[PS 2792 L7 1904 Copy I Class Pi >-g-J^ Book lA^JMl Copyright]^" ^m Z COPYRrGHT DEPOSm THE LYRIC BOUGH BY CLINTON SCOLLARD lili NEW YORK JAMES POTT ^ COMPANY 1904 THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, Two Copies Received MAP 21 1904 C*pyriKM Entiy CUSS £t XXa, N«. rn f / COPY A. V 11» Copyright, 1904, by JAMES POTT &= COMPANY The author desires to thank the editors of The Atlantic Monthly y The Century Magazine^ Harper's Magazine^ Scrihners Magazine^ and the other peri- odicals in which the poems in this collection origi- nally appeared, for their kind permission to reprint. CONTENTS PAGE Soul to Body i The Gray Inn 2 The Brothers 4 The Sleeper 5 The Dreamer 7 A Vernal Song g The Hidden Beauty 11 The Wind 12 The Jessamine Bower .14 April-Lover 16 The Abbey by the Skell 18 A Wanderer 20 The Vernal Fire 22 Stream Music 24 The Summoner 25 The Song 27 Lyric Time 29 The House Melodious 31 When Violets are in their Prime . . -33 Woodland Song 34 Evening in Salisbury Close 35 VI CONTENTS The Visitor Gaffer Time Where Echo Dwells A Summer Day . The Lure of the Woodland The Wood Thrush at Eve The Summons Halcyon Weather Poet and Lover The Night Beautiful The Questing Foot Summer Regnant A Summer Pastoral The Earth-Lover The Gypsy Wind Bee-Balm A Sunset Breeze An Idle Day The Halcyon Song of the Morning Stars . The Jester and the Butterflies Ivy Lane Of Rhyme Rain ...... Maid's Song in Mourning The Warbler .... Doves in the Rain An Autumn Song CONTENTS vii PAGE The Weaver 79 The Pipes of Autumn 81 Joy and Sorrow , 83 Contrasts 84 An Instrument 85 Time 86 The Haunts of Youth 87 Snowfall 88 Winter Dreams . ,89 The White Birch 91 Homesick 93 Winter on the Hills 94 A Winter Night 96 The Old Year to the New 97 In The Maple Wood 99 Jim Crow loi Candlemas Song 103 The Wanderer at Home 105 The Isle of Glamourie 107 The Fount of Pavenay 109 azalais , .iii GuiDO, THE Gondolier 113 Lift up Thine Eyes . 118 // the things of earth must pass Like the dews upon the grass. Like the mists that break and run At the forward sweep of the sun, I shall be satisfied If only the dreams abide. Nay, I would not be shorn Of gold from the mines of morn! I would not be bereft Of the last blue flower in the cleft,— Of the haze that haunts the hills. Or the moon that the midnight fills! Still luould I know the grace Upon lovers uplifted face. And the slow, sweet joy-dawn there Under the dusk of her hair. I pray thee, spare me, Fate, The woeful, wearying weight Of a heart that feels no pain At the sob of the autumn rain. And takes no breath of glee From the organ-surge of the sea, — Of a mind where memory broods Over songless solitudes! I shall be satisfied If only the dreams abide. THE LYRIC BOUGH SOUL TO BODY And thus my Soul unto my Body said, With strenuous hardihead: " Hear thou this word ! The guests that thou wert wonted to invite For eye, or ear, or for sweet lip-delight, Shall not within this house be harbored! I have been midnight-mute, and not demurred, Alas, too long! Henceforward shall I sternly ward the door. To any knocking there, attaint with wrong, Ready to cry, ' No more ! ' Albeit fond familiars, fair of face, Come smilingly, they shall not step within, — Beauty, nor Blithesomeness, nor vernal Grace, — If these are but the glozing cloak of Sin ! Clean-swept are all the rooms, and garnished greenly. And set about with Purity's white flower; There sitteth Peace serenely From the clear stroke of this renewed hour ; Hereafter shall be incense lifted only To that pure Love that knoweth no alloy; And thou, O Body, thou shalt not be lonely With thy new comrade — Joy! " THE GRAY INN And at the last he came to a gray inn, About which all was gray, E'en to the sky that overhung the day; And though in time long lapsed it might have been Bedecked with tavern gauds, naught now it bore Above the shambling door Saving a creaky sign, Whereon the storm had blurred each limned line. The portal hung a-cringe. Belike to fall from off its one bruised hinge; And on the deep-set casement's leaded panes The spiders wove their geometric skeins. Hot weariness was on him, — he must rest; And though he deemed to find no other guest, No comradeship, within The ghostly grayness of that sombre inn, Lo, as he crossed the lintel he beheld. In the packed gloom Of the low-raftered room, One from whose eyes the mysteries of eld Shone in lack-lustre wise! THE GRAY INN 3 And oh, the unfathomable strangeness of those eyes ! From boot to drooping plume Gray-garmented was he, and his still face Was like the wan sea when the banked clouds chase Above it through the winter's iron skies. One lean hand held a box of shaken dice. And in a trice This grim and gray one cried, " Come, throw with me! Long have I waited thee." And he late-entered answered, " Naught have I To wager! " And the gray one made reply, " Thou hast thy soul, and shouldst thou cast and win, Lo, all the hoarded treasure of this inn ! " They gripped and cast, but, ere he saw which won. The sleeper stirred and woke, — the dream was done ! Within his breast there throbbed a stabbing sting: That day, for wealth, and what its trappings bring, He knew his hand would do an evil thing. THE BROTHERS In a dim-Htten room I saw a weaver plying at his loom, That ran as swiftly as an agile rhyme; And lo, the workman at the loom was Time, Weaving the web of Life! Twas parti-colored, wrought of Peace and Strife; And through the warp thereof Shot little golden threads of Joy and Love. And one stood by whose eyes were brimmed with tears, Poising the mighty shears Wherewith, when seemed the weaver's will at ebb. He cut the wondrous web. Time weaves and weaves; and his dark brother, he Will one day cut the web for you and me. THE SLEEPER Above the cloistral valley, Above the druid rill, There lies a heavy sleeper Upon a lonely hill. All the long days of summer The low winds whisper by. And the soft voices of the leaves Make murmurous reply. All the long eves of autumn The loving shadows mass Round this sequestered slumbering-place Beneath the cool hill grass. All the long nights of winter The white drifts heap and heap To form a fleecy coverlet Above the dreamer's sleep. 5 THE SLEEPER All the long morns of springtime The tear-drops of the dew Gleam in the violets' tender eyes As if the blossoms knew. Ah, who would break the rapture Brooding and sweet and still, The great peace of the sleeper Upon the lonely hill! THE DREAMER Throughout his span of argent days From birth to death, — a narrow zone,- He wanders by untrodden ways, Alone, yet not alone. For ariel fancy moulds him mirth, A slave to work his lightest whim; And every vagrant wind of earth Is company for him. He sees a brother in the star Set on the evening's violet verge, And like his own the pulse-beats are In the deep ocean surge. He finds a fellow in the tree Reliant in its thews of power, And, rival of the lover bee, He woos the lady flower. 7 THE DREAMER He from the poet brook beguiles The secret of its clearest rhyme, And year on shortening year he smiles In the hard face of Time. So when he slips from earth at last, This alien in the clay, it seems As though from bondage he had passed To other dearer dreams. A VERNAL SONG Who's with me? Who's with me? Come, ye lads and lasses! For the bird is in the tree, And the south-wind passes, Making wooing melody In the leaning grasses! Every migrant of the earth Knows the sap runs mellow; Every thing of roving birth Feels the spring his fellow; Up and down, with flooding mirth, Capers Punchinello. Wheresoe'er we look abroad, Lo, the sky caresses! Cowslips perk and wind-flowers nod In their dainty dresses; Gleam upon the woodland sod Violets and cresses. 