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SEMPER PLUS ULTRA 
 
 MARION PELTON GUILD 
 
 Wellesley, '80 
 
 PRINTED FOR THE BENEFIT 
 
 OF THE 
 
 WELLESLEY COLLEGE LIBRARY FUND 
 
 GARNET ISABEL PELTON 
 
 Wellesley, '97 
 
 MDCDVI 
 
.Uss 54- 
 
 LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 Two Cooies ReceivMl 
 
 MAY 10 1906 
 
 .Copyrighl Entry 
 
 CLASg^ i^ XXc, No. 
 OOPY B. ' 
 
 Copyright, 1906 
 By Marion Pelton Guild 
 
 BOSTON, MASS. 
 
a 
 
To 
 
 My Beloved Poet 
 
 KATHARINE LEE BATES 
 
 whose unbroken friendship for nearly thirty years 
 has been one of the greatest blessings and inspira- 
 tions of my life, and without whose persistent 
 encouragement this little sheaf of verse would have 
 failed of its harvesting. 
 
 00 
 
 These days and those days, 
 
 And all of life between! 
 Dream days, rose days, 
 
 And fading leaves for green! 
 But constant as this heart that beats 
 
 To one unaltered tune, 
 friend, thy soul exhales its sweets 
 
 In Love's perpetual June. , 
 
Acknowledgments for courteous permission ix) reprint 
 poems that have appeared in periodicals are made to the 
 Atlantic, Century, Lippincotfs, Chautauquan, Neui England, 
 Outlook, Churchman, Congregationalist, Christian Endeavor 
 World, Sunday School Times, and Springfield Republican. 
 Thanks are due also to Messrs. Thomas Y. Crowell &. Co. for 
 allowing the republication here of A^ Matunv^k, which origi- 
 nally appeared in their book of sea poems, Surf and Wave. 
 
CONTENTS 
 I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Semper Plus Ultra 11 
 
 The Prodigal Son 13 
 
 To the Supreme Artist 16 
 
 Strange Rhymes 17 
 
 The Joy that Abides 18 
 
 Crippled 20 
 
 The One Task 22 
 
 II 
 
 Red Roses 25 
 
 With Jacqueminots 27 
 
 A Cavalier Variation 28 
 
 I Dreamed, Beloved 29 
 
 The Helpmeet 30 
 
 O, Why Are thine Eyes so Joyful? 31 
 
 Faust's Question 32 
 
 The Gift of Bereavement 33 
 
 Experience 34 
 
 Heroism 35 
 
 Memory 36 
 
 Without Fear and Without Reproach 37 
 
 Thy Thoughts : A Song of Discipleship 39 
 
 III 
 
 At Grand Manan 43 
 
 Moonrise on the Passamaquoddy 45 
 
 All in the Golden Morning 46 
 
 7 
 
PAGE 
 
 In the Carolina Mountains 47 
 
 My Lady Sourwood 48 
 
 To a Live-Oak 50 
 
 On the Veranda 51 
 
 In Flood 52 
 
 The Answer of the Hepaticas 53 
 
 Birds at Dawn 55 
 
 IV 
 
 The Perfect I.yric 59 
 
 The Truth of Ait 60 
 
 V 
 
 At Matunuck 65 
 
 Harold Singing G8 
 
 A Valentine 70 
 
 Fortune-Telling 72 
 
 VI 
 
 Guinevere Dying: A Dramatic Monologue 77 
 
 VII 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 To Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning: On the 
 
 Publication of their Letters 83 
 
 On Reading Poe's Ligeia 85 
 
 An Echo of Dante 86 
 
 Uncertainty 87 
 
 The Key 88 
 
 Lake George 85 
 
 Liberty Enlightening the World 90 
 
 Charleston in 1900 91 
 
 The Ultimate Love 93 
 
 8 
 
SEMPER PLUS ULTRA. 
 
 Through the storm — and beyond ! 
 When the crystal air is heaven's own wine, 
 Vital with breezes, all divine 
 With the refluent glory of gleam and shine; 
 
 0, but the heart must sing ! 
 
 Through the pain — and beyond ! 
 When the pulses swell with the incoming flow 
 Of the tide of life that had ebbed so low. 
 And the dawn of a richer youth's aglow; — 
 
 0, but the heart must sing ! 
 
 Through the loss — and beyond ! 
 When the unguessed gain asserts its power, 
 And the soul that faltered in failure's hour 
 Knows itself and its deathless dower; — 
 
 O, but the heart must sing ! 
 
 Through the grief — and beyond! 
 When God, who hid the beloved face, 
 Folds His child in His own embrace. 
 And an angel is felt in the vacant place; — 
 
 O, but the heart must sing ! 
 
 11 
 
Through the sin — and beyond ! 
 When the fetters have falFn by the open door, 
 And the spirit stands upright once more, 
 And the balm of Christ has healed the sore; — 
 
 O, but the heart must sing! 
 
 Through despair — and beyond ! 
 Thou God of God and Light of Light, 
 To Thee, in Thy mercy infinite. 
 In Thy tested strength and Thy proven might ,- 
 
 O, but the heart must sing ! 
 
 12 
 
THE PRODIGAL SON. 
 
 Here feast I at my Father's board, 
 Who starved among the swine; 
 
 For me must every foot be fleet 
 And every lamp must shine; 
 
 For m.e the merry music sounds, 
 The dancers dip and twine. 
 
 My heart beats fast against my robe, 
 
 The best robe, soft and red; 
 With sobbing breath and tightening throat 
 
 And tears in rapture shed, 
 I feel His ring upon my hand. 
 His blessing on my head. 
 
 Ah! bitter was the way, and oft 
 My blood m}^ path would trace; 
 
 And guilt and grief and stabbing shame 
 With all my steps kept pace; 
 
 And yet I famished not for bread 
 So sore as for His face. 
 
 The road seemed endless. On I fared, 
 Wresting each mile from death; 
 
 Then such an awe upon me fell 
 I scarce could draw my breath; 
 
 My spirit felt His coming as 
 Of one that succoreth. 
 
 13 
 
Blind, fainting, to His mighty breast 
 He caught and held me fast; 
 
 I knew the fortress of His arms 
 About my weakness cast; 
 
 And, when he kissed my traitor cheek, 
 I guessed His heart at last. 
 
 The piteous words I oft had conned 
 
 I trembling strove to say; 
 But sudden glory round me poured 
 
 A brighter, richer day. 
 In wonderment I lifted up 
 
 My head that drooping lay. 
 
 The glory streamed from out His eyes, 
 As from all Beauty's throne. 
 
 O depths of love unthinkable 
 That in their splendor shone ! 
 
 O pain of love that travaileth 
 And bleedeth for its o'wtl ! 
 
 gleam of wisdom hoar with eld 
 Ere sang the stars of mom ! 
 
