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THE LEGEND OF THE BABOUSHKA
A CHRISTMAS BALLAD “There’s a star in the East!” he cried, Jasper, the gray, the wise, To Melchior and to Balthazar Up-gazing to the skies. “Last night from my high tower I watched it as it burned, While all my trembling soul In awe and wonder yearned. For I know the midnight heavens; I can call the stars by name— Orion and royal Ashtaroth And Cimah’s misty flame. I know where Hesper glows, And where, with fiery eye, Proud Mars in burning splendor leads The armies of the sky. But never have I seen A star that shone like this— The star so long foretold By sage and seer it is! When first I, sleepless, saw it Slow breaking through the dark— Nay, hear me, Balthazar, And thou, O Melchior, hark!— When first I saw the star It bore the form of a child, It held in its hand a sceptre, Or the cross of the undefiled. Lo! somewhere on the earth It shines above His rest— The Royal One, the Babe, On mortal mother’s breast. Now haste we forth to find Him— To worship at His feet, To Him of whom the prophets sang Bearing oblations meet!” Then the Three Holy Kings Went forth in eager haste, With servants and with camels, Toward the desert waste. Ah! knew they what they bore? Gold for the earthly king— Frankincense for the God— Myrrh for man’s suffering. With breath of costly spices And precious gums of Isis, The desert air was sweet, As on they fared by day and night Judea’s King to greet. The strange star went before them, They followed where it led; “’Twill guide us to His presence,” Jasper, the holy, said. They crossed deep-flowing rivers, They climbed the mountains high, They slept in dreary places Under the lonely sky. One day, where stretched the desert Before them far and wide, They saw a smoke-wreath curling A spreading palm beside; And from a lowly dwelling, On household cares intent, A woman gazed upon them, In mute bewilderment. “O come with us!” cried Melchior, And ardent Balthazar, “We go to find the Christ-child, Led by yon blazing star! Thou knowest how the prophets His coming long foretold; We go to kneel before Him With gifts of myrrh and gold.” But she, delaying, answered, “My lords, your words are good, And I your pious mission Have gladly understood, Yet I, ere I can join you, Have many things to do: I must set my house in order, Must spin and bake and brew. Go ye to find Messiah! And when my work is done I will your footsteps follow, Mayhap ere set of sun.” Across the shining desert The slow train passed from sight; She set her house in order, She bleached her linen white. With busy hands she labored Till all at last was done— But thrice the moon had risen, And thrice the lordly sun! Then bound she on her sandals, Her pilgrim staff she took; With bread of wheat and barley, And water from the brook; And forth she went to find Him— The babe Emmanuel, Who should be born in Bethlehem By David’s sacred well. All that long day she journeyed; She scanned the desert wide, In all its lonely reaches There was no soul beside— No track to guide her onward, No footprints in the sand, Only the vast, still spaces Wide-stretched on either hand! Night came—but where the Wise Men Had seen His burning star, No glorious sign beheld she Clear beaming from afar, Though Orion and Arcturus Shone bright above her head, And up the heavenly arches Proud Mars his legions led!
