M*'. .^1 
 
 A 
 
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 i VA LLE Y 
 
 ^» .^U^H 
 
 MUSE 
 
 I^^^B* fli^^^^H 
 
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 CHARLES 6 
 
 
 BI/ANDBK; 
 
 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Chap Copyright No 
 
 Shelf..B.4 to V 3 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
A VALLEY MUSE 
 
A VALLEY MUSE 
 
 Bv y 
 CHARLES G. BLANDEN 
 
 FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 
 
 Chicago New York Toronto 
 
 1900 
 
^9^1}"^^^ 
 
 l_ibJ?ajf y of Concrress 
 
 OCT 18 1900 
 
 0^ 
 
 Copyright fifitry 
 
 OCT 23 I90U 
 
 Copyright, iqoo 
 By FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 
 
Cable of Contcntjs 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Song and the Singer - 
 
 9 
 
 Lilies of the Valley 
 
 lO 
 
 Tranquillity 
 
 II 
 
 Wake, Buds - - - - 
 
 14 
 
 To A Thrush 
 
 - 16 
 
 Regeneration 
 
 19 
 
 Millet's "Gleaners" - 
 
 - 21 
 
 To the Daisies 
 
 24 
 
 The Weaver 
 
 - 25 
 
 Salvage . . - - 
 
 28 
 
 The Shell 
 
 - 29 
 
 Song of the Sword 
 
 31 
 
 The Poets 
 
 - 34 
 
 The Changeling 
 
 36 
 
 The Feast 
 
 - 38 
 
 Afterglow .... 
 
 40 
 
 In the Grampian Hills 
 
 - 41 
 
 Song for June 
 
 43 
 
 To Memory 
 
 - 45 
 
 If I Were King 
 
 48 
 
 Sleeping - - 
 
 - 49 
 
 To Jollity . - - . 
 
 50 
 
 Hollyhocks 
 
 - - 53 
 
 A Marble Boy 
 
 55 
 
 The Grasshopper 
 
 - 56 
 
 Voices of the Wind 
 
 59 
 
Cable of Otcintentgj 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Dream - - - - - - 60 
 
 The Last Arrow - - - - 61 
 
 Were I a Robin, Dearest - - - 64 
 
 A Weed . - . . . 65 
 
 The Wind-Harp - - - - - 66 
 
 A Changeless Face - - - 68 
 
 Old Glory - - - - - 69 
 
 To A Cricket .... 71 
 
 The Prisoners - - - - - 73 
 
 Autumn Song - . - . 74 
 
 Youth and Age - - - - - 75 
 
 To the Evening Star - ' - 11 
 
 In the Path of the Wolf - - - 78 
 
 Now Buds to Blossom Break - - 81 
 
 Hymn - - - - - - 82 
 
 The Bee ..... 83 
 
 In M^y - - - - - -85 
 
 The Gossips ----- 87 
 
 Love's Fishing Lesson - - - 88 
 
 Moonlight ----- go 
 
 Inscription - - - - - 92 
 
 Round .-.-.- 93 
 
 I Blame Thee Not - - - - 94 
 
 The Wainscot Mouse - - - 95 
 
 Among My Books - - - - 97 
 
 Voiceless Song - - - - 98 
 
 An Old Man - - - - - 99 
 
 At Work ----- ioi 
 
 Disciplined . . . - . 102 
 
 The Singer ----- 103 
 
 Little Brothers of the Grass - - 104 
 
 Eldorado ----- 107 
 
 Departure ----- 108 
 
 October ----- 109 
 
 6 
 
€at)le of Otcntents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Grandmother - - . . - no 
 
 "If Love Were What the Rose Is" - 113 
 
 Sir Oriole - - - - - 114 
 
 Love IS NOT So Fleeting • - - 117 
 
 Venice - - - - - - 118 
 
 Sweet the Roses at Morn - - iig 
 
 On Finding a Dead Bee in a Flower - 121 
 
 Noon - - - - - - 122 
 
 The Opal - - - - - 123 
 
 Time is Passing . - - - 125 
 
 White Clover - - - - - 126 
 
 The Shrine ... - - 128 
 
 Hoping - - - - - - 129 
 
 To a Snowbird .... 130 
 
 When Thy Soldier Home Doth Speed - 131 
 
 Daffodils ----- 132 
 
 The Senorita - - - - - 134 
 
 Strawberries - - - - 136 
 
 Now Daisies Nod .... 137 
 
 The Captain - . - - - 138 
 
 Song for Song - - - - - 139 
 
 A Daughter of the Sun - - - 141 
 
 Time May Steal the Dewy Bloom - 143 
 
 Wordsworth ----- 144 
 
 In My Garden I Saw Time - - - 145 
 
 Sing, Birds . - - - - 146 
 
 I Dreamt that I Met Love - - - 147 
 
 Winter's Minstrel - - - 148 
 
 To Some Greek Poets - - - 149 
 
 Absolution - - - - - 150 
 
 To A Butterfly - - - - 153 
 
 Valentine - - - - - i55 
 
 Dawn ------ 156 
 
 The Valley of the Shadow - - 157 
 7 
 
faille of Olontents 
 
 Song - - - - - - 158 
 
 At Pity's Inn - - - - 159 
 
 To Joy - 161 
 
 The Old Minstrel - - - - 162 
 
 Wild Violets - - - - - 164 
 
 The Mountain Pool - - - 165 
 
The world loves eternally — 
 His honey, not the bee; 
 Its fruit, and not the tree; 
 The blossom, not the ground; 
 The truth, not him who found; 
 The light, and not the bringer; 
 The song, and not the singer. 
 
 We are but instruments, 
 The strings attuned and tense, 
 Whereon the hand of Time 
 Strikes some few notes sublime; 
 And so the music prove 
 A thing for men to love. 
 What matter whence it came. 
 Or what the singer's name? 
 
iltlfejs of tl^c iBallet 
 
 O bells! cast in the mind of God, 
 
 Sweet angelus of time, 
 Bestowing perfume o'er the sod 
 
 From every waxen chime, 
 Ye soothe the moments as they pass 
 
 In mute procession by. 
 Through cool cathedrals of the grass, 
 
 Afar from Glory's eye. 
 
 My soul doth love to hear you ring, 
 
 As through the fields I go ; 
 My heart doth bound to see you swing 
 
 In your green belfries so. 
 My thoughts fly up to heaven's gate. 
 
 And there in peace they bow, 
 Meek penitents that humbly wait, 
 
 Since ye have taught them how. 
 
 lO 
 
CraHautUtt^ 
 
 I 
 
 There was a time when I, unthinking, sighed 
 To muse by Arno's stream, to watch the 
 
 sun 
 Rise o'er the Alps, or, when the day was 
 done, 
 In moonUt Venice on her v/aters ghde, 
 Then Egypt, Greece, and Rome were magni- 
 fied 
 Beyond their worth. Vain dreams! their 
 
 race is run. 
 And now I knov/ that there is only one 
 Sweet spot to love, and more than worlds 
 
 beside. 
 Not that my soul to beauty has grown cold 
 
 Not that I would not see her varied store, 
 But that I know in all her chambers old, 
 Than here at home she cannot show me 
 more 
 Of peace, content, and inward happiness — 
 And these are all a mortal need possess. 
 
CranquiUitg 
 
 II 
 
 What can it profit me to contemplate 
 
 The wreck of empires and dead cities old? 
 To say that here triumphant Caesar rolled, 
 
 That this was Pompey's, that was Trajan's 
 gate, 
 
 Here sat Augustus in his robes of state. 
 Here Tully thundered his philippics bold, 
 And here, alas! was Nero's house of gold? 
 
 Let not my soul with such delusion mate! 
 
 Let me not think upon them while at morn 
 I yet may wander v/here the brooklet flows, 
 
 Look in the daisy's eye, or, newly born. 
 
 Feast my heart's heart upon my native rose; 
 
 Here is more wholesome music for the mind 
 
 Than kingdoms past or present, and more 
 kind. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The pomp of ages and the thrones of kings, 
 The glory, grandeur of unrivaled state. 
 The fame, the glitter of the mighty great — 
 
 What are they, sweet, unto the sum of things? 
 
 A dream of earth's, a passage of gay wings, 
 Or yet but bubbles in the hand of Fate 
 That caught her fancy or provoked her 
 hate. 
 
 12 
 
CrantjuiUitg 
 
 Or this or that, the source of all their springs 
 Ran dry at last; she smiled upon their race, 
 
 She frowned — she breathed upon them and 
 they broke, 
 And were no more to her in any place, 
 
 Nor thought of later, when her vision woke 
 To other tinsel, bright and frail as they — 
 Linworth a sunset or a bud of May. 
 
 IV 
 
 Ay, let me keep my placid leisure here, 
 Where I may listen to the robins sing, 
 Where I may breathe the balm of mine own 
 spring. 
 Watch mine own trees throughout the passing 
 
 year. 
 See bud and bloom and taste their mellow 
 cheer. 
 Each season finding in what time doth bring 
 Some reason deep for hearty welcoming — 
 Like mine own crickets piping sweet and clear. 
 Yea, let the old world pass — the world of 
 fame; 
 Give me but nature in my native land; 
 Beside her all the show of earth is tame — 
 
 More in one rose than art can understand, 
 In one white lily more of light and grace 
 Than Pericles designed, or lit Aspasia's face! 
 13 
 
Wake, pretty buds, 
 
 And open wide your drowsy eyes. 
 Look out and up where swallow flies, 
 A joyous spirit through the skies; 
 The spring has come, awake, arise! 
 
 Heigh ho! the waking of the buds. 
 
 Break, little buds, 
 
 The glossy silken coats ye wear. 
 That we may see your faces fair; 
 Lay, sweets, your tender bosoms bare 
 And fragrance all the laughing air. 
 
 Heigh ho! the bursting of the buds. 
 
 Give, virgin flowers. 
 
 While swift do fly the summer weeks, 
 Your kisses to the bee that seeks; 
 Show him your hearts, your velvet cheeks, 
 And prize the love he truly speaks. 
 
 Heigh ho! the loving of the bee. 
 
 Live, lovely flowers. 
 
 If but a day! Remembered well. 
 When ye are gone with dust to dwell, 
 H 
 
MUlu, ^xitifs 
 
 Each precious kiss the bee doth tell 
 And sip again in his gold cell. 
 Heigh ho ! the honey of the bee. 
 
 So is it, flowers, 
 
 With us; that which we give away, 
 Of life or love or roundelay, 
 Survives to bless another day; 
 That which we keep doth soon decay 
 
 Heigh ho! the winter of the year. 
 
 15 
 
Co a Ci^msi]^ 
 
 O happy bird! that ere the night is gone 
 
 With limpid song dost greet the early dav/n, 
 
 What power hath faintest light to bid thee wake 
 
 And into such ecstatic music break? 
 
 Art thou Apollo's heir, the transformed lyre 
 
 He left on earth to swell its merry choir 
 
 When all the gods to their high realm.s.withdrew? 
 
 Art thou his voice and his vicegerent true 
 
 To ever hail him at the brink of day, 
 
 And at still eventide repeat the lay? 
 
 Ah, yes, 'tis so; such melody could mount 
 
 From source no less nor from diviner fount; 
 
 'Tis heaven's own, though lent to mortals here 
 
 To be a benediction and a cheer, 
 
 The link that binds the unseen with the seen. 
 
 And keeps Apollo's altars wreathed in green 
 
 And heaped with bloom as when he trod these 
 
 shores, 
 And men to him threw open all their doors. 
 
 Sing on! Too little music is there now; 
 
 Pour forth thy strains and teach these humans 
 
 how 
 
 i6 
 
Co a CSnijji^ 
 
 With song alone 'tis possible to dwell 
 Content, nor think it any miracle. 
 The old world needs such melody as thine, 
 Such perfect song, such harmony divine, 
 That her corrosive greeds and rayless plan 
 Shut not all gates of paradise to man. 
 Sing on, sing on, and keep before our souls 
 The paths of light and life's sublimer goals; 
 Sing on until the gods return to earth, 
 Until wan sorrow yields to laughing mirth. 
 Until our hearts, forgetful of their care. 
 Behold the chaste Apollo cleave the air. 
 To once again his ancient haunts resume; 
 Till then, sing on, and keep alive the bloom 
 Of his celestial music in thy breast. 
 Each morn and evening what is true and best 
 In thee outpouring to the groves and sky; 
 Fulfill thy mission, thoughtless of the throng. 
 And thus, entrancing, thrill us with thy song. 
 Fear not that beauty was but born to die; 
 Each sweetest note the god of song doth hear 
 And safely treasure in his starry sphere 
 To live forever in some form of light, 
 To charm his dawns and keep his glory bright. 
 
 Therefore, O bird, we praise thee, and we bless 
 And thank thee for this cup of happiness — 
 The cup wherein no bitter dregs are found, 
 But only hope and triumphs of sweet sound, 
 17 
 
^0 a €i)cus1) 
 
 Vouchsafed to us from no polluted spring. 
 Adieu! adieu! since thou hast ceased to sing, 
 And in the interregnum of thy song 
 The day shall seem more fair and faith more 
 
 strong 
 For this thy boon, and still to think thy rhyme 
 Thou gladly wilt renew at twilight time. 
 And may the sorry season never come 
 Wherein to thy clear strains our hearts grow 
 
 dumb, 
 But ever in our souls, through thine and thee, 
 May high dreams rule and drossful earth go 
 
 free, 
 That we, like thee, at last may sweep with fire 
 The golden strings of an immortal lyre. 
 
 i8 
 
Beeeueration 
 
 Let the old, old dreams go by, 
 And the old hopes die; 
 The laughter from their hearts is fled, 
 The roses in their cheeks are dead. 
 Lo! they are wan and bent and sere 
 With unrewards this many a year. 
 Yea, let them pass, and in their place 
 Rear up a newer, happier race. 
 Not so ambitious, not so vain, 
 A sturdier and a humbler train, 
 That if they bring not to the mind 
 That first deep thrill are yet more kind, 
 And love us better day by day. 
 And lead us down no thorny way, 
 And give at eve the cup of rest — 
 Content, the nectar of the blest. 
 