9 lo A VERNAL SONG Every laneway hath Its lure, Every path its pledges; There is happiness, be sure. Hidden in the hedges, And where rills go purling pure Down the mossy ledges. So, since joy is in the land, Come, ye lads and lasses! Let us rove, a loving band, Where the south-wind passes. Hand in hand, hand in hand. Through the leaning grasses! THE HIDDEN BEAUTY Behind the opalescence of the dawn, Noon's opulent sapphire, and that glory known As sunset, that nor pen nor brush can paint. There lurks a hidden beauty that the soul In its exalted moods attains unto, — An essence finer than the grosser sense Can grasp, too slight, too tenuous for words. Such beauty dawned upon young Raphael's eyes, And on the seer-like sight of Angelo; It came to Shakespeare amid London murk. And hung before the raptured gaze of Keats Until they laid him under Roman mould. Year-long we walk the world, our vision set Upon its dull and dead realities. "Away with dreams!" the strenuous moilers cry: " Fling all such foolish flimsies to the winds ! " O sightless ones! better an hour with dreams. Upon some hill-top hallowed by the morn, Than heaped days unlit by Beauty's face! THE WIND O THE wind is a faun in the spring-time When the ways are green for the tread of the May; List! hark his lay! Whist! mark his play! T-r-r-r-1 ! Hear how gay! O the wind is a dove in the summer When the ways are bright with the wash of the moon; List! hark him tune! Whist! mark him swoon! C-o-o-o-o ! Hear him croon! O the wind is a gnome in the autumn When the ways are brown with the leaf and burr ; Hist! mark him stir! List! hark him whir! S-s-s-s-t ! Hear him chirr! 12 THE WIND 13 O the wind is a wolf in the winter When the ways are white for the horned owl; Hist! mark him prowl! List! hark him howl! G-r-r-r-1! Hear him growl! THE JESSAMINE BOWER I KNOW a bower where the jessamine blows, Far in the forest's remotest repose; If once the eyes have beholden the golden Chalices swinging, farewell to the rose! Just at the bloom-burst of dawn is the hour God must have fashioned the delicate flower, Wrought it of sunlight and thrilled it and filled it With a beguiling aroma for dower. Here hath the air an enchantment that seems Borne from the bourn of desire and of dreams, — Borne from the bourn of youth's longing where thronging Dwell all love's glories and glamours and gleams. Here doth the palm-plume o'er-droop and the pine; Here doth the wild-grape distil its dark wine; Here the chameleon, gliding and hiding. Changes its hues in the shade and the shine. 14 THE JESSAMINE BOWER 15 Luring the lights are that falter and fail, — Beryl and amber and amethyst pale, Splashes of radiant splendor, and tender Tints as when twilight is deep in a dale. By no bold bees are the stillnesses stirred; Scarce is there bubble of song from a bird, Save for the turtle-dove's cooing and wooing,- Rapture without an articulate word. Sway on, O censers of bloom and of balm! Sweeten the virginal cloisters of calm! Be there one spot lovely, lonely, where only Peace is the priestess and silence the psalm! APRIL-LOVER April-lover, let us seek together Yon green slope beneath the summit snows, Footing blithely through the crystal weather Toward the spot where the arbutus blows! April-lover, hear the lyric valley Shouting all the vernal cries of earth! — Voice of brooks, and tongues of winds that rally. The sweet bird-recessional of mirth. April-lover, see the mounting splendor Of the sunshine marching on before! Mark the budding colors, twilight-tender. Revelling by rill and river shore! April-lover, scent the subtle attar, — Finer than from flowers of orient dye,- That the lavish courier-breezes scatter As they journey up and down the sky! i6 APRIL-LOVER 17 April-lover, ah, my April-lover, I at heart am with you when you say. There's no time like that when we discover Spring upon her olden, golden way! THE ABBEY BY THE SKELL In the abbey by the Skell, O the lapsing of the years Since the last monastic bell Sounded sad upon the ears Of the holy men who there Bowed in final praise and prayer! All day long the doves make moan In the over-topping tower; From the crevices of stone Waves the grass and nods the flower; And yet still doth grandeur dwell In the abbey by the Skell. Gone are porch and pillar; gone Are the windows grand that gave, At the blossom-burst of dawn, Such a glory to the nave, Such a soft, celestial spell To the abbey by the Skell. i8 THE ABBEY BY THE SKELL 19 Mourns the immemorial yew In the cloisters green and wide For the brother band that grew By the singing river's side; Now but one its tale can tell Of the abbey by the Skell. What a sermon here is writ By the ancient hand of Time! We have paused to ponder it, And would weave the text in rhyme Ere we breathe our low farewell To the abbey by the Skell. By a miracle of birth Beauty buddeth from decay, So a godly work on earth Never fadeth quite away. Though it be not tangible Like the abbey by the Skell. A WANDERER Now that the gulfs of dusk are deep, And birds have hushed their happy themes, I wander down the aisles of sleep Hung with the tapestry of dreams. The little silvery winds go by With fluting softly passional; The stars march up the midnight sky. And yet I heed them not at all. For I have felt the enchanter's wand, And know my soul, released once more. As elemental as the frond Amid the mosses by the shore. What now to me the coil of clay, Since I may fare, at my desire. Beyond the azure bourns of day. Beyond the utmost planet's fire! A WANDERER All nature's vast, mysterious face 'Tis mine, — an intimate, — to see; I taste for just a breathing space The freedom of eternity. A breathing space! — and then, — and then, The robins' matins, and I rouse, To find that I am once again In my contracted prison-house. THE VERNAL FIRE From tip to tip of the briar I see it kindle and run, — The mystical, vernal fire Whose source is the sun. Along the slopes it thrills. Greening the umber mould, And it spangles the marge of the rills With the cowslip-gold. It flashes out on the cheek That the rathe hepatica turns; And the violet, shy and meek, With its ardor burns. Every bearing bough Is prescient, and every blade, From the mountain's brackened brow To the depths of the glade. THE VERNAL FIRE 23 I feel it, too, — am fain With a touch of the old desire; My lost youth comes again With the vernal fire. Love, your hand once more! Would that the dream might stay, — The rapt dream o'er and o'er, For aye and a day! STREAM MUSIC Whene'er I wander up and down the world, Treading the shores of its great water-ways, And listening to their tidal undertones, — The Rhine, the Rhone, the Danube, or the Nile,- 'Tis not their music that I seem to hear, (Their laughing trebles, or deep organ-strains,) But rather the clear singing of a stream That flows melodious by the doors of home! My ear may not escape it; and, at last, When it shall be my turn upon the tide Of the Dark River to adventure forth, It shall be then as now. I know the sound Will not portentous seem, nor sad, nor strange. But soft and soothing as the murmur borne In days of childhood by the doors of home! 24 THE SUMMONER 'TwAS this morning when the winds were rocking Larch and linden with a rhythmic swing, That the crested woodpecker came knocking For admission at the door of Spring. " Open open ! " seemed he to be saying, " For the portal has been shut too long; We are grown impatient for the Maying, And the sweet processional of song! " For the buoyant outring of brook-laughter ; For the meadows goldening to smiles; For the soft green on the woodland rafter. And the bloom-burst down the forest aisles!" Still I saw about me glow and glisten Ancient Winter's white environing. As I leaned in eagerness to listen To the sibyl answer of the Spring. 