nd Qicxin ss^m. s^o*"«^ STAFF AND SCRIP By M. J. Thomas Wayside flowers, or weeds — It is which you will, But an occasional crimson bleeds And purple still Mantles sometimes, as the long way leads Over the hill — 'I? ^i COPYRIGHT 1919 BY M. J. THOMAS m 22 1919 ©CI.A559.ll THE FOUR CITIES. (Erse) Know ye of the Four Cities Built in the world that was? Passions nor pains nor pities The buried o-ates pass, Nor beheld of mortals The place of fallen portals — But the soul knows it was. One city was Gorias And it lay east, And another was Marias With the old world sunk in the west, And south lay G alias And to the north Falias, It hath been guessed. Of the east city It is not a spoken word. But an old world windborn ditty That saith the sign is a sword — The sword dividing — What saith the song windriding Ye have heard. Also the city south Had a sign of fear, It is in the Sirocco's mouth, Even a spear — And as the sv/ord of Gorias So did the spear of Galias Flash far and near. And of Falias, north, The wind from the ice floes saith To his sign of worth He hath the stone of death — A circle of spent fire, For a sign to desire. The north wind saith. But of Marias, sunken West into ancient night Lips long shrunken To the naught of the old world's blight Have said for us who follow His sign is a hollow Filled with waste waters and facing light. Where the wild seas have cloven A barren and bitter shore Was the old world fancy woven Of the Fallen Cities Four — On what drear heather, In what doubtful weather Built of the fathers who have gone before- FROM AEAEA. — And at the last leavetaking Hath Circe stayed the oar, And said ye may be making I wis not what lost shore; But ship this sheep that whither Blind winds soe'er drive, thither When ye be come, together Ye wear through one day more. And driven o'er the gangway The sheep bleats uncontent. Nor we, who take the long way Wis more wiiat Circe meant; And so we left behind us That isle whereof we mind us Till faster fetters find us To wearier burdens bent. Swift on the ship was driven What weary weeks to west, Blind morn and blinder even Bleak bitter blasts oppressed, Till hope of haven failing We wist not of our sailing, Nor 'gainst the winds prevailing Desired aught but rest. But lo, a land lowlying Mirklost in mist and night That moon and stars denying Lent not their little light, Nor sun meseemeth ever Was mighty there to sever The pall of cloud that never Abated of its blight. And through the breakers, curling Lean lips with hollow roar, We ran the ship and furling The sere sail urged the oar. And inshore from the shingle W^here mist and bleak moor mingle We digged a trench and single I slew the sheep on shore. Then 'round the trench came thronging The tribes of them outworn, — I deemed not of life's longing So many might be born — Old men of many and evil Days came to cark and cavil, And came they here in travail Whose life days made none mourn; Young men and maids unmarried. And mothers, babe at breast, Strong men war's strokes that parried, And weaklings peace-opprest, Around the trench came thronging In witness of life's longing Whom nathless all her wronging Death seemeth more unblest. For them now darkness covers And mist from moor and mere, These know the fear that hovers Where bodes no further fear, Where wan winds on the river And pallid aspens quiver And even dead men shiver To know the end is here. Howbeit where bleak meadows Are white with asphodel. And unavailing shadows The hollows haunt of Hell, O'er strengthless heads will hover Dead dreams of love and lover And troublous sleep discover What waking was not well. And aye the worm is waking That gnawed the heart of life With making and unmaking, And toil that takes to wife And liveth but in seeming To learn desire is dreaming And little light is gleaming Beyond this lampless strife. But lo, what pale queen cometh! And so before her fear Not hunted hare that hometh" Fleets fast as these that here Know her and not another. The sister of that other Whose blind embraces smother And quick caresses sear. With her is no remission Of sins that have been sinned, Nor maketh she division Of what hath blown the wind, Blind ustoward that bloweth, But whence is none that knoweth. Nor what beyond there gToweth Where all but thorn is thinned. But out of the weak weather And from the strengthless, lo Where o'er the doubtful heather Flits one of them that know, And to the dark trench bending He drank, and of our wending Hath told us, and the ending Of ways will somewhat show. So shoreward through the shimmer Of shadowy light we turned, To where with fitful glimmer Anon the ship lights burned, But in most mist of sorrow Than lent of any morrow Life now hath left to borrow, Or hath aforetime learned. And as from the sheer shingle We shoved to sea, the moan Of many seemeth mingle With what the waves intone To us of our returning. Our weary souls discerning Not sorrow, not our yearning Help here, but oars alone. A SHIPMAN OF SIDON. In the wake of a lost galley That sailed the outer seas, Over watery hill and valley, Past the gates of Hercules — I followed the Tyrian traders I moored in a Baltic Bay, I was Captain of the invaders Who bore the amber away I launched with Autumn paven Of leaves, and birds awing — We were afar from haven And many moons till spring — I beached in Gades' harbor, I heard an hymnal rolled To the Goddess they enarbor As a dragon scaled with gold — I saw her women leaning Along the temple groves And strangers overweening Buying the unclean loves. With silver out of Accad, And scarab gold of Khem, Nor bronze of Babel lacked The broidered belts of them — And in the incense swooning And savor of subtle flowers The heady scents attuning, I lost count of the hours — Before her veil enwoven, Gold warp and silver woof, I hissed with tongues acloven. Under a brazen roof. Her pontiffs purple-mitred I ringed with amber rings. As a merchant-ship is lightered For freight of costlier things — Till in mine own good season I launched and moored at the quay- They marveled at mine unreason, Tempting a winter sea — By night I slipt the cable, — With a wondrous veil of gold A spoil on the cabin table — And a Punic Captain cold — And in the temple acre A spent score of his spears — And who the impious taker? — And what the spoiler's fears? For I saw their beacons burning Headland to headland ashore — I trembled for our returning And ever I urged the oar — In green gulfs I saw glitter The gold of the Water Snake, And the scales of his armor litter The wash of the galley's wake — Was it the Dragon — Goddess Come for the loot of the veil, — ? For as from a woman's bodice The slope of the threshing tail — Fire flickered at the masthead, But I held the helm to the course- And ye wot if whips were wasted On the backs of them at the oars.— Till where the seaways widen The phare on the outer mole And the pleasant city of Sidon, The city of my soul — THE BELLS OF YS. (Breton Legend.) Out past the tossing- buoys, As trawlers tell. Oft in the wind's voice The sound of a sunken bell; And in the trawler's net A toy, an amulet, Wrought when the wise say not, bears witness with the bell. Was there a city here? The fisher-folk are sure — A city builded fair. As to endure; Is there no song thereof? Are not the bells enough? Does not the sea-wrought gold make doubly sure? And of it dreaming. Here by the seashore — Maybe it is more than seeming, The city that is no more; A seawhelmed city, Too far from us for pity. Haply the waves are plaining alongshore. — It may be, mighty seamen, Come out of Gades here, Bringing their women, Builded a city here — Or by the seaway Back from a Baltic bay. Once Tyrian amber traders beached and builded here. Cast up here on the strand — Or it may be — Some banished band A-weary of the sea, Seeking against the west A place of rest Builded a city here, fronting the v/ild sea — Did Greybeard Diniids come To watch the building? — Vv^an as the waste sea-foam A weak sun gilding Wold and increasing wall? Only the curlews call — Only oblivious eld builders and builded shielding — Did the grave Druids bring Their daughters then? — The bridal ring Binding to stranger men? — What is it answereth The voice of death? For none that then were here will lift up voice again. Unto what heaven then Reared they an altar here? — For alway men Some heaven hold in fear — And with what office Made they the sacrifice? Was it of wine or blood the gods were thirsty here? On what night of fear With what weakening of knees, Went down the seawall here — Roared on the seas ? Not even in dreaming A little light is gleaming — Some little light of dreams, linking the centuries — Out past the tossing buoys — A tolling bell, Heard on the wind's voice — Is it a city's knell? Were there no more than this By way of witness — Dreams have endured on less, of heaven and of hell- BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST. Lo, such