.H24 S3 1900 * ■ « A ^■^M s^ ^'"F^ SCENES ABROAD AND OTHER POEMS BY WILLIAM BURT HARLOW, Ph, D., AUTHOR OF Songs of Syracuse, Columbia Redeemed, etc. PRIVATELY PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR SOMERS, CONN. 1900 r2 \n^i^ i%0 SPRINGFIELD, MASS., PRESS OF C. R. KAPLINGER 1900 DEDICA TION. CT-'O one but lately come into my life Making it szvect though I with grief had striven ; With faith in me that has new courage given ; My patient^ grntle and devoted zvi/e. PREFACE. MOST of the following poems have ap- peared in the *'N. Y. Home Journal," the '* Springfield Republican," the '* Christian Register," the "Yorkshire Weekly Post," (Eng.), "Boston Transcript," Carter's Monthly," La Porte Chronicle" and "Hart- ford Times." Others, the fugitive lines of the past ten years, are now for the first time gathered with the hope that they may be as kindly received as a former collection. The Author. The Voyao-e. THE VOYAGE. HERE we are off and away, Down through the wonderful bay I Think of the ones who must stay How they waved us adieux from the pier, And how nobly they gave us good cheer. How they smiled as they choked back the tear That made the eye beam with a light Of sorrow in joy as from sight On we passed to the wierd, mystic deep That so long us, their loved ones must keep. Look up through the river and see How thick grow the masts on its sides As our vessel still on, onward glides ; The black hulks of steamships we flee Sea-monsters with deep-meaning eyes Seeming proof 'gainst a world of surprise : For what storms of the past have they braved ! How many dear lives they have saved I Mysterious nights on the sea ; They have loved them and faced them with glee ! 8 The Voyage, How your heart and mine throbs and thrills ! How with love of our countr}^ it fills, When gliding so near That small island dear Where raised high above us doth stand, With life's shining torch in her hand, Majestic our Liberty Blessing her sons as they sail While we watch till the strained sight must fail As we leave her, the loved one And think of our home And the welcome to come. When wearied with wandering we shall re- turn ; While Absence has taught us how much we can yearn For the home of our freedom and youth : Oh ! have faith in its honor and truth. Now we think of it as of the dead, No more of the harms that are said To have worked like a worm at the core, 'Tis our country when worlds we explore. 'Tis our country to love and defend. And our home let it be at our end. The Voyage. 9 Speed along ! speed away ! Past the ridge by the bay Past the forts o'er the Narrows that watch, While surges the tide From far waters wide And tosses, and tosses those skiffs moored beside That long fishing pier Whence some start in fear Some in joy at the peril of such a mad ride To the rocks and the isle and the crumbling walls, Where through the rent roof-tops the glad sunlight falls. And calls up the grass and the flowers. Soon, soon fades the land from our sight ! With wings eager sweep They swerve o'er the deep, Those long-winged Those strong-winged Those soft grey-winged gulls ! They beckon us on in their flight And tell us that winds, waves are right On their home and our home, the sea. That 'tis good, oh, so good to be free. lo The Voyage. To be moving and drinking delight From the sky and the wave«;, day and night. Farewell, farewell our own dear native land ! First parting comes from thy familiar strand : So sweet, so strange, the untried world be- fore. We half forget as thou dost close the door, That aliens we shall come again to thee Twice traversing with printless feet the sea. Like isles Elysian that in cloudland fade We see thee perfect as fair dreams are made. Sad strife and folly, poverty and sin At this rapt moment never enter in. Thy acres feed all men by hunger driven ; The oppressed of every land in thee find heaven. The fathers thou hast chosen rule with love And look for guidance to their God above. The Voyage, ii So must we see thee as from thee we part, As we would have thee, howsoe'er thou art, A sunht mist steals over Sandy Hook ; 'Tis twilight of the day That ne'er can fade away While over memory's leaves we fondly look. Land out of sight ! Never before have you known Through all life's 3^ears that have flown Such a delight, Measureless quite. Delight in the novelty, knowing full well Ten days must speed by 'mid the broad bil- lows' swell Where mingle the sea and the sky And no form of the land cometh nigh ; Then to dream of the night wonders while Thought measures the depth of a mile And pictures the wide, sunless floor Oh so far 'neath the surge and the roar, While our great sea-bird rests With the rime on lier breasts, 12 The Voyage. Or rests not, but plunges, careens — safely floats As she seems to take breath Ere again facing death ! When the creaking of masts shall be heard, And the roar of the gale through reefed sail, While faint o'er the blast comes the word '' All's well ! " in a long plaintive wail. Oh those wonderful storms on the deep. When none but a dead soul could sleep ! While we sit 'neath the roof at the stern See those waves that we leave gleam and burn, With that light not of earth, For the sea gave it birth And our souls v/ith the wave surge and yearn, To the sky and the unknown we turn. High ! high we are borne. We must reach it at last : Yes : wrested and torn Shall the secret be cast Down to mortals as once was Promethean fire E'en if soul in the heaven-born effort expire The Voyage, 13 We care not ; we've grasped at the sky : God chains not the man to the rock When He gives him the wings that must fly. We would face every .wave, bear the shock For the blessing of thoughts that are high. Woe ! woe I we descend ! Will the fall never end? Before us the wall of the wave : Oh God, wouldst Thou shovv^ us the grave As the end of our ecstacy's flight ; The grave, and the darkness of night? While ansv/ers the pitiless sea As it breaks v/ith a crn.-^h on our lee : " Let mortal dare not in his pride, Though high on my weaves he may ride, Think that I v/ho am bound shall betray That secret hid ere the first day When I, sprung from Chaos gave birth Unwilling to thy parent earth ! " But we rise, rise again, and the soul Baffled still yet is stronger for aye 14 The Voyage. That it grasped at, with fingers of clay, The robe of the infinite whole. What days of sweet converse we hold ! How the hearts that the years and the world Have sealed with reserve and with pride Find their portals are opening wide ! The stern eye, the lip that is curled, Learn to smile ; and as flowers unfold, So our best thoughts unfold on the deep And all the day long, watch we keep On the decks where the sunlight falls warm, When spent are the night and the storm. The artist is wrapped in his dreams Of the beauteous forms he will see. And sitting alone his eye beams At the thouorht of what David must be As he stands 'neath that high vaulted roof, In far-away Florence, with woof Of the sunbeams, and majesty clad And voluptuous beauty enough To make the beholder's eye glad. While one scarcely mistrusts wlw he loves The Voyage. 15 But thinks his emotions all pure ; Good or bad the delight must endure. Then a dream of Murillo's soft hues That rise from warm clouds and enfold The realms of the sk}^ with pure gold : The mother with heavenly eyes, The child and the angels that sing Till vou hear them with raptures untold, And the light in the frame glows and glows, Till your life like a golden stream flows And the vision has borne you to heaven. Or the dreamer is sitting alone With the comfort of being unknown In the hoary old church by the Scheldt With the pain countless souls here have felt For the Christ, through the centuries slain. Can the painter who wrought this complain If some should think less of the pain And more of the fine forms he drew ; Of the colors superb that none knew But he, Antwerp's master, to paint? Van Dyke's bloodless Christs I abhor — And what were such forms pictured for? 1 6 Afiicrican Girls on the Atlantic. 