25 26 THE SUMMONER Then, responsive to the bird's insistence, From the margin of some cloistral shore Came a murmur up the hollow distance, " On the morrow will I ope the door! " Hail, thou summoner of the azure weather, Herald of Spring's portal backward thrown! With another sunrise we together Once again shall win unto our own! THE SONG Out of wind and sun and dew I would shape a song for you! First from out the wind should be Happy hints of melody; Little rippling slips of tone, To the ear of evening known; Tiny echoes of the shell Breathed into by ocean's swell; Lark-note, nightingale and thrush, Rustling bough and river rush. Then the sun should yield its shine, Golden words for every line; Glints of skyey amber ore, — Simile and metaphor; Throbbing wave-beats, vital, warm. Passion in its noblest form. Morning's ecstasy of light After the surcease of night. 27 28 THE SONG From the globe of dew should come Crystals of exordium; Essences of prismy blend Joining opening and end; And a close of flawless pearl, Whorl upon pellucid whorl; Every thought as virgin clear As the perfect parent sphere. Out of wind and sun and dew I would shape a song for you! LYRIC TIME Now the sap begins to climb In the linden and the lime; With it mounts the olden rapture; Masters, it is lyric time! Young desire along the vein Quickens to a throbbing strain, And the spirit fain would capture Vanished ecstasy again. Flushing into prismy hues. Every dormant thing renews; All along each vernal valley Countless colors form and fuse. Every thicket over-spills With a myriad mellow trills; Sally upon silvery sally Echoes up and down the hills. 29 30 LYRIC TIME Runs from tree to vocal tree An elusive harmony; Now a whisper faint and fleeting, Now a chorus full and free. Brook to singing brook replies; Fount with welling fountain vies; O the music of the meeting Of the mountains and the skies! Dawn or sunset, — dim or bright,- Every hour evokes delight; To evolve the perfect paean Sun and moon and stars unite. Life seems set to smoother rhyme. And the trivial grows sublime; Under God's blue empyrean, Masters, it is lyric time! THE HOUSE MELODIOUS There's a mighty house of marvels builded Wherein all the spacious rooms are free; With warm sunlight are the rafters gilded, And with sapphire gleams the high roof-tree. 'Tis a house no human master fashioned, Tremulous with sudden hopes and fears; God aforetime reared it to the impassioned Vibrant music of the swinging spheres. Not in one diurnal round he raised it. But with slow accretions moulded he; And when he beheld his work he praised it, And he dowered its heart with melody. Spreading arch and spraying plinth and pillar. Night-tide, bright-tide, never are they mute,- Now high pipings than the hautboy shriller. Now low whisperings softer than the lute! 31 32 THE HOUSE MELODIOUS Far as the imagination ranges, — Tempest and tranquillity of tone, — Here are all the sweet mysterious changes That unto the ear of man are known! Aye, and when the radiant morn is gilding Where the immemorial roof-tree rears, One may feel how God is ever building To the music of the swinging spheres! WHEN VIOLETS ARE IN THEIR PRIME When violets are in their prime, And skies are like my true love's eyes, When we forget the rut and rime In hearkening to the thrush's cries, Howe'er so sweet the minstrelsy Within doors with the poets be, 'Tis not for me, 'tis not for me ! Merry, forsooth, the ingle-mirth, When days are brief and nights are long! And if the leaguer walk the earth, Dear, then, the solacing of song; But now for me the rillet's rhyme. The wooing airs, the wild bird's chime. When violets are in their prime! 33 WOODLAND SONG Voices are calling us out of the dingle, — " Come away! " — so they say, — " come away! Musical voices that mellowly mingle; " Here," they declare, " 'mid the ferns and the mosses, You may lay by all your losses and crosses! Out through the gold of the day Come away! " " Under the trees there is waiting a treasure! " Come away! " — ^voices say, — " come away! O such a manifold measure of pleasure; — Worry forgotten ; no care for a burden ; Freedom for friend and heart- joy for a guer- don; Through the fresh green of the May Come away ! " 34 EVENING IN SALISBURY CLOSE The sudden sunlight swept the minster-close, Day's expiation for its hours of gloom; And every figure on the fair fagade, Each saint with hand uplifted, gained a grace, A happier halo than the sculptor's art, Howe'er so marvel-working, had bestowed. Only the pillared porch and those deep eyes, The windows wide that ever watch the west. Caught the wind-wavering shadows of the elms. All the great Gothic glory of the spire Reached heavenward irradiate; gray to gold By momentary magic turned, and poised Like some aerial pinnacle of dream. And while the sight hung on the miracle. Out of the silent symmetry of the tower Slipped down the unseen silver of the chimes. Softer than snowfall, soothing as the sense Of slumber after vigils held till dawn. 35 THE VISITOR Without my door at morning-tide There rang a summons hale and fair; I roused and threw the portal wide, And lo, young April there! I saw the sunlight in her eyes, And her anemone lips aglow; She beckoned in beguiling wise; I could not choose but go. The grass beneath her quickening feet Rippled with silvery green once more. And many a rill ran singing sweet By many a leaning shore. She led me high among the hills By paths that wilding wanderers use, Where the magician Morn distils The honey of his dews. 36 THE VISITOR 37 Bloom-secrecies she showed to me, The coils through which all being stirs, Till, spelled by her soft witchery. My heart was wholly hers. So now when up the year's bright slope A call comes ringing o'er and o'er, I fling the portal wide, in hope 'Tis April at the door. GAFFER TIME Oh, who has seen gray Gaffer Time Along this broad highway pass by? Will no one speak, will no one say. Of all this noble company? Youth, have you seen gray Gaffer Time? "Nay," answered gay-heart Youth; "not I! Though I be fleet, he tops the hill, And speeds afar ere I draw nigh." Age, hast thou seen gray Gaffer Time? " Nay," halting Age replied ; "not I ! Though I have laid him many a snare, He slips through every mesh I try." Joy, hast thou seen gray Gaffer Time? "Nay," answered smiling Joy; "not I! Why should I care to look for one Who makes a mockery of my cry? " 38 GAFFER TIME 39 Sorrow, hast thou seen Gaffer Time? " Nay," glooming Sorrow quoth; " not I! Still he evades my questing step, Albeit our paths together lie." Love, hast thou seen gray Gaffer Time? " Nay," white-browed Love replied ; " not I ! Though I have begged him show his face, Yet he vouchsafes me no reply." Death, hast thou seen gray Gaffer Time? "Nay," answered quiet Death; "not I! Why should I tryst with such as he, Who is of those that do not die ? " Then none has seen gray Gaffer Time Of all so wise a company; And I who seek him up and down, Alas! alas! what chance have I? WHERE ECHO DWELLS Some summer morn immersed in calm, When every wafture breathes of balm, Take you the pathway under hill, Night-haunted by the whippoorwill, Until, where beech and birch confer. And hemlocks make their harp-like stir, A sweeping amphitheatre Opes, golden green, upon the view; There Echo dwells, and waits for you. The elderberry every hour Adds to the purple of its dower; With every dusk, with every dawn, The mandrake fruit takes amber on; A gossip brook gives happy hint Of spruce and sassafras and mint; While overhead, a luring tint. The vast vault arches, virgin blue; There Echo dwells, and waits for you. 40 WHERE ECHO DWELLS 41 If you bespeak her loud or low, At night-heart, or at morning-glow, Trump-clear, or subtle-sweet and shy. Swiftly her voice will make reply. Never beheld, or near or far, Elusive as blown perfumes are, Evasive as a falling star. With all her ariel retinue. Fair Echo dwells, and waits for you! A SUMMER DAY Again across the calm of morn The sharp cicada shrills; Again the pee-wee, lone and lorn, Pipes from the wooded hills; And meadow-ward athwart the plain Slow moves the harvest wain. Again the fever of the noon Touches the toiler's brow; Again in haze the grain-fields swoon, And lifeless hangs the bough; Again the rill, its course along, Hushes its under-song. Again the pensive eve draws on. And earth's fast-closing eyes A space are raised to dwell upon The wonder of the skies; Again untroubled, boundless, deep. Broods the vast sea of sleep. 