 Let the old, old dreams go by. 
 And the old hopes die. 
 What have they brought unto our doors? 
 What freight from all their golden shores? 
 A nothing but the empty cask 
 Of what, in youth, our hearts did ask, 
 19 
 
^Regeneration 
 
 Alone the husk, the chaff, the dross, 
 The mocking, hollow gift of loss; 
 No wine, no balm, no wheat, no gold, 
 But that heart-hunger of the old, 
 This pain, this sorrow, and this grief, 
 These cares, these tears, this faded leaf. 
 Yea, let them pass, if so they may. 
 And all their ghosts glide far away — 
 Except one beldame, who shall sit 
 Before the fire and rock and knit 
 Bright raiment for the babe to be, 
 Whom we shall name Felicity. 
 
 20 
 
These be Thy faithful children, Lord, 
 
 The gleaners of the field; 
 The golden-loaded wains are gone 
 
 With all the harvest's yield; 
 Yet some few scattered straws are left, 
 
 Which diligence may find; 
 A thousand sheaves he took away 
 
 That left not one behind. 
 
 Across the stubble fields I hear 
 
 Sweet revelry and din. 
 As when the reaper to his barns 
 
 Draws his last wagon in ; 
 He thanks Thee, Lord, with merriment 
 
 And custom-honored praise. 
 While round about his naked fields 
 
 The gleaners go their ways. 
 
 Small thought has he for those who pinch 
 
 And wear their lives away. 
 With just enough of strength and hope 
 
 To keep the wolf at bay; 
 
imillet'0 ''0lmm^*' 
 
 His is the lot of better blood 
 
 Than flows in common veins; 
 For him, O Lord, Thy sun doth shine 
 
 And fall Thy gentle rains. 
 
 What matters it when winds do howl 
 
 And snow fills all the sky, 
 That others huddle in their huts 
 
 To hunger, freeze, and die? 
 Has he not used his talent well. 
 
 And thanked Thee morn and night? 
 Dost Thou not shield him v/ith Thy love 
 
 And clothe him with Thy might? 
 
 I w^onder, Lord, if Thou shouldst come 
 
 When this our harvest ends, 
 Wouldst Thou be found v/here barns are full 
 
 Or where the gleaner bends? 
 Thou soughtest not in places high 
 
 For men to follow Thee, 
 But where the fisher cast his nets 
 
 In quiet Galilee. 
 
 And well I know wert Thou again 
 
 To seek for friendly hearts. 
 That Thou wouldst pass the manor house, 
 
 And pass the city's marts, 
 
 22 
 
MiUcV^ ''(Bleaner^** 
 
 And say to some most lowly soul — 
 
 Some gleaner of the field: 
 Come, follow Me, and thou shalt glean 
 
 A more abundant yield. 
 
 23 
 
Co ti^e ©afjSfeg 
 
 Hail! little sisters to the stars, 
 
 That brightly dot the sod. 
 As they in purple gardens bloom 
 
 Around the throne of God; 
 I never see your faces pure 
 
 But I do muse thuswise: 
 Ye are the gentle nuns of fields 
 
 As stars are of the skies. 
 
 And all do work His glory out 
 
 Into a sweet design; 
 Ye minister by day — at night 
 
 Do all your sisters shine. 
 No hour but has its bloom for us, 
 
 Or sleeping or awake, 
 And every moment nature plans 
 
 Some beauty for our sake. 
 
 24 
 
Ci^e meatier 
 
 Twilight floods the cottage room, 
 And the weaver at his loom, 
 Bowing o'er his daily task, 
 Doth a benediction ask. 
 Passing by his lowly door, 
 Thus I see him as of yore, 
 
 Reverential, praying there. 
 Thankful for his humble lot, 
 
 Asking what his conscience dare, 
 And all else desiring not. 
 
 Once his heart a shuttle seemed 
 In a crimson warp that gleamed. 
 
 Weaving threads of purest gold. 
 Weaving fabrics like the east, 
 When is spread Aurora's feast. 
 
 Now, alas! the loom is old. 
 And the weaver bent and gray, 
 Like some ghost of yesterday, 
 All the cunning of his hand 
 But a dream of lost command, 
 While the light, once spurring him, 
 Flickers and is growing dim. 
 25 
 
Clje iHMcaber 
 
 And the golden threads are gone, 
 And the crimson warp of Dawn 
 Much has faded, it appears. 
 In the passing of the years. 
 Till it looks no longer bright. 
 Crossed by shadows of the night; 
 Only here and there a star 
 Scattered through it from afar, 
 Dropt upon it from the skies. 
 As some gift of paradise 
 Comes to cheer the weaver old 
 In his chamber bare and cold — 
 Just a snowfiake through the roof 
 Sifted in upon his Vv^oof ; 
 Or, if season of the spring, 
 Like some sweet enchanted thing 
 Wafted in by fragrant air — 
 Just a blossom here and there 
 From his ancient apple-tree. 
 Thus the weaver you may see 
 
 Toiling for his daily bread, 
 Should you chance to pass the door 
 Of his cottage on the moor. 
 
 All his old companions dead, 
 He but lingers, patient, calm, 
 Till the Master's gentle palm, 
 Laid upon his locks of snow. 
 Bids him cease and with Him go. 
 26 
 
^i)t SSIeaber 
 
 We are weavers, one and all, 
 And when Death at last shall call, 
 Let him find us, where he may, 
 Weaving fabrics dark or gay, 
 Happy, happy in this truth: 
 Hope is our immortal youth, 
 
 Of which the bud is time. 
 And that its deathless rose may bloom 
 It struggles upward through the gloom 
 
 To its own native clime. 
 
 27 
 
Here, where the old sea moans, I wait, 
 
 Not for my ships — they will not come- 
 But just to smile once more at Fate 
 And bear some bit of wreckage home. 
 
 28 
 
m)t ^i^ell 
 
 Once this shell did sleep 
 By the azure deep 
 
 Of the shining Caribee; 
 Whitest sands its bed, 
 Bending overhead 
 
 Waved a slender cocoa tree. 
 
 All the music sweet 
 Of the sea did beat 
 
 Through its rosy chambers fair — 
 Wind and wave caress 
 With coy loveliness, 
 
 Kissing it to slumber there. 
 
 Happy, happy shell! 
 Dreaming, who can tell 
 
 What bright dreams of summer peace? 
 Dreaming till that hour 
 Some despotic power 
 
 Bade its joy forever cease. 
 
 Exiled now it lies 
 Far beyond its skies, 
 29 
 
Just a beggar on my hearth, 
 Sighing to be free, 
 Sighing for the sea, 
 
 Sighing for its vanished mirth. 
 
 Clap it to your ear, 
 You can faintly hear 
 
 What its saddened soul doth say: 
 'The sea, sea, sea. 
 Give it back to me; 
 
 Woe is mine so far away," 
 
 Thus at times it seems 
 My remembered dreams 
 
 Beat against their prison's bar, 
 Sighing for a shore 
 They shall reach no more. 
 
 Change hath blown my ship so far. 
 
 30 
 
*)on8 of ti^t ^tDorD 
 
 The armorer has lit his forge, 
 And blows the bellows long, 
 The while within his ridgy breast 
 
 Flames up the fire of song. 
 'And I will make a kingly sword, 
 
 My country's foes shall feel; 
 A blade shall battle for the Lord, 
 And wound that it may heal. 
 And clino' clanor clins:, 
 The echoes far shall ring, 
 As loud the hammers sing, 
 The making of the sword." 
 
 He takes a bar of metal pure 
 
 And plunges in the flame; 
 He calls upon his angel good 
 
 And speaks a magic name. 
 For in his heart he feels the need 
 
 Of something more than skill — 
 He feels the doing of a deed 
 
 His brawny bosom thrill. 
 And cling, clang, cling, 
 His throbbing temples ring, 
 
 31 
 
^mq of tfie S^ortr 
 
 As in his visions sing 
 
 The triumphs of the sword. 
 
 And now he draws the iron forth, 
 
 All glowing like the sun, 
 A ray as dazzling as the fire 
 The bold Prometheus won. 
 Like Vulcan now he rains his blows 
 
 Amid a shower of stars. 
 And lo! in thought he sees his foes 
 Far-fleeing in their cars. 
 
 And cling, clang, cling. 
 The anvil voices ring, 
 As all the mountains sing 
 The anthem of the sword. 
 
 He shapes the brand with earnestness; 
 
 Ke tempers in the stream ; 
 It is the sword Excalibur 
 He forges in his dream. 
 And it shall circle in the fray 
 
 A disk of lambent light, 
 And it shall win the noisy day 
 For honor and for right, 
 As cling, clang, cling 
 Its battle-thunders ring; 
 And loud the victors sing 
 The glory of the sword. 
 
 32 
 
Song of tf)e SlDorb 
 
 He pours his soul into the steel, 
 
 The love of right and truth; 
 He edges it with boundless zeal 
 
 And burnishes with youth, 
 Until like Eden's flaming sword 
 
 It quivers in his hand, 
 The shining edict of the Lord, 
 To chasten and command. 
 While cling, clang, cling, 
 The stars together sing, 
 As far the echoes ring 
 The splendor of the sword. 
 
 33 
 
€l)e l^oetjs 
 
 How do crickets live in winter, 
 With the juicy grasses dead, 
 
 And each bubbling rill and fountain 
 Frozen silent in its bed? 
 
 How do crickets live in v/inter, 
 For the very nipping cold? 
 
 Delve they cannot any firesides 
 In the icy-smitten mold. 
 
 How do crickets live in summer? 
 
 Ever busy with their songs, 
 They do get no time for hoarding 
 
 What to them by right belongs. 
 
 And the sleety blast of autumn 
 Finds them poor as in the spring; 
 
 When the bees are snug and cozy. 
 Crickets round the hive will sing. 
 
 And the wealthy workers v/onder, 
 As they sip their nectar sweet. 
 
 How his happy, thriftless manner 
 Gets the cricket aught to eat. 
 34 
 
They are like unto our poets, 
 Are these minstrels of the field, 
 
 Little thought they give the morrow, 
 So to-day some music yield. 
 
 Little space have they for doing 
 As their bustling brothers do. 
 
 Theirs the godly gift and passion 
 Just to sing the season through. 
 
 And old Time, to somewhat pay them 
 For the melody they make. 
 
 Fills them with the joy of singing, 
 Guards them all for beauty's sake. 
 
 35 
 
Love's a fisher, don't forget; 
 He will catch you in his net; 
 He will drag you from the sea, 
 Rob you of your liberty. 
 
 Love's a dreamer, and for hours 
 He will sit before the flowers, 
 Peering deep into their eyes, 
 Weeping tears and heaving sighs. 
 
 Love's a tyrant on his throne, 
 Frowning grandly o'er his own, 
 Bidding men to go and come, 
 Striking all his foemen dumb. 
 
 Love's a diplomat sometimes. 
 Smiling in the farthest climes — 
 Now at Yeddo, now at Rome — 
 Pleasing whom he serves at home. 
 
 Love, in fact, is anything — 
 Warrior, actor, serf, or king- 
 In whatever mask he dress. 
 Lord of sighs and happiness. 
 36 
 
Almoner of life is he, 
 
 And his largess — it is free; 
 
 Stretch thy hand and thou shalt find 
 
 Crowns or farthings— Love is blind! 
 
 37 
 
Cl^e f ca^t 
 
 Laughter gave a dinner fine, 
 And I marveled much to see 
 
 Every guest his opposite 
 Had for vis-a-vis. 
 
 There was Sorrov/ facing Joy, 
 Pleasure smiling back at Pain; 
 
 Faith serenely eying Doubt, 
 Haughty, cold, and vain. 
 
 There was Love with soulful eyes 
 Looking calmly down on Hate; 
 
 There was Greed with Charity 
 For his holy mate. 
 
 There was Anger, too, with eyes 
 That were flaming like to fire; 
 
 There Serenity ; also 
 Virtue and Desire. 
 
 Hope, forgetful of Despair, 
 Melancholy wan and Cheer; 
 
 Sweet Forgiveness and Revenge, 
 Valor scorning Fear. 
 
 38 
 
Jealousy with her green eyes, 
 And glad, honest Trustfulness; 
 
 Sympathy with soothing palm. 
 Pride that wounds Distress. 
 
 Honor, plumed, and shameless Shame; 
 
 Fortune and Adversity; 
 And yet others seated there 
 
 In strange company. 
 
 Laughter, rising in his place, 
 
 Held his sparkling wine on high ; 
 *'Drink, immortal ones!" he said; 
 "Drain your goblets dry. 
 
 *' Ye are children of the race; 
 Every virtue hath its mate ; 
 Mirth were not if tears were not 
 Is the law of fate." 
 
 Much I marveled at the feast 
 And the language of mine host, 
 
 Yet I could not him gainsay 
 Seeing there my ghost. 
 
 39 
 
afterglotn 
 
 I pray that time full many years may bring, 
 
 And round about us heap his flowers and 
 snow, 
 
 That we a-down the western slope may go, 
 Cla?-ped hand in hand, as in that joyous spring 
 
 Vv^hen first together we did learn to sing 
 The songs of youth beside the river's flow; 
 The songs our hearts unto the end shall know. 
 