She did not find the Christ-child. ’Tis said she seeks Him still, Over the wide earth roaming With swift, remorseful will. Her thin white locks the dew-fall Of every clime has wet— In palace and in hovel She seeks Messiah yet! In every child she fancies The Hidden One may be, On each bright head she gazes The mystic crown to see. She twines the Christmas garlands, She lights the Christmas fires, She leads the joyful carols Of all the Christmas choirs; She feeds the poor and hungry, And on her tender breast She soothes all suffering children To softest, sweetest rest. Attend her, holy Angels! Guard her, ye Cherubim! For whatsoe’er she does for these She does it as to Him! DAYBREAK
AN EASTER POEM Mary MagdalenÈ, At the break of day, Wan with tears and watching Hasted on her way; Bearing costly spices, Myrrh, and sweet perfume, Through the shadowy garden To the Master’s tomb. Slowly broke the gray dawn: On her head the breeze Shook a rain of dew-drops From the cypress-trees. Rose and lily parted As to let her pass, And the violets blessed her From the tender grass. Little heed she paid them; Christ, the Lord, was dead; All at last was over, All at last was said. What of hope remainÈd? Black against the sky, Calvary’s awful crosses Stretched their arms on high! Mary MagdalenÈ Made her bitter moan: “From the sealÈd sepulchre Who shall roll the stone?” Swift she ran, her spirit Filled with awe and fear; Wide the door stood open As her feet drew near! All the place was flooded With a radiance bright; Forth into the darkness Streamed a holy light. Down she stooped, and peering The dread tomb within, Saw a great white angel Where the Lord had been! Sore she cried in anguish: “Who hath him betrayed? They have taken away my Lord! Where is he laid?” “Nay,” the shining angel, Calmly smiling, said— “Why seek ye the living Down among the dead? He is not here, but risen!” All her soul stood still; Through her trembling pulses Ran a conscious thrill. “Mary!” said a low voice; “Rabboni!” answered she. Then life was brought to light And immortality! Mary MagdalenÈ, First of woman born To see the clear light streaming O’er the hills of morn; First to hail the Lord Christ, Conqueror of Death, First to bow before Him With abated breath; First to hear the Master Say—“From Death’s dark prison, From its bonds and fetters, Lo! I have arisen! Now to God, my Father— Mine and yours—I go; And because I live Ye shall live also!” Didst thou grasp the meaning? Know that Death was dead? That the seed of woman Had bruised the serpent’s head? Didst thou know Messiah The gates of hell had broken, And life unto its captives Once for all had spoken? O! through all the ages, Every son of man, Be he slave or monarch, Born to bliss or ban— Lord, or prince, or peasant, Jester, sage, or seer, Wife, or child, or mother, Priest, or worshipper— Through the grave’s lone portals Soon or late had passed, But no sign or token Back to earth had cast! In Ramah was a voice heard Sounding through the years— Rachel for her children Pouring sighs and tears; Rizpah for her slain sons Woful vigils keeping; David for young Absalom In the chamber weeping! All earth’s myriad millions To their dead had cried, Empty arms outreaching In the silence wide, Yet from out the darkness Came nor word, nor sound, As the long ranks vanished In the black profound— Came no word till Mary Heard the Angel say— “Christ the Lord is risen; The Lord Christ lives to-day!” From the empty sepulchre Streamed the Light Divine; Grave where is thy victory? Where, O Death, is thine? Mary MagdalenÈ, Hope is born again; Clear the Day-star rises To the eyes of men. Lo! the mists are fleeing! Shine, O Olivet, For the crown of promise On thy brow is set! Lift your heads, ye mountains! Clap your hands, ye hills! Into rapturous singing Break, ye murmuring rills! Shout aloud, O forests! Swell the song, O seas! Wake, resistless ocean, All your symphonies! Wave your palms, O tropics! Lonely isles, rejoice! O ye silent deserts, Find a choral voice! Winds, on mighty trumpets, Blow the strains abroad, While each star in heaven Hails its risen Lord! “Alleluia! Alleluia!”