42 THE LURE OF THE WOODLAND Green o' leaf, sheen o' leaf, tremulous, wavery, Where down the aisleways the errant airs blow; Arras of maple-boughs, — emerald bravery! Always the twilight, and never the glow. Wren-call and glen-call, — a thrush fluting mel- lowly, — And a far whippoorwill, mournful and faint, Then a near robin-note, friendly and fellowly. And the small phoebe-bird's die-away plaint. Rook-gabble, brook-babble ; jewel-weed shimmering ; And the tall bee-balm with torches alight j And in the darksomemost recesses glimmering, Lo, the white ghost-flowers, like stars in the night ! Lure o' heart, every part, — mystery, magicry; Wonder ! — a world of it hid from the day ! Cure for care everywhere, balm for life's tragicry; Up, then, my comrade, and let us away! 43 THE WOOD THRUSH AT EVE At the wood edge, what time the sun sank low, We lingered speechless, being loath to leave The cool, the calm, the quiet touch of eve. And all the glamour of the afterglow. We watched the purple shadows lengthen slow, Saw the swift swallows through the clear air cleave, And bats begin their wa5rward flight to weave, Then rose reluctantly, and turned to go. But ere we won beyond the warder trees, From out the dim deep copse that hid the swale Welled of a sudden flutelike harmonies Flooding the twilight, scale on silvery scale. As though we heard, far o'er the sundering seas, The pain and passion of the nightingale. 44 THE SUMMONS I HEAR the morning calling me Through the shut casement, fresh and clear; " Come forth, O laggard one," saith she, " And taste the sweetness of the year ! " Lo, I will spread before your eyes The pageant you have yearned for long; I will unfold, in lyric wise, The dreamed-of ecstasies of song. " Before you up the hills shall run Mirth, and her frolic-footed brood; Along the valleys shall the sun Gem all the dews, in golden mood. " The little brethren of the boughs Shall shake their laughters down the wind; And you shall list the whispered vows Of vine and blossom intertwined." 45 46 THE SUMMONS At such a call, he who would bide Within would be a thing for scorn! — I toss my tiresome task aside, And hasten forth to greet the morn. HALCYON WEATHER Here's to the halcyon weather, And the wild, unfettered will, The crickets chirring, the west wind stirring The hemlocks on the hill! Here's to the faring foot, and here's to the dream- ing eye! And here's to the heart that will not be still Under the open sky! Ever the gypsy longing Comes when the halcyons wing ; Once you own it, once you have known it. Oh, the thrall of the thing! A flute-call and a lute-call, quavering loud or low, It clutches you with its rapturing, And it will not let you go! So it's hail to you, my rover, The god-child of the sun! In our heir-dom, — freedom from care-dom, — You and I are one! 47 48 HALCYON WEATHER* One with the many migrants, field-folk feathered or furred, Ever ready to rally and run At the sign of the silvery word! The ways we were wont to follow, We are fain of them no more; Rather the braided boughs and the shaded Paths by the rillet shore! — The tansy hints and the myrrh of mints, and the balms that the balsams shed, The berries, crimson-sweet at the core. By these are we lured and led. Then here's to the halcyon weather. And the old, untrammelled will, — Cicadas tuning, the west wind crooning Behind the crest of the hill! Here's to the truant foot, and here's to the dream- ing eye! And here's to the heart that will not be still Under the open sky! POET AND LOVER Thou say'st that thou hast seen One tread this greening way Whose mood and mien Were like the flush of day! Looked she sun-wayivard smiles? "Aye! aye!" quoth Giles. Thou say'st that thou hast heard One fleet this path along Whose every word Was like a matin song! Joined bird and brook the whiles? "Aye! aye!" quoth Giles. Thou say'st that thou hast known One, lightly footing, pass, Sweet as wind-blown Eve-perfumes from the grass! Breathed she all flowery wiles? "Aye! aye!" quoth Giles. 49 50 POET AND LOVER O most ecstatic glow! O wondrous visioning! To hear, to know, The Spirit of the Spring! What folly thee beguiles? " 'Twas Sylvia ! " quoth Giles. THE NIGHT BEAUTIFUL Day-long the fiery and unpitying sun Flamed in a sky that glowed like burnished brass ; Dun stretched the ribbon of the road, and dun The reaches of the grass. In the still willow shadows by the pool The cattle herded, standing dewlap-deep; And all the beechen aisles, erewhile so cool, Were sunk in fervid sleep. But with the dusk the vesper ecstasies Of the charmed wood-thrush stirred our hearts to hope; And then there breathed the blessing of a breeze Adown the western slope. The graceful garden-primrose set alight Its little globes of lemon-gold, and soon High in the deep blue garden of the night Flowered the great primrose moon. 51 52 THE NIGHT BEAUTIFUL And we forgot the garishness, the glare, The parching meadows, and the shrunken streams. And in the glamour of that magic air We gave ourselves to dreams. THE QUESTING FOOT Now that the blue-flag stirs at the root, This is the time of the questing foot! — Time to loiter and laze along, With never a thought save of meadow-song. Or of woodland silence that filters through To your spirit's core like the balm of dew! Only a wisp of a cloud above, White as the dreams of the one you love. Underneath, a turf whose sheen Is the very glossiest gold and green; A wind that lures you with subtle hints Of upland balsams and lowland mints; S3 54 THE QUESTING FOOT A something, — call it charm or spell,- Elusive and intangible, That leads one ever and ever away On to the purple verge of day. Now that the blue-flag stirs at the root, O to fare on the questing foot! SUMMER REGNANT With sweet reluctance In her golden eyes Summer hath put the imperial rose away, And donned her poppy-crown, whose gorgeous dyes Are like the skies of the declining day; The minstrel wind that erst was wont to say Musical matins at the prime of morn Now swoons within the pine-tree tops afar; And when the bee forsakes his drowsy horn, Red glows the evening star. It is the season of forgetfulness, And e'en the sharp cicada, fifing high. Jars us not back to any sense of stress; We are content to let the hours slip by As doth the stream that lapseth languidly; Why should we tease ourselves to find the clue To life's enigmas, — whence, and why, and where, — With o'er us brooding such ethereal blue, Such vasts of halcyon air! 55 S6 SUMMER REGNANT In opulence of calm enough to dwell On all the engirdling beauty, — to give o'er To the inthralment of the slumberous spell, Letting it clasp us as the sea the shore! Like those that drink mandragora, no more We heed the future, or what dead days owned; For us the present, and our realm of dream. Where, by the side of Summer, sits enthroned Love, regnant and supreme! A SUMMER PASTORAL I KNOW a little glade wherein to dwell, When poppy-garlands crown the drowsing year, Were honeyed happiness, — for I might hear The hermit-thrush at twilight from his cell Salute the love-star, and might feel the spell That Hylas yielded to, for subtile-clear The pool there limns the deep eyes of the deer, And winds bear draughts of dreamy hydromel. And closer might I win to Arcady, For reeds there are to pluck and notch and tune, As in the simpler, happier days of man ; And if I blew, and Echo answered me, Sooth, I might fancy, underneath the moon, Slim maidens dancing to the pipes of Pan ! 