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The Morning Road 
 
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The Morning Road 
 
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Contents 
 
 Titian the Boy - S 13 
 
 A Breath of Orpheus -N 14 
 
 In Time of Rest- S 17 
 
 Song of the Sun- N 19 
 
 TheSphinx-A^ 21 
 
 Arizona -S 16 
 
 The Unsought Shrine - S 29 
 
 Her Accolade -TV 32 
 
 Maiden -TV 34 
 
 The Madness of Tristram -S 37 
 
 LlONARDO AND LlSA - S 39 
 
 The Exile-*? 42 
 
 The Dragon Fly- £ 43 
 
 The Muse of Four-Years-Old -TV 44 
 
 The Spirit of the Dunes -S 45 
 
 Chant to Dionysius-iS" 46 
 
 A Pirate Song- N 47 
 
 LYRICS 
 
 I Sweet lady on whose teeming shrine-*? 48 
 
 II As the swallows on the wing- N 48 
 
 III I dare not touch thy hand -S 49 
 
 IV Purl of the sibilant waters -N 49 
 
 V I cannot find in faith or love- «S* 50 
 
 VI In the praise of the Queen -N 50 
 
 VI I Each dance we tread - S 51 
 
 VIII Heart of red in swelling breast -TV 52 
 
 IX Faint are the lights - N 53 
 
 X Princess of morning -S 54 
 
BALLADES 
 
 Friendship-*? $$ 
 
 Dead Kingdoms -N 56 
 
 Childhood-TV" 57 
 
 Old Fancies -N $8 
 
 The Buccaneer -N 59 
 
 The Garret- S 60 
 
 Echoes -N 61 
 
 Ping Pong- N 62 
 
 U nwritten Tales - S 62 
 
Titian, the Boy 
 
 A dreamer in the branches ponders a silent song, 
 A dreamer of the days of eld, young and still and 
 
 strong, 
 Ponders 'neath soft Italian skies the Romance of 
 
 the Fleece — 
 A young Venetian dreamer sees afar the Isles of 
 
 Greece. 
 
 He sees the tide-girt rocks that rim the classic land, 
 
 And, far within, the temples that the elder dream- 
 ers planned; 
 
 He sees the nymphs, unmaddened, whose sight 
 hath maddened men, 
 
 And the brown fauns of the forest, and the naiads 
 of the fen. 
 
 In his ears the song of maenads around the mystic 
 wine 
 
 Rings clear and unforbidden from the far, forbid- 
 den shrine ; 
 
 He knows the soul of Delphi, whose words are all 
 unknown, 
 
 He feels the Grecian love of love, the Attic passion 
 lone. 
 
 He hears the voice of the Blind One, of falling 
 
 Eastern walls, 
 And a little of the wisdom that the subtle hemlock 
 
 calls — 
 And yet he is not Grecian, — within his dreaming 
 
 eyes 
 The Grecian clouds are drifting across Italian skies. 
 
 [■3] 
 
A Breath of Orpheus 
 
 Lift I the golden lyre with the ringing swaying 
 
 strings 
 And tune the chords to a music beyond man's ear 
 
 to gage, 
 And there with the breath delicious of a million 
 
 myriad Springs 
 I sing to my splendid goddess, — the queen of a 
 
 royal age. 
 Thine, thou white and stainless ! from the deeps of 
 
 the dimmer year, 
 Down with the whirling tempest along the ocean 
 
 .grey, 
 Dressed in the plumes of triumph, moist with the 
 
 dew of fear, 
 Bright and red in the darkness, dark in the blind- 
 ing day — 
 The song goes thrilling toward you, wheeling 
 
 aslant the wind, 
 Echoing through the spaces beyond the Outer 
 
 Gloom, 
 Thine from Persephone's garden, the place where 
 
 thou shalt find 
 The souls of thy former minstrels, cold in a frigid 
 
 tomb. 
 But mine is the fearless singing that bids old Death 
 
 beware ; 
 Dauntless, sullen, uncaring, flinging thy glories 
 
 free, 
 Heedless of doom and danger, militant unto care, 
 I raise my voice in a chant of lyrical praise to thee. 
 Thine from the womb of the desert, dim and dusty 
 
 and dread, 
 Under the eloquent urging of the luminous brazen 
 
 Sun, 
 
 [H] 
 
Lost in the aeons of aeons that have bowed thy 
 
 glorious head 
 Since with the birth of the soul thy glamorous life 
 
 was begun ; 
 Down from the spume of the Arctic where the 
 
 night is a winter long, 
 Out from the swell of the surges that sweep to the 
 
 utter shore 
 Where the impervious beaches list to the swaying 
 
 song 
 Sung by undaunted sons of sires that were slain of 
 
 yore ; 
 Thine from the southern waters and the opening 
 
 eastern gates — 
 I hurl my paean to heaven and all the founts of 
 
 earth, 
 Up from the carven ages wherein the specter waits 
 Pallid and horrid and silent, the Death that is thine 
 
 from Birth. 
 Down from the constellations that scatter an eddy- 
 ing gleam 
 Far above and around us with reckless prodigal 
 
 hand, — 
 One with the breath of April to foster a poet's 
 
 dream, 
 Lulling the restless bosom of a newly-wakened 
 
 land; 
 Thine from the House of the Morning where 
 
 Phcebus halts to kiss 
 The beauty of high Olvmpus before he takes his 
 
 flight 
 Buoyant and merry and daring, — where the fair 
 
 Semiramis 
 Envies Apollo's kisses as she yearns from the 
 
 Stygian night. 
 
 ['$] 
 
The gleaming hair of the houri is lit with a thou- 
 sand suns, 
 
 Her eyes flare red in the gloaming before her 
 house of pain 
 
 As she worships the glowing Phcebus at his splen- 
 did orisons — 
 
 The love of a lovelier goddess — and knows her 
 worship vain. 
 
 So, thine from the bright Olympus, — fairer than 
 fairest, thou ! 
 
 Fairer than Phoebus' goddess my heart would have 
 thee fair, 
 
 Worthy the death of all minstrels, fit for a nation's 
 vow, — 
 
 Mine be the death and the pride, that thy song 
 outlast the air. 
 
 [.6] 
 
In Time of Rest 
 
 'Tis yours to wake within the Pearl of Dawn, 
 To sit in its grey chamber, and to see 
 The first faint glow that trembles through the dusk ; 
 Warmer the hint of day ; the welcoming east 
 In silence draws the green out of the dark : 
 Beyond the riven pearl the morning sky 
 Flames, and the dew-fires kindle in the grass ; 
 Sudden, the day: arise with outstretched arms — 
 The Sun invades again his ancient home. 
 
 How many dawns the earth hath known 
 Of joyous days and days of moan! 
 Tet as the Sun his daily cup 
 Drinks of the nightly falling dew. 
 Think you he wearies? He lifts up 
 Gladly the draught. Each dawn is new. 
 
 The flood of noon that flows around the world, 
 Upon whose crest we struggle and exult, 
 To you is but a tide of light and melody 
 And rest. The harvest never seems to toil 
 In waxing rich, — the rose in growing sweet. 
 And mid-day only murmurs the content 
 Of insects seeking new and tiny fare, 
 And indolently singing in the quest ; 
 The trees are still ; among the hills the clouds 
 Gather in dark rebellion 'gainst the blue. 
 
 The light that drives our dreams away, 
 
 And the fond vestments that our idols wear, 
 
 The light relentless on the feet of clay 
 
 We fear, — but need we find the truth less fair ? 
 
 The hours we learn, the hours we toil 
 
 Are not so sweet as hours we dream and sing ; 
 
 The lute, the dance, Romance's coil 
 
 Fade in the noon-light. Hath the truth a sting? 
 
