b'ZU& s \n\n(D6DD \n\n\n\nc \n\n\n\nIDJLUAM BONNF6 OG \n\nP S \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xa3?M \n\n\n\nO \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nClass p SS-ttf \nBnnlc \' CtrS 6 \n\n\n\nCopyrights?. \n\n\n\n/?$?\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\nCOPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. \n\n\n\nTHE SONG \n\nOF THB \n\n\n\nWEDDING BELLS \n\n\n\nBY \n\n\n\nWILLIAM BONNIE OCKHAME \n\n\n\n\nNEW YORK \n\nTHE GRAFTON PRESS \n\n\n\nTHE LIBRARY OF \n\nCONGRESS, \nTWO COWE6 Recsiveo \n\nSFP. 10 1902 \n\nCOPVWOHT FHT3V \n\n(Xucj. 2.0, t^o^ \nCLASS ^XXo. No \n\n\n\nCOPY 8. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xabJ \n\n\n\n\n\n/?*a \n\n\n\nCopyright igo2 \nBy The Grafton Press \n\n\n\nf \n\n\ni \n\n\n1 \n\n? CONT] \n\n\nTHE WOOING \n\n\nTHE WEDDING TRIP \n\n\nTHE FIRESIDE \n\n\n\nPROEM \n\nThe nightingale went far astray, \n\nReturning in the spring. \nShe learned no new song. Hear her sing \n\nThe old song, sweet alway. \n\nGoethe. \n\n\n\nTHE WOOING \n\n\n\nLOVE-CHANGES. \nAfter the French of Alfred de Musset. \n\nI said to my heart, to my feeble heart: \nAre you not yet done changing old love \nfor new? \n\nAnd while the roses and myrtles fade, \nStill will you weep over wreaths of rue? \n\nIt answered to me: I am not yet done, \nI am not yet done changing for new love old; \n\nAnd as the myrtles and roses fade, \nDearer they grow to us thousandfold. \n\n\n\nONE HATH NOT BOWED THE KNEE \nTO BAAL. \n\nHere is one woman wise yet true, \nWho will not do or think or say all \n\nThat modern women think, say, do; \nOne hath not bowed the knee to Baal. \n\nNo tinsel show, but truth right through; \n\nNor pays the tribute which they pay all,\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd pay it though they dearly rue; \n\nOne hath not bowed the knee to Baal. \n\n\n\nAt last, here is a woman who \n\nHas knowledge and does not display all; \nDoes mercy and in silence, too; \n\nOne hath not bowed the knee to Baal. \n\n\n\nTHE CAPTIVE. \n\nOh, sing again! Thy song hath swept, \nLike birds in gracile flight arisen, \n\nPast captive knight, who long had wept, \nThough sky-ward towered, immured in prison. \n\nWhat is, you ask, the joy grief gives? \n\nTo think, bird, of my bright home yonder; \nTo feel my mind still lives! still lives! \n\nThe heart lives that can grieve and ponder. \n\nThe airs thou sing\'st, into fine air, \nAbove dull Earth and fortune\'s minions, \n\nA weary, captive genius bear \xe2\x80\x94 \nSing! sing, sweet bird! Lend me thy pinions! \n\nAFFINITY. \n\nLike as one in a foreign land, \nWho singeth in a language sweet, \n\nMight touch as with a spirit wand, \nBut that it falls on ears unmeet; \n\nLike to one in a foreign land, \nWho yearns for that companionship \n\n\n\nJO \n\n\n\nWhich moveth as with music bland \nIn accents from a native lip; \n\nOne lived devising lofty thought, \nBut lived as yet unheard, unknown. \n\nAnother subtle soul was wrought, \nIn soft, melodious undertone. \n\nDoes not the mountain meet the sea? \n\nArches not one great heaven above? \nWhen these two met, why marvel ye, \n\nThat they at once should fall in love. \n\nTHE MESSENGER. \n\nGod\'s gentlest angel from the skies \n\nAbove \n\nDown came. \n\nHe oped his arms and shut his eyes; \n\nThis was his name: \n\nLove. \n\nRIPE MANHOOD. \n\nWhat if the first fierce flame be past, \n\nSweeping as prairie fire? \nPassing swift is the furnace blast; \n\nLasting are love and ire. \n\nWhat if the vale of youth be left, \nVerdantly wrapped in bloom? \n\n\n\nFirm on the peak, above rift and cleft, \nBright we stand o\'er the gloom. \n\nStrange whom the kisses of life can cloy! \n\nThought throbs with deeper glow \nSmit with all grief and thrilled with all joy; \n\nWhich the heart of man may know. \n\nYield not! to suffer and know and dare, \n\nThis is to be alive; \nStronger to counsel, to help and bear, \n\nStronger to love and strive. \n\nThe ripe brain guideth the manly hand; \n\nStill the red heart beats strong. \nAll that we feel and understand \n\nGlows into act and song. \n\n\n\nTHE BANISHED NIGHTINGALE. \n\nThe nightingale has been expelled \n\nFrom modern poetry. \nI heard her song; it sweetly welled, \n\nIt sweetly welled from thee. \n\nThat she sings now as e\'er she sung, \n\nMy ravished ear avow\'th. \nThe nightingale dwells in thy tongue^ \n\nIts rosy cage thy mouth. \n\n\n\n12 \n\n\n\nPHILLIPENA. \n\nAccept this package at my hands \n\nThere are some sweets within; \nIn German it\'s called a Vielliebchen and \n\nIn English a fillipeen. \n\nWhen finding two almonds one shell within, \n\nLike an elf and a bumble-bee, \nDid you know that playing at fillipeen, \n\nFolks kissed for a penalty? \n\nThat fashion is dropped. One\'s manners \nchange. \n\nThey will change again, I ween, \nWhen you meet the person to whom you will be \n\nThe German for fillipeen. \n\nTHE ARCH AND THE ARROW. \nThe curving of Love\'s arch I did not know \n\nUntil I met her eyebrows\' curve and hue; \nNor felt the shaft bright-speeding from his bow, \nUntil her eyes\' clear glance had pierced me \nthrough. \n\nTHE GIRDLE. \nDear Girdle, \'round her slender waist, \nSpeak in a whisper low and chaste: \nI know two arms, if they were placed \nWhere now my curve by yours is graced, \nA longing lover would be blest. \n\n\n\n13 \n\n\n\nTHE VALENTINE. \n\nWhen sap flows upward in the bough, \nAnd nesting, chirping birds appear, \n\nThe budding spring comes soon enow, \nThe sweetest time in all the year. \n\nWhile love flows on in life\'s young vein, \n\nAnd tender fancies reappear, \nYoung spring shall still with us remain \n\nAnd glow through all the changing year. \n\nWhile birds far from their nest may roam, \nAnd leaves appear and reappear, \n\nSweet love shall make abiding home, \nAnd sweet spring-time in all the year. \n\n\n\nECHO. \n\nO, dear Echo, tell me duly, for my heart is sad \n\nand sore, \nWill my sweetheart love me truly, will he love \nfor evermore? \nFor evermore \xe2\x80\x94 Evermore. \n\nO, dear Echo, tell me duly, for my heart is in \n\nmy breath, \nWill my sweetheart love me truly, will he love \n\ne\'en unto death? \nE\'en unto death \xe2\x80\x94 Unto death. \n\n\n\n14 \n\n\n\nO, dear Echo, tell me duly, then I\'ll know \n\nwhat I shall do? \nWill my sweetheart love me truly, in his heart \n\nsweet, brave and true? \nSweet, brave, and true \xe2\x80\x94 Brave and true. \n\nO, dear Echo, thank you duly, for the truth \n\nyour answer bore. \nIf my sweetheart loves me truly, I\'m content; \n\nI ask no more. \nAye, ask no more \xe2\x80\x94 Ask no more. \n\n\n\nNOT TO BE LOVED. \n\nNot to be loved! Tis not to see the light \nThat floods from eye to eye, a spirit sea, \n\nSwaying the throbbing heart with quivering \nmight, \n\nDeep-billowed bliss and breakers of affright \nSucceeding o\'er the spirit endlessly. \n\nYet love and lose! Oh, fearful, fearful night! \nNo light except that hell-fire\'s grinning glee! \nNo! No! I\'ll take calm reason\'s remedy: \nNot to be loved. \n\nPoor love! Poor reason! Fierce, unending \nfight! \nWere but one word less modest or less free! \nWere but one glance less innocently bright! \n\n\n\nI must love her! \xe2\x80\x94 must \xe2\x80\x94 in a trembling plight. \nThat love is life! It would be death to me \nNot to be loved. \n\n\n\nTHE COMING OF SPRING. \n\nThe spring it is coming anon, anon! \n\nFor the clear brooks are running the pebbles \n\nupon; \nIce yesterday bound them; it\'s melted and gone. \nSpite the hedge-hidden snows and the keen \ncutting breeze, \n\nA spring-flood\'s might \nRose over night, \nAnd its tide is flowing high up in the trees. \n\nQuick love has shyly come to us both; \n\nNor to laugh, nor to lean, nor to listen we\'re \nloath. \n\nIn our cheeks mantles joy, in the trees mantles \ngrowth. \n\nOur glances like sunlights of spring come and \nflee. \n\nBut troth, still and bright, \nWill come over night, \n\nWhen the catkins hang fringing the lithe wil- \nlow-tree. \n\nWe will shoot the swift rapids, we\'ll dream by \nthe sea, \n\n\n\n16 \n\n\n\nWe will wander o\'er mountain and woodland \n\nand lea, \nLike the sunbeams and singing birds, happy \n\nand free. \nIn the hammock we\'ll swing, in the whispering \n\nbreeze, \n\n\'Neath the verdant twilight \nOf the leafy wood-night, \nWhen the summer lies brooding on top of the \n\ntrees. \n\n\n\nTHE YANKEE HOME IN THE LEAFY \nLANE. \n\nWhen fancy-balls show king and elf, \n\nAnd in the social whizz and whirr \nA peachblow vase shames honest delf, \n\nI with the boys condog, concur. \nBut when the spring comes, I demur \n\nTo being pleasure\'s weather-vane, \nAll better thoughts return to her \n\nIn the Yankee home in the leafy lane. \n\nI own a hardy taste for pelf, \nFor git-and-go, and push and stir. \n\nPshaw! lay romance upon the shelf! \nI with the boys condog, concur. \n\nBut when the spring wears bud and burr, \nAnd a sunshine smile through misty rain, \n\n\n\n17 \n\n\n\nOn one sweet form my thoughts confer, \nIn the Yankee home in the leafy lane. \n\nSome fawn on England\'s royal Guelph; \n\nSome others to our people purr; \nI\'m just as bad as that myself; \n\nI with the boys condog, concur. \nBut when the catkins dangle fur, \n\nAnd spring comes in his flowery wain, \nPure thoughts a purer crown aver, \n\nIn the Yankee home in the leafy lane. \n\nWhen wintry biz and buzz deter, \nI with the boys condog, concur. \nSpring comes! Oh, soul without a stain, \nIn the Yankee home in the leafy lane! \n\n\n\nTA-TA. \n\nOh, Muse, I\'ve sung until I\'m hoarse; \n\nThou art too immaterial. \nThou\'rt passing, passing fair, of course, \n\nBut the least, least bit ethereal. \n\nThou art like toys of mundane sort, \nThat first excite, then cool a man; \n\nFor thou, and Wall Street, work, and sport, \nAre various traps to fool a man. \n\n18 \n\n\n\nI\'ll leave the town and dockets dull, \n\nFor one \xe2\x80\x94 it can\'t be harmful \xe2\x80\x94 \nIf I can\'t have my pockets full, \n\nAt least I\'ll have an armful. \n\nNOR\' WARD! \n\nVermont grows green and the maple fills, \nAs the spring comes north o\'er the Berkshire \nhills. \n\nYes, the sap in the trees and one\'s heart-blood \nthrills \n\nWhen the spring cometh north o\'er the Berk- \nshire