57 THE EARTH-LOVER Be it sad or singing season, Time of mourning or of mirth, With a lover's blithe unreason His a passion for the earth. Of the wealth of his affection Seed and leaf and sheaf have part; And he takes, without reflection. Every growing thing to heart. Weft of grass and blossom-petal, Root of flag and tip of reed, Barb of thorn and sting of nettle, — Each contributes to his need. And a love he would not smother Is for the fresh-turned red loam. Since he knows that, like a mother. It will one day call him home. 58 THE EARTH-LOVER «;9 From the old familiar places He will by it be beguiled. And within its warm embraces Slumber softly as a child. THE GYPSY WIND The gypsy wind goes down the night, I hear him lilt his wander-call; And to the old divine delight Am I a thrall. It's out, my heart, beneath the stars Along the hillways dim and deep! Let those who will, behind dull bars, Commune with sleep! For me the freedom of the sky. The violet vastnesses that seem Packed with a sense of mystery And brooding dream! For me the low solicitudes The tree-tops whisper, each to each, The silences wherein intrudes No mortal speech! 60 THE GYPSY WIND 6i For me far subtler fragrances Than any spell of morn transmutes, And melodies and minstrelsies From fairy lutes! My cares, — the harrying throng take flight. My woes, — they lose their galling sting, When I, with the hale wind of night, Go gypsying! BEE-BALM The bee is abroad In the zenith heat of noon, When all of the winds are awed, And the waters swoon. The meads are asleep, But never a buzz cares he; Down in the dingle deep There's balm for the bee. Here are torches gay Spangled with scarlet fire, To light the dusk of the way To his heart's desire. What a bounteous brew Awaiteth his thirsty call! — Casks of honey-dew For the bacchanal. 62 A SUNSET BREEZE All of the livelong day there was scarcely a rustle of leaves, The writhing river burned like a molten serpent of fire; The reaper dropped his scythe, and the binder fled from his sheaves, And a breeze on the throbbing brow was the world's supreme desire. When the disk of the sun dipped down there sprang from out of the west A sudden wafture of wind that crinkled the un- mown grain; The kine were glad in the field, and the bird was glad on the nest. And the heart of the mother leaped that her prayer was not in vain. 63 64 A SUNSET BREEZE For the sunset breeze stole in with healing upon its breath, Winnowed the fevered air with a single sweeten- ing sweep; Out of the back-swung door slipped the pallid angel of death, And lo, as the mother knelt, the baby smiled in its sleep! AN IDLE DAY This day will I cast off the coil Of aging worry and of toil, And seek the soothing soul-caress Of Idleness. For sometimes it is well to be Both body-free and spirit-free, To own no gyve, no cincturing wall. No thrall at all. The harper wind strides o'er the hill; His truant will I make my will; Two jovial comrades, forth we hie Beneath the sky. We loiter; who shall cry us " nay? " We hasten; who shall bid us stay? By stream or woodland-side we brood, As suits our mood. 65 66 AN IDLE DAY And ah, the golden grain I reap From this one long, from this one deep Day-dwelling, in the dream-duress Of Idleness! I slough the husk of discontent, And feel no longer hedged and pent; I look on all that round me lies With saner eyes. I gather from the bounteous earth A quiet joy, an inner mirth; And life, where'er I pass along. Seems set to song. THE HALCYON I SEE thee on yon sycamore's wounded bough, Apart from all the wood choir's silvery noise, Sit like a mournful watcher at the prow, In lonely equipoise. Yet thou art harbinger of all things fair. For o'er regenerate earth now seems to brood The immaterial loveliness of air. The sky's blue vastitude. 67 SONG OF THE MORNING STARS Through the abysses of the sky Surge upon surge the years sweep by, Yet still our spheral voices chime, For we are over-lords of Time. We view all secrets face to face, — The deep solemnities of space. The rayless voids of outer sea, The courts of God's eternity. It is our bliss to be above All passions save eternal Love, And this our choral lips rehearse Throughout the listening universe. So shall the centuries wax and wane Till Song and Love alone remain. And all shall join our deathless chime. Like us the over-lords of Time. 68 THE JESTER AND THE BUTTERFLIES Fair elves of frolic, dancers of the air, Gay pirouetters in the noonday sun, Blithe summer nurslings with your lives soon done. Would I might all of your abandon share ! You know not age; 'tis never yours with spare And tottering Decrepitude to shun The primrose pathways that Youth smiles upon, Who are like Youth forever debonair. Thus would I fain adventure; have my day Bright in the splendid sunlight; never feel The clutching cold that lies in wait for Age; Trip to the summer's jocund roundelay The madsomest, the merriest, then steal Sudden and swift from off life's comic stage! 69 IVY LANE (a seventeenth century love song) Ivy Lane In Devon, — That's the place for me! The sweet air mellow With the burden of the bee; High up in heaven The blue, blue glow; But Ivy Lane in London, — O no, no! Bare walls sullen In the grim gray air; Close-shut windows With a cold blank stare; Never lark or linnet A-warbling low; Ivy Lane in London, — O no, no! 70 IVY LANE 71 But Ivy Lane in Devon, — Sunlight and song, And beauty of blossoms The glad day long; Then love in the twilight With starry eyes aglow . . . Ivy Lane in London, — O no, no! Ivy Lane in London, — Stress and strain and strife, All of the sweetness Hurried out of life! But far from the clamor By the wide west sea, Ivy Lane in Devon, — That's the place for me! OF RHYME Not for mine ear The rigid rhyme austere, But that which swings and sways with mellow beat, And soft recurrence of alluring feet! Not for mine eye The palely sculptured line. But that which hath the shimmer and the shine Of skyey metaphor, the mid-day dye Of golden simile, and clearly shows Imagination's emerald and rose! Bird, brook, and wind-call ; the wild pulse of storm ; All life's unnumbered colors, sweet and warm ; Rapture and sorrow; the swift flux of time; — These would I have both sing and glow in rhyme ! 