— How the voices ring! “Alleluia! Alleluia!” Earth and heaven sing! Alleluia! Christ is risen! Chant his praise alway! From the sealÈd sepulchre Christ is risen to-day! THE APPLE-TREE Graceful and lithe and tall, It stands by the garden wall, In the flush of its pink-white bloom Elate with its own perfume. Tossing its young bright head In the first glad joy of May, While its singing leaves sing back To the bird on the dancing spray. “I’m alive! I’m abloom!” it cries To the winds and the laughing skies. Ho! for the gay young apple-tree That stands by the garden wall! Sturdy and broad and tall, Over the garden wall It spreads its branches wide— A bower on either side. For the bending boughs hang low; And with shouts and gay turmoil The children gather like bees To garner the golden spoil; While the smiling mother sings, “Rejoice for the gift it brings! Ho! for the laden apple-tree That stands by our garden wall!” The strong swift years fly past, Each swifter than the last; And the tree by the garden wall Sees joy and grief befall. Still from the spreading boughs Some golden apples swing; But the children come no more For the autumn harvesting. The tangled grass lies deep Where the long path used to creep; Yet ho! for the brave old apple-tree That leans o’er the crumbling wall! Now generations pass, Like shadows on the grass. What is there that remains For all their toil and pains? A little hollow place Where once a hearthstone lay; An empty, silent space Whence life hath gone away; Tall brambles where the lilacs grew, Some fennel, and a clump of rue, And this one gnarled old apple-tree Where once was the garden wall! THE COMFORTER How dost thou come, O Comforter? In heavenly glory dressed, Down floating from the far-off skies, With lilies on thy breast? With silver lilies on thy breast, And in thy falling hair, Bringing the bloom and balm of heaven To this dim, earthly air? How dost thou come, O Comforter? With strange, unearthly light, And mystic splendor aureoled, In trances of the night? In lone, mysterious silences, In visions rapt and high, And holy dreams, like pathways set Betwixt the earth and sky? Not thus alone, O Comforter! Not thus, thou Guest Divine, Whose presence turns our stones to bread, Our water into wine! Not always thus—for thou dost stoop To our poor, common clay, Too faint for saintly ecstasy, Too impotent to pray. How does God send the Comforter? Ofttimes through byways dim; Not always by the beaten path Of sacrament and hymn; Not always through the gates of prayer, Or penitential psalm, Or sacred rite, or holy day, Or incense, breathing balm. How does God send the Comforter? Perchance through faith intense; Perchance through humblest avenues Of sight, or sound, or sense. Haply in childhood’s laughing voice Shall breathe the voice divine, And tender hands of earthly love Pour for thee heavenly wine! How will God send the Comforter? Thou knowest not, nor I! His ways are countless as the stars His hand hath hung on high. His roses bring their fragrant balm, His twilight hush its peace, Morning its splendor, night its calm, To give thy pain surcease! SANTA CLAUS A voice from out of the northern sky: “On the wings of the limitless winds I fly, Swifter than thought over mountain and vale, City and moorland, desert and dale! From the north to the south, from the east to the west, I hasten regardless of slumber or rest; Oh, nothing you dream of can fly as fast As I on the wings of the wintry blast! The wondering stars look out to see Who he that flieth so fast may be, And their bright eyes follow my earthward track By the gleam of the jewels I bear in my pack. For I have treasures for high and for low: Rubies that burn like the sunset glow; Diamond rays for the crownÈd queen; For the princess, pearls with their silver sheen. I enter the castle with noiseless feet— The air is silent and soft and sweet; And I lavish my beautiful tokens there— Fairings to make the fair more fair! I enter the cottage of want and woe— The candle is out, and the fire burns low; But the sleepers smile in a happy dream As I scatter my gifts by the moon’s pale beam. There’s never a home so low, no doubt, But I in my flight can find it out; Nor a hut so hidden but I can see The shadow cast by the lone roof-tree! There’s never a home so proud and high That I am constrained to pass it by, Nor a heart so happy it may not be Happier still when blessed by me! What is my name? Ah, who can tell, Though in every land ’tis a magic spell! Men call me that, and they call me this; Yet the different names are the same, I wis! Gift-bearer to all the world am I, Joy-giver, Light-bringer, where’er I fly; But the name I bear in the courts above, My truest and holiest name, is—LOVE!” THE ARMORER’S ERRAND