hills. \n\nA sweetheart waits and a dear heart thrills \nAs I ride in the spring o\'er the Berkshire hills. \n\nWOOING A ROSE. \n\nWhispering plead I with thee: \nDoes thy blush speak unto me? \nAh! speak, rose. \n\nIs it as much as to say: \nHence far, thou bold one, away? \nAh! speak, rose. \n\nOr does it answering start: \n"Yes!" from thy pure, rosy heart? \nAh! speak, rose. \n\n\n\nio \n\n\n\nA SURVIVAL. \n\nWith the uplifted cross there closes \nThe age of Jove, excepting this: \n\nFrom lips that part like double roses \nIs still born Venus\' dove, the kiss. \n\nROLLING-STONE JUNCTION. \n\nThe pine-trees sigh softly at Rolling-Stone \n\nBrook, \nTwo paths towards the stepping-stones join- \ningly broaden. \n\nSit awhile and tarry. \n\nThey seem to whisper me: \nMarry \xe2\x80\x94 aye \xe2\x80\x94 marry, \nAnd how happy you will be! \n\nThe waves prattle gaily down Rolling-Stone \n\nBrook, \nTill the brook and the river in gay movement \nmingle. \n\nSit awhile and tarry. \n\nThey seem to murmur me: \nMarry \xe2\x80\x94 aye \xe2\x80\x94 marry, \nAnd how happy you will be! \n\nHere we two stand alone \n\nOn the center stepping-stone. \n\nAround us the water and the vast pine-wood, \n\nA resinous, sun-speckled solitude. \n\n\n\n20 \n\n\n\n\'Round our feet swift-glancing waves bubble \nand hiss. \n\nI clasp thee and kiss. \nWill you say to me: \nI\'ll marry? \n"I\'ll marry." \nAh! how happy we shall be! \n\n\n\nI HAVE BEEN KISSED. \n\nI have been kissed. Awake I dream. \n\nDay-life doth but a dream-life seem. \nAt night, the dream-life of the day \nBursts like the blossoming of a spray; \n\nBursts as through clouds an April gleam. \n\nNo longer chills the wintry beam; \nAs though of summer light a stream \nEnrobed my soul in warming ray, \nI" have been kissed. \n\n\n\nTHE FIRST THUNDER IN SPRING. \nAir: Battle Hymn of the Republic. \n\nLook! the pallor of the Spring-skies is now \n\ndarkly under-browed; \nThey are carrying off dead Winter in yon \n\ndarkling thunder shroud; \n\n21 \n\n\n\nHear the clapping of the hands of every fertile \nwonder-cloud, \n\nAs Spring comes rolling in. \n\nHail! all hail! the winds are singing, \nPurifying lightning flinging; \nHear his chariot wheels come ringing! \nThe Spring comes rolling in. \n\nAnd the spirits of the mid-air dance in elemen- \ntal glee, \n\nAnd the fresh Earth smiles up at them, for the \nbride of Spring is she; \n\nHe has slain the glum old Winter, and the \nmaiden setting free, \n\nThe Spring comes rolling in. \n\nHark! the organ-peals are sounding, \nFrom the high green hills rebounding, \nAnd the Moon her pale light rounding, \nThe bride-train ushers she. \n\nIn the low west burn the bonfires. Now they \n\nslowly fade away; \nLit in honor of the bridal, by the parting God \n\nof Day; \nAnd with silver mist for veils, the blushing \n\nEarth in bride-array, \n\nWith Spring is left alone. \n\nIn his brow the love-star shining, \nBalmy airs his locks entwining, \n\n\n\n22 \n\n\n\nFrom the bending skies inclining, \nHe smiles upon the Earth. \n\nThough the god may ride in thunder and in \nlightning through the sky, \n\nYet when all the glorious tumult of his wed- \nding has gone by, \n\nThere\'s a man, oh Spring, but one man, with \nthy godhead who may vie, \n\nFor his Spring is rolling in. \n\nHigh upon the cliffs there lingers \nHis fair bride with dainty fingers. \nRing heaven\'s blue bell, springtime ringers! \nFor Spring comes rolling in! \n\n\n\nTHE SPRING OF LOVE. \n\nLike the stirless depths of heaven \nRests my life, warmed by the sunlight \nOf thy love. My spring has come \nSuddenly. O love! spring! heaven! \n\nAnd to her who brought me spring-time \n\nSpring has come \xe2\x80\x94 my rose and lilies! \n\nI will kiss the dainty calyx, \n\nBuds half opened \xe2\x80\x94 lips and eyelids. \n\n\n\n23 \n\n\n\nTROUTING. \n\nSeven-and-twenty trout! \n\nSport has been good. \n\'Neath us the plain fades out; \n\n\'Round us the wood. \n\nNot straight for home just yet! \n\nWait till the Moon \nFeeds every starry pet \n\nOut of her spoon. \n\nNow they have supped and come \n\nAll out of doors; \nSingly and doubly some, \n\nOthers by scores. \n\nMingled are green and blue, \n\nNight-skies and tree; \nSee love\'s own star peep through \n\nCuriously! \n\nAir-perfumed, forest-free, \n\nOut of the wood, \nHome they wend happily. \n\nSport has been good. \n\n\n\nTHE BIRD. \n\nHere is a little bird- \nStill! not a word. \n\n24 \n\n\n\nShe holds up her beak to his bill, \nHer beak to bill \xe2\x80\x94 \nOne of great Nature\'s laws \xe2\x80\x94 \nBeak-cause. \n\n\n\nDRUNK WITH LOVE. \n\nSpring has come and the air is wine, \nAnd the warm, red kiss of the lady mine! \nBirds in the beaker of love carouse. \nSpring! Love! Green dawn in the greenwood \nboughs ! \n\n\n\nA REPLY. \n\n\'Tis true you are a "shrewd old woman, \nTrue also, I am "rash and bold," \n\n"Act foolishly, as mostly do men." \nI\'m neither woman, shrewd, nor old. \n\nYou tell me "she is neither bright, \nNor is she rich" \xe2\x80\x94 in golden hoard. \n\nLife is a battle; in the fight \nI do not want a woman\'s sword. \n\nI want a woman\'s sympathy; \n\nI want a glowing at my kiss; \nI want a stirless faith in me; \n\nAnd she is rich in all of this. \n\n\n\n25 \n\n\n\nOLD TONGUES AND YOUNG EYES. \n\nOld tongues may wag with saws full wise, \n\nBut the young eye loveth still. \nOld lips may scoff, old tongues advise, \n\nRed lips burn when they will. \n\nThe brain may say that love is wrong, \n\nThat love is all in vain. \nThe human heart will strive and long; \n\nThe heart heeds not the brain. \n\nOh, love me till I die with you! \n\nClasp me in love\'s hot breath! \nKiss, kiss me! I will vie with you. \n\nAnd if love end, why \xe2\x80\x94 death. \n\n\n\nTHE FAITH IN LOVE. \n\nThe seed that falleth from on high, \nMay sink and decompose and die. \n\nMuch good upon the heart is wrought \nBy wintry storms of cynic thought. \n\nLove\'s sun returns in the fresh spring-morn: \nA new faith in the heart is born. \n\n\n\n26 \n\n\n\nLOVE AND DIE. \n\nLove and die! The ecstasy \n\nOf one instant is the world. \nNot the all-embracing sea, \nNor all the caves in Earth that be, \n\nHold such miracle enfurled. \n\nStars and flowers die by decree, \nIn an iron-storm-wind hurled; \n\nAnd the blossom from the tree, \n\nIt is driven wearily. \nEre death\'s cold, gray dust has whirled, \n\nLive one hour of godlike glee: \nLove and die! \n\nTHE SWEET-BRIER. \n\nI shall meet my love by the sweet-brier bush \n\nBehind the orchard wall, \nWhere in the stilly evening\'s hush \n\nThe apple-blossoms fall. \n\nWhen the moon is out with her silver light, \nAnd the stars in heaven\'s dark blue, \n\nI shall dream the brief and fragrant night \nOf the sweet-brier and you. \n\nWhen I see the brier through the morning mist \n\nPeep o\'er the orchard wall, \nI shall think of the time of our coming tryst: \n\nRosy even-fall. \n\n\n\n27 \n\n\n\nLOVE AND MUSIC. \n\nLove in music ever thought; \nSpeech is cold and coarsely wrought. \nBut in strains of melody- \nLove speaks; earthly shadows flee. \nLove is life\'s pure harmony. \n\nTHE SONG OF SONGS. \n\nI\'ve drunk until my brain doth reel \n\nWith ecstasy divine; \nThe looks of fresh, young love I steal \n\nFrom out thy downcast eyne. \n\nI\'ve gazed upon the branchy maze \n\nThat doth thy temples grace, \nTill roses grew beneath my gaze, \n\nAnd mantled o\'er thy face. \n\nI\'ve questioned of thy lilied lid, \n\nOf thy sweet brow no less; \nThey told me what they would have hid: \n\nThy love and loveliness. \n\nLike budding spring thy soft words breathed, \n\nTremulous, timid, low, \nThrough teeth by crimson lips ensheathed; \n\nYoung rosebuds filled with snow. \n\nThy golden hair, thy rosy lip, \nAre as the Olympian\'s wine: \n\n28 \n\n\n\nOf either he a kiss who sip, \nFore\'er a god shall shine. \n\nThy snowy neck, those tiny shells, \n\nThe chastely braided hair, \nBreathe calm such as the Sabbath bells \n\nO\'er blossoming orchards bear. \n\nI\'ve looked on many a virgin brow, \n\nOn many a mountain rill; \nHoly and pure they were, but thou \n\nArt purer, holier still. \n\nNo harsh, untuneful word shall free \n\nMy thoughts tumultuous throng. \nI\'ll teach the birds on mount and lea \n\nTo trill them in their song. \n\nI\'ll teach the rose to pale and blush* \n\nThe winds to sigh above thee. \nAs to mine eye the wild tears rush, \n\nThe world shall cry: I love thee! \n\nLOVE\'S DRINKING SONG. \n\nThe black earth drinketh the gay sunshine, \n\nAnd the dews of the starry night; \nAnd she laughs in the rose, in the swinging \nvine, \nAnd the trees of the mountain height, \n\nMy love, \nAnd the trees of the mountain height. \n\n\n\n29 \n\n\n\nThe dark sea drinketh the gay sunshine \n\nAnd the fresh breeze as it blows, \nLaughing back at the sky from the waving \nbrine, \nSinging as she goes, \n\nMy love, \nSinging as she goes. \n\nAnd Love, he drinketh the gay sunshine, \n\nThe laughter of thine eyes, \nAnd flings it over the earth, the brine, \n\nAnd the starry skies, \nMy love, \n\nAnd the starry skies. \n\nLOVE AND NATURE. \n\nWhen the blithe Day in splendor \n\nGlides through the lightsome sky-dome, \n\nLight him my love doth lend, or \nHer arch glance in his eye roam. \n\nWhen the chaste Night in dimness, \n\nVeileth her soft charms lustrous, \n\'Tis but my love in her slimness \n\nInnocent, gracile, clustrous. \n\nWhen the mild Even dovely \n\nStandeth between the two now, \nWonder not why she is lovely; \n\n\'Tis but my sweetheart true. Thou \n\n\n\n30 \n\n\n\nArt to me daybreak, daylight, \n\nMoon and starlight\'s potion; \nThou pourest every stray light, \n\nLivest in every motion. \n\nRustling! Oh, hark! See the blonde lace! \nShimmering morn-mist through the trees \nborne! \nIs it the blush of thy fond face? \nTis the Morn on the fragrant, soft breeze \nborne. \n\n\n\nFAME AND LOVE. \n\nO love, I care not though on many lips \nMy name shall hover at a distant time, \n\nIf it unspoken in the sweet eclipse \nOf thy pure heart be pulsed as a chime. \n\n\n\nA LOVERS\' QUARREL. \n\nWe need not quarrel. Let us part. \nTake back your own, return my heart. \nGive back my own absurd old letters \nAnd take back yours, alas! their betters. \nNow then, to settle all in fine, \nCome take