72 RAIN I HEAR the soft re-iterance of the rain Upon the roof above me, like a tune With melancholy measure, one as hoar As are the silent footfalls of old Time. And though the burden borne unto mine ear Runs in the plaintive minor, yet my mood Is rather one of rapture than of pain. Albeit alone, the demon loneliness Is by a kindly angel exorcised ; I brush aside the cobwebs of the years As one breaks gossamer, and cloudy morns. And likewise long unazured afternoons. Are quick again. Eyes on responsive eyes Linger and flash; voice answers friendly voice, And laughter soars as does the thrush uncaged. High 'neath the eaves upon the hills of hay The boys, now gray, touch hand and heart again. Whiles with insistent monotone above Murmurs the rain-song. Ah, I love the sound, — The soothing, soft re-iterance of the rain! 73 MAID'S SONG IN MOURNING Hours that once had swallow wings Poise on heavy pinions now; Reft of all its rapturings, Silent hangs the singing bough. Down the wind the voices call, And like, tears the raindrops fall. Skies may beam with blue again. Birds may come to woo again. But not here for me, dear, and not here for you again! Barren are the ways where erst Foot to foot kept married time; Joy is like a bubble burst, There's a jar in every rhyme. Ah, my heart were not a-cold Had I, love, thy hand to hold ! Spring will lift the gloom again. Rise from out the tomb again. But not here for us, dear, the bud or the bloom again/ 74 THE WARBLER Warbler, of the pale gold breast, Whither, whither away? The wind is wild about the nest, And into the sunset or the dawn The cherished nestlings all are gone; Heigh-ho! and well-a-day! Warbler, whither away? Warbler, of the pale gold breast, There's ever a home, you say, — Or be it east, or be it west; But ah, how sad to build and find No nestling one day but the wind ! Heigh-ho! and well-a-day! — That's what the lone hearts say. 75 DOVES IN THE RAIN Dull and ashen the day; Drip, — you may hear the eaves; Drip, — you may see the leaves; Rillets bubble and run; Never a gleam of sun While the gray hours wear away. Over the slanting slates, Under the cupola's crown, Snowy and blue and brown. Crouch the forms of the doves. Cooing their matin loves, Mates to amorous mates. Lo, the gloom is gone, Fades like a deep night dream, Lost in the sunrise beam! Dazzles before my eyes The sweep of Venice skies, With their pageantry of dawn; 76 DOVES IN THE RAIN 77 Venice skies and the square, — San Marco's domes ashlne Like the amber Asti wine; The giant in the tower Hammering out the hour On the hush of the southern air. This, and the throng of doves On the palace cornices, Flocking crevice and frieze. With flutter and perk and preen In the gold-shot azure sheen. As they murmur of their loves. Woo and coo again! — Yea, I am well content With all that is blurred and blent (Hours of the radiant past As though in a mirror glassed) In the rhythmic fall of the rain! AN AUTUMN SONG Again the old heraldic pomp Of Autumn on the hills; A scarlet pageant in the swamp; Low lyrics from the rills; And a rich attar in the air That orient morn distils. Again the tapestry of haze Of amethystine dye Encincturing the horizon ways; And from the middle sky The iterant, reverberant call Of wild geese winging by. Again the viols of the wind Attuned to one soft theme; — Here, every burden left behind, O love, would it not seem A near approach to paradise To dream and dream and dream! 78 THE WEAVER Who is it weaves such marvellous tapestries In dyes that dazzle if the eyes but scan? Richer of hue and of design are these Than fabrics Tyrian! Yonder is cloth of gold more royal bright Than that whereon King Henry Francis met, When they put by the mailed gage of fight For friendship's silken net. That russet there is of a glossier sheen Then e'er was donned by merry Robin Hood, To lead his lads, who wore the Lincoln green, Through Sherwood's shadowy wood. And yonder scarlet braver far appears Than that which decked the pennons of the bold Who urged the lines of the embattled spears Through the red wars of old. 79 8o THE WEAVER Who is this weaver in these wondrous dyes That works such magic in the hours of gloom? Go, and perchance to-night you may surprise September at her loom! THE PIPES OF AUTUMN A THRILL as of exuberant will The rfmpling corn-fields know, As o'er the vale and up the hill The pipes of Autumn blow. Across the orchards tremors toss, And golden ripples run O'er hillocks where the milkweed's floss Is shimmering in the sun. Once more beside the runlet's shore The violet opes its eyes; Once more the dandelion's ore As though May-minted lies. A-blur with gleamy gossamer Is every upland lawn; The woodland, save where glooms the fir, Is wrapt in dreams of dawn. 8i 82 THE PIPES OF AUTUMN Like spring's the last fleet whir of wings, The last low lyric cry That down the hazy distance rings To dip and faint and die. A thrill takes hold upon the will And sets the cheeks aglow, As o'er the vale and up the hill The pipes of Autumn blow. JOY AND SORROW Shall we let Joy go by, He of the kindling eye? Nay, comrade, nay! But lo, he wends his uncompanioned way! Shall we bid Sorrow bide, He that is mournful-eyed? Nay, comrade, nay! But lo, he lingers, bidden not to stay! 83 CONTRASTS After the long green levels of the plain, The primrose ways, the scented paths of thyme, Welcome the slopes that stir the dormant vein, The soaring cliffs that dare the feet to climb ! After the dull monotonies of life, The placid days that with no ripple roll, Welcome the strain, the stinging taste of strife. The immitigable stress that tests the soul! 84 AN INSTRUMENT A HUMAN heart, this was the instrument That many, dowered with cunning skill, essayed; Joy fingered it, and Fear above it bent. And Sorrow her pale hands upon it laid. Then Anger smote it, and Despondency, And Passion swept it with his touch of flame; But it gave forth no wondrous melody Till Love, the masterful musician, came. 85 TIME Time oft is limned decrepit, wizened, old, With wintry hair rough shaken by the breeze, One who on life has but a feeble hold, A graybeard ambling upon tottering knees. Ah, the dull folly of such portraiture! Time gray? Time old? See how he runs, for- sooth ! Within his veins there courses, swift and sure, The Olympian ichor of eternal youth! 86 THE HAUNTS OF YOUTH Doubter, say, wouldst thou behold Essence that is never old? Wouldst thou gaze and dwell upon Energies that sing and run Ever vital, true and tense In their vernal innocence? From thy dullard dreamery Rise thou, then, and come with me Where the forest shadovi^s fall! — There is youth perpetual. Never burn the fires so low Underneath the shroud of snow That they are not swift to leap Lissome from the trance of sleep; E'en behind the deepest moan Hides a hint of virile tone; In the darkest shades withdrawn Waits the golden lily, — dawn! Youth, the forest's fairest thrall, Youth abides perpetual. 87 SNOWFALL Stainless as Truth, or Purity's white face, Behold the snow fall! Never came a dream On lighter pinions from the courts of Sleep. What is as soft as this aerial fleece. This visual foam upon the unseen air. Unless it be the sweep of seraph's wings Down the inviolate ways of Paradise! Or, cool on the contracted brow of Pain, The healing touch of Death's caressing hand! WINTER DREAMS All the voices of the wind Sank to slumber with the sun ; Lest the ways of night be blind, Burn the beacons one by one Where the bastions of the sky In their ancient wonder lie. Wide the solitudes of snow, Flawed by no assoiling breath, Slumber in the spectral glow, Wan as is the face of death ; Fixed in fear the woodland seems. And the air is full of dreams. One of this ethereal brood Fate has bidden comrade me: Suddenly my sombre mood Kindles to expectancy. And there beat within my brain Presages of April rain. 89 90 WINTER DREAMS Oh, for all the dreams of night, If this transient one has power So to touch the source of light, So to set the gloom aflower! Then, mayhap, to stay my need, In my heart were spring indeed. THE WHITE BIRCH Over the lonely uplands The snows of the north are blown, And the white birch of the forest At last has won to its own. We watched it through the spring-time, Clad in its silvery spray. And fell in a maze of wonder At the graceful, pale estray. We marked it through the summer. Tenuous, tall and thin, And we thought of it, touched with pity. That it sorrowed for its kin. We gazed on through the autumn, When the rich year pomps it by. And we saw it fold about it The alien gold of the sky. 91 92 THE WHITE BIRCH But now that a samite vesture Over all the earth is thrown, The white birch of the forest At last has won to its own. HOMESICK Here, within Winter's white domain, I am as one who has no place. For all the diverse ways contain No fair familiar face. My old-time comrades, — bees and birds, The little leaves that love the sun, With their companionable words, — Alas, I hear not one! Not one ! — and to my aching heart. As through this spectral realm I roam, Comes the inexorable smart, — The wander-cry for home. O Summer, hearken, I implore, You with the eyes benign and mild! To your caressing arms once more Take back your homesick child ! 