 If now no more the woodlands with them 
 
 And we shall sit on many a golden eve 
 
 Beside the fire, and dream of other days 
 When we were young, and laugh a wrinkled 
 
 laugh. 
 Nor mourn, nor sigh that loud the winds do 
 grieve. 
 For thou shaltmore than multiply the Mays, 
 And I the long Decembers count but half. 
 
 40 
 
3!h ti)z dsramptan l^flljj 
 
 At dawn I saw the shepherd lead 
 His woolly flock from fold, 
 
 And heard him pipe upon his reed 
 A ditty old. 
 
 Unto the upland fields he went, 
 And there the livelong day 
 
 To rock and wind and sky, content, 
 He poured his lay. 
 
 And when at eve he home returned 
 To pen his flock for night. 
 
 Still in his happy bosom burned 
 The morn's delight. 
 
 Nor when the storm his door around 
 Raved like a demon strong 
 
 Could it blot out the peaceful sound 
 Of his glad song. 
 
 A fountainhead of lympid mirth 
 
 His spirit seemed to be. 
 That from the very heart of earth 
 
 Gushed pure and free. 
 41 
 
In tSe d^rampi'an Jgi'lls 
 
 And on I passed to other sights, 
 
 To cities proud and old, 
 Yet nowhere found the same delights 
 
 As near that fold. 
 
 For still I heard, above the roar 
 Of wharf and mart and street, 
 
 That morning lyric brightly pour 
 Its music sweet. 
 
 And often in my dreams I see 
 
 That happy shepherd boy, 
 And sip, ere waking prisons me, 
 
 His cup of joy. 
 
 Pipe on, thou rustic of the hills, 
 
 Unknowing care or pain; 
 'Tis right that they should reap the ills 
 
 Who toil for gain. 
 
 And right it is that he who dwells 
 With nature and with truth 
 
 Draws up from their eternal wells 
 Immortal youth. 
 
 42 
 
^ons for giune 
 
 Half the time 'tis wishing 
 
 June were here; 
 Half the time recaUing 
 
 Her career; 
 Yet for half the roses 
 
 That appear 
 Who would not go sighing 
 
 Half a year? 
 
 Many months are tyrants 
 
 To defeat, 
 June's a shining princess 
 
 All would greet, 
 With the sun conspiring 
 
 How to seat 
 In our yearning bosoms 
 
 What is sweet. 
 
 Oh, that June were reigning 
 
 All the year ! 
 Oh, that roses ever 
 
 Gave us cheer! 
 
 43 
 
SonQ foe gune 
 
 Oh, that hearts were strangers 
 
 To a tear! 
 Always gayly shiging: 
 
 June is here! 
 
 Therefore bid her welcome 
 
 Like a queen, 
 And around your temples 
 
 Bind her green, 
 Routing out old Sorrow; 
 And from Laughter borrow 
 Roses for to-morrow, 
 
 And a sunny gleam 
 That shall brightly last you 
 Till the winter cast you 
 
 June's unfading dream. 
 
 44 
 
Co !^emor^ 
 
 Star of memory, burning bright 
 
 In the purple hours of night, 
 
 Wilt thou never, never set, 
 
 And so teach me to forget? 
 
 All the joys of life are fled, 
 
 All the blossoms long are dead, 
 
 All the fields are dark and sere, 
 
 Only thou and I are here, 
 
 Only thou and I alone 
 
 Hear the wandering winds that moan. 
 
 And the sighing of the deep. 
 
 Breaking on the shore of sleep 
 
 "With its endless tale of grief. 
 
 Life is long and joy is brief. 
 And the farther that we go 
 Dov/n into the vale of woe, 
 Through the v^^eary, dreary wood 
 In the realm of solitude, 
 Thou, O star, dost brighter burn 
 With the hopes that ne'er return. 
 As upon an altar high, 
 Heaped with thoughts that will not die, 
 45 
 
^0 i^emorg 
 
 Thou dost keep thy fires ablaze 
 To the never-ending praise 
 Of the sad Mnemosyne, 
 Leaving only that to me 
 Known as ashes — roses sweet, 
 Charred and powdered in thy heat. 
 
 Like a shadow in the blast. 
 Haunting vainly all the past — 
 Just a realmless worshiper, 
 Seeking still the dreams that were — 
 Hither, thither, beaten, blown, 
 Down the lonely ways alone, 
 I do wander — in thy light 
 That doth emphasize the night, 
 Making darkness visible. 
 Showing heights from which I fell, 
 Showing all the glooms outspread 
 Sorrow treads, and still must tread. 
 
 Cease, O star, to longer blaze 
 With the light of other days. 
 Hast thou not consumed entire 
 Beauty's glory in thy fire? 
 What! Can hope so mighty be 
 It outlasts the husk of me? 
 Quench thy splendor and depart; 
 Thou hast seared my very heart; 
 
 46 
 
Co Mcmorj) 
 
 AH too long my soul has dreamed, 
 All too long thy light has beamed 
 The beacon of my breast; 
 Sink, and let me be at rest; 
 Quit thy region, and be gone; 
 Bring me Lethe — or the dawn — 
 Death's nepenthe — or the wine 
 Of the olden days divine. 
 
 47 
 
3!f 91 mm iStng 
 
 If I were king, my wars should be 
 
 But wars of roses; 
 The only shield that men should bear 
 
 But one of posies; 
 The only weapons ladies' eyes 
 
 And laughter merry; 
 The only provinces to win, 
 
 Lips like the cherry — 
 If I were king. 
 
 If I were king, no eye should weep, 
 
 No heart should break ; 
 Each warrior should a lady wed 
 
 For her sweet sake. 
 And when my last campaign v/as done 
 
 I'd cease to reign, 
 And hand my scepter o'er to Love 
 
 And join his train — 
 
 If I were king. 
 
 48 
 
Sleeping 
 
 I cannot think of her as one 
 
 Among the silent dead, 
 Since all her ways were sunny ways 
 
 And to sweet laughter wed ; 
 She may be sleeping — that is all — 
 
 And in no earthly bed. 
 
 Still, still her voice, my soul doth hear 
 
 In winds that softly stir. 
 And roses, glov/ing like the dawn, 
 
 Are but the cheeks of her; 
 These pansies imitate her eyes. 
 
 Her breath this fragrant myrrh. 
 
 And yet they say that she is dead, 
 
 That I shall see no more, 
 No more shall hear her laughter ring 
 
 On any sea or shore ; 
 That she is gone, forgetting me, 
 
 And that my dream is o'er. 
 
 Dull fools! Because they see her not 
 
 They think I cannot see ; 
 They call her dead; I only know 
 
 Her soul is setted free, 
 And though they heaped her under earth, 
 
 She dwelleth still with me. 
 49 
 
Co Slolliti? 
 
 Hail! Jollity, thou mirth-provoking god; 
 
 Henceforward let me worship at thy shrine, 
 For I am loath to longer please the nod 
 
 Of gloomy souls, and sick of their dark wine ; 
 My palate thirsts for that bright draught of 
 thine, 
 Pressed from the grape full-ripened in the sun, 
 And taught to sparkle with the golden shine 
 Of stars, when first the happy air is won 
 Aback to its divine and keen embrace ; 
 Such wine, sweet wine, my lips no more would 
 shun. 
 If I may worship thee, and thou bestow thy 
 
 grace. 
 Thou merry, merry god, beloved of all the 
 race! 
 
 Long have I followed in the paths of gloom 
 
 A giant shadow greater than a grief, 
 And I have frowned to see a rosy bloom, 
 And I have crowned me Vv'ith the nightshade 
 
 leaf. 
 Taught my sad soul the sorrow of the sheaf, 
 so 
 
^0 f oUi'tg 
 
 And nothing said about the joyous spring; 
 
 So played to her the bright-dethroning thief 
 That she is bare of every happy thing, 
 
 Save this frail strength to humbly ask of thee 
 That thou wilt shrive the barren heart I bring, 
 
 And let it bound as once it gayly did in me 
 
 When I was young, forsooth, and all my 
 thoughts were free. 
 
 'Tis done! Forgotten all my tears, I bow 
 
 Before thy shrine, from every chain unbound ; 
 And I would sing, a happy pasan now, 
 
 To pipes and timbrels and all laughing sound 
 
 Of wedded instruments, since I have found 
 The way to happiness, and bless thy name, 
 
 O Jollity! thou prince with roses crowned. 
 Whose sparkling eyes and ruddy cheeks pro- 
 claim 
 
 Thee lord and master over circumstance, 
 Whose law is mirth. Forever grow thy fame! 
 
 Until, deep-drinking of thy sun-surpassing 
 glance, 
 
 The world wax young again, as her bright 
 dreams advance. 
 
 To-morrow will I come and praise thee more, 
 At morn, at noon, and when the eve is near. 
 
 Each day from now. And I will learn thy lore, 
 And how to mix the hemlock for old Fear; 
 51 
 
^0 f oUitp 
 
 And I wall sing each day a song of cheer 
 To honor thee and keep my spirit gay 
 
 Against the cruel winter of the year, 
 When roses sleep in their chill tombs, and day 
 
 Forgets to smile, and loud the winds do blow, 
 That when mute Death would summon me 
 away 
 
 With him, serene, content, to his dark house 
 I go, 
 
 A smile upon my lips and all my soul aglow. 
 
 52 
 
J^Olll^l^OCSjS 
 
 Here tarried, long ago, 
 
 A savage band, 
 Down-thrusting their slim spears 
 
 Into the sand. 
 
 Then slept those hardy men, 
 
 And when they woke. 
 Behold their clustered spears 
 
 To blossom broke! 
 
 And so, wide-eyed with awe, 
 
 They marveled hours, 
 That instruments of war 
 
 Should turn to flow^ers. 
 
 As though their silent foes 
 Had slipped their tombs. 
 
 And v/rapt each piercing wand 
 With crimson blooms. 
 
 So writ forgiveness bright. 
 
 For men to see 
 That vanquished souls may win 
 
 A victory. 
 
 S3 
 
?i?oU|)i)ock0 
 
 So thought those hardy men, 
 And fought no more, 
 
 Each planting his own spear 
 By his own door. 
 
 Such are the hollyhocks, 
 That once were spears; 
 
 God grant that they no more 
 Weep bloody tears. 
 
 But that forever they 
 
 Drop only dew, 
 And that to look on them 
 
 Bring peace to you. 
 
 54 
 
Immortal child ! — a tiny fellow — 
 
 A marble bust — 
 The one that carved you, Donatello, 
 
 Is merely dust. 
 
 Man can create for future ages, 
 
 Yet he can be 
 Naught but a shadow on their pages — 
 
 A memory. 
 
 I close my eyes and see the faces 
 
 Of great ones dead, 
 Their spirits haunt their favorite places; 
 
 They are not fled. 
 
 And so, about this little fellow^ 
 
 I often see 
 The spirit bright of Donatello, 
 
 Move musingly. 
 
 55 
 
Who's that little, little man 
 Looks so like a puritan, 
 Clad in sober dress of gray, 
 Leggings tight and cutaway? 
 Spectacles, I think, he wore. 
 And must be at least threescore. 
 Looks a deacon every inch. 
 Though he were about to clinch 
 With a final wise remark 
 The dimensions of the ark. 
 Might have been a doctor old 
 Newly given a wrist to hold. 
 Counting with a solemn air 
 How the pulse is beating there. 
 Judge, perhaps, was he, in gown, 
 Handing an opinion down 
 Why the laws should bluer be. 
 That to smile is perfidy. 
 Whatsoever him you call, 
 He's a true professional. 
 Tell me, who's the little man. 
 This distinguished puritan? 
 56 
 
^{je d^ragsfjoppec 
 
 Sage he looked as Socrates 
 
 With his pupils round his knees, 
 
 Sitting while the skies did pour 
 
 Drenching rains about the door 
 
 Of his home — which was a weed. 
 
 So I saw him, so did read. 
 
 But behold him in the sun! 
 
 Full of antics, full of fun, 
 
 Mirth personified and joy, 
 
 Happy, happy as a boy. 
 
 An Arabian acrobat. 
 
 Turning, tumbling like a cat, 
 
 How he snaps his dusty wings, 
 
 Flies and hops and leaps and springs, 
 
 With the merry month in tune. 
 
 Just as though that he were June! 
 
 See him! see him! you'll allow 
 
 He's no solemn stickler now. 
 
 What has he to ever do 
 
 With a law of any hue? 
 
 Think you he has time to fence 
 
 As to Noah's measurements? 
 
 Has he any time to make 
 
 Pill or powder for an ache? 
 
 I mistook him, that is clear, 
 
 Now I see him playing here. 
 
 Nature's antic sybarite 
 
 Of the meadows green and bright, 
 
 57 
 
Ci&e <3!5frasj3f)cipper 
 
 Pleasure's self or pleasure's page, 
 Sulking, when the tempests rage, 
 Not unlike his brother, man, 
 Till he seems a puritan. 
 
 58 
 
tBoict^ of tl)e min\i 
 
 The wind hath many voices; in the spring 
 'Tis soft as roses' petals, and as sweet, 
 And gently whispers when we chance to meet 
 It in our garden paths; and it will sing 
 For us like troubadour or lovelorn king 
 At some rich casement in a moon-retreat, 
 Where sleeps his fair one. In the summer's 
 heat 
 It hath a voice with yet a happy ring. 
 The autumn hears a sadder, mellow note, 
 As though it breathed across a rifted lute — 
 A voice of loneliness, and loss, and tears, 
 That, when old winter comes, doth roaring 
 float 
 Above its grief v/ith gusts of madness, mute 
 To all save rage as wild and deep as 
 Lear's. 
 
 59 
 
a ?©ream 
 
 I dreamed a happy dream last night: 
 You came and kissed mine eyes, 
 
 And I arose and walked with you 
 Through groves of paradise. 
 