a banquet chamber as the stars Must lamp, because the roof is heaven's roof, And Babel-walls whereon in painted wars, Be armies marching to the battle proof, And from the bronze gates to Belshazzer's seat. By thronging thousands, to and froward feet — And brazen pillars that as torches lend Flamboyance to the lamping of the stars. And turbaned cupbearers untold, that bend And pour, for now the captains of his wars Belshazzer feasts, and with them at the board's Long georgeousness, a thousand of his lords — The King's cupbearer tasted of the wine And v/ith obeisance handed to the king, Who in loud voice: "Another cup is mine — Let them the vessels of the temple bring — " And some that heard have trembled hearing it — But who is wise against a king's unwit? They brought the massy cups of beaten gold — An hundred brawny bondsmen of the King Bore to the groaning board the manifold Treasure that was of the drink offering — Belshazzer pledged his captains and his lords Who quaff with shouts and lifting up of swords — What is it maketh countenances pale. And knees weak under gem-engirdled coats — And hearts but now puffed up with pride to fail — As shipmen tremble upon sinking boats What is yon fiery finger on the wall Inditing of, if not a Kingdom's fall? "Bring the Chaldeans — let the soothsayers Interpret now the writing" — but the King Might not, for all his power, by threats or prayers Have the interpretation of the thing And troubled in his soul Belshazzer broods Nor hungry is his pride now, nor of foods Now also have the queens and concubines Sipped of the fragrance in the golden cups, Savour of old and very costly wines. Such as beseemeth when an Emperor sups. And from the women now hath come a word That seemed the King of wisdom when he heard — It is of that dissolver of the doubts Of dreams, who stood once as before the King, And him they send for and have brought with shouts "Room for the prophet", and with sharom playing — And all they harken him with bated breath As thus that prophet now interpreth: "Weighed in the balance and found wanting" — and "Thy Kingdom to the Medes and Persians" so (It is he saith) hath writ the fiery hand, And with obeisance to the King would go — But yet Belshazzer held him for a space. And in that now well night deserted place — And said to some that stay: "A chain of gold Now bring, and let this prophet wear, and stand My counsellor before me, till is told The end of all this — and be no man's hand Lifted against him for his soothsaying — It is Belshazzer saith it, who is King — " Howbeit, even as he interpreteth, And in that very hour, it came to pass — Babylon is become a place of death. And Cyrus sitteth where Belshazzar was Drunken with such a blasphemous pride as none Hath known before, no, not in Babylon — BERENICE. Thou seemest not of any day Of ours, or any hour or year, But always of some faraway And aeon-sunken hemisphere — Some continent the whelming sea To lost Atlantis gathered in, Before of continents that be The little histories begin. Thine eyes have looked on Titan wars, Unblinking at the red and bronze Of helmets lifted to the stars And breastplates blazoned with the suns; Thou knowest, in nostalgic noons Of unimagined temple groves — And timbrels beneath burning moons — And Atlantean loves — MY HOTEL. From the midnight street To my hotel Where the players meet In vaudeville — Nancy and baggage Late o' nights Till the curtain drops And out the lights — Pitiful players As they may Wearing the motley In a cheap play — By quips and capers Trying to keep The pot aboiling — And when they'd weep Though the fool's fond heart Be like to break — What are hearts for If not to ache? And after the play In my hotel If they do forget The prompter — well, A bite, a bottle Perhaps a bout With the soubrette — And the lights are out — Suppose the world Were my hotel, Would not the fable Fit as well? BETWEEN QUADRILLES. SCENE: The State Ball; later, Paris and the Alps. DRAMATIS PERSONAE: Monsieur, who narrates; a friend of Monsieur; The Colonel; Madame. The orchestra a moment cease That torture of the throbbing strings, The muted violins release Low laujvhs and lovers' whisperings; As epaulets and gowns go by, The comedy of Mais and Love A philosophic friend and I Consider in a cool alcove. My friend is saying: "In the Alps With Hannibal, the Punic rear Refused to march — a score of scalps Iberian, branded 'Mutineer' — A bagatelle, but for the shaft That pierced a woman's litter — one Among the Lesbians, following oft On Captain Love, from sun to sun. She bled, and in the Alpine cold They could not staunch the bleeding, but A squad of Libyans was told To bear the woman to a hut. The elephants go lurching on — Night and the enemy are nigh — The Libyans murmur: 'She is one, And must a cohort stand and die?' — Tenderly, for her face was fair, A bronzed Centurian cast his cloak Over the Lesbian fainting there, Intending leaving till awoke To life or death the woman, but He could not go — his company Pressed on — he lingered in the hut Bended above her — silently — " "But written in what chronicle? — " I asked my friend — "Will Monsieur v/ait?" — And Monsieur waits till someone tell The tale he's promised, soon or late — Marking meanwhile the cadences In Madame's voice, as of that song — A Sapphic stress of melodies — A poignant sweetness — overstrong — *'But Monsieur must meet her" — and Madame is lifting — but such eyes! — Dreamful of what exotic land — What esoteric ministries? Mirrors of amber, such as lay In Baltic seabeds, till in Tyre A wonder of the far-away, It braceleted a Queen's desire. A seeming-solitary man, With trap-like lips and iron-grey hair, And bronzed as by an Afric sun, Approached and bent o'er Madame's chair- Why must I wonder if the link Of love or friendship bound the twain? And what was there to make me think Of an indissoluble chain? "But, Monsieur — the Colonel" — who Bowed me a rather formal bow. And talked, as chance acquaintance do. Of nothing I remember now, But with a certain oddity — Some verbal eccentricities, Such as for Black, the Pontic Sea, And for Crimea, Chersonese. A very solitary man — And yet I knew him, in the end. As but the sympathetic can Appreciate the closest friend; As moulded by the antique law, He seemed — that of the tiger's tooth; And told me, as of things he saw, V/ithout a shudder at the truth. We talked of Flaubert's novel once, The horror of the crucified Lions, and seeming for the nonce At home as seldom in the tide Of present things, the Colonel then Engaged me for an Alpine tramp, And promised me a shudder, when We suppered in Hasdrubal's camp. 'T was on that tramp he said: "And here, The Libyan ranks two-deep a-march, There was a tumult, as the rear Swung yonder, round a lonely larch — The twanging of a bow-string, and A woman wounded — it is all — " A gesture of the Colonel's hand — And Monsieur back there at the ball And Madame? — But the strings at fret Throb on, as when there at the ball Her eyes met mine — and even yet I can't quite comprehend it all — By what compulsion must I think Of an indissoluable chain? — And isn't there somewhere a link I've missed, that might have made it plain? Suppose, for instance, Madame, (but Such eyes! — far be the thought from me!) Suggests the Lesbian in the hut, As per the new psychology, — Then played upon the oddities I've noted in him, till her tool God knows in what chicaneries. The old blade plays Miladi's fool — It's certain of their circle, some Had heard — perhaps believed, the tale, That otherwise could hardly come With me to make most others pale; — And it was Paris in the days Before the boulevards were blue — Par excellence, the time and pjace For marketing les beaux yeux. THE POEMS OF PAI TA-SHUN. Pictures of visions painted in a dream Of far off cities under a strange sun, In centuries forgotten — such the theme And vision in the verse of Pai Ta-Shun — And colors as of undiscovered skies A splendor in our unexpectant eyes. — The wild geese winging from the Chinese wall To the Siberian tundra — to the fens Where peacock cranes by Brahmapootra call In raucous salutation of their hens — So many languages love learns to use — So many stars the wanderers may choose — And golden dragons, sprawling in the fret Of fabulous embroidery on silk. Red as the camel's manes in yonder gate, Of ivory as Manchurian mares' milk — The gate how many leathern-harnessed hordes Have passed, as Pekin changed her Tartar lords — Over a river springs a humpbacked span, On either bank the cultivated tea — And by that bridge, almost since man was man, Has youth adventured on discovery — The flowering tea — fond parents — and the rest Forsaken for the sempiternal quest — Does the return this faded print portray? — A starveling parrot, with bedraggled plume Beating at beauty's lattice — on a day That beauty opening lets in her room — And marking the fed fowl his plumage preen, Weeps her lost lover's spirit fleshed therein It is a subtle argument, that souls Are clad and clothed again in forms of flesh — Earth and all earth's of heaven and hell the goals After each agony has loosed the leash — A dream — but here the interpretation says Love is eternal as the length of days: "Where golden dragon barges block the stream The quays are crowded with heaped chests of tea ; The mandarins in their silks, as in a dream. Sit at the customs, taking toll of me — My dragon barge tomorrow drives down stream, My farbrought treasure to a bower I dream.