your kisses; give me mine. \n\n\n\n3i \n\n\n\nA MESSAGE. \n\nI send you a rose and for-get-me-not, \nWith green leaves wreathed. for hope between; \nFor where true love hath wept in the morn, \nSweet scents of flowers rise i\' the e\'en. \n\n\n\nALLEGIANCE. \n\nTime was men worshiped royalty, \nAnd died in proud, true loyalty. \nNow men are free, for that time was; \nThe king is dead, the nobles dross. \n\nHusbands, when women honored them, \nAt home wore royal diadem. \nNow women are as free as men; \nThat chain will never gall again. \n\nHas all been gain? Has naught been loss? \nWas naught good in the time that was? \nLife is confused, but half resolved; \n\nBut half the dimness is dissolved. \n\n\xc2\xab \n\nWhat conscience and religion chid, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\'Tis self of which we must be rid. \nYet not to spouse or king or pelf; \nBow down unto thine higher self. \n\nIt may be some sublimer soul \n\nTo whom you turn as pole to pole. \n\n32 \n\n\n\nStrike faith although thy heart\'s blood bind it. \nThus they who lose their life shall find it. \n\nA COMPLIMENT. \n\nThou\'rt better than the science men profess, \nAnd better than the wisdom of the street; \nFor thou art like religion, love, a sweet \nUnreasonableness. \n\nCONFESSION. \n\nOfttimes I rued the lot of womanhood; \n\nIt seemed a life so narrow, so in vain. \nI knew that which was great and which was \ngood, \n\nBut could not do it. Knowledge was a pain. \n\nI met you, and I know not how the Earth \nWill hold my bliss. You kissed me \xe2\x80\x94 then I \nknew \n\nWhatever be the forfeit, it is worth \nBeing a woman to be loved by you. \n\nKEEPSAKE. \n\nA piece of iron touched becomes magnetic; \nProphetic \n\nOf Nature\'s mysteries. \nSo does a kerchief, ribbon, ring or fan \n\nBecome a talisman, \nEndowed with speech of cunning histories. \n\n\n\n33 \n\n\n\nYACHTING. \nAfter the French of Alfred de Vigny. \n\nCome to the sea, young girl, \n\nCome without fear, \nWhere the waves dance and swirl;, \n\nI shall be near. \nSee my boat rise on their swell! \nSafely thou\'lt ride in that shell, \n\n\xc2\xbb My sail above thee. \n\nEarth was made for the slave, \n\nChosen one, rare one; \nWaves for the free and brave, \n\nLoved and fair one. \nHearken! wave after wave \n\nLaugh and dare one. \nList what I think: By our side \nMurmuring they gurgle, they glide: \nSweet, come; I love theel \n\nHEAVEN\'S SIGNATURE. \n\nAbout an apple I did tie a glove \nThat had been given by the lady mine. \n\nI said: The stars shall weep my hapless love, \nThe sun her dear, melodious name shall sign. \n\nI cut her name where her white hand had been, \nAught but her name had been a sacrilege, \n\n\n\n34 \n\n\n\nIndeed, a most unpardonable sin, \nCommitted on a reliquary pledge. \n\nThe stars shone out full many a dew-wept night, \nThe ruddy sun shone many a glowing day, \n\nAnd their pure tears and his swift-weaving light \nBrought beauty forth from cells that had \nbeen clay. \n\nThe apple grew, as at my heart the pangs \nOf being parted from my lady fair, \n\nTill rounded on the bough the ripe fruit hangs; \nPale what I covered, red what I left bare. \n\nThus, oh, thou calm, dew-weeping firmament, \nAnd thou, Sun, in thy chariot of flame, \n\nBy night and day alternate have ye bent, \nWith skyey fingers but to write her name. \n\n\n\nON HER PORTRAIT. \n\nTo me, who read thy features like a book, \nThere is a gospel in thy every look. \nI reverence in thee Earth\'s highest good: \nThe majesty of noble womanhood. \n\n\n\nFLOWER- LANGUAGE. \n\nI came where my love in slumber \nGraced her garden-seat. \n\n\n\n35 \n\n\n\nThe roses she loves, without number, \n\nLay at her dainty feet. \nThe song-birds she feedeth came singing. \n\nFluttering chirpingly; \nThin tendrils over her swinging \n\nHalf hid the mountain and lea. \n\nSweet is my love to see! \n\nDreaming, my dainty, of me. \n\nStealthy I, entering her grotto, \nGreen in the leafy, dim shine, \n\nMade of the flowers a motto, \nBy the round arm divine: \n;When will you, Dainty, be mine? \n\n\n\nTHE WEAVERS. \n\nLife, like old tapestry, shows scenes of folly, \nRaptures of passion, glooms of melancholy. \nYet richer strands of love and joy and thought \nInto the sombre hanging may be wrought. \n\nLife\'s warp is dark. Its woof we make or mar, \n\nas \nOur own hand, deft or daft, inweaves the arras \nTo show a troubled monster or a fair \nVirgin with shining mien and golden hair. \n\n\n\n36 \n\n\n\nINDIAN SUMMER. \n\nThe horizon lost in a luminous haze, \nThe still, ripe woods in a crimson blaze, \n\nFalling leaves \xe2\x80\x94 lingering \xe2\x80\x94 -not hying, \nSome birds, as we motionless upward gaze, \n\nSlowly southward flying; \nThe year, fair year, sinks into a daze; \n\nThe year is dying. \n\nThis leaf that fell is the tender sap \nOf the glad spring-time that rose; \nThis seed that floats to the mossy lap, \nThe death, whence a new year grows. \nThe woods aglow \nAnd the soft skies low \nBreathe a calm repose. \n\nSurface-pause in the life incessant; \n\nThe calm of the future vast, \nWith the glowing eyes of the present, \nAnd the soul of the hallowed past; \nAnd the Indian haze \nOf the aeoned days \nOver it all is cast. \n\n\n\n37 \n\n\n\nTHE WEDDING TRIP \n\n\n\nTHE WEDDING TRIP. \n\nThis wonder-time breathe as we ought \nIn sweet unworldliness of thought, \n\nLove-woven as in Merlin\'s fairy bowers. \nLove\'s glowing days are all too fleet; \nBright let them roam with rosy feet, \n\nRevelling with us and with the cloudless \nHours. \n\n\n\nTHE ALTAR GIFT. \n\nAneath the wave a myriad fishes swim, \nA witness-race of fore-worlds long agonc; \nIn half-dawn dimness they themselves moved \ndim, \nUntil their scales in rainbow colors shone, \nLove-burnished into hues, for they had love to \ngive. \n\nThe birds, like man, with daily care opprest, \nWear working-clothes and chirp a work- \nman\'s lay, \nUntil, when \'gins the building of the nest, \nThey glow in hues and thrill in warbles gay: \nLove throbs in feathered throat, for they have \nlove to give. \n\nThe plants, who nearest cling to Nature\'s \nheart, \nAnd nurture life with gatherable fruit, \nAre drest in sober green the greater part, \nYet breathe in colors eloquently mute \nWhen trembling into bloom, for they have love \nto give. \n\n\n\n43 \n\n\n\nTo live for self alone is winter-time; \n\nTo love another heart is life and spring. \nThrough all her ages and in every clime \nOur Mother Nature doth her mystery sing: \n"To you song, color, bloom! ye that have love \nto give." \n\nMaid, lo! the color in my cheek, mine eye, \nThe reverent incense stealing o\'er my \nthought; \nFor lonely life is half-truth, half a lie, \nTruth into song my love for thee hath \nwrought; \nLove\'s song and glow and bloom, for I have \nlove to give. \n\nWEDDING BELLS. \n\nCome, my love, why tarry you? \n\nThe carriage is at the door. \nMinutes seem days till I marry you, \n\nTo be mine for evermore, \nMy love, \n\nTo be mine for evermore. \n\nGoddess of love, I call on thee! \n\nHie thou my love to the door, \n\xe2\x80\xa2Or poetical curse may fall on thee, \xe2\x80\x94 . \n\nAye, mine for evermore, \nGoddess! \n\nAye, mine for evermore. \n\n\n\n44 \n\n\n\nVenus! Thy doves did they carry thee? \n\nComest thou forth from the door? \nI did not say I would marry thee. \n\nAh! \'tis the girl I adore \nHas come \n\nTo be mine for evermore. \n\n\n\nDIXIE. \n\nThe prettiest girl in all the land \nIs mine \nIndeed! \nThere\'s not a doubt about it. \nShe is so blithe and bonnie, \nOf lissome gait; \nHer lips are sweet as honey, and \nHer eyes deep as the ocean. \n\nThere\'s many a dark streak in my make, \nI own \nRight up. \nBut she\'s the girl to cure me. \nShe is both kind and merry \nAnd pure of heart. \nSin can\'t abide her presence \xe2\x80\x94 so \nShe must be my good angel. \n\nAnd now that she is mine indeed, \nIs mine \nIndeed, \n\n\n\n45 \n\n\n\nAnd not a doubt about it, \nWe both are blithe and merry, \nAnd lithe of gait, \n\nAs we strap the Saratoga trunk \nFor the bridal jaunt through Dixie. \n\nALKMENA. \nAfter the Latin of Plautus. \n\nMy dowry think I not my dowry, but \nThese count as dowry: Shame-faced woman- \nhood, \nRestraint of greed, the fear of God, the love \nOf family and concord in the home; \nLoving my husband\'s wishes; yielding gifts \nTo all who need; friendship to all good people. \n\nTHE TRANSIT. \n\nTo the sun-swept fable-land, \nWhere the magic flowers blossom \nBy the glistening coral sand; \nPast the wide and gleaming ocean, \nUnder skies that arch and glow with \nLightsome dreams of youth and fancy \nRide we. \n\nThis my winged horse \nBears us high aloft; he champs an \nAiry bit; he rears \xe2\x80\x94 then stands, \n\n46 \n\n\n\nStill and shining wondrously. \nLightly vaulting, touch the strand, \nFor this is the fable-land. \n\nPegasus? Not so. To-day, \nHe who rides the steed Pegasean \nIs behind the times. This horse \nIs of modernized construction. \nWhilom rode it Cambuscan; \nYou know, Chaucer speaks of him. \n\'Tis the steed of polished brass \nWhich the Squier descanted on \nTo the Canterbury Pilgrims. \nNowadays, a man turns writer, \nVaulting upon polished brass. \n\nHe is gone. \xe2\x80\x94 You are with me \nIn the Union\'s true Atlantis! \n\nA CAMP-MEETING PRAYER. \n\nI am wakened up by the children\'s prattling \n\nwords, \nAnd the red daylight and the twittering of the \nbirds, \nWhen the Lord opes the portals of the morn- \ning. \n\nHe will listen to the prayers of His children all; \nIf their skins be black or white makes no dif- \nference at all \nTo the Lord as He listens in the morning. \n\n47 \n\n\n\nFor the white man and the black are the chil- \ndren of the Lord, \n\nAnd the good man is beloved and the bad man \nis abhorred \nOf the Lord in the evening and the morning. \n\nAs the Lord\'s sun shines on the goober and \n\nthe pine, \nOn the windows of the big house and this little \nhouse of mine, \nThe Lord shall judge us in the morning. \n\nLet me be one of the saints who are placed \n\nupon the right, \n\'Mong the angels who don\'t care for the color \nblack or white, \nAny more than the Lord does in the morning. \n\nO Lord, let me ever walk withouten any sin, \nTill Thy great day