PS 3537 1913 AND FAR AWAY FLORIDA WATTS SMYTH Class ?S 3% ^-7 GopghtN?. COPyRIGHT DEPOSm OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY BY FLORIDA WATTS SMYTH AUTHOR OF "The Varied Orace of Nature* a Face" THE POET LORE COMPANY PUBMBHERS: BOSTON Copyright 19 IS, by Florida Waifs Smyth. All rights reserved. z The Oorham Press, Boston, U* S, A. MAR 15 1314 /., d^ •©CI.A36289 4 CONTENTS The Country of My Dreams 11 The Sunset Land 12 Life 12 Sonnet — Moonrise 13 The Road to Reims 14 Sonnet to Keats 15 Life's Way 16 French Chateaux Romance — Chinon 17 Chateau of Chenonceaux 19 The Chateau of Azay-le-Rideau 20 The Vision of a Twentieth Century Pilgrim at the Home of his Ancestors — Amboise 22 Fontainebleau 24 The Forest of the Past 26 French Cathedrals and Abbeys Rouen — Normandy 28 Mont St. Michel— Brittany S3 Bayeux — Normandy 36 Cathedral of Chartres 40 The City on the Hill 42 Saint Malo — Brittany 48 The Imperial Throne of Charlemagne 45 View from the Gorner-Grat 47 England. 48 Ireland 49 English Cathedrals Winchester 50 Lincoln 50 Ely 51 Durham 5^ Netley Abbey — ^Hampshire 53 Old St. Paul's Churchyard, Norfolk, Virginia 54 New York City 55 A Vision of America Invocation 56 Part I. The Yosemite Valley 57 Part II. Santa Barbara 63 The North- Western Shore 65 Yellowstone Park 68 Part III. Along the Gulf 72 The Carolinas 74 Virginia 77 The Eastern Shore 80 Part IV. New England and the Borderland 83 Part V. The Central River. 85 The Jungfrau 87 Sunrise off Constantinople 89 A Memory of the "Ionia*' 90 Milan Cathedral 91 Cairo Streets 93 The Rose and the Sand 94 The Sun and the Moon in Egypt 96 Strings of Amethysts 98 Egypt 99 The Old Ice Witch 100 The Beginning of Autumn 101 January and June 102 The Rhone 103 Smirise on Pilatus-Kulm, Lake Lucerne. ... 105 Recollection 107 Isle of Capri — Bay of Naples 108 Venetian Fancies 110 An Answer 113 Under the Apple Tree 114 The Pearl and the Shell 115 The Small Horse-Chestnut Tree 116 Wild Grape Blossoms 117 The Ice Queen's Jewels 118 To a Baby Picture 119 To a Rose 120 Spring Flowers 121 Daisies 124 World's Work 125 The Voice of Nature 127 Sky and Sunshine 128 Frost Flowers 129 On Seeing a Flock of Wild Ducks Fly Over- head 130 A Drowsy Afternoon 131 Heidelberg 132 Alexandria 134 Sunset on the Columbia River 136 To Pike's Peak 137 Over the hills and far away. Out in the open this joyous day. Spring woods veiled in a misty blue. Broken clouds that the sun shines through; All come who will. Over the hill. Over the hills and far away! Down in the valleys the clear streams flow. Up on the hilltops the fresh winds blow; Drink in the sweetness of rain-washed soil. Think no more of the town's turmoil; Like a gray shroud Clings its smoke-cloud Over the hills and far away! Follow the roads that twist and wind. Hills in front and hills behind. Up to the crests where the sunset-light Flares and fades round each distant height. Night creeps so still Over the hill. Over the hills and far away! OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY THE COUNTRY OF MY DREAMS Somewhere, in a misty twilight Far away, 'twixt dusk and daylight, Lies the country of my dreams, With its meadows ever green. Hedgerows long that stretch between Quiet roads and running streams. Daisies at the meadow's edge, Close beside the blooming hedge; There the poppy waves and gleams Mingled with the cornflower's blue — I have seen them, wet with dew, In a country not of dreams. Rocky slopes, where flower and vine Creep and twist, and wave and twine, Where the sea- winds never cease Blowing o'er an isle-strewn bay. Blue and brilUant, far away,^ — Gentle winds that ne'er increase. Hills tree-covered, earth moss-clad. Clear sky, simshine warm and glad. From the changing years — release; Where the month is always June, Where the hour is ever noon. And the heart is e'er at peace. 11 THE SUNSET LAND Rose-tinted land of the western sky Set in a still, green sea, Rimmed with gold where its bright shores he, Isles of Eternity, Drawing us closer as years go by. Pure, and clear, and far; Land of peace, where no shadows lie, Cheered by the Evening Star. LIFE To one, alone, thy whole self give, Share with him all that thou hast known 'Till love has deep and deeper grown; And die in hope of God's white Throne; 'Tis thus to live. 12 SONNET— MOONRISE The full moon rising like a ball, red-gold, Above the dark and slumbering summer sea, In dreamy billows heaving silently, Seeks one straight pathway, glittering, pure, and cold, Along the line of myriad waves imtold; Its light, transfused by some strange alchemy From gold to silver, trembles luminously, From far sky-line to sandy shore unrolled. Here on the beach, each rising wave is lost In one dark curve, that breaks with snowy foam, And, creeping upward, ever seeks to comb The hard-packed sand, forever water-tossed; The dashing breakers shine like white hoar-frost, And slip back, blending, in their wide, wild home. 18 THE ROAD TO REIMS The road to Reims, , . The road to Reims, lis mmgled with my happiest dreams; That flash of blue, ^, 1 That blaze of red,' ihat shone where each bright poppy-hea\ The heavy-towered entrance way Bespeaks the fortress-abbey's strength; Within, broad steps wind upward still 34 To the church that crowns the crest, in length And breadth, and height, a wondrous work To poise upon this pointed isle, A glorious dream of sculptured spires, A landmark of the Gothic style; Removed from city's crowded ways, Above the ever shifting sands, An architectural victory For human hearts and hands. Below it, in the mountain's rock. Are columned crypt, and prison damp, And, on the island's seaward side. The " Merveille" (marvel) bears the stamp Of some great architect of old; For on the topmost floor and near The church is built a cloistered square. Where countless sculptured pillars rear Their slender shafts and capitals Around the open courtyard, bright With sunshine at a summer noon. And very near the stars at night. From out these windows one can gaze On rocky cliff, and swift brown sail, — The story of the sky and sea. The terror of the tide and gale, — And in this wondrous marvel, built Against the island's rugged face. Are vaulted halls for monk and knight, Where French kings oft have sought for grace. Louis Eleventh founded here The order high of "Saint Michel," And proudly in each Castle hall Was worn the pilgrim's gilded shell. The sea is mounting high and higher, We fear 'tis late to leave the isle; 35 The sun is setting *mid a fire Of clouds, close-heaped in thunderous pile; The tide is beating at the gates, The ocean has o'erleaped its bounds. And loud above the boatmen's cries Their wild, excited voices drowns. The causeway stops without the walls, And still, when tides are breaking high, A boat must span the watery space That seems so short when sands are dry ; And though it were a simple task To bridge it well, and walk dry-shod At highest tide within the gate — What weariness fore'er to plod O'er easy ways and graded paths ! The boatmen still rejoice, and we Have seen the Mount of "St. Michel," And crossed, "in peril of the sea.'' Bayeux — Normandy Across the fresh green Norman fields That circle round the tile-roofed town, The smooth road, flower-bordered, winds, In dazzhng whiteness, gently down Beside a pleasant little stream With buttercups fringed, and daisies white; Then on among the gray house-fronts, And garden walls that hide from sight Box-bordered paths and arbors quaint, Syringa tall, and roses sweet With heavy, perfect blooms, each tree Trained carefully; some seeking heat Against the gray walls climbing close. Away from North winds sheltered there, 36 Pale yellow petals weighted down With perfume steahng everywhere. Red peonies in gorgeous bloom Vie with the roses in their pride; The fruit trees cling along the walls, And ivy growing close beside; While over all, that rare, fresh breath Of garden sweetness, close walled-in From streets and passers-by, cold winds. And all the world's consuming din. Among the narrow, ancient ways. Where timbered house-fronts still look down Upon the path which Normans trod, With William, through the quiet town, His brother. Bishop Odo, raised. In majesty of rough-hewn stone. These two great towers, broad and high. Deep-buttressed, standing proud, alone Amid the later Gothic curves Of nave and choir and central tower ; Their heavy round-arched openings boast Of strength and age and Norman power. And down below the Gothic choir An earlier church may still be seen. Its heavy pillars roughly carved. And shadowy frescoes in between. Whose walls were refuge, shelter, hope A thousand years, and more, ago; Whose tiny windows, now within The greater church, once felt the snow And fog and rain from o'er the sea When cold winds blew, in Wilham's day. From the misty north and British shore Where the Norman's island-province lay. Through centuries of war and storm, 37 Through a thousand summers* sun and shade, The Conqueror's armies still march on To make that great, historic raid On England, Saxon England's shores. They march in stiff, unbending lines. Or load their horses into ships With curious beckonings and signs; For no sounds break the stillness As we see them marching by, Their spears in long lines levelled; There is no great battle cry, No sobs among the wounded; And the Duke becomes a King. 'Tis Matilda's magic needle That has made us see the thing As 'twas thought-on, planned, accomplished: The Conqueror's wife and Queen, Who 'broidered it in colors With many a quaint old scene; From Harold's famous visit When he swore at William's knee That the future King of England Was the Duke of Normandy, To the wondrous fight at Hastings, And the bravery of each knight, The battle-heat, the pillage, The Saxon's hurried flight. Matilda's tireless fingers In a patient work of years, When life was sweet and sunny, And in days beset with fears, On this life-work slowly labored, To protest that WilUam's right To the throne of Saxon England Was inheritance, not might. 