— From Thibet, where the temple tiles outsold The golden sun, this jade for her, and this Tiara from a monastery, so old. There Buddha's footprint pilgrims kneel to kiss— And from Nepaul this sublescented scroll, The aroma in the parchment of a soul" — Did the farwandering merchant's sampan sail Bring to the waiting wife in Kinsay all This treasure inventoried? Of what avail To ask it? Who among us may recall The glory of visions that once paved with gold Courts that seem sordid since our eyes are old— THE CEMETERY OF THE WOMEN OF HATHOR. Recently found in Egypt. Within the temple precincts, but apart, In life as they here sepulchred, it lies — A place of skulls after the delver's heart In the debris of buried centuries — Trinkets and piteous bits of plaited hair Fashioning- forth the flesh these women were Enter the forecourt, pass the colonnade. And lo the chambers of their service ranged, Each in her niche of sanctuaried shade Immutably from worship unestranged Of Her, who with the right hand brings to breath And with the left delivers unto death. A^nd in the forecourt, out of every land Between the rising and the setting sun With heavy purses Hathor's votaries stand Waiting the woman he hath lusted on — And in the colonnades the cups of wine Her acolytes with amaranth entwine — The silver sistrum's subtly-fingered strings — And lithe brown bodies rythmically sway — Braceletted arms and ankles rich with rings — Estatic frenzy dancing cut her day — And pallor, painted with a hectic bloom, And past the court an untenanted room — And they were young whose pitiable skulls Are tumbled here, as proves the abundant hair — And when, for ornaments of gold and jewels, Was this kind merchandised which was not fair — ? And surely, for so much of coffined gold More than the body's grace these women sold, So that the silver sistrums not for long Provoked desire in devoted hands, Nor on their fervid lips lascivious song Brought Hathor treasure out of many lands — Their fleeting day a fever, and the night Of these deluded — but let God do right — ! Because beyond this she had naught to give — Because she loved — Osiris, or by whom Be judgment rendered — let the woman live! Open before Thy servant's feet the tomb — Do Thou accept her, decked as women be, She doubted not, acceptable to Thee. THE TOMB OF NAKHT. **Come, every one that liveth upon earth, Come, I will show you of my way of life, I will bear witness to you of rewards; Come, ye shall judge me in my death and birth, I, Prince and Priest of Am.on — now the shards Are shattered, if the vessel was of worth — '* So Nakht, the Priest of Amon, on his tomb — So on the walls thereof, as who desires Old age, interment and meet obsequies; Sated with life, as one content with doom, ''Enter" he says, "Where Nakht by Tawi lies, Wed in our lives, together in the tomb, — "Enter, and see" — the silver sistrums, keyed In Amon's house, as Pharaoh's heart might throb — And of the temple choir a woman sings — And strings so subtly fingered, as a reed Sore shaken, in the voice of Nakht a sob — On that day when the God spake Nakht indeed — Sphinxes inscrutable — an avenue. Wide truncate palace portals, all aglow With blue and red and brown and green and chrome- And Nakht, the serving Priest, has paid the due Of universal life, as Amon spake, With Tawi's voice, "Take the Choirwoman home" — And hunting birds, and banquets, as a Prince And Princess live — but pass these pictures by — Consider now the Banquet of the Dead — A board, but meats are not in evidence — And many guests and mutes with muffled head — And a blind harper — but let us go hence. AT THE END OF WAYS. And now at last our pilgrim song is ended, A ballad burden, broken here and there By moanings for what never may be mended, And earthly sighs for something heavenlier — And all things whereof saith the song are one Under the shining of an altered sun. Let us consider of the pilgrim's way, A moment's space, or ere the scroll be sealed, What suns were lampads of a doubtful day, And in the light thereof what things revealed, As past old Hellas, dov/n by Babylon, And back by Tyre, his weary steps wore on — Yea, weary, — for betimes the pilgrim shoon Were iron on his feet, by Allemaine As out of France he came, a cup and spoon His girdle weight, and hard to fill again — And very weary, as not of his age, The spirit was that went on pilgrimage. Albeit his craft, learned of the Troubadour, Awhile he loved, for that half -heathen lay; And sometimes, passing on by some obscure Pine arbored place, the vision of a fay; And once that Lady of the Hollow Hill, Strange and transfoi*med, howbeit beauteous still. But by no marching music led to Rome, Not long the city by the Tiber held. And but a little while the silver foam, No longer nereid-breasted as of eld, And thenceward on unto the sepulchre Of a dead Christ, the way was wearier. Strange company the pilgrim oft would meet — A brother pilgrim, sore asick at soul; Another, always sighing for the fleet Far Apriltide, as in continual dole — And some, who of the treasure house of Kings Were guardians, and told him wondrous things. None knoweth of them but the quaX^ering scribes Inditing thereof in forgotten script — Lost in the lumber room of nameless tribes. Of dateless centuries, nor ever lipt. Save as by chance sometimes, as saith the song, Lest to the dead be done undying wrong. Also the pilgrim hath his wrestlings With his own soul, as downward slopes the way Unto that eld which hath no wakenings Save out of night into a darker day A little of these troublous things he saith — And would not that too much it wearieth. And since all men love most a lightsome song,, (As men will whistle in a haunted room) Ail we to muffled drums who march along — The way, or broad or strait, until the tomb, So as the pilgrim might forget, hath he Attuned the strings to lighter minstrelsy It is all over now — our song is sung — There will be no more touching of the strings— This singing craft is only for the young With unspoiled outlook upon piteous things And if an elder art be moved to sing The cup is bitter of a poisoned spring. A BALLAD OF TYNESIDE. (Old Scots). 1. Sae lang- the laird bides owersea Wha' rides for France by Rhine, His ain men noo are thinkin' he Will ride nae mair by Tyne. The Master \vi' his eyes o' blue (Oh his dead mither's eyne!) — The bonny bairn's his ain law noo In a' the lands by Tyne. The burn wins laughin' doon the brae And singiii' into Tyne — The Master wins doon his way And singin' ower the wine. But aye sae bonny there's nae flower But laughs up i' his eyne, Ridin* sae brave frae bower to bower Wi' loose rein beside Tyne. 2. There's glamour i' the glint o' gold And blinkin' ower the wine — And a man's bought, and a maid's sold Beside the brig o* Tyne. 'Tis Maisie's lured by the yellow sheen (Oh Maisie's laughin' eyne!) Sae the Master's flauntin' a merry quean And a mither's sad by Tyne. But the Master sniffs fu' mony a flower (Mony ha' rued it sine) There's Marjorie i' Maisie's bower, And ither tears by Tyne. Sae the Master flaunts his feres among As youth before and sine, While the blood's hot", and the bairn's young, And siller beside Tyne. o O. Wha's this sae grim rides up the brae And ower the brig o' Tyne? There's nae mair laughin' lood the day Ower the auld laird's wine! There's nae mair flout o' pimp and bawd Wha wrangle i' the wine, But silent halls that rang sae lood Wi' riot beside Tyne. 4. The auld laird's sittin' dour at hame Stintin' himsei' the wine; The Master's hidin' frae his shame Ower the windy brine. Wha dreams he's ridin' up the brae And ower the brig o' Tyne The blue bells laughin' i' the May Up into his blear eyne. And harkenin' the bright burn sing Itsel' doon into Tyne He's wakened up to nae sic thing As was sae sweet lang sine. But quaffs his tears and craves the husks Wha revelled beside Tyne, Dreamin' o' civets and o' musks And reekin' o' the swine. 