 And time was not, and change unknown, 
 
 Immortal youth was ours, 
 And our bright task was but to love 
 
 Among the gracious flowers. 
 
 My heart did beat with joy so great 
 
 That I awoke, to find — 
 A path of thorns, and all my bliss 
 
 Borne down an autumn wind. 
 
 Oh, hollow, hollow was the day. 
 
 And every field bereft. 
 For that which should have passed away 
 
 Was all that Time had left. 
 
 60 
 
Drink to Einar Tamberskelver. 
 
 When he was like to die 
 He bade them bear his shadow 
 
 Beneath the open sky ; 
 And called him for his arrows, 
 
 And called him for his bow, 
 Which none save he in Norway 
 
 The strength to bend could show. 
 Since of the stubborn yew-tree 
 
 'Twas seasoned well and long. 
 And twice the size of others 
 
 And fourfold times as strong. 
 They bore him to the sunshine, 
 
 They did as they were told. 
 They brought his bow and arrows 
 
 To that gray viking old; 
 He clasped them to his bosom. 
 
 He kissed them o'er and o'er; 
 He held them like lost brothers 
 
 Returned unto his door; 
 He wept upon his treasures 
 
 As he had been a child, 
 6i 
 
C^e ilast ^rrolo 
 
 And then a thought possessed him; 
 
 His face grew stern and wild, 
 And underneath his eyebrows 
 
 The fires of battle burned, 
 As for a lordly moment 
 
 His old-time strength returned. 
 And from his bed arising. 
 
 Unto his good bow-cord 
 He set a shining arrow, 
 
 Arid looked upon the fiord; 
 Looked out upon the mountains 
 
 And on his loving friends. 
 Like some sore-stricken eagle 
 
 When all his glory ends; 
 Then his great strength e»xerted 
 
 And drew the arrow back 
 Until the bow was doubled 
 
 So it was like to crack ; 
 And as the arrow upward 
 
 Like silver lightning flew. 
 He said, with deep emotion : 
 
 "Ye lucent fields of blue! 
 Ye halls of far Valhalla! 
 
 Thou starry-spangled dome! 
 Accept this final arrow 
 
 And let it find a home. 
 For with it flies the spirit 
 
 Of Einar to his king — 
 
 62 
 
iKf)t Hast .^rroto 
 
 Great Olaf of the Northland, 
 To whom my heart doth clin^ 
 
 And Einar Tamberskelver 
 
 Fell dead upon the ground; 
 Upon the seas or mountains 
 
 None has the arrow found, 
 Since in the frieze of heaven 
 
 It quivers like a reed. 
 The autograph of Einar, 
 
 The symbol of his deed. 
 Announcement of his coming, 
 
 And emblem of his right 
 To tread the high Valhalla 
 
 With all true souls of might. 
 
Were I a robin, dearest, 
 My matin song should be 
 
 As full of tender sweetness 
 As his is from the tree; 
 
 But I'm a common sparrow 
 That hobbles down the way ; 
 
 My gift of song is narrow, 
 Yet ever would I sing 
 One long eternal spring 
 
 And one adoring lay. 
 
 » 
 
 Were I a flower, dearest, 
 
 Upon a stately stalk, 
 I'd fill the air with perfume 
 
 When forth you came to walk ; 
 But hid amidst the grasses, 
 
 A lowly violet, 
 I pray the soul that passes 
 
 May touch with tip of wing. 
 
 And I immortal spring 
 
 To nevermore forget. 
 
 6^ 
 
O weed! when all the fiowers are gone, 
 Still dost thou bravely hold thine own, 
 
 And in the cold December dawn 
 Stand forth undaunted and alone. 
 
 A gentle nun of gentle deeds, 
 
 Above the levels of the snow. 
 Thou still dost stretch thy hand with seeds. 
 
 And feed thy starving sparrows so. 
 
 The rose is sweet, and we who see. 
 Stoop down and kiss its dreamy eyes, 
 
 While a diviner grace in thee. 
 Unheeded and unfriended, dies. 
 
 When summer ruled, and gaudy blooms 
 Enticed the eye, thou wast forgot, 
 
 A beggar in the wayside glooms ; 
 I saw thee, and I loved thee not. 
 
 But nov/ I see thee once again 
 
 With eyes whose blinding scales are cast, 
 Still poor, but like a prince of men. 
 
 Refusing not the crumbs thou hast. 
 65 
 
Oh, the heart of the flaming rose, 
 
 The eyes of the marguerite, 
 And the lips of the daffodil, 
 
 And the brow of the lily sweet! 
 I feast my soul all day. 
 
 And I dream — I dream all night; 
 But I cannot — cannot drink my fill 
 
 Of their supreme delight. 
 
 And the song of the robin glad, 
 
 The voice of the meadow rill. 
 The swallows under the thatch, 
 
 And the wind about the hill — 
 They sing — they sing at morn. 
 
 And they sing — they sing at night; 
 As I listen — listen — and so catch 
 
 The language of delight. 
 
 And, oh, my soul has grown to be 
 
 A harp of many strings. 
 Whereon the fragrant summers play 
 
 And all the budded springs. 
 
 66 
 
CJe 2iminti::?ijarp 
 
 I dwell with men no more, 
 
 As I dream the live-long night; 
 
 As I revel — revel all the day 
 In gardens of delight. 
 
 And when the stormy winter comes, 
 
 Alone in the leafless tree, 
 I still repeat the music soft 
 
 That summer taught to me. 
 And thus the gloom I cheer, 
 
 With my themes from morn till night, 
 As I whisper — whisper through the croft 
 
 The music of delight. 
 
 67 
 
a Cl^angcle^si face 
 
 I met thee once, and only once, 
 But since 'that hour I've grown 
 
 To see no face that is not thine 
 And dream one dream alone. 
 
 I know not if the time shall come 
 
 Wherein we meet again. 
 But I shall hold my vision dear, 
 
 And keep it bright till then. 
 
 I fancied once I saw thee, sweet, 
 The same as that first time; 
 
 The matchless glory of thy face 
 Moved all my soul to rhyme. 
 
 But then I thought: It cannot be, 
 
 I met her years ago ; 
 The golden hair must be to-day 
 
 As white as driven snow. 
 
 And then I cursed the thought; to me 
 
 Immortal youth is thine. 
 If not upon the earth, at least 
 
 Within this heart of mine. 
 68 
 
Where heroes' blood is shed, 
 Where sleep our soldier dead, 
 With long acclaim and tears, 
 And thrill of tender fears. 
 With cannon roaring loudly 
 And music soaring proudly, 
 Unfurl our banner bright. 
 And on its sacred height 
 Forever let it blaze, 
 The oriflamme of praise! 
 
 Where shall Old Glory fly 
 
 And shake its stars on high? 
 
 Where sleep Columbia's sons 
 
 Who fell beside her guns, 
 
 Where death could daunt them never; 
 
 Forever and forev,er, 
 
 To mark their great endeavor. 
 
 To guard their holy dust. 
 
 To sanctify their trust, 
 
 Old Glory proud shall wave 
 
 Resplendent o'er the brave! 
 
 69 
 
Where sleep Columbia's dead, 
 Where her bold sons have bled, 
 That spot's American 
 To every loyal man; 
 And there Old Glory streaming, 
 With all her stars a-gleaming, 
 And there the eagle screaming. 
 To watch above their dreaming 
 Until the end of time, 
 Triumphant and sublime 
 The flag we love shall fly, 
 Or every patriot die! 
 
 70 
 
Co a Crlcfiet 
 
 Cricket, chirping in the grass, 
 Nick the moments as they pass 
 
 With thy song of cheer; 
 Thoughtless of the coming cold, 
 That the year is growing old 
 
 And that death is near. 
 
 Let the robins fly away, 
 
 And the heavens turn to gray; 
 
 Sing! and hope shall bless; 
 With the falling of the leaf 
 And the binding of the sheaf 
 
 Weave thy happiness. 
 
 Ere the winter days do come 
 Let me take thee, cricket, home; 
 
 Welcome to my hearth; 
 We will sing the season through, 
 Just as though the skies were blue. 
 
 Cloistered close with mirth. 
 
 Shy Arcadian, merry, bright. 
 Soon shall pass away the night. 
 And our spirits thrive, 
 
Co a orndtet 
 
 Far beyond the tempest's reach, 
 Feasting on the liquid speech 
 Of some magic hive. 
 
 High shall flame the fagot fire. 
 Thou shalt wake thy little lyre 
 
 Freely and in peace, 
 While I, dreaming near the blaze, 
 Fancy that I hear some lays 
 
 Wafted up from Greece. 
 
 Happy, dozing in the heat, 
 
 Thou shalt dream of fields of wheat 
 
 And of many sheaves. 
 Come with me, and thou shalt sing 
 When returning swallows wing 
 
 Round about the eaves. 
 
 Come, and thou shalt live an age; 
 Thou shalt be an honored sage, 
 
 I thy pupil kind. 
 Drinking in thy golden lore. 
 Till, like thee, I own no more 
 
 Than a peaceful mind. 
 
 72 
 
I saw a bee so tangled in 
 
 The petals of a flower, 
 To gain his freedom once again 
 
 He struggled for an hour; 
 So love within my heart did strive 
 
 Throughout a summer's day, 
 And, like the bee, the sweetest there, 
 
 He, flying, bore away. 
 
 73 
 
atutumn ^ong 
 
 With the fading of the leaf 
 
 Comes the gathering of the sheaf 
 And the squeaking and the creaking of the 
 wain, 
 
 And the jolly miller grinds 
 
 To the sighing of the winds 
 And the patter and the clatter of the rain. 
 
 With the fading of the leaf 
 
 The days are growing brief, 
 To the hedges and the sedges music's lost. 
 
 While a quiet sadness fills 
 
 All the spaces of the hills 
 For the splendor of a tender dream that's 
 crossed. 
 
 With the fading of the leaf 
 
 The wind will turn to grief, 
 And it treasures minor measures of a rhyme. 
 
 And it harbors thoughts of gloom 
 
 For the Summer in her tomb. 
 All her glory but a story told by Time. 
 
gout]^ anD age 
 
 Ever to lie under the eye 
 
 Of the sun; 
 Ever to hear, with cadence clear, 
 
 The brook run ; 
 
 Ever to feel the soft winds steal 
 
 Through the place; 
 Ever to know that violets grow 
 
 Near your face ; 
 
 Ever to hold visions of gold, 
 
 Born of Truth; 
 Ever to be happy and free — 
 
 Such is youth, 
 
 Nearing the end, ever to bend 
 
 On a staff; 
 Mile after mile, never a smile 
 
 Nor a laugh; 
 
 Winter and cold thronging the wold, 
 
 Thoughts of death; 
 Blindness and care, snowy-white hair, 
 
 Labored breath ; 
 75 
 
Fcutf) mti age 
 
 Never a hope, joyous to ope 
 Bright the page; 
 
 Nearing the tomb, nothing but gloom- 
 Such is age. 
 
 76 
 
Bright vestal of the glamoured eventide, 
 Sweet star that to our plodding world appears 
 Pure-raimented in splendor of the spheres, 
 
 Beholding thee we cast our cares aside. 
 
 And in thy glory our worn spirits hide; 
 
 Put off cur sorrows and their tribute fears ; 
 No world-engendered theme incites to tears, 
 
 What time thou walkest up the heavens wide. 
 
 Night after night thine altar light doth burn, 
 Night after night we hail thy coming, star, 
 
 And from thy calm and steadfast purpose learn 
 How little all our boasted triumphs are — 
 
 Dreams, bubbles, butterflies, that flit and flee. 
 
 While we at heart are something kin to thee. 
 
 77 
 
3In ti^e t^ati^ of ti^e moK 
 
 All night long in my garret room 
 
 I tremble with cold and fear, 
 For in the dingy hall outside 
 
 A soft footfall I hear; 
 The black, grim wolf of poverty, 
 
 With fangs so sharp and white, 
 Has made his lair beneath my stair. 
 
 And haunts me day and night. 
 
 When the candle burns low he comes 
 
 And keeps my soul awake ; 
 I hear him gnaw my batten door, 
 
 And its frail hinges shake. 
 I quake with dread in my poor bed, 
 
 Since he may win at last, 
 And glut his hunger once for all — 
 
 The wolf that gnaws so fast. 
 
 And when the dawn comes creeping in. 
 
 The while to work I go, 
 He follows me a step behind; 
 
 I cannot shun him so. 
 
 78 
 
In tf)e latfj of tt)e mRoli 
 
 And then I hear the tempter near: 
 *'The wolf is on your track; 
 
 May I protect you from his fangs?" 
 I fly and look not back. 
 
 And where I earn my pittance small 
 
 Again I hear a voice: 
 'The wolf is crouching at your side; 
 
 Is he your friend from choice?" 
 Great God! is labor then a lure 
 
 That fiends may snare their prey? 
 And round I turn and thank the wolf 
 
 That keeps such hounds at bay. 
 
 But, oh! the hunger and the cold, 
 
 And, oh! the grinding pain. 
 And, oh! the bitter, bitter tears 
 
 That fall like dreary rain; 
 To think the years are flying fast 
 
 And lives like mine must be. 
 With never one glad burst of sun 
 
 To brighten poverty. 
 
 For, oh ! the stream is dark and deep. 
 
 And, oh! but life is dear, 
 For all the thorns that pierce the morns 
 
 And make the evenings drear. 
 
 79 
 
In ti)e f atf) of t|)e mLolt 
 
 I pray for strength to drive the wolf 
 From underneath my stair; 
 
 But should he stay, Almighty God, 
 Give me the strength to bear! 
 
 Feast, Croesus, at your golden board, 
 
 And drink your sparkling wine; 
 Touch not the garments of the poor, 
 
 Nor hear when they repine. 
 But wonder not when they do faint 
 
 And in the struggle fall. 
 Since Want is such a hungry wolf, 
 
 And* oh! your crumbs so small! 
 