'Twas the worship of sorrow, of woe, The love of our Christ thus to show ; This tragedy dear to the past Shall we cling to it e'en to the last? AMERICAN GIRLS ON THE AT- LANTIC. OH ! Paris of course will be best — Such ga}^ rides through the ** Bois de Bologne " With evenings in " Champs Elysees !" Will it do, w^e're so far, far away. To be gay as in Paris they're gay? Is the '^Jardin Mabille " very low? I've heard that the ministers go When they're sure it will never be known. "There's that love of an Opera House ! I hope they'll have '* Faust" when we're there — Who'll be escort? I really don't care. I'm sure that it won't hurt a mouse. American Girls on the Atlantic 17 As papa calls me, if I go With some other nice girl to a show In one of those neat little cabs. I've studied '* Cassell " and I know How to pay with a j)our hoire thrown in, When cabby comes down for his tin." Said another : "I long for Versailles ; Can we dance on that polished oak floor Of the prettiest room in the world ? I wonder if Louis once whirled In the mazy with old Pompadour ; Anyway, Jo and I mean to try." *' I've been reading of poor Antoinette, And her dear little house in the wood. I do wish she hadn't been good. No doubt she'd have been living yet And it's oh, such a good thing to live, Anyway at such times as you're bound For Europe, when all that's around Seems no end of pleasure to give." "Dear, dear!" said her friend, "don't you know Antoinette would have died long ago i8 American Girls on the Atlantic. Of old age, or a dropsy or cough If the French hadn't cut her head off?' " To be sure, how old would she have been? Carlyle wrote that queer ' Ninety-Three,' And she died somewhere then, let me see — She'd be over a hundred years old ! Do you think that she liked Louis' locks? I don't mean the curls on his wig, But the brass locks that look good as gold That he made for her doors and work-box ; He wasn't the king to feel big." One spectacled girl said she thought That the " Louvre" would take most of her time. *' Oh the Louvre !" echoed they, ** to be sure. What was it he said we must see? The ' Salon Carre,' gorgeous wall. Where you stretch back 3^our neck till it breaks For fear that you won't see it all — And then lots of study it takes, And you don't see what half of it means." American Girls on the Atlantic. 19 " The ' Raft of Medusa,' I know We had her at school in our teens, But what is she doing up there ? I thought she had snakes in her hair. The copies I've seen show a boat All to pieces and hardly afloat." '' Then we must see Venus, she's grand, Though she hasn't the sign of a hand, But her feet are so large they make up, And her hair has the loveliest wave ! I drew her at school, won a cup — Sterling silver, outside, for a prize. They said 'twas all good but the eyes — But my crayons won't always behave." "Well, /like Diana the best, Her hair is much prettier dressed And she reaches so charmingly 'round To pick out a quiver, no, dart. That it really goes quite to my heart. But hers were those arrows that wound : Girls may shoot them now, I declare I'd rather put mine in my hair." 20 American Girls on the Atlantic. "There's the * Morgue ;' do you think you will go? I know it's a horrible place, All sorts of dead folks in a case, Like a lot of dry-goods for a show. There are lovers with balls in the brain, x\nd girls that were drowned in the Seine — We might go and just take a peep For you know it's so near ' Notre Dame' We could run over there to get calm, Or perhaps we should lose a night's sleep." " I think it's a shame to talk so ! Perhaps you may — there goes the bell — Come on, girls, how good things do smell, What a pity we must dine below !" Margaret Canmore's Chanel. 21 MARGARET CANMORE'S CHAPEL. HIGH on a crag in Edinboro's view Queen Margaret's sturdy little chapel stands Eight centuries old, unharmed ; the pious hands That reared it builded better than they knew. Those walls so narrow yet could hold the few Who taught the love of Christ to Scottish bands. King Malcolm plundered all the border lands ; His children taught by Margaret daily grew To better living ; here their mother prayed, Hence went she, saintlike down to sick and poor And taught half-savage folk how they should live ; Thus young Prince David from his youth was made A Christian king to whom the Scottish moor No harvesting of lance and spear would give. 2 2 Abbotsford. ABBOTSFORD. HERE in this case within the lordly hall I see the clothing that the master wore ; Upon the walls and on the polished floor Are treasures that he gathered to recall The hoary Past that entered here, and all Its wealth, chivalric and heraldic, bore. The library and study, where no more Among familiar forms his footsteps fall, Still hold his cherished volumes ; here the chair And desk where once he wrote are eloquent. Here dwells for aye the spirit of Romance, In stone and plaster prisoned by the heir Of countless fancies ; here rare days were spent By this true knight whose pen was all his lance. Elstow. 23 ELSTOW. QUAINT English village, saved to later time, So snugly hidden 'mid the poppied fields ; The weather-painted thatch each cottage shields And in the crumbling tower still hangs the chime That lured John Bunyan from what seemed sublime With all the magic that a belFs tone yields. Time sleeps, or here a gentler sceptre wields. This green, ere Buriyan dreamed that sport was crime Was his delight for games the English love ; And there the cot where, with his sweet young wife. He learned to lead a consecrated life Unaltered stands ; what visions from above Of Christian struggling 'gainst Apollyon's powers. Here daily floated through his musing hours ! 24 The Tower of London. THE TOWER OF LONDON. THE glistening crowns of kings : the heads- man's block : The tower where two fair princes once were slain : The records dim of many a bloody reign Where walls are carved with names that call a flock Of harmless ghosts, whom no harsh grating lock Can prison now for years where hope is vain : To stand on Tower Hill to-day were pain Could we recall those forms of noble stock Who suffered there. The Traitor's Gate is barred ; The rack and thumb-screws please the idler's eye; And these long lines of polished armor call The memory of the struggles long and hard That England won 'gainst those who would defy Her power behind these spears upon the wall. A Flozver from Mont Blanc. 25 A FLOWER FROM MONT BLANC. THIS little flower I picked ten years ago ; I say 'twas brave, the tender thing that spread Its azure petals on the mountain dread Which rises highest, crowned with Alpine snow : Upon the glacier's edge it chanced to grow ; It looked forth o'er a field where all was dead, And cheerily to me that day it said : *'This simple truth of God I've learned to know : That where earth seems most rugged, there the smile Is needed most ; that love should always dare To face the cold of cheerless regions, where The world, grown hard, seems needing it the most; So I have left the valley's flowery host. And strive this lonely desert to beguile." 26 The Lion of Lucerne. THE LION OF LUCERNE. NO wonder that the pilgrim oft will turn To that cool nook beneath the giant rock, Survival of the ancient glacier's shock, Where dwells the cherished idol of Lu- cerne. No longer mute, the living stone must burn With eloquence that sculpture can unlock, And through the mind there flies a wak- ened flock Of fancies from the past, and hearts here learn To love that brave guard of the Swiss who bore The attack that shattered France and slew^ her king : Here royalty before us lieth low ; What noble suffering ere his woes are o'er ! About the lilied shield he still doth cling, Though from his spear-rent side the life- drops flow. hi the Colosseum, 27 IN THE COLOSSEUM. MASSIVE form of fallen glory From the elder world of story, In thy silence eloquent : Like a magic ring around me Thou by century hnks hast bound me ; Never can thy charm be spent. Round thy outer walls what murmurs Of a world in tumult surging Through a thousand years, still urging On to life and on to death ; But that feverish, fitful breath Here I feel not, for I linger Where Time gently lays his finger On these hoary stones. And I love them, though they echoed Once to human groans. For they say all strife is ended. All life's bitterness is blended With the peace that makes it dear. High above, where sat the nobles. 