5. But it's nae that, nor the siller spent Maun greet the while his eyne, But wi' it a' the rest that went, And v/ilna' back by Tyne. THE PRODIGAL, (Old Scots) Salt wi' my tears the cup I'm quaffin' Noo the lassies yon ha' gript my gold; Where will ye ken they're warm and laughin', And I sae cauld! Well wi' ye is it, painted harlots, Scented sae swift wi' a' your musks! But it's ill wi' us wha paid your scarlets And crave the husks. I wa'd win hame to my faither, sayin', Sae is my sin sair i' thy sight, I am unworthy noo the stayin' Wi* thee the nicht. But do thou, oh my faither, mak* me Thy least o' kerns that serve for hire — My faither, for thy servant tak' me, To light thy fire — I am sae cauld! it's wind and idled — How should I stand up i' that place Wi' the brand o' lusts I couldna' bridle Upon my face? How should my faither's house abide me, Reekin' sae foul o' the pens o' swine? My faither, maun mine ain sel* hide me Frae sight o* thine! I wa'd win hame! — wha'se ain dead mither Mightna' abide her ain son noo — Wi' taint o' rot when roses wither Wha' sheds the dew? I wa'd win hame! — Wha till Hell's frozen Maun here abide and waste and yearn — Wi' us wha wend the .way we've chosen There's nae return — *Tm rather tired of it^'- From a letter of General Funston, U. S. A. Dead in command on the Mexican border, February, 1917. "I'm tired" — who wouldn't be Tired of it! — The little wit — The mere futility — The young blood mounting hot, Seems we can do it — We all come to it — And it matters not — We die — And that we planned, The rythm scanned, Rings faultily — We are such stuff As dreams are made of — The vision thereof Enough — WHAT DREAMS MAY COME. 1. What dreams may come ! for I've indulged In dreams, more than I would confess — The budget would seem overbulged Were I the tale entire to dress — But there are two or three the years Have relegated to the heap That is compact of hopes and fears We laugh at when we cease to weep — 2. And first — but everyone believes His dream of love unique, and this Prompts me to merely say it grieves My self love yet, I craved a kiss That was denied — and in the end The lover didn't pine away — He's here, my sentimental friend, Ten stone upon the stage today — 3. And then I thought that such a mind As mine, must win to mastery — I nested golden eggs, to find Whose chicklets now, don't ask of me My strength I measured with the strength Of them that hold the lists, and found (I'm glad I found it out at length) We're certain of six feet of ground — 4. So much estate the market place Refuses none — and it is all That usually rewards the race Insensate, where so many fall — Mad Argonauts, in idle quest For what the world can but deny — Adventurers, of whom the best Win only when about to die. 5. Another dream I nursed whilom, — I thought in letters or in art Their haven is whose .spirit's home, If that they find it, lies apart From where men gather and the crowd Is careless of the antique wrong, • And beauty throttled in her shroud — And all indifferent to song. 6. I thought I might be one of those — I know now, in a thousand suns Whose shadow, in the withered close Where poets gather, falleth once — Fool that I was, to dream on such As I am that the light could fall — I've wakened since and wept — how much, I can't begin to tell it all. 7. Let's laugh, since naught it boots to weep — Did not the modern Sappho sing? And pity 'tis she could not keep That brood of sorig beneath her wing — When Ella of Wisconsin sang Down halls of pain we walk alone. Beneath far roofs meseemeth rang A strain that none need blush to own. 8. The inspiration passed from her — As it has passed from me; and now Behooves the ending worthier My tale of dreams than I know how — Lord Bacchus, help! for unto thee I've poured the sacrificial wine — Art thou too then become to me As others whom I deemed divine? 9. Because thou failest in the hour Of this my need — as larger gods Have failed, and proven in their power No potence is against the rods Of circumstance and time, and all That we submit and half repent, Until the muffled trumpets call To fields where even dreams relent. A FRENCH SEAPORT. (American troops arrived and disembarked this morning. June 27, 1917 — Dispatch) The transports, singly and by twos, Drop anchor, and Under the stars and stripes our boys Begin to land. Crowds, as they warp in, and acclaim As the gang planks creak — Few, but enough they see you, boys, Strong men, not weak — Do I read my newspaper aright? Or in a dream? — As a child playing with new toys, Does it only seem? — Toys, do I say? There are none here — Not as babes play Into this battle go our boys Over there today — Once, anyway, unto every man. Lest all be lost, It is given him to make his choice, Nor count the cost. We were at the parting of the ways. Mother of men! Did you not (witness there our boys) Make your choice then? — On shore the belfries rock, the bells Peal over the throng — So are ye consecrate to it, boys, Till ye right this wrong — Where the guns there, out on the Flanders front, Never are still Till the eardrums split and the senses blunt, To be killed or kill — Gassed or gunned in a devilish place, Not Dante penned — Until ye chain the dragon, boys, Unto the end — So shall our Mother know ye then, Her sons, indeed — And the fathers, seeing ye be men, Of the old breed. THE LAVV^ OF THE FATHERS. Commenting on a certain treatise. It was the law of the fathers — Needing no learned gloss — Of the cave man's rib and the ape, his sib, In lines that curve and cross, It was scratched in scriptured caverns, Scrawled where the earth drip wears — And the law was theirs, and they lived thereby With sabretooth and bears. It was the law of the fathers — Heave ye the stone away Before my cave, where is mammoth-meat, It is lawful if I slay — The women heard in the morning As the sun crested the hill. See thou to this, till I come at night. And if any enter, kill. It was the law of the fathers — There be few of our own tongue. And the tribes are strong of the stranger speech, V/hen we in here were young; So that they charged their women, Bide thou beside the gear, Thrust out, with this my shapen shaft. What eye soever peer. It was the law of the fathers — (And I think you'd say, our ov/n) I will wreak my wrath in any cave — My cave ye leave alone — Leave it to me and my women — Yea, whiles is left for gear A chipped flint and a shapen shaft And a hand to hurl it here. It was the law of the fathers — Here it is tooth for tooth. Unto what profit hath a man Foregone his wrath from ruth? In whom then have ye helping? Do the tribes of strange speech spare? Art thou suppliant, as the hairy arm Grips of the glacial bear? It was the law of the fathers — Ye may glean in the scriptured caves — But ye read it also in the gloss That is given of their graves; For the deep-digged drift bears witness — Who liveth, he shall die, And here, if it be tooth for tooth, There, is it eye for eye? It was the law of the fathers — There be omens, if ye heed — Also some charms, the sower saith, As he soweth of his seed; Heed ye his charms and the omens, If haply in them be help — For surely the dog that topped the bitch Is sire unto the whelp. It was the law of the fathers — The crooked is not straight — Neither we know in any wise This evil to abate If they he spoiled foregather Beyond where here is light — We will earth his bones with an ochre pot, That he sniear his arm to smite. It was the law of the fathers — Let him go against the dead In his gear, as he hath fared forth here, With his fore-arm painted red — We have given heed to the omens If his charms our father keep — If dreams of the head upon the bed Be more than the price of sleep — It was the law of the fathers There were giants in those days — Nor our fathers multiplied on earth, As we upon our ways And God said, ''Shall my spirit Against him always strive? But strive ye, under the fathers* law, To save the soul alive. 'Fort Dardanos also has been silenced" Despatch, March 1915. By Hellespont the monster guns From iron lips belch dreadful death; By Hellespont with Helen once Passed Paris, Master Homer saith; And it was here passed Philip's son, With many Macedonian spears, To die a king in Babylon, Fulfilled of glory, not of years. By here the Persian, o'er the bridge Of boats, marched on to Marathon But look, where over yonder ridge What giant eagles winging on — The birds of Mars, for Jupiter W^ould hardly recognize the bird That circles seaward back and there The monster guns again are heard. Blind Dandolo, up this strait sea Piloted Venice, and beyond The Thracian Bosporus and he Is Admiral on the Stygian pond Else might we learn it from his lips Whose City conquered Constantine's, Whether he would have sailed his ships Up Hellespont, through floating mines. But stand here in the coning tower — Hark to the fifteen forty-fives — Earth rocks — in less than half an hour A horde has yielded up its lives; These are not painted Argive prows, Nor Venice galleys, but from these Black turrets there be dealt such blows As Gods deal in their anarchies. Oh for another Homer, who — For not a lesser master might — Would sing in measure meet and due The fortune of this wondrous fight; Until again the victor drag The vanquished at his chariot-wheel. Around a City, where his flag Shall flaunt whose steel