 80 
 
i^oto iBuDiS to TBlojssiom 'Bt:cafi 
 
 Now buds to blossom break 
 
 And odors sweet abound ; 
 The bee from his long winter's sleep's awake 
 
 And buzzing round. 
 
 The heart of nature leaps 
 
 With happy ardor new, 
 And every spear of grass each evening keeps 
 
 Its tryst with dew. 
 
 Forgive thy worshiper 
 
 If off his mask he lays, 
 And feels within his bosom's temple stir 
 
 A song of praise. 
 
 Oh, chill him not the while 
 
 The buds begin to wake, 
 But let him, thirsting, drink of thy sweet smile 
 
 For Love's dear sake. 
 
 8i 
 
Oh, wearied, tossed upon Thy breast. 
 Dear Lord, accept me, pray; 
 
 Too far from home my heart has been, 
 Too long away. 
 
 This remnant take — 'tis all that's left— 
 
 And make me whole again; 
 Not for myself, but for the good 
 
 Of other men. 
 
 Do as Thou wilt, and spare me not 
 
 The biting of the rod ; 
 So I may feel I live again 
 
 A child of God. 
 
 Good Shepherd, let my feet once more 
 
 Thy loving pastures know; 
 The mountains all are tempest swept, 
 
 And deep with snow. 
 
 Thy fold is love; I long to feel 
 
 The pressure of Thy arms. 
 And lose in Thee forevermore 
 
 The soul's alarms. 
 82 
 
€]^e 'Bee 
 
 In his hive, on winter nights, 
 What my little bee delights? 
 Many dreams of many blooms, 
 Nectars sweet and fragrant glooms; 
 Many gardens spread to view 
 Daily you are sailing through ; 
 Mountains, valleys, meadows, trees, 
 Are your islands and your seas. 
 Never any prize you miss 
 Of unnumbered victories. 
 
 Hardy pirate, keen, alert. 
 Never once a blossom hurt — 
 Only made to yield a bit 
 Of the richness given it — 
 Who can blame you if you tax 
 This for honey, that for wax? 
 Hot freebooter on the quest. 
 Cutlass ready if close pressed. 
 None can name you craven knight, 
 Fleeing rather than to fight. 
 
 And for all your eager strife, 
 Yours is not a miser's life; 
 
In the shelter of your den — 
 You're a generous fellow then, 
 Turning o'er your booty to 
 Those who rightly wheedle you; 
 Open-handed, like the Cid, 
 Robin Hood and Captain Kidd, 
 You believe the poor should live; 
 Most of what you get you give. 
 
 Cruise away in summer hours, 
 Taxing all the many flowers; 
 Take your pleasure while you may; 
 Work anon, but dream to-day; 
 Oft recount your conquests many. 
 Spring shall find you without any. 
 Sleep and dream on winter nights; 
 Yours are also our delights; 
 Honey, honey in the comb — 
 The capture and the bringing home! 
 
 84 
 
%n^av 
 
 Again the fields are green, 
 And bursting buds are seen 
 
 Appareling the trees; 
 The robins hop about, 
 And from their hives are out 
 
 The long-beleaguered bees. 
 
 Forever earth returns 
 Unto her youth and earns 
 
 Rich payment for her tears; 
 Within her cheek there glows 
 The while-departed rose 
 
 That sweetens all the years. 
 
 Age, to us, is beauty lost; 
 Come, look upon the frost 
 
 Encroaching on our brows; 
 For once our youth is gone, 
 No juvenating dawn 
 
 Reanimates the boughs. 
 
 And so we fall asleep, 
 And in the speechless deep 
 
 85 
 
Of Nature's wisdom trust, 
 Contented just to know 
 The sweetest buds that blow 
 
 Are rooted in the dust. 
 
 86 
 
Clje (15osijsip)5 
 
 I told my love unto the dew 
 
 That vanished in the air; 
 I told it to a little bird 
 
 That warbles everywhere. 
 
 At eve I told it to a rose, 
 
 And said: "The secret keep." 
 
 Quoth she: "Beware and have a care 
 I whisper in my sleep." 
 
 An adept grown, I told my love 
 
 To her whom I adore ; 
 She smiled and said: "It must be so; 
 
 I've heard it thrice before." 
 
 87 
 
Love was fishing in a brook; 
 
 For a hook 
 
 He'd the horn 
 
 Of a thorn ; 
 
 For his line 
 Just a single golden hair 
 
 Robbed from mine. 
 
 "Love," I said, "how do they bite?' 
 
 "Not a mite; 
 
 They're asleep, 
 
 Hidden deep 
 
 In the cool 
 And quiet amber twilights 
 
 Of the pool." 
 
 "Love, your baiting let me see." 
 
 'Twas a bee. 
 
 "Try," I said, 
 
 "This instead." 
 
 And I gave 
 A little crumpled rose-leaf 
 
 To the wave. 
 88 
 
Uobe's dFisi)mg flesson 
 
 And no sooner was his hook 
 
 In the brook 
 
 Than a trout 
 
 Pulled he out, 
 
 Pretty thing! 
 ** Never, never bait a thorn 
 
 With a sting." 
 
 89 
 
apoonl(Q]^t 
 
 Lo! Evening comes unto her chambers sweet; 
 
 The fields lie charmed, the rose in fra- 
 grance sleeps, 
 The cricket chirps from his secure retreat, 
 
 The brook laughs on among its reedy deeps, 
 
 And in the grove the nightingale outweeps 
 Her plaint, and fireflies dot the dusk with gold, 
 
 While overhead each star her vigil keeps; 
 The moon looks on from out a cloudy fold 
 Like some kind face that smiles above a legend 
 old. 
 
 Hour after hour the glamour doth increase, 
 The magic grows, the soft enchantment looms, 
 
 Till Mab the parchment of her fairy lease 
 Unrolls and awes the silver-sandaled glooms, 
 Proclaims her sway, and loi from countless 
 blooms 
 
 Come forth the happy fairies, far and near. 
 To dance about, while from forsaken tombs 
 
 Of ample trees lithe Dryad forms appear. 
 
 And from the purple pools the shining sprites 
 
 uprear. 
 
 90 
 
The fair world lives in many a prank and song, 
 
 And many a myth by mortals counted dead 
 Awakes and wanders with bright feet along, 
 
 While many a voice to thoughtless listener 
 fled 
 
 To Fancy whispers where the moon is spread ; 
 While old Greed sleeps upon his yellow hoard 
 
 And restless dreams of grasping hopes unfed, 
 And of his w^ealth in hidden corners stored, 
 And ships that only touch where ruddy Gold 
 is lord. 
 
 Slow wanes the night into the budding dawn; 
 
 And who shall say a wonder hath been 
 wrought? 
 No sign is seen, the revelry is gone; 
 
 In wood and field no slightest clew is caught 
 
 Of sprite or fay to feed the passing thought; 
 The rose is sphinx, and babel is the stream. 
 
 The tree a diplomat that telleth nought — 
 Except to him who readeth by the beam 
 Of starry-lit Romance the missal of her dream. 
 
 91 
 
3!n)Scnpt(ou 
 
 jFor a jFountnin to tlir jHrmovp of 
 
 Here love inscribes oroal Tusilala's name, 
 Anil glory guartls his monuniental fame; 
 He came antl went, aiul we this t'lumtain raise 
 'I'hal men may drink ti> his eternal praise. 
 His thonghts were like this crystal water, pure, 
 A fount o^ music that shall lono- emlure. 
 Then come, partake, for in this deathless sprins;- 
 His spirit dwells and all his fancies sing. 
 
 92 
 
IRouttO 
 
 Let the maid that lonely sighs 
 I»/earn a pleasant measure, 
 
 She shall find it more than gold 
 Or Braganza's treasure. 
 
 Let her learn it, let her sing it, 
 
 Laugh the tears away; 
 Sorrow, sorrow — let them bring it. 
 
 Oh, some other day! 
 
 I do like to see a joy 
 
 Chasing after grief. 
 Laughing like a rosy boy 
 
 Tumbling on a sheaf. 
 
 Let the nightingale 
 
 Hug the hungry thorn, 
 Some will never fail 
 
 Anything forlorn. 
 
 Out into the sun ! 
 
 Weep no more o' nights; 
 Laugh and sing and run. 
 
 Welcome sweet delights! 
 93 
 
91 TSlamt Ci^ee j^ot 
 
 My thoughts by day, my dreams by night, 
 
 In one sweet circle move, 
 Whose center is my source of light, 
 
 Whose influence is love. 
 
 Four seasons have I like the earth. 
 
 For I am mortal, dear, 
 And thou must sometimes cloud the mirth 
 
 That is my heaven here. 
 
 Yet it is well that roses fall 
 
 And that the pansy dies; 
 The heart again may rear them all 
 
 For later sacrifice. 
 
 I blame thee not when wintry winds 
 
 About my garden run ; 
 Somehow the blossom always finds 
 
 The temple of the sun. 
 
 94 
 
%\)t mainmt ^m&t 
 
 A mouse has come to live with me, 
 
 And when the house is still, 
 And when the shadows of the night 
 
 Creep 'round the window-sill, 
 I hear his nibble in the wall. 
 
 Or from his hole he looks, 
 And runs about the cheery hearth 
 
 To scan my chimney nooks. 
 
 Before the fire I sit and dream. 
 
 And watch his dainty play. 
 And dare not move a hand or foot 
 
 Lest he should run away. 
 He only asks the crumbs that fall, 
 
 The warmth I do not miss. 
 The wainscot shelter for his home — 
 
 And shall I bar him this? 
 
 Say, what am I, who, in God's house. 
 Ask, oh, so much of worth. 
 
 That I should shut my humble door 
 To this poor child of earth? 
 
 95 
 
Cf)e ^iHainscot i^louse 
 
 Are pride and greed and vanity 
 
 So noble in God's sight 
 That I should drive away the mouse, 
 
 And sit alone to-night? 
 
 Stay, little friend, so long as time 
 
 Doth give thee life to live, 
 And what I have for one so small 
 
 Let me with honor give. 
 Thy heart, I know, hath never sinned. 
 
 And is to Him more dear 
 Than all the majesty of kings. 
 
 Hedged round by bow and spear. 
 
 The Sparrow's Friend is also thine, 
 
 And should I slay thee, mouse. 
 Could I complain with conscience clear 
 
 Did ruin seize my house? 
 My roof is thine. Let twilight's hour 
 
 Full often summon thee 
 To teach me more of brotherhood 
 
 And keener sympathy. 
 
 96 
 
among ^t "Boofe^ 
 
 Survey my broad domain; no petty state 
 Of ermined king, and doomed to sink away 
 Into the Lethe of a yesterday; 
 No Egypt old, nor yet Assyria great; 
 Nor Greece, nor Rome, nor where the oceans 
 roll 
 Round Indian isles and thunderous navies 
 
 spread — 
 But an immortal realm, to Genius wed: 
 Behold! a thousand Edens of the soul 
 
 That flash their deathless glories far and 
 v/ide. 
 Al Raschid's treasure, Croesus' wealth, the 
 glow 
 Of Zehran splendor and Palmyran pride 
 Sleep in the dateless dust of long ago, 
 Unworth the fee to one Shakespearean line. 
 To Sidney's sweetness or to Shelley's wine. 
 
 97 
 
aaoicelesJSJ ^ong 
 
 In dreams I wrote a lyric fine 
 
 That all the world did praise; 
 And felt upon my brow descend 
 
 The cool and gracious bays. 
 Then I awoke; the room was cold; 
 
 The song, forgotten quite, 
 Was mine no more; the world's applause 
 
 Had vanished with the night. 
 
 That sweetest song I cannot bring 
 
 From slumber's realm away, 
 But nightly I do read it there, 
 
 No other mortal may ; 
 'Tis of the spirit, innermost. 
 
 And innermost belongs. 
 The love, the light, the dream of life, 
 
 The voiceless song of songs. 
 
 98 
 
P'ull fourscore winters on his head 
 Freeze not his genial eye, 
 
 Since fourscore summers in his heart 
 Its depths are kindled by. 
 
 The many wrinkles of his face 
 Are paths of mirth and care ; 
 
 The heavy hand of time, forsooth, 
 Has etched with lightness there. 
 
 And though the roses all are gone, 
 
 Their spirit dwells anear, 
 And haunts the evening of his smile 
 
 As they themselves were here. 
 
 His laugh still seems attuned to joy, 
 
 Although in minor key, 
 As it were echo now and then 
 
 To some sweet memory. 
 
 Not all the losses of the years 
 Have smothered love in him, 
 
 But only burned away the mists 
 That made his pathway dim. 
 99 
 
^n <©lti Mm 
 
 Within his soul no dross alloys 
 
 The gold of Age's star; 
 Within his heart contending thoughts 
 
 Make no disastrous war. 
 
 Patience, peace, and charity 
 
 Within his breast abide. 
 And thus, composedly, he waits 
 
 The ebbing of the tide. 
 
 lOO 
 
at ^ot* 
 
 I hope, sometime, to put this toil from me, 
 
 Shake off these cares, and in some region 
 mild 
 
 Live one fair dream of all that have beguiled. 
 Nature! What pleasure would it sweetly be 
 To hear the endless music of the sea; 
 
 To roam, untrammeled, o'er thy mountains 
 wild 
 
 And wander in thy forests like a child 
 Let loose to play and lord of liberty! 
 
 And yet, if this fond dream be but a dream. 
 
 And I at last within the furrow fall. 
 Let me not faint, but steadfast prove and 
 
 strong. 
 Within my soul the sound of ocean's stream 
 Upon his shores, and in my heart the call 
 From peak and wood, and on my lips their 
 song. 
 