 O shifting, blending, dazzling lights. 
 That thrilled my hope forlorn 
 
 To undreamed miracles of joy 
 And surge of life reborn ! 
 
 He H< H^ ^ :{: 
 
 14 
 
He brought me home, and here I sit, 
 Even in my boyhood's place; 
 
 And on my very soul is stamped 
 Each largess of His grace; 
 
 But still transfiguring all I see 
 That radiance of His face! 
 
 ■I? 
 
 'I 
 
 15 
 
TO THE SUPREME ARTIST. 
 
 What poignancy of loveliness 
 
 In music or in dream, 
 Thy rarer loveliness can tell, 
 
 Thy slightest grace beseem ! 
 
 We praise the beauteous alphabet 
 
 That spells Thy cosmic Art: 
 Sunshine and moonlight, stars and flowers, 
 
 A child, a mother's heart. 
 
 The whole succession exquisite 
 Of shapes that come and go; 
 
 But Thee, prime Artist, Beauty's self, — 
 How oft we miss Thee so ! 
 
 Once only from Thy deeps of light 
 
 The essential Splendor came 
 Unveiled yet soft to mortal sight : 
 
 Man's awe enshrines His name. 
 
 16 
 
STRANGE RHYMES. 
 
 On a day of prisoning pain 
 
 Came the Muse to me again. | 
 
 What a poet-prince is Time, 
 
 Making Muse and pain to rhyme! 
 
 In my hour of loss supreme 
 Came — what men would call a dream. 
 Yet that dream, by day and night, 
 Still has been my pillared light. 
 
 In my sharpest agony 
 Came a healing balm to me 
 So divine that it sufficed : 
 Came the vision of the Christ. 
 
 17 
 
 I 
 
 
THE JOY THAT ABIDES. 
 
 What heart may cease from singing, 
 
 Each latest Christmas morn, 
 The song of the day when far away 
 
 The Hope of the World was born ! 
 
 Not alone to the little children, 
 
 Who bend with faces bright 
 Over the longed-for treasures 
 
 That dawn with the Christmas light. 
 
 Nor yet to the souls unstricken, 
 
 Who count with voices clear 
 Their jewels of love and friendship, 
 
 Set in this crown of the year, — 
 
 Not alone to these, O spirit, 
 
 Comes the splendor of Christmas morn, 
 The joy of the day when far away 
 
 The Hope of the World was born; 
 
 But to heads that are bowed with sorrow, 
 To eyes that are dim with tears, 
 
 To hearts that ache in the emptiness 
 Of the desolated vears. 
 
 18 
 
For what is the Christ-child's message? 
 
 The love that enspheres all love; 
 The nearness of these groping lives 
 
 To the Father-life above; 
 
 The peace that passeth knowledge; 
 
 The wisdom we may not guess, 
 That folds our souls and the souls we crave 
 
 In perfect tenderness. 
 
 Then let each heart go singing, 
 
 This latest Christmas morn, 
 The song of the day when far away 
 
 The Hope of the World was born! 
 
 19 
 
CRIPPLED. 
 
 Beethoven deaf, and Milton blind! 
 And you and I, of lowlier kind, 
 With small yet vital tasks assigned, 
 
 We too have known the spirit's ache 
 At special powers disabled, make 
 Our bitter plaint for the work's sake. 
 
 Yet where our blunted tools we mourn , 
 Divinest music strains are borne; 
 Beethoven, eye us not with scorn! 
 
 And Milton, of his sight bereaved, 
 
 Vision and victory achieved; 
 
 Twice must his crown be laurel-leaved ! 
 
 Ah, can it be that Fortune mocks 
 
 With cruel-tender paradox 
 
 The lives she gives her hardest knocks. 
 
 And grants, in strange, relenting mood, 
 
 Some super-sensuous aptitude. 
 
 When well her maimings are withstood? 
 
 Fortune? Her shrine is grey and cold. 
 O Father of us all, behold 
 Our handicaps, how manifold ! 
 
 20 
 
Thou only know^st what self -wrought wrong 
 Must in the grievous count belong. 
 Thou only makest weakness strong. 
 
 And in Thine all-resourceful mind 
 Alone our riddle is untwined, — 
 How he that loseth life shall find. 
 
 O crowning Answer, heartening Grace, 
 Lift Thou on us Thy regnant face, — 
 Crippled or no, we dare the race ! 
 
 21 
 
THE ONE TASK. 
 
 A sculptor with a dulled and twisted tool 
 Might yet such patient mastery attain, 
 Albeit more slow, with unresented pain 
 
 To round at last his image beautiful. 
 
 So grant us, Lord, whose powers before us lie 
 Like battered instruments, no whit to cease 
 Our toil the visioned statue to release 
 
 Of Beauteous Living, till to live we die. 
 
 22 
 
II 
 
i 
 
RED ROSES. 
 
 I roam in a garden vestal-fair 
 
 The livelong tranquil day, 
 'Mid spotless lilies and snowdrops there 
 
 And tremulous tints of May; 
 Where myriad violets scent the gloom 
 
 Of the forest-winding stream, 
 And throngs of white camellias bloom 
 
 With a chill, unearthly gleam; 
 But I sicken of all, and cry to Fate 
 For the red, red roses beyond the gate. 
 
 From every land, from every clime, 
 
 The earth-stars here are come. 
 And proudly they banish the old lord Time 
 
 From their glamour-haunted home; 
 But where the purple pansies grow, 
 
 Uplifting their eyes to mine, 
 I wander, restless and sad and slow, 
 
 And seek for a flower divine. 
 Then I sicken of all, and cry to Fate 
 For the red, red roses beyond the gate. 
 
 For there, from my vine-wreathed prison-wall, 
 
 I see their passionate glow; 
 I catch a fragrance rarer than all 
 
 The breath of my flowers of snow; 
 
 25 
 
The visioned light of their dusky hearts 
 
 Strikes e'en my lilies dim; 
 And the wine of their beauty a strength imparts 
 
 That floods my soul to the brim. 
 So I gaze in longing, and cry to Fate 
 For the red, red roses bej^ond the gate. I 
 
 ^' Beyond the gate/' moans the traveler Wind, 
 
 ^' There are darker sights than these; 
 Freshness and bloom are hard to find 
 
 And the shade of Eden trees; 
 But the plains are bare and the mountains cold, j 
 
 And drear is the desolate sea ; * 
 
 The woe of the world is grim and old, 
 
 'Tis death to thy flowers and thee." J 
 
 But I hearken not; I cry to Fate 1 
 
 For the red, red roses beyond the gate. 
 
 I know there is sorrow^ and gloom and pain 
 
 In the world for a soul untried; i 
 
 That my buds ma}^ wither, nor bloom again, 
 
 If the gate be opened wide. 
 But I cry for freedom, for love, for life! 
 