comes, and the world-de- \nvouring din, \nAnd Thy judgment-seat in the morning. \n\nWhen the skies are streaked with the tokens \nof Thy wrath, \n\nAnd men along the big road and the little coun- \ntry path, \nOn Thy judgment-day in the morning. \n\nGuide me right, dear Lord, in the things I \nhave to do, \n\n\n\nAnd when Thy clay is come, let this black child \nof Thine, too, \nEnter in at the gates of the morning. \n\n\n\nDOWN BY THE OCMULGEE. \n\nOh, when I was a pickaninny boy, \n\nDown by the Ocmulgee, \nThen life it was a pleasure and life it was a joy, \nDown by the Ocmulgee. \n\nI was but a little nigger, \n\nBut there never warn\'t no bigger \nIn my own conceit than me, \nDown by the Ocmulgee, \nDown by the Ocmulgee, \n\nWith the lonesome bank \n\nAnd the brushwood rank, \n\nDown by the Ocmulgee. \n\nWhen I grew, I thought as the other niggers do> \nG\'way from the Ocmulgee, \nAnd I came up North, till I came to Ka\'ma- \n\nzoc h \n\n\'Way from the Ocmulgee. \n\nAnd I shined and made some money, \n\nAnd I wed my darling honey, \nBorn by the Ocmulgee, \nDown by the Ocmulgee, \nDown by the Ocmulgee, \n\n\n\n49 \n\n\n\nWith the lonesome bank, \nAnd the brushwood rank \n\nDown by the Ocmulgee. \n\nOh, when I think what a happy time it was, \nDown by the Ocmulgee, \nBoth my wife and I believe we\'ll go back to. \n\nstay there, boss, \n\nDown by the Ocmulgee, \n\nIf the Lord will let us hab in \n\nPeace a simple little cabin, \n\nAnd this here little pickaninny, \nDown by the Ocmulgee, \nDown by the Ocmulgee, \n\nWith the lonesome bank, \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nAnd the brushwood rank, \n\nDown by the Ocmulgee. \n\nTHE WEDDING GIFT. \n\nWhat shall I lay at my dear love\'s feet? \n\nFame enshrines no deed I\'ve done; \n\nPearl and ruby have I none; \nFluttering verses fade and fleet. \n\nWhat. shall I lay at my dear love\'s feet? \n\nI \n\nWhat shall I lay at my dear love\'s feet? \nPure and warm like dew and sun, \nNaught which is lightly lost and won; \n\nLove, for love is the guerdon meet. \n\nLove will I lay at my dear love\'s feet. \n\n\n\n50 \n\n\n\nDIANA AND STYX. \n\nBy the river of death dread Diana had sworn \xe2\x80\x94 \nEven gods may not take it in vain \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat forever the arrow of Love she would scorn, \nAnd a virginal goddess remain. \n\nFrom the worm in the dust to Olympus on high \n\nLove ruleth, the monarch of all. \nNo longer immortal, she left with a sigh \n\nThe golden Olympian hall. \n\nAnd descended to Earth, she hath plighted her \ntroth \n\nFor a brief mortal space to abide. \nSo far, I can\'t say but we do like it both, \n\nI myself, and Diana, my bride. \n\n\n\nA FLORIDA PICNIC. \n\nLove, of course, is excellent. \nPoetry is very good, too, \nWhen it says just what the heart meant; \nBoth lift wqmen far above men. \nBut what women, when they love men, \nShould, above all, strictly see to, \nIs the victualling department. \n\nYou\'ve composed a real poem \nIn this basket. Its refrain \n\n\n\n51 \n\n\n\nFalls upon my gustatory \nNerves and rhymes repeatedly. \n\nIt\'s a most delicious poem, \nWell-composed, melodious, thoughtful, \nIn a tin-and-glass edition. \nAnd this cooling tag of wind, \nOff and on, from o\'er the breakers, \nHas an appetizing accent. \nThen again, this cart is tented; \nSo to speak, a proper head-line. \n\nThey tell me that metempsychosis \nA most absurdly antique joke is \nIn novel dress. \nBut I confess \nA touch Sheolean \nTo see this negro whip his mule, \nAnd shout: "Get up, you durn ol\' fool! \nGet up, Napoleon!" \n\nHere\'s the fountain in the surf! \nLet the salt sea-breeze sweep \'round your \nCheek and fair dishevelled hair. \nFrom the boat we easily \nDip a beaker of sweet water \nFrom the saltness. See! it bubbles \nBravely up within the brine, \nEven though the angry billows \nRise at times to overwhelm it. \n\n\n\n52 \n\n\n\nTHE FOUNTAIN IN THE SURF. \n\n\n\nThe Earth must have her oceans dread and vast, \nMirroring heaven\'s stars and lightning sweep, \nAnd choiring with their voices deep to deep, \nIn murmuring calm or roar of thunder-blast. \nO\'er their bright bosoms clouds and stars have \npassed, \nReal and yet as dreams o\'er one asleep. \nThe tropic shores they hold in yielding grip, \nAnd the opposing poles chill and aghast. \nE\'en such a poet\'s vast, deep, billowy breast, \nGlobing the world. \xe2\x80\x94 Woman\'s untainted love \nBears sweeter office; she\'s the well, pure-fed, \nSweetening the salt life\'s billows of unrest. \nBut this spring \'mid salt waves, the heavens \nabove, \nImages: Love and poesy are wed. \n\n\n\nPledge me, love, and fling the beaker, \nThere it dances, there it falls, \nLike the King of Thule\'s goblet! \n\n\n\nNow, upon the dreamy shore \n\nOf the ocean, let us sit. \nO\'er the sullen surges\' roar \nShades of French and Spaniard flit, \nGone two hundred years or more. \n\n\n\n53 \n\n\n\nTHE BUCCANEER\'S SONG. \n\nSing heigh! Sing ho! ye jolly companions \n\nmine. \nSing heigh! Sing ho! Sing ho! for the gold- \nen wine. \n\nA fig for the morrow! \nThen let us drown sorrow, \nFor who would now mope or repine? \n\nSing heigh! Sing ho! \nSing ho! for the golden wine. \n\nSing heigh! Sing ho! my jolly companions all. \nSing heigh! Sing ho! for Beauty \xe2\x80\x94 our sword \nis her thrall. \n\nBright eyes that inspire us, \n\nSweet kisses that fire us, \n\nWe are at your beck and your call. \n\nSing heigh! Sing ho! \nFor Beauty \xe2\x80\x94 our sword is her thrall. \n\nSing heigh! Sing ho! ye jolly companions \n\nbold. \nSing heigh! Sing ho! Sing ho! for the shin- \ning red gold. \n\nFor power and pleasure, \nAnd joy without measure, \nThe glittering circles enfold. \n\nSing heigh! Sing ho! \nSing ho! for the glittering gold. \n\n\n\n54 \n\n\n\nSing heigh! Sing ho! my valiant companions \n\ngay. \nSing heigh! Sing ho! Our swords bear the \nprizes away. \n\nRed wine and bright money, \nAnd kisses like honey, \nWe take them whene\'er we may. \n\nSing heigh! Sing ho! \nOur swords bear the prizes away. \n\nSing heigh! Sing ho! Roar out, boys, with \n\nbattle-hot breath! \nSing heigh! Sing ho! Drink up each the last \ndrop he hath! \n\nClink glasses and gold, \nAnd the cutlasses cold! \nSing heigh! for a jolly, wild death. \n\nSing heigh! Sing ho! \nSing ho! for a jolly, wild death! \n\n\n\nUp in arms they rise to fight \nFor the gold of El Dorado, \nWhich hath long been Anglo-Saxon. \nBut gray fingers wave each spright \n\xe2\x80\x94 Dim their banners are unfurled \xe2\x80\x94 \nBack. Gray shadows float and flow. \n\'Tis the long-past years. \nInto dust melts every throe; \nPassion, greed, and fears. \n\n\n\n55 \n\n\n\nPirates, who with gore were drunk, \nConquerors and slaves; \nAll have fleeted past, \nAnd their bloody strifes are sunk \nIn forgotten graves, \nBy the years o\'er-grassed. \n\nBut around us lie the groves \nWhere the big magnolia blossoms \nGleam and dream and shine and shimmer. \nWhile the orange-blossoms\' fragrance \nFloats upon the mellow air; \nAnd the golden oranges, \nSun-touched, glow in countless beauty, \nApples of the Hesperides; \nAnd the skies lie lotus-laden. \n\nHas the Indian fairy ferried \nUs in magic stone canoe \nOver lone Lake Okechobee, \nTill we lighted on the strand \nWhere dear lovers nevermore \nKnow of loss or separation; \nWhere the magic fountain wells \nThat bestows eternal youth? \n\nTake this tiny, branching fork, \nDead, long dead. The spring of youth \nWill renew its blooming youth. \nThese magnolias which wilted \n\n56 \n\n\n\nAt your corsage; orange blossoms \nWhich have faded in your hair, \nLet us dip them in the spring, \nAnd forever shall their fragrance, \nLike our love, endure \xe2\x80\x94 forever. \n\nLovers are in Bimini. \nIn the isles of ceaseless youth, \nWhere the magic fountain wells. \nLovers know: Love is eternal. \nAye, eternal! Gold nor force \nBears a man to Bimini. \n\nJuan Ponce de Leon, \nMany days he sailed, in hopes \nThat the little fish would meet him \nWhich the Indian legend wots of, \nWith the little singing bird, \nFar .out on the rocking billows, \nTo conduct him to the isle \nWhere the Indian legend hovers, \nWhere the pure and ever-welling \nFountain of eternal youth is: \n\'Tis in love\'s land, Bimini. \n\nNeither fish nor bird came to him. \nFor the fish feared that the Spaniard, \nCatching him, might rip his bright side \nOpen, there to look for gold; \nAnd the bird feared that the Spaniard \n\n\n\n57 \n\n\n\nMight conclude his trilling warblings \nWere produced by flutes of gold. \n\nBut at last, in Easter night, \nChrist took pity on his plight, \nAnd with mild and savior hand \nGuided him to make the land, \nUpon Pascua Florida, \nOr, in English, Easter Sunday; \nAs it now is Easter morning, \nLove\'s calm resurrection day-light, \nAll around us and within us. \n\nIt forever shall be thus, \nThinking upon deathless moments, \nStories, ocean, orange-blossoms, \nFountains of eternal youth; \nFor the isle of Bimini \nIs in love, sweet love\'s Atlantis. \n\n# \n\nTis eternal; Gold nor force \nBears a soul to Bimini. \n\n\n\nBIMINI. \n\nStep into the stone canoe \nOf the Indian legend, \n\nTill it sink and take us down \nTo the fairy region. \n\n\n\n58 \n\n\n\nThrough the stillness \xe2\x80\x94 hist!