28 In the Colosseum. Emperor, and vestal virgins, And the eager Roman throng, Barren stones, with time's dust laden. Bear no verdure, though the heavens. With soft rains and sunlight, long Have been striving to conceal Past deeds man would not reveal. But below, where mortals suffered Anguish, terror, where their life-blood Flowed upon the senseless stones. There the clustering ferns have sprung ; And the dewy, fairy mosses, With the star-leaved ivies hung, Breathe new life by spirits kindled ; Better tell than human tongue Of the beauty that arises From the courage and the patience Of the crushed, whom man despises. Heroes ne'er by Romans sung. Listen, far below the rock-bed Of this giant circle olden. Flows a purling stream in darkness. Still by ancient sources fed. Long ago that very streamlet Galileo's Lamf at Pisa. 29 Cooled the feverish hps of captives Ere for Roman sport they bled. So the brooklet, ferns and ivies Cherish still the nameless dead. GALILEO'S LAMP AT PISA. I TOUCHED the quaint old bronze, and out it swung Through the great dome of the cathedral dim As years ago that lamp of light for him. The starry Galileo, swayed ; a tongue Of eloquence it still possessed ; it hung Unused but never useless, for each rim. Though empty of its cresset once in trim, Here open-mouthed proclaimed to old and young The word it whispered to the silent man Who suffered under persecution's ban. Though all the golden planets moving sang The praise of him who heard their wondrous chime. Along the roof of heaven what music rang As earth awoke to keep celestial time ! 30 The Wolf of the Capitol. THE WOLF OF THE CAPITOL. GRIM little monster of Rome's early days, Still art thou nursingr those two won- drous boys? Through all the years hast thou not heard the noise Of Goth and Vandal o'er the bloodstained ways That lead to thy great capitol? Still stays Each infant here to drink new life, and toys With thy bronze dugs ; nor clash of spear annoys, Nor lightning stroke upon thy form betrays Thee, faithful mother, to forget thy care. For conscious art thou that this city old Can never let her pulsing heart grow cold Whilst thou, oblivious of time, dost bear That burden Cicero hath praised thee for. Palladium of Rome through peace and war. Fra Angelico. 31 FRA ANGELICO. SAN Marco's convent walls for years were bare ; Few monks in Florence knew of beauty then, But one among them gave himself to men, The poor, the wretched were his constant care : So Christ said to him : *' Show your brothers there Within their cloistered house that once again I live with those who love me, now as when By Galilee I walked alone in prayer." Then Fra Angelico with brush in hand Adorned the dismal cells where dwelt the friars. Brought forth the scenes the Savior's lifetime knew ; Sad tears within the artist's eyes would stand To paint the Crucifixion ; his desires Were with those Angel triumphs that he drew. 32 Alichael Angeld's David, MICHAEL ANGELO'S DAVID. NO wonder Angelo could never tire Of gazing at this form his hands once wrought, When youth and longing to the senses brought The love of human form and passion's fire, With all life's ardent dreams, the keen desire For fame, for heights no man has reached, still sought, While all that has been won seems almost naught. Like conquering David, he Vv^ould still aspire : And so the youth in marble living stands. Pebble and sling just meeting in his hands, With knit brows looking for the giant form, Unconscious in his naked beauty's power That he, the giant victor at this hour. Has waked the pigmy world to plaudits warm. Murillo's Madonnas. 33 MURILLO'S MADONNAS. WHERE'ER appear the ecstacy and love Of that fair angel-face thy soul is seen, Murillo I What in us is base and mean Must die, as shines upon us from above That light which fell o'er thee ; the heavenly Dove, Descending, dwelt with thee, kept thy soul clean. That from pure visions thou mightst bring thy Queen Of Paradise to earth ; and, as a glove Conceals the hand but still reveals the form. The canvas hides thy mortal part from viev/. Yet shows what holy hours thy spirit knew. In misty lights of fading sunsets warm. Where singing cherubim and seraphim Dissolve the firmament in joyous hymn. 34 Ponij>eii. POMPEII. AS in the lonely theatre I sit, Or wander through the roofless homes of stone, Or through the echoing streets where once the tone Of merchant or of huckster oft would hit The ears of passers with a noisy wit Which praise of countless wares abroad has blown, I think of that last universal groan Which sounded when this city's doom was writ — I think how short the struggle and the pain — Of all the desolation hid from view By flower and grass that o'er this grave once sprung. Ere man brought those past woes to light again — Vesuvius, far away against the blue. Grieves that her secret sin from earth was wrung. When the Sun Comes Over the 35 Mountain. WHEN THE SUN COMES OVER THE MOUNTAIN. HE has fallen asleep with a broken toy And his cheeks are wet, though he's past annoy, For he'll wake to-morrow the same glad boy When the sun comes over the mountain. O'er the broad, still vale as the shadows fall And cover one day that is past recall. Let us bury our grief for the good of all Ere the sun comes over the mountain. Then the day that dawns will be better far For the past that has taught what our failings are. So that nothing again may from heaven bar. When the sun comes over the mountain. The fruitless lives that we may have led. And the heartless words that we oft have said 36 When the Sun Comes Over the Mountain. Let us trust they may rest with the nameless dead When the sun comes over the mountain. And the tangled threads in the skein of life That we fain would cut with impatient knife, May loose of themselves and end our strife When the sun comes over the mountain. The hopeless light of a dreary day How soon 'tis forgotten when passed away ! It may make us stronger upon our way When the sun comes over the mountain. And the earth that seemed so dark and cold That our hopes could never again unfold, We know will be touched with rays of gold When the sun comes over the mountain. All the dangers wierd of the darkening night That draw us like children about the light. Like idle dreams will fade from our sight When the sun comes over the mountain. Bhiets. 37 And the noble deeds that we would have done, The fadeless laurels we would have won, May be ours yet in the life begun When the sun comes over the mountain. BLUETS. SPRINGING by the dusty roadside. Or in meadows where the moss Clusters round the dewy hillocks That the glow-worm glides across, Oh, such hosts of blue eyes open. Open wide to greet the day ; How I wish that I could utter All the words you'd have me say ! Tiny soul-waifs, striving upward, Living your allotted span. All unconsciously perfecting Something for the soul of man. 38 The Slider, Not the stately pride of lily Nor the passion of the rose, Pulsates through your modest petals Born where weed or grass-blade grows. I can see the hope and patience Shining from your gentle eyes, That may one day enter woman Helping her from depths to rise. Teaching some one humbly living How she may with beauty fill All the weary world around her By her soul-life, if she will. THE SPIDER. WEAVE thy web, thou cunning spinner, Spread thy cloth for many a dinner ; Fair the table, deftly angled With the knotted silk all spangled By the sunbeam falling slantwise Through the barn's half-open door. The Spder. 39 When a boy I gazed upon thee, Fear and admiration bound me, And to thee, my idol, cast I Many a helpless victim fly ; And lest some one should detect me Secret shame I often bore. Thou wert once a Lydian maiden ; To and fro the shuttle laden, Played in skillful fingers forming Figures from thy fancy swarming, Beauteous scenes on royal purple. Beauteous beyond compare. And in pride, you never rested Till in skill you had contested With the wise and great Minerva, Never should a mortal serve her Such a trick, to boast of powers Greater than e'en gods can bear. Then the goddess viewed your weaving, Half in wrath but sorely grieving. And your wondrous fabric tearing Soon she sent you forth despairing. 