88 Not on Cathedral columns stretched. As 'twas seen on ancient holidays, But under glass and guarded well From modern pilgrims* curious gaze, The quaint, old, endless, faded strip Of worsted work still tells its tale. A thousand years is but a day, And we are fighting with the pale And smooth-faced Norman, or beside The bearded Briton. England's won! *Tis the ending of the tapestry And Matilda's work is done. 39 CATHEDRAL OF CHARTRES The narrow streets wind steeply, With many a twist and turn, Between quaint -windowed dweUings To the great front, cold and stern, Where figures, tall and slender, And partly worn away, Of prophets old, and princes. And queens, unknown today. Are clustered 'round the doorways. Whose early Gothic mould Bears ancient signs and emblems In carvings strong and bold — What a strangely sweet expression On each faintly smiling queen. With slim, elusive figure, And queer old kings between. Their features worn and broken, Their feet placed straight and square On squirming forms of deadly sin ! One king, in sad repair. The Conqueror, wears a woman's head; Scarce one but is wounded sore. For as early as eleven hundred They were placed to guard this door. The massive towers above them. Each finished with a spire. Are perfect art expressions — The Northern one is higher. And a mass of graceful stonework. While the older tower below Is rugged, square, gigantic; But its spire seems to grow In balanced symmetry above The well-proportioned base, 40 And rivals all the tracery Of the North tower's fretted face. The ninth Louis, saintly hero, And much beloved king. Bestowed a richly sculptured porch Where crowded figures spring From base and florid capital. From arch and pillars gray, The prophets, knights, and pilgrims Most honored in his day. Within the mystic shadows Of nave and aisle and choir. The wondrous-tinted windows Burn fiercely with a fire Of glorious red and yellow; The sunset's briUiance thrown Across the misty grayness Of this twilight land of stone. Where the trees are massive pillars, Whose branches clamber high Between the sunlit windows. And hide the dark blue sky With a mass of moveless foliage, Upheld by sculptured limb And deeply rooted buttress. Far down among the dim And shadowy aisles that lead us Through this forest's unknown ways. We wander onward seeking The forms of by-gone days. That crowded transept, nave, and aisle, And chapels round the lofty choir. In the shade of mediaeval thought, Through which stole rays of holy fire. 41 THE CITY ON THE HILL Boulogne-sur-mer The air is sweet 'neath the branches That shelter the moss-grown wall Of the lofty, moldering ramparts, Where the shadows softly fall On a tree-covered, mystic pathway That leads romid the ancient town, For seven centuries shielded. In this circling hill-top crown, From wandering knights and bandits. By the power of men and stone. Since Godfrey, the Crusader, Ruled the County of Boulogne. The simshine steals across the path Half-hid in grassy sod. Where centuries of citizens And warriors have trod The mediaeval ramparts. That lie basking in the sun Of peace and perfect stillness. For their warlike work is done. The sea is dreaming down below, And all the world is still In the gentle summer simshine, 'Round the City on the Hill. 42 SAINT MAJDSriUany Like Is, that fabled city Beyond the Breton shore, St. Malo*s sea-bound battlements Re-echo with the roar Of the channel's tide; It creeps aroimd each islet With brown and rugged crest. Or leaves the smooth sand tenantless — The sea's great, weird unrest, That must e'er abide. The tide is in! the ramparts Are lashed by wind and wave; The isles are well-nigh covered, But Malouin men are brave, And with practised eye. Set sail along the channel That these fisher-folk have known. Since the days when bold Jacques Cartier Sought a "New France," free but lone. When tides were high. The tide is out! The beaches Stretch far beyond the wall; The sea is sown with islands. Disclosed when waters fall Around the bay. The grave of Chateaubriand, On a cliff above the sea, O'erlooks the silent basin — There the poet dreamily In childhood lay. 43 Across the bare sand-levels We wander toward his isle; An old fort crowns its summit, And beyond in simplest style A cross, rough-hewn, The poet's ashes covers. The tide is creeping in, And soon will swallow up the paths With echoing dash and din. On rocks weed-strewn. 44 THE IMPERIAL THRONE OF CHARLE- MAGNE Aix-la-Chapelle The marble chair, The Imperial Throne That held the form of Charlemagne, Designed to bear, Though senseless stone, The monarch in his glorious reign! And when he died His senseless form. Stone-cold, was placed with royal mien, Unaltered pride, Where war and storm Might pass it by fore'er unseen. At last the light Of torches came To shed a strange, funereal gleam Upon the sight Of him whose fame Had grown like a descendmg stream; Great Otho bowed Before that cold. Impenetrable, royal face. No change allowed. But left each fold Of the royal garment in its place. Then came a king And Emperor, known As red-beard Frederick, he who dared To move this thing. 45 To use this throne; For the " great Charles ' " fame, he little cared; But stowed away In a marble case The stately form, that crowned, upright. Still held its sway O'er the German race, For their hearts enthroned him in pristine might. Today we look, Almost with awe. At his arm, enclosed in an arm of gold; How oft it shook To defend the law, That arm for a thousand years stone-cold! Along the Rhine He wanders still, On the hills near Ingelheim, they say, When the nights are fine; And his royal will Is felt in a dim, mysterious way. 46 VIEW FROM THE GORNER-GRAT Above Zermatt So near, so beautiful, so fair Those circling mountains seem, We stretch our hands to grasp them. Like children in a dream; We long to cross that icy space Where the Gorner Glacier sweeps, And touch white Monte Rosa, That the snow, in shining heaps, Has hidden long from mortal eye. Around are countless peaks, But only one among them With the same insistence speaks. Bare Matterhorn! bold headland. Thrust straight against the sky. The greatest earthly pyramid. So strong, and cold, and high, Which centuries have left untouched; That finger pointing upward still, Whose form eludes the world's keen grasp. And man's fast-spreading will; Its chasms still with danger lined, Its slopes still cruel, cold, Its rocks forever rugged, Its outlines ever bold; Its icy walls repel the pick That man thrusts in to climb — Imperishable monument, Deep-seated for all time! 47 ENGLAND Pale daybreak on the ocean! The chalk cliffs, topped with green, Rise gleaming in white splendor. A longing, clear and keen, To climb the snowy headlands And touch the fresh, sweet sod Of this land that our forefathers For many centuries trod; A feeling of homecoming; Some subtle, mystic spell; Some strange and eerie clinging, That words can never tell, Enfolds me when those headlands Rise, white, beyond the sea, And my rhythm of soul must break Ere its voice be unheard by me. 48 IRELAND Three o'clock on a cold spring morn, Sailing in to the wide, still bay; Sweet, soft air from the dark land borne, Tinged with the breath of May; Moon and sun o'er the shining sea. Life asleep on the shadowy shore. Hills enwrapped in night's mystery As this land in its lore. Land breeze stealing across the bay, Fresh from the moist, green Irish sod, Scent of the flowers along the way Our feet have not yet trod. Call of the mild and misty land. Blooming and green, and cool and sweet; Moon and sun on the shining strand And the ocean at her feet. 49 ENGLISH CATHEDRALS > Winchester Where Hampshire hills are tender green, a stream. That Isaak Walton loved, the Itchen, flows Beside the tree-girt, cool Cathedral close. As still as if in spell-bomid woods they seem, These trees, far down, whose aisles the sunshine's gleam Caresses long, gray, crumbling walls that rose Above a city Saxon rulers chose As "Royal Winchester," a fleeting dream. Their power fled, but can we ever lose The feeling of its presence, who have seen Those chests that guard their dust, and still accuse The Conqueror, ranged atop the choir-screen; While, through the years, the minster-close renews As then, its circling coronet of green ! Lincoln Far across the level meadows. Moist and green, of Lincolnshire, Rises one bold hilltop, tower-crowned. Where, by steep paths, lost in shadows, Climb the houses, tier on tier, To the ancient minster's hallowed ground. Upward men have struggled long By these fast ascending ways. Past the old carved houses, worn and quaint. Toward the great front, broad and strong, Fortress-like; in early days Wondrous, mighty, in each niche a saint. 50 Higher may we climb and higher. By a winding transept stair, To the upper church's pale gray shades ; Then, for those who still aspire, - Longing for a rarer air. Twist the steps, 'till dayhght wholly fades ; Fades, while rougher grows the way, Time-worn, foot-worn, narrow stones, Built within a corner-turret slim Where today seems far away When the great bell's deafening tones Thunder through the stairway's windings dim. Light at last upon the crest Of that glorious central tower. Air, and light, and stillness over all ; Two great towers toward the West, Gray in sunlight, black in shower, Sentinel -like, above the churchyard-wall ! High al)Ove the circling plain, Green and level, far below. High above the ever-climbing town; Great Cathedral, much we gain From thy story; for 'twas slow Well-laid work that brought thee this renown! Ely Ely, storied, still, and strange, Mystically magical. Flings its slender turrets 'gainst the sky. Changing not as centuries change. While the winds, soft, musical, Murmur round the circling tree-tops high. 51 Fortress-gates and ancient walls Guard the minster's broad domain, Locked at eve with mediaeval care, When the wheeling rooks' hoarse calls Somid in wild, incessant strain 'Romid slim towers dark 'mid sunset's glare. Ely, in that summer twilight, Filled my heart with endless longing, As I lingered there, — too short the hours, — Longing for those walls tonight, When the birds come calling, thronging. Whirling, circling round the soaring towers. Durham HaK-concealed by mist and rain. Like that island in the sea Whence the monks St. Cuthbert's relics bore, Looms the church where he has lain Century upon century. Since those days embalmed in monkish lore. Far above the swift l)rown stream, Towered, mighty, square and strong. Grandest Norman minster Time has spared. Remnant of that warlike dream Norman prelates cherished long, WTien Prince-bishops royal power shared. Venerable as Bede, whose bones Lie within the Galilee Built beyond that nobly-pillared nave. Great, unyielding, well-cut stones. Lacking Gothic ecstasy. But forever calm, and pure, and grave. 