 [17] 
 
When Phoebus 'lights upon the western hill 
 And leads his pageant to the fount of sleep, 
 You see the banners of his triumph glow, 
 And hear the sunset paean of his praise. 
 But dearer is the maiden gaze of Artemis, 
 The calmer splendour of her silver shield ; 
 Dearer her hand that on the brow of earth 
 Rests cool and hopeful. When she comes to hear 
 We grow more trusting, speak of nearer things, 
 Open our hearts to her that constant is 
 In her inconstancy. Yea, she doth lure 
 Our secrets from us as the sea in tides, 
 And still we throng her dim confessional. 
 
 Heart that speaks to aching heart — 
 Humble hearts before the shrine — 
 Hidden grief and smiling care, 
 All the faith our souls can share, 
 All of truth that words can dare, — 
 Artemis, these things are thine. 
 
 [18] 
 
Song of the Sun 
 
 Loose me the scourge of the morning in glittering 
 
 lashes, 
 Swing free the hissing whips that silence the song of 
 
 the dawn, 
 Scatter the mists that beset thee with withering 
 
 flashes, — 
 Rise thou a king, triumphant o'er fabled eternities 
 
 gone. 
 
 Sullen and gray are the fog-hosts, impenetrant, 
 bounding 
 
 Thy castle unseen, — unsuspected its glory of im- 
 potent gold — 
 
 Tufted and plumed they gather, vindictive sur- 
 rounding, 
 
 Rise and destroy, O Sluggard ! smite as thou 
 smotest of old. 
 
 Gone is the indolent twilight, the shroud interven- 
 ing 
 
 Soft as the breath of a flower, 'twixt the eye and the 
 empyrean tomb ; 
 
 Gone is the menacing storm-forest, fitfully leaning, 
 
 Wavering, rearing on high its vehement head in 
 the gloom ; 
 
 Gone is the night and forgotten ; and melodies 
 golden 
 
 Glide from a celebrant harp, ghostly, intangible, 
 sweet, — 
 
 Singing the paean of morn, to the morn-wind be- 
 holden 
 
 For breath to arouse the aeolian heart from its slum- 
 berous beat. 
 
 [«9] 
 
The soul of the world 's in the dawn, for thy victory 
 yearning 
 
 Over the hosts thou must drive to obey thy des- 
 potic desire, — 
 
 Waiting the hour of thy triumph, when gorgeously 
 burning, 
 
 Thou shalt rise to thy panoplied, chivalrous might 
 in a fabric of fire. 
 
 Rise as a ruler tyrannic, imperious yellow 
 
 Zoning thy royal heart with its hate and the heat of 
 
 it all ; 
 Blinding thy glances, — now bitter, now genial and 
 
 mellow, — 
 Regal thy shadows, for purple is regal, and purple 
 
 they fall. 
 
 Bright was the birth of the world, when with trem- 
 bling fingers 
 
 Phoebus essayed to guide his course through a vir- 
 ginal sky, — 
 
 Bright thou wert then in thy splendour, thy glory 
 still lingers, 
 
 Holding its sway with the pride of a ruler who 
 never can die. 
 
 Loose me the scourge of the morning in glittering 
 
 lashes. 
 Swing free the hissing whips that silence the song of 
 
 the dawn, 
 Scatter the mists that beset thee, with withering 
 
 flashes, — 
 Rise thou a king, triumphant o'er fabled eternities 
 
 gone. 
 
 [00] 
 
The Sphinx 
 
 Above her head the sky is hung blue-arching, pil- 
 
 lared-white 
 With banked clouds that reach across to dunes of 
 
 ghastly grey — 
 The sky that drowned the ships of stars in all the 
 
 seas of Night 
 And loosed Osiris' bloodhounds on the fugitives of 
 
 Day. 
 
 Hers is a rock-hewn citadel whereon hath flickered 
 faint 
 
 The clang of dread and dusty wars, of far and fool- 
 ish hosts ; 
 
 Her breast has stored unnumbered vows that hailed 
 her as a saint ; 
 
 Against her soul unheeded beat Time's pestilential 
 ghosts. 
 
 The heat the sand hath hugged so long is rising in 
 blue thrills, 
 
 Her bulk impassive quivers not, her pulse doth 
 never change ; — 
 
 Below the sky-line, out of sight, are hid the haunt- 
 ing hills 
 
 That rim the ends of earth along the utter ocean- 
 range. 
 
 The womb of all the world is parched beneath the 
 
 tropic breeze, 
 The earth 's a flameless furnace that taints the outer 
 
 air, — 
 Beneath that sand no man can say what cities lie at 
 
 peace, 
 Within that breast no man can guess what brand 
 
 of soul is there; 
 
Hidden behind that stolid brow were spun the vast 
 intrigues 
 
 That swayed the arms of Empire to conquest — 
 and to death ; 
 
 The silent voice that calls and calls across the bar- 
 ren leagues 
 
 Doth hover in that throat that lacks the benison of 
 breath ; 
 
 Trusting the lips that never ope, the tongue that 
 murmurs not, 
 
 Within that heart the phantoms lie of countless 
 empty biers, 
 
 Around those feet the wrecks of wills are foun- 
 dered and forgot, 
 
 Across that face the winds have hurled the dust of 
 powdered years. 
 
 Her ears are filled as like a shell wherein the ocean 
 
 roars 
 Of fleet and fairest argosy and pageants on far seas, 
 The lure is sweet of Ages Past, as sirens on the 
 
 shores 
 That draw their dupes to breathe their last before 
 
 the gleaming knees ; 
 
 And Memory, that dwells within that outer chill, is 
 
 hot: 
 Perchance she sees the kings of Eld, of heritage un- 
 
 guessed, 
 Perchance her spirit-eye within is brooding o'er the 
 
 £ rot 
 Wherein the Passion-Queen received her warriors 
 
 on her breast ; 
 
 [«] 
 
The rock above is silent green, the floor beneath is 
 
 laid 
 With carpetings in deathless dye, and rugs the 
 
 Mullahs wove, 
 The borders of them marvelous of myths that 
 
 haply strayed 
 Within the woof and speechless spoke the threaded 
 
 loom of love; 
 
 The constant sands are lying grey outside the 
 
 throbbing cave, 
 The steeds that bear her lovers race invisible in 
 
 dust, 
 While dark behind and out of sight is sunk the 
 
 final grave, 
 For Life must live and Love must die, lest Hassan's 
 
 blade should rust. 
 
 She sees across the desert reaches, endless caravans 
 Of midnight sheiks and conquerors that swept from 
 
 sea to sea 
 And bore the maids to charm the eyes of Eblis 
 
 with a dance 
 And work the mystic glamour of the East's slim 
 
 sorcery. 
 
 The captains of the northerland have had their 
 
 triumphs here, 
 The boom of distant shouting wakes an echo for 
 
 her now, 
 The asphodels have long since bloomed upon the 
 
 captive's bier, — 
 Who bore the crown of Egypt as a laurel on her 
 
 brow. 
 
 [*3] 
 
Perhaps (since queen should dwell with queen) she 
 sees that One who crossed 
 
 The grey grim plain of Memphis as a fire fangs the 
 sky, 
 
 Who fain had killed all lovers for one lover whom 
 she lost, — 
 
 Who loved — a night, and on the morn swift whis- 
 pered "Let him die. " 
 
 She who was born to savage pomps and destinies 
 
 and thrones, 
 Whose eyes held thrice the yearning of the Lotus 
 
 of the South, 
 Whose murdered lovers died in bliss, if fair between 
 
 their groans, 
 They caught one smile of crimson pity on her cruel 
 
 mouth; 
 
 She who upon the Cydnus' tide, proud-panoplied in 
 gold, 
 
 Floated adown, as down the years have floated 
 flecks of her, 
 
 Who queens all queens when all is said, and every 
 song is told, — 
 
 Yet perished aspic-smitten, conquering her con- 
 queror ; 
 
 Aye, dead and cold that breast, and cold and dead 
 the pierced arm, 
 
 The thrilling love-light shines no more, no more 
 exults that smile 
 
 To snare our fallen princes: dead is that rich pas- 
 sion-charm 
 
 That wooed the Sun in breathless haste across the 
 southern dial. . . . 
 