is tempered steel. RED POPPIES. All Summer, in the fields of France Red poppies blow — All Summer, everj^vhere in France Until the snow — Before, wild flowers white and blue. Yellow and pied, Painted the fields in every hue — Before they died — Now only poppies, red, red, red, All over France — Because not only wine is red Today, in France. "Never, I sometimes think, the rose Blows half so red As where" — in France the poppy blows, He might have said — Bard of the red wine and the rose, What v/ould you say, Seeing how red the poppy blows In France today? Would the old tentmaker put up His tools, and "why This of the color of the cup? The wine is dry" — Or prophet of profane despair. Thus had he said: "What hath it profited them there That they are dead?" Or with a backlook at blind chance, "What would you have, After the late events in France, Over a grave?" But because v/hatever God you will Planted a sign — Red poppies, where now neither will The lipless wine. Nor were confounded there in France Confronting hell — But where they danced the devil's dance Red poppies tell — They of the fellowship in France Say, even so: Is it these three red years by chance Red poppies blow? "A TREMENDOUS OFFENSIVE ON THE ITALIAN FRONT"— October, 1917. The Consul in his red paludament — The Cimbri chieftans, cloaked in shaggy skins And helmed in auroch horns, before his tent — The Conference begins — "What would the Cimbri, warring here on Rome — With the Republic?" — *'Land, enough to live — Also to take it, Consul, are we come, If and ye will not give" — "But Rome will give, yea, but the tribes shall have Land, and enough — till none of ye but owns Some land — " theirs yet where rank the grasses wave, And men yet dig their bones. CIVIS AMERICANUS SUN. Flags that flew adverse at Quebec And Lundy's Lane — From the Shannon and the Chesapeake At mizzen and main — We are entered upon altered years — There overseas Who clips those colors also shears These. One red cup pressed to either mouth — Bitter red wine — Pledged one forever, north and south Of Forty-nine. **A movement of British Troops from India to Turkestan joined forces with the Turcomans and Bokharans'' — Despatch August 17, 1918. Is it a dream — or do I read aright? The British in Bokhara — which, meseems, Was such a city, and but overnight, As haunts a hashish eater in his dreams Of Khans in purple caftans, or dark red The cloth embroidered for his golden coat — As a Khan walks the battlements, and shed That gleam against the sunset on the moat — 1 see the truncate towers flanking the gate As architects of Islam, half Chinese, Dreamed it; and armspace in the tesselate Of walls, lest archers, as their shafts they loose Lack room enough a lofty targe to choose Among the marauders of the centuries. A BOOK OF HOURS. At dawn — in the boots that borrow Strength for the stride today — As against what lean tomorrow May have to pay Noon — on the nearer reaches In overalls — over soon — As a lengthening shadow stretches Into afternoon — Slippers — and feet on the fender, A book and a good cigar — And the morning star the lender Unto the evening star Lamps — and a hearth that sputters- Live coals — a steady glow — Outside a wind that mutters — A flake of snow Darkness — and dying embers — Drifts — and the ashes, white — And the blast is bleak December's That rattles the panes tonight. A VOICE IN THE GATE. After Reading Nietszche. "Who hath a heart that is not hard Tlien let him die — " And as the crowds surged cityward They heard him cry — ''Pass thou the populace, as one Who doth not spit — Spare thy contemming, seeing none Is worthy it — *'Bear thee in joyous guise, as who Goes towards his goal Possessing all things, as is due The noble soul — "Then are thou noble, having cast Thy cloak of sin — Hath time not waited till this last Revel begin? — "Patient, till all thou mayest be Bright shall be born, And purple over a grey sea Breaketh the morn, "Be thy morn exercise, thy noon A clash of swords — Booted ye go, your gifts the boon Of Overlords — "Ye go, till also with these herds Ye shall go down There where are hailed with equal words Captain and clown — "But ye are twisted in the Ring Ever it turns Into itself — a pregnant thing — A womb that yearns Unto the manchild, yea, though death Be born again Ye shall be glad again of breath, Being strong men, " And the mighty-thewed have edged their swords. Hardened their hearts, Saying, who of the whole are lords Their's are the parts — Saith the haughtyhearted to himself, Spurning the meek And such as suffer much for pelf And the weary weak — And out of that mouth swords and spears, Tempest and storm. Till substance was not, only tears And blood the form Because a hermit on a hill Forsook his cave — Game down, saying Say ye, I will — Was earth a grave — The tongue is as a two-edged sword — Bridle ye it — And a wild colt the winged word Ye may not bit. THERE IS A MINSTER. There is a Minster, sun and moon and star Lamp but as mortuary candles burn — The place is ruinous, but thence afar Though oft I wander, always I return For I am lonely, as the lost are lone; Unquiet, as the soul that cleaves to naught — And here the Melancholy winds intone Antiphonies to melancholy thought. Seemeth tonight the waste devouring years Have wrought some wizardry within the place — Seemeth my carven saints are weeping tears Of stony sorrow, fixed upon each face — And all my gargoyles mock with granite grin, From each his aerie loft and lifted coign, The desolation that has waxed within — The death and desolation here that join — Till of the wondrous fane, so vastly planned, Some fallen arches, a fast-crumbling wall, A choir in ruin, witness to the hand That faltered in the building it is all. Unprofitable sorrow! sorry mask Of mirth, ye pledges of my spirit's pawn! V/hose tears, whose scorn, alike the builder ask. What of such darkness out of such a dawn? Let pinions answer from their plane that stooped And folded wings that wearied of their flights And then from cavernous dim places trooped The subterranean crew decay invites. Plumes once resplendent, trailing in the mire, Supine in lost aloofness splendor spoiled! Proud eagle spirit, that would still aspire V/ith sullied plumiage, be thou first assoiled! But of the penance? Art thou strong to pay, My wavering weakness? so of purpose set Seemeth the harper, ever and alway With strings of mournful memories at fret? And though the raiment of the years be rent — The vesture of thy morning in the night — May broken spirits, unto bondage bent, Garb them again in gartments of the light? But now the mornsped shafts slant long athwart The transept and along the wasted wave, Touching sepulchral effigies that start From sleep and shift the cerecloth of the grave — So that each carved sarcophagus, meseems, Conches a quickened body, that with hands Crossed meekly in a marble bosom, dreams Of resurrection, and the riven bands Of death, no more triumphant tomb by tomb The quick light touches with a shaft divine — My spirit long despairing, unto whom Vouchsafed the vision, is it then a sign? MACABRE. Through a cofRn lid As the cold drops drip, Who will forbid If a bony lip From the roots of the yew In the clinging' mold Suck so much dew As a skull may hold? STAFF AND SCRIP. "Meseems thine is a weary way, Thou of the sandal shoon — " The pilgrim's staff beside him lay, Around the heat did swoon — 'Twere good with him beneath the boughs, Methought, to while the noon. *'Thou farest on to Palestine?" "Yea, friend" "and why?" "for peace"- "Now share with me this cup of wine And bread, and sit at ease An hour, and tell thy tale", — the which He told in words as these: HIS TALE. Long years I wear the sandal shoon And bear the staff and scrip, And falter in the desert noon When oft my v;eak steps trip On brown hot stones, whose jagged edge Is like an adder's lip. Aye faring towards that Palestine V/here men say there is peace, For themx with troubled souls as mine And pools that never cease To flow with healing balm water And I would bathe in these. Being wholly sick with sin, for once, Ere yet these sad dim eyne — Had darkened to our southern suns I drank of deadly wine — That paynim Love's, whose lewd red lips Have sucked the red from mine. Her I would sing in heathen lays, How sweeter far are hers, Ah me! than Blessed Mary's ways Whose breasts are sepulchers Of joy, I sang, among my feres And queans, a crew perverse, And strange, who found on paynim tombs In that old land that be Their Gods, even such as had been Rome's, Carved white and nakedly On stone — as this foul Love and One The dandleth on her knee — Her Son, as Christ is Mary's (God Assoil me, I would sing Even so) — and feign how through the wood These twain rode in the spring While some strewed flowers — my soul is sick From all that wantoning, — Of carnal feres. With painted grin These come, when I would pray, Meseems, and jeer — for so my sin Doth