52 Netley Abbey — Hampshire Twilight on Southampton Water wide, Sunlight lingering o'er the Abbey hill, Far below, the ever-changing tide. Here the old walls, proud, unchanging, still; Walls that sheltered wandering knight and squire, Waiting to embark for France and war, Poitiers, Cr^cy, Agincourt, the fire Burning through a century to mar Norman meadows, fair streams of Touraine, Land of the Midi; here they chanced to pray, Dreaming one night, before war's joy and pain, Dreaming of Heaven, and God's unchanging way. Splendid the nave: each gracious Gothic curve Framed in a mass of clinging, creeping vines ; Roofless, but loftier now, a proud reserve Lingers, 'mid echoing footsteps from those lines Of men that trod this valley long ago ! — In shadowy mist the bowmen's ranks advance, Passing beneath Southampton's Westgate low, Trained to defeat the chivalry of France; Crowding the ships that in a favoring breeze Gently drop southward, southward to the sea; Stronger the wind as fast the white fleet flees Over the dim sky-line of memory. 53 OLD ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, NORFOLK, VmGINIA Dear old Virginia churchyard. Steeped in rich perfumes Of green box with subtle odor, And magnolia blooms ! Like some ancient, magic circle, Your moss-grown walls Keep back the struggling present; The sunlight falls On tablets dim and weather-worn. And winding ways, Vv'here the wind is gently whispering Of forgotten days; Of peace that never changeth 'Mid walks long-trod. Of faith that clingeth ever 'Round this House of God. 54 NEW YORK CITY A rocky island, pierced by the foundations Of mighty buildings, welcoming all nations Within their shadows; where the old house-rows Are teeming with humanity. Who knows What magnet draws these millions of the poor To this small point of land ! What golden lure Has brought them over stormy, tossing seas To struggle in wealth's shadows ! Not for these Wealth's sunny gifts. Those man-built points of stone Tall, many- windowed, ribbed with steel, enthrone The City's might, which gathers at her feet The squadrons of the world's great merchant- fleet. No harbor on a sunny summer day Is so replete with life, along the way That leads in from the ocean past "The Hook;" And home-bound hearts beat faster as they look On schooner, yacht, and weighted pleasure-boat, On crafts returning from strange lands, remote. And noisy tugs that know no other port Than this, watched over by its green-hilled fort. And though this great town northward ever grows. The narrow headland where her life-blood flows Shall boast a mightier city, whose tall towers. Sky-scraping, will stand close as summer flowers Along a meadow's edge; beside the bay That brings the wide world's commerce 'neath her sway. 55 A VISION OF AMERICA Invocation Tell me a tale of the far-away, Wonderful land by the sea; Sing me the songs of a past day, Clothed m new fancies for me, Tired of ancient romances; Seek unwrit stories, and tell The lore of each stream that enhances Its background of valley and dell ! Lead me to heights undiscovered; Clasp me and carry me far, Where eagles o'er eyries have hovered. Where no dwelhng the wildness can mar ! Bear me away to the mountains, Wing me aloft to the skies. Bring me to cold-flowing fountains, Snow-peaks so fair to my eyes; Then to the fathomless ocean, Where headland on headland looks down. All lost in the unceasing motion Of waves in their gladness or frown ! Sail to the islands of beauty. Row me about their still shores; Search for the ocean's fair booty, Resting, becalmed, on our oars ! Come, let us float down the river. Past the green hills to the sea, Which the great heart of the Giver Fashioned for you and for me ! 56 PART I The Yosemite Valley I slept. Whence comes this sweet vision of mountains, and mountains untold; On the rich sky, in clear-cut precision, Tall pines 'gainst a sunset of gold; While deep in the valley, and nearer, The fields, softly waving and green. Reflecting still fairer and clearer The passing day's glorious sheen? The road winds on steeply, descending 'Mid thickets of low chestnut, wild. Its creamy plumes lovingly blending With rosy wild peach; and that child Of the rocks, manzanita, that fast throws O'er its branches the waxen-like blooms, From a heart that with deep crimson tint glows. On, on, with the chestnut's perfumes. Where, robed in its pure, lovely splendor Is found the white lily that grows (Mariposa, its name, frail and tender,) Near the lingering breath of the snows. "Ahwahnee," — deep valley, — the soft name In musical cadence arises, For its gentle airs known to far-off fame 'Mong the Indian tribes. Here surprises Far sweeter are opened; deep blue, As sunlight to twilight is fading, Stretch masses of lupine to strew The valley, far on to the shading Of hills, with an azure, soft, subtle; In the dimness those fair stretches rise Woven closely in wild Nature's shuttle. Then darkness steals over the skies, 57 "Ahwahnee, Ahwahnee," repeating *Mid the stillness, the silence; until With the sullen and black hom-s fleeting, Hurried onward past woodland and hill, To me new words are plaintively sounding; My guide wears an Indian form; "Wawona!" he cries, deep resoimding Through the trees, like a cry of alarm. "Wawona," — big tree, — is before me; From the earth sweetest odors arise, The strong, healing breath of the pine tree, Whose head tosses where the wind sighs. On the needle-strewn ground, the road half-hid. In a forest that seems deep-enchanted. Is winding, the lofty tree trunks 'mid, By gigantic, unearthly hands planted; "Wawona," the greatest in splendor 'Mid his brothers, all mingled with pines, That vie in their height, though more slender. With the redwood's rich, shadowy lines. What a wonderful girth ! and how thick, soft. Is the red bark, his rough, shaggy coat, That binds the great trunk from broad base aloft To regions above us, remote, Where a few scattered branches the brows crown Of this monarch, whose reign has extended Through ages whose rulers' faint, dim renown Time in infinite silence has blended! Still thou rearest thy head, lofty giant! And on through the dark wood they stride. Thy companions in high pride, defiant Of the pine trees that climb at their side. Here greater than they are now laid low, Thy sires and grandsires, their girth Once rose where no more the loud winds blow Through their branches, that mingle with earth. 58 Lofty trunks, e'en majestic when lying In wondrous length stretched here at rest; Slow centuries each has been dying On Nature's deep-pitying breast. Mourn not for the gems of the mountain, Secure from the tempest's wild storm; Gone, gone to Ufe's e'er living fountain, They will come back in loftier form ! Why should they be lost when they moulder To join that rich earth whence they came; When their trunks lie shoulder to shoulder, Deep-mingled, and lacking a name? They are blent in the life-giving power Of the earth, from which countless growths spring; And, with the next wakening shower. It may be a blossom will wing Its way through the deep, fertile earth-mould, It may be a tiny moss-tree; But each in its every green leaf -fold Will avow that death cannot be; Whether hung from the loftiest tree-top Or in lowliest places it live, It cannot of joy hold one more drop, Be it high as the heavens; nor can give A message more plain than the lowly, Sweet whisperings of Nature and life. Which, though they may come to us slowly, Will free all our hearts from deep strife. This world for our pleasure is given. Think more on its beauty and grace, Of centuries that life has striven To beautify nature's fair face ! Forget not the life all about you. The changes, the seasons, the sky, The growth that each day brings about, new 59 And gladdening to the trained eye ! We herd in the city's dark alleys, We ne'er know a glorious sunrise, We feel not the charm of the valleys; Naught but houses about us arise, High houses on houses. We bury Ourselves in the works we have made; — Death in life, without one thought to vary The day from its sunlight to shade. Here, on the huge trunk of a great tree. My thoughts are revolving around. Until the dim guide seems to lead me Away from the sweet-scented ground. Over hills, above wild streams he hastens, The road a dim cleft in the rock; The brook's roar, the far distance chastens. Where it meets with the precipice' shock. Half drowsy from shades of the great trees, I start, wonder, gaze down afar, Where the mist, softly raised by a light bree25e, A valley reveals; naught to mar The pure silence, exquisite, serene; A great picture it seems, glorified. Is it real.'^ And the wealth of the scene Sweeps o'er me in incoming tide. "Yosemite!" cries my dark guide, "Look!" With his finger he points far, far down Where Hes that long, wonderful, deep nook, Split through the great rocks like a frown. I raise my eyes, veiled in deep wonder. Bare, glorious, those lowering heights In distant, dim days cleft asunder. While down them, like showering fights, Slip pale sheets of water, that drifting Far out on the valley, uprise. Disclosing, with slow, silent shifting 60 The green vale, that like a surprise Of fairyland spreads; and a mild stream, Gently wandering; while on each hand Spring walls of great stone with their cold gleam; Yet, below in its soft, yielding sand The river flows on as those great minds, That no passion nor sorrow can change; Ever peaceful, it swiftly glides past, winds 'Neath the grim stare of each rocky range. Rhododendrons bloom on the sweet face Of this green, distant valley, and flowers Of every fair tint, that drink in grace From the incessant waterfall's showers. Grand and awful those towering steeples, Those crags, and those broad, rounded domes. That the genius and strength of all peoples Could never have reared for the homes Of the waterfalls. Laughing, they tumble O'er the high rocky shelf, and come down Sometimes with a halt and a stumble. Where the cliff's face is rough with a frown; But, leaping again, they sing onward To that stream in the deep vale below. From their birthplace in mountains far upward, 'Mid the melting of ice and of snow. And here lies a quiet lake, dreaming. Reflecting the mountains around; While cataracts high up are steaming. That make a low, far-away sound. And murmur their Indian names soft, "Pohono," "Yowiye," "Piwaack," "Evil Wind Spirit," "Cataract of Diamonds," aloft, "The Meandering;" then, "Ti-sa-ack,"— That "Queen of the Valley," the half -dome. And peaks upon cold peaks that hail 61 As "Pompompasus," "Loya," the high home Of the Sentinel, Chief of the Vale. Far over the valley those cliffs soar 'Round "Tutockanula;" 'mid all The bewildering Indian song-lore That blends with the voice of each fall. Past lofty "Clouds' Rest" I am driftmg; O'er the whole scene its sno^fvy head stands, And now as the white mist Ues shifting, Mysterious, invisible hands Seem to draw a veil o'er the vision. Seem to hide the dream from my sight; Blending all in a dim indecision — I am lost in the shadows of night; While the soft music, sweet, of a white fall, With the wind's gentle breath intertwined, Is all that I hear; a weird, low call That grows fainter and fainter behind. 