A BALLAD OF 1775 Where the far skies soared clear and bright From mountain height to mountain height, In the heart of a forest old and gray, Castleton slept one Sabbath day— Slept and dreamed, on the seventh of May, Seventeen hundred and seventy-five. But hark! a humming, like bees in a hive; Hark to the shouts—“They come! they come!” Hark to the sound of the fife and drum! For up from the south two hundred men— Two hundred and fifty—from mount and glen, While the deep woods rang with their rallying cry Of “Ticonderoga! Fort Ti! Fort Ti!” Swept into the town with a martial tread, Ethan Allen marching ahead! Next day the village was all astir With unwonted tumult and hurry. There were Gatherings here and gatherings there, A feverish heat in the very air, The ominous sound of tramping feet, And eager groups in the dusty street. To Eben’s forge strode Gershom Beach (Idle it stood, and its master away); Blacksmith and armorer stout was he, First in the fight and first in the breach, And first in work where a man should be. “I’ll borrow your tools, my friend,” he said, “And temper these blades if I lose my head!” So he wrought away till the sun went down, And silence fell on the turbulent town; And the flame of the forge through the darkness glowed, A square of light on the sandy road. Then over the threshold a shadow fell, And he heard a voice that he knew right well. It was Ethan Allen’s. He cried: “I knew Where the forge-fire blazed I must look for you! But listen! more arduous work than this, Lying in wait for someone is; And tempering blades is only play To the task I set for him this day— Or this night, rather.” A grim smile played O’er the armorer’s face as his hand he stayed. “Say on. I never have shirked,” said he; “What may this wonderful task-work be?” “To go by the light of the evening star On an urgent errand, swift and far— From town to town and from farm to farm To carry the warning and sound the alarm! Wake Rutland and Pittsford! Rouse NeshobÈ, too, And all the fair valley the Otter runs through— For we need more men! Make no delay, But hasten, hasten, upon your way!” He doffed his apron, he tightened his belt, To fasten the straps of his leggings he knelt. “Ere the clock strikes nine,” said Gershom Beach, “Friend Allen, I will be out of reach; And I pledge you my word, ere dawn of day Guns and men shall be under way. But where shall I send these minute-men?” “Do you know Hand’s Cove?” said Allen then, “On the shore of Champlain? Let them meet me there By to-morrow night, be it foul or fair!” “Good-by, I’m off!” Then down the road As if on seven-league boots he strode, While Allen watched from the forge’s door Till the stalwart form he could see no more. Into the woods passed Gershom Beach; By nine of the clock he was out of reach. But still, as his will his steps outran, He said to himself, with a laugh, “Old man, Never a minute have you to lose, Never a minute to pick or choose; For sixty miles in twenty-four hours Is surely enough to try your powers. So square your shoulders and speed away With never a halt by night or day.” ’Twas a moonless night; but over his head The stars a tremulous lustre shed, And the breath of the woods grew strangely sweet, As he crushed the wild ferns under his feet, And trampled the shy arbutus blooms, With their hoarded wealth of rare perfumes. He sniffed as he went. “It seems to me There are May-flowers here, but I cannot see. I’ve read of the ‘hush of the silent night’; Now hark! there’s a wolf on yonder height; There’s a snarling catamount prowling round; Every inch of the ‘silence’ is full of sound; The night-birds cry; the whip-poor-wills Call to each other from all the hills; A scream comes down from the eagle’s nest; The bark of a fox from the cliff’s tall crest; The owls hoot; and the very trees Have something to say to every breeze!” The paths were few and the ways were rude In the depths of that virgin solitude. The Indian’s trail and the hunter’s tracks, The trees scarred deep by the settler’s axe, Or a cow-path leading to the creek,— These were the signs he had to seek; Save where, it may be, he chanced to hit The Crown Point