40 The Slider. For you learned 'twas she who gave you All the cunning that you knew. When in shame you sought to perish Kind Minerva ceased to cherish Bitter thoughts, and gently touching That harsh rope that thou wert clutching, Twisting round thy neck ; and changed it To a harmless cobweb clew. Then from form of maid forsaken Changed, an insect shape was taken ; But thy cunning skill can never God nor mortal from thee sever Whilst thou spinnest, cruel creature Longing for thy dreadful meal. And poor, foolish insects hover O'er that web which thou dost cover With a honey-dew to lure them To the net where you secure them, With your glistening eyes rejoicing When your little sword they feel. To the AiitJior of '' America:' 41 TO THE AUTHOR OF *' AMERICA." IN that retired study canst thou hear, Old friend, the voices of thy nation free Sing those sweet words that heaven-born Lib- erty Once softly whispered to thy listening ear? Let fancy hst again ; there cometh near In waves the song of children yet to be. And still they sing '*My Country, 'tis of Thee." Brave anthem, to our hearts and altars dear ! I've sung it on the hights 'mid Alpine snow. And on the winding Rhine where castles tower. On Lake Maggiore, blue as skies that bend ; Then thrilled my heart, then patriot fires would glow ; Thy words will stir our souls with greater power Than all thy fellow poets ever penned. 42 A Wayside Picture, A WAYSIDE PICTURE. UPON a fence beside the dusty way Some traveler had painted three short words, His sermon to the busy world, you'd say ; 'Twas, '' God is love." It pleased e'en flow- ers and birds. For one wee sparrow in his coat of brown Had found the painted rail and perched above Trilled forth a carol, then looked wisely down, As if to say : *' Yes ; I know God is love." And close beside the fence a golden-rod Had risen from the clod that gave it birth. And with its sunny smile and gentle nod Said: "So think we, the children of the earth." I'd traveled o'er the road for many a mile And dull had grown the long familiar way ; But this, my wayside picture will beguile E'en winter hours when twilight veils the day. Look Within. 43 LOOK WITHIN. BELIEVE me it is better far To lead a simple, homely life, Than 'mid a world of care and strife To feel how vain man's glories are. The soul creates the beautiful : The sun-light on the kitchen floor, Or through the barn's half open door Might fill joy's measure brimming full. So few have time to feel God's love That streams into the lowliest nook. And all our books, save Nature's book Seem shutting out the light above. 'Tis good to move alone and think When all but lost in earthly things Of blessings that can ne'er take wings, Though all our wealth in ruin sink. Oh, may we sometime come to feel That little gains bring greater wealth 44 Look Within. To heart and soul and mind in health, Than treasured hoards that men conceal. And live apart for peace we must From those who fill their homes and lives With pompous show, while fortune thrives. And yields what crumbles to the dust. For envy like a canker burns If once we feel the power men hold Who seem to rule with rod of gold, And all our peace to madness turns. We love the beautiful, I know ; We^d fill our homes with gems of art A coach and four delights the heart, Though much seems only idle show. But in this world what's dearest, best. Without a price kind Nature gives ; There's not a tree nor flower that lives But holds the source whence man is blest. To the Bluebird. 45 TO THE BLUEBIRD. A FLASH of blue along the fences gray, A carol sweet as dream of paradise ! Bird spirit, thou hast stolen from the skies A bit of their own azure, borne away The treasure on thy wings that from earth's clay We, joyous, may by thee to heaven rise I I well beheve the seer of old, so wise. Who tells us shattered souls have found their way To life within the feathery breasts of birds. Where sing they forth past aspirations glad, Or sorrows that have known no balm on earth. Or holy thoughts that never have found words. Or glimpses of fulfilment, joyous, mad With song that dies on human hps ere birth. 46 To the Song Sf arrow. TO THE SONG SPARROW. THOU little bird that singst at even-tide The sweetest song that ever I have known, The morning hour, ere dew from grass has flown, Is thine as well ; when silences abide, Thou break'st the hush of noon on landscape wide. Thou lovest, little spirit when alone To thrill with quiet ecstacy, in tone That draweth forth my very soul to hide Unseen with thee, remote from city's strife, Where thou dost freely sing as thou dost breathe, Because the world to thee is radiant And gives thee all thou'dst ask, a joyous life Without a trace of sorrow hid beneath. Yes ; earth sometimes gives all the heart can want. Fortune. 47 FORTUNE. 5'T^IS a puzzle, this world, for we never can 1 know Why some should come up and others go down. And no wonder we sometimes must weary grow With plucking at heedless Fortune's gown ; And asking her why she regards not us And busies herself with other men ; W^hat have we done to be treated thus? Would she have us forget her and scorn her, then? We cannot : she knows we are helpless borne To her feet where we ask for just one smile ; Little cares she how weary and worn Are the souls that her wondrous arts be- guile. 48 Fortune. 'Tis not that we're children who've gone astray And deserve to be punished by trials here. For how many we see cast down today Better men than we, while we've much that's dear. And some may say that our days of gloom Should be lightened by seeing what others bear; But if gloating thus in our hearts finds room It is surely time to cry, '' Beware !" Would you be better if fortune smiled. Or be of more use to the world today? By the dust of the earth be less defiled? "I'd be willing to try it," most men would say. If valued at naught some souls are wrecked, 'Tis when on our mettle we do our best ; Alas, alas, for the dread effect On the heart that must stand this saddest test: Fortune. 49 When powerless, worthless seems the hand Though one feels there is work he could do so well, While helpless, bewildered he still must stand And list to what seems a funeral knell. Some are born to a ceaseless discontent, And discontent is divine, they say ; But I've known some souls that grew warped and bent. And I'd rather be godlike some other way. But while there are life and youth there's hope. And we know not what worlds of light may be The home of the soul that may darkly grope In this small, small part of eternity. The hand may drop and the eye grow dim While we wait and wonder and look through tears When something like sound of a distant hymn Shall sing itself to our raptured ears. 50 Fortune. It will sing of the times that we thought were spent In useless toil and in thankless task, And a gleam from heaven o'er those days sent Will make them dearer than heart could ask. For the inspirations that oft would burn In that silent past like a scorching fire, From their lifeless ashes have seemed to turn Like that fabled bird from its funeral pyre. Not what we are, what we've striven to be Is the measure of soul in this test of life ; Through the music of time that is past we see Why we were called to meet this strife. And the eyes that were dim grow bright again, Though the years have stolen our dreams away. As we feel that no heaven-born hope was vain. For it lighted the soul to the perfect day. In Memoriam. 51 IN MEMORIAM. KIND father, faithful husband, genial man ; Books, pictures, nature, whatsoever brings The soul to commune with the higher things — He loved. Yet plodding since his early days began Courageously he labored 'neath the ban Of slow disease, of failure which oft wrings The heart of many a stronger frame that flings Itself away before by nature's plan The end should come. I see through veiling years Pathetic beauty in a life like his. He craved more love than silent lips would ask. Deserved it, too, and ah, how sad it is If measure be not full, as age appears, Ere kindly death has ended life's long task. 52 In AIemo7'iam, IN MEMORIAM. SHE sings again those songs we loved to hear So long ago, when children at our plays, The broken voice now sweet as in old days. She walks in heavenly gardens where the dear Familiar flowers she tended year by year Spring up to welcome her with loving gaze, All fadeless now, and each its tribute pays To her who always saw the soul appear In their poor earthly forms. Today she lives With oh, so many dear ones gone before ; For her the parting anguish is no more. With souls congenial there she takes and gives The best that blest companionship can know. Her lonely hours forgotten long ago. Among- the Pines. 