M^ciplintH 
 
 Love once caught his mother's doves, 
 
 Plucked them every one. 
 Quoth he: "When her team she sees, 
 
 I'll enjoy the fun." 
 But his merriment was brief; 
 
 Venus quickly spied. 
 Ordered him into the shafts, 
 
 And the lash applied. 
 Said she: "When on Gentleness 
 
 Love inflicteth pain, 
 It is time that he should know 
 
 Bridle, bit, and rein." 
 
 102 
 
Ci^e finger 
 
 As Love came up the morning hill, 
 
 A song upon his lips, 
 More welcome than the breeze was he 
 
 To long-becalmed ships. 
 
 I bade him sit beside me there 
 
 And sing me ditties three, 
 Since when my soul is all his own, 
 
 Nor would again be free. 
 
 I follow, follow where he goes, 
 
 Unto my dying day, 
 Oh, wretched if I hear him not. 
 
 Full happy if I may. 
 
 The noon is past, the night comes on. 
 
 He carols, carols still, 
 And I shall hear his changeless voice 
 
 All down the evening hill. 
 
 103 
 
Itttle T5tot))n§ of t^e (E-rajiSJ 
 
 Little brothers of the grass, 
 
 Scatter not when I do pass; 
 
 What have you to fear from me 
 
 That you thus should swiftly flee, 
 
 Like some dwellers in the wood 
 
 At approach of Robin Hood? 
 
 Did I ever give you cause, 
 
 Harm you, break your meadow laws, 
 
 Rob you of a single thing, 
 
 That you thus should take to wing, 
 
 Leap and flutter from my path? 
 
 Think you I could harbor wrath 
 
 Or forget myself so far 
 
 As to play the cruel czar, 
 
 And you exile to some gloom 
 
 That should prove your bitter doom? 
 
 Kingless dwellers of the mead. 
 Citizens of grass and weed, 
 Communistic ruralites. 
 Well I know you have your rights 
 Gods and men are bound to own 
 Are yours justly and alone. 
 104 
 
ILittlc iDfotijecs of tljc (Brass 
 
 Have no fear that I shall be 
 Tyrant to your jollity; 
 I am democratic, too, 
 And no more a king than you. 
 Though by fortune given more 
 Of the world's delusive store. 
 Hence it is my duty, friends. 
 For my boon to make amends ; 
 And instead of using might 
 To o'erturn another's right, 
 I were traitor to my trust 
 If from out the w^ayside dust 
 Gave I not a wounded bee 
 Back to life and liberty; 
 Or so much as harmed a wing 
 Of a single meadow thing. 
 
 Therefore scatter not when I 
 Chance to pass your coverts by ; 
 We are brothers — I with rhyme 
 Stretching out the summer-time. 
 You with pleasure much the same, 
 You for fun and I for fame. 
 Bubbles, bubbles, gain we both, 
 Which is better take no oath ; 
 Time makes havoc of the two. 
 Seals with winter me and you; 
 Nature writes no epitaphs; 
 He who sings and he who laughs, 
 105 
 
Hittle ^rotfters of tije (Bragg 
 
 She, impartial, folds to rest 
 In the haven of her breast. 
 
 Little brothers, scatter not, 
 But companions let us be, 
 Happy, happy as the free. 
 
 And together be forgot. 
 
 io6 
 
€ltiorat>o 
 
 I swore that for a rounded year 
 
 I would not see' her face, 
 But that to Fortune I would kneel 
 
 And win her golden grace. 
 Oh, foolish me, to vow the like! 
 
 When not a day was by, 
 Again I sat at Dora's feet 
 
 And looked in Dora's eye. 
 
 107 
 
Summer is gone, and with her went away 
 
 Hope, ever delicate and frail, 
 
 And, like a lily, pale. 
 Born with the blossoms, Hope was bright as 
 they. 
 
 And when unto the earth they fell. 
 
 She bade them all farewell. 
 
 Oh, long before the time when peaches burn, 
 
 Or apples mellow in the shine, 
 
 Or grapes plump out with wine. 
 Did Hope her mortal mission fully learn. 
 
 And so she drooped in early hour 
 
 And perished in her bower. 
 
 Summer is gone, and with her went away 
 
 Hope, ever delicate and frail, 
 
 And, like a lily, pale. 
 Winter is here. Will it forever stay? 
 
 The snov/ lies deep upon her grave, 
 
 Above, the bare bouehs wave. 
 
 io8 
 
October's here; the feathered seed 
 
 Floats slowly o'er the hazy mead, 
 
 From place to place, through scenes of gold. 
 Like Homer's phantom, gray and old, 
 
 Blown here and there by paltry need. 
 
 The gossamer binds up the weed 
 With ghostly hands, and leaves are freed 
 From birdless boughs, and winds are cold; 
 October's here. 
 
 The bees are gone; they pay no heed, 
 In their warm hives, to hearts that bleed. 
 
 One voice alone is overbold — 
 
 The cricket on the dreary wold, 
 Still hopeful, pipes upon his reed. 
 October's here. 
 
 109 
 
(Brantimotl^et: 
 
 Slowly, upon the kitchen floor 
 
 And in the firelight's glow, 
 On winter evenings long and cold, 
 
 Grandmother's step would go. 
 With her right hand she turned the wheel, 
 
 The other held the wool. 
 While to a merry, humming song 
 
 My heart beat fast and full. 
 
 And as she spun, her mellow voice 
 
 Was ringing clear and sweet. 
 And in her tread I heard the tramp 
 
 "Of soldiers' marching feet. 
 For she outpoured in measured tones 
 
 Great Homer's lofty line 
 That told of mighty Priam's fall 
 
 And Helen's face divine. 
 
 Or she would quote from Pollok's lay, 
 
 How Byron's lonely soul 
 Was brother to the rocks and storms 
 
 And ocean's wintry roll ; 
 
(gi:antimoti)er 
 
 Or yet of Hohenlindeii's field — 
 Of drums that beat at night, 
 
 And how the pure, untrodden snow 
 Grew crimson with the fight. 
 
 Till, listening, I enraptured grew 
 
 An aspen to her voice. 
 And chilled or glowed as she essayed 
 
 The poem of her choice. 
 Ah, those were days of wonderment. 
 
 Of youthful hope and fire, 
 When all the fibers of my soul 
 
 Were tense as Sappho's lyre. 
 
 Oh, this, all this, was years ago, 
 
 When I was but a boy, 
 Yet often now my pulses leap 
 
 With that remembered joy; 
 Again I see, again I hear 
 
 Grandmother at her wheel, 
 And to her magic numbers thrill 
 
 And all her power feel. 
 
 Her rhythmic voice, her kindling eye 
 
 Arouse me here to-night. 
 And her sweet face in halo shines 
 
 And fills me with delight. 
 
C^rantiinotljcr 
 
 For me she lives, although the years 
 
 Are piled upon her tomb, 
 And still I hear her measured step 
 
 In that old kitchen room. 
 
 She is a part of me and mine, 
 
 And every song I sing 
 I feel that I should credit her 
 
 As rivers do their spring. 
 And if there be, in time to come, 
 
 Some laurel for my lays, 
 Oh, place it gently where she sleeps. 
 
 And give her all the praise. 
 
**9!f jioije mm mw ti^e 
 
 *'If love were what the rose is," 
 'Twould shut at close of day, 
 And at the touch of autumn 
 'Twould fade and die away. 
 
 "If love were what the. rose is,' 
 Its fragrance would depart 
 And make a lonesome garden 
 Of all the human heart. 
 
 "If love were what the rose is," 
 'Tv/ould ease no weight of grief. 
 And in the stormy weather 
 Dismantle, leaf by leaf. 
 
 "If love were what the rose is," 
 Ah, who of love would sing? 
 Or in the clutch of winter 
 Look forward to the spring? 
 
 "3 
 
^iv flDriole 
 
 In the shadows cool and dim, 
 Hanging from an upper limb 
 Of an old ancestral tree, 
 A most wondrous house I see ; 
 'Tis the castle high and tight 
 Of Sir Oriole, the knight. 
 Prince of pleasant woodland ways, 
 Jouster in his lady's praise, 
 Singing like a troubadour, 
 Happy in the sweet amour. 
 All around his broad demesne 
 Stretches glossy bright and green; 
 His a wilderness of love. 
 Shade below and sun above. 
 Brook that ever babbling flows, 
 Wind that laughs and smiling rose; 
 Brothers are they, one and all, 
 Bringing tribute to his hall. 
 Fragrance, mirth, and melody 
 Linked with light and liberty. 
 Oh, he is a happy wight 
 In his kingdom of delight, 
 114 
 
5ir Oriole 
 
 Like some lord of Brittany 
 Dwelling by the summer sea. 
 
 See him flashing through the trees: 
 
 Once, in far Hesperides, 
 
 His ancestor fought at dusk 
 
 Through great gardens faint with musk, 
 
 Thronged with trees of golden fruit, 
 
 And so won his armor suit — 
 
 Orange in a field of black. 
 
 And his 'scutcheon, without lack, 
 
 Still his young descendant bears 
 
 And that ancient honor shares. 
 
 Who would storm his castle must 
 
 Be prepared for royal thrust; 
 
 Yea, his little heart is bold 
 
 All marauders to withhold. 
 
 Darting here and there so free 
 
 In his realm of greenery. 
 
 Rich is he. When winter nears, 
 
 And frost the merry woodland seres 
 
 Off is he unto a land 
 
 By rude tempests never fanned. 
 
 Many, many fields of rice 
 
 He may harvest without price; 
 
 Many, many evenings dream 
 
 By the never-freezing stream, 
 
 "5 
 
Sbix <^ti(iU 
 
 While his children seek them mates 
 In his golden vast estates, 
 Planning how and where to build 
 When the winter's reign is filled 
 Over hills and far avv'ay, 
 When the northern spring shall say: 
 Come, ye brothers of the sun, 
 Welcome, welcome every one; 
 Gladden once again my skies, 
 Make my woodlands paradise; 
 Lord and Lady Oriole, 
 Come, oh, come and fright the dole 
 That here lingers till you sing — 
 Sing a song and flash a wing 
 In the gardens of the spring. 
 
 ii6 
 
iLotje isi not ^o ijfleeting 
 
 That is simply passion 
 
 Which can only see 
 In bright eyes and dimples 
 
 Its felicity. 
 Love is not so fleeting, 
 
 Love is not so cold, 
 Love will kiss the wrinkles 
 
 On our foreheads old. 
 
 Let the roses wither, 
 
 Let the bleak days come; 
 Let the summer's music 
 
 In our fields grow dumb. 
 Love will cheer the winter 
 
 As in time of spring; 
 Though the tree be leafless 
 
 And no minstrel sing. 
 
 117 
 
©enfce 
 
 When first I saw, enthroned amidst the sea, 
 The Adriatic's bride in splendor bright. 
 And called to mind her ancient pomp and 
 might, 
 
 I longed forever in that realm to be 
 
 Her subject, vassal, slave, and votary; 
 
 For I beheld, made real, the dazzling sight 
 
 Of one fond dream of glory and of light 
 
 That long had lived within the heart of me; 
 
 Yet had not dared to hope that space possessed 
 The full unrivaled luster of its glow. 
 
 Wondering, I gazed to see its soul expressed 
 A thousand-fold; and I rejoiced to know 
 
 That beauty, dreamed, is found beyond our 
 youth 
 
 In the substantial elements of truth. 
 
 ii8 
 
^toeet ti^e mm at ^otn 
 
 Sweet the roses at morn; 
 The lilies were sweet; 
 Sweet, too, the grasses were. 
 Kissing her feet. 
 'Oh, surely," I said, "where she goes 
 The nectar of happiness flows; 
 The hearts of the lily and rose, 
 Drinking, beat high." 
 
 Gay the roses at noon ; 
 The lilies were gay; 
 Gay, too, the grasses were, 
 Loving the day. 
 *0h, surely," I said, "they are right. 
 When feasting on beauty and light. 
 Unthinking of sorrow and blight, 
 Never to sigh." 
 
 Pale the roses at eve; 
 
 The lilies were pale; 
 Pale, too, the grasses were, 
 
 Pity*s the tale. 
 
Stoeet ti)e Moses at Worn 
 
 Oh, surely," I said, "joy is brief; 
 Their eyelids are dewy with grief; 
 They wither like hope and the leaf, 
 Waiting to die." 
 
flDn f (ttDing a ?E>eaD I3ee in a 
 
 Industrious pirate! far he roamed, 
 And twice ten thousand flowers 
 
 Paid tribute to his fiery zeal 
 Through all the lavish hours. 
 
 But he did meet his fate at last;' 
 
 A bloom there was so fair, 
 He turned a saint and lived content, 
 
 Adored and perished there. 
 
 121 
 
0om 
 
 The day hath reached the summit of its race, 
 Like some proud king at zenith of his power, 
 Who mounts a height his kingdom wide to trace, 
 And taste his strength in one transcendent 
 hour. 
 Realm after reahn about him lies serene, 
 And all is his, one vast and bright demesne, 
 A hundred cities, forest, field, and stream, 
 Wrapt in a flood of light, 
 The symbol of his might. 
 The shining robe of his imperial dream. 
 
 Even as he looks, behold ! a shadow small 
 Creeps round his throne, and lengthens 
 steadily; 
 He f rov^rns, and lo ! the shadow darkens all ; 
 
 His sword is out, and swift his minions flee. 
 But as they ride the shadows follow fast; 
 The realm of Noon is sundered and is past, 
 While evening's lordling marches forth to war, 
 And like a broken Lear, 
 Upon his ready spear. 
 The great king sinks beneath his fallen star. 
 
Ci^e €>pal 
 
 Essence of sunset, 
 Pearl of the morn, 
 
 Glow of red passion, 
 Beauty and scorn, 
 
 And violet love, 
 
 When wast thou born? 
 