 C«4] 
 
Haply, this Other being gone, the Queen of 
 
 Stone 's content 
 That she too slumbers there untouched except of 
 
 Isis' gleam, 
 With voiceless wooing of dim ghosts in all the 
 
 breezes blent 
 To live again the splendour of that Egypt in a 
 
 dream. 
 
 [»s] 
 
Arizona 
 
 The kings of the world have waxed and died 
 
 In narrower states than mine ; 
 
 And realms have risen to rampant power 
 
 To sink in drear decline, 
 
 That were poor by the measure of my wealth - 
 
 The creditors of the brine. 
 
 For I am cursed with the curse of dearth 
 To dry the heart of youth ; 
 And my needs are the same as the needs of hell : 
 Water and women and truth. 
 
 Across my purple peaks the snows 
 
 Fall scant and dry away, 
 
 And the breasts of earth that should be full 
 
 Are withered and rimed and grey ; 
 
 For the chill is mine of the dewless night 
 
 Till the barren, aching day. 
 
 I call to my heedless, jewelled sky — 
 
 The shimmering wanton smiles, 
 
 Flinging her bacchant robes of cloud 
 
 Across the thirsty miles, 
 
 And the intimate stars come near in the night 
 
 To bare her mocking wiles. 
 
 I call on his hastening trails the wind, 
 
 Where the mad dust-demons glide, 
 
 But he answers me with the sting of a lash 
 
 And only a pause to chide ; 
 
 And his forefront sweeps as a gloomy flame 
 
 Where the silence stretches wide. 
 
 For I was old when the Younger Sea 
 Arose to seek my bed, 
 And in my tale 'tis but a night 
 That he and I were wed, 
 
 M 
 
For in the morn I woke again 
 And the love of him was dead. 
 
 I rose and thrust him from my side 
 Although he loved me well, 
 And he was wroth to leave a house 
 For the wailing winds to dwell ; 
 He cursed me with his father's curse, 
 We struggled, and he fell. 
 
 And on that morn across my brow 
 
 He seared an open scar, 
 
 As the fingers of the Younger Sea 
 
 Have branded with a star 
 
 The brides that have one time been his, 
 
 Where his roving foot-prints are. 
 
 But in my heart I hide the wealth 
 
 He gave the night before, 
 
 And little men find to lure them on — 
 
 A little that dreams of more, 
 
 But they may not face the wrath that guards 
 
 The Sea's dear gifts of yore. 
 
 For I dare not show the first love's gifts 
 
 To him that now is lord, 
 
 As I am faithful to the Sun 
 
 I n all things save the hoard 
 
 Of hidden gems of the banished Sea 
 
 That in my breast is stored. 
 
 Now since the Sun hath held me queen 
 
 And kissed my lips with fire, 
 
 I have risen young each morn again 
 
 And robed in queen's attire, 
 
 Stifling the dream of other days 
 
 In the heat of his desire. 
 
 [*7] 
 
So am I cursed with the curse of dearth 
 
 To dry the heart of youth ; 
 
 And my needs are the same as the needs of hell . 
 
 Water and women and truth. 
 
 [•»] 
 
The Unsought Shrine 
 
 Friend, I have sat here many sleepy days, 
 Here, in the corner of the market place, 
 Here, where the jangling cries of trade 
 Announce the opening treasures of the South ; 
 Here, underneath the guardian tower, 
 Where all the hurrying merchants strive 
 And barter for the good of sordid goods. 
 And while I sit, the worldly folk who pass 
 Speak of me now and then and shake their heads 
 As though to say : "That old and maudlin fool, 
 "What waits he here ? Ah, well, leave him alone, 
 "He does no harm, and many kinds offolk 
 "Find place in this so strangely ordered world." 
 And I — what do I wait? Ah, friend of mine, 
 I only sit where habit placeth me. 
 And my wares ? I keep them from the foolish gaze. 
 
 Oft I bethink the time I first came here, 
 
 For I had wrought a thing through all my days ; 
 
 (I was a man one time, such as these men ; 
 
 A common man of ordinary lot, 
 
 Toiling and spending, modest in my joys, 
 
 And prosperous.) And then — then came a dream. 
 
 It was a dream such as none ever dreampt, 
 
 A vision of the fullness of the fruit 
 
 Of a soul's labor — wrought in stubborn steel 
 
 And cunningly contrived, with figured frets 
 
 Of virgin gold ; and all at last to be 
 
 A Shrine unto the god that wrought the dream ; — 
 
 I left the futile toil of day and day 
 
 To build the Shrine. 
 
 For that I knew no craft, 
 And had but little skill in handiwork, 
 My toil was slow ; through all my manhood's years 
 
 i>9] 
 
I worked, with doubly certain care and pains, 
 And spent my substance for my daily want. 
 For by the dream I knew that when 'twas done 
 I would expose it in the market square, 
 And then would come a virtuous devotee 
 Of that bright selfsame god, and he would buy 
 And place the Shrine aloft, to worship at : 
 So that should be the issue of my toil. 
 
 Then, when at last the thing was made 
 
 And I could alter not a single touch 
 
 For better end, I brought it and sat here. 
 
 Well I remember how I took a place 
 
 And sat me with the Shrine before my feet, 
 
 Thus bound and swathed with this same covering. 
 
 I sat a while and mused, amid the throng 
 
 That poured in ceaseless stream along the way, 
 
 For in my fervor of accomplishment 
 
 It seemed so sweet to wait and feel my power, 
 
 To know that all the bustling folk who passed 
 
 Knew not the secret that this covering hid, 
 
 Nor could they feel the presence of the Shrine, 
 
 Nor know that I had brought a masterpiece 
 
 To lay before them. When I raised the cloth 
 
 At length — my heart leapt fierce and strong, 
 
 And then — I let the shimmering sunlight in 
 
 To play about the glitter of my Shrine. 
 
 And lo ! Not one that passed who paused to look 
 Nor view the product of the labor I had done, 
 But all went on about their several ways, 
 Nor cared to see the ending of my handiwork ; 
 Save when some curious children in their play 
 Paused for a moment thus to gaze, and smile, 
 And query why the shining thing was made. 
 They did not feel the presence of the god. 
 But when I saw that none would seek the Shrine, 
 I fell into a rage, and cursed the god, 
 
 [30] 
 
And would have crushed the thing, but that I saw, 
 
 Just as I raised my hand to strike, a fault, 
 
 And spared my Shrine that I might make it right. 
 
 When that was done there stopped a passer-by 
 Who stood and smiled a gentle sort of smile, 
 And looked upon the Shrine with loving eyes, 
 As one who understood the dream might look. 
 And then at last he spoke ; "This, old man, 
 "This glittering thing, who wrought it out ? " 
 "I made it," then said I, my heart full warm, 
 For in his eyes was written kindly praise. 
 But when he spoke — I lost my dream of gods. 
 "Well hast thou wrought, with true untiring care, 
 "But to what purpose ? None will buy this thing." 
 "What? None?" I cried. "Nay, none will buy." 
 And in my soul I felt his word's calm truth, 
 So that my rebel heart cried in despair, 
 "Then who shall pay me for the making it? 
 "Who shall buy back my years of solitary toil ? " 
 "Hast thou made of this thing a perfect thing 
 "So that no further work could better it?" 
 "Yea," I said and waited till he spoke again. 
 "Then is thy wage full paid," he said at last, 
 "Thy sweet reward is such that none may steal, 
 "Nor question of the fullness of the tale." 
 