weigh on me alway, Until most like a demon's eye The sun doth lour by day, And till the moon, a leprous spot Glued to the face of Death, Pollutes the night — though well I wot 'Tis but my sin that saith These things, God's world being otherwise, If one draw blameless breath. And once I plucked red flowers like those Erev/hile I loved too well, Beside a weltering lake, the rose Coal-red that roots in hell — Strewn for a sign upon my way, For the prick thereof was fell — So that I cried a piteous cry And sank a writhing heap. And heard a great voice from the sky. As in a trance or sleep; ''Behold! thou who didst sow the seed — Is't pleasant now to reap?" — Such is the harvest of my sin That like a serpent's tooth Doth gnaw the piteous soul within, That knov/eth not, in sooth. Whether of Christ the pitiful I sinned not past the ruth. So that I wander from the way That leadeth to His shrine. For though I journey night and day Long years, these weary eyne Have seen it not — perchance, for me, There is no Palestine. For all the chambers of my soul Are limned with shapes of lust. The walls thereof in part and whole Bricked only with bone dust Found in the paynim sepulchres, And mortared with that must. Here endeth the tale — He ceased — a wood-land chorister Gan sing — ''not yet is done Thy day of life", I said, "and there Be some that peace have won Or ere the night, who sinned yet more — " I turned, but he was gone. And when a little on the land The smitting sun declined, Also my staff was in my hand And faring on, to find That thing I sought, I left the place Anon and far behind. — For now a Knight Hospitaller I counted not the years But spurred against the soldan, where Were set in rest his spears. And when the swordplay summoned not My strength was for my feres. So that it fell one afternoon I stood within the fane And watched the wearers of the shoon That came and went again — And one who weareth such a mien As spirits must, in pain. Surely his quest is peace who now Is entered from the day — (Methought) — upon whose piteous brow The graven shadows weigh — As when late rays from desert suns On columned ruins play — "And now in Christ His sepulchre I lay my load of doom" He said, "beneath His blazon here, The which hangs oe'r His tomb — And lo! save for that golden gleam No light is in the gloom" — Anon his mood was of the sort That sore his breast he beat — So gently to the chapel court I led him from the heat And fervors of the pilgrim throngs To worship there that meet. And when my service in the fane That day was done, I went Where I had left him and again I found him, well content That I was come, ''for now", he said, "My store of strength is spent" "And surely thou art come to me As one came long ago Who fain my comforter would be, If I would have it so. But ah! what growths my tree entwine, How might the young man know?" "Yet comfortable words he spake, How till the set of sun The halting may his furlong make Though mile he maketh none, So from the v/ay he wander not Until the race be run." (Where now thou wanderest who shall say What strange sick growths entwine? Yet surely thou hast held the way Unto that Palestine — And washed, in some Lethean mere. That wounded soul of thine.) — "For I have knelt by Christ His tomb And am God's- belted earl. Who was before by deadly doom Beelzebub his churl — I who have guttered with the swine Am robed in gold and pearl — " (Hardly, that time, upon what quest I fared, myself I knew, What time was bared this bleeding breast To mine astonied view, As toward the sudden slopes of eld My careless footsteps drew — Unmindful, in the days of youth, How evil years draw nigh To strip the sayer of his sooth. The purple from the sky — When life, that seemed a leman's song, Shall seem a sinner's sigh) — "Father", I said, "the day is done, The night draws on apace. Also for me a race was run When I was granted grace To speed one on his pilgrimage Had looked hell in the face — " That night great peace fell on his soul, And ere another day His God, at last found pitiful Called, and he went away — There was such gladness in his eyne, "We would not have him stay. But oft whenas o'er where is seized Of what domain may be That pilgrim, sitteth one baptized Who also sinned as he — And might again, for that the flesh Doth wrestle mightily — (But then, as out of paynim tombs. The ghosts come, with the smell Of death, and skulls be crowned of blooms Such as I heard him tell The tendrils of his soul withal Entwined the rose of hell — ) And all the voices of the day Still as the day nigh done. And green earth suddenly grown gray At setting of the sun. And then in heaven, God's altar lights Alitten one by one — Meseemeth this his tale, whereof At last is here the scroll, Were also, but for God His love. Indite of mine own dole — Pray ye, who read, that pilgrim peace, And also for my soul. BALLAD TO PROSERPINE. Now Hellas' fanes are ruinous, Great Pan forg:ets the ferny brake, In woods and ways unbrageous No summer drowsy Dryads wake; Nor nerieds wet tresses shake, White bosomed in the silver sea I am aweary for their sake — Queen Proserpine, I turn to thee. Alas, they were so gracious The Gods of old! not fain to make Mortality more piteous For hells, whereat all we do quake. A little store of wine and cake We gave. — Among the gods that be Such sacrifice would any take? Queen Proserpine, I turn to thee. They would our knees were tremulous. The gods that reign, through fear and ache; With fasts they'd make us hideous, For beauty bites them as a snake. Howbeit the iron years that brake Jove's Kingdom, this divinity As rubbish shall they spare to rake? Queen Proserpine, I turn to thee. Envoi: For thou, by the Cimmerian lake, Dost gather Gods and men — For me So much is sure. My thirst to slake, Queen Proserpine, I turn to the. A PRAYER TO PERSEPHONE. To Queen Persephone a prayer I pray Who am her loyal servitor and knight, Albeit but late a dweller in the light Pale shimmering of her wan Cimmerian day, Wherein her shadowy folk and strengthless stray, And sea-birds wing a weak and faltering slight O'er waves as weightless as the winds that bite Her shadowy shores, that gloom in mist alway. Princess of pallid peoples, hear my prayer! My lady came before me o'er the tide That moans, as knowing only thou are sure; But where she dwells the covering shadows hide, Show me, and surely I will seek her there — For even in death her love and mine endure. COBWEBS. And what and if the spider Weave cobwebs o'er my scroll? The grave pit yawns no wider Nor heavier death's dole For epitaphs effaced, Forgotten, or erased — THE SLEEP OF CAIN. There's a tomb, far in the desert, Where, as the ages pass, Cain sleeps on, his bier upon, Under a sky of brass. The sons of Enoch builded That mighty bier of bronze. Lions guard it and serpents ward it. Under the awful suns. And ever, as day dies gory, Far on the red sand-line, The brow of Cain is branded again With the ensanguined sign, And the lions carved in granite And stony serpents hear The dead lips curse the universe And the builders of the bier — Till the veil of night is drawn, And the ruddy stars, revealed, Spatter the pall that covers all. And the lips that curse are sealed. AT THIRTY-ONE. Tni thirty-one — not old, you say? Well, maybe not; Yet old enough to wish to stay The floods of thought, That rising, threaten now to drown The dull content The years have brought with them — sit down, Benevolent Old girl, sit down! Philosophy, Sit by my side! You are, what woman will not be My love, my bride. What woman will not be? Oh yes, No doubt it's so; Yet one, her name was — call it Bess — It rhymes, you know — Well, she I beneath the moon, 0' summer nights, We used to swallow, with a spoon. True love's delights. And when dawn paled before the blush My heai-t had shrined, I felt the blood of twenty flush My face, since lined — In courses you know nothing of. Philosophy; Or knowing, hardly would approve; So let them be. But Lord! How everything is changed! Beneath the moon. You'd think, I'd think, your spouse deranged, To stroll and spoon! When day goes down the ways of gold, At set of sun, I stay at home and smoke — I'm old, ' I'm thirty one. And though not fond of matin dews, I rise at dawn, And hie me to my desk — the Jews Hold me in pawn. And Bessie — where the deuce is she? I ought to know — But doubtless she's forgotten me — And be it so ! But here's to love that failed to give The man a wife, And here's — since one has got to live— The liar, Life! INSOMNIA. Whoever, weary night, by weary night. And nightly, leaden hour by leaden hour, Has heard the deep-toned bells of some church tower With sudden cleavage of the silence smite The murky dark, the sickly dawning light; While from the cavernous places where they cower In the mind's crannies, by Insomnia's power. Come forth the imps of memory, to blight The last hours left for slumber, one by one — By such