 For the real that conquers the dream! 
 And I know that there, in the heart of the strife, 
 
 The victor's banners gleam. 
 So I break the barrier, and fly with Fate 
 To the red, red roses beyond the gate! 
 
 1879. 
 
 26 
 
 i 
 
WITH JACQUEMINOTS. 
 
 Do you know what roses mean? 
 
 Have you quaffed their fragrant wine 
 
 Till its spirit, half divine , 
 Overmasters yours, my queen? 
 
 As their crimson dusks unfold 
 Depths of beauty passing speech, 
 Secrets God alone can teach. 
 
 Do you feel your heart controlled? 
 
 Is that virginal, proud heart 
 
 Throbbing with the roses' power? 
 Blossoming, this very hour, 
 
 To a rose's counterpart? 
 
 Beauty, fragrance, tenderness, 
 Mystery, enchantment, fire, 
 God's touch, — O my soul's desire, 
 
 Dare I whisper, " Yield and bless " ? 
 
 27 
 
A CAVALIER VARIATION. 
 
 Thy bugle, this, that calls me from thy side, 
 As thine the lute that sings our endless troth; 
 
 Honor and thou in one fair house abide, 
 And loving either, I must needs love both. 
 
 28 
 
I DREAMED, BELOVED. 
 
 I dreamed; Beloved, thou wast lying 
 In some dim chamber far from day, 
 
 Where strangers whispered, " He is dying! " 
 And none could point me out the way. 
 
 I woke, Beloved. All the morrow 
 Was calm with unforeseen delight; 
 
 For even through that maze of sorrow 
 Thy soul had touched me in the night. 
 
 29 
 
THE HELPMEET. 
 
 Once again the sunshine bloomS; transfigured into 
 
 goldenrod, 
 As I fare alone and wistful to the quiet house of God ; 
 In my brain the old refrain, " Ah, would my dearest 
 
 with me trod! " 
 
 Then I picture thee as passing through some far-off, 
 
 thirsty place, 
 Where the weary men and women from thy cheer 
 
 take heart of grace. 
 And I think, " The friendless drink the benediction 
 
 of his face." 
 
 What am I that I should call thee from thy Heaven- 
 appointed way? 
 I, whose glory is to help thee bear the burden of the 
 
 da}^? 
 Not for me alone, my own, the elixir of thy blessing. 
 
 Nay! 
 
 Nay! the universe has errands for her wise and 
 
 faithful son. 
 Come not, though I die with longing, till the perfect 
 
 work be done. 
 Thus to lose thee is to choose thee, for our souls are 
 
 closelier one! 
 
 30 
 
O, WHY ARE THINE EYES SO JOYFUL? 
 
 O, why are thine ej^es so joyful? 
 
 And why is thy laugh so gay? 
 '' The king of mine eyes and my laughter 
 
 Sets sail for his realm to-day! " 
 
 Hast thou a magical mirror 
 Wherein to behold him depart? 
 
 '' 'Tis the myriad-faceted jewel 
 Of love that I wear on my heart! " 
 
 31 
 
FAUST^S QUESTION. 
 
 " He loves thee. Understandest thou? '' 
 With softened lights the stage is set; 
 
 And in the garden-glamour now 
 
 Faust stands with trusting Margaret. 
 
 She droops beneath his niisty gaze 
 Rer young, defenceless, golden head; 
 
 And white upon the shadows^ ways 
 The daisy's prophet leaves are shed. 
 
 Amid the throng that smiles or sighs, 
 A woman's face confronts the scene. 
 
 With loathing writ in hopeless eyes 
 And blight where loveliness has been. 
 
 And coiling memories, anguish-bom, 
 Envenomed at the question stir: 
 
 Her heart responds with shame and scorn. 
 '' Ah. yes! such love as liis for her! " 
 
 Another woman turns and sees 
 
 In eyes that catch her soul to heaven, 
 
 The meaning of all mysteries. 
 
 All pain transfigured, ^atal leaven 
 
 For daih' bread, the kingly prize 
 Of high endeavor, tenderness 
 
 Of Love himself in mortal guise: 
 And she too murmurs, ^' Yes, ah, yes! " 
 32 
 
THE GIFT OF BERKIVEMENT. 
 
 Great Death, of old a spectre thou 
 To chill the soul: but ah. not now! 
 Ah. not to me! Of Life a part 
 Grown fair and natural thou art, 
 Wearing the all-expressive grace 
 And lure of the beloved face. 
 

 EXPERIENCE. 
 
 On the raw of his soul he played 
 
 With a bow whose touch was fire; 
 
 'Twas of quivering memories made, 
 
 And one deathless, fine desire. 
 
 Ah, what a marvelous strain! 
 
 Elixir to heart and brain ! 
 
 And his pain was lost in the fear 
 
 Of his eyes so old and clear, 
 
 Of his truth-attaining eyes, 
 
 So grave and glad and wise, — 
 
 '' If the young men should not hear! " 
 
 34 
 
HEROISM. 
 
 Two strains of laughter passing sweet 
 
 I hold, and passing dear, 
 I fain would think, w^here angels meet: 
 
 A child's laugh, bubbling clear; 
 
 And shards of joy, of hope, of trust, 
 
 Welded, as stout hearts dare, 
 To some gay laughter-blade, that's thrust 
 
 At the Fafnir of Despair. 
 
 35 
 
MEMORY. 
 
 What shadow hovers near? 
 
 '' A messenger of woe." J 
 
 'What scourges doth he bear? 
 
 '^ The sms of long ago." 
 
 Nay, 'tis an angel's shield, 
 
 Wrought of thine ancient sorrow, 
 Lest unawares thou yield 
 
 And fall to-morrow. 
 
 36 
 
WITHOUT FEAR AND WITHOUT REPROACH. 
 
 Ride forth, knight, to battle! 
 
 White hands their beauty yield 
 To buckle on thine armor 
 
 And poise thy dinted shield. 
 Lo, how the little children 
 
 Upturn their faces bright ! 
 Lo, how the grey old fathers 
 
 Have blessed thee for the fight ! 
 
 Ride forth! the day is breaking 
 
 And yonder stalks the foe; 
 Deep scars and ancient witness 
 
 Thy might that smote him low; 
 But with his ghastl}^ banners 
 
 Again he blots the day. 
 O, grim will be the struggle 
 
 Along the spear-set way ! 
 
 For 'tis no human warrior 
 
 Whose hatred bars thy path; 
 No human shape that beckons 
 
 The sword-thrusts of thy wrath. 
 Powers of the realms of darkness 
 
 Are mustered in his train, 
 And off his magic armor 
 
 The lances fall like rain. 
 37 
 
Yet ride thou forth, O hero ! 
 