62 PABT II Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, the blest, On your shore He peace and rest. Rocky headlands sloping down To the ancient Spanish town, Guarded o'er by mission towers, Wrapped in sunshine, palms, and flowers; Where the "fathers" once sought rest, Santa Barbara, the blest. O, would that I, like thee, had spanned The compass broad of every land. Dim guide ! Lead on to other cHmes, And lull me with their magic rhymes. Where distant, blue waves sink and swell, I hear a faint Cathedral bell; Deep-purple, beauteous mountains stride Beside the ever-murmm-ing tide; While, far across the waves' clear shimmer. The sunset's laughing fancies ghmmer. Repeated from the clouds on high That tinge the golden wall of sky. The glowing, sparkling rays are bent Upon this glorious continent, Before Pacific's \^/idening sea Can seize and drown the phantasy, The mingling lights, the thousand shades, That soften as the brightness fades, The last, clear amber, faint and pale. That hovers 'round a silent sail. And now I turn with half a sigh, Where on the beach bright mosses lie, The sea's wild tracery, all combined With shells and sand, that may have lined The mystic halls of a mermaid queen; Festooned in clinging sea-grass green, With a thousand star-fish closely paved, And a great shell-bower — when waters raved A couch for the nymph; her long, wet hair Than these waving mosses, was not more fair. On the yellow beach I sit to free My thoughts of all but the twihght sea; The soft, sweet lapping of tiny waves. And the mighty splashing from rocky caves Beyond the sand. "Farewell! Farewell!" Resoimds tlie hea\^^ vesper bell. ''Farewell to the world!'' the old monks sang, When over this untrod land there rang The first, faint summons to Christian prayer; Across those mountains, high and bare. Came stern-faced men to live and die. On lonely trails and mesas dry. Among the Indians, who knelt Beside them, and the letters spelt From worn old books, and learned the way To build up homes, to work and pray. Still swinging, ringing o'er the sea, The Spanish beUs their minstrelsy Peal forth. Upon those tall, gray towers, Above the garden sweet with flowers, A peace and quiet seem to dwell — To cast o'er all the shore a spell Of ancient days. Along the wake Of the sunset, sailed Sir Francis Drake, And on, across that warm South sea, A rover bold, and brave, and free, The new day followed with hope, until He sighted again each well-known hill On the shores of Devon. He never dreamed, 64 When this distant land o'er his mast-head gleamed, That English voices would sound along The beach, where only a strange wave's song Brought odd, queer fancies to English ears, Of cannibals, wild men, countless fears. That old tars' stories the young hearts filled With dim forebodings. Here were tilled Broad lands, by many a dark senor, Who came from Mexico City far, With gay senoras, as bright and fair As the pomegranate blossoms that decked their hair. I wonder how many dim romances Have escaped an author's searching fancies! How many stories unwritten lie, Marked only by changing sea and sky ! How many hearts have throbbed and broken, Of which these sands may be a token ! How many lands that billow has seen. How many mountains snow-capped or green ! How many have dreamed beside this wave ! The world is wide, and those who gave These shores a name came from afar; Nor sea, nor savage can form a bar To the dauntless spirit, the love of change That leads men over each rocky range. Not only for gold, but for sight and sound Away from the home-land's daily round. The North-Western Shore Along the Californian shore. Beside the breakers' foam and roar, I am led so swiftly, my feet scarce reach The golden stretches of shining beach; 65 On, on, where, far up the Pacific Coast, A stream that the proudest name can boast Of all our rivers, Columbia, flows. And its broad, rich flood on the sea bestows. The wave and snow-peak seem to meet And blend at ocean's rippling feet. High over all, in whiteness airy. Like fabled robe of queen or fairy. Mount Hood, majestic in its glory. As magic mount of ancient story. All pure and startling in its sheen Above the valley wide and green. In size and grandeur swells, as nearer The hoary sides rise up, and clearer The shining slopes are fast revealed. Where chasm and glacier He concealed. Deep-flowing river ! Glorious mount ! From thee an everlasting fount Of melting waters hurries down The palisades, that glare and frown Above the stream in naked height. Until a cascade's silvery light With waving veil, translucent, fair, Dispels the thought that cliffs are bare. Cool ferns and mosses cluster high Upon the rocks ; deep shadows lie Along the river's sparkling edge. From wild tree-growths, a natural hedge; Upon the wave a flash of gold — The salmon caught in many a fold Of broad, strong nets. Those first brave men Who floated down Columbia, when The broad lands from the central stream Were scarcely knoTvn, shrank from the gleam Of these cold walls of stone; here came Fremont, and in their country's name 66 Bold hearts and willing hands; until, Upon a green and sloping hill, Now Portland's heights, a city grew. Prosperity and freedom knew. Upon the far northwestern shore, Where lies our last state, snow-peaks soar, And like a silvery crescent round The white-capped waves of Puget Sound, Its restless waters ever guard, And hold the land in watch and ward. Across the Sound we float, below The Olympian mountains; purely glow Their glittering sides above the sea, And worthy seem of history ; But wild, unsung, these glorious heights. And half -forgot their airy flights; Still wave on wave with dash and roar Has ever hailed this fertile shore. Perhaps 'tis better so than when Their thoughts will blend with thoughts of men; That day is coming; neither wild Nor savage is this distant child. Our farthest state; the mountains only Withdraw from man in silence lonely. To none their pure, free hearts confide. Sought only by the rising tide. The ships sail out; the ships come in; Their peaks are seen through pale clouds thin, Like shadowy souls at close of day, Or Peris in the morning's ray; Each point an upward springing crest, To mark the boundaries of the West, Beside the waves, ferns, mosses, grow, And lupine's fragrant wreaths, that throw O'er all the hills their meshes sweet. To tangle fast the wanderer's feet; 67 As blue as summer heavens they blow, Or shade to white of purest snow; Life, light, growth, beauty, everywhere. The wild, free earth without a care. Yellowstone Park We turn, and to an inland park, A strange and murmuring place, where: — Hark! I hear the mighty rush and roar Of geysers that in volumes pour Their boihng floods, and toss them high, To fall and sparkle 'gainst the sky. We listen at a round hole's edge. Upon a white field, where each ledge Has many openings, built around With snowy minerals. Not a sound Now mars the stillness; yet beneath Are Nature's furnaces. A wreath Of steam ascends from heated pools. And slowly down the valley cools, As on it floats upon a stream From sources where no glaciers gleam. A rush, a roar beneath our feet! From out the hole there springs a sheet Of water, heated by the fires That form the earth's e'erlasting pyres; So beautiful this column tall, High-rismg, that, when hot drops fall. We scarce can think of heat and rage Within the earth's enshrouding cage. High, high it mounts, then weaker grown. Subsides with distant, rumbling moan; While far across the valley's space Some other fomit has taken its place. Sometimes no soimd the silence breaks For long half -hours; each pine tree shakes Its stately head upon the hills; The stillness stream and valley fills With solemn majesty; and when The sun sinks low, far up the glen, Like myriad watch-fires' smoke, arise The warm mists; like a hundred sighs From some deep, land-locked spirits held In bondage, 'till their hopes high-swelled, And bubbling 'mong the boiling masses. Escaping through the rock's dim passes, Etherealized, at last return To heaven, for which all spirits yearn. Faint, faint, against the fading blue. The mists are slowly fading too; Gone, gone, their heat and struggles o'er. To float and soar, forevermore! The canon of the Yellowstone — A rainbow on a chasm thrown — Overlooking at one end a fall. With many an echoing cry and call, In one grand leap the bright rocks clearing, Until, the canon's far depths nearing, It shrinks, subdued by sight and scene, And hurries on, deep, cool, and green. The rainbow peaks are shimmering, The falling waters glimmering, The foam is rising fast, and breaking. The watery column shaking, shaking; It slips along above the fall. Then meeting that high, rocky wall. With sudden plunge is tossed and rent, Its close-bound strength is dashed and spent Upon the stones below. The roaring. Wild, watery music, boldly soaring. Half lulls, half tires the listening sense, 69 With full, unvarying sound intense. That same wave ne'er will leap amain, Yet the hills will bring the same refrain In deep-mouthed echo, and the stream Roll on with ever- varying gleam. What volumes must the far lake yield, Such loud-toned organ-sounds to wield. Forever pouring o'er the verge A milHon waves that sink and surge ! How smooth and peaceful lies the lake! The sunset's glories hardly break In ripples on its glassy wave. That sleeps as in a rocky cave! The mountains these still shores have boimd; The days pass by without a sound. South, ever southward, we must turn; The guide leads on where hot suns burn Upon the mountains, rocky, bold. That hide the magic name of gold; Dry Colorado's peaks extend On, on, and into blueness blend. Their guardian spirit, Manitou, One day some waters idly drew From out a rock, and formed a fount Below Pike's peak — high, steep-sloped mount,- A bubbling, sparkling, laughing spring With health and beauty glimmering. " Yet all this grandem* tires the eye. Wild spirit! Now I sink and sigh For Southern climes, and quiet shades, Where daylight softly, swiftly fades." "No further can I go," he cries, "To mountain heights I turn my eyes; But wander on, and thou wilt find 70 A guide, perhaps, more gentle, kind.