TO ?. Dear lady, doth the singer’s voice in thee Awake an answering chord? if not so, be Barren the song and all devoid of worth, Save to awaken idle scorn and mirth; Thy soul, self-poised in cold tranquillity, Will smile to think how foolish some may be. But if thy bosom swell with tender sighs, If the deep fountains of thy soul are stirred, Meeting some dear but unexpected word; If, answering mine, responsive pulses rise, And thy lips tremble to the happy eyes Suffused with pleasure at the glad surprise Of verses all too cold for thy completeness, Know thy own heart hath lent them all their sweetness.
POESY. Before the human hand a stylus held, Ere papyrus’ or parchment’s mute appeal, Sweet songs were sung whose echoes charm us still; From dying lips undying music welled. Wedded to strains from chosen souls that swelled, Were rescued from oblivion’s clammy seal, Fantastic legend, laws of commonweal, Heroic deeds in days of hoary eld. Muse of the lyre and harp, till latest day Thy voice shall bear along the shores of Time, While kingdoms crumble, and while tongues decay, The numbers of the ancient bards sublime. Still thy anointed favorites hold their sway, ’Mid falling stars, and gods that pass away.
THE ROSE. The flushing wave bloomed into wondrous flower, And rosy light burst forth unknown till then, When Aphrodite dawned on gods and men. Thy birth, O Rose, was in that mystic hour. Transcendent Rose, pride of the Paphian bower, And sweet consoler of the thorny glen, What virgin charms thy blush illumines when Upon the virgin heart Love seals his power. Fair as the lily was the Rose’s breast; But when the generous vine upon it bled, Swift blushes o’er its swelling beauties spread Till every leaf the tender flame confessed, While from thy wakened heart, O queenly Rose, Ambrosial incense on the air arose.
TO A FAIR SANTA BARBARAN. Why blooms the fairest flower ’neath rosy skies, Where all is bloom and fragrance? why unfold There, where the nectar that its petals hold Among the orange groves neglected lies, And all its perfume all unheeded dies! And thou, dear maid, with wealth of love untold, More precious far than mines of gems and gold, Why linger ’mid these cloyed and listless eyes? O with thy voice, and smile ineffable, And eyes so meet for sympathetic tears, Seek some sad land oppressed by grief and fears, A bright consoling angel there to dwell; Fly, ere thy robes are wet with honey dew, And thy own sweetness cloys thee through and through.
LA DIVA. A sea of faces ripple round her where, As on a sunny isle, the Diva glows Behind the footlights like a full-blown rose; A hush expectant fills the brooding air. But hist, O hist! what dying cygnet there? How bubbling from her alabaster throat Pours forth the wave of every passion’s note— Hope, fear, love’s ecstasy, and blank despair? A moment’s silence ere the plaudits rise, Till like a storm they beat the trembling walls, And white hands plash like wave-crests to the skies. Alas! ’tis o’er, the jealous curtain falls; And as the tumult of our rapture dies, A misty curtain veils our happy eyes.
TO A HAPPY LOVER. Flaunt not before the world thy happy love, Like the poor fatuous one whose pleasure lies Not in Love’s glance, but in the envious eyes Of other fools; deep in the myrtle grove Seek some untrodden way, shadowed above; There, if Love will, his unknown harmonies, His inmost heart and core, his tears and sighs, And unimagined mysteries thou mayest prove. But if thou find his choicest fruits and flowers, Guard them from eyes profane with jealous care; Love, proud but tender, brooks no sign-board there, Pointing the pathway to his sacred bowers; Himself the entrance, hidden and o’ergrown, Unto his chosen favorites will make known.
METEMPSYCHOSIS. I. I was a huntsman in my youth, and knew Each bird and beast that haunts the forest tall, Or wings the air, hard by the water-fall. Over the plain and up the mountain blue My twanging bow was heard, my arrows flew. My bowstring now is rent, my arrows all Like spears that from the withered pine-cones fall, Have from my shrunken quiver vanished too. Yet sometimes o’er me steals the olden mood, And wandering in the forest deep and dark, I greet each old familiar tree and mark, Each spot whereon the lovely quarry stood, While faintly through my withered veins once more Leaps the triumphant thrill I knew of yore. II. I shot an arrow through the wood one day In idle sport, and following where it led, I found a doe that I had raised and fed, Stricken, and bleeding fast her life away, Her tender fawn transfixed beside her lay; One random shaft two happy lives had sped. The dry leaves rustled to my startled tread, And filled my fluttering heart with strange dismay; For gazing in those failing eyes my soul Found there another soul, its very twin; Unseen for years, but bowered deep within The heart’s alcove,—oh, lost beyond control! Those murdered eyes still gaze as from a glass Framed in with bloody leaves and trampled grass.