 No lance of steel is thine, 
 But sped with swerveless lightning 
 
 Of purposes divine. 
 Look to the hills around thee! 
 
 Behold the countless throng 
 Of God's white legions, gathered 
 
 To sing thy triumph-song ! 
 
 Thy face is calm and trustful; 
 
 But in thine eyes a flame 
 Of life and death that scorches 
 
 The coward into shame; 
 And round thy mouth the promise 
 
 Of \dctory doth wait 
 In lines of conquered passion 
 
 And will at one with fate. 
 
 Ride forth, O crown of knighthood ! 
 
 Our hearts' blood prays for thee; 
 The captive's fetters tremble 
 
 Before thy golden key : 
 The world's long sceptered evil 
 
 Is tottering on its throne; 
 The Lord of Hosts be with thee 
 
 To make the world His own 
 
 38 
 
THY THOUGHTS. 
 
 A SONG OF DISCIPLESHIP. 
 
 They dawn upon me with the dawning sun, 
 
 And robe me for the day; 
 Wherever my iUumined path may rim. 
 
 Thy thoughts make glad the way. 
 
 They company my loneliness; they shine, 
 
 A mightier presence still, 
 When Friendship lays her noble hand in mine, 
 
 And works her gracious will. 
 
 Thy thoughts with resurrection voices call 
 
 My life to hope and power; 
 With serried wings impregnable they wall 
 
 My soul in danger's hour. 
 
 They feed me with God's altar-bread and wine 
 
 From chalices of gold; 
 They quire for me the harmonies divine 
 
 Sung by the stars of old. 
 
 At night they spread my couch with whitest peace; 
 
 My prayer is angel-blessed; 
 And in their calm, till thought's own sweet surcease, 
 
 Enfolded deep I rest. 
 
 39 
 
I 
 
 i 
 
II! 
 
i 
 
AT GRAND MANAN. 
 
 Lo, this gracious haunt of solitude, this eyrie where 
 we he! 
 
 Lo, these craggy ramparts, Titan-hewn, and scarred 
 by storms gone by ! 
 
 Lo, the quivering, shimmering sapphire, vast, un- 
 broken to the sky! 
 
 '^ Pitying Nature," late we prayed her, " take thy 
 
 spendthrifts to thy breast; 
 Let the greatness of thy soul the greatness of our 
 
 need invest; 
 Give us mighty spaces, mighty silences — we die 
 
 for rest ! " 
 
 Just the lapping of the ripples, just the breathing of 
 
 the breeze; 
 Here a seagull, there a swallow, flashing past our 
 
 cleft of ease; 
 And above, the sturdy lighthouse, sentinel o'er isles 
 
 and seas. 
 
 Canopied with drowsy azure, couched upon the 
 
 venturous grass. 
 Neighbored by the nodding bluebell, one with 
 
 nature's general mass. 
 What to us the world beyond the waters, what the 
 
 hours that pass! 
 
 43 
 
All in time. Some dim to-morrow sees Antaeus in 
 
 the fight; 
 But to-day he cares not even to lament his broken 
 
 might; 
 Sunk in primal stupor, drunk with earth's embrace, 
 
 the earth-born 's right! 
 
 44 
 
MOONRISE ON THE PASSAMAQUODDY, 
 
 Pearl and opal and amethyst 
 
 Blend in the sea and sky; 
 Filmily folded in drowsy mist 
 
 Harbor and islands lie. 
 
 Low in the west the ebbing rose 
 Fails from the twilight shores- 
 Eastward the great moon dimly glows, 
 Poised on the sapphire floor. 
 
 Only a glint of her deepening light 
 Touches the tremulous tide; 
 
 But soon will the silver path be dight 
 Where angel dreams may glide. 
 
 Wake, sweet music ! and softly breathe 
 
 Over the tranced sea 
 The peace these holy calms bequeath 
 
 To struggle that is to be. 
 
 45 
 
ALL IN THE GOLDEN MORNING. 
 
 All in the golden morning, 
 
 Upon the bay's blue breast, 
 A flock of snowy seagulls 
 
 One frolic moment rest. 
 So free, so glad, so fearless. 
 
 Poised in their plumy pride ! 
 Like marshalled water-lilies 
 
 The}'- stem the rippling tide. 
 
 Anon their leader soareth, — 
 
 Hey for the race begun ! 
 An'upward rain of blossoms. 
 
 They dazzle in the sun; 
 A rain of living blossoms. 
 
 Into the glory hurled, 
 To add new speech to beauty, 
 
 New gladness to the world ! 
 
 46 
 
IN THE CAROLINA MOUNTAINS. 
 
 See., as we climb the woodland way. 
 
 Yon rose-tinged blossom shine! 
 And this, more white than acolyte 
 
 That guards a hidden shrine ! 
 What sudden awe withholds the word 
 
 One to the other saith? 
 What great impending loveliness 
 
 Catches the startled breath? 
 
 Lo, softl}^ fall the reverent lights, 
 
 Where pillared oaks o'erscreen 
 A holy house not made with hands, 
 
 A sylvan chapel green; 
 And here, in tall, calm, stately ranks 
 
 Above the teeming sod. 
 The virgin rhododendrons lift 
 
 Their beauty unto God. 
 
MY LADY SOURWOOD. 
 
 Here in our mountains you shall see 
 A piquant, delicate little tree; 
 Assuming but a modest place, 
 Too wholly fine to flaimt her grace; 
 Yet I suspect her, even in that, 
 A typical aristocrat, — 
 Among her sturdier sisterhood 
 The peerless Lady of the wood. 
 
 Her shape is slender, curving, lithe; 
 
 To gay Sir Breeze she courtesies blithe; 
 
 Her satin raiment's tender sheen 
 
 Was never matched by daintiest queen; 
 
 And on her nodding tresses set 
 
 She wears a maiden coronet 
 
 Of blossom-sprays, all sweet and fair, 
 
 Like valley-lilies lifted there. 
 
 Thus she at Summer's court. But when 
 Great Autumn smites the land again 
 With tingling prophecies of woe, 
 Of failing life and shrouding snow. 
 Then, like some exquisite marquise 
 Before the Terror, brave she sees 
 Her noble comrades meet the call. 
 And stands the proudest of them all. 
 
 48 
 
The indignant blood within her burns; 
 To one pure, crimson flush she turns, 
 So beautiful, the foe must pause 
 And grieve to work his bitter laws; 
 And lo! on dauntless breast and brow 
 Pale blossoms linger even now: 
 Witness of youth, that mocking cries, 
 '* There is no death! " and smiling dies. 
 
 49 
 
TO A LIVE-OAK. 
 