\xe2\x80\x94 a chant, \n\nGrowing stronger, stronger, \nAs we, twirling, near the midst, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\'Tis the moonbeam choral: \n\nGlide o\'er the wave \nGlinting, and lave \nSilvern the stone-ship that sinks to the cave. \nGladsome, in silence, glossing it o\'er, \nGleam \'round in guidance, till to the floor, \nLow \'neath the Lake, \nTwirling, it take \nMaiden and lover to love evermore, \nIn Bimini. \n\nWeave now the wave \nVaulting, and save \nValor and beauty from watery grave. \nLightsomely singing, lowly depose \nBoth, like a twin but a pallid, white rose. \nLow \'neath the Lake, \nTwirlingly, take \nMaiden and lover remote from their foes, \nIn Bimini. \n\nAWAKENING. \n\nAwake! for the day in ripples of light \nBreaks through the pillars of cloud, my dar- \nling, \n\n\n\n59 \n\n\n\nAs the waves of a river glance plashy and \n\nbright \n\'Round the pile\'s of a pier-shielding starling. \nOft have we kissed in its gloom, \nWhen, with twirling and dexterous hand, \nWe shipped the oars, over-spanned \nBy the arching vault of the bridge; \nNone there but a stray, gray midge \nAnd the waters\' gurgling boom, \nTill we shot out again, with eyes more bright, \nAnd cheeks that flushed in the sudden light, \nOn the river\'s broadening room. \n\n\n\nDE SOTO. \n\nLook to the far west! Even there the dawn \nLifts its gray curtain off the waters \nThat flow, mist-blurred, noiseless, like muddy; \n\ntime \nThat swallows up good men and bad alike. \n\nUpon the water floats a crazy boat; \nKeen oars, keen Spanish faces over tabards; \nThey lift a black mass from the hold and poise it \nA moment in the air. \xe2\x80\x94 The river has it. \nThe Mississippi whelms the first white man \nWho ever stained the broad, dark flood with \ngore. \n\n\n\n60 \n\n\n\nTHE DANCE IN THE PINES. \n\nThere\'s music on the windy hills \n\nAnd the summer seas; \nThere\'s music where the sunshine thrills \n\nThrough the whispering trees; \nAnd music where small pebbles roll \n\nIn the trickling rill; \nThere\'s music in the silent soul \n\nWhen all around is still. \n\nBut that was sweetest music \nThat the insects\' sing-song sang, \nShrill and low, \n"Where the South moon shines, \nWhen we danced within the gloaming of the \npines, \nTo the twing-twong-twang \nOf the old banjo, \xe2\x80\x94 \nOh, \nWhen we danced within the gloaming of the \npines. \n\nThere\'s music in the social verse, \n\nSung o\'er the flowing cup; \nMusic \'round autumn, Nature\'s hearse, \n\nWhen rustling winds spring up. \nYes, \xe2\x80\x94 grieved or delighted, \n\nWhat is this world? \xe2\x80\x94 A song. \nBut our true hearts united \n\nWill own it all life long: \n\n61 \n\n\n\nThat was sweetest music \nWhich the insects\' sing-song sang, \nShrill and low, \nWhere the South moon shines, \nWhen we danced within the gloaming of the \npines, \nTo the twing-twong-twang \nOf the old banjo, \xe2\x80\x94 \nOh, \nWhen we danced within the gloaming of the \npines. \n\nCHEROKEE LEGEND. \n\nOkefinokee. \n\nO\'er the Father of Waters we dwelt in the \nyears \nWhen the Nation was happy and free; \nWhere the sun o\'er the Blue Ridge the morn- \ning uprears \nO\'er the land of the East Cherokee, \nO\'er the land of the East Cherokee, \nCherokee. \n\nTo the south dwelt the daughters of heaven\'s \nown king, \nIn a cypress swamp endless to view; \nWhere the silent, black waters, immeshed in \na ring, \nLead around the bewildered canoe, \n\n62 \n\n\n\nLead around the bewildered canoe, \nThe canoe. \n\nAnd our hunters were starved when the Maids \nof the Sun , \n\nBrought them life in a golden-hued fruit; \nBut the labyrinth bade them forever to shun \nTill the wind in the leaf should be mute, \nTill the wind in the leaf should be mute, \nShould be mute. \n\nThough they strove for the city up-reared o\'er \na lake, \nThough they thought as they struggled they \nneared, \nLike enchantment they still were immeshed in \nthe brake, \nAs it vanished and then reappeared, \nAs it vanished and then reappeared, \nReappeared. \n\nWhen at length a lone chief reached the Blue \nRidge again \nOf that faded and famishing band, \nFull loud were the boasts and the songs of \nyoung men: \nThey would find and subdue Fairyland, \nThey would find and subdue Fairyland, \nFairyland. \n\nBut no Cherokee warrior discovered the land; \nNo, not even a path could he see. \n\n63 \n\n\n\nNow in the Far West fades our last little band \nFrom the land of the East Cherokee, \nFrom the land of the East Cherokee, \nCherokee. \n\nDIXIE HAS COME HOME AGAIN. \n\nMemorial Day at New Orleans. \n\nLoad your arms with fragrant bloom, \nGallant Gray and Blue combine; \nThe cypress with the laurel twine \nTo deck each fallen hero\'s tomb; \nFallen in the days of gore. \nNo matter what the cloth he wore. \nDixie has come home again. \n\nWhisper as you place each crown, \nTo the hearts that sleep beneath: \nOur brothers\' swords are in the sheath; \nPeace has followed on the frown. \nClasping manly hand in hand, \nThe Gray and Blue united stand. \nDixie has come home again. \n\nThe sun lies on the granite hill \nAnd sleeps upon the everglade. \nSo pass each shadow and each shade, \nThough love and grief shall have their fill. \nWith flowers deck each hero\'s grave. \nIn death united sleep the brave. \nOur Dixie has come home again. \n\n64 \n\n\n\nTHE FIDDLER OF L\'ISLE DERNIERE. \n\nThat was a fine season of \xe2\x80\x94 never mind when \xe2\x80\x94 \nFor cotton and sugar, and women and men; \nAnd all the Creoles of New Orleans town \nTo LTsle Derniere in a body went down. \nAnd the fiddler went, too, with a shining bald \n\ncrown, \nIn a white linen duster, ridiculous gown \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd the fiddle-bow went up and the fiddle-bow \n\nwent down. \n\nThat was a fierce hurricane \xe2\x80\x94 never mind \n\nwhen \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen the Gulf took the Island, the women \n\nand men; \nAnd all the Creoles from New Orleans town \nWith LTsle Derniere went down. \nAnd the fiddler went, too, with a shining bald \n\ncrown, \nIn a white linen duster, ridiculous gown \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd the fiddle-bow went up and the fiddle-bow \n\nwent down. \n\n\n\n65 \n\n\n\nPRAYER TO APHRODITE PSITHYROS.* \n\nPassion-tossed as the whispers of seething \nsea-foam, \nWhen out of lissome waves thou arosest white- \nfleshed, \nWhispering pray I, oh Goddess! give, give us \nbeauty, \n\nMe and my loved one. \n\nSome of us must die young as thy fair Adonis; \nSome fall old and fade as thy loved Anchises. \nWhispering pray I, oh! give us, give us in \nbeauty, \n\nYouth and old age, too. \n\nSacrifices we offer thee, twofold, Goddess! \nTake thou them, both our hearts, from thy \n\nblind son\'s bow-string. \nWhispering pray I, with rose-dart winged with \ndove-down, \n\nImmolate both thou. \n\n"Life and death are as one to thee, white Im- \nmortal! \nSpirit and flesh are one, as thy smiling thrills us. \nWhispering pray I, oh, beautiful let our joint \nlife, \n\nBeauteous our death be! \n\n\xe2\x99\xa6Aphrodite Psithyros was so called because all vows were to \nbe offered to her in whispers. \n\n66 \n\n\n\nTHE ROBINS. \n\nWhere do the robin-redbreasts go \n\nWhen the icy North is swathed in snow? \n\nThey go to North Carolina. \nOne and two and three and four \nRobin-redbreasts, more and more, \n\nCome to North Carolina. \n\nA whirry, \n\nA flurry, \nF the old-field pinery, \nOf robin finery; \nRed sparks that shiver \nO\'er the Deep River, \nIn the tall-shafted halls \nAround Cedar Falls: \nThat is Robins\' Roost, \nAt winter in North Carolina. \n\nWhat a flight through the wooded \nDomain! Who\'s that, hooded? \n\nMr. Owl, howdee do? \xe2\x80\x94 \n"Too-whoo-too--who-oo-oo S" \n\n\n\nWhere do the robin-redbreasts go \nWhen the smiling North is free from snow? \nWhere do they go from Robins\' Roost, \nWhen the woods are trailing-arbutus\'d? \xe2\x80\x94 \nNor\'ward from North Carolina. \n\n\n\n67 \n\n\n\nAnd oh! as the robins go home, go home, \nOn the spring\'s wing of delight borne, \n\nLet us go with them, \n\nLet us flit with them, \nWhere the spring-time sky is a limpid dome \nO\'er the hedge of bourgeoning white-thorn. \nNor\' ward ho! \n\nNor\'ward from North Carolina. \n\n\n\nFINALE. \n\nVanished is the dreamland time| \n\nLike a pagan creed, \nOr like Leonais bells\' chime. \n\nWas it e\'er indeed? \n\n\n\n68 \n\n\n\nTHE FIRESIDE \n\n\n\nTHE FIRESIDE. \n\nTo make a happy fireside clime \n\nTo weans and wife, \nThat\'s the true pathos and sublime \n\n.Of human life. \n\nBurns. \n\n\n\nWELCOME! \n\nDriftwood of passion built the home \n\nOf poetry. \nYe who have roamed or are to roam \nThe sea \nOf weltering strife \nThat men call human life, \nCome in. \nWand\'rer, come in. \n\nVerse-tales of gloaming and of sheen \n\nThe rafters dance; \nOf lands and souls most sweetly seen \nIn trance \nOf twilight hour. \nThe world let glare and glower! \nCome in; \nWand\'rer, come in. \n\nWhen dim the mist, and storms are rife, \n\nTravel oppressed, \nTake refuge in a poet\'s life \nTo rest \nIn warmth and light. \nOut of thy toil and night, \nCome in, \nWand\'rer, come in. \n\n\n\n73 \n\n\n\nLIBERTY. \n\nLiberty, where dost abide, \nFrom our human eyes to hide? \n\nRidest thou wealth\'s and fashion\'s wain? \nDoes it free to gild a chain? \n\nOft thy garments fleeting trail \nWhere the sky-lit cliff I scale. \n\nOft I catch a glimpse of thee \nIn the hues from off the sea. \n\nOft thy floating form is seen, \n\nWhere blue sky looks through still green. \n\nBut in all this glimpsing grace \nThou hast no abiding place. \n\nThou beneath no roof-tree art \n\nWhere love\'s chains have bound a heart. \n\nTrue, those chains are flower-enwreathed. \nThou in chains hast never breathed. \n\nHigher dost thou none allow? \nLove is higher far than thou. \n\nIn the soul of poetry \nIs thy dwelling, Liberty, \nWhere I\'ll usher Love to thee. \n\n\n\n74 \n\n\n\nSLEEP. \n\nCalm and innocent \nWarden of the waking! \nTenderly beloved, \nHalf revealed in slumber! \nThough my hungry eyes faint, \nLonging for thy eye-sight, \nThough my thirsty hearing \nFamish for the music \nOf thy modulated, \nLow, melodious murmur, \nRest, thou beauteous vision, \nLiving, without life, \nDeathless in soft death. \n\nBUDS AND FLOWERS. \n\nThe bud is fair, but only fair because \nIt is the embryo of the full-blown rose; \nA brief epitome in Nature\'s prose, \n\nA subtile prelude sung by mystic laws, \n\nA hint of beauty innocent of flaws. \n"Hs thus the budding maiden as she grows \nTo woman\'s verge, yet naught of evil knows, \n\nThe reverent beholder sweetly awes. \n\nThe bud that dies a bud is garden dross; \nThe maid that dies a maid is cause of wailing. \nWe wish them married bloom, not deathly \nshade. \n\n\n\n75 \n\n\n\nA dainty bud my own dear sweetheart was! \nYet each true lover finds this law unfailing: \nThe wife blooms lovelier than buds the \nmaid. \n\n\n\nTHE ANGELS\' KISS. \n\nWhen, as the angel of the cheery day \nLeaves, with the sun, this middle world of \n\nours, \nWhen weep, like babes, the little sleepy \nflowers, \nHe lingers as who fain would not away. \nThen hies to