a man mere blank oblivion. The "Vale" of the old world's dead, the sleep Of much forgetfulness, were hailed a boon. Blessed beyond all dreams of them that keep Cult of Elysium.ns lamped by sun or moon. ANODYNES. If one, remembering all the months and years, And weeks and days of youth irrevocable, Wasted in ways whereon he would not dwell, Save in those moments when Remorse appears, Forcibly entering, with cup of tears Held forth for him to quaff; or when the knell Sounds of some Reformation, and the bell Of blackness tolls it, and its late compeers — If in the juice of wormwood, or the wine Of lethal poppy blooms, he drowns the thought Of what so irretrievably is wrought, — Not too incontinent that soul consign To some red torment after, more condign — God gave not any of these herbs for naught. ON A STATUETTE OF PALLAS. Be thy lovers daring As thou art cold, Mailed maiden, faring Star-eyed and bold, White Pallas, wearing The casque of gold! DIRGE. Strew lily, rose and asphodel, And heap them high upon the breast Where modesty was wont to dwell. And tender love had made a nest; The asphodel, for she's at rest; Lily and rose, for she was pure And lovely past all power to tell, Or any art of portraiture. Oh, moons will rise and wane and set, The world will go its wonted ways, And men remember and forget, And love and hate and blame and praise; But not in all the length of days Will any pass the gates of birth Whose brow the gentle coronet Might wear, of her we lay in earth. THE LAST TRYST. Not on earth were we unblest, Where the light and flowers be; Yet, mine own, how sweet is rest Here with thee! Faint the fall of tired feet Through the thickness of the roof; Doth not silence serve, my sweet, Our behoof? Heard no more life's ceaseless sigh, Moan of men who faint and fret; So may we more easily Sighs forget. And thou art each day more dear, Now, in the diminished light, In the peace that waxes here With the night. So are all things well, mine own! Thou thy pallid cheek incline, Pale as sweet white roses blown, Close to mine. For thy pallid rose, of peace Signet is, as of a King, Who should swear that rest shall cease Wandering. Rest from us may roam no more! Press thy pale lips to my brow! Sweet thy kisses were before — Sweeter now. And a cold kiss on the cheek Sweet as four lips passion-pressed — We have lived our lives, and seek Only rest — Rest in love, that like a star Here is fixed. Sweet, let us slumber. Ours is sleep no dark dreams mar, No cares cumber. OF A MEMORY. Where art thou now, sweetheart? In the dark tomb! Yet thou hast won the lig-ht — I guard the gloom. Thou'rt with the angels now, In the blue heaven; Chanting Maid Mary's praise, Morning and even. Oh white nun affianced! Love lily in flower! Pale blossom of passion That blushed but an hour! Long now, by the throne, Earth's voices are mute; Once more, in your choral, Let Love wake the lute. ON HER ANNIVERSARY. 'Qui bien ayme tard oublye" The years may teach us to forget, And love's once moving minstrelsy Lose most of its old music — yet A verse from Chaucer's song, from one Who loved him long ago — with you — May whisper, more than years have gone Since then, but true love's ever true. AN AFTERWORD. (Some things, perforce, I left unsaid:) It is a dream, that tired eyes Shall close to ope on happier skies. Where care beginneth not with light, And evil dreams come not by night. It is a heavy thing, ye say? The night hath watchers, with the day. It is a tale — believe it not — That prates of flames that feed on thought; All ye have felt the selfsame fire; The fagots change but not the pyre, The sacrificial fumes ascend From other flesh, and there's an end. It is a lie, that there is love More sweet to hold, more strong to move, Love that hath not its part of pain, That in the fane ye would constrain; Yearning shall unto yearning call Athwart waste spaces — it is all. If life be like a darkling plain Death is a dim and dreary main, — They are all fond, the dreams you dream. No shaft of fierier light, no beam Benigner, streaks the shoreless sea — The thing that hath been, it shall be. (These things I know, for I am dead). AN ASSIGNATION. "I'd have a tryst, fair damosel." ''And thou shalt have a tryst", she said, ''I'll meet thee by the mossy cross I' the midnight moon", she said. "Thou 'It know it in the eerie light. It leaneth where the cross ways meet, 'Tis gray and worn, and marks the bourne Where stay men's feet." "What bourne is that, fair damosel?" "'Tis thine and mine and love's, sweet sir; To seal our vows were meet a house. And one is there." "And hast a bed, fair damosel?" "Nor bed shall lack, nor shrouding sheet. A narrow bed, but it is said For lovers such is meet." "Nay, likes me not to hear of shrouds; I called thee to a bed of love" — "And thou shalt see I'll cherish thee With love enough. "No closer than the church yard worm To thy shut lips my lips shall cling. Thou wilt not think to leave my bed Though the lark sing; But it shall guard thy body's print When next year's violets spring." BIBLIOPHILOS. Behold, I build a treasure house, The which within my goods to store, And whatsoe'er I gather more Between what is and is to be, Or ere mine end of days arouse A foe to mine avidity. No treasure house like those of Kings, For armors made in beaten gold. And cups enchased and salvers scrolled, And gems against the Evil Eye, And vestments stiff with broiderings An handbreath on the purple high. Lo, wealth in this kind would I none, Belshazzar heaped, as monarchs use. Much treasure that the Mede will choose, What time they leave the water gates Without a watch in Babylon To be a breach for robber hates. But me the Mede had let alone, My things of cost he covets not, Behold, it is but gold of thought — This house I build, a chest of scrolls, And builded in a way mine own — I have not wrought for other souls. THEY AND WE. Their eyes, that met the lightning flash, Saw gleam a god's red beard; Their ears, when broke the thunder crash, Heaven's smitten anvils heard, As av^ful arms, in meteless sweep. That mighty hammer moved to swing Whose blows, reverberate through the deep, Made all the abysms ring. They saw and sang it, as might we, Were ours their minds unspoiled, That imaged not Immensity In any meshes toiled; They'd mock or pity our pale lays, Whose penning is the lot Of mourners for their spacious days, And dreams that visit not. THE CORYBANTES. -What stars are these, that stoop and kiss the flowers? 1st Dryad- 2nd Dryad- The Corybantes — Sing we Cybebe! Sing, Corybantes! Sing Dindymene! -Nay, Dindymene's torches in the wood. Hide we, and hear the Corybantes' song. 1st Dryad- -How shrill their song, and how the night wind blows The torch — flames backward like a Maenad's hair! 2nd Dryad See now, how wild they leap — The Corybantes Cymbals! Clash louder! White feet! dance harder! Leap! Corybantes! 1st Dryad A shrilly song! 2nd Dryad Like Maenad's dancing round their viney God Are they, or who sings Cotys in bleak Thrace THE BURGHERS. A King reigned in the Kingdom, Sombre, a man of wrath. The which with swordsmen and spearmen Went up against our path. Many his days and evil, The works and days of the King; Tyrannous, under an evil law. The times of his governing. Or ere his svt^ordsmen and spearmen Sate down before our walls, Taunting us from their tented camp, How all we were his thralls. Then a mighty rush of the stormers — Met by a mightier breed; Outside the gates, swung wide a space, We niet them, man and steed. Then had ye seen a battle! His swordsmen smote us sore; That dawn saw many a man ride forth Will ride forth nevermore. Then had ye seen a battle! But at the last they fled; And the fields his chargers furrowed Flowered foison of his dead. But the fields his chargers furrowed, How are they green with corn ! Where the surge of the sea of horsemen Broke on that bloody morn. How are the mighty fallen! Say it, oh evil King! Went ye up once against our path? But the lips of the people sing! OUR LADY LIFE. Oh Life, that smiles so sweetly Upon our beardless days ! To snub us so completely When once the whisker greys — You're like the lass unsteady And often overbold — Our lady, alv/ays ready To ease us of our gold. But Nancy's feet who dances So nimbly late o' nights Soon tire, and haggard glances Won't buy the beers and tights — While you wear on in beauty That never seems to fade — My compliments and duty, Sweet sempiternal jade! I loved you most sincerely, Before I got your gait. And though you've acted queerly I can't sAy that I hate — If fires flicker faintly That once so fiercely burned — Consider, sweet and saintly — I've lived awhile — and learned. I know your moods and motions, Soft tigress — and your claws — I know you've got your notions — - And all about your laws — I know you too completely, Dear love, to love as erst Our Lady, blessing sweetly The lovers she has cursed. You smile, and so demurely, I'd swear