 My forest Atlas, lifting to the sky 
 
 A beauteous world of frail, dependent life, — 
 
 Along the reaches of thy mighty arms 
 
 Soft friezes of the resurrection fern, 
 
 And wind-blown draperies of filmy moss, 
 
 Grey, eerie, phantom-fair; thy massive trunk 
 
 Broidered with lichens, starred wdth delicate vines 
 
 That cling for sanctuary to thy strength; 
 
 And far above, thine own plain, faitliful leaves! 
 
 Under thy vast benignity I stand, 
 
 O new-found friend, and in thy murmurs hear 
 
 Voices of ancient friendship quiring sweet. 
 
 50 
 
ON THE VERANDA. 
 
 O swaying vine, whose curtained grace 
 Makes me a sweet and hidden place, 
 Whose living stars of limpid green 
 In myriad witcheries are seen 
 To overdroop and interlace, — 
 
 You cannot know my human case; 
 Your glancing runes I may not trace; 
 Though oft I court your tender screen, 
 O swaying vine! 
 
 Yet many a soul-enchanted space 
 Within your emerald bower I pace; 
 Yea, sometimes, when my sight is keen, 
 I catch, your bafHing spells between, 
 A glimpse of very Beauty's face, 
 O swaying vine! 
 
 51 
 
IN FLOOD. 
 
 So! you thought me dead, 
 
 With the snow-wreaths round my head, 
 
 The weights upon my breast, 
 
 With my swift life-currents hid 
 
 'Neath the icy coverlid. 
 
 The close-wrapped winding-sheet 
 
 Bound strait about my feet, 
 
 Lying in white, at rest. 
 
 Dead ! Have a care, I say ! 
 
 Out of the way! 
 
 Ha, ha! I am free, I am free! 
 Once more I leap to the race. 
 Once more I exult in the face 
 Of the open sky and the sun 
 And the splendor of Spring begun. 
 Laugh out, shout aloud, with me! 
 
 Crack, crash! Good-by to the dam! 
 
 I hurl the timbers aside. 
 
 Resistless, I thunder past 
 
 Faster and yet more fast. 
 
 What now is their scatteredTpride 
 
 To the living joy I am? 
 
 Ha, ha! I triumph at last! 
 
 52 
 
THE ANSWER OF THE HEPATICAS. 
 
 You came in your alien sorrow 
 To our hushed and beautiful wood; 
 The brown leaves rustled to greet you, 
 The bare, brave boughs to meet you 
 Bent in the pure, earth-scented. 
 Pitying wind; but you stood 
 Like a captive that hopes no morrow, 
 Dull, deaf, blind, broken-hearted. 
 The tears to our quick eyes started ! 
 
 Yet how could you know we were hiding 
 
 A few steps farther on? 
 
 " Death in my heart," you cried, 
 
 " And death in the wood abiding! 
 
 I have slain sweet youth, and the vision 
 
 That, fairer than aught beside. 
 
 Ever before me shone. 
 
 Alas! when that is gone. 
 
 Well may the paths be dreary, 
 
 Well may the winds be w^eary. 
 
 And the creaking boughs make moan! " 
 
 One glance, and you kneel beside us! 
 Yes, trembling hands, we are here; 
 The mould no longer may hide us 
 - And into your face we peer. 
 
 53 
 
0; let our smile delay you ! 
 
 Dark face, grow bright, we pray you! 
 
 See, we are fragile and white, 
 
 But we mock at frost and blight; 
 
 Before our leaves we speed, 
 
 As before a promise, its deed; 
 
 For we haste, we haste to live. 
 
 Into the ranks, O soul! 
 
 Full place and free we give. 
 
 For the Lord of Life and of Death 
 
 To 5^ou and to all things saith, 
 
 *' Live! Live! live! " 
 
 54 
 
BIRDS AT DAWN. 
 
 A lingering ache that will not change nor cease, 
 A dim entanglement of broken dreams, 
 Where false is true and truth a shadow seems, — 
 
 Hark! through the maze glad melodies of peace! 
 
 Sing on, sweet birds, across the weary night; 
 And let the fulness of your rich refrain 
 Enfold my sense from restlessness and pain, 
 
 Until the heavens break forth in hymns of light. 
 
 Ay, happy birds, that herald in the day. 
 
 My heart shall make you answer, song for song; 
 What though your night and mine were twice as 
 long ! 
 
 God's glorious sunshine laughs them both away. 
 
 55 
 
IV 
 
THE PERFECT LYRIC. 
 
 Like Shakespeare's lark that sweeps nito the blue; 
 Like Swinburne's roses, washed with Wordsworth's 
 
 dew; 
 Like Sappho's fire that burns the centuries through. 
 
 A keen, bright dagger, piercing to the heart; 
 A sweetness heaven-distilled, to allay the smart; 
 A rainbow tear, dropped by imperial Art. 
 
 59 
 
THE TRUTH OF ART. 
 
 Say not, the rapt musician's strain, 
 The painter's brush, the poet's pen. 
 Tell idle tales for idle men, 
 
 And mock with dreams the hearts in pain. 
 
 No ! the responsive artist-life 
 Quivers to all life everywhere, 
 Aches with the weight of human care. 
 
 And drinks from bitter waves of strife. 
 
 Only, the artist's quickened sense 
 
 Hears, through the abyss of grief and wrong, 
 
 Far echoes of a primal song, 
 A bliss that chords the elements. 
 
 And thus not ignorant, but free, 
 
 Of earth's despair, he truly tells 
 
 The jangling of our mortal bells, 
 But, under all, God's harmony. 
 
 And e'en if through some black distress 
 His own heart fail, his eyes grow dim, 
 God wields his instrumient for him 
 
 To issues that he may not guess. 
 
 60 
 
The saddest song is music still; 
 
 The saddest picture, beauty ^s school; 
 
 The saddest life is rich and full 
 As rounded by the Eternal Will. 
 
 61 
 
V 
 
AT MATUNUCK. 
 
 " Sweetheart, the storm is over; 
 
 Comej watch the waves with me." 
 So I said to my baby lover, 
 
 And led him down to the sea. 
 
 There the great deep sm'ged in fury 
 As far as sight could reach. 
 
 While the breakers hurled their passion 
 In white foam on the beach. 
 
 And the ceaseless song that the waters 
 Are sounding night and day 
 
 Was blent with the shriek of the tempest 
 And the dashing of the spray. 
 
 But the warrior sun, victorious 
 At the portals of the night. 
 
 Wide flinging his crimson banners, 
 Had whelmed the storm with light. 
 
 A sight sublime and solemn. 
 
 As stern and glad as life; 
 So I bade the child be silent. 
 
 To watch the dying strife. 
 
 65 
 
For I thought, " Our Heavenly Father 
 Now speaks to man, His child. 
 
