Vashti’s story, and I pray ye tell The whole wide world if she did ill or well! Ahasuerus reigned. On Persia’s throne, Lord of a mighty realm, he sat alone, And stretched his sceptre from the farthest slope Of India’s hills, to where the Ethiop Dwelt in barbaric splendor. Kinglier king Never did poet praise or minstrel sing! He had no peers. Among his lords he shone As shines a planet, single and alone; And I, alas! I loved him, and we two Such bliss as peasant lovers joy in, knew! No lowly home in all our wide domain Held more of peace than ours, or less of pain. But one dark day—O, woeful day of days, Whose hours I number now in sad amaze, Thou hadst no prophet of the ills to be, Nor sign nor omen came to succor me!— That day Ahasuerus smiled and said, “Since first I wore this crown upon my head Thrice have the emerald clusters of the vine Changed to translucent globes of ruby wine; And thrice the peaches on the loaded walls Have slowly rounded into wondrous balls Of gold and crimson. I will make a feast. Princes and lords, the greatest and the least, All Persia and all Media, shall see The pomp and splendor that encompass me. The riches of my kingdom shall be shown, And all my glori
LYRIC
FOR THE DEDICATION OF A MUSIC-HALL No grand Cathedral’s vaulted space Where, through the “dim, religious light,” Gleam pictured saint and cross and crown, We consecrate with song to-night; No stately temple lifting high Its dome against the starlit skies, Where lofty arch and glittering spire Like miracles of beauty rise. Yet here beneath this humbler roof With reverent hearts and lips we come; Hail, music! Song and Beauty, hail! Henceforth be these poor walls your home. Here speak to hearts that long have yearned Your presence and your spells to know; Here touch the lips athirst to drink Where your perennial fountains flow. Here, where our glorious mountain-peaks Sublimely pierce the ether blue, Lift ye our souls, and bid them rise In aspirations grand and true! O Music, Art, and Science, hail! We greet you now with glad acclaims; Ye bay-crowned ones! the listening air Waits to re-echo with your names; Waits for your voices ringing clear Above this weary, work-day world; Waits till ye bid fair Truth arise, While Error from her throne is hurled! WHAT I LOST Wandering in the dewy twilight Of a golden summer day, When the mists upon the mountains Flushed with purple splendor lay: When the sunlight kissed the hilltops And the vales were hushed and dim, And from out the forest arches Rose a holy vesper hymn— I lost something. Have you seen it, Children, ye who passed that way? Did you chance to find the treasure That I lost that summer day? It was neither gold nor silver, Orient pearl nor jewel rare; Neither amethyst nor ruby, Nor an opal gleaming fair; ’Twas no curious, quaint mosaic Wrought by cunning master-hands, Nor a cameo where Hebe, Crowned with deathless beauty, stands. Yet have I lost something precious; Children, ye who passed that way— Tell me, have you found the treasure That I lost one summer day? Then, you say, it was a casket Filled with India’s perfumes rare, Or a tiny flask of crystal Meet the rose’s breath to bear; Or a bird of wondrous plumage, With a voice of sweetest tone, That, escaping from my bosom, To the greenwood deep has flown. Ah! not these, I answer vainly; Children, ye who passed that way, Ye can never find the treasure That I lost that summer day! You may call it bird or blossom; Name my treasure what you will; Here no more its song or fragrance Shall my soul with rapture fill. But, thank God! our earthly losses In no darksome void are cast; Safely garnered, some to-morrow Shall restore them all at last. Somewhere in the great hereafter, Children, ye who pass this way, I shall find again the treasure That I lost one summer day! ONCE! Once in your sight, As May buds swell in the sun’s warm light, So grew her soul, Yielding itself to your sweet control. Once if you spoke, Echoing strains in her heart awoke, Sending a thrill All through its chambers sweet and still. Once if you said, “Sweet, with Love’s garland I crown your head,” Ah! how the rose Flooded her forehead’s pale repose! Once if your lip Dared the pure sweetness of hers to sip, Softly