THREE SONNETS IN MEMORIAM. I.
DESPAIR—THE ABYSS. O dread abyss, narrow, but dark and deep, Still baffling all that men may do or dare To read the secrets of thy jealous care, The mystery that thy shuddering caverns keep, Over thy cruel mouth the earth I heap, Hiding my treasure like a miser there. My hollow doubting voice I lift in prayer; With ghastly lips I say: “’Tis but a sleep, And I shall find my loved one freed from sorrow, Glowing with love, and youth ineffable.” O fool, the only sure thing thou canst borrow From coming years is death, thou knowest well. Yet even this is gain; then hail each morrow That brings thee nearer to the self-same cell. II.
QUESTIONING.
IN MEMORY OF D. G. R. Bathed in the morning sunlight thou didst stand, The sisters nine in homage gathered round, Son of Apollo, with his laurels crowned, His lyre of lyres trembling in thy hand. The brush and chisel at thy high command Enchantment wrought, but sweeter far resounds The music of thy verse, the soulful sounds Flung from thy pen as from a magic wand. Had all thy wondrous powers to song been given, What floods of melody had filled the air— Eros’ and Psyche’s voices mingling there. Alas! the wine is spilled, the lyre is riven, Stern Albion’s son, thy soft Italian name Lives only in the Pantheon of Fame.
IN MEMORY OF JOHN BROWN OF OSSAWATTOMIE. INSCRIBED TO JOHN J. INGALLS. I. A cloud for years o’erhung the border-land, Black, ominous, wherein were dimly seen Soul-terrifying shapes of beasts unclean, And men uncleaner still, a hideous band, Loathsome as reptiles from the slimy strand Of vanished seas, in ages pliocene. Prophets the portent read with vision keen, But lying seers cried “Peace,” throughout the land, ’Tis but a cloud-bank changing with the wind, And craven hearts draw their own pictures there, And traitors sneered, and from the pulpit whined Sleek hypocrites, blind leaders of the blind, Buyers of souls, who gathered gold with care, With gnashing and blaspheming filled the air.
II. A soul flamed forth like a titanic brand, Or fiery meteor through the murky sky, Thrilled by electric arrows from on high; And by swift wings of unseen seraphs fanned The baleful clouds dispersed, as though a hand Omnipotent had swept the firmament And from its face the darkening veil had rent. Vague shapes of fear, as by enchanter’s wand, Were changed to forms substantial, and arose The Nation’s foes, implacable and fierce. The canting knave, who chapter gave and verse To justify the trade in human woes, Slunk with his broad phylacteries away, And strong men armed them for the deadly fray. III. True greatness is the greatest in defeat. A laurel wreath entwined about that head Had but obscured the glory that it shed. Unshaken in his high prophetic seat, Beyond all crowns of vict’ry grand and great In happier days, as when, illusions fled, His fierce foes found him lying ’mid his dead, Alike his spirit soared secure from Fate. So, when the charging battle standards meet, Gold fringe and silken fold are plucked away As by the myriad beaks of birds of prey, Still on the staff, high in his ancient seat, The brazen eagle sits, serene, the same, Pride of the legions o’er the battle’s flame.
OUR LOST ONES. “HÉlas! dans le cercueil ils tombent en poussiÈre Moins vite qu’en nos coeurs.” Brethren and sisters all, what do we here, With song and laughter, while around us stand, With dumb reproachful gaze, a shadowy band, The mournful shades of all our lost ones dear? O conquering power of the eternal years! How swiftly fade away on every hand Their memories throughout the joyous land, For whom we thought to shed eternal tears. Smiling above them wave the flowers and grass, Where cold and still those cherished forms are strown, Thickly as grain in the deep furrows sown, Or sheaves in fields where merry reapers pass. To dust they wither in our hearts, alas! More swiftly than beneath the cruel stone.
THE OCEAN OF THE PAST. My wistful eyes still sweep thy sullen breast, Dead sea, whose waves, once, following stroke on stroke, Have swallowed mast and sail and hull of oak. Now all thy cruel billows are at rest; Hushed is thy roar, and stilled each raging crest; No phantom from thy mists may I evoke, No more my prow or sail the waves provoke, Where sleeps my happy island of the blest. Lo, while I gaze, like the responsive swell Of some great yearning heart, the billows rise, Till, in wild tumult leaping to the skies, They toss the beauteous wrecks I loved so well, Resistless through the rending barriers roll And sob through all the caverns of my soul.
EVIL DAYS. O Youth, O Hope, O Love, all phantoms vain! Ye lured me long with promise false as sweet, But now your flight outstrips my faltering feet. Dear traitors, will ye ne’er return again? Love lingered last, but all have been too fleet. Now sinks the light of day in tears and pain, The glories of the night unheeded wane: Summer is winter, truth is but deceit. Shall I not find upon some vernal day, Fruition for the buds that blighted here? The golden hours of youth I cast away, How I would hold those wasted treasures dear! Still through the lonely chambers of my brain No more, no more, echoes the sad refrain.
ENVY AND SLANDER. TO N. A. M. Envy is deathless, though the envious die, And shafts of slander, hissing through the dark, Have ever loved, like death, a shining mark. Then do not think those shafts could pass thee by. Thy conscious worth, and purpose pure and high Cannot defend from little curs that bark; No wall, high as the flight of morning lark, Can top the poisoned arrows as they fly. Rise o’er the herd in feeling, thought, or deed, And feel the bitter sting of Envy’s tongue; Rise higher yet, and thus confound the throng,— Only a respite brief thy soul may read. Success, e’en more than merit, is a crime To tongues as tireless as the feet of Time.
TRUE FREEDOM. TO J. F. F. He is not truly free who fears to speak The burning words that flame from heart to tongue, When in the presence of a hoary wrong, E’en though upheld by gown and surplice sleek, And hears unheeded the oppressed and weak. Nor friendship from the great, the rich, the strong, Nor grateful plaudits from the servile throng, The free-born spirit must expect or seek. Think not that power and place will come to thee— Sooner some sordid soul the race will win; E’en in the days of Cid and Paladin, And glorious days of Arthur’s chivalry, The golden spurs by cravens oft were won, While hearts as brave as Arthur’s died unknown.
“SOCIETY.” Dear, simple friend, and did you think to find Aught but hypocrisy and fair smooth lies In this charmed circle, that would ostracize All for a pair of gloves the most refined, The noblest type of man or womankind? A set whose aspirations never rise Above the triumphs wealth and fashion buys; Who ape the opinions with devotion blind, The coats and gowns, of royal debauchees And their bold paramours from over seas. How hope a noble womanhood to gain Nourished upon such stifling airs as these. Fashion forbids to rise above a plane That dudes and lah-de-dahs can just attain.
THE STAGNANT POOL. Stooping beside a stagnant pool to drink I saw a woman, weary and forlorn, With hair unkempt, and garments stained and torn; All grace of womanhood was fled, no link Remained of happier days; along the brink Swept by a stately dame with words of scorn; “Though I had thirsted since the early morn, Before my feet in that foul wave should sink My willing lips should press the cup of death.” O scornful dame! before the night was black, Lo! I beheld thy swift feet speeding back, With robes dishevelled and with gasping breath, In this same wave thy parching lips to cool, As eagerly as ’twere a mountain pool.
THE MAN WITH THE MUCK-RAKE. An old and well-known allegory reading, I found a quaint and curious picture there, Of one who gathered straws and dirt with care, The golden crown above his head unheeding. Science to-day, than avarice more misleading, Hath slain our father’s faith and hope and prayer; We rake the seas, and sweep the earth and air To find new theories for our own impeding. And some for tinsel toys of social glory, And Church and State, toil through the grovelling years. How can we hear the music of the spheres, Clutching the muck-rakes of the allegory? Our blunted senses only can discern The paltry baubles over which we yearn.
IMMORTALITY. My vision floats far down the milky-way, A shining track across a shoreless sea As deep and boundless as eternity. Suns sail in myriads there, and comets stray, Youthful, while hoary ages roll away. O fleeting life, the stars that shine on me Smiled just the same when star-lit Galilee Beneath the Saviour’s feet in slumber lay. What countless swarms of man’s ephemeral race Live, love, and die, while ye sail coldly on! Yet they shall rise, the teeming millions gone, And gaze unmoved, while from their ancient place The morning stars like baleful meteors fleet, And while the heavens melt with fervent heat.
TO A YOUNG ARTIST. The matchless artists of the olden time Knew naught of critic’s jargon; to their toil Bending as one that digs a stony soil, Sparing nor bloom of youth nor manhood’s prime, They caught and fixed their floating dreams sublime. So must we shun all vain polemic broil, Nor vex our souls with theories’ turmoil If to ideal heights we fain would climb. Our vintage time is speeding fast away, The morning faileth; then with double will, In spite of noonday glare or evening chill, Gather the glowing clusters while we may. So may our failing eyes see some faint beams Shed o’er our work from our supernal dreams. THE END.
Transcriber’s Note: In poem “Shadows”, final stanza, “vail” changed to “veil”. In poem “Twenty Years Ago”, penultimate stanza, “plantive” changed to “plaintive”. |
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