53 AMONG THE PINES. OH, the singing of the pines ! 'Tis a song I love ; Look aloft, unbroken lines Rise to heaven above. While the living branches high Half reveal, half veil the sky. How they murmur like sea waves, How they sigh o'er all life's graves, Hollowed long ago ! How their tones of softened sorrow Wring the soul, bring desolation Quench the hopes we'd fondly borrow From the promise of the morrow Only listeners know. Hark ! their voices once again Thrill in plaintive minor strain ! How it soothes and how it covers, Buries us in rest. Where forgotten all so gladly each vain quest ^A Among the Pines. Floats away upon the sea Of a dream-born mystery. We are borne we care not where, Nothing but soft sound and air And the ghmpses of the sky. Such the bhss of those who die Tempered only by the cry Of the soul at last set free : '* Can the earth still fetter me?" the Wisp, 55 WILL O' THE WISP. IF soul could only fold its wings and rest With the assurance that this life can bring But little for long search and wandering — If it could know that all it bears is best, Oh, how much greater then would be the zest Of living, freed from phantom forms that cling To all our hours and in sad ditties sing Of what we might attain. Ah, foolish guest For those whom friends and fortune seldom aid! It fires the brain ; we wander on in tears. Still long and seek and labor through the years For an Elysium that was never made For us, too weak, who would have loved it so But sinned in looking for our heaven below. 56 To the P?'eacher, TO THE PREACHER. GOOD parson, live with us and learn What most we need who work and sweat ; You little know how much we yearn For words that few have spoken yet. Do tell us of our faults, and show How we may serve our fellow-men ; Like wandering sheep we often go. So you must call us back again. The man who week-days pores o'er books And crams with scientific stuff. You'll find on Sunday higher looks. For surely, six days' work's enough. I know you like philosophy, These college fellows always do ; But 'twont take simple folk like me Through worries when we're sick and blue. To the Preacher, 57 Somehow it seems when preachers tell, In plain, straight words, of holy life, That high folk hsten just as well. For with old sin we're all at strife. And then the children understand ; The parson reaches way around ; He helps us all, those words are grand That hold the church together bound. In books you love to spend your days. I'd have you wise as any man ; On Sundays let us give God praise, On week days lecture all you can. And we don't care for doctrine much. For now-a-days we all draw nigh ; These creeds of ours are going to touch, — For don't we each for heaven try? The Bible's the best book we've got. Though precious little most folks go To read it now for what they've not. So you must tell them all they'll know. 58 The Old Songs. And you can make it live again, And bring its good words home to all ; They'll show us when we're false 'mong men. And lift us, save us when we fall. THE OLD SONGS. WHEN from the keys at twilight's hour Some friendly hand has wakened lays, Sweet memories of long-gone days Come wave on wave with mystic power. Now *' Auld Lang Syne" brings back again The winter eves, the fireside ; The loved, the lost around us glide. They whisper low like summer rain. " Old Oaken Bucket" mingles all The sweetest rural spots we've seen, And lights and shadows o'er the green Of blended landscapes softty fall. The Old Songs, . 59 *' Sweet Beulah Land," with thy dear strain We pass within the heavenly gate, Where wrapped in glad surprise we wait And dread the call to earth again. Before my eyes a jaunty maid With tripping step comes dancing by, To notes of " Comin' Thro' the Rye :" Long years ago I with her strayed. And she sang *' Edinboro' Town," Burns' " Bonny Doon" and such like airs — The tunes we whistle unawares When struggling some grief to drown. A window oped at spring of year : From distant spire how sweetly swells The chime that rings "Those Evening Bells," The melody that shrines a tear. " The Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Halls," Now blends and floats across the mead Where wandering cattle peaceful feed, Or browse along by low stone walls. 6o The Old Sonors "• Oft in the Stilly Night" awakes A tender symphony of life, And death seems o'er, we part with strife, While through our past a soft light breaks. Such songs as these must ever melt The heart, howe'er so high or low, When studied airs rare triumphs know So few the soul have in them felt. The Bagfife. 6i THE BAGPIPE. A NATION mourning for a fallen king, The tears of women over Flodden Field : The doom of Scotland by a compact sealed ; A group of Highlanders who faithful cling To their young Chevalier, and wildly sing The clansmen's warsongs, soon again to wield The claymore at Culloden, ne'er to yield While Cumberland has forces left to wring The life blood from those Scots whom none can bind. — The pibroch's notes no more through mount- ains wind. But far away in solitary glen, List to the sob of broken-hearted men ! 'Tis changed — now minstrelsy and dance enthrall — All these the bagpipe's wild, weird strains re- call. 62 By the Wayside, BY THE WAYSIDE. THOUGH the road leads up the hillside, Though 'tis spread with dust and peb- bles ; While the sun beats down with fervor, Yet the tangled thicket borders, 'Mid their briers, grass and mosses, Hold an untold wealth of beauty. So along life's roadside, clusters All that's dear of fellow-feeling, Blossoming to cheer and bless us. And perhaps stray tear-drops water Wayside plants that may seem lifeless. Soon to spring and bloom forever. Hefaticas. 63 HEPATIC AS. FAIRY hands from out the mould, While the early spring blows cold, Closely clasped their fingers hold. One warm day the raindrops fall, And a mist hangs over all ; From the trees the song-birds call. Then those fairies ope their palms For a single raindrop alms. Spreading to the hght their charms. Fingers touched with color soft, Frail, but bravely held aloft. In the rain must tremble oft. But the heart is warm below ; 'Neath those furry coats I know Tides of Hfe must ebb and flow. And those leaflets, skyward spread, To my soul this day have said, " God and beauty ne'er are dead !" 64 JVall Whitman. WALT WHITMAN. THE poet sees the soul in common things ; Speech welleth forth Hke spring of mountain brook, The channels man would make, it hath for- sook, Its heedless brawl a worthless tribute brings — But no : beneath the careless song there sings A spirit keen of vision that can look Through man, through nature, hid in secret nook ; The unaffected voice with gladness rings As life's eternal verities forever rise. Chase one another from the poet's sight Though rapid pen has caught the shadowy form And given to the world some fleeting prize, A bubbling cadence, brimming with delight. With fervor of a wholesome heart-blood warm. To Shelley, 65 TO SHELLEY. WHERE floats the cloud with spirit wings on high, Where soars the lark 'neath heaven's arch and sings Of perfect golden days, as wide he flings His " unpremeditated art" to sky. And wood and stream-lit mead and uplands nigh; Where o'er fair seas skiffs float with peaceful wings, Or in the wilderness where unseen things Brood o'er the soul that sadly ponders why 'Twas born to struggle with its destiny, I see thee, Shelley, free and wandering still. Forgiven by the world and God I trust, Now that thy spirit eyes can clearer see That world thy aspiration sought to fill With forms not made to crumble into dust. 66 Found in Central Park. FOUND IN CENTRAL PARK. TURNED aside from all the bustle Of the heartless, selfish city, Hidden 'mong the quiet pathways Sheltered from both pride and pity, One sought sweet release at noonday From a life that knew no sweetness ; For all hope had turned to ashes, Not one dream had reached completeness. Friendless woman, gaunt of feature, Sunbrowned face with pain deep graven, Though kind death would fain have smoothed it When the storm-tossed reached her haven. Coarse print gown and dusty bonnet, Faded gloves, worn shoes that cover Feet that no more shall be weary ; She could see fair skies above her. Found in Central Park. 67 In her old purse these her treasures : First the sacred marriage token Worn so thin by hands that labored ; Like her heart forlorn 'twas broken. And a faded rose in paper, Oh, the memories it brought her. When her fair cheeks caught its color Mirrored as in limpid water ! Next a silken curl that doubtless Oft had caught the tears fast falling, As from paradise she fancied She could hear her lost child calling, In a handkerchief embroidered With two letters intertwining She had wrapped her last two coppers Ere this weary world resigning. For the purchase of her freedom Was the shining weapon near her ; Who can blame when life has vanished One who finds death so much dearer? 