and meek Dark lashes drooped on a white rose cheek! Once if your name Some one but whispered, a sudden flame Burned on her cheek, Telling a story she would not speak! You do but wait At a sepulchre’s sealed gate! Her love is dead, Bound hand and foot in its narrow bed. Why did it die? Ask of your soul the reason why! Question it well, And surely the secret it will tell. But if your heart Ever again plays the lover’s part, Let this truth be Blent with the solemn mystery: Pure flame aspires; Downward flow not the altar fires; And skylarks soar Up where the earth-mists vex no more. Now loose your hold From her white garment’s spotless fold, And let her pass— While both hearts murmur, “Alas! alas!” CATHARINE O wondrous mystery of death! I yield me to thine awful sway, And with hushed heart and bated breath Bow down before thy shrine to-day! But yesterday these pallid lips Breathed reverently my humble name; These eyes now closed in drear eclipse Brightened with gratitude’s soft flame. These poor, pale hands were swift to do The lowliest service I might ask; These palsied feet the long day through Moved gladly to each wonted task. O faithful, patient, loving one, Who from earth’s great ones shrank afar, Canst bear the presence of The Son, And dwell where holy angels are? Dost thou not meekly bow thine head, And stand apart with humblest mien, Nor dare with softest step to tread The ranks of shining Ones between? Dost thou not kneel with downcast eyes The hem of some white robe to touch, While on thine own meek forehead lies The crown of her who “lovÈd much?” O vain imaginings! To-day Earth’s loftiest prince is not thy peer. Come, Sage and Seer! mute homage pay To this Pale Wonder lying here! THE NAME I know not by what name to call thee, thou Who reignest supreme, sole sovereign of my heart! Thou who the lode-star of my being art, Thou before whom my soul delights to bow! What shall I call thee? Teach me some dear name Better than all the rest, that I may pour All that the years have taught me of love’s lore In one fond word. “Lover?” But that’s too tame, And “Friend”’s too cold, though thou art both to me. Art thou my King? Kings sit enthroned afar, And crowns less meet for love than reverence are, While both my heart gives joyfully to thee. Art thou—but, ah! I’ll cease the idle quest: I cannot tell what name befits thee best! UNDER THE PALM-TREES We were children together, you and I; We trod the same paths in days of old; Together we watched the sunset sky, And counted its bars of massive gold. And when from the dark horizon’s brim The moon stole up with its silver rim, And slowly sailed through the fields of air, We thought there was nothing on earth so fair. You walk to-night where the jasmines grow, And the Cross looks down from the tropic skies; Where the spicy breezes softly blow, And the slender shafts of the palm-trees rise. You breathe the breath of the orange-flowers, And the perfumed air of the myrtle-bowers; You pluck the acacia’s golden balls, And mark where the red pomegranate falls. I stand to-night on the breezy hill, Where the pine-trees sing as they sang of yore; The north star burneth clear and still, And the moonbeams silver your father’s door. I can see the hound as he lies asleep, In the shadow close by the old well-sweep, And hear the river’s murmuring flow As we two heard it long ago. Do you think of the firs on the mountain-side As you walk to-night where the palm-trees grow? Of the brook where the trout in the darkness hide? Of the yellow willows waving slow? Do you long to drink of the crystal spring, In the dell where the purple harebells swing? Would your pulses leap could you hear once more The sound of the flail on the threshing-floor? Ah! the years are long, and the world is wide, And the salt sea rolls our hearts between; And never again at eventide Shall we two gaze on the same fair scene. But under the palm-trees wandering slow, You think of the spreading elms I know; And you deem our daisies fairer far Than the gorgeous blooms of the tropics are! NIGHT AND MORNING I. Night and darkness over all! Nature sleeps beneath a pall; Not a ray from moon or stars Glimmers through the cloudy bars; Huge and black the mountains stand