 And so I sit here every day and watch 
 The shifting pageants of the city's trade ; 
 And keep the cloth about the Shrine. Ah no, 
 I dare not lift it off, for fear to find 
 Another fault, or to be seized with rage 
 That if I saw again, I might destroy. 
 
 [30 
 
Her Accolade 
 
 Read ye the answer in his face ? 
 Ye dare to try, yet may not read, 
 Some soul-remembered dawn hath grace 
 To steel his spirit for this need ; 
 The armour, felt but never seen, 
 Bespeaks a lover of the Queen. 
 
 The Queen hath come, the Queen hath fled 
 
 As arctic ice in tropic seas, 
 
 The love that lay about her head 
 
 In bright unpondered mysteries 
 
 Is now despoiled of head to rim, — 
 
 Yet still Her mercy guardeth him. 
 
 Ay, still it guardeth him who laid 
 His homage for her heart to hold, 
 The faith he clasps all unafraid 
 Hath shot the desolate dusk with gold ; 
 The image that his fancy limned 
 Hath eyes star-luminous and dimmed. 
 
 The odour of her in the air, 
 The music of her on the breeze, 
 The echo of her, like a prayer, 
 Drawing her lover to his knees, 
 Like some dim Druid that of old 
 Made mute confessor of the wold ; 
 
 The choking that hath gripped his throat, 
 Who framed soft speech for her alone, 
 The evanescent gleams that float 
 Down from her far resplendent throne, — 
 Be these the remnants of her reign, 
 The tokens that she lives again. 
 
 [3»] 
 
Dies she because she is not nigh 
 To praise his worth or soothe his ill ? 
 Nay, underneath the self-same sky 
 Her heart is beating pure and still ; 
 The Sun rejoices on his way 
 For he hath touched her lips today. 
 
 [33] 
 
Maiden 
 
 A bud is blown ; to-day a bud is blown. 
 In all the world was e'er a bud so fair 
 As this, whose fresh virginity is thrown 
 Ope to the stings of all the bees who dare ? 
 Was there a bud who fluttered ever less 
 To loose her trembling petals to the Sun, 
 Blushing unconscious of her loveliness, 
 Daring not even to her heart confess 
 Her maiden terrors for the change begun ; 
 Looked in earth's garden one so fair to us 
 Who saw her, newly-risen, tremulous, 
 Enter the throbbing radiance that swept 
 A ray of peace to mother-heart that wept 
 Because the bud had blown into a rose. 
 
 Throughout the greater Mother runs the tale ; 
 Nature hath never dared allow to wait 
 Her little loves of poignant mystery — 
 Hath never dared to risk her blooms to fail 
 By overlong postponement of their state, 
 For all their terrors of reluctancy ; 
 And as we closer to our Mother stray 
 More firm and more inexorable she seems, 
 Exacts her lawful penance to a day, 
 Permits no tricksy subterfuge to break 
 As intervention 'twixt her hand and dreams. 
 Mortals dare wait for blooming as they may, 
 The woman in the child remain awake, — 
 But Nature wills no trifling, so at last 
 The first sweet fearful boundaries are past. 
 
 Sad ? Is the mother only sad, who knows 
 The pangs and sorrow, loneliness and pain 
 That must assail the newly-wakened rose, 
 Fresh with her dewy life-blood of the rain ; 
 She hath not learnt the myriad piercing stings 
 
 [34] 
 
Of hate and envy, and the foe that creeps 
 In guise of friendship, under loving wings 
 And breeds his malice as his smile he keeps, 
 Sweeter for being sinful, on his lips. 
 The bud that has been and can never be 
 Is now a rose, and she must bend and sway 
 And curtsy to all comers gracefully, 
 Blushing beneath the blandishments of Day. 
 Her heart that hath been hid so far within 
 Is bared to myriad malices and scorns, 
 And no protection may she hope to win 
 From her too frail and futile guardian thorns, 
 For they are tender too, yet tenderer 
 Her heart ; — ah, should she ever learn to hide 
 That tenderness which is the soul of her 
 What mercy then for us can ever stir — 
 What magic then can make us deified? 
 
 Today her soul is open to the winds, 
 
 They press their kisses on her virgin mouth 
 
 Yet all the new enchantment that she finds 
 
 Within the soft embraces of the South 
 
 She may not welcome to her soul because 
 
 The wind hath many roses kissed before, 
 
 Left wrecks of wooings on far-sundered haws,— 
 
 Because she knows the future has in store 
 
 So many fickle lovers that she dare 
 
 Not trust the one to whom her heart is fain, 
 
 Yet since that heart is naked to the air 
 
 Hides she not all her virgin love in vain ? 
 
 She thrills to hear the wooing of that breeze, 
 
 To hear the murmur as the waters roll 
 
 At night beneath the predatory trees 
 
 That sway aloft in rustling mysteries, 
 
 Crooning an endless echo o'er and o'er, 
 
 Seeking an answer to their restless soul ; 
 
 She knows the world is there, and half afraid 
 
 [35] 
 
Would shrink again, a bud become once more 
 
 And still with flush of girlhood on her brow, 
 
 Re-live the careless heaven of a maid ; 
 
 The dainty perfume of some guarding leaf 
 
 Is like a sweet regret around her now 
 
 That joy hath been too short and youth too brief. 
 
 Yet would the fair rose-mother, gazing down 
 Upon her child half eager to return 
 Into her shielding chrysalidic gown, — 
 Would she, the mother, then forbear to yearn 
 For the dear vanished girlhood of her child 
 At seeing her the queen of all the flowers 
 That Wealth can breed or Nature nurture wild 
 To soothe the dread of dying from the hours? 
 And would it recompense the new-born Queen 
 To scan the water-mirror that is loathe 
 To lose her crimson from its clasp of green, — 
 That clings all jealous to her image, yet 
 Refle&s enough to glorify them both ? 
 Would it not comfort her and make forget 
 Her fair unwilling terrors to be born, 
 To see the crown that on her head is set, — 
 A crown of Beauty for the realm of Morn ? 
 
 [36] 
 
The Madness of Tristram 
 
 Maiden, beware ! old wounds are mine that bleed, 
 Old scars that burn, and the recrescent pangs 
 Of all my clashing battles since, untried, 
 I fought for Cornwall's truage, and King Mark ; 
 These mortal scars the fervent queen hath kissed — 
 Isoud the Queen hath kissed, and healed them not. 
 Nay, let me run half-clad, servant of clowns 
 And fellow to the herds ; they do not know : 
 They see no phantom shield upon my arm, 
 Hear in my voice no challenge of lost kings ; 
 For them there is no vision of the face — 
 The face I sought across the fairer world — 
 The light that shone for me above the cross, 
 And sheathed my lance with flame invincible ; 
 They have not seen French vineyards, purple- 
 
 stol'd, 
 Russet and blue of autumn and the hills, 
 Revel of Southern Springtime, — nor the house 
 Where sleeps my virgin with the milk-white hands : 
 Nor the green, singing island whence I brought 
 King Mark his queen — and ruin for my soul. 
 
 When by the mouldering gate of Maereek Hold 
 She stood among the maids, as fair as death, 
 Sweeter than midnight in a joust of Days, — 
 I came and thrilled but knew her not, and fought 
 For mine own worship, and to light her eyes. 
 Then from the royal sire I took her hence, 
 For she was white, and Mark desired a queen — 
 A guerdon only for the king I loved, 
 A burning candle for a friendly saint. 
 