** I pause and wave a last farewell; He seems to fade as in a spell, And o'er the peak by sunset kissed. His form is blending with the mist. 71 PABT m Along the Gulf What hand's in mine? A Spanish guide Points o*er the Gulf's incoming tide. " This broad, fair land and sea were ours, A region bathed in sun and flowers ; From Rio Grande to the Eastern shore Old tales of Spain could I sing o'er. Was not your name, at first. New Spain, America? Of all the train Of early comers I could tell: De Soto's life and death, — ^no bell Resounded, but in silence, fear Of treacherous foes, with gathering tear, They sought for him a lasting rest. This Knight of Spain, in armor drest. Within the Mississippi's stream. And though no bright and silvery gleam E'er greeted Ponce de Leon's eyes Of that famed fount of youth, there lies The Southland, fair as on the day When first he saw the shore and bay Where old St. Augustine now stands. 'Twas Easter, and with outstretched hands He cried, '*'Tis a flowery Easter; name The land that brings me youth and fame, Pascua Florida ! So old This fortress is, its walls enfold The histories of Nations. Stones May tell their tales ! No Spaniard owns The land; all gone our ancient glory, All vanished like a passing storys But 'mid each winding, flowery stream You still may see the flashing gleam 72 Of beauteous birds; tall cranes, pure white, And others, decked in plumage bright, Unnamed, except in Indian tongue. When, through the clustering moss that hung In misty garlands, Spaniards came To give to Florida a name.'' A. dreamland strange it seems to me, A sleeping, lapping inland sea — The St. John's River. On we sail ! Until the burning sun's rays fail. The boat's prow moves, and lightly kisses The purple lilies; hardly misses Their slender stems, and spreading leaves, — A carpet that the river weaves For insect-dance and wild bee's pleasure, Where all day long in airy measure. The river-life trips on. Behind These waving plumes, deep, black ways wind Among tall tree trunks; regions dark. Where fabled forms might lurk, and mark The fairy river's sunny life. And lure its votaries into strife And blackness. Alligators there Their rough backs hide from scenes so fair, And on the damp logs idly thrown, Commingle with the grayish tone, And dimness that encloses all Within a mossy, shrouding pall. The silvery stream flows hke a soul, Untouched and pure, that through a whole Dark world may glide, and never waver. Nor turn to shadows broad that quaver Upon its brim. — To say farewell Is hard, for witching is the spell That Southern climes fore'er possess, 73 A subtle, softening tenderness; Magnolia blooms and pine trees' scent In everlasting sweetness blent. The Carolinas The ocean ever murmurs on, And leads the wandering soul at dawn Far up its coasts, forever dashing Upon the rocks, or softly splashing Within warm, sunny coves, and urging The lingerer on where clouds are merging Upon the horizon. Low sand beaches, Interminable sunny reaches. And then a city's quiet streets On which the sun with ardor beats. Though few steal forth to view his face; For, hidden in the dainty lace Of waving vines, behind high walls, Where, cool and sweet, the sunlight falls, Those dark-eyed maids, the joy and pride Of South Carolina, ever hide. St. Michael's church is very old, St. Michael's tomb-stones green with mold And moss, St. Michael's lofty spire, A beacon to the ships — a fire To lead the mariners aright Within the port, when dark the night; Old red brick shops along the bay, And sail-boats loading, all the day. White, fleecy cotton. From each bale Its heads peer, eager to inhale The sea-breeze; and to many lands, Far distant from these sunny strands, The ships will bear them; 'till some day In Egypt dry, or hot Malay, 74 Their woven threads, by strangest fate, May clothe some dark-skinned potentate. Back from the coast Une we diverge, Where misty moimtains meet and merge On North CaroUna*s western edge; We rest upon a mossy ledge, While, from the heights, floats dreamily A softly singing melody. Fiery glows the Southern sunset, Black the distant range, outlined On the day's most beauteous story, By night's waving heights defined; Up and upward, sinking, rising, 'Till Mount Pisgah's tree-decked throne Culminates the ebon background, Where the sun sets, wild and lone. Nearer, nearer, as the distant Peaks are darkened, in the light Round hills, autumn-decked, are shining, As some glorious jewel might; Red oak, spots of blazing crimson, Maple, gold and rich, among Browner leaves, or where a huge pine Cool green, near the light is flung. Swannanoa, winding, silent, In the shadow of the trees, Down where shallow stretches ripple 'Round a black-skinned fisher's knees; Swannanoa, Swannanoa, Sliding, ghding through the hills, Underneath the horses treading How each hoof -beat splashes, trills At the deep and shady fording, 75 Close beside a farm house gray, Bare and leaning, chimney crumbling. Standing there as if to say, "Wind on, river, in your steep banks. Laugh on, I must leave you soon. For your life is always morning. Mine has lingered long past noon." " Mine is fading, as the boarding Of my shaking walls and roof, Man will soon with caution leave me. Nature will not stand aloof; So, as long as my head rises O'er your moving, singing way, Will you greet me at the dawning Of each long and dreamy day?*' "Greet you!" trilled the singing river, " 'Tis my place in hfe to greet Every friend and every stranger On my way I chance to meet; For the earth's deep beauties ever Mirrored are within my eyes, Grace and joyousness of Nature That in my heart never dies. Soft the winds that tell of mountains. Sweet to me leaves floating by. And the field flowers looking downward At my image of the sky. Every singer's song is tender. Sinking deep into my ear, I shall greet thee then as ever. True is Nature; do not fear!" 76 Virginia The song grows fainter, sweet and light, As, fleeing in the darkening night, A dim form leads across the state. Until that shore is reached where fate The first of England's children led. Since then three centuries have sped And still that far-famed virgin queen, In marble effigy serene. Sleeps in the Minster of the West, Where every form and figure blest Has stood unchanged since first went forth Her hardy seamen, West, South, North. 'Twas named West-Minster, but the sea Drew bold hearts on where there might be A far West, fertile, green and young. What change, what growth, what fife has sprung From young Virginia's spreading lands. From mountain-base to glowing sands! What sons and daughters she has reared! What glorious victories she has cheered ! What fiery souls ! How many a tongue Defiance 'gainst the wrong has flung In Richmond's Capitol, where still A lofty silence seems to fill The old white walls to overflowing With memories, on the spot bestowing Historic greatness. There the "sage Of Monticello" turned a page In history. Down the James' broad stream, Where old brick villages still gleam Across its waters, Hampton, lying On Hampton Roads, in memories vying With Plymouth, sleeps; for John Smith here Once landed men who knew no fear: 77 An old, old town with moss-grown walls, 'Mid sunshine warm that softly falls Upon the ancient church. Across The broad bay high waves rise and toss On Chesapeake's waters; nearer loom The guns that oft with heavy boom Wake Old Point's stilhiess : Fort Monroe, From out the waves you seem to grow Above the smooth beach — ramparts high And broad, where black-mouthed cannon lie; But deep within, as if afar From all this readiness for war, A smooth, green meadow spreads, as still As if each rampart were a hill Unpierced by chambers, moat, and walls. So quietly the deep shade falls From scattered live-oaks, gnarled and gray, That mark a cool and pleasant way Across the grounds; one here might live At peace with all mankind; forgive His enemies in such a place, Where sea and land claim equal grace; Where the shore line blends with pine woods green, And stately warships float, serene. Upon the wide, blue waters ; sails. White sails where the horizon fails. And two far capes fade in the sea With ever-changing mystery. Another river to the north Upon rough Chesapeake comes forth, Potomac, flowing past the hill Preserved to his great memory still, George Washington: — Mount Vernon's shades, Its deer park, gardens old, and glades Where tall, strong trunk and creeping vine Surround a simple, gabled shrine. 