 Not only in calm and sunshine, 
 But in flood and tempest wild, 
 
 " His love has its lesson for us, 
 Our waiting hearts to cheer; 
 
 Blest are the eyes that see Him, 
 Blest are the ears that hear! " 
 
 So I lost myself in dreaming. 
 With eyes on the sea's blue rim; 
 
 But the child, with his soft child fingers, 
 Drew down my face to him; 
 
 And prattled the baby-nonsense 
 
 That is more than sense to the wise, 
 
 With onty a glance for the ocean 
 And a smile for the burning skies. 
 
 " Yes, darling," I said, " but listen; 
 
 The night is too grand for speech; 
 Hark to the voice of the waters 
 
 And learn the wonders they teach.'' 
 
 But ever the dainty fingers 
 
 Were busy with my face; 
 And the brooklike murmur paused not 
 
 In its quaint, bewitching grace. 
 
 66 
 
Vainly I turned to seaward, 
 
 For all that I could hear 
 Was the sweet voice saying, " I love you.'' 
 
 Then I bowed to the word in fear; 
 
 In fear lest the earthly grandeur 
 
 And clouds in sunset piled 
 Had dimmed for me the glory 
 
 That shone in the heart of the child. 
 
 " Darling/' I cried, " I yield me! 
 
 Ah, dull and deaf and blind, 
 To turn to Nature's beauty 
 
 From the blessing of my kind ! 
 
 " God's love, in truth, is in all things, 
 
 But most in the soul of man; 
 And one smile of your eyes is better 
 
 Than the best that the cold earth can! " 
 
 67 
 
HAROLD SINGING. 
 
 Harold comes lingering down the stair, 
 
 My child-knight Harold, with boyish grace; 
 Under his close-cropped golden hair 
 
 Shines the mischievous rose of his face. 
 But the dancing eyes are dreamy now, 
 
 And the laughing mouth is wistful grown. 
 And the voice that is rarely grave or slow 
 
 Chants in a pitiful undertone: 
 " For men must work and women must weep,'^ 
 
 Over and over, this alone. 
 
 Ha, laddie, what words are these for you? 
 
 Where did you catch the grim, sweet strain? 
 Such be for souls that have journeyed through 
 
 The gates of the city of toil and pain. 
 But you, on a pathway just begun, 
 
 Out with the birds in the meadow-grass. 
 Playing at hide-and-seek with the sun, 
 
 Why should you echo the world's alas? 
 ^' For men must work and women must weep,"- 
 
 Unheard, imheeded, the questions pass. 
 
 But, Harold, I see in your shining eyes 
 The crystal light that the young souls bear 
 
 To the human world from the God-lit skies, 
 But lose in the tempests of grief and care. 
 
 68 
 
Keep the light while you may, little man, 
 For the threatening years press on apace ; 
 
 Sport with the butterflies all you can, 
 Soon must you strive in a sterner race; 
 
 For men must work and women must weep. 
 And the shadows will deepen across the face. 
 
 The boy smiles out of the midst of his song! 
 
 " Why do you wonder that I have heard 
 What our neighbor goes singing the whole day long ? 
 
 The beautiful music ! For never a bird, 
 Though birds are not so sober, you know, 
 
 Twittered an air that I loved so well; 
 And the words in my heart soimd strange and low. 
 
 What is the rest of it? Can't you tell? 
 " For men must work and women must weep," 
 
 Again he murmurs the tuneful spell. 
 
 Ay, the ballad is true, and truth is sweet; 
 
 And better than heart of the happiest boy 
 Is the man's heart, knowing of life complete. 
 
 Of the struggle and sorrow that end in joy. 
 You're stirred by the music over the way? 
 
 Then answer it, Harold, loud and clear; 
 For the darkness brightens into the day. 
 
 And a prophet of hope is the voice you hear. 
 For men must work and women must weep. 
 
 And in all God draweth His children near! 
 
 69 
 
A VALENTINE. 
 
 You do not care for lovers yet, 
 
 My little maid, my Valentine? 
 The foolish moths you'd fain forget 
 
 That hover where your graces shine? 
 Still, wait you some endearing word 
 
 From those whose hearts with yours entwine, 
 Borne by the good Saint's carrier-bird? 
 
 little maid, take mine! take mine! 
 
 Let lovers please their ladies' ears 
 
 This merry day, my Valentine, 
 With swelling verse wherein appears 
 
 A compliment for every line; 
 The simple truth alone I speak; 
 
 No aid I ask from Muses nine; 
 And gallantry w^ere all too weak 
 
 To greet aright my Valentine. 
 
 I will not praise you for your eyes, 
 
 My Valentine, my little maid ! 
 Though depth of steadfast sweetness lies 
 
 Within their brown and thoughtful shade; 
 Nor any beauties will I sing 
 
 To any outward sense displayed; 
 To love these were too slight a thing. 
 
 Were love by their fair limit stayed. 
 
 70 
 
But O, the heart within your breast, 
 
 My Valentine, my little maid! 
 So loyal to the parent-nest; 
 
 So swift the stranger's cause to aid; 
 So trustful when the days are sad; 
 
 So patient under hopes delayed; 
 So childlike still, so freely glad 
 
 When da^^s are bright, my little maid! 
 
 And O, the simple wisdom shown, 
 
 My white, white rose, my Valentine, 
 In thousand matters, — look and tone 
 
 And deed and choice; the instinct fine 
 That seeks the noblest everywhere; 
 
 The arrowy thought, that up the incline 
 Of lofty questions cleaves the air; 
 
 To these I bow, my Valentine! 
 
 And O, the pure, imselfish will. 
 
 My little maid, my white, white rose, 
 That, better than all grace or skill, 
 
 On God's great will its weakness throws. 
 And, borne upon that mighty stress, 
 
 Forever purer, stronger grows! 
 God help you other souls to bless 
 
 As mine you bless, my white, white rose! 
 
 71 
 
FORTUNE-TELLING . 
 
 My darling has learned the secret 
 
 That the gypsies, long ago, 
 Wielded to lure the yellow gold 
 
 From credulous hands of snow; 
 And now, in a charmed silence 
 
 No voice from the world must break, 
 She deals and ponders the old, old cards, 
 
 For dear Dame Fortune's sake. 
 
 Anon she starts, exulting: 
 
 " A letter, a mystery. 
 The smile of the sun, the laugh of the lute 
 
 And a lover of high degree ! 
 But alas for my wish, it comes not! " 
 
 The broad brows knit as in pain. 
 The poor little prophets are straight upswept 
 
 And the tale begins again. 
 
 grey eyes, masterful, steady, 
 
 On the whimsical task intent, 
 Little ye know of the shining forms 
 
 That over your folly are bent ; 
 Little ye know of the promise 
 
 That throbs in the living air, 
 The gracious hands outstretched in vain, 
 
 Or the royal gifts they bear! 
 