 Maiden, behold the swinging night of deeps, 
 And the Storm lashing on the Sea's sad face. 
 We clung together to our wounded ship 
 While the false billows taunted us with love, 
 
 [37] 
 
Rocking and roaring when her hands sought mine, 
 Though but in fear of night they sought, and I 
 Gave only comfort. Then the phial she found, 
 And sudden as a thrust, the night blazed out — 
 Dim lamps of love burned on each foam-shot crest, 
 The red gold of the sun awoke in us, 
 The ocean staggered and our love trod wild, 
 Wet flames were in our eyes, and ancient fates 
 Took us and bound us, burning, to our stars. 
 
 Years, and our open shame, and speeding youth, 
 Lights in far castles, quests and chastening seas, 
 Strange conquerings in dragon-haunted lands, 
 Dark roads, wide marches, and fair traitor days ; 
 Glory one other only hath, and like to him 
 Grappled with Honour doth my potion cling. 
 Maid, I have come to be caressed in dreams — 
 To feel dear kisses and to hear sweet words 
 When the chill wind doth beat my face with stings ; 
 Betimes in every tree of this deep wood 
 I see her beckon, lithe and tall, the queen, 
 About me maddening — everywhere Isoud, 
 Till the dread wind brings up our shame, 
 And wraps me in it, till it covers me, 
 And mounts above the wood, and stains the skies. 
 
 Beware, thou woman with a calmer heart, 
 For I am mad upon old love denied ; 
 Get hence, lest from the ringing hell 
 Of my dark soul a demon glide, and stamp 
 Upon thy face the face of her I love, 
 And cheat me with a fancy of her eyes. 
 
 [38] 
 
Lionardo and Lisa 
 
 I pray thee, Madonna, be patient \ 
 I pray thee, Madonna, be kind. 
 While I mirror the fanciful fabric 
 Of thy quaintly mystical mind. 
 
 A tapestry wondrously woven, a marvel of gossa- 
 mer sheen, — 
 
 Inconsistent as woman, yet through its intangible 
 line 
 
 Form of the central compulsion and swirl of the 
 definite scene — 
 
 Order in orderless chaos and rule in unruly design ; 
 
 Harmonies blent of the summers, memories pearl 
 
 and of rose, 
 Sweet with old joys and dead laughter, dim in the 
 
 nights of the past, 
 Hours of the sun and the starlight, and the west 
 
 wind yare as it blows, 
 Drifting of musical ripples or shadows old tragedies 
 
 cast; 
 
 Memories dear in fulfillment, memories bitter of 
 
 tears, 
 Dreams that have faded and bubbles with rainbow 
 
 traceries wrought, 
 Broken and lost in the clasping, wrongs of the 
 
 tyrannous years, 
 Riches of human remembrance, and passion of 
 
 battles un fought. 
 
 Powers : yea, the power of loosing the grip of the 
 
 demon of wrath, 
 Fingers to smoothe from the brow the lines of 
 
 implacable pain, 
 
 [39] 
 
Power of uplifting, inspiring, the power that Apollo 
 
 hath, 
 Blind in its merciful wonder — the power of the 
 
 spring and the rain. 
 
 Pictures from out of the ages ; Romances or ever 
 
 the Sun 
 Lifting across the iEgean, blinked at the jealous 
 
 walls 
 Guarding the Trojan mothers, ere a Trojan prince 
 
 had won 
 The shame, and the name, and the beauty that 
 
 weeps when the Trojan falls ; 
 
 Fables the Grecian fountains poured forth for the 
 
 Grecian youth, 
 Signs and symbols and statues, oracles, wreaths, 
 
 and gods, 
 Glories of Attic fancy, virtue of Attic truth, 
 Myths of the world's brief hour when Beauty 
 
 ruled with rods ; 
 
 Stories the Latian shepherds had learned from the 
 winds that blew 
 
 Far from the Persian gardens and the Mace- 
 donian hills, 
 
 Loves that the dark Egyptians and the hot-heart 
 Romans knew, 
 
 Passions of East and of West, and of antique war 
 that thrills ; 
 
 Sagas of chill Valhalla, fair vikings that went 
 
 forth 
 Strong with the tang of the ice-fields, in open ships 
 
 and free, 
 Sweeping the coast of the world from the barren 
 
 house of the North, — 
 Children in soulful arts, but brothers of the sea ; 
 
 [40] 
 
Missals of churchly gloom and chantings of stolen 
 
 Wonderful saints that groped with faith in foolish 
 
 words, 
 Knights of red blood, and ladies, and tales the 
 
 years destroy, 
 Quests and the Grail, strange vows and demands, 
 
 and tourneys and swords. 
 
 These things are patterned and blazoned, wrought 
 
 in the fabric clear, 
 These and a thousand fancies, and merriment, and 
 
 smiles, 
 Lights of humour, and dashes of scarlet, and gold 
 
 of the mere, 
 Sympathy out of the heart, and little woman's 
 
 wiles : 
 
 These in the pattern are blended ; yet over them, 
 
 over them all 
 High where the midnight breathes in the mystery 
 
 of gloom, 
 Deep in the sky I dare not, heedless if I should 
 
 fall, 
 Bright as the beacon of hope, or the past in the 
 
 face of doom, 
 
 Flames that pierce the arras, shining relu&ant 
 through, 
 
 Betraying the fabric of colours with a hint of an ulti- 
 mate goal, 
 
 Blaze the two stars soft-glowing, unfearing and 
 final and true, 
 
 The stars behind the curtain, that prove the silver 
 soul. 
 
 [4«] 
 
The Exile 
 
 If in the long unfolding years the wreath 
 
 Of bays my head should crown, 
 
 If fame should come, or worthy work of mine 
 
 Stand in my people's sight, and twine 
 
 My name with glory in the common breath, 
 
 Would you regret my ruined humble shrine — 
 
 If you had torn a Poet's birthplace down ? 
 
 What matters it? If all my toil to naught 
 
 Time razes in his rout, 
 
 And as the unknown to unending rest 
 
 I follow in my turn, my highest crest 
 
 Still shadowed in the valley where I fought — 
 
 That house to me were not less richly blest, 
 
 Although no pilgrim feet shall seek it out. 
 
 The land is yours : for me the house still stands 
 
 In memories wrought; 
 
 The gold and grey of days that children know, 
 
 The wonder of the dawn's re-entrant glow, 
 
 The touch of happiness; my mother's hands, 
 
 And on her temples the benignant snow — 
 
 For me live there. 'Twas but the land you bought. 
 
 M 
 
The Dragon Fly 
 
 Mine is the song of the soul, of the spirit immortal 
 
 of life ; 
 Waking in dread and joy from the slumberous rest 
 
 of the night, 
 Crowned with the seal of the ghost, I glory and 
 
 yearn to the strife — 
 To follow and master the ways of the tune and the 
 
 tear and the light. 
 
 In streams of shimmering slime my lazy life began, 
 In the paths of the mystic places, in the sound of 
 
 the secret things ; 
 Mine was the revel of youth, in the world that the 
 
 ripples span, 
 Till the summer-gods taught the song, the Song of 
 
 the Glittering Wings. 
 
 Then to my spirit was granted the mutable king- 
 dom of air, 
 
 The blaze of the sun upon water, the pearl of a 
 misty moon, — 
 
 These are the treasures they gave me, to hold and 
 to conquer and share, 
 
 Till the tale of my days was written in a reckless, 
 wilderingrune. 
 