Frowning upon either hand, And the river, dark and deep, Gropes its way from steep to steep. Yonder tree, whose young leaves played In the sunshine and the shade, Stretches out its arms like one Sudden blindness hath undone. Pale and dim the rose-queen lies Robbed of all her gorgeous dyes, And the lily bendeth low, Mourner in a garb of woe. Never a shadow comes or goes, Never a gleam its glory throws Over cottage or over hall— Darkness broodeth over all! II. Lo! the glorious morning breaks! Nature from her sleep awakes, And, in purple pomp, the day Bids the darkness flee away. Crowned with light the mountains stand Royally on either hand, And the laughing waters run In glad haste to meet the sun. Stately trees, exultant, raise Their proud heads in grateful praise; Flowers, dew-laden, everywhere Pour rich incense on the air, And the ascending vapors rise Like the smoke of sacrifice. Birds are trilling, bees are humming, Swift to greet the new day coming, And earth’s myriad voices sing Hymns of grateful welcoming. Bursting from night’s heavy thrall, Heaven’s own light is over all! AGNES Agnes! Agnes! is it thus Thou, at last, dost come to us? From the land of balm and bloom, Blandest airs and sweet perfume, Where the jasmine’s golden stars Glimmer soft through emerald bars, And the fragrant orange flowers Fall to earth in silver showers, Agnes! Agnes! With thy pale hands on thy breast, Comest thou here to take thy rest? Agnes! Agnes! o’er thy grave Loud the winter winds will rave, And the snow fall fast around, Heaping high thy burial mound; Yet, within its soft embrace, Thy dear form and earnest face, Wrapt away from burning pain, Ne’er shall know one pang again. Agnes! Agnes! Nevermore shall anguish vex thee, Nevermore shall care perplex thee. Agnes! Agnes! wait, ah! wait Just one moment at the gate, Ere your pure feet enter in Where is neither pain nor sin. Thou art blest, but how shall we Bear the pang of losing thee? List! we love thee! By that word Once thy heart of hearts was stirred. Agnes! Agnes! By that love we bid thee wait Just one moment at the gate! Agnes! Agnes! No! Pass on To the heaven that thou hast won! By thy life of brave endeavor, Up the heights aspiring ever, Whence thy voice, like clarion clear, Rang out words of lofty cheer; By thy laboring not in vain, By thy martyrdom of pain, Our Saint Agnes— From our yearning sight pass on To the rest that thou hast won! “INTO THY HANDS” Into thy hands, O Father! Now at last, Weary with struggling and with long unrest, Vext by remembrances of conflicts past And by a host of present cares opprest, I come to thee and cry, Thy will be done! Take thou the burden I have borne too long. Into thy hands, O mighty, loving One, My weakness gives its all, for thou art strong! For life—for death. I cannot see the way; I blindly wander on to meet the night; The path grows steeper, and the dying day Soon with its shadows will shut out the light. Hold thou my hand, O Father! I am tired As a young child that wearies of the road; And the far heights toward which I once aspired Have lost the glory with which erst they glowed. Take thou my life, and mold it to thy will; Into thy hands commit I all my way; Fain would I lift each cup that thou dost fill, Nor from its brim my pale lips ever stay. Take thou my life. I lay it at thy feet; And in my death my sure support be thou; So shall I sink to slumber calm and sweet, And wake at morn before thy face to bow! IDLE WORDS I. Once I said, Seeing two soft, starry eyes Darkly bright as midnight skies,— Eyes prophetic of the power Sure to be thy woman’s dower, When the years should crown thee queen Of the realm as yet unseen,— “Some time, sweet, those eyes shall make Lovers mad for their sweet sake!” II. Once I said, Seeing tresses, golden-brown, In a bright shower falling down Over neck and bosom white As an angel’s clad in light— Odorous tresses drooping low O’er a forehead pure as snow,— “Some time, sweet, in thy soft hair Love shall set a shining snare!” III. Once I said, Seeing lips whose crimson hue Mocked the roses wet with dew,— Warm, sweet lips, whose breath was balm,— Pure, proud lips, serenely calm,— Tender lips, whose smiling grace Lit with splendor all the