78 Two marble tombs within it bear The short, plain names of that great pair, Of George and Martha, simply wreathed. Here with his sword at peace and sheathed, The, "Father of his Country," spent Long hours on healthful pastime bent, Or riding o'er his broad domain Sought rest for tired limbs and brain. Upon a rising hillock shine The pillars white in upright line, The broad porch, deeply shaded, where The view across the stream is fair And restful; windows small and quaint. Rooms where an odor, sweet and faint, Steals, mingled with the days of old; And furniture of ancient mould: Old spinets, guiltless of a tune, Old tables, from rich, wild woods hewn; Cracked cups and dishes; pictures, — dames Who look forth from their darkened frames, In round, stiff caps and kerchiefs neat. And faces ever fresh and sweet; The narrow stairs ; the four-post bed Where Washington's last hours sped; His camp-chest; all the homely things Round which remembrance ever clings Are here. Among the hedge-rows high, Within the garden, walk and sigh For vanished forms that slowly paced Along these ways; all those who graced The budding country's court, — all gone Those flitting figures on the lawn; — The close-clipped box alone retains A memory of those by-gone strains, That laughter light that oft would stray Along the winding garden way. 79 Then no gold dome caught fast the fires That hght its walls as day expires O'er our fair, ruling city ; near A gracious, graceful, white half-sphere, The great dome of the Capitol, Girt round with statue, carving, wall Of whiteness pure, above the green Of trees through which the to^n is seen. From one calm spot beside the river What shaft is that which seems to quiver, And higher mount against the red That floods the west ere day has fled? Huge monument, well named for him Whose glory never will grow dim; The greatest obelisk e'er made, Beside which Egypt's high stones fade; A sun's ray cut in cold gray stone; Though near the city's noise, alone ; Ne'er mingling with the endless strife That springs from struggling, hurrying life ! So may our country stand amid The troubles and the snares, half-hid, That compass it about, and rise In conquering pureness, to the skies ! The Eastern Shore South-east from dreamy Baltimore The isolated Eastern shore Of Maryland toward Cape Charles leads. Tall pine trees, close as river reeds, Clothe all the narrow strip of land. Except where in the soft, white sand The sweet potato thrusts its root, And peach trees himg with ripening fruit, Deep-tinged and rich from summer's glow. 80 Against the coast the broad waves throw Their strength, with dash, and splash, and roar, The whole length of the Eastern shore. Far out each smooth-lipped, solemn wave Seems motionless, a deep green cave Beneath its surface; yet with slow And stately roll its waters flow Along the sands to break at last, Its foam like flashing jewels cast Against the blue sky. On the beach The murmuring wavelets strive to reach A higher point, with gliding feet Fast slipping backward to repeat Their struggle with the sand. Unrest Forever on the ocean's breast Will he; except in some deep bay Where tiny waves that lose their way Breathe gently to the sands, " Forgive Our brothers' boisterous ways, and hve In peace with us." Among the stones Great oysters thrive; the grey shell-cones, Their earthly habitation, strew The sandy beaches where they grew In shallow waters. Land of streams Half-salt from tides, half-stilled in dreams. The changing, strange tides ebb and flow Upon thy banks, Wicomico, Fair river of the Eastern shore; Where Chesapeake's salt winds softly blow To waft the lilies to and fro, And sing its beauty o'er and o'er. The woods of Maryland that wave Close down where clearest waters lave Some old bark, ruined, sunken, frail, 81 Their branches huge stretch forth to pave The pine woods, still and dark and grave, With needles healthful to inhale. From out the trees old houses peer, Their red walls strong as in the year When English schooners, loaded down, The fair bricks brought and landed here, When the new settlers built with fear Each small but hopeful town. In windings, twistings toward the bay, 'Tis hard to trace thy devious way Ahead, as o'er the waves we float; They lap against the prow and say " Come back, come back to us some day, And we will guide your boat." 82 Part IV New England and the Borderland On, northward, do we speed, and knock Upon the round-topped Plymouth Rock, Wiere history bids us enter in A town as free from noise and din. As if the Pilgrims ne'er had sought This distant shore, and freedom bought At sore expense of rest and ease. But with no king nor court to please. Great elms spread o'er each quiet street, Almost unheard the passing feet. While on a hill, 'mong flowers and grass, One long may stray, and softly pass The graves of those who early came To rear New England's strength and fame. A giant figure rises o'er The town, it seems to mount and soar. Yet still to brood, and watch, and bend Its glance upon the sea, defend. And guard the place. 'Tis christened "Faith." Sometimes its grey form, like a wraith, Seems chiseled out of cloud and sea To shadow forth Eternity. But earlier still do Norsemen boast A landing on the rugged coast; In long, dark boats, deep, many-oared. With bird-like beaks, they dimly soared From out the fogs of Time, to place Another name upon the face Of our new country, Vineland; naught More fleeting passed. " But we have sought Full long, my guide, (his shadowy form Was Indian-like again), the storm 83 And tranquil beauty of this land. "What more hast thou at thy command?' "Behold!*' he cries, "the greatest, last: — Niagara!" What has e'er surpassed This sheet of waters tumbling down In volumes mighty; sounds that drown The voice, and sights that awe the mind ! A spirit seems to clasp and bind The seething waters in a curve Of whiteness; now and then they swerve. And rise and dash against the rocks, In awinl, deep-resounding shocks; But on, the mass, unending, pours, From Canada's to New York's shores; A cloth of silver, clasped and bound In one great harmony of sound; A moving light, a gliding glory. Dashed into foam, all spent and hoary, Below where mists in dimness rise To hide the end from mortal eyes. Then on, and on, it foams and dashes, In whirlpools, rapids, frets and splashes, Until broad Lake Ontario Absorbs its swift, perpetual flow. St. Lawrence, from our clear, green lakes A thirst unceasing daily slakes. In radiance blending song and sigh. The Frenchman's tale, the Indian's cry. The early "fathers' " toil and prayers, The early settlers' fears and cares. Beyond its farthest source they went; At last, worn-out, their strength all spent, The Mississippi's glorious stream Beguiled them with its flash and gleam. 84 Part V The Central Fiver The central river, binding all The East and West, where forests tall, Rich wheat and cornfields stretch to make A fruitful land. Its broad waves take The Northern waters; from the West It welcomes in a worthy guest. The swift Missouri, browTied and worn By sunny deserts dry and shorn Of trees, but rising in those mountains Where burst wild Nature's burning fountains, The geysers of the Yellowstone; And in its restless rush and moan. It cherishes a deep thought still Of those hot streams ; strange sounds that fill The mind with awe, and contemplation Of this far-spreading, wondrous nation. We have the mountains, high and cold, The cataracts and steep cliffs bold; Two oceans in their varying tide Watch o'er the country, rich and wide; Broad rivers, lakes as great as seas That stretch along our boundaries; And hearts that claim this as their land, Though hurrying winds, and ships, well-manned, From many countries brought their sires. Combined are all the smoldering fires; The chivalry of one land blent Deep with another's sweet content; The glow of Southlands, and the pale Cold light of Northlands; ne'er can fail A people with such mingled feeling. Such light from many lands revealing 85 A growing power; and rising ever Upon each new and pure endeavor That leads men on to truth and light. Takes all that's good, and leaves the night Of ages past. Is this a dream? I float upon the broadening stream And in the coming daylight see A nation grown in Hberty; Far out of prejudice withdrawn, Illumined by the radiant dawn Of peaceful days. The pale light-gold, And spreading saffron soft unfold Across the wide, pure, waking sky; A clear blue flashes from on high; The topmost trees are touched with light; While upward, in their airy flight, The night-mists roll, to bear away The guide who traced my wandering way. 86 THE JUNGFRAU (From Interlaken) Jungfrau, Spotless brow, Mantle white, Smoothest slope, Radiant with hope, Glorious sight. Peering out. Dispelling doubt. Awe-full at dawn, Dazzling fair *Mid earth and air. Outline clear-drawn. Mountains gray Guard the way, In the valley deep. Dark with trees, 0*er which one sees The snowy steep. Down that green vale It rises pale, Bride of the Day, Soaring above. As perfect love. Beauteous alway. 87 An Alpine rose When sunset glows In deepening fight; An edelweiss Against the skies Of darkening night. Snowy heights burning, Deep-tinted turning, TwiUght here, sunlight there, Vision so bright, Wondrously white, Through the clear air. 88 SUNRISE OFF CONSTANTINOPLE Clear dawn is shimmering on the wave, Pale day is breaking o*er the sea Broad Marmora's isles with light to lave. Where fast the gray mists flee. The Asian headlands far off rise, And up above the foam Of Bosphorus, against the skies, Each shining, snowy dome. Each minaret-point of sparlding gold 'Mid gardens green and fair, That all the wealth of tints enfold In shades deep, warm and rare. A stairway grand on either bank Of the winding Golden Horn — Palaces, mosques high, rank on rank. Jewels that might adorn A way to Allah's Orient throne; From emerald wave to turquoise crest Each step a shining, snowy stone. That no earthly feet have pressed; Set deep in lapis-lazuli blue, The pure sky tint of sparkhng beryl, 'Mid alabaster's transparent hue. And the tear-drop clouds of misty pearl. O Constantinople, the shrine of the East, Set high o'er its curved Horn of Gold, All breathless we bow at this rich color-feast, Before us like magic unrolled! 