 72 
 
Great Mother Nature lingers: 
 
 " I have almost lost my child! " 
 And stately Learning echoes her 
 
 In accents deep and mild. 
 That was Art's plumy pinion 
 
 That brushed against your face. 
 That strain of music is calling you 
 
 As it soars to the heavenly place. 
 
 But hark! what hurrying footsteps 
 
 Bring hither weal or woe? 
 What shape imperious, dazzling, stern, 
 
 Arrests the pulses' flow? 
 Quick, maiden, break from your glamour! 
 
 Down, the false prophets! 'Tis She! 
 quick, or eternity hides her, sweet ! 
 
 'Tis Opportunity! 
 
 73 
 
■; 
 
VI 
 
« 
 
GUINEVERE DYING. 
 
 A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE. 
 
 "Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, 
 And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, 
 Hereafter in that world where all are pure 
 We two may meet before high God, and thou 
 Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know 
 I am thine husband — not a smaller soul, 
 Not Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, 
 I charge thee, my last hope." 
 
 I, who was young, am old; my heart beats low; 
 O'er all the world a gradual twilight creeps, — 
 This narrow, hidden, blessed convent world, 
 Where I have prayed and fasted, toiled and taught, 
 And through long years have purged away my sin. 
 The nuns, mj^ doves who flock about me here, 
 Missing their wonted crumbs of holy thought. 
 Marvel to see their abbess gaze afar 
 With eyes imwatchful; and my little ones, 
 Children of whiter mothers, stand and stare 
 In cherub-wonder round my lowly bed. 
 Small, tender hands, I feel your clinging yet. 
 And bless the flaxen heads in order due ! 
 
 But soundless voices call me; and the cloud 
 
 That parts us from eternity grows thin, 
 
 So thin, its opalescence almost breaks. 
 
 And lets the keen light through. O glorious face, 
 
 77 
 
solemn, challenging, majestic eyes 
 
 Of Arthur, my great angel, dawn ye there? 
 Then Heaven is Heaven indeed! 
 
 Yea, I am weak; 
 
 1 know that Heaven is God; and whiles, the goal 
 And summit of my life's attainment, gleams 
 The all-transcending vision of Himself; 
 
 No dream, no image, but His very self, 
 In holiness and grace ineffable, 
 Fountain of glory and beauty and delight 
 And marvelous fulfilments, past our hope. 
 I have so learned His mercy, that I think 
 Nothing too merciful for Him. And now 
 This mortal faileth, 'tis His pitying hand 
 Leads my weak thoughts the old, beloved way 
 To that fair glass wherein I saw Him first, 
 Arthur, the whitest splendor of earth since Christ! 
 
 For through thee, Arthur, did He wake my soul; 
 And deep against His love in thine I sinned; 
 And in thy pureness read my foulness plain; 
 And by thy great forgiveness hoped in His, — 
 Forgiveness almost unbelievable. 
 Yet my one star in skies that else were black. 
 " Perchance," — God be my witness! I have lived 
 And eaten and drunk and breathed and pulsed that 
 word; 
 
 78 
 
By that *' Perchance " endured the agony 
 
 Of knowing what I was; by that *' Perchance " 
 
 Fought the grim fight with steady-eyed Despair; 
 
 Cast out the sick self-love that tortured yet 
 
 With vengeful pangs the simple penitence 
 
 Approved of God and thee; and standing straight 
 
 Beneath my shameful burden, carried it 
 
 In steadfast patience till it wore away. 
 
 By that '' Perchance " I haled unworthy thoughts 
 
 To sternest judgment, clean out-lived at last 
 
 The stain that, loathed by day, besmirched my 
 
 dreams. 
 By that " Perchance '' I girded all my soul 
 To service true-begotten of thine own. 
 However dwarfed and tardy; strove to bring 
 My little w^orld that might have been so great 
 To some faint semblance of that noble weal 
 Thou laboredst for, thou with thy Table Round 
 Until — alas! alas! O saving Christ, 
 Sustain me, shield me from this sharpest thrust 
 Of sworded memory, that I failed my king 
 And thwarted him at kingliest, — that for me 
 The land is darker for a race unborn ! 
 
 Can he forget it, in the deeps of light? 
 
 Could any, howsoever he forgave, 
 
 Save God Himself, take back to spotless breast 
 
 Such treachery? touch robes that once were vile 
 
 79 
 
Nor shrink through all his whiteness? " His last 
 hope ''? 
 
 let me be thy serving-wench on high, 
 Thy tool, thy errand-bearer, anything, 
 My heart's one master, so in mercy thou 
 Permit me near thee, sharing m thy life 
 And in thy work, lest even Death be vain. 
 
 And Heaven without thee but a foothold whence 
 
 1 still might climb to thee! 
 
 Ah, softly, breath! 
 What mighty wings are arching o'er my head? 
 What great, celestial presence spheres me round 
 With living sanctuary of awful peace 
 And ecstasy undreamed? Arthur, or God? 
 
 1901. 
 
 80 
 
VII 
 SONNETS 
 
TO ROBERT AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 
 BROWNING. 
 
 ON THE PUBLICATION OF THEIR LETTERS. 
 
 mated souls, that through the blissful deeps 
 Of heaven on heaven wing your ethereal way, 
 Know ye how Love on earthly shores to-day 
 
 For your true sake his feast in triumph keeps? 
 
 Know ye how all the world of lovers heaps 
 Its garlands on the living words that aye 
 The holy passion of your vows shall say 
 
 Till Song itself to grey oblivion creeps? 
 
 The alpha and omega of the heart; 
 
 The perfect scale, to its first note returning; 
 
 Each fond detail, each jot of life or art, 
 Touched with the fire upon the altar burning ! 
 
 While Genius smiles, a happy prisoner, caught 
 
 In golden labyrinths of one sweet thought. 
 
 II. 
 
 Our modern Muse hath fever in her veins; 
 
 Her lips, alas! have known the tainted springs; 
 
 We turn afresh to where your fountain flings 
 Its crystal challenge to all droughts and stains. 
 Your white ideal, crowned with the fact, remains 
 
 83 
 
Steadfast amid the shock of baser things; 
 
 Your love the shining seal of witness brings 
 To Nature's charter, Eden's height regains. 
 Ah, if the mighty quests that now possess you 
 
 Permit one pause of earth-revealing sight. 
 Surely the blessing ye have wrought must bless you 
 
 A keener glow inform the heavenly light, 
 Some finer echo of our praise must ring 
 In those infinitudes where Love is king ! 
 
 84 
 
ON READING POE'S " LIGEIA." 
 