 And now my treasure is empty, my prodigal song 
 
 is done, 
 The road the sunshine showed me is lost in a silent 
 
 wood ; 
 The gods can aid no further, the goal of the flight 
 
 is won ; — 
 The glittering wings shall fold, and the peace at the 
 
 last shall be good. 
 
 [43] 
 
The Muse of Four- Years-Old 
 
 When I was young, so long ago, 
 Back where the clouds have hid the sun, 
 How much there was I did not know 
 When all my world was scarce begun, 
 My wit was dull, my step was slow, 
 With toys and games my matins rung, 
 I sought for Pleasure, high and low, 
 For I was young. 
 
 But since that I have seen to rise 
 Ten thousand suns and seen them fall 
 Red, gold, and yellow, orange-wise, 
 I know that Pleasure is not all ; 
 You sing of Joy in lullabyes — 
 In vain henceforward those are sung, 
 I've not been fooled by women's lies 
 Since I was young. 
 
 Your "Go and play" I do not hear; 
 You women do not comprehend 
 The stern and solemn atmosphere 
 These virgin bifurcations lend ; 
 With inward scorn and brow austere, 
 From ashes of my youth among 
 Now, phoenix-like, I reappear, 
 Who once was young. 
 
 For me is now the coil of Fate, 
 The ring of War, and of Romance : 
 Your childish joys are come too late 
 To him who now is wearing pants ; 
 Time was, I thought I'd celebrate 
 When off my female garb I'd flung, 
 But — Mirth's not meet for Man's estate, 
 I am not young. 
 
The Spirit of the Dunes 
 
 Where bleak defiance swelling soft 
 Shifts with the gale or drinks the sun, 
 Thy wayward, homeless home is made, 
 Thy watch is keen on fields long won ; 
 The ghost of Dearth that Time hath sired 
 Still brooding guards the undesired. 
 
 Thy fingers twining in the wind 
 As lovers' hands with tresses play, 
 Remould thine empire in the night, 
 And bring new states to greet the day : 
 New hills — yea , mortal hills shall rise 
 To boast before the changing skies. 
 
 For though thy voice doth wail in woe, 
 The cedars dare thy heart to find, 
 And, nestling to thy barren breast, 
 The humbler shrubs still call thee kind. 
 Though bare the house and bleak the path 
 And false the hills — all is not wrath. 
 
 [4J] 
 
Chant to Dionysos 
 
 Lord of the indolent autumn, 
 
 Lord of the purple and gold, 
 
 We hail thee ! 
 
 Immortal crowned with youth of old — 
 
 Thou child of thunder and tears, 
 
 From the loom of the passionate years, 
 
 Enwoven of summers art thou, and ours 
 
 From the sea. 
 
 Lier in sunlight and lover of showers, 
 
 Master of nights when the moon is hid, 
 
 For thee our leaping pulses bid 
 
 An ecstacy ; 
 
 For thee the dappled maenads writhe 
 
 In antic frenzied mirth, and lithe 
 
 As serpents to the thyrsus clinging 
 
 While the frantic measure winging 
 
 Of mystery ; 
 
 For thee the trees that bless are sown 
 
 To yield when springtime woos, and yet — 
 
 Brides of the summer that is gone — 
 
 Bear fruits of love when winter's threat 
 
 Tears from them saffron robes of shame; 
 
 Iacchus, for thee 
 
 Apollo's flame doth smoulder in the dusk 
 
 Of grapes that clasp in turgent hearts 
 
 His thrilling light and love and musk 
 
 And melody 
 
 When the rich passion of the sun departs. 
 
 [46] 
 
A Pirate Song 
 
 The sea swings mad in the raging grip 
 Of the seething stinging gale, 
 It moans its hate with a yearning wrath 
 That bids fair cheeks go pale, — 
 But fill the bowl to its brimming top, 
 Drink ! for to-night we sail. 
 
 Ay, fill the bowl and drain the bowl, 
 
 Sing heigh for the brimming ale, 
 
 And fill and drain — again — again — 
 
 Till the smoking wassails fail, 
 
 Then hurl the bowl at the trembling host, 
 
 Drink ! for to-night we sail. 
 
 The sleet beats down like a rain of blows 
 
 On a coat of iron mail, 
 
 And faint and thin through the ringing din 
 
 Is heard the lookout's hail, 
 
 But it 's up and up with the foaming cup, 
 
 Drink ! for to-night we sail. 
 
 And it's hurl the cup at the landlord's head, 
 
 And little his threats avail 
 
 For the unpaid score, — with joyous roar 
 
 ft 's jeer at the beckoning gaol, 
 
 And it 's sing farewell through the night of hell,- 
 
 Drink ! for to-night we sail. 
 
 [47] 
 
Lyrics 
 
 I 
 
 Sweet Lady, on whose teeming shrine 
 
 The roses of my life are laid, 
 
 Shall I be sad if fate entwine 
 
 In wreaths by alien fingers made 
 
 With them the daisies of new Springs, 
 
 And passion-flowers that bloom and fade ? 
 
 For me the rose blooms slow and pale, 
 
 Of breath how deep, of mouth how small : 
 
 In richer gardens every gale 
 
 Doth bid a thousand petals fall ; 
 
 Still in my spirit rapture rings 
 
 That wreath holds rose of mine at all. 
 
 II 
 
 As the swallows on the wing 
 Flirt and wheel adown the breeze 
 That, to stir the heart of Spring, 
 Restless through the eager trees 
 Summons straying memories 
 Of the year it bids to die, — 
 Through the laughter of the Spring 
 Rings old Winter's faint Goodbye. 
 
 So adown the reaches lorn 
 Of the ages insincere 
 On the buoyant aether borne, 
 Calling potent, far and clear, 
 Through the changes of the year, 
 Ever new — and yet the same — 
 Of the sunlight golden born 
 Rings the echo of her name. 
 
 [48] 
 
Ill 
 
 I dare not touch thy hand, O Queen, 
 (Fingers have erring hearts betrayed) 
 Lest, cold, my touch might dalliance be, 
 Or trembling hot, make thee afraid. 
 
 I'm bound in chains of silence chill, 
 Fettered and bound with foolish fears, 
 I may not hope to lean on hope 
 Nor look for mercy in the years. 
 
 My crime it is to dream of thee, 
 
 (If dreams of mine disturb thy soul) 
 
 The only right I had in thee 
 
 Was one sweet glimpse — and that I stole. 
 
 IV 
 
 Purl of the sibilant waters, 
 Call of a wooing bird, 
 Clear of a bell or a sea-song, — 
 Such is the voice I heard. 
 
 Odour of intimate roses, 
 
 Echo of hurrying wind, 
 
 Loom of the star-gleaming heaven, — 
 
 Such is the woof of her mind. 
 
 Sheen of the sun o' the summer, 
 Pale of the moon i' the mist, 
 Whisper of murmuring midnight, — 
 Such are the eyes I kissed. 
 
 [49] 
 
V 
 
 I can not find in faith or love 
 Thy Lyric of the Deep, 
 Nor in the ways of trackless light 
 Where wheeling star-beams sweep, 
 Nor in the song of earth and sea 
 That toil and toiling sleep. 
 
 The silent pageants of a dream 
 
 Blare far too strong ; 
 
 To silences of midnight skies 
 
 I 've listened long — 
 
 But far more still must be the world 
 
 To hear that song. 
 
 VI 
 
 In the praise of the Queen 
 May the lyre be strung, 
 When the garlands are green 
 Her tresses among, 
 May her crown wreathe her head 
 When the choral is sung 
 And the sunset is red. 
 
 To the Queen is the pride 
 And the praise and the song, 
 When the silence is wide 
 And the heavens are long : 
 May the lyrical rune 
 'Scape the hurrying throng 
 And rejoice with the moon. 
 