89 A MEMORY OF THE "IONIA'* "The Plain of Troy!" the captain said. We stood beside him on the bridge, And saw where many a Greek had led His w^arriors brave. Far off a ridge Of momitains rose against the blue; Between the slopes and restless sea Green grasses sparsely scattered grew Upon the level, far as we Could gaze; a few trees, where a stream Woimd from the hillside to the shore — With head on the ship's rail, let us dream Of Greece and Troy in days of yore. 90 MILAN CATHEDRAL Interior Down from the windows there falls in a flood, The royal radiance of purple light On the pavement of marble, in mosaic wrought, Falls from a glorious height, Far up 'mong the pillars that rise to the roof. So beautiful, airy and grand. Where the saints and the martyrs that guard this church, In their countless niches stand. All in the darkness that middle aisle; But down from the pulpit high The gilded bronze throws a brighter light, With odor of incense floating by; And behind the glitter, behind the sheen, Three windows shining rise. That glow with a thousand figures burnt. Three windows of wondrous size. As I look up at the shining throng It larger seems to grow. And all in a mist of roseate light To rise up from below. To float away in the rafters high, One glowing stream of Ught, To leave the dim church choir behind — 'Tis gone! Swift comes the night. 91 Exterior Forest of poplars turned to stone, Etched on a pale gold sunset sky; Far above them, pointed and lone, One statue of stone on its pedestal high; While from each slender poplar tree Ever turned to the Lombard Plain, Each figure gazes silently Through sunshine and through rain, Ever watching its spotless trust. Carved out of marble white. Standing against the golden sky All in the sunset Hght. 92 CAIRO STREETS Did you ever ride through Cairo streets On a donkey of queerest cHp? Past gay bazaars of rugs and shoes, The stately desert ship, With your httle steed's necklace jingling, His little legs shaved in hues, The donkey boy screaming and yelling At the long-robed Arab, who dines Before the door of his tiny shop. Or smokes his pipe in the way; At the women who stride with bending step, On their heads a jar or tray? He cries "Mushaus" and "Mina," He keeps an astonishing pace, And pokes his burro hard and fast As he joins in the long mad race. No matter how narrow and crowded the streets, No matter how sharp are the turns, We rush along in a wonderful way, For the youngest child soon learns How to live in the track, And not under the feet. His ears are sharp. His sandals are fleet. The clamor, the clatter, the hammer, the patter, 'Tis the funniest thing in the world To mount a donkey, then shout "kuUo," And through Cairo streets be whirled. 93 THE ROSE AND THE SAND Farewell to Cairo. A rose bent over a heap of sand, In the deHcate beauty of yellowish pink, And wondered where, in what far-off land Were such hard smooth crystals; and could not think Why she found theni spread in those sunlit halls, By the side of her slender flower vase. She bent down low to the shining balls, And wafted a breath from her fair sweet face O'er the sand that lay on the table there In a smooth and yellow mound, That a traveler had sought with care, (The grains that he gathered around The base of the pyramids, lofty and great. On the edge of the desert plain, O'erlooking the valley of orange and date, — Where the flood for months had lain. On the fertile fields, — ^to the city beyond Where the rose gardens flourish and bloom.) The sand had seen a palm tree's frond, But ne'er had it felt the perfume That was wafted so gently down over it then ; 'Twas the breath of the sweet and unknown, And it pondered and pondered, and wondered when Such a delicate flower was sown. 94 And the rose whispered low in the perfumed air, " I am the type of the Nile, Of the fertile Delta, the land so fair That stretches for many a mile." And the sand, shifting down in a gentle breeze, Answered, " I am the desert so wide That ever pursues as the valley flees And bounds it on every side." The rose and the sand I send to thee; May thy days be fair in the land. And think a little sometimes of me In this city of roses and sand. 95 THE SUN AND MOON IN EGYPT (Written on the road from the Pyramids to Cairo,) O golden moon that looks down on the Nile, The sandy desert hills in clearest light, The graceful palms that wave their slender fronds, The flooded fields all silent in the night ; You shine upon this broad and rippling sea That covers well the fertile land beneath, And isles of corn-fields just above the wave, Each stalk wrapped in its green and fluttering sheath. All things at rest in nature! Brightly o'er You gaze do^n on the pigmy people's haste, Who ride along upon their stately ships, On through the green trees to that yellow waste — The Desert of Sahara, rising up Above the fertile Delta of the Nile, Stretching afar to Western Afric' sands For many a long, and dry, and weary mile. Just where the fields so rich and desert meet. The oldest works of man look down on them, As if to show the end of blossoming. The dreary desert wastes that seem to hem Around about this greenest bit of life; They stand above with broken steps and rough. How did the old Kings raise those heavy stones? Where did they find a quarry large enough? Awe inspiring, towering up so high, Cold and unflinching, like the fates of old, Looking far off into the future land. Farther than all the ancient stories told; 96 But when the sun set in the distant West, We saw that promised land all glowing gold And brilhant red behind the desert sand; No more the pyramids looked stony cold, Only dark fingers, pointing clearly up, Engraved upon the glowing golden light, And happiness and hope and perfect peace Stole down upon us with the wondrous sight. All things were bright; even 'neath the level lake A golden column glowed with richest hue, Which the moon's shining ball had pointed out Far down where last year's harvest bloomed and grew. And this seemed but a promise of the next. The root from which the golden wheat will sprmg, A fairy gift that sailed down through the sky As lightly as the white gulls on the wing; 'Twas in the palace of the man who looks All night upon the earth with smiling face. And when he sees a coimtry that he loves To shine upon, he sends down to the race Such bits of brightness, that make all things fair, — The golden wheat and corn, and hanging fruit, The dates, bananas, yellow roses' hue, The cotton's bloom, the slender bamboo flute. You look so calm, benign, protecting, kind, O beautiful, round, shining, golden ball. Where'er I see your face, on every shore. You send a welcome to the travelers all. That makes the place a home, the world a friend; A face that changes not with climes and sands; You always speak a language clear and plain. We part, but soon to meet, in other lands. 97 STRINGS OF AMETHYSTS The Grecian isles, the purple mounts, That lie upon the crystal sea, Are strings of amethysts she counts, Athene, tall, and fair, and free. Each jewel means a legend told. Each isle a gem upon the chain Of myths and fancies, strung on gold Of sunset clouds along the main. 9S EGYPT The land of the rose and the jasmine. The land of the sand and the stone. The land of sweet-scented gardens, The land of the pyramids lone. THE OLD ICE WITCH Suggested by an old woman singing, with zither accompaniment, in the ice cavern of Grindelwald Glacier, and two children who sang outside. In a green ice cave, far, far away. An old witch lived for many a day In the "cold dark North;" and two children fair, With bright blue eyes, a beauteous pair. ' On harp strings, made of their golden hair. She played all day an echoing air, While they sang 'mong the rocks with voices sweet. As the httle snowbirds flew about their feet. The old witch sat in her cavern cold. Forever watching a pot of gold. Singing and playing an echoing air On the harp strings made of the children's hair. And the birds remembered the children's song; They carried the news for a distance long, To a city far down by a bright blue sea. And told the story, so strange, to me. 100 THE BEGINNING OF AUTUMN (A Memory of Geneva) I can never forget the picture Of a cluster of slender trees, Tiuned yellow and brown by the sunshine, — Some fallen leaves whirled by the breeze O'er the gray paving stones of a court and a road, At the top of a gentle hill, In the mellow shadows of a building old, — A spot so calm and still, That a nameless feeling of sorrow and joy, In the dry, leaf-scented air Made the whole world seem more sadly sweet, And strangely free from care. So we Ungered there in the sunshine, To watch the first leaves fall. Whirled about by an Autumn breeze, In the shade of an old stone wall. 101 JANUARY AND JUNE Suggested by the discovery that the January and June issues were missing in a package of old magazines. January and June are gone! Did they run away together, And join their ever wayward hands — Such different kinds of weather? Among the fair month-sisters They never were known to agree; So why should they have decided As friends and companions to flee? 'Tis wonderful beyond measure, And if, in the coming year, June is a trifle wintry, A trifle chilling and drear, Or New Year a trifle sultry And warm in the midst of the day. You will know that they went together And together have lost their way. 102 THE RHONE (Above Lake Geneva) Down the broad valley The swift torrent rushes, Ice cold from the glaciers It foams on the rocks, In whirlpools and deep holes It gm-gles and gushes, The thick walls and stone-work It laughs at, and mocks. Far up 'mong the snow peaks It trickled in slow drops From hundreds of glaciers, To gather in streams. That fell down headlong From the steep cliffs and hill-tops, Slid o'er the smooth slopes, Or hid in the deep seams. On, on, to the blue lake It turns and it tumbles, To be lost on that surface, So still, broad, and calm, But over the stones How it roars, and it grumbles Till it reaches Lake Leman, A smooth, calming balm. Soon lost in the fair lake, It flows past that green shore Most pictured and sung of In tale and in song; (It knocked on the dungeon 103 And many a hole wore In the wall that confined there Brave Bonnivard long.) For a time it flows calmly Past Vevey and Lausanne, The green banks of Schweiz, The steep hills of Savoy; But soon with its temper The swift-rushing, rough Rhone, Shoots out of the lake With a wild shout of joy. 104 SUNRISE ON PILATUS-EULM, LAKE LUCERNE On Pilate's crest we stand, and watch The first faint streaks of rosy Hght, Behind the hills and mountains green, That bring them clear-cut to our sight. The pink steals slowly 'round the sky, And through the air, superb and grand, Rise in their everlasting snow, The glories of the Oberland. Peaks upon peaks, and over all A chain of moxmtains purely white Against that roseate, wondrous shade; Lonely, inspirmg, awful sight! And beautiful, ethereal. Like pyramids of snow they stand, The Jungfrau, Monch and Wetterhorn, The highest in the Oberland. We watch the light steal down the slopes; It turns the bluish shade to white, While black the farther sides become; And looking onward to the right. The bluish shade still lingers there, On peaks that still in twilight stand, That know not yet the glorious gleam Of daybreak tinting all the land. And in the East the red ball climbs 0*er Rigi*s green and wooded crest, To drive the silver moon away, And mom' star to the distant West. 105 Next from the valleys deep arise The mists, mysterious, dim and gray, That creep up to the mountains high As if to hide their peaks away From those who dare to gaze upon Such beauty, silent, awful, grand; To linger at that lofty shrine: The snow peaks of the Oberland. 