93 WINTER ON THE HILLS What do the city houselings know Of Winter hale and hoar, Who crouch beside the back-log's glow Behind the battened door? Not theirs the wonder of the waste, — White league on league out-rolled; Not theirs 'neath spacious skies to taste The tonic of the cold! Not theirs the North- Wind's breath to breast Till each vein tingles warm The while he drives along the west The horses of the storm! Not theirs the snows as soft as sleep That hill and hollow hood; Nor the oracular silence deep Within the druid wood! 94. WINTER ON THE HILLS 95 Not theirs by night, undimmed, to mark The spangles of the Bear; Nor through the dark from arc to arc The pale auroras flare! Not theirs to share the proffered part Of wealth he holds in store; Not theirs to know the constant heart Of Winter hale and hoar! A WINTER NIGHT I HEAR the casement creak and clang, The frosted fir boughs gasp and groan; And the lone wind is like a hound That growls and crunches on a bone. I raise the curtain; ne'er a star Pricks the vast vault, but snowy spume Cloaks monstrous shapes that ride the night Like evil wraiths, and trumpet " doom! " The angry whip-cords of the sleet The windows lash, as they were fain To fling defiance in my face Through the thin rampart of the pane. It is as though the door of Dread Had yawned, with a portentous birth; And yet, let but the morning dawn. And lo, how white the peace of earth! 96 THE OLD YEAR TO THE NEW The snows of death are drifting deep, And I have nothing left to gain, Save the long legacy of sleep Beyond the reach of joy or pain. But you, the lithe and strong of thew,- For you the onward-luring star, The splendors of the sun, — for you Youth's ardors that eternal are; To note the spring's ecstatic stir, The faint red maple-buds unclose; To be the violet's worshipper. And play the wooer to the rose; To watch the swallow, swift of wing. Soaring across the sky's blue nave; To hear the minstrel oriole sing, A rapture in each golden stave; 97 98 THE OLD YEAR TO THE NEW To know love's sweet companionship Along the wonder-haloed height; To press unto the eager lip The purple fruitage of delight. Yours the glad sowing of the grain, The harvest happiness to reap; While I have nothing left to gain, Save the long legacy of sleep. IN THE MAPLE WOOD Crimson burn the briar-tips now As the sky at vesper-vow; And the sap within the maple Tingles to the topmost bough. From its winter-long repose Wakes the wood; the bonfire glows; Up and down the leafless arches Rings the clamor of the crows. And from early morning-dream^ Freed by the awakening beam, How the sap into the buckets Trickles in a silvery stream! Where the maples thickest throng Plod the toilers late and long, While the low voice of the caldron Sings its ceaseless sugar-song. ' 99 loo IN THE MAPLE WOOD Hither when the aisles grow dim And the pine knots flare and swim, Comes a group of laughing lasses, Cheeks aglow and eyes abrim. Then the merriment has flow, Quips go darting to and fro, While the more than honeyed nectar Turns to sugar in the snow. And if sweeter things than this Chance (a surreptitious kiss!) Where's the man or where's the maiden Who would count such joy amiss? For when winter's fetters part, And the maple juices start. Then it is, my maids and masters, Stirs the love-tide in the heart! JIM CROW Oh, say, Jim Crow, Why is it you always go With a gloomy coat of black The year long on your back? Why don't you change its hue, At least for a day or two. To red or green or blue? And why do you always wear Such a sober, sombre air. As glum as the face of Care? I wait for your reply. And into the peaceful pause There comes your curious, croaking cry,- " Oh, because ! 'cause ! 'cause ! " Oh, say, Jim Crow, Why, when the farmers sow, And the corn springs up in the row. And the days that once were brief Grow long, and laugh into leaf. Do you play the rascally thief? loz JIM CROW I can see by the look in your eye, — Wary and wise and sly, — That you know the code in vogue; Why will you, then, oh, why, Persist in the path of the rogue? I hearken for your reply. And into the empty pause There rings your graceless, grating cry,- " Oh, because ! 'cause ! 'cause ! " And say, Jim Crow, With all of the lore you know, — Lore of the wood and field. Lore of the clouds, and the clear Depths of the atmosphere. To our duller ken concealed, — Why is it you ever speak With a mingled squawk and a squeak? You, with your talents all, And your knowledge of this and that. Why must you sing like a squall. And talk like a perfect " flat? " I listen for your reply. But in the lapse and the pause AH I hear is your impudent cry, — "Oh, because! 'cause! 'cause!" CANDLEMAS SONG " Bruin, bruin, You'll be a-ruin' That you stuck your nose out, Or your toes out, From the cosey tavern Of your cavern, — From the dim and dun light Into the sunlight! For there's your shadow; See it, see it go Down the meadow And over the snow! But while your cave is cosey. It must get rather prosy. This sleeping and this dreaming. This life that's only seeming, For visionary honey, And visionary money, We're not suin', Eh, bruin, bruin? 103 I04 CANDLEMAS SONG " And bruin, bruin, We, too, are a-ruin' That same shadow Down there on the meadow! We've had enough of housing, — Crouching by the ingle; Out in the dingle We'd like to be carousing; Hearkening the jostle Of the wren and throstle; Just gazing, Loitering and lazing, Joying in our journey Where the ways are ferny. But oh, there're six weeks yet of it ! Ah, the gray regret of it! And the wind and wet of it! And though it's a shame To hold that you're to blame. It somehow seems as though it were your doln', O bruin, bruin ! " THE WANDERER AT HOME Of yore, when Mother Fate was kind, And I was hale and lithe of limb, I was the comrade of the Wind, And roved God's spacious earth with him. And now that Age hath chained me here Where dreams are like a tidal sea, He comes and gossips in mine ear With all his ancient comradery. He tells me how the Wye still glides By Tintern in its cloistral vale; And how by Isis' bowery sides Still pleads the leaf-hid nightingale. He voices the soft songs they sing Where Venice fronts the Adrian main, And the faint lyric call of spring Across the lone Campanian plain. 