68 My Little World, MY LITTLE WORLD. FIVE sentinel pines guard my horizon's gold Where summer suns have vanished in the west For five fair years that I have spent in rest In this still valley with its secrets old, Of field and stream and wood and hearth- stone cold, Where simple country folk with song and jest Once gathered in content, and found the best Of life. Up yonder, eastward, 'mid the mould Of that dim wood, beside the straggling brook I'll find for you stone piles where cresses grow. Here stood the mill a century ago. Now best of all, far to the southeast look M}^ faithful mountains, lit by winter suns. While northward, o'er the brook the stage road runs. The Brook. 69 THE BROOK. BY one still woodland pool I love it best, Where trout come forth and clustering fern fronds bend ; I love it best where aimlessly I wend My way through pine-girt mead ; there, all at rest Its waters seem delaying, fearful lest Their peace may be disturbed, their quiet end In rocky falls where still my steps attend, And there I love it best, for with what zest I watch it struggling 'gainst its stubborn foes. I love it best where, by the road, it goes In hiding 'neath the bridge, then out again Where 'mong the cress my horse may drink her mi. I love it best 'mid hummocks of the fen. Where bluets star the sod and robins trill. 70 Sick JSfeftune, SICK NEPTUNE. [A Souvenir of Asbury Park.] OLD Neptune was sick, Man had played him a trick, And had ruthlessly fed him With all sorts of things ; His crown was awry And quite covered one eye. While, with woe most pathetic. He looked through the other. To see what had become Of its poor blinded brother. And there on the strand Intermixed with the sand He had case from his depths Inconceivable things. There were watersoaked hats. Some dead hens and rats ; Sick Nefttmc, 71 And lemons and sausage and apples and bread, Countless boxes and bottles Of strange smelling mixtures, The staves of old barrels And stray curtain fixtures And brushes and dusters and slats of a bed ; A satchel and purse Both quite empty of treasure, And battered up pails, Made of tin and of wood : A toy house and blocks That now scarce could give pleasure E'en to a child that is bound to be good. Here fragments of squash And the peels of banana With onions and turnips In curious manner Commingling with artichokes, bellov/s and corks ; Pale slices of melon and handles of forks ; The wreck of a baby coach Causing a wonder. If baby were swallowed Those frothy waves under. 72 The Wreck of the Maine, What wonder, what wonder, With this hotch-potch under The calm rising breast Of old Nep at his best. That he suddenly sickened, Was strangely distressed ; And heaving, and heaving He soon was relieving His o'er-loaded stomach That could not digest. THF WRECK OF THE MAINE. [At Havana, February 15, 1898.] THEY lived in momentary fear. The boys aboard our navy's pride, As o'er Havana's harbor wide They looked and saw the masts of Spain And knew the bitterness that here Was rife against us, and how vain Were parleyings of our countr}^ now To make an ancient nation bow To claims humanity holds dear. The Wi^eck of the Maine. 73 And there lay Cuba, tropic isle, The dead and dying by her shore — Her people through the years before Had struggled 'gainst the oppressor's hand While war and famine stalked the land By Spanish gold and heroes fed And liberty seemed cold and dead : How could we sit unmoved the while ? 'Twas time, if Cuba's wrongs stirred not America self-poised and calm. Long wrapped in peace and dreading harm ; If she could view the oppressor's wrong And never raise an arm grown strong With all prosperity can give. Nor cared if neighbor die or live ; 'Twas well that loss should be her lot. That martyred crew ! the few must bear The pain that all deserve to share : Why is it ever thus that fate Takes the devoted ere abate The sins the multitude commit Through wilfulness or want of wit? 74 The Spanish Wa?-. The blast that tore those plates of steel And bore our heroes down to death Was but the scorching Spanish breath Poor Cuba lived for years to feel. Let useless parley cease at last : Deeds, deeds ! the time for words is past. THE SPANISH WAR. IF Cuba's griefs once touched thee to the heart, My country, and thou longed to make her free. Why didst thou seek for bloody victory O'er other lands that were of Spain a part? To Cuban eyes the tears unbidden start While other nations doubt to trust in thee, When all forgetful of high aim they see Thou dost so far pursue war's cruel art. Oh, why has war to this enlightened day Survived 'mid growth of wisdom and of love. To bring men back to primal beasts again? Can wrongs be righted in no other way? Have we no faith in God who rules above And metes out justice to our fellow-men? In Afemortam. 75 IN MEMORIAM. Hamilton Fish, Jr. DEAD in that isle of the southern sea ! Shot by a Spanish hand, And the word comes over the miles to me That he fell for his native land. His mother am I, and who can tell The heart ache I bore that day. When the restless boy that I loved so well Hastened to join the fray? I was proud of him then but I saw it all, The future that women see, And knew he'd be one of the first to fall : 'Twas a warning that came to me. From a child he was reckless and wild and free. With the daring that women love ; 'Twas the soldier spirit that longed to be In the battle for God above. 76 In Me7noria7n. 'Twas scarcely more than a score of years I had called the boy my own ; Though the nation may greet his name with cheers, Weeping, I sit alone. On the leaf of fame or on angel's page His name may be traced today ; But can this bring back to my lonely age My boy who has gone away ? I shall find his childhood's treasures hid In some nook that mothers know ; The clothes that he wore are beneath some hd, And o'er them my tears must flow. In Texas he rescued a little child, Snatched up by his strong right arm From the Rough Riders' steeds in their onset wild ; Why wasn't my boy saved from harm ? With his fallen comrades they laid him to rest Wrapped in the palm-tree's leaves ; Though the hero's palm for the man is best The mother still sits and grieves. Un expressed. 7 7 UNEXPRESSED. " IF all the best thoughts that have ever come To each of us, though humble lives we lead, Could but have found expression ! If the seed Had fallen on good ground, not found us dumb When we were bid to speak, would not the sum Of these inspirings have won a meed Of greater praise than we have all agreed To shower upon the gifted? If the hum Of airs celestial, ringing in our ears And thrilling all our being could be caught And in our earthly instruments be taught To reproduce the wondrous tone that cheers Some solitary moment, rarely blest. We might of Heaven no greater gift request. 78 Chanticleer. CHANTICLEER. 