 [JO] 
 
VII 
 
 Each dance we tread — 
 As a pearl it slips 
 From a broken thread ; 
 And my lady trips 
 Through the spinning maze 
 As the thistle-down 
 Through the mellow days 
 When the hills are brown ; 
 For each dance we tread 
 The night grows old, 
 For each rose that is dead 
 Let another unfold. 
 And for us the night 
 With the spangled skies, — 
 And the dancing light 
 In my lady's eyes. 
 
 [51] 
 
VIII 
 
 Heart of red in swelling breast, 
 Hair of gold o'er gleaming brow, 
 Hands the gods had fain caressed — 
 Beauty unforgotten now, — 
 Lives forever as a test 
 Of the strength of mortals' vow. 
 
 In the fire of that flare 
 Lost we our sincerity, 
 Beauty smiled to see us dare, 
 Laughed at our apostacy, — 
 Still we spurned the vital air, 
 Glad for such a dream to die. 
 
 Heart o' red and hair o' gold, 
 Hand that glimmers fair and white,— 
 Through the summer and the cold, 
 Through the reverential night, — 
 Deck the diadem of old 
 With the gems of dead delight. 
 
 [5«] 
 
IX 
 
 Faint are the lights that guide me, 
 
 Afar doth the beacon shine, 
 
 Strange crags and rills deride me, 
 
 Weird roads are mixed in mine, 
 
 But like a wraith beside me 
 
 You warp my way to thine ; 
 
 Like the vine that clings in clasping 
 
 The rugged rock-ribbed hill, 
 
 I have felt the silk of your heart-strings 
 
 Round the iron of my will. 
 
 The love of the breast that bare me 
 Hath kept your worship pure, 
 Though hapless the hopes that dare me, 
 Though terrible lips allure, 
 Though alien gods ensnare me, — 
 The lift of your song is sure ; 
 Like the floss of the silver cob- web 
 On the bars of a prison-still, 
 I have felt the silk of your heart-strings 
 Round the iron of my will. 
 
 [53] 
 
X 
 
 Princess of morning, in whose eyes 
 The glitter of the dew doth shine, 
 As when the enkindling suns that rise 
 To burn away the spider-line 
 Fill all the dawn with flamelets fine : 
 Princess, our devoir to thy state, — 
 Maid of the opening Orient Gate. 
 
 Into the grey-lit garden close, 
 
 When all the stars are dying pale, 
 
 The distant odour of his Rose — 
 
 Like far horizon-hidden sail 
 
 That trembles through the misty gale — 
 
 Creeps fervent-sweet, and wakes thy breath 
 
 Under the fickle kiss of Death. 
 
 The rose hath ope'd ; along the sky 
 Its flame hath leapt, and banners are 
 The dark hung arras that on high 
 Sheltered the last defiant star 
 Before thy love went forth to war : 
 Ah, maid, he comes ; what fragrant fire 
 Canst thou oppose to his desire ? 
 
 Princess, the kiss that on thy mouth 
 The lips of Death have lightly laid 
 When in the twilight of the South 
 Thou wert not ashamed, nor he afraid, — 
 Forget that kiss (who hath not strayed? ) 
 Thy glowing hair, thine eyes of light 
 Are spoils for him who conquers Night. 
 
 [54] 
 
A Ballade of Friendship 
 
 When smiles deny thy inner woe 
 Or grief is hid in calm disdain, 
 Have I the right to learn to know 
 The secret of the inner fane ? 
 If laughing lips the heart distrain, 
 Am I so far from human kin, 
 Unworthy of the trust of pain? — 
 Open thy heart and let me in. 
 
 Or when the joy of June doth flow, 
 And tangled pleasures swift enchain, 
 When summer winds unbidden blow 
 The gladness of the summer rain ; 
 When through each full and fervent vein 
 The pulse of life is strong to win, 
 When in thy kingdom mirth doth reign,— 
 Open thy heart and let me in. 
 
 Give me to share the chill and glow, 
 Give me to feel both spur and rein, 
 Teach me to conquer and forego, 
 Teach me to clasp and to refrain ; 
 Nor, trusting, be thy trust in vain — 
 The key to that dear store within 
 I hold with fingers unprofane — 
 Open thy heart and let me in. 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Friend, though we twain may never know 
 When joy must end and pain begin, 
 By interlacing ways we go — 
 Open thy heart and let me in. 
 
 TO H. F. B. 
 
A Ballade of Dead Kingdoms 
 
 Troy stood, a sceptre in her mighty hand, 
 Beside the dark iEgean's darker blue, 
 And in her streets the Grecians' dread demand 
 The very turrets recognized and knew, — 
 The streets wherein triumphant Trojans slew 
 Are quiet now in never-broken shade, 
 Their light is dying to a sullen hue, — 
 The pictures of the ages flare and fade. 
 
 The pomps of empires builded on the sand 
 Of fickle fate, have died as was their due, 
 The eagles' shrilling o'er the Gallic land 
 Is silent now that once the Romans knew ; 
 The lust of proud dominion proved untrue 
 And by her greatness was the Great betrayed, 
 And Rome became a fading image, too, — 
 The pictures of the ages flare and fade. 
 
 So satrapies and kingdoms rise and stand 
 
 And fall as there have fallen all their crew 
 
 Of fellow-monarchies on every hand ; 
 
 How will it be the ages through and through ? 
 
 How in the future will the Furies do 
 
 If thus Democracy be not obeyed? 
 
 All kings must fall before the stern review, — 
 
 The pictures of the ages flare and fade. 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Take then thy monarchies and pomps, thou Shrew 
 That men call Fame — and curse the jilting jade ; 
 Let me bide here, while in the night with you 
 The pictures of the ages flare and fade. 
 
 TO W. R. 
 
 [J6] 
 
A Ballade of Childhood 
 
 As children love each other, hate, and turn 
 Their fickle faces near — and then away — 
 As they unite and separate, and yearn 
 For coming of the new unhappy day 
 Whereon the child must leave the glad array 
 Of youth for that dread rolling of the spheres, — 
 So do they find in life's unceasing fray 
 Their love and grief, their merriment and tears. 
 
 With all the pain of youth old age may burn, 
 Old faiths may waver and old sins may slay, 
 The wraiths of former happiness return 
 To mock at us and laugh at our dismay, — 
 The pleasures of the Present may not weigh 
 Against the Past's triumphant storm of jeers, 
 And to their graves those hours shall bear away 
 Their love and grief, their merriment and tears. 
 
 We are but children, so we do not learn 
 When we should curse and when we ought to pray, 
 When to embrace and better, when to spurn 
 A hope that might our blinded souls betray ; 
 ' T were wiser if as children we should stay 
 With all the royalty of childhood's peers, 
 And live and love with them, and know as they 
 Their love and grief, their merriment and tears. 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Ah, lord of childhood's merry disarray 
 And all the trappings that thy youth endears, 
 Teach me the secret of the children's play, 
 Their love and grief, their merriment and tears. 
 
 TO G. M. MCC. 
 
 [57] 
 
A Ballade of Old Fancies 
 
 The mists of night that hang above the Sea, 
 The thrill of yearning in the dying hymn, 
 The storied secrets of antiquity 
 That lurk within that sepulchre so dim, 
 The gloom that shrouds the fallen seraphim, 
 The lilt of triumph that the victor sung, — 
 The legends of the years are plain to him 
 Who stores old fancies in a heart that's young. 
 
 The racing seasons leave a legacy 
 Of lights that flicker and of eyes that dim, — 
 The Past hath lost itself, in courtesy, 
 And left the Future's fingers free to limn 
 His Fancy's likeness on the carven rim 
 Wherefrom the draught of Lethe bathes the 
 
 tongue, — 
 One image lives impregnable for him 
 Who stores old fancies in a heart that 's young. 
 
 A treasure Time has guarded jealously, 
 
 An Image, beautiful, elusive, slim, 
 
 A marvel of unearthly witchery, — 
 
 Fair as a faery and as light of limb 
 
 As they who danced by phantom river's brim,- 
 
 By such remembrance in his spirit wrung 
 
 A wraith from Long Ago is loved of him 
 
 Who stores old fancies in a heart that 's young. 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Dear Lady, I your shrine with garlands trim, 
 Where should the spoils of emperors be hung,- 
 Be thou my Image ; let me stand for him 
 Who stores old fancies in a heart that 's young. 
 
 TO C. G. B. 
 
 [58] 
 
The Ballade of the Buccaneer 
 
 Long live the King. The King is dead — 
 He who had sworn to rule for aye 
 Where I swear now to reign instead 
 O'er hearts that hate and hands that slay- 
 Hearts that hate as hot as they ; 
 Hark to my blooded sea-dogs sing : 
 (For fallen lord, small care have they) 
 " The King is dead ; long live the King. " 
 
 Beneath his keel the waves were red 
 
 From tropic tide to Baltic bay, 
 
 Voices of vengeance on his head, 
 
 In dying gasps from lips of grey, 
 
 Livened the langour of his way ; 
 
 If those dead souls do know this thing 
 
 Chuckle they not to hear men say : 
 
 " The King is dead : long live the King ? " 
 
 The fame he wooed, my name shall wed, 
 A world shall bow beneath my sway, 
 For every crimson drop he shed 
 Ten drops shall I, from out this day 
 When first, in battle-scarred array, 
 I heard my blooded sea-dogs sing, 
 Standing above him where he lay : 
 " The King is dead ; long live the King." 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Dead foe, yours is the wisest way, 
 For Time to me this hour must bring 
 When, dying, I shall hear them say : 
 " The King is dead ; long live the King. " 
 
 TO F. B. R. 
 
 [59] 
 
Ballade of The Garret 
 
 Abode of ghosts and penury, 
 
 This house of dark and winding stairs ; 
 
 A room as bare as misery — 
 
 A home for him who dreams and dares — 
 
 Where through the chinks the frosty airs 
 
 Sweep eagerly the unswept floor, 
 
 And Dearth commands a troop of cares 
 
 To guard the else unguarded door. 
 
 A dreamer's home, its mystery 
 His pain hath known, and his despairs, 
 A shrine of pride whose votary 
 Defiant kneels before his Lares ; 
 For faithless hope and hopeless prayers 
 To gods that other men forswore ; 
 A warning sign for him who fares — 
 To guard the else unguarded door. 
 
 A temple with a living key 
 To which the suppliant genius bears 
 A song, a flame, an ecstacy, 
 A soul wherein Apollo shares ; 
 The shrine we pass all unawares 
 Our children's children shall adore, 
 And glory the dead poet wears 
 Shall guard the else unguarded door. 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Muse, when thy sacred hearth-light flares 
 And when thy lovers sing their lore, 
 Forget not humbler poets' prayers, 
 And guard the else unguarded door. 
 
 TO H. I. S. 
 
 [60] 
 
A Ballade of Echoes 
 
 Perchance the ring of spurs that glitter blue, 
 Perchance the clarion that riots free 
 For gleaming battle-axe and bended yew, 
 Or else the bray of bugles on the lea, 
 The lover-song of warring chivalry, — 
 The leaping loves of helmets and of spears, 
 And echoes of an ancient minstrelsy 
 May sound in all the silence of the years. 
 
 Perchance we all of us have chosen, too, 
 Some well-loved lyric wherein He or She 
 Shall sing to us as they our spirits woo 
 Though they themselves are done with tragedy ,- 
 Perchance these relics of departed glee 
 May ease remembrance of forgotten tears, 
 A voice we loved by land or sky or sea 
 May sound in all the silence of the years. 
 
 Or else, perhaps, a lay that once we knew, 
 A fleeting sparkle of dull Memory, 
 A tale of deeds our pulses leapt to do, 
 A lift of lands our eyes have strained to see, — 
 A wraith of former Singing-yet-to-be 
 May find a place within our future ears 
 And living phantoms of dead melody 
 May sound in all the silence of the years. 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Ah, minstrel, weave us then a melody 
 Wherein no fickle Ghost of Time appears 
 Where songs forgotten, with the songs to be, 
 May sound in all the silence of the years. 
 
 to f. w. A. 
 
 [6.] 
 
A Ballade of Ping-Pong 
 
 She wears a rose-bud in her hair 
 
 To mock me as it tosses free, 
 
 Were I more wise or she less fair 
 
 I know that I should never be 
 
 A victim to such witchery, 
 
 For at her wiles and lovely arts 
 
 I 'm forced to laugh with her, while she 
 
 Plays ping-pong with my heart of hearts. 
 
 The play 's the thing: I wonder where 
 
 What courtier with what courtesy 
 
 First played it with what lady fair 
 
 To music of what minstrelsy ? — 
 
 I wonder, did he seem to see 
 
 Such eyes, wherein a sun-beam starts, 
 
 And did he love (as I) while she 
 
 Played ping-pong with his heart of hearts? 
 
 For battledore they called it, there 
 
 In courts of gilded gallantry, 
 
 No lover ever lived to dare 
 
 To doubt its airy potency, 
 
 But now that all the majesty 
 
 Of those dead emperors departs, 
 
 I dream that she, in memory, 
 
 Plays ping-pong with my heart of hearts. 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Ah, maiden, I must sail a sea 
 Whereof there are no maps or charts ; 
 Wilt thou sail too, and there with me 
 Play ping-pong with my heart of hearts ? 
 
 to w. R. R. 
 
 [6«] 
 
The Ballade of Unwritten Tales 
 
 Sweet, when we count the tales we love, and say,- 
 These are the poets' dearest, these we hold 
 Our richest relics of Romance's day, 
 Our golden fragments from a past of gold — 
 Forget not, Sweet, the hearts that now are cold, 
 Whose ancient passions burned alert and strong, 
 The hearts that now the mists of time enfold, 
 The loves that ne'er were woven into song. 
 
 Before us glides the pageant's deep array 
 
 Of luring Beauty in her wonder stoled, 
 
 Of battle bright and clashing dark affray, 
 
 Of lovers pale that in the night are bold, 
 
 Of vows and deaths and crowns and glories old, 
 
 Of faith betrayed, and choice foredoomed to 
 
 wrong — 
 Yet statelier pageants lie beneath the mold : 
 The tales that ne'er were woven into song. 
 
 How few we follow in Romance's way ; 
 How many to Oblivion were sold 
 That in as noble paths had learned to stray, 
 That lived as free in castle, cot, or wold, — 
 As rich in strife, as daring to uphold 
 Defenceless honour : what a goodly throng 
 Have dreamed and loved and died, with lives un- 
 told: 
 The dreams that ne'er were woven into song. 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Sweet, let me make for thee some antic lay 
 That in the silent night hath lain too long — 
 Full of warm kisses and of foes to slay : 
 A tale that ne'er was woven into song. 
 
 TO L. M. 
 
 [63] 
 
Here ends The Morning Road, as written by 
 Thomas Wood Stevens and Alden Charles Noble. 
 Of this edition two hundred copies on paper and 
 fifteen on Japan vellum have been printed at the 
 Blue Sky Press, 4732 Kenwood Avenue, Chicago, 
 during the month of November, 1902 ; this being 
 
 number -* 
 
 
 [64] 
 
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 'MRT 
 BOOKBINDING 
 
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