 Art thou the annal 
 Of Abel and Cain? 
 
 Of altars — upreared 
 In Eden's fair plain — 
 
 One duly honored. 
 The other in vain? 
 
 This v;ith its blossoms 
 And fruit of the vine — 
 
 That with the living, 
 And therefore divine; 
 
 This one unlighted, 
 And that one ashine? 
 
 Art thou the mingled 
 Passions at heart — ■ 
 123 
 
CJe (Dpal 
 
 The jealous unreason, 
 The wild slayer's art — 
 
 With that of the love 
 Of its nobler part? 
 
 The blood of the victim 
 
 That cried from the ground? 
 
 Forgiveness that followed 
 The terrible wound? 
 
 The anguish of Eden 
 When Abel was found? 
 
 The crystalline mirror 
 Of hope and despair? 
 
 The glad fountain frozen 
 To silentness there, 
 
 Reflecting and holding 
 The base and the fair? 
 
 Such are the thoughts 
 
 The opal inspires; 
 Such are the gleams 
 
 That flash in its fires, 
 The mirth and the madness 
 
 Of human desires. 
 
 124 
 
Time is passing swiftly, wife; 
 
 Love is just as fleet, 
 Since wherever Time doth go, 
 
 Patter rosy feet. 
 
 Never any path so rough, 
 
 Never one so long. 
 But Love cheers it to the end 
 
 With a merry song. 
 
 Time cannot outwit the boy, 
 Though he lead him far, 
 
 Though he shroud in darkest night 
 Every winking star. 
 
 Therefore let the shadows come, 
 
 And the snows of age; 
 Love will find us shelter warm 
 
 When the tempests rage. 
 
 Time is passing swiftly, wife — 
 
 W^hat have we to do? 
 Just to trust him, since his path 
 
 Is Love's pathway, too. 
 125 
 
mi^itt Cloljet: 
 
 Whose tiny sheaves of white are these 
 
 All sprinkled through the grass? 
 Is't harvest-time in fairyland 
 
 And doth the reaper pass? 
 Methought I heard a little wain 
 
 Creak homeward through the dusk 
 Or was it a belated bee 
 
 With his last load of musk? 
 
 The cricket chirped, the robin sung, 
 
 The firefly lit his spark; 
 I heard the fay about his door 
 
 Sing gayly in the dark. 
 To-morrow he will gather in 
 
 The last of his small sheaves, 
 To lie upon a fragrant couch 
 
 Beneath his autumn eaves. 
 
 Kind little fay, to sow and reap 
 
 And give the golden half! 
 When all the honey good is gone 
 
 He takes away the chaff. 
 
 i26 
 
2l2af)ite iKlober 
 
 But what have gentle fays to do 
 To pass the summer-time! 
 
 Content are they to reap and give- 
 And you may have the rhyme. 
 
 F27 
 
Ci^e ^i^rfne 
 
 My soul is ever at its prayers 
 
 In my heart's shrine 
 That I may be worthy of thee 
 
 And thou be mine. 
 
 Oh, answer me, my saint, and say 
 
 Shall that time fall? 
 Or must I kneel until I feel 
 
 Death to me call? 
 
 Ghost-like, without, the ice-rains tap 
 
 And cold winds sigh, 
 Hope hungers in her cheerless cell 
 
 And all things die. 
 
 ;28 
 
i^optttg 
 
 In the fever and fret of noon 
 
 I dream of the crescent moon, 
 
 Of twilight and the evening star, 
 
 Serene and bright above the bar; 
 
 And, dreaming thus, each thorn I press 
 
 May wound as deep, but stings the less; 
 
 For roses sweet I may not see, 
 
 Somewhere, I fancy, bloom for me, 
 
 Beyond the fever and the fret 
 
 Of noisy noons — and I forget, 
 
 Forget the wounds and bind them up 
 
 As I had drained nepenthe's cup. 
 
 Oh, bliss! that in the moil of strife 
 
 The kiture glorifies our life, 
 
 And makes the path of duty sweet. 
 
 Though we pass through with bleeding feet. 
 
 129 
 
Co a ^notDbftD 
 
 There's something of the Viking in thy heart. 
 
 When winter comes, and all thy brothers flee 
 
 To sunny groves beside the summer sea, 
 Thou dost remain to play the braver part 
 Of breasting storms that through the heavens 
 dart 
 
 In warlike mail and strength. With tenfold 
 glee 
 
 Thou twitt'rest in their teeth triumphantly. 
 Nor mind'st the biting cold and aching smart. 
 
 To gain subsistence in the harvest days, 
 When every field and tree presents its store, 
 
 Is not enough to sate thy sturdy soul. 
 
 Like those hale northmen of the Runic lays. 
 Thou lov'st to beat along a rocky shore 
 
 And win, through strife, the firmly guarded 
 goal. 
 
 130 
 
When thy soldier home doth speed, 
 
 All victorious from the field, 
 Riding on his haughty steed 
 
 Or borne, cold, upon his shield. 
 Smile — if living, smile — if dead; 
 
 Let this thought thy bosom swell: 
 Love inspired him, honor led — 
 
 Glory blossomed where he fell. 
 
 131 
 
?©affoti(l)S 
 
 Ye golden trumpets of the fields, 
 
 What lucent music floats 
 Upon the dewy air of morn 
 
 From your celestial throats? 
 
 What throng of unseen spirits blow 
 What triumphs through the sky? 
 
 Hath Israfel and all his choir 
 Descended from on high? 
 
 Stood some proud gate of heaven ajar 
 Through which, in glad array, 
 
 Ye passed, for one short earthly hour 
 To charm our barren day? 
 
 Bright heralds, hail! though we see just 
 
 The happy instrument, 
 Full well we know for no vain cause 
 
 This royal pomp was sent. 
 
 Though we see not the spirit forms 
 That this sweet music make. 
 
 Yet still we hear, as in our dreams, 
 And bless you for its sake. 
 132 
 
And knowing this and loving you, 
 
 We cannot fail to find 
 The good intended for our souls, 
 
 Though mortal eyes be blind. 
 
 133 
 
She brought to me fresh oranges, 
 
 Wild honey in the comb, 
 And fragrant nuts and apples strange, 
 
 That grew about her home; 
 And as I sat and sipped or ate, 
 
 Within the patio there, 
 Adown she took her loved guitar 
 
 And sung a Spanish air. 
 
 I did not understand the words, 
 
 Yet somehow in my heart 
 I understood the meaning of 
 
 The music of her art; 
 And thought did fly beyond the blue 
 
 Of many a league of sea. 
 Until I seemed to be again 
 
 Beneath my cottage tree. 
 
 And I beheld, not far away, 
 A maid of northern type — 
 
 One morning at a little farm 
 When cherries all were ripe. 
 134 
 
^i)t Scnorita 
 
 The mowers, one by one, had gone 
 
 And left us, sweet, alone. 
 To talk of love among the scent 
 
 Of meadows newly mown. 
 
 We plucked the fruit as in a dream. 
 
 While robin in the tree. 
 Full deep in love with his brown mate 
 
 Ate twice as much as we. 
 Although we had long years to love. 
 
 And he a season there, 
 We squandered not the precious time 
 
 With much of mortal fare. 
 
 And so when I my oranges 
 
 And honey put aside^ 
 Scarce tasted for the dream they brought, 
 
 I found the song had died; 
 The singer dark had vanished, too; 
 
 It mattered not to me — 
 My soul was far away the while 
 
 Beyond the Caribee. 
 
 135 
 
^tratobtrtlcjS 
 
 Ay, all the fairy folk are gone 
 From pleasant field and wood, 
 
 Yet they have not forsaken us 
 In their solicitude. 
 
 Forsooth, their souls were borne away, 
 
 Since we forgot so soon; 
 Yet, loving us, have they contrived 
 
 A more than mortal boon. 
 
 Behold you here their benefits 
 
 In guise that half deceives! 
 Say, whose but theirs these flaming hearts 
 
 On salvers of green leaves? 
 
 136 
 
Now daisies nod upon the hill 
 And lilies grace the vale, 
 
 And violets, in woodland nooks, 
 Unlace their petals pale. 
 
 Where'er I go it is the same: 
 The joyous face of earth 
 
 Looks up and smiles so pleasantly 
 It fills my soul with mirth. 
 
 O winter, winter, tarry long. 
 Nor any blossom blight 
 
 Until I sip from many fields 
 The honey of delight. 
 
 Let me pursue like any bee 
 
 The rosy lips of time, 
 And set against a leafless age 
 
 The melody of rhyme. 
 
 ^37 
 
Ci^e Captain 
 
 Nov/, when he might not see the golden sun, 
 And on his chart his latitude obtain, 
 And know exact our course upon the main. 
 Our captain slowed the vessel on her run 
 
 And sounded in the deep, and gained 
 thereby 
 Full knowledge where we were, and went 
 
 ahead 
 As confident as he had lately read 
 The shining dial of the open sky. 
 So I, when thought doth leave me in a doubt 
 
 Which way to turn, resort unto the heart, 
 And from its depths the secret ravel out, 
 
 And where I sail do point upon the chart, 
 Grow calm again, regardless of the stars. 
 Escape the rocks and round the fateful bars. 
 
 138 
 
Just to hear the robin sing, 
 
 Welcoming the light; 
 Just to hear his evensong, 
 
 Bidding day good night, 
 Makes an Eden of the morn, 
 
 And the twilight dim 
 Chaste and holy as the realm 
 
 Of the seraphim. 
 
 Who that hears his bubbling notes 
 
 Feels not from his soul 
 Something like a wave of joy 
 
 Through his bosom roll? 
 Who but feels that he is kin 
 
 To angelic things? 
 That the dust is cleared away 
 
 From immortal springs? 
 
 Sing thy song and let me hear. 
 Learning, bird, from thee 
 
 That the twilight, like the dawn, 
 Holds felicity; 
 
 139 
 
5ong for Song 
 
 That our lives, anear their close, 
 
 As in morns of youth. 
 Still are founts of happiness — 
 
 And more near to truth. 
 
 140 
 
a HBm^Wt of ti^c ^wn 
 
 Oh, dark-haired maiden of the south, 
 The ruby of thy perfect mouth, 
 Thy teeth of pearl, thy lustrous eyes 
 Are peri-like, of paradise. 
 
 Thy brown cheek's blush, thy form of grace, 
 The light, the laughter of thy face. 
 Proclaim thee daughter of the sun. 
 In whose warm heart his blood doth run. 
 
 Forever thou dost look on flowers, 
 And breathe their fragrance at all hours; 
 Thou hast not known, shall never know, 
 The birdless branches of the snow. 
 
 All seasons doth the nightingale 
 Pour out for thee his lovelorn tale ; 
 Night after night the damask rose 
 At thy wide casement buds and blows. 
 
 The frosts, the blight of northern lands, 
 Set not their feet upon thy strands; 
 Forever on thy shores the sea 
 Sings a delicious melody. 
 141 
 
^ IBaugf)ter of tf^t Sun 
 
 And all this music, all this mirth, 
 This bloom, this magic of the earth, 
 In thee commingled, mold thy mind 
 To live on love and make thee kind. 
 
 Fear not the daughter of the north 
 From any heart can drive thee forth; 
 As suns on frozen mountain shine. 
 Thy glow shall conquer, maid divine. 
 
 Thy warmth of love, unchanging, deep. 
 Like vestal fire, shall brightly keep 
 The inner temples of the breast. 
 And prove thee there both first and best 
 
 Farewell! but only for a time. 
 My ship again shall seek thy clime. 
 And I no more depart from thee. 
 Few be the tears you shed for me, 
 
 Few be the sighs. If I go far. 
 My skies shall hold a single star. 
 And it again shall bring me back 
 From every world-encircling track. 
 
 142 
 
Cfme i^iav ^teal ti^e m^^V 
 
 Time may steal the dewy bloom 
 Of all our summer roses ; 
 
 He can never bring to doom 
 Hearts where love reposes. 
 
 He may shower us with dole, 
 He may rack the bosom; 
 
 He can never from the soul 
 Shake one tender blossom. 
 
 He can never raise the bar 
 
 To that inner garden ; 
 He can never hope to mar 
 
 Hearts where love is warden. 
 
 Therefore let us not deplore 
 
 Any stress of weather, 
 But, securing fast the door, 
 
 Laugh at him together. 
 
 HZ 
 
Poet! thy soul doth still inhabit earth; 
 From its worn house, departing, gazed around 
 And, free to choose, left not its native ground, 
 High-thinking haunts and deep eternal mirth. 
 Still throbs the world unto thy royal worth, 
 Still finds thee where the best of thoughts 
 
 abound. 
 Still hears thy voice for justice lash the sound 
 Of noisy wrongs, and plead the newer birth. 
 O lofty soul! through magic such as thine 
 Our old dead selves, transmuted, clearer see 
 And higher climb, above the shadows far. 
 Until we breathe an ether half divine 
 And feel the godlike boon of liberty 
 Touch our blind brows with something like 
 
 a star! 
 
In my garden I saw Time 
 Mowing down my posies. 
 "Sir." I said, "will you not spare 
 One of all my roses?" 
 
 Oh, the cruel words he spake! 
 Oh, his cruel laughter! 
 "Keep this dead one; it is thine — 
 Till I come hereafter." 
 
 Pressed against my heart so warm. 
 Away I bore the blossom. 
 
 Just the ghost of what it was. 
 Still it haunts my bosom. 
 
 Well I know that Time will come 
 
 To reclaim his flower; 
 I will give him all I have — 
 
 The ashes of this hour. 
 
 M5 
 
^fttg, 'BfrtJg 
 
 Sing, birds, at first faint peep o' day, 
 
 And let me wake to hear; 
 The shortest night is much too long 
 
 At this glad time of year. 
 
 Sing, birds; the brightest dream is poor 
 
 Compared unto your lays; 
 The longest day is much too short 
 
 When ye pour out your praise. 
 
 Your songs the undenied retreats 
 
 Of paradise did thrill; 
 Small wonder that we love to hear 
 
 From that blest region still. 
 
 Sing, birds, old songs forever new; 
 
 One perfect note of mirth 
 Is more than all the music wrought 
 
 By man upon the earth. 
 
 Sing, birds, at first faint peep o' day; 
 
 Your happy hearts are free; 
 Ours can but dream, and dreaming, mourn 
 
 For their lost liberty. 
 146 
 
I dreamt that I met Love, 
 
 And pinched his cheek in fun, 
 Whereat, in tears, unto 
 
 His mother he did run; 
 And Beauty frowned at me, 
 
 And I was filled with dread; 
 Since when, if I meet Love, 
 
 I kiss his cheek instead. 
 
 14/ 
 
mintn'^ mnmtl 
 
 Beside my hearth, in genial glow of heat, 
 I close my book of song and legend old. 
 To hear the ancient minstrel of the cold 
 
 Recite his saga with the rhythmic beat, 
 
 Against the window-panes, of Runic sleet. 
 He came at set of sun across the wold 
 With chilly winds — his brothers, warrior 
 bold— 
 
 That whirl late leaves unto their last defeat 
 And pound upon belated sails at sea. 
 
 He chants the dirge of Balder lying low. 
 This minstrel hoar, the while I listen keen, 
 Applaud his numbers, swelling sad and free, 
 
 Then turn once more unto my book and grow 
 Oblivious, wandering through some meadows 
 green. 
 
 1^8 
 
Co ^ome (Breefi pott^ 
 
 Bees that culled from sunny fields 
 
 Sweet Arcadian songs, 
 Ye are gone, but to the world 
 
 Your honey pure belongs ; 
 Deathless, ye are wintered safe 
 
 Beyond the touch of time, 
 Sleeping in the golden cells 
 
 Of your immortal rhyme. 
 
 149 
 
abjsolution 
 
 All in a pleasant valley, 
 That greenest hills inclose, 
 
 I reared a goodly palace 
 And trained the lordly rose. 
 
 I said: "Unto my kingdom 
 Shall come no human woes." 
 
 I wooed the god of laughter, 
 I courted love and song; 
 
 About my ample kingdom 
 It was one summer long, 
 
 With never any tempest 
 To do my roses wrong. 
 
 And all the skies were sunny, 
 And all the paths were bright. 
 
 And all the stars unclouded 
 Throughout the placid night. 
 
 As from their golden censers 
 O'erflowed their scented light. 
 
 150 
 
^(jisolutiort 
 
 And in the fields of morning 
 
 The asphodels awoke, 
 And lilies of the valley, 
 
 Of which the Savior spoke; 
 And daffodils their glory 
 
 Upon the vision broke. 
 
 It was a happy valley, 
 
 Where brilliant birds did sing, 
 Where butterflies did dazzle 
 
 With iridescent wing; 
 And I, within that valley, 
 
 Was prophet, priest, and king. 
 
 I craved not fame nor glory, 
 Nor wealth nor foolish ease, 
 
 But only sought for freedom 
 And only sighed for peace — 
 
 A realm wherein no demon 
 Might bid my joy decrease. 
 
 But to my happy valley 
 A thousand evils came, 
 
 And thronged my quiet palace 
 And cursed my very name, 
 
 And drove me forth a beggar. 
 And loaded me with shame. 
 
 151 
 
^lisolution 
 
 They could not see me happy 
 And they not happy be ; 
 
 They could not think of freedom 
 And not themselves be free, 
 
 But they must make me vassal 
 And bind their chains on me. 
 
 And nov/ I wander lonely 
 
 The mountains bleak and bare- 
 
 Because my heart was selfish 
 And had no joy to share; 
 
 Inhuman and unholy, 
 
 Because no tears were there. 
 
 And now I carry crosses, 
 And now I weep with Grief, 
 
 And with the House of Sorrow 
 Divide my garnered sheaf. 
 
 And what I have of roses 
 I scatter leaf by leaf. 
 
 152 
 
Co a TButterfl? 
 
 Glad little milk-white butterfly, 
 
 Your life's a happy one, 
 Flitting, fluttering here and there 
 
 In mild September's sun. 
 
 Now up in air, now through the grass, 
 
 Now sailing round a tree. 
 Now o'er a rhythmic brook you pass, 
 
 A winged ecstasy. 
 
 Now on a sapless weed you rest 
 And fan your phantom wings, 
 
 Or stay to sip a bursting grape 
 That in the arbor swings. 
 
 But where the loaded cider-press 
 Is dripping morn and noon, 
 
 You longest pause, and I will swear 
 You taste the heart of June. 
 
 If it is given some to know 
 And feel the mirth of spring, 
 
 'Tis yours to roam the harvest haunts 
 And share in everything. 
 153 
 
Co a ^uttecflg 
 
 I can but think, oh, joyous one. 
 
 You are the tiny ghost 
 Of some first bud of winter's heir 
 
 Slain by the frosty host. 
 
 That Time, to make you just amends 
 For what you missed of May, 
 
 Has brought you back to all the gold 
 Of this September day. 
 
 154 
 
a^alentme 
 
 I would I were the little flower 
 That springeth in thy path; 
 
 Its life is one of happiness, 
 A happy death it hath. 
 
 You love it, pluck it, to your lips 
 You press its modest eyes; 
 
 It closes them and falls asleep: 
 That kiss is paradise. 
 
 Oh, make me, sweet, thy valentine. 
 Or I that flower shall prove 
 
 Which rude winds shatter pitiless 
 And no lips love. 
 
 155 
 
©aton 
 
 Chaste pilot of the dawn! 
 The morning-star a golden welcome finds 
 In peaceful kingdoms and in quiet minds. 
 
 Up, up! ere it be gone. 
 
 A rosy shell along the shore of night 
 
 This dewy hour appears, 
 A nautilus around the world that sails, 
 A blithe ship heralding Apollo bright 
 
 Through all the rolling years; 
 Blown hitherward by cool and spicy winds 
 Still emulous of last eve's nightingales, 
 And lovers' ne'er too oft repeated tales. 
 Lo! as I gaze, it disappears from sight; 
 In sails the whole grand argosy of light. 
 
 1^6 
 
m)t t^alltv of ti^e ^i^aDoto 
 
 Not uninvited entered Death, 
 
 For, in the twilight dim. 
 We saw her smile, and gladly go 
 
 Away with him. 
 
 We wished not back to suffering 
 The spirit that had passed. 
 
 Nor troubled with our cries the night 
 That gathered fast. 
 
 We only knelt about her couch. 
 And spoke with bated breath 
 
 Of how the vale grew light when she 
 Walked through with Death. 
 
 157 
 
^ons 
 
 When purple lilacs scent the air, 
 
 And spiders tie the emerald grass, 
 Hope, in her latticed bower fair, 
 
 Looks out to see her lover pass; 
 Looks out and trills a roundelay, 
 
 And this is what she sings: 
 **The trees have buds and birds — ^ 
 
 And Love has wings." 
 
 When autumn stains are on the leaves. 
 
 And only one lone cricket shrills; 
 When all the grain is bound in sheaves. 
 
 And cold winds haunt the dreary hills, 
 Hope, wandering, croons her roundelay. 
 
 And this is what she sings: 
 "The trees had buds and birds, 
 
 And Love had wings." 
 
 158 
 
Shivering by a field of corn 
 I saw Cupid go this morn; 
 Purple was his little nose, 
 Purple all his chubby toes, 
 Purple hands together pressed 
 Chilly misery confessed, 
 And his teeth such music made 
 As with castanets is played. 
 Ah, his look was full of woe; 
 Never one I pitied so. 
 
 *'Cupid, come, my dear, and rest; 
 Warm yourself within my breast; 
 Go no farther, child, to-day; 
 Ever in my presence stay." 
 
 Gladly to my arms he came ; 
 Soon I saw a rosy flame 
 Blossom in his cheeks so fair, 
 And I kissed him then and there; 
 Kissed and took him with me home. 
 Oh, he was too small to roam 
 
 159 
 
m m)/^ Inn 
 
 Unbefriended in the cold, 
 And so sweet to have and hold. 
 By the fire I sat him down, 
 Wrapped him in a woolly gown, 
 Fed him with some dainties sweet, 
 Chafed his icy hands and feet; 
 Then he sleepy grew, and slept, 
 While I loving vigil kept. 
 
 Waking soon, he gazed at me 
 With indifference strange to see; 
 In his eyes I saw no sign 
 That he loved me or was mine. 
 *'Cupid, Cupid!" then I said — 
 More I could not — out he fled, 
 Fled away and shut the door; 
 Never shall I see him more. 
 
 Later, from a musty book, 
 
 Dropped the secret of his look. 
 
 Love should spring as spring the flowers ; 
 
 Love is born of sunny hours; 
 
 Pity may to friendship move, 
 
 It should not awaken love. 
 
 160 
 
Co 9Ioi? 
 
 Oh, who can summon thee to quietness? 
 
 Or to the wanness of a shadow bring 
 
 Thy rounded ruddiness? Or bid thee sing 
 A tearful ditty, such as loves Distress? 
 In thy glad presence who will pain confess? 
 
 Who not to happy fancies give the wing. 
 
 And fill with mirth, the soulful mirth of 
 spring. 
 If he but feel thy lips his cold lips press? 
 Let all sweet music praise thee, gleeful Joy 
 
 Our Joy with dimples, laughter, soft replies. 
 For thou of Time art an immortal boy. 
 
 Companion dear of Love; unto the wise 
 A comrade true, but thou art more than coy 
 
 Unto Dishonor — haunting with sad eyes. 
 
 i6i 
 
I am not what I was of yore, 
 
 With heart all light and thought so free; 
 The hopes I dreamed, alas! no more 
 
 Now follow me. 
 
 My spirit now, the while it sings. 
 
 Seems weighted down with leaden cares; 
 
 The harp, once glad, hath other strings 
 And sadder airs. 
 
 The world — it seems a bauble now. 
 The market-place for gold and fame — 
 
 An empty thing, a broken vow, 
 A hollow name. 
 
 Once, on her throne, I Virtue saw, 
 And thought all men her vassals true: 
 
 Her creed, I find, is only law 
 Unto the few.' 
 
 Bright Honor swayed each heart, it seemed: 
 His was the soul of all mankind; 
 
 But looking back, I know I dreamed, 
 And men are blind. 
 
 162 
 
^{)e mti Min^tul 
 
 The cry is Gain, whose blazing crest 
 Leads wildly on till nations fall; 
 
 The frenzy of each soulless breast 
 Is its own pall. 
 
 What hand or deed, what song or voice, 
 Shall e'er redeem the stricken race? 
 
 Deep in its blood it finds its choice — 
 And its disgrace. 
 
 Old Carthage had a glory, born 
 
 Of great commercial zeal and strife; 
 
 'Twas all she had; when it was shorn 
 It took her life. 
 
 And what she thought or where she stood 
 The world knows not — and it is best; 
 
 One charm of Greece — perchance a mood- 
 Outlives her zest. 
 
 Outlives it! and our lesson speaks; 
 
 'Twas Beauty, leaning from her car, 
 At Carthage, dry, puffed out her cheeks. 
 
 And blew it far. 
 
 163 
 
muti mo\tt0 
 
 O little fairies of the wood, 
 
 That when the first warm days appear 
 Dot all the nooks and sweetly flood 
 
 The softer air, what brings ye here? 
 
 Frail heralds of approaching May 
 
 Ye are, and strew her paths with sheen 
 
 Of purple beauty, ere the day 
 
 She walks the land its virgin queen. 
 
 Afar she comes, the while ye bloom 
 And woo to green the willing sod, 
 
 And rouse to song the cheerless gloom 
 Of naked trees, and stir the god 
 
 In everything, that she may find 
 The earth a-clamor for her reign. 
 
 And so ye pass; and I were blind 
 
 To deepest thoughts if, when her train 
 
 Of rich magnificence and pride 
 Swept in, I should remember not 
 
 The modest sweets that bloomed and died 
 To herald her and be forgot. 
 164 
 
W^t fountain l^ool 
 
 This lucid mountain pool doth hold 
 In its embrace the Age of Gold. 
 Shut in by lofty peaks, it seems 
 No brother to the noisy streams; 
 It takes its life from cloistered springs 
 Deep as the central truth of things, 
 And lives apart from common ways 
 In endless mood of nature's praise. 
 Reflected in its face serene 
 Naught but sublimity is seen ; 
 By day the flaming king of light, 
 The pomp of starry hosts by night; 
 The far-uplifted mountain forms, 
 The great and giant-warring storms, 
 Returning peace, and eagles high, 
 Slow-sailing in the freshened sky. 
 So long these scenes, austere, supreme. 
 Have fed each thought and lit each dream 
 That it has grown to feel, and be. 
 The solitude's divinity. 
 In whose broad bosom, calm and pure, 
 Only the grand and vast endure. 
 165 
 
€f)e iBountain ^ool 
 
 God of the Mountain Pool ! ordain 
 Me subject of thy happy reign; 
 Like thy deep wave, let my soul grow 
 To mirror nothing mean or low, 
 And in its fastness see around 
 The wise, the mighty, and profound; 
 Like thy clear wave, forever gaze 
 Inward and upward all my days, 
 Lost to the idle, thoughtless throng, 
 An heir to solitude and song. 
 
 166 
 
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OCT 1» !>*"'» 
 
m 
 
 L/BRARY OF 
 
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 CHARLES G 
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