 Behold, a lonely turret-chamber, hung 
 With gleaming tapestries, whereon are wrought 
 Dark arabesques, that mock the gazer's thought 
 
 By subtile change to demon-shapes; high swung, 
 
 A lamp of twisted gold, with many a tongue 
 Of serpent flame; swift apparitions, caught 
 And prisoned fast in carven ebony; nought 
 
 Save leaden windows, whence no light is flung. 
 
 What means this horror of enchanted gloom, 
 O wizard poet? What this sound of woe? 
 This weird, low music that the wailing wind 
 
 Sweeps ever round the ever-darkening room? 
 ^'^ Ah, friend, the open mystery doth show 
 The haunted chamber of the poet's mind! " 
 
 85 
 
AN ECHO OF DANTE. 
 
 My highest Love, my God, thy gifts are great, — 
 Those gifts of joy and pain, that draw my soul 
 Still upward into virtue's wise control. 
 
 Where Thou, the Gift forever new, dost wait. 
 
 But from the hands of Thy benignant fate 
 No blessing comes that wings me to the goal 
 Like this, wherein my life is rounded whole. 
 
 My lady, standing by the Eden gate. 
 
 For in the mystic union that we share 
 
 Of heart and thought and purpose, in her grace 
 That lifts me, all unworthy, to her place, 
 
 And leads me through Thy pastures glorious-fair. 
 As in a mirror, reverently I see 
 The perfect marriage of our souls with Thee. 
 
 86 
 
UNCERTAINTY. 
 
 As one who reads a subtly -wo v'n romance, 
 
 Where kindred lives, though scattered far and 
 
 wide, 
 Are drawn within the sweep of one great tide, 
 
 By the wise master's soul-discerning glance; 
 
 Where joy and pain each other's power enhance; 
 And slowly, surely, all things join to guide 
 The tale unto its ending, where abide 
 
 The perfect reasons of the seeming chance; 
 
 I read my life. Its mysteries are sweet, 
 For through the past one fair design I find. 
 
 And toward the future look with kindling eyes. 
 
 Yea, skies may lower, storms gather, tempests beat; 
 
 But what are they? New methods of God's mind, 
 
 Whereby He sends some crown of blest surprise. 
 
 87 
 
THE KEY. 
 
 Full many a shape the protean Cupid taketh 
 Before my wondering eyes; a flower, a gem, 
 A song, a light, a sovereign diadem; 
 
 And each an image of the whole he maketh. 
 
 But most of all, when fevered longing slaketh 
 Her thirst in memory's wine, behold, I see 
 Young Cupid in the likeness of a key, 
 
 And all my soul to fuller life awaketh. 
 
 O key of keys, love! thy power unlocketh 
 The stored experience of these hearts around me, 
 The dim, rich treasuries of spirit-history; 
 
 The symbol-guarded gates of art it mocketh; 
 
 Yea, Heaven's essential life at last hath crowned 
 me. 
 Who bear this talisman to ope its mystery. 
 
 88 
 
LAKE GEORGE. 
 
 (Called by the Jesuit missionaries who discovered it, " The 
 Lake of the Holy Sacrament.") 
 
 Lake of the Sacrament ! no truer name 
 
 Could shrine the holy gift thy breezes bring, 
 Thy vh'gin isles enfold, thy forests sing. 
 
 And all thy blue, exultant waves proclaim! 
 
 So flashed thy glory on the priests whose fame 
 Is one with thine, — brave heralds of the King, 
 Who, thirsting, faint, and spent with wandering, 
 
 Caught sight of thee, and felt their courage flame. 
 
 And we, no hero-band, yet still athirst. 
 
 Soul-hungry, for the living bread and wine, 
 
 Come hither from the city's maze, the accurst 
 False paradise, where baneful lustres shine. 
 
 Lift up our hearts, from vain enchantments free, 
 
 And feed upon the Christ, beholding thee! 
 
 89 
 
LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD. 
 
 Here on the threshold of the West I stand. 
 O straining eyes and wildered brains, behold 
 Across the waves my greatening star of gold; 
 
 Hope on, until the vessel reach the strand! 
 
 Sons, found at last, I bid you to a land 
 Of mighty works and spaces manifold, 
 Where in joy's ranks your names shall be enrolled. 
 
 And plenty meet the unexhausted hand. 
 
 O terrible faces, haggard, brutish, dazed. 
 Almost my spirit sinks beneath your woe ! 
 Yet I bethink me of a glorious sight: 
 
 Your brethren, now to manhood's stature raised, — 
 Shapes dire as yours, ten plastic years ago — 
 Waiting to welcome you to life and light. 
 
 00 
 
CHARLESTON IN 1900. 
 
 I. 
 
 Like mighty spirits, jubilantly free, 
 
 Around St. Michaers tower the sea- winds sweep. 
 
 Below, the quaint, ancestral houses keep 
 Their hoard of historj^; piled verandas see 
 Ghosts of great days that never more shall be 
 
 Athwart their shadowy spaces; ivies leap 
 
 Grim garden-walls within whose shelter sleep 
 All loveliest blooms that Flora hath in fee. 
 And noble river-arms the city hold 
 
 In blue embrace, the while they seek the south 
 And meet majestic in a broad expanse 
 Of surging waves and islands famed of old, 
 
 Where still on Moultrie's guns the sunbeams 
 glance, 
 
 And Sumter watches from the harbor-mouth. 
 
 II. 
 
 Alas! the golden scene is filmed with grey. 
 
 For through the clustering leaves the glance must 
 fall 
 
 On earthquake-bolts that bind the slanted wall 
 And mellow tints that murmur of decay. 
 Shock upon shock and direful day on day 
 
 91 
 
Have helmed the dauntless city, — cyclone, call 
 Of gulfing waves, and, most malign of all. 
 War's thrice-felt pangs, her very hope to slay. 
 Yea, though her garments gloriously are wrought 
 With roses, though she smileth to the last, 
 And none can dim the courage of her eyes, — 
 Her heart is old with sorrow, and her thought 
 Is robed in black; her face is toward the past, 
 And all her spirit's music woven with sighs. 
 
 92 
 
THE ULTIMATE LOVE. 
 
 That gentle lady, whose tempestuous throne 
 Was Dante's heart, inspired her poet's quest; 
 Sent down her laureled messenger, to arrest 
 
 His uncompanioned feet, to wanderings prone, 
 
 And guide them where the abysms of horror groan, 
 Yea, on to Purgatory's fire- washed crests 
 Where with most stern yet merciful behest 
 
 She waited him, and Eden's morn outshone. 
 
 Twas she who led him still from shining sphere 
 To sphere more glorious, till at last they came 
 To that great, final splendor of God's face; 
 
 Then Beatrice soft withdrew. All fear. 
 All hope, all joy concentered in that flame. 
 And God alone filled all his being's space. 
 
 93 
 
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