105 io6 THE WANDERER AT HOME He bids me list the Alpine horn From heights with spectral light ashine, And the young shepherd's shout when morn Lifts from the blue ^^gean brine. He iterates the pilgrim's cry, In that mysterious nomad land Where the Sphinx crouches deathlessly,- Allah-il- Allah, — o'er the sand. And ere he goes his wandering way He breathes the fragment of a tune I once heard gem-bright fingers play Beneath a golden Shiraz moon. And so, though I may roam no more About the world from end to end, Yet can I touch the furthest shore Who have the journeying Wind for friend. THE ISLE OF GLAMOURIE Set in the midst of a silver sea Is the radiant isle of Glamourie; In crescent coves and in coral caves Sink and swell the sound of the waves, Like the rise and fall of a tune Stolen out of the heart of June. There do marvellous portals ope To the precious palace-halls of Hope; And through the lovely labyrinth, Climbing pillar and clasping plinth, Is the slender vine of the jasmine-flower, Filling with fragrance every hour. Paved with pearl are the winding ways. Opal, agate, and chrysoprase ; And down long vistas of pendulous palms, With sunlight flooding the arches tall, Throughout the lingering noontide calms Waterfall calls to waterfall. How shall we sail o'er the silver sea To the radiant isle of Glamourie? Just at the violet verge of dark. Then, forsooth, is the happy time, 107 io8 THE ISLE OF GLAMOURIE For Fancy then, in her fairy bark, Glides away like a golden rhyme Over the waves to the coral caves And the crescent coves that the blue tide laves! O to come to that glorious isle Again with the dew-fresh heart of youth, With never a dream in the brain of guile, And never a doubt that all is truth ! And ah, the noble company In the radiant isle of Glamourie! There, in the deepest, dimmest dell, Doth the fair enchanted Princess dwell; There Prester John goes galloping by To the lilt of his stirring battle-cry; There doth the valorous Cid abide, And Roland, whom song hath glorified, — Haroun, the Orient's splendid star, Sir Galahad, the stainless knight. And the King who foremost flashed in the fight The burning brand Excalibar. We have all been there in the crystal air, Where the sweep of the sky is ever fair; We would all go back o'er the silver sea, ' Away from the world and its crowding care To the wonderful isle of Glamourie! THE FOUNT OF PAVENAY When morning set her crimson crown Upon the Easter day, Saint Isadore came winding down The paths of Pavenay. He saw through all the billowing land The Spring beside her loom, — The vernal magic of her hand In weaving bud and bloom. And as his footsteps drew anigh The huddled hamlet square, He heard mount up the April sky The plaintive sound of prayer. " O Thou that dwellest," cried a voice, " Where wells eternal flow, Make Thou our longing hearts rejoice, A healing boon bestow: 109 no THE FOUNT OF PAVENAY " Brim Thou this basin's cup once more With Thy reviving dew! " — Then forward pressed Saint Isadore The sealed fount to view. He thrust the throng aside, as chaff Before the wind is blown; And with his oaken pilgrim staff He smote the thirsty stone. It seemed as though that sturdy blow Cast off the choking spell; For lo, the fount began to flow, A pure and living well! And never, from that Easter hour. It ceased to sing and run. Through changing days of frost and flower,- Of shifting shade and sun. And ever, when the young year wore Her Easter garments gay, Rang praise to good Saint Isadore Through gray old Pavenay. AZALAIS It was the maiden Azalais; And fairer was her hair to see Than any garnered golden sheaf, — Than any ambered linden leaf Down drifting through the autumn days, When the sweet autumn days grow brief; And of her deep eyes, verily, It might be said, — no pool there lies Brooding, without or stain or stir, Beneath God's radiant reach of skies More wondrous than the eyes of her. It was the maiden Azalais; And one there came with casques of gold And gems from Ophir, and before Her feet outspread the precious store. With cunning-coined words of praise, With honey-hearted metaphor. And yet she looked upon him cold And haughtily, nor smiled at all; Fool, thus to think to win her grace Who purity perennial Wore on the rondure of her face! 112 AZALAIS It was the maiden Azalais; And one bright-raimented In mail, With twi-edged falchion, scabbard drawn. That flashed as doth the blade of dawn, Made her obeisance with bold gaze, And craved that she would think upon Vale billowing upon verdant vale, His fief by conquest, all her own Would she but hearken to his suit; Dolt, how he slunk away alone When with her scorn she smote him mute! It was the maiden Azalais; And one in pilgrim russet clad, Yet with a bearing rapt as his Who knows the soul-impassioned kiss Of lofty love inspire his ways, Besought her; and her heart grew glad Listing to Love's sweet litanies, — His dear and fair and fond demands. Ah, wise one, thus to woo, — and win! For not through wealth nor falchioned hands Love to his kingdom enters in! GUIDO, THE GONDOLIER Over the long lagoon The orient gold of the moon; Out of the gardens blown The rose's spicery. And the low and languid moan Of the Adriatic sea! Night in Venice, — night, With its web of spangled dreams! The Grand Canal alight With a myriad lantern-beams; Music in languorous bars From a maze of strummed guitars; Lattices open thrown, And balconies wreathed with bloom; Gloom? — not a ghost of gloom In the queenly island-town, (The sculptured flower of stone That beauty-lovers praise) But song borne far adown Through all of its water-ways! 113 114 GUIDO, THE GONDOLIER Song? — aye, strain on strain, With ever the one refrain! Love, — its glamour and gleam; Love, — the rapture-dream ! And the clearest voice in all Of the crow^ded carnival. The most ecstatic note On the night-tide set afloat (Golden ripple and run Like a heavenly antiphon) That many hung mute to hear, Was that of a youth, — of one Guido, the gondolier. As blithe he w^as to see As the lad of the Latmian glen. The hale Endymion, when He wooed the queen of the night; Yet upon no goddess he. Whose song was without a peer. Had turned his yearning sight. But the Doge's daughter, pure As the May time of the year; And she loved this troubadour, Guido, the gondolier. GUIDO, THE GONDOLIER 115 The moon-smile touches the earth; The bird dips out of the air; Thus Love, of immortal birth, Joineth the high and low, Until it is theirs to know Bliss or divine despair. " The garden water-stair At the heart of the carnival night ! " This was the word that came, And fanned his soul to a flame. And thither, without a fear, Sped, with his oar-sweep light, Guido, the gondolier. One little liquid trill, Such as the nightingales spill. When the first star burns on the breast Of the violet-colored west, Then, a face like the sudden bloom Of dawn in the scented gloom! Afar, from wall to wall. Echoed the carnival; Song, in a passionate tide. Swelled, drooped, but never died; " Rejoice ! " all Venice cried, ii6 GUIDO, THE GONDOLIER And the skies gave back, "Rejoice!" But a voice men longed to hear Was lifted not, — his voice, — Guido, the gondolier. From out of the byways dim, What long and shadowy shape Makes sudden swift escape, And seems like a gull to swim Over the broad lagoon, In the radiant flood of the moon? A gondola, wherein twain, Fain as a flower is fain Of the sun, know naught save the bliss Of love, and a lover's kiss! The Doge's daughter dear. And her blithesome minstrel-swain, Guido, the gondolier. Why follow them o'er the foam? They heeded the world-old call, Caught in its wondrous thrall; Ravenna, Rimini, Rome? — Nay, 'tis the Land of Love (Ah, the happiness thereof!) That is henceforth their home! GUIDO, THE GONDOLIER 117 A vision of youth's delight, They vanished into the night, — The night of a bygone year, — The Doge's daughter fair. Fearless and debonair, And Guido, the gondolier. LIFT UP THINE EYES Comrade^ that seek'st the clue Of whence and whither to, Rather, in trust, let be The shrouded mystery! Brood not, but toward the skies Lift up thine eyes! If the sworn friendship fail, And fleering foes assail. If Love, half-deified. Turn scornfully aside. If ogre Doubt arise. Lift up thine eyes! Grip faith to thee (not fate!) In the good ultimate! With this, from sun to sun Until thy race be run. And the last daylight dies. Lift up thine eyes! ii8 This first edition of The Lyric Bough consists of five hundred copies on laid paper and twenty -five copies on Ruisdael hand-made paper. HAR 21 1904 WeA Z HdV