106 RECOLLECTION Yes, sweetest happiness is recollection! For in it every joy is oft repeated, And all the sorrows melt into a cloud, To hasten o'er the dim horizon line. All that is fair, each word, each thought Remains, to cheer us on to newest enterprise. The sights are best that were seen yesterday. Touched by the rosy lips of Memory. Come then and tell me of the joyful Past, And after all is well thought-on, well-sung, Let's seek again new treasures for our minds To hold, and weave into an endless chain Of happiness, that fair and sweet may grow With blooming flowers, till all the mind and soul Are deep embalmed in earth's rich harmonies. 107 ISLE OF CAPRI— BAY OF NAPLES The snowy gull over the blue sea ghdes In the shadow of Capri's rocky sides, Where the water is deepest of indigo blues ; And far, farther down 'mong the clearest of hues And shades of the color, all gleaming and white, The shells of the ocean-bed shine in the hght. Through a low rocky arch the old boatman rowed in To a cavern, far bluer and brighter within; A sheen and a shimmer on the clear water shone, A ghtter and ghmmer, reflected alone Thro* the small rounded entrance that leads to the world. By which the clear water from turquoise is pearled In the deep fairy cavern low murmurings rang; Come, list to the song that the cave fairies sang : Up from the ocean bed. Light as the foam Rose a bright sea nymph one day, Thinking, 'tis said, Ever to roam 'Roimd the steep islands of fair Naples' bay. Into this grotto blue 'Neath the clear ocean's wave, GUded the sea nymph so bright; Never in water's hue Had she seen such a cave. Resting within^from her long weary flight. 108 Charmed by our lovely home, Under its spell, She joins her song with us now. Begging you not to roam More in the field or dell; Come, for a day, 'neath the green nioun- tain's brow! Joy is eternal here. All our world's bright. Listen! O list to our song! Never know we a fear, Playing in bluest light. Come, Uve with us, live with us long ! Ah ! the sea fairies' song was enticing and clear, And we longed to float ever, and ever to hear The low murmur of waves and the tales that they told; But the old boatman's heart was so stony and cold That he rowed us away, until all we could see Was a Kttle dark hole, where the fairies are|free. 109 VENETIAN FANCIES (Suggested by a tiny silver gondola.) Here is a tiny silver boat That has touched the Venetian shore — Those anchored isles that gently float Without a sail or oar. How strangely with a shifting motion The gondolas s\viftly ghde O'er the drifting streets of the dark blue ocean. Scarce moved by the gentle tide! How softly glows the white moonshine On the city's marble face ! A pale and shimmering, sparkling line Along the waves I trace; It comes to meet the slender boat Across the rippling water. What joy to be fore'er afloat! What joy to pause, to loiter Beneath some stately rounded dome. Dark 'gainst the bright moonhght; Never, nevermore to roam. Never to leave this night ! A voice fills all the moonlit space, A man's voice true and clear. With liquid tones and careless grace — The voice of a gondoher. 110 The music boat is moving past. Come, let us follow, fly! Our boats are motionless and cast Black figures on the sky — Quaint, graceful prow of shining steel, And hull of gloomy black, A pointed, carved and slender keel; The gondolier, with back Bent sHghtly on the single oar — When, at a short command. The barks shoot forth and gently soar, Moved by each strong, lithe hand. Again are the boatmen in motion With a swinging, wonderful bend. Again do we gHde o'er the ocean. The songs, far distant, lend Enchantment, soft, mysterious, sweet. Look up at the palace walls! Look up at the carvings that ever meet In graceful arches, where falls The moonshine, making them purely white! Was ever a dream more fair? Let us follow the shimmering road of light, Follow, follow, and ne'er Float away from this fairy scene Where sights are worldly never! The airy gondolas stand between The sea and the sky forever. Ill The music boat is floating past. Pursue, pursue, my boat! May the witching moonhght last, May we ever gently float Down this street, the most enchanting. Paved by the silvered moon; The shadows grow deeply slanting, We must leave the broad lagoon ; And the Palaces wrought by fairy hands, Those Palaces golden and white, — Among the nights in many lands The fairest is your night ! 11« AN ANSWER You think a poet ne'er should cease The murmur of an endless song, His every thought for you release, If it be light or long. Can streams forever laugh among The stones and waving grass? Sometimes their song cannot be sung To those who, listening, pass; Sometimes the winter freezes light Their heart-strings' eager beat; Sometimes the sun is far too bright, Too strong the summer's heat. And oft comes steaUng into life Some change by harsh winds brought, There sometimes comes an inward strife To dull and crush the thought, To bear away the melody. Or turn an image cold, And that wild careless fantasy Is never told. lis UNDER THE APPLE TREES Sweet and fresh is the southern breeze Under the low-hung apple trees; Green is the grass For those who pass, Under the apple trees. Gnarled and brown are the branches old, But robes of leaves their trunks enfold; All is so fair, Lingering there. Under the apple trees. Shadows and lights that dance and play With the golden-rod beside the way; Meadow all bright, Then the fading light. Under the apple trees. OutHnes uncertain, and gray and dim, No one can tell which is leaf or limb; Witching times these In the southern breeze, Under the apple trees. 114 THE PEARL AND THE SHELL Out of the sky rose a sea-shell, Deep pink at its narrow base, On distant, faint wings paling To films of snowy lace. A pearl in its heart lay glowing; That shone all silvery white In the depths of its delicate tinting, A disk of purest light. Then all but the jewel vanished, Dissolving, dispersing soon; For the shell was a cloud at sunset. The pearl is the shining moon. 115 THE SMALL HORSE-CHESTNUT TREE 'Tis best that they should cut you down, A small horse-chestnut 'mong the forest trees. Here is the woodman's mark — one deep", rough frown That mars smooth bark. He is the one that frees Each Hfe of oak, or elm, or maple trunk. What life is all around! And here the deep-brown leaves are torn and shrunk. From which, without a sound, The life has fled; that lie upon the earth. To rest in withered heaps Beneath this tree, whose slender girth Will soon be circled. How the sunshine creeps Across the grass! iVnd this will soon grow o'er The spot on which the trunk shall fall; In floods about it will the sunshine pour, To warm and strengthen all. 'Tis not alone that we should live and die In selfish personality; the way In which we add to this great world of life is why We come here; that some day, The leaves we scatter ere we are cut down Flying afar may take some thought or deed To hving heart; or smooth a wayward frown By some act, slow-grown, from deep-fallen seed. Then let the sunshine glow w^hen we are gone; Then let the freshest flowers bloom fairer still; Perhaps we added one bright spot — ^just one — • Upon the grass-grown fields of life's green hill. 116 WILD GRAPE BLOSSOMS Did you ever ride in June through a wood, When an odor made you wonder if it could Be the air that you were breathing, just the air. Heavy-scented with rich sweetness everywhere; Giving forth a gracious perfume, fresh and soft, Winging down from every leaf -roof up aloft, Where the wild grape loves to curl, and climb, and cling. Endless tendrils, creeping, 'round each branch to fling? Just an odor like some song the fairies know. Just the faintest breath that ever wind did blow, Just the whisper of a thought too fair to be. Just the blending of the ripples on the sea; These, all these, like scattered pictures come and When the wild grapes strew their bounty high and low, Unseen blossoms breathing peacefulness and rest; Odors far too faint and subtle to suggest. 11 THE ICE QUEEN'S JEWELS Bejeweled, bedecked is the garden fair Which, at sunset, reared its bushes bare; For the ice queen came, and in darkness cased Each branch in a frozen coat, and laced A network of ice threads in and out, CircUng the fruit trees all about W^ith a diamond coat. How each small twig shines ! The fences stretch in sharp, shining Unes! Now as the day begins to dawn, And the garden shines dim in the pale light wan. She drops her necklace, a shower of pearls. That the north wind catches, and whirls and whirls, 'Till the jewels lie scattered all over the grass. As night o'er the west hill seems to pass. It leaves the morn so stern and cold This pure ice wonder to behold. 118 TO A BABY PICTURE Little girl up in the picture frame, Is it true that I once was you, With curling black hair, and a baby name? Little girl, you never grew; But the tiny white dress, with embroidery bound, Is as fresh as on that day When they painted your cheeks, so rosy and round, Your eyes that they said were gray. Your good-luck coin hangs from its chain, Upon it a French king's head, — Unused, it long in a drawer has lain. But into good-luck has the baby led. Baby, baby, with laughing eyes. Do you think I was ever you? Open your lips in glad surprise And tell me it is true. 119 TO A ROSE Fairest of earthly possessions, Sweetest, most delicate one, Flower for tender confessions; Be