my lady's waist- — You're not the lassie, surely, We've all of us embraced! My love, you wear the lily So well, I'd chuck the rose — Our Lady, always chilly When chilly fortune blows. We played the game together — And you with loaded dice — And it's a question, whether That's altogether nice — But sinners and unshriven Are all who play for pelf, Sweet life — and you're forgiven — I've braced the game myself. So call it quits, my lady — Let's kiss and say good-night — If you're a trifle shady, I'm not a shining light. But pray, don't take the trouble- You needn't ring the bell — Dear irridescent bubble! — Our Lady Life, farewell! THE WINGED VICTORY OF SAMOTHRACE, 1. It's night, and now the janitors have gone, After their chores, as long ago the crowds That gaped un-understanding up and down The statued aisles, and a deep darkness shrouds The replicas of statues in the aisle And Parian marble fragments, yet that smile — 2. A smile of maimed lips since the Turk and time Condemned them to what sometimes seems a sneer At masqueraders in so mean a mine As temporalities have staged us here, — Not such a theatre as Aeschylus Or Aristophanes had staged for us. 3. Not that this boy here, whom his mother's lost Thinks of these things crouched weeping at the feet Of the Winged Victory — as wires are crossed And police headquarters hustle, as is meet. And but to be expected, when has lost A house its hope — and lines of course are crossed. 4. However, Jimmy boy crouched there and slept Soundly at last, and, strange as it may seem After boy Jimmy many tears had wept, Rocked in soft slumber, Jimmy dreamed a dream, And this is how boy Jimmy told it me, Revised a bit for you, at mama's knee. 5. Seemed little Jim the marble girl above Who's been so speechless, sudden found a voice, And bent towards him, as a mother's love Weans oft from wakefulness such little boys. And Jimmy heard, in some obscure embrace Of sleep, the Victory of Samothrace: 6. ''There was a king long since in Macedon And master of Greek cities, and you may Weil deem him king who died in Babylon Master of all the world — even as today A conqueror, but in no v/ise his peer Makes the sunsets so red, our days so drear. 7. "As whispers me that mummied Gipsy Queen Coffined beside" — and Jimmy's chubby arm That will be muscled some day, points between Where mama sat, and I — but now the charm Of the child's talk, so direct in its way, Dictates the rest of what I have to say: 8. He reigned, the King of Kings, in Babylon, Master of earth, since Pflacedonian arms Had conquered all the world; but Macedon, Her severe custom, now no longer charms, So that the King of Kings gave such a feast As a King may to the Indwelling Beast. 9. Even now, whose horrent lineaments red earth Abhors — but Jimmy's speech seemed here to halt And hesitate at such a monstrous birth. And you nor I will think it Jimmy's fault, Because the Victory of Samothrace Vv^asn't precise concerning time and place. 10. The King of Kings died in a mad debauch And a great golden car goes tossing on Drawn by a thousand oxen, or as much More traction power, as may, to Macedon, Over hills intervening, drag the clay That gave law unto all earth yesterday. 11. And then the Captains of the King of Kings Contended, since their Master nov/ is dead, And these had been commanders of the wings. Those of the center, when their Captain led, V/ho, if he weets of battles won or lost But (Jimmy interjects) — ''the lines are crossed" 12. And so they are — though the confusion melts Into some semblance of order, as Demetrius, m.aster of men's souls and pelts. Rides fickle fortune's favorite, and was It seemed awhile, his heir, of Macedon, Who was born king, and died in Babylon. 13. Demetrius — let his, with the dust of kings. Innocuous mingle — who just missed the goal — Doughtily warred he, and despite the things He did most barbarous, not against the soul, So that his star increased and came to seem The destined Sun of Alexander's Dream. 14. — There was a great seafight off Salamis, Demetrius' galleys against Ptolemy's — But Jimmy here remembers only this. The fight was for the lordship of the seas, And neither of the admirals could guess Which way veered victory, till in the press 15. Of boarders on decks slippery with blood, As the ships grappled, of Demetrius One of the sailors saw a Shape that stood Aairpoised, and with gesture victorious Points to the flag of Ptolemy that flees, — And left Demetrius sovran of the seas. 16. But such the whirring of those visioned wings And opalescent splendor of the plumes That shipman thought no more of sailor things But only (so our artistry presumes To be the all in all) by what means his Art shall inform that Shape of Salamis — 17. And since he was, before he sailed the sea, One of the marble carvers, so his craft He plied again, as witness thankfully Our greyer days, that his let loose a shaft Of such light from amid a storm of spears As levins yet the darkness of the years. 18. But little Jimmy's curls, who's fast asleep. His bright head pillowed on his mama's breast. Remind how wise a thing it is to keep Silence when all is said, and for the rest I think the Victory of Samothrace Isn't too tolerant of commonplace. 'Of old, unhappy, far off things And battles long ago — " Wordsworth. There is an island not far out to sea From a surfbeaten and forbidding shore, That sea-marauders intermittently Assailed and wind and wave forevermore Shifting the dunes and estuaried lands Whose tides oared in the longboats of the bands. A realm such as that lost land Lyonesse, Ocean hath conquered, and the wearing wave Hollowed its caves, till into nothingness Were plunged the people and the place a grave — But that was in the very long ago, Nor much concerns us now, who do not know — We do not know in Lyonesse what kings Were regnant, nor when towered Tintagel Was castled, nor when, in the hap of things Embattled, suddenly it was a shell — A rusty hauberk, where a pulsing heart Was brave, and fain of beating as thou art — Yea, thine heart too. Spirit whom hoary Eld Delighteth to despoil of any sense Of things that are, and whom his times withheld Present fruition and a recompense — Because, perhaps, he never was of this Moment of the descent in the abyss. But I am wandering — and to our tale — It is a slight tale, perhaps of nothing worth — What is of worth when lamps burn low or fail And candles daily gutter out on earth — That lightened lost souls, perhaps a little way Only, but were a counterfeit of day — And substituted for the amorous light Of the begetting sun a lamp that lit The passages presaging of the night And stayed our stumbling a little bit — A barren and an unbegetting bed ' Till also ours, as he is coffined — Because 'tis in a crypt sleepeth today, He whom I sing, bred on that stormbeat isle West of a shore forbidding, where you may Yet see how wreckers' lights did once beguile, — And from the elements delivered then Mariners knew what mercy is in men. Ke went out with his hundred — put to sea, V/hen on the wind born in o'er dune and down The booming of the horns, and dolefully Tolled the deep bells in hermitage and town — Warning that sea assault was threatening And warships wait their crews out in the olung. The tale saith little more than that he shipped, And in a great sea fight was one of them Deeply whose shirt was in the bloodbath dipped. And that he clutched, and let go, glory's hem — And if he found a bed beside the knights In effigy, it was not his by rights. They buried him there in the chapel crypt Because his body, cast up on the shore, Alone of all them from the shire that shipped Ever again was come back from that war — So red it was, and until this day said Not since so darkly multiplied the dead — Till often in a hundred none was left Even to dig a grave — till there was none Needing a hind whose hand thereat was deft, Nor thereabout new graves beneath the sun; But the pale nrioon and unforgetful stars Remember them, that after those red wars Slowly and as unwillingly the folk Came back and tilled the fields, and stock increased, And graves were digged again, and fixed a yoke Once more upon the neck of carl and beast — And something gone out of the old red days Did not make any easier their ways — Why have I strung these stanzas on a string So weakly wove the rosary may break At any bead? — the mere impulse to sing — The rhymer's instinct — rhyme for rhyming's sake Or perhaps because who's landed on that isle Him ever after ghosts of things beguile. ENVOI. It is not a barge on the river Drifts down with bird's neck prow — Barges such as biered Elaine Float on no rivers now Stately, the lower reaches, With immobile white wings — Look ye out again, ye will see a swan- And now he sings On the edge of the swirling eddies — The white-capped current strong — And it is given a swan to sing Only one song 1 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS