TO MY WIFE. Sweet Lady, queen-star of my life and thought,
Whose honour, heart and name are one with mine,
Who dost above life’s troubled currents shine
With such clear beam as oftentimes hath brought
The storm-tossed spirit into harbours wrought
By love and peace on life’s rough margin-line;
I wish no wish which is not wholly thine,
I hope no hope but what thyself hast sought.
Thou losest not, my Lady, in the wife,
The golden love-light of our earlier days;
Time dims it not, it mounteth like the sun,
Till earth and sky are radiant. Sweet, my life
Lies at thy feet, and all life’s gifts and praise,
Yet are they nought to what thy knight hath won.
A CYPRESS WREATH. I. Death met a little child beside the sea;
The child was ruddy and his face was fair,
His heart was gladdened with the keen, salt air,
Full of the young waves’ laughter and their glee.
Then Death stooped down and kissed him, saying:
“Thee,
My child, will I give summers rare and bright,
And flowers, and morns with never noon or night,
Or clouds to darken, if thou’lt come with me.”
Then the child gladly gave his little hand,
And walked with Death along the shining sand,
And prattled gaily, full of hope, and smiled
As a white mist curled round him on the shore
And hid the land and sea for evermore—
Death hath no terrors for a little child.
II. There lived two souls who only lived for love;
The one a maiden, full of joy and youth,
The other her young lord, a man of truth
And very valiant. Them did God above
Knit with those holy bands none may remove
Save He that formed them. But next year there came
God’s angel, with his face and wings of flame,
And bore the young wife’s soul off like a dove.
Then did her lord, disconsolate many years,
Cry bitterly to God to make them one,
And take his life, and silence the sweet past.
So Death came tenderly and stilled his tears,
Clad as a priest, and ’neath the winter’s sun
In a white grave re-wedded them at last.
III. Quoth Death to Life: “Behold what strength is mine,
All others perish, yet I do not fail,
Where life aboundeth most, I most prevail,
I mete out all things with my measuring line.”
Then answered Life: “O boastful Death, not thine
The final triumph, what thy hands undo
My busy anvil forgeth out anew,
For one lamp darkened, I bring two to shine.”
Then answered Death: “Thy handiwork is fair,
But a slight breath will crumble it to dust.”
“Nay, Death,” said Life, “for in the vernal air
A sweeter blossom breaks the winter’s crust.”
Then God called down and stopped the foolish strife;
His servants both, for God made Death and Life.
COLUMBUS. He caught the words which ocean thunders hurled
On heedless eastern coasts, in days gone by,
And to his dreams the ever-westering sky
The ensign of a glorious hope unfurled;
So, onward to the line of mists which curled
Around the setting sun, with steadfast eye,
He pushed his course, and, trusting God on high,
Threw wide the portals of a larger world.
The heart that watched through those drear autumn nights
The wide, dark sea, and man’s new empire sought,
Alone, uncheered, hath wrought a deed sublime,
Which, like a star behind the polar lights,
Will shine through splendours of man’s utmost thought,
Down golden eras to the end of time.
1892.
IDOLS. In each man’s heart a secret temple stands
For rites idolatrous of praise and prayer;
And dusky idols through the incensed air,
On single thrones, or grouped in curious bands,
Gaze at the lamp which swings in memory’s hands,—
Some richly carved, with face of beauty rare,
Some with brute heads and bosoms foul and bare,
Yet crowned with gold and gems from distant lands.
Take now thy torch, descend the winding years,
The silent stair-way to thy secret shrine,
And see what Dagon crowns the topmost shelf
With front aggressive, served through hopes and fears
In ceaseless cult by love that counts divine
His every blemish,—is not Dagon SELF?
SOLOMON. A double line of columns, white as snow,
And vaulted with mosaics rich in flowers,
Makes square this cypress grove where fountain showers
From golden basins cool the grass below;
While from that archway strains of music flow,
And laughings of fair girls beguile the hours.
But brooding, like one held by evil powers,
The great King heeds not, pacing sad and slow.
His heart hath drained earth’s pleasures to the lees,
Hath quivered with life’s finest ecstasies;
Yet now some power reveals as in a glass
The soul’s unrest and death’s dark mysteries,
And down the courts the scared slaves watch him pass,
Reiterating, “Omnia Vanitas!”
OUT OF THE STORM. The huge winds gather on the midnight lake,
Shaggy with rain and loud with foam-white feet,
Then bound through miles of darkness till they meet
The harboured ships and city’s squares, and wake
From steeples, domes and houses sounds that take
A human speech, the storm’s mad course to greet;
And nightmare voices through the rain and sleet
Pass shrieking, till the town’s rock-sinews shake.
Howl, winds, around us in this gas-lit room!
Wild lake, with thunders beat thy prison bars!
A brother’s life is ebbing fast away,
And, mounting on your music through the gloom,
A pure soul mingles with the morning stars,
And with them melts into the blaze of day.
St. Luke’s Hospital,
Duluth, May 17th, 1894.
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