face,— “Sweet, for kiss of thine some day Men will barter souls away!” IV. Idly said! God hath taken care of all Joy or pain that might befall! Lover’s lip shall never thrill At thy kisses, soft and still; Lover’s heart shall never break In sore anguish for thy sake; Lover’s soul for thee shall know Nor love’s rapture, nor its woe;— All is said! THE SPARROW TO THE SKYLARK O skylark, soaring, soaring, Ere day is well begun, Thy full, glad song outpouring To greet the rising sun,— So high, so high in heaven Thy swift wing cleaves the blue, We sparrows in the hedges Can scarcely follow you! O strong, unwearied singer! By summer winds caressed, Among the white clouds floating With sunshine on thy breast, We hear thy clear notes dropping In showers of golden rain, A glad, triumphant music That hath no thought of pain! We twitter in the hedges; We chirp our little songs, Whose low, monotonous murmur To homeliest life belongs; We perch in lowly places, We hop from bough to bough, While in the wide sky-spaces, On strong wing soarest thou! Yet we—we share the rapture And glory of thy flight— Thou’rt still a bird, O skylark,— Thou spirit glad and bright! And ah! no sparrow knoweth But its low note may be Part of earth’s joy and gladness That finds full voice in thee! THE BELL OF ST. PAUL’S “The great bell of St. Paul’s, which
only sounds when the King is dead.” Toll, toll, thou solemn bell! A royal head lies low, And mourners through the palace halls Slowly and sadly go. Lift up thine awful voice, Thou, silent for so long! Say that a monarch’s soul has passed To join the shadowy throng. Toll yet again, thou bell! Mutely thine iron tongue, Prisoned within yon lofty tower, For many a year has hung. But now its mournful peal Startles a nation’s ear, And swells from listening shore to shore, That the whole world may hear. A whisper from the past Blends with each solemn tone That from those brazen lips of thine Upon the air is thrown. Never had trumpet’s peal, On clarion sounding shrill, Such power as that deep undertone The listener’s heart to thrill. Come, tell us tales, thou bell, Of those of old renown, Those sturdy warrior kings who fought For sceptre and for crown. Tell of the lion-hearts Whose pulses moved the world; Whose banners flew so swift and far, O’er land and sea unfurled! From out the buried years, From many a vaulted tomb, Whence neither pomp nor power could chase The dim, sepulchral gloom, Lo, now, a pale, proud line, They glide before our eyes!— Art thou a wizard, mighty bell, To bid the dead arise? But toll, toll on, thou bell! Toll for the royal dead; Toll—for the hand now sceptreless; Toll—for the crownless head; Toll—for the human heart With all its loves and woes; Toll—for the soul that passes now Unto its long repose! DECEMBER 26, 1910
A BALLAD OF MAJOR ANDERSON Come, children, leave your playing this dark and stormy night, Shut fast the rattling window-blinds, and make the fire burn bright; And hear an old man’s story, while loud the fierce winds blow, Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago. I was a young man then, boys, but twenty-nine years old, And all my comrades knew me for a soldier brave and bold; My eye was bright, my step was firm, I measured six feet two, And I knew not what it was to shirk when there was work to do. We were stationed at Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor, then, A brave band, though a small one, of scarcely seventy men; And day and night we waited for the coming of the foe, With noble Major Anderson, just fifty years ago. Were they French or English, ask you? Oh, neither, neither, child! We were at peace with other lands, and all the nations smiled On the stars and stripes, wherever they floated far and free, And all the foes we had to meet we found this side the sea. But even between brothers bitter feuds will sometimes rise, And ’twas the cloud of civil war that darkened in the skies; I have not time to tell you how the quarrel first began, Or how it grew, till o’er our land the strife like wildfire ran. I will not use hard words, my boys, for I am old and gray, And I’ve learned it is an easy thing for the best to go astray; Some wrong there was on either part, I do not doubt at all; There are two sides to a quarrel—be it great or be it small! You scarce believe me, children. Grief and doubt are in your eyes, Fixed steadily upon me in wonder and surprise; Don’t forget to thank our Father, when to-night you kneel to pray, That an undivided people rule America to-day. We were stationed at Fort Moultrie—but about a mile away, The battlements of Sumter stood proudly in the bay; ’Twas by far the best position, as he could not help but know, Our gallant Major Anderson, just fifty years ago. Yes, ’twas just after Christmas, fifty years ago to-night; The sky was calm and cloudless, the moon was large and bright; At six o’clock the drum beat to call us to parade, And not a man suspected the plan that had been laid. But the first thing a soldier learns is that he must obey, And that when an order’s given he has not a word to say; So when told to man the boats, not a question did we ask, But silently, yet eagerly, began our hurried task. We did a deal of work that night, though our numbers were but few; We had all our stores to carry, and our ammunition too; And the guard-ship—’twas the Nina—set to watch us in the bay, Never dreamed what we were doing, though ’twas almost light as day. We spiked the guns we left behind, and cut the flag-staff down,— From its top should float no colors if it might not hold our own,— Then we sailed away for Sumter as fast as we could go, With our good Major Anderson, just fifty years ago. I never can forget, my boys, how the next day, at noon, The drums beat and the band played a stirring martial tune, And silently we gathered round the flag-staff, strong and high, Forever pointing upward to God’s temple in the sky. Our noble Major Anderson was good as he was brave, And he knew without His blessing no banner long could wave; So he knelt, with head uncovered, while the chaplain read a prayer, And as the last amen was said, the flag rose high in air. Then our loud huzzas rang out, far and widely o’er the sea! We shouted for the stars and stripes, the standard of the free! Every eye was fixed upon it, every heart beat warm and fast, As with eager lips we promised to defend it to the last! ’Twas a sight to be remembered, boys—the chaplain with his book, Our leader humbly kneeling, with his calm, undaunted look; And the officers and men, crushing tears they would not shed,— And the blue sea all around us, and the blue sky overhead! Now, go to bed, my children, the old man’s story’s told,— Stir up the fire before you go, ’tis bitter, bitter cold; And I’ll tell you more to-morrow night, when loud the fierce winds blow, Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago. FROM BATON ROUGE From the fierce conflict and the deadly fray A patriot hero comes to us this day. Greet him with music and with loud acclaim, And let our hills re-echo with his name. Bring rarest flowers their rich perfume to shed, Like sweetest incense, round the warrior’s head. Let heart and voice cry “welcome,” and a shout, Upon the summer air, ring gayly out, To hail the hero, who from fierce affray And deadly conflict comes to us this day. Alas! alas! for smiles ye give but tears, And wordless sorrow on each face appears. And for glad music, jubilant and clear, The tolling bell, the muffled drum, we hear. Woe to us, soldier, loyal, tried, and brave, That we have naught to give thee but a grave. Woe that the wreath that should have decked thy brow, Can but be laid upon thy coffin now. Woe that thou canst not hear us when we say,— “Hail to thee, brother, welcome home to-day!” O God, we lift our waiting eyes to Thee, And sadly cry, how long must these things be? How long must noble blood be poured like rain, Flooding our land from mountain unto main? How long from desolated hearths must rise The smoke of life’s most costly sacrifice? Our brothers languish upon beds of pain,— Father, O Father, have they bled in vain? Is it for naught that they have drunken up The very dregs of this most bitter cup? How long? how long? O God! our cause is just, And in Thee only do we put our trust. As Thou didst guide the Israelites of old Through the Red Sea, and through the desert wold, Lead Thou our leaders, and our land shall be For evermore, the land where all are free!
Hail and farewell,—we whisper in one breath, As thus we meet thee, hand in hand with death! God give thy ashes undisturbed repose Where drum-beat wakens neither friend nor foes; God take thy spirit to eternal rest, And, for Christ’s sake, enroll thee with the blest! IN THE WILDERNESS
May 6, 1864 How beautiful was earth that day! The far blue sky had not a cloud; The river rippled on its way, Singing sweet songs aloud. The delicate beauty of the spring Pervaded all the murmuring air; It touched with grace the meanest thing And made it very fair. The blithe birds darted to and fro, The bees were humming round the hive, So happy in that radiant glow! So glad to be alive! And I? My heart was calmly blest. I knew afar the war-cloud rolled Lurid and dark, in fierce unrest, Laden with woes untold. But on that day my fears were stilled; The very air I breathed was joy; The rest and peace my soul that filled Had nothing of alloy. I took the flower he loved the best, The arbutus,—fairest child of May,— And with its perfume half oppressed, Twined many a lovely spray About his picture on the wall; His eyes were on me all the while, And when I had arranged them all I thought he seemed to smile. O Christ, be pitiful! That hour Saw him fall bleeding on the sod; And while I toyed with leaf and flower His soul went up to God! For him one pang—and then a crown; For him the laurels heroes wear; For him a name whose long renown Ages shall onward bear. For me the cross without the crown; For me the drear and lonely life; O God! My sun, not his, went down On that red field of strife. CHARLEY OF MALVERN HILL A war-worn soldier, bronzed and seamed By weary march and battle stroke; ’Twas thus, while leaning on his crutch, The wounded veteran spoke,— “The blue-eyed boy of Malvern Hill! A hero every inch was he, Though scarcely larger than the child You hold, sir, on your knee. Some mother’s darling! On that field He seemed so strangely out of place, With his pure brow, his shining hair, His sweet, unconscious grace. But not a bearded warrior there Watched with a more undaunted eye The blackness of the battle-cloud, As the fierce storm rose high. That morn—ah! what a morn was that!— We thought to send him to the rear; We loved the lad—and love, you know, Is near akin to fear. We knew that many a gallant soul Must pass away in one long sigh, Ere nightfall. On that bloody field, ’Twas not for boys to die. But he—could you have seen him then, As, with his blue eyes full of fire, He poured forth tears and pleadings, half Of shame and half of ire! ‘Oh! do not bid me go!’ he cried; ‘I love yon flag as well as you! I did not join your ranks to run When there is work to do! I did not come to beat my drum Only upon some gala day.’ The colonel shook his head, but said, ‘Well, Charley, you may stay.’ Ah! then his tears were quickly dried, A few glad words he strove to say; But there was little time to talk, And hardly time to pray. For bitter, bitter was the strife That raged that day on Malvern Hill; Blue coats and gray in great heaps lay, Ere that wild storm grew still. At length we charged. My very heart Sank down within me, cold and dumb, When to the front, and far ahead, Rushed Charley with his drum! Above the cannon’s thundering boom, The din and shriek of shot and shell, We heard its clear peal rolling out Right gallantly and well. A moment’s awful waiting! Then There came a sullen, angry roar,— O God! An empty void remained Where Charley stood before. What did we then? With souls on fire We swept upon the advancing foe, And bade good angels guard the dust O‘er which no tears might flow!”
SUPPLICAMUS
1864
v class="poetry-container"> Sinking to thine eternal rest, O dying Year! I call thee blest; Blest as no coming year may be This side of vast Eternity! Thy cheek is pale, thy brow is worn; Thine arms are weary, that have borne The heaviest burdens ever laid On any, since the world was made. But thou didst know her whom to-day My fond heart mourns, and must alway; She loved thee, claimed thee, called thee dear, Hailing with joy the glad New Year! Thou didst behold her, fair and good, The perfect flower of womanhood; Simple and pure in thought and deed, Yet strong in every hour of need. Ah! other years shall come and go, Bidding the sweet June roses blow; But never on their yearning eyes Shall her fair presence once arise! The Spring shall miss her, and the long, Bright Summer days hear not her song; And hoary Winter, draped in snow, Finding her not, shall haste to go! Therefore, Old Year, I call thee blest, Thus sinking to eternal rest; Blest as no other Year may be This side of vast Eternity! HELEN Dear Helen, if thine earnest eyes, So deeply blue, so darkly bright, Look downward from the azure skies That hide thee from my yearning sight: Think not, because my days go on Just as they did when thou wert here, Sometimes in shade, sometimes in sun, From month to month, from year to year, That I forget thee! Fresh and green Over each grave the grass must grow In God’s good time, and, all unseen, The violets take deep root below. But yet the grave itself remains Beneath the verdure and the bloom; And all kind Nature’s loving pains Can but conceal the enduring tomb. I work, I read, I sing, I smile, I train my vines and tend my flowers; But under thoughts of thee, the while, Haunt me through all the passing hours. And still my heart cries out for thee, As it must cry till life is past, And in some land beyond the sea I meet thy clasping hand at last! [96]
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