1 DON'T care what you say, I love the bird, Though oft he's roused me by his merry din, And sometimes called forth words that are a sin When at morn's early hour his voice I've heard ; What happy memories his notes have stirred Of peaceful country homes in which I've been A welcome inmate, hours most near akin To paradise. And then in praise what word Of mine can fitly paint the scarlet plume, Its glossy sheen, the coral battled comb, The proud, round eye with honest spirit filled ! He lords it o'er his feathered dames unchilled By all the blasts of winter, and his home. The old brown shed, his voice awakes from gloom. Hidden Things, 79 HIDDEN THINGS. ALL the beauty of a flower Springs from hidden things ; Motes absorbed 'mid sun and shower Out of earth it brings. Gems as bright as crowns have treasured Sea still hides away ; Gold far more than hands have measured Rocks still hold in sway. Hidden music keeps in motion All the orbs of night ; Tunes the great and restless ocean, Breathes through each bird's flight. Hidden germs are always working In these forms of ours, Good or bad, forever lurking. Strange contending powers. 8o Hidden Things. Hidden songs the wires are singing While our words they bear ; Sweet tunes to the winds they're flinging Though we little care. Hidden thoughts our minds are hoarding, All for good or ill ; Light or darkness each affording, While we roam at will. Till at last to rest we're bidden ; Body hides away. Then the soul, no longer hidden Wakes to endless day. Life, LIFE. ALL lives are full of pathos, we would weep, Could we but see the struggle of each soul From earliest childhood, while the long years roll Like billows on a weltering sea and keep The helpless one still battling with the deep. Between despair and hope he sees the goal. The peaceful haven vanish midst the whole Of heaven's effulgence, when with one strong leap It seems he might have reached it. No ; 'tis gone. And what is life? 'Tis helplessness, 'tis power ; 'Tis love, 'tis hate ; 'tis sweetness mixed with sour ; 'Tis aspiration e'en to God's own throne — It is a fall to hell's black depths alone — 'Tis one long darkness, waiting for the dawn. 82 To an Old Portrait Over My Fireplace, TO AN OLD PORTRAIT OVER MY FIREPLACE. [Francesco Sforza, Pontifical Duke of Milan in 1450.] FOUNDER of the Sforza line, Four long centuries ago ! Ruler born, that power of thine Milan's men were proud to show. Virile locks, crisp, tipped with gray, Swarthy cheek, broad-arching brow ; Mouth and nose whose firmness say : ''Foes, beware, I'm monarch now." In thy heavy armor clad. And that cap of war's own hue. Cold and stern thy look, yet sad, Dost thou love those honors new? Looking forward in the dark Canst thou see the arms of Spain To an Old Portrait Over My 83 Firej)lace. Triumphing o'er Milan? Hark ! Fate proclaims thy conquests vain. Like a bauble tossed about See thy dukedom fall again : Austria has snatched it out From the useless strife of men. Back to Italy at last Falls the gem that thou didst love : Now^ v^ith Rome thy lot is cast ; Like a Roman shrined above Thou to me hast ever been, In thy strong face, half divine ; And thy glance my soul doth w^in When my lifted eye meets thine. 84 Coleridge's Unfnished Kiihla Khan, COLERIDGE'S UNFINISHED KUBLA KHAN AND ITS COMPLETION AS IT COMES TO MY FANCY. |N Xanadu did Kubla Kahn 1 A stately pleasure-dome decree : Where Alph, the sacred river ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girded round : And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh I that deep, romantic chasm that slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! A savage place as holy and enchanted Coleridge's Unjinished Kubla Khan. 85 As e'er beneath a v/aning moon was haunted By woman, wailing for her demon-lover ! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething. As if the earth in fast, thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail. Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man. And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war. The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves ; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. 86 Coleridge'' s Unfinished Kubla Khan. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw ; It was an Abyssinian maid, And on a dulcimer she played Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song. To such a deep delight 'twould win me That with music loud and long I would build that dome in air. That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! And all she heard should see them there, And all should cry. Beware ! Beware ! His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! Weave a circle round him thrice. And close your eyes with holy dread. For he on honey-dew hath fed And drunk the milk of Paradise. [end of Coleridge's lines.] There Kubla dreamed the livelong day, The poppy's incense faintly rose. The waters lulled him to repose ; Coleridge's Unfinished Kubla Khan, 87 Those whispering voices 'mong the rocks Where naiads of the fountain stay Seemed drawing his wrapt soul away ; And dreamland spirits came in flocks To find beneath this mystic pleasure-dome With the unconscious Khan their rightful home. They drew his spirit from his lips As gently came his measured breath, And left his form not wrapt in death, But like the sun when 'neath ecHpse Its light is gone though still 'tis day. Resistlessly was Kubla borne Among the rocks where quaint and worn Was many a cradle hollowed by the wave. And into one his spirit sank Where clustering moss above the bank. And violets and asphodels A sweet, entrancing perfume gave While he, in wonder floated there And listened to the fountain's bells. The liquid voices of the wave In murmurous welcome rose, and one, A spirit, fairer than the rest 88 Coleridge's Unfinished Kubla Khan. To his rapt eyes, in mute request Around him floated, sank his soul In fold of arms and sunny hair. And all her beauty thrilled him through As into her own being flowed His longing, loving life and grew A part of her in this abode. And as they mingled into one The water turned to liquid light And forms in iris colors dight About the new-made soul began To sing a royal roundelay For youth grown maid and maid grown man. Fair Arethuse at last had found the soul She long had sought to make her being whole. But Alpheus, father of the stream. She knew lurked here beneath a rock ; Would he pursue when Kubla Khan Along the current with her ran Well guarded by the naiad flock? With iris blades of emerald gleam They swept along ; the courtier train Saw Alpheus dull with sleep-dewed brain. Coleridge' s Unfinished Kubla Khan. 89 King of the wave Rest, idle one ! Life is begun : None now can save Arethusa for thee ; No longer a maid, No longer afraid. From thee she's free. x\start the river-god awoke From dreams ecstatic, of the maid, As on his ears this music broke In notes that all his being swayed. While Arethuse and Kubla passed Around the towering wave-girt rocks — He cast his sleep-enwreathed locks From eyes that glowed with flames of love. And on he followed, flitting fast Down towards the sunless sea. His chariot, Triton-drawn was there A huge, a kelp-lined scallop-shell That o'er the deep waves' gentle swell More swiftly than the birds of air Pursued 'mid minstrelsy. Mortal that dareth. Mortal that careth 90 Coleridge's Unfinished Kuhla Khan, My sacred realms to invade ; Terror shall smite thee, Sea depths shall blight thee, Mingle thou not with the maid. Arethuse, hear me. Or thou shalt fear me Ere thou shalt cross the great sea I shall o'ertake thee. And I shall make thee Quell the love-longing in me. But Arethuse scarce caught the strain As with her loved one on she sped — They'd reached the portals of the main And into the wide sea they'd fled. Their way alight with moving stars And phosphorescent forms that float — They glided on 'neath coral bars. Beneath their forms each sparkling mote Of ocean-drifted sand appeared Like earth bestrewn with silver dew : And liquid peals of laughter trilled along Among the backward ripples of her hair ; No heed she paid to Alpheus' angry song For could not Kubla all her burdens bear? Coleridgx' s Unjinished Kubla Khan, 91 But the pursuer gained, with haste fast breathing, A cloud of foam about his chariot seething, And loud arose his harsh, impetuous cries As in dehght, beholding his fair prize He urged his couriers with goad and rein In this mad chase which suddenly proved vain ; For all at once before his longing eyes Sank Arethuse, her lover and her train Down to a hidden cavern's dark disguise, And no one of the band arose again. But Arethuse knew well the place Where perfect safety seemed to be When this unwelcome, maddening race She chose no longer now to face ; From Alpheus now she's free. Here stems of crinoid flower arose As high as aloe-stalk that grows In earthly gardens, trees of wondrous hue Bore fruits transparent, glistening like gems. Distilling, in their ripeness, honey-devv^ That sparkled round their rinds like diadems. 