him a Sister, not so gay, \nThe silent angel whom the night embowers. \nNor day nor night is; both their kiss devours; \nAnd in the welkin reigns the twilight ray. \nBut they must part, so runneth God\'s decree. \nThey for a moment know what meeting is, \nAnd then they know what pangs of parting \nare. \nE\'en we two Earthly lovers, we may see \nTheir bliss and pain: The Angels\' parting \nkiss. \nBehold it in the sky: The Evening Star! \n\n\n\nVESPERS. \n\nThe Earth now build to God her even-dome. \nHer shadow points into infinitude; \n\n\n\n76 \n\n\n\nFar grander than St. Peter\'s church at Rome, \nStar-lit it stands in vaulted solitude. \n\nWe, priest and priestess, stand at even-prayer \nBeneath the star-lit dome that vaults above, \n\nThe angels chanting in the silent air \nTheir solemn vesper hymn of "God is Love." \n\n\n\nTHE RAIN. \n\nThe rain has many voices on the roof, \nAnd in the dripping trees it speaks to me. \n\nNear, it sounds gentle; gentle, far aloof; \nThe black of night is softer, velvety. \n\nAt breakfast, in the gray and pearly dawn, \nI hear thee say with archly loving pout, \n\nWhile peeps the fresh green from the shVj \nyoung lawn: \n"Let me stay in; it is too wet without." \n\nSPRING MORNING. \n\nI feel the trembling of the dappled fawn \nIn the spring darkness just before the dawn \nThrobbing my heart and pulsing through my \nlimbs. \n\nOut! forth into the air, o\'er mead and hill! \nThe earth in rapture swims! \n\nOh, fair spring spirits! lead me where ye will. \n\n\n\n77 \n\n\n\nTHE SPRING RAIN. \n\nCall ye this rain, these pearls of heavenly joy, \nWhich Heaven, hidden in spring night and \nvastness chaste, \n\nInstilled in cosmic love without alloy, \nInto the Earth in fruitful clouds embraced? \n\nOh, it is love that makes the wide world live, \nThat thrills in every throat and cloud and tree; \n\nThat sanctifies whate\'er we take or give. \nLife may be brief; love is infinity. \n\nTHE MORNING GIFT. \n\nOh, love, I bring a slender willow-wand, \nThe greeting of the tiptoe Spring to thee. \n\nHis wave of life has burst o\'er all the land, \nAnd drowned grim winter in a verdant sea. \n\nThese tiny leaves life\'s sea-drops seem to mej \nAnd in the trees where all the birds keep trystj \n\nExtends far o\'er the hills and brooks and lea, \nA faintly green and brightly shimmering mist. \n\nWADING UP THE RAMAPO. \n\nSturdy shoes of corded twine, \nBathing-breeches, cap, and plaid, \nAnd an alpen-stock, my lad; \n\n78 \n\n\n\nGrub, and flask of generous wine, \nAnd through gloom and shine we go, \nWading up the Ramapo. \n\nEarth-smell, bird-song, thunder, storm, \nCrash and flash from shore to shore, \nWaves behind and foam before; \nLight and shadow, sound and foam; \n1\'hus through gloom and shine we go, \nWading up the Ramapo. \n\nFish? Ah, well! we\'re satisfied. \nOnce we caught at single plunge \nSalmon, trout, whale, muskalonge! \nSo farewell! The swift waves glide. \nTelling gospel-truth we go, \n\nWading up the Ramapo. \n\n\n\nROYAL PROGRESS. \n\nWhy are the willows golden-twigged? \n\nWhy are the willows golden-wigged? \nGod Spring last night, \n\nUnseen, unheard of human wight, \nPassed with bacchantic retinue, \n\nTossing up to the ether blue, \nFrom his sceptre\'s tip, his golden crown, \n\nSpraying and scattering spring-life down. \nEvoe, Bacche! \n\n\n\n79 \n\n\n\nEARTH\'S INCENSE. \n\nBeneath the embroidered altar-cloth of night \nAngels withdrew the sun, the golden chalice \nOf life\'s communion light. \nO\'er all the hills and valleys \n\nPoureth her silver tones, the moon, \nEarth\'s acolyte. \n\nThe vernal cinctured priestess, fecund, chaste, \n\nWith half a stole, half garb of morrice on, \nBride-priestess heaven-embraced, \nSweet Earth, our mother, breathes her orison; \nAnd through the silent night, \nHer soul takes upward flight. \n\n\n\nARBOR DAY. \n\nThis is the birthday of the trees, \nGod\'s messengers in storm and breeze! \nShade, birds\'-song, sunlight, coolness, dew, \nScents, air, dreams, music dripping through \nYour twining twigs and dappling leaves, \nHeaven\'s semi-living temple-eaves! \nHeart\'s rest! Oh, how I love ye, trees! \nGod\'s messengers in storm and breeze. \n\n\n\n80 \n\n\n\nA SPRING POSY. \n\nO who could sleep in the spring-time, \nThe hop and skip and sing time, \nWhen the children play ring-a-ring rosy \n\nAnd sing their roundelay? \nChildren are like a posy. \n\nSpring is in the way. \n\nO who could sleep in the spring-time, \nThe nest and chirping and wing time, \nWhen all that in winter is prosy \n\nWarbleth its roundelay? \nBird-songs in a posy! \n\nSpring is in the way. \n\nO who could sleep in the spring-time, \nThe whisper and blushing and ring-time, \nWhen Love that in snow lay dozy \n\nWarbleth his roundelay, \nAnd of heart-thoughts makes a posy \n\nAnd brings them to thee on the way? \n\nTHE OMNIPRESENT SPIRIT WORLD. \n\nRight on the doorstep of your home \nSit moonlight fairy and midnight gnome. \nWithin the room ye breathe are elves, \nAnd ye are spirits, ye yourselves. \nThe Graces curl your cheeks and hair; \nNonsense and love are ev\'rywhere. \n\n\n\nNIGHT-FALL. \n\nGod bade eke love thy neighbor fro\' the \nspleen; \nAnd who than ladies sweeter neighbors be? \nA lusty life in lovis service been. \n\nWilliam Dunbar. \n\n\n\nAlas! for heroes traveling many a mile, \nOf Arctic or of Afric woes to prate. \n\nDear girl, without a mote of pride or guile, \nAt simpler words thy loving eyes dilate \nAs we pass \'neath our honey-suckled gate. \n\nNo lack of speech when we together are! \n\nExcept when in thy eye\'s soft, lambent star \nI read \xe2\x80\x94 astrology devoid of sin \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat soon our bliss shall be without a bar. \nA lusty life in lovis service been. \n\nAway! away, gray day-shapes\' weary file! \nFaint and be gone! your gaunt, harsh \nthrong abate! \nIn spell-land glades now live we for a while. \nWith her pure form your vile forms may not \n\nmate. \nIn dusk, the coming of the moon we wait. \nShe comes, she comes, still slumbering, from \n\nafar; \nAnd as around Day\'s dying embers char, \n\n82 \n\n\n\nThe Day\'s red passions fade and die within, \nLeaving no pain, aye, leaving scarce a scar. \nA lusty life in lovis service been. \n\nBehold the church\'s venerable pile, \n\nThe steeple\'s grayly-silvered, sloping slate, \nThe modest roof\'s faint, redly-gleaming tile, \n\nThe green hills capped with tree-clouds on \ntheir pate. \n\nOn this calm evening stillness let us sate \nOur eyes a moment. Night\'s swift-rushing car \nObscures it now. Our light she may not mar, \n\nWhile clings my arm \'round you, my radiant \nqueen, \nOur peaceful light of love without a jar. \n\nA lusty life in lovis service been. \n\nI\'ll guide thee up the perpendicular \n\nCliff to our nest. Your motion secular, \n\nStars, hold a moment! Bend on us your \nsheen! \nWeep for your millionaire, your mighty czar I \n\nA lusty life in lovis service been. \n\n\n\nHOME JOYS. \n\nHow small the joys that soothe and bless \n\nHow infinitely strong! \n<3ne does not need great happiness, \n\nBut a wee bit right along. \n\n\n\n83 \n\n\n\nLAKE TASHMOO. \n\nMartha\'s Vineyard. \n\nAre not the shadows deeper, cleaner, \n\nOn grass more green and true, \nThe rippling wave and tree serener, \n\nThe heavens more blue, \nOur joy in life both gentler, keener, \nAt Lake Tashmoo? \nGood-bye, Tashmoo! \nGood-bye, dear Tashmoo! \n\nIs it wild roses, millions, blowing \n\nIn unregarded bloom? \nIs \'t laurelled Nature\'s altar glowing \n\nWith bayberry perfume? \nIs it the sun-clad hours around us going, going? \nThey will be gone so soon. \n\nGood-bye, Tashmoo! \nGood-bye, dear Tashmoo! \n\n\n\nTHE RAINBOW OF LIFE. \n\nIn the rainbow of life \nGrief and jest are at strife. \nThese would you sever? \n\nIn the sky or heart, \nIts colors are never \nWholly apart. \n\n\n\n84 \n\n\n\nMID-OCTOBER. \n\nThe spring has been tempestuous and swift, \n\nThe summer luxuriant and long. \nThe fall has been slow. September has been \n\nA ballad of moonlight song. \n\nStirless, with scarce a ripple, the lake \n\nLieth the hills between; \nMirrored in gorgeous coloring, \n\nThe trees and the sky within. \nNever out of a fairy tale, \n\nSuch a lake has been. \n\nIn the>foreground purple asters spread, \n\nScattered among the weeds \nAnd grasses and sumachs, down to the sedge \nand reeds, \nA blaze of Nature\'s garden bed, \nSifting the new year seeds. \n\nA shiver! \n\nThe lake resumes \nIts course like a river. \n\nBehind the hills booms \nThunder. \nFrom under \nThe trees the sun-rays fast \n\nAre vanished. \nThe summer days at last \n\nAre banished. \n\n\n\n85 \n\n\n\nHelter, skelter \n\nTo shelter! \nBlack storm clouds out of the north \n\nWith flashes \n\nAnd swift rain dashes \nChase the departing summer forth. \n\nOne last look, \n\nAs a face forsook \n\nBy the prime of manhood, \n\nHe turns on the wan wood, \n\nAnd anon \n\nIs gone. \n\nThe storm clears and the air is keen and cold. \nThe woods and wold \nWill henceforth be inhabited by days \nWho, garnering the last of Nature\'s sheaves, \nHave their white-frosted morns and eves, \n\nWarmed to thin sapphire haze \nO\'er purple trees and hills in the still \nnoonday rays. \n\n\n\nGOD\'S CANVAS. \n\nI am returned. \n\nI meet you. \nThe day has burned \n\nOut, as I greet you. \n\n86 \n\n\n\nThe evening stillness o\'er the vale \nPerfumed with scents the meads exhale; \nThe solemn woodlands\' rustling croon; \nOur solitary house, its panes lit by the moon; \nThe moon scarce risen, and the sun that set; \nAnd you and I between \nNew-met, \nWith twilight for a veil and heaven for a screen, \nUnheard, unseen \nBy human eyes in all our solitude, \nWhere peace and honor brood; \nThe mountain-rill in mountain-twilight fainted; \nTo God seem as a picture He has painted \nWith beams of love\'s own light \nUpon the boundless night. \nAll space the canvas that He paints upon. \nDost not thou feel the Artist looking on? \n\nWHEN FIRST WE KISSED. \n\nWhen first we kissed the day was growing old. \n\nThe storm-clouds whirled a death-dance o\'er \nthe wold; \nTheir glum musicians were the pattering rain \nThat fiddles in gray mantles o\'er the plain, \n\nAnd his shrill pipes the clammy wind blew cold. \n\nBut though the element did moan and scold, \n\nOur eyes of warmth and fragrance, longing told; \n\nOur lips breathed music in a different strain \n\nWhen first we kissed. \n\n87 \n\n\n\nAmid my thoughts and fancies manifold \nNone has on memory a firmer hold, \nAs shines a star through slowly gathering \nmist, \nThan the calm picture of King Charles\'s Wain \nO\'erhead, bright-clearing through the driving \nrain, \n\nWhen first we kissed. \n\n\n\nTHE HEAVENLY FARMERS. \n\nWhen the fields of golden sunshine \nRipen to the evening sun, \nAnd the Day has homeward wended \nLike a man whose task is done, \n\nComes the Night with silvery sickle, \nRears and stacks her dusky sheaves, \nAnd from off her toiling forehead \nDrops the dew upon the leaves. \n\nThen she takes for flails the night-winds, \nTill the golden grains on high, \nMany myriad-thousand garnered, \nShine as star-lights in the sky. \n\nThen, with pride and labor blushing, \nWaits she till the Day returns; \nTill his bright, round kiss and golden \nOn her crimson forehead burns: \n\n\n\n88 \n\n\n\n"I myself shall delve and sow with \nMany a green and golden elf. \nIn deep woods on velvet mosses, \nSleep, dear Night, and rest thyself." \n\nSTUDY. \n\nThe house is hushed. I love the quiet hour \n\nWhen, slumbering all beside, one light alone \nBeams softly from a high-perched, studious \nbower, \nAs though a beacon-star for conference shone \nTo summon starry spirits from their throne, \nTo gather in the circling lamp\'s mild sheen \nAnd teach me, who but am, they that are and \nhave been. \n\nThe good, the wise, the smiling, the severe, \nConstellate like the orbed heavens shine; \n\nSome like a glittering fixed star in his sphere, \nSome in their light mild lambency combine. \nRule me, ye stars of thought! forever twine \n\nYour hidden influences in my soul, \n\nTo guide, to chide, to cheer, to chasten and \ncontrol. \n\n\n\n89 \n\n\n\nTHE BRIDAL VEIL. \n\nGained the noblest object \nOf a strong man\'s striving, \nMust I still be restless, \nWrestling with you night-shades? \n\nSleep! O Sleep! I woo thee! \nBy the lily limb and \nInnocence breathed calmly \nFrom this living statue \nSleeping at my side! Thou, \nThou, like me shalt sleep, if \nThou\'ll but come to me, Sleep. \n\nBut the star-light vampires \nThought and keen-toothed fancy, \nBite my eyelids open, \nFanning me with dusk wings, \nCouching on the cheek paled, \nPallid with their couchings. \nThere is no sleep! But, love, \nRest my soul is finding, \nSearching, keenly glancing, \nO\'er and through thee all, love. \n\nNIGHT-THOUGHTS. \n\nFrom the German of Goethe. \n\nHow I pity ye, ye luckless stars! \nBeautiful ye are, and brilliant light ye \n\n90 \n\n\n\nHard-pressed sailors with your favoring beams, \nThough unguerdoned by the gods and mankind. \n\nAll my pity is because ye love not, \nAnd resistless do the hours forever \nLead your cycling orbits through the ether. \n\nWhat a journey have ye made already, \nWhilst I, lingering in my sweetheart\'s arms, I \nHave forgotten your march and the midnight\'s! \n\n\n\nSOGGARTH AROON.* \n\nTho\' I am a protestant, you priest o\' Rome, \nTho\' I ha\' a wifie, you only a home, \nTho* \xe2\x80\x94ah! but a truce to "tho," by the horned \n\nmoon, \nI love you right dearly, O Soggarth Aroon. \nSoggarth Aroon, Soggarth Aroon, \nHere\'s from me \nLove to thee, \nSoggarth Aroon! \n\nWe\'ve scandaled your parish, I\'ve shocked \nall my church, \nBy tippling a wine not of elder or birch, \nAnd singing o\' songs to banjo and bassoon, \nOf our Moore and our Burns, O Soggarth \nAroon. \n\n\xe2\x99\xa6Irish: Priest dear. \n\n91 \n\n\n\nOft after gay chat and blithe banter and glee \nWe each have read silent the Breviary, \nWhile sank the swift hour down to midnight\'s \n\ndeep noon, \nAnd both read devoutly, O Soggarth Aroon. \n\nWill Shakespeare sat with us full many a \nnight, \nAnd \'round us the elves of midsummer danced \n\nbright; \nOn Homer\'s and Horace\'s bounty and boon \nWe\'ve feasted in starry hours, Soggarth Aroon. \n\nSt. Thomas Aquinas we thumbed as we spoke, \nWho mysteries world-wide limns forth stroke \n\non stroke, \nAnd Kant and Spinoza, whom you would im- \npugn. \nThus held we high converse, O Soggarth \nAroon. \n\n\n\nAnd once, when my wife found us stuck to \nthe spot, \nThe wee hours had ended, but Cicero not; \nAnd you, friend, and I, friend, we each held a \n\nspoon \nTo cheese our Welsh rabbit, O Soggarth \nAroon. \n\n\n\n92 \n\n\n\nHow swiftly the waves of life true friendship \npart! \nYou into the cell and me into the mart. \nIf we ne\'er meet again, for men do die so soon \xe2\x80\x94 \nWe\'ll meet ne\'er to part again, Soggarth Aroon. \nSoggarth Aroon, Soggarth Aroon, \nHere\'s from me \nLove to thee, \nSoggarth Aroon! \n\nSAFE FOREVER! \n\nYes, in the past there were minutes so gay \n\nThat it is sad. \nYet, what we have may be taken away, \n\nNot what we had. \n\n\n\nTHE GOLDEN-ROD. \n\nThe State Flower of New York. \n\nWhen the summer turns \'round to go to God, \nThere waveth from every hill he has trod \nHis farewell wish: \'tis the golden-rod. \n\nWhen the lengthening dusks into Yule night \nnod, \nAnd the tapering days point the birth of God, \nIn a silver-gray shroud wave over the sod, \nThe galaxied ghosts of the golden-rod. \n\n\n\n93 \n\n\n\nPERSONAL PROPERTY. \n\nThat which to others you have given, \nMarks how much you are worth. \n\nMan taketh naught with him to heaven, \nBut what he gave on Earth. \n\n\n\nCHRISTMAS. \n\nThe Christ! No skeptic\'s flippant speech \nThe world-deep mysteries e\'er can reach. \nSneers pass like the song of fools, \nA bright but powerless nothing. \n\nBeneath their crackle and frothing \nFlows the deep stream of humanity, \nSinging: Christ is Man for He lives in me, \nAnd Christ is God for He rules. \n\nEarth turns to heaven from a sod \nUpon the birthday of our God, \nAt the hallowed Christmas-tide. \n\nFaiths and crowns have slipped away \nInto the past in dim decay, \xe2\x80\xa2 \nSorrow and sin and death have faded, \nSince first the Christ their realm invaded. \n\nBut when the glad bells\' tongue again \nRings out His birth-night in the year, \n\n\n\n94 \n\n\n\nThe sacred Christ grows young again; \nA little child He doth appear. \n\nAnd none within His kingdom stand \nBut Christ is born within their heart. \nAnd happy children through the land \nReceive the gifts His hands impart. \nThus Christ appears in glory mild, \nA little child, a little child. \n\n\n\nTHE MISTLETOE. \n\nIn time of yore, now long ago, \n\nMarian, Maid Marian, \nThe hearth-stone saw the Yule log glow, \n\nMarian, \nA pious monk, with midnight chime, \n\nMarian, \nRang in the holy Christmas time, \n\nMarian, my Marian. \n\nThe stilly sun-wend time is good, \n\nMarian, Maid Marian, \nFor every wight in hill or wood, \n\nMarian; \nIf aught that night be pent in pain, \n\nMarian, \nChrist gives it license to complain, \n\nMarian, my Marian. \n\n\n\n95 \n\n\n\nThen fell upon the good monk\'s ear, \n\nMarian, Maid Marian, \nA plaintive wail, sobbing and clear, \n\nMarian; \nA maid shone in an ancient oak, \n\nMarian, \nAnd to the holy man she spoke, \n\nMarian, my Marian. \n\nI have been witched into this tree, \n\nMarian, maid Marian; \nA holy kiss shall set me free, \n\nMarian. \nThe monk prayed: If no sin it be, \n\nMarian, \nLord, send Thy token unto me, \n\nMarian, my Marian. \n\nWhen, lo! upon the barren bough, \n\nMarian, Maid Marian, \nA heavenly token, true enow, \n\nMarian. \nChaste berries pale \'gan forth to grow, \n\nMarian; \nThus came the holy mistletoe, \n\nMarian, my Marian. \n\nAnd sith that night, at sun-wend time, \nMarian, Maid Marian, \n\nIt is the custom and no crime, \nMarian, \n\n\n\n96 \n\n\n\nThat lips to lips give holy bliss, \n\nMarian, \nWhen \'neath the mistletoe they kiss, \nRobin, \n\nFair Robin, \n\nAnd Marian. \n\n\n\nTHE OLD YEAR SAYS GOOD-BYE! \n\nI mused upon the New Year\'s Eve, \n\'Mid memories of prickly holly \nAnd mistletoeing Christmas folly, \nWhen \xe2\x80\x94 did I see? did I believe? \xe2\x80\x94 \nA swallow-winged, dim shape stood near, \nAnd said: "I am the old, old Year; \n\nReady to fly out into the sea \nOf the shapeless past. \nNow fleeting fast, \n\nI\'ve come to say good-bye to thee. \nTo young eyes mysteries are unseen; \nYou\'ve passed the threshold \xe2\x80\x94 thrice thirteen, \n\nAnd therefore you may look at me. \n\nOn swallow-wings comes every year. \nOver thy hearth it dwelleth here. \nBe thy flame sooty or be the hearth clear, \nOver thy hearth-stone nests the year. \n\nTime\'s endless sea \nEateth each hour up greedily \n\n\n\n97 \n\n\n\nAnd has almost eaten my last. \n\nIt is vanishing fast; \n\nSoon its death will be sung \n\nBy the church bell\'s clapper, Time\'s sea-wolf \n\ntongue, \nLicking, and clicking, a smacking chime, \nTolling, \nLolling \nOut hungrily. \nI, tarnished Old Year, go from thee. \nThe Happy New Year comes from God. \n\nJ. heard it coming merrily, \nOf lissome step and velvet shod. \n"Farewell, Old Year! I\'ll think of thee." \nIn either\'s eye there stood a tear, \nThen, in a haze, as it should seem, \nThe Old Year vanished utterly. \n\nA soft touch waked me from my dream; \nA dear voice cried: "Happy New Year!" \n\nHOMAGE. \n\nPure woman has a majesty \nThat calleth not with voice or gesture, \nNor borrows aid of gem or vesture, \nYet do we know it when we see. \n\nIt is not proud, it is not vain; \nIt will not bow to your behests; your \n\n98 \n\n\n\nAllegiance doth it claim; it tests your \nFaith to believe, strength to remain. \n\nIt lightens sorrow, chastens glee; \nIt claims naught, yet you bend the knee \xe2\x80\x94 \nA manly homage, fitly given. \nHe who thus bows, his chain is riven: \nThe better man in him is free. \n\nTHE PILLOW. \n\nTrue wifely love, when heart and soul are wed, \n\' Is like a pillow to an aching head. \n\nSUNSET SKIES. \n\nI look at the sunset \n\nAlone on the field. \n\nBaby-angels\' heads \n\nLook through the golden curtain. \n\nNot a breeze stirring! \n\nThey peep through the calm, green sky, \n\nCuriously, \n\nInnocent, \nDown at the Earth. \n\nMOTHERHOOD. \n\nOn mothers God bestowed His right sublime \nTo launch upon this lower, minor Earth \nThe spirits that shall give to life its worth, \n\nLofC. \n\n99 \n\n\n\nThe lights upon the cloud of future time. \n\'Tis right to sing of heroes in our rhyme, \n\nOf devils, God, deep tragedy, and mirth. \n\nAll these are held in song\'s wide, serpent \ngirth; \nAll these out-tower not song\'s eagle climb. \nThe Mothers, though, no human singing hails, \n\nTheir realm where even angels have not trod, \nWhat do they launch from ante-natal veils? \n\nEvery spirit cumbered with a clod: \nTime\'s arrows, suns, storm-birds and nightin- \ngales, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAye, one within her bosom bore our God. \n\n\n\nIT\'S A BOY! \n\nIt is a boy? All right, though I love girls. \nI would have dallied with her ringlet curls, \nAnd in her laugh seen your own row of pearls. \nSo you\'re a boy, \nMy Joy? \nWhy, dear, he\'s fatter than a buttered bun. \nSay, it will be considerable fun \nTo have the rascal climb all o\'er me! \n\n\n\nWhen he grows up, I guess we\'ll both ac- \nknowledge \nOur boy is just the boy to send to college, \n\n\n\nioo \n\n\n\nTo learn foot-ball and other forms of knowl- \nedge. \n\nSo you\'re a boy, \nMy Joy? \nI\'ll bet hard cash that scamp will take the bun. \nSay, it will be considerable fun \nWhen he comes home; I know he\'ll just \nadore thee. \n\n\n\nAnd when our afternoon in life grows late, \nAnd our wee chappie grows to man\'s estate, \nHe\'ll get each prize his old dad didn\'t get. \nSo you\'re a boy, \nMy Joy? \nDon\'t you let anybody take your bun. \nSay, it will be considerable fun \nTo see this scamp go clear before me! \n\n\n\nHIS FIRST SUCCESS. \n\nHear him crow! \n\nHear him crow! \n\nBaby! \n\nBaby! \n\nHe has got a hold of his toe! \n\nPapa, come and see \n\nThe Boy Baby \n\nIn the pride of his first Great Victory. \n\n\n\nBOY BABY DANCES. \n\nOh, what did the chickadee say, Boy Baby? \nWhat said the chickadee? \nIn the room it came, \nOne leg was lame, \nIt said: "Baby, hop with me." \nThat\'s what the chickadee said, Boy Baby; \nThus said the chickadee. \n\nAnd what did the chickaree say, Boy Baby? \nWhat said the chickaree? \n"Baby, have some nuts; \nNo ifs or buts, \nYou will lunch with the chickaree." \nThat\'s what the chickaree said, Boy Baby; \nThus said the chickaree. \n\nAnd what did the oriole say, Boy Baby? \nWhat said the oriole? \n"Come into my nest; \nI guess you\'d best; \nIt\'s a pouch with a wee, sma\' hole." \nThat\'s what the oriole said, Boy Baby; \nThus said the oriole. \n\nAnd what did the baby say, Boy Baby? \nWhat said our Boy Baby? \n"I am going to dance, \nSo give me your hands, \nI\'ll dance with you all three." \n\n\n\n102 \n\n\n\nThat\'s what the baby said, Boy Baby; \nThus said our Boy Baby. \n\nAnd what did your papa do, Boy Baby? \nWhat did your papa do? \nHe came in the room \nAnd he heard the tune, \nAnd he danced with the four of you. \nThat\'s what your papa did, Boy Baby; \nThus did your papa do. \n\nWhat tunes did your mamma play, Boy Baby? \nTo us five all in a wheel? \nA slow waltz first, \nAnd a hornpipe next, \nAnd then a Virginia reel. \nThose are the tunes mamma played, Boy Baby, \nWith laughter many a peal. \n\n\n\nTHREE RATIOS. \n\nAt knowledge, fame or fortune as we clutch, \nWhat to the wide world is a man? Not much. \nWhen he has won his knowledge, flattery, pelf, \nHow little is the wide world to himself! \nBut when the port is won, the sail is furled, \nHow much one can be to one\'s little world! \n\n\n\n103 \n\n\n\n* COMING HOME FROM BUSINESS. \n\nOh, richest glow at even-tide, \nWhen opes the street-door, backward swinging, \n\xe2\x80\x94 A cloud rolled back \xe2\x80\x94 my heaven wide, \nWith ruddy glimpse and snatch of singing, \nSilenced by scamper; small arms clinging; \nThe kiss, the question, the caresses; \nA sweet child\'s locks, a dear wife\'s tresses; \nThe lingering meal at restful ease; \nThe baby\'s babblings on my knees; \nThe grate-fire and the purring cat; \nAnd her, my queen \xe2\x80\x94 Fate leave me that! \xe2\x80\x94 \nSpeak not of heaven in yon chill dome; \nA pure man\'s heaven is in his home. \n\n\n\nGOOD NIGHT. \n\nMy house with high, square turret crowned. \nLulls to the breath beneath, around; \nBird-songs and tree-sounds to me call. \nGood-night, and God be with you all. \n\nThe moon gilds Mahwah murmuring low, \nThe sun sinks down o\'er Ramapo, \nAnd bright shines Venus, silvery ball. \nGood night, and God be with you all. \n\nWhere sun doth set, where sun doth rise, \nMay laughter gladden hearts and eyes; \n\n\n\n104 \n\n\n\nYet I exclude not tears and pall. \nGood night, and God be with you all. \n\nFor tears full oft are heaven\'s own dew. \nSo may your tears be aye to you, \nOn grave or heart, where\'er they fall. \nGood night, and God be with you all. \n\nIn misty mead the green frogs croak; \nThe lights are hung in heaven\'s high hall; \nGod draws the darkness like a cloak. \nGood night, and God be with you all. \n\n\n\nTHE HOURS. \n\nI sometimes wonder, if the hour that flees, \nAnd sees us happy, sighs not as it flings \nItself into eternity, and sees \nThe dark cup which the next hour brings. \n\n\n\nTRUE HAPPINESS. \nAfter the Greek of Aristotle. \n\nSome one has carved o\'er the temple of happy \n\nLatona at Delos: \n"Noblest of all is The Just; strong soundness \n\nof health is the Best Thing; \nSweetest, however, of all is to obtain the be- \n\nlov\'d." \n\n\n\n105 \n\n\n\nNoblest, and sweetest, and best disassociate \nnot as at Delos. \n\nNoblest, and sweetest, and best, Happiness cen- \ntres them all. \n\n\n\nREAPER DEATH. \n\nThere is a reaper called Death. \nHe has power over breath. \nLook! how his visage grim doth lower, \nAnd how his scythe he sharpeneth! \nTake heed! take heed! my pretty, little flower. \n\nStraightway he wields his gleaming scythe; \nHe cuts through culm and stalk and withe. \nLook, how his bony eye doth glower! \nHear screech his blade, so keenly snithe! \nTake heed! take heed! my pretty, little flower. \n\nHe droppeth crown and root apart, \nNor heedeth anguish, heedeth smart. \nGod knoweth why He gave him power \nTo cut my heart out of my heart; \nFor Death hath mown my pretty, little flower. \n\n\n\n106 \n\n\n\nOUR CHILD IS DEAD. \n\nOur child is dead. On each parental heart \nHas fallen a heavy, chilling, choking blow, \n\nThough thine, my poor love, is the heavier part. \n\nWith him our bright-eyed future did depart; \nIn him Death did our fairest flower mow. \n\n\n\nUnchilded, on the morrow we shall start, \nMy dearest partner of our common woe, \nAnd you will whisper to me, weeping low: \nOur child is dead. \n\n\n\nFor thy poor bosom pierced the keener dart, \nLove, reverend to me, childless as thou art, \n\nAnd stricken by this poignant, hopeless throe. \nBut think what Hand hath laid on thee this \nsmart, \nAnd that our deep, strong love remains, al- \nthough \n\nOur child is dead. \n\n\n\nTHE AMARANTH. \n\nRussia\'s steppe conceals a flower, \n\nBy a mystic river deep; \nIn the first drops of the first spring shower, \n\nMaidens go and seek. \n\n\n\n107 \n\n\n\nMaidens of either sex may go, \n\nThey who unsullied be. \nLowly the amaranth doth grow, \n\nStill in the stilly lea. \n\nBut if you find it, the heavens change, \n\nPlants and flowers and birds; \nAnd fairy things past mortal range, \n\nTalk unto thee in words. \n\nNay, if you find it, the amaranth flower, \n\nHearts to thy heart yield up \nAll that of holiest love they hold, \n\nDeep in their chaliced cup. \n\nWe roam the steppe of life to seek \n\nThe amaranthine flower. \nWe do not find it in sages deep, \n\nNor in a lady\'s bower. \n\nWe find not its petals in wine or wit, \n\nIn sacred song or art. \nSometimes we have a glimpse of it, \n\nWhen we heal a heart. \n\n\n\nMY LIFE. \n\nMy life began with thee and I live through thee. \nThat was not life I knew before I knew thee \nAnd was thy wife. \n\n1 08 \n\n\n\nThat mere existence was the briefest span \nOf mental life. But then, deep, full, began \nMy life. \n\nOh, what a vista luminous and fine \nYou gave my soul! You gave these eyes of \nmine \n\nThe love of strife, \n\nWith visions never known within my ken, \nTill you appeared, my chosen of all men! \nMy life! \n\nWhat you with keen compunction take, I give \nTo thee most freely. Take my all. I live \nIn thee, my life! \n\nAnd I must die not earthly life alone, \nBut spirit, being, heart, if thou be gone, \nMy life! \n\n\n\nTHE SACRAMENT OF HOLY WEDLOCK. \n\nWhat\'s in the kiss one gives one\'s fiancee? \nThe sunlight flecking gaily o\'er life\'s way, \nThe spring-birds\' woodland-nesting song of \n\nglee, \nBearing the choir in love\'s bright comedy. \n\n109 \n\n\n\nWhen both have drunk the cup of joint afflic- \ntion, \nLife\'s sacrament of God\'s full benediction, \nWhat\'s in the kiss the husband gives his wife? \nLove \xe2\x80\x94 love \xe2\x80\x94 the deep, dear tragedy of life. \n\n\n\nTHANKSGIVING. \n\nOf all Thy great gifts, noblest is the wife, \nMy Lord and Father, Thou has given me. \nAbove firm head and heart and buoyant life \nThat wonder what \'tis people call ennui. \n\nThanks for Thy gracious gifts I render Thee; \nThanks for the casket-framework fit for strife; \nBut greater, nobler far, thanks for the wife, \nMy Lord and Father, Thou hast given me. \n\nHeartless Misfortune\'s keen dissecting-knife, \nThat searcheth out the stuff a man may be; \nTriumphant Victory\'s joyous, shrill fife, \nStir but one thought, this thought unceasingly: \nOf all Thy great gifts, noblest is the wife, \nMy Lord and Father, Thou hast granted me. \n\n\n\nno \n\n\n\nIS MARRIAGE A FAILURE? \n\nI strongly claim there is no such miscarriage. \nBut first of all, let\'s see what is this marriage. \nI strongly claim that marriage never fails. \nBut don\'t confound marriage with wedding \nbells. \n\nFor, where you meet as iron seeks the pole, \nThere you have marriage; soul must wed the \n\nsoul. \nThat will hold out through all life\'s shade and \n\nsheen, \nIndissoluble; be as it has been \nTill Death\'s calm breath lifts from God\'s face \n\nthe veils. \nSuch, such is marriage. Marriage never fails. \n\n\n\nin \n\n\n\n6E\'P \n\n\n\n10 \n\n\n\n190ft \n\n\n\nSEP 10 1902 \n\n1 COPY DEL, TO CAT. D!V. \nSEP. 10 1902 \n\n\n\nLIBRARY OF CONGRESS \n\nMlMlllllli \n\n018 392 114 9 \n\n\n\n\n'