road and could follow it— The road by the British troops hewn out Under General Amherst in fifty-nine, When he drove the French from the old redoubt, Nor waited to give the countersign! The streams were many and swift and clear; But there was no bridge, or far or near. It was midnight when he paused to hear At Rutland, the roar of the waterfall, And found a canoe by the river’s edge, In a tangled thicket of reeds and sedge. With a shout and a cheer, on the rushing tide He launched it and flew to the other side; Then giving his message, on he sped, By the light of the pale stars overhead, Past the log church below Pine Hill, And the graveyard opposite. All was still, And the one lone sleeper lying there Stirred not either for cry or prayer. Only pausing to give the alarm At rude log cabin and lonely farm. From hamlet to hamlet he hurries along, Borne on by a purpose deep and strong. Look! there’s a deer in the forest glade, Stealing along like a silent shade! Hark to the loon that cries and moans With a living grief in its human tones! At Pittsford the light begins to grow In the wakening east; and drifting slow, From valley and river and wild-wood, rise, Like the smoke of a morning sacrifice, Clouds of translucent, silver mist, Flushing to rose and amethyst; While thrush and robin and bluebird sing Till the woods with jubilant music ring! It was day at last! He looked around, With a firmer tread on the springing ground; “Now the men will be all afield,” said he, “And that will save many a step for me. Each man will be ready to go; but still, I must confess, if I’d had my will, I’d have waited till after planting-time, For now the season is in its prime. The young green leaves of the oak-tree here Are just the size of a squirrel’s ear; And I’ve known no rule, since I was born, Safer than that for planting corn!” He threaded the valleys, he climbed the hills, He forded the rivers, he leaped the rills, While still to his call, like minute-men Booted and spurred, from mount and glen, The settlers rallied. But on he went Like an arrow shot from a bow, unspent, Down the long vale of the Otter to where The might of the waterfall thundered in air; Then across to the lake, six leagues and more, Where Hand’s Cove lay in the bending shore. The goal was reached. He dropped to the ground In a deep ravine, without word or sound; And Sleep, the restorer, bade him rest Like a weary child, on the earth’s brown breast. At midnight he woke with a quick heart-beat, And sprang with a will to his throbbing feet;— For armed men swarmed in the dim ravine, And Ethan Allen, as proud of mien As a king on his throne, smiled down on him, While he stretched and straightened each stiffened limb. “Nay, nay,” said the Colonel, “take your rest, As a knight who has done his chief’s behest!” “Not yet!” cried the armorer. “Where’s my gun? A knight fights on till the field is won!” And into Fort Ti, ere dawn of day, He stormed with his comrades to share the fray! FORESHADOWINGS “The nest of the blind bird is built by God.”—Turkish Proverb. Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nest, Am I not blind? Each bird that flyeth east or west The track can find. Each bird that flies from north to south Knows the far way; From mountain’s crest to river’s mouth It does not stray. Not one in all the lengthening land, In all the sky, Or by the ocean’s silver strand, Is blind as I! And dost Thou build the blind bird’s nest? Build Thou for me Some shelter where my soul may rest Secure in Thee. Close clinging to the bending bough, Bind it so fast It shall not loose if high or low Blows the loud blast. If fierce storms break, and the wild rain Comes pelting in, Cover the shrinking nest, restrain The furious din. At sultry noontide, when the air Trembles with heat, Draw close the leafy covert where Cool shadows meet. And when night falleth, dark and chill, Let one fair star, Love’s star all luminous and still, Shine from afar. Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nest Build Thou for me; So shall my being find its rest Forevermore in Thee. TWO PATHS A Path across a meadow fair and sweet, Where clover-blooms the lithesome grasses greet, A path worn smooth by his impetuous feet. A straight, swift path—and at its end, a star Gleaming behind the lilac’s fragrant bar, And her soft eyes, more luminous by far!
A path across the meadow fair and sweet, Still sweet and fair where blooms and grasses meet— A path worn smooth by his reluctant feet. A long, straight path—and, at its end, a gate Behind whose bars she doth in silence wait To keep the tryst, if he comes soon or late! ST. JOHN’S EVE The veil is thin between The seen and the unseen— Thinner to-night than the transparent air; All heaven and earth are still, Save when from some far hill Floateth the nightbird’s unavailing prayer; Up from the mountain bars Climb the slow, patient stars, Only to faint in moonlight white and rare! Ere earth had grown too wise To commerce with the skies, On this midsummer night the men of old Believed the dead drew near, Believed that they could hear Voices long silent speaking from the mould, Believed whoever slept Unearthly vigil kept Where his own death-knell should at last be tolled. In solemn midnight marches Beneath dark forest arches They fancied that their hungry souls found God; His angels clad in light Stole softly through the night, Leaving no impress on the yielding sod, And bore to mortal ears Tidings from other spheres, The undiscovered way no man hath trod. Ah! what if it were true? Then would I call ye who Have one by one beyond my vision flown; I would set wide the door Ye enter now no more Crying, “Come in from out the void unknown! Come as ye came of old Laden with love untold”— Hark! was that nothing but the night wind’s moan? A LITTLE SONG Little song I fain would sing, Why dost thou elude me so? Like a bird upon the wing, Sailing high, sailing low, Yet forever out of reach, Thou dost vex me beyond measure, Unallured by prayer or speech, Waiting thine own time and pleasure! Well I know thee, tricksy sprite— I could call thee by thy name; I have wooed thee day and night, Yet thou wilt not own my claim. Hark! thou’rt hovering even now In the soft still air above me— Fantasy or dream art thou, That my heart’s cry cannot move thee? Little song I never sang, Thou art sweeter than the strain That through starry mazes rang, First-born child of joy and pain. I shall sing thee not; but surely From some all-compelling voice Swelling high, serenely, purely, I shall hear thee and rejoice! THE PRINCES’ CHAMBER I stood upon Tower Hill, Bright were the skies and gay, Yet a cloud and a sudden chill Passed over the summer day— A thrill, and a nameless dread, As of one who waits alone Where gather the silent dead Under the charnel stone. For before my shrinking eyes They glided, one by one, The great, the good, the wise, Who here to death were done; Sinners and saints they came With blood-stained garments on, Reckless of praise or blame, Or battles lost or won. Then over the moat I passed And paused at the Traitors’ Gate; Did I hear a trumpet’s blast, Forerunner of deadly fate? Lo! up the stairs from the river, Where the sombre shadows crept, With none to help or deliver, Kings, queens, and princes swept! O, some of those royal dames Drooped, with dishevelled hair, And mien of one who claims Close kindred with despair! And some were proud and cold, With eyes that blazed like stars, As under that archway old They passed to their prison-bars. To prison-bars or death! Fair, hapless Anne Boleyn; That haughty maid, Elizabeth; Northumberland’s pale queen; Margaret Plantagenet, Her gray locks floating wild— How the line lengthens yet, Knight, prelate, statesman, child! Fiercely the black portcullis Frowned as I onward went; The Bloody Tower is this— Strong tower of dread portent! “Show me the Princes’ Chamber,” To the Yeoman Guard I said; O, the stairs were steep to clamber, And the rough vault dark o’erhead! No sigh in the sunny room, No moan from the groined roof, No wail of expectant doom Echoed alow, aloof! But instead a mother sang To a child upon her knee, Whose peals of laughter rang Like sweet bells mad with glee. Sunshine for murky air, Smiles for the sob of pain, Joy for dark despair, Hope where sweet hope was slain! “Art thou happy here,” I cried, “Where once was lonely woe, And the royal children died,— Murdered so long ago?” She smiled. “O, lady, yes! Earth hath forgotten them; See how my roses press, Blooming on each fair stem! The princes, they sleep sound, But love nor joy are dead; I fear no haunted ground, I have my child,” she said. WONDERLAND Wonderland is here and there; Wonderland is everywhere; Fly not then to east or west On some far, uncertain quest. Seek not India nor Japan, Nor the city Ispahan, Where to-day the shadows brood Over lonely Zendarood. Somewhere smileth far Cathay Through the long resplendent day; Somewhere, moored in purple seas, Sleep the fair Hesperides. Somewhere, in vague realms remote Over which strange banners float, Lies, all bathed in silver gleams, The dear Wonderland of dreams. Yet no need to sail in ships Where the blue sea dips and dips, Nor on wings of cloud to fly Where the haunts of faery lie. For by miracle of morn Each successive day is born; And wherever shines the sun, There enchanted rivers run! Would you go to Wonderland? Lo! it lieth close at hand; Wonderland is wheresoe’er Eyes can see and ears can hear! IN A GALLERY
(ANTWERP, 1891) The Virgin floating on the silver moon; Madonna Mary with her holy child; Pale Christs on shuddering crosses lifted high; Sweet angel faces, bending from the blue; Saints rapt from earth in ecstasy divine, And martyrs all unmindful of their pain; Bold, mail-clad knights; fair ladyes whom they loved; Brown fisher-boys and maidens; harvest-fields, Where patient women toiled; with here and there The glint of summer skies and summer seas, And the red glow of humble, household fires! Breathless I stood and silent, even as one Who, seeing all, sees nothing. Then a face Down the long gallery drew me as a star; A winsome, beckoning face, with bearded lips Just touched with dawning laughter, and clear eyes That kept their own dear secret, smiling still With a soft challenge. Dark robes lost in shade, Laces at throat and wrist, an ancient chair, And a long, slender hand whose fingers held Loosely a parchment scroll—and that was all. Yet from those high, imperial presences, Those lofty ones uplifted from dear earth With all its loves and longings, back I turned Again and yet again, lured by the smile That called me like a voice, “Come hither, friend!” “Simon de Vos,” thus saith the catalogue, And “Painted by himself.” Three hundred years Thou hast been dust and ashes. I who write And they who read, we know another world From that thine eyes looked out on. Wouldst thou smile, Even as here thou smilest, if to-day Thou wert still of us? O, thou joyous one, Whose light, half-mocking laughter hath outlived So much earth held more precious, let thy lips Open and answer me! Whence was it born, The radiance of thy tender, sparkling face? What manner of man wert thou? For the books Of the long generations do not tell! Art thou a name, a smile, and nothing more? What dreams and visions hadst thou? Other men Would pose as heroes; would go grandly down To coming ages in the martyr’s rÔle; Or, if perchance they’re poets, set their woes To wailing music, that the world may count Their heart-throbs in the chanting of a song. Immortal thou, by virtue of one smile! IN MARBLE PRAYER
(CANTERBURY, 1891) So still, so still they lie As centuries pass by, Their pale hands folded in imploring prayer; They never lift their eyes In sudden, sweet surprise; The wandering winds stir not their heavy hair Forth from their close-sealed lips Nor moan, nor laughter, slips, Nor lightest sigh to wake the entrancÈd air! Yet evermore they pray! We creatures of a day Live, love, and vanish from the gaze of men; Nations arise and fall; Oblivion’s heavy pall Hides kings and princes from all human ken, While these in marble state, From age to age await The rolling thunder of the last amen! Not in dim crypts alone, Or aisles of fretted stone, Where high cathedral altars gleam afar; And the red light streams down On mitre and on crown, Till each proud jewel blazes like a star; But where the tall grass waves O’er long-forgotten graves, Their silent worship no rude sounds can mar! Dost Thou not hear and heed? O, in Earth’s utmost need Wilt Thou not hearken, Thou who didst create? Not for themselves they pray Whose woes have passed for aye; For us, for us, before Thy throne they wait! Thou Sovereign Lord of All, On whom they mutely call, Hear Thou and answer from thine high estate! NOCTURNE O bird beneath the midnight sky! As on my lonely couch I lie, I hear thee singing in the dark— Why sing not I? No star-gleams meet thy wakeful eye; No fond mate answers to thy cry; No other voice, through all the dark, Makes sweet reply. Yet never skylark soaring high Where sunlit clouds rejoicing lie, Sang as thou singest in the dark, Not mute as I! O lone, sweet spirit! tell me why So far thy ringing love-notes fly, While other birds, hushed by the dark, Are mute as I? No prophecy of morn is nigh; Yet as the sombre hours glide by, Bravely thou singest in the dark— Why sing not I? COME WHAT MAY Transcriber's Notes:
The cover image was created by the transcriber, and is in the public domain. Uncertain or antiquated spellings or ancient words were not corrected. Errors in punctuation and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted. Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered. Where double quotes have been repeated at the beginnings of consecutive stanzas, they have been omitted for clarity. |
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