92 Coleridge^ s Unfinished Kubla Khan. But oh, the glories of the sands below them ! Where golden creatures, eyes of topaz gleaming Crept through the silvery moss of rock to show them Where paths are free and fair to those who know them. And sleeping undines in their beauty dream- ing Were wreathed about with harmless serpents coiling, Their backs of myriad hues, each other foiling In strife to cast their beauties o'er the bed Of water-maid around whose form were spread. On couch of green, a score of living stars, And urchins of the sea embossed the bed Or nestled 'mong the locks of radiant head : Like spadix of the lily of the Nile That hair in hue, that with the faint wave played. Bedecked with sea anemones that grew In secret spots that only sea nymphs knew 'Mong beds of pearly shells their petals swayed. Coleridge's Unfinished Kubla Khan. 93 'Twas 'mid this paradise that Kubla saw A blest release from all the ills that gnaw. Oh, then the moments of pure pleasure Thrilling all his senses through ; When he heard, in choral measure Horns of sea shells echo through Those quaint sea caves in music low and sweet, Where time fled on and on with printless feet. But Alpheus' heralds yet again are heard : Alas ! dread fear had only been deferred ; The god had left his car behind That through the rocks his train might wind. Then Arethuse like ocean bird Disturbed from rock-bound nest, arose Through secret clefts her keen eye knew. And through a grot where ever flows A fount that joyous springs to view, Trinacria's darkling groves among ; And there in basin, prisoned long It babbles with a silver tongue In a retreat with ferns o'erhung. But foam-clad Alpheus now hath flung 94 Coleridge^ s Unfinished Kubla Khan. The portals ope, with fury strong, Gives one glad cry, the nymph he claims, In briny arms her spirit tames — Then starting from his love-dream long In Xanadu woke Kubla Kahn Within his pleasure-dome to see Where sacred Alph still whispering ran, As half resolved to tell to man What only airy dreams set free. Charity. 95 CHARITY. WE need the love of all mankind, Howe'er so poor and base. God knows we all are weak and blind, But love must find a place In human hearts that ever yearn For charity's sweet face. Then call not bitter feelings out By deed or voice or eye ; Judge not in harshness or in doubt When motives hidden lie ; Give generous credit for kind deeds, — We need it, you and I. For what we think of others near Will waken in each heart The good or bad that, sleeping here. Must rise to act its part ; For kindred thoughts to meet our own Unbidden oft will start. 96 Trees, TREES. OH, thank God for the blessing of the trees ! With what a graceful dignity they stand Along the country roads o'er miles of land, 'Mid slopes of waving grain and sunlit leas. Each spring they clothe themselves anew to please The fairy fancies, idle, happy band. That through the restless mind trip hand in hand And make this seem the Garden of the Hes- perides, When bloom the apple trees : list how the pines With myriad voices bring the murmuring sea To those far inland who can never hear The waters that past years have made so dear ; See how the autumn lights our maple trees ; How winter shows its wondrous leafless lines ! Renaissance. 97 RENAISSANCE. ONE morn my soul awoke to song ; In doubt and sadness, oh I how long The joy of life had slept ! A thousand voices filled my quickened ear, And God himself had entered all things here. The trees, awake, were whispering his words ; The grass, the flowers, the insects and the birds Proclaimed his presence near. These voices rose to cheer The heart within me. And once again I saw 'twas good to live. I could not now rejoice, save thro' the sadness Which with long weary months had come to me. The sorrows of the past should bring us glad- ness, If from the depths the shining heights we see. We would not part with all the loss and strug- gles pS Renaissance Which time has cost us, could we only feel What blest, refining influence they bring us For our soul's heal. The death of friendships we have fondly cherished ; The hopes that now have vanished from our eyes ; Forms of the faithful, long since perished, — Before our memories rise. And hours that bring us tears we dearest prize. Patience, 99 PATIENCE. IF we bear our pains and losses As the flower bears the rain Bending, closing, suffering meekly. Sure to rise and smile again ; Not one trial can be vain. For the trials like the rain Enter all the pores of being, Strengthen us beyond our seeing, Bring forth slumbering spirit power. Light the soul like freshened flower. Then our eyes shall shine again. INDEX. PAGE The Voyage 7 American Girls on the Atlantic 16 Margaret Canmore's Chapel 21 Abbotsford 22 Klstow 23 The Tower of London 24 A Flower from Mont Blanc 25 The Lion of Lucerne 26 In the Colosseum 27 Galileo's Lamp at Pisa 29 The Wolf of the Capitol 30 Fra Angelico 31 Michael Angelo's David 32 Murillo's Madonnas 33 Pompeii 34 When the Sun Comes Over the Mountain • • • 35 Bluets 37 The Spider 38 To the Author of America 41 A Wayside Picture 42 Look Within 43 To the Bluebird • • 45 To the Song Sparrow 46 Fortune 47 In Memoriam, W. H. 51 In Memoriam, J. B. C. H. 52 Among the Pines 53 Index, PAGE Will o' the Wisp 55 To the Preacher 5° The Old Songs '58 The Bagpipe ^^ By the Wayside ^^ Hepaticas "^ Walt Whitman ^4 To Shelley 65 Found in Central Park ^^ My Little World ^8 The Brook ^9 Sick Neptune '70 The Wreck of the Maine 72 The Spanish War 74 In Memoriam, (Hamilton Fish, Jr.) 75 Unexpressed 77 Chanticleer • 7^ Hidden Things 79 Life 8^ To an Old Portrait Over My Fireplace .... 82 Coleridge's Unfinished Kubla Khan 84 Charity 95 Trees ^6 Renaissance 97 Patience 99 AUNT ELVIRA ABROAD BY WILLIAM BURT HARLOW Aunt Elvira lived on a farm with her good husband, Uncle Silas. She had the happiness of inheriting from her brother's estate one thousand dollars. With this magnificent fortune at command, she determined to see something of the world. She said to Silas : "We might as well gallivant round a little, while we are young, as ter set stived up here in the State of Connec- ticut all our born days." Accordingly they " gallivan- ted round." The description of the voyage across the ocean is intensely amusing, and a juicy humor trickles all through the book, which ought to melt the most miserable victim of hypochondria into geniality, if not into gayety. The author's object was not merely to amuse readers, but also to preserve some of the pecul- iar New England words, phrases and colloquialisms which are passing into oblivion. — New York Home jour- nal. J. S. Ogilvie Publishing Co., N. Y. PRICE 50 CENTS. COLUMBIA REDEEMED The Story of America's Civil War The author of '' America" writes of it : Mr. Wm. Burt Hari^ow, Mj; Dear Friend:— 1 thank you for the perusal of " Col- umbia Redeemed." I have read the successiion of books with much pleasure. Narrative poetry is a difficult task, but you seem to have managed it with great success. The themes are well chosen ; the descriptions vivid. Each is treated with sufficient expansion and, best of all, the patriotic spirit of the writer is everywhere enshrined. We can- not tell the story of our beloved country too often, nor in too many ways. It is worthy of the best prose ; the best poetry. A form which does not reach one mind may appeal successfully to another. You have accom- plished a great labor ; I am sure it has been a labor of love. I hope your little book will find favor with the public and attain the circulation it deserves. Cordially yours, S. F. Smith. Published by C W. MOULTON, Buffalo, N- Y. i2mo. PRICE 50 CENTS. Address THE AUTHOR, Somers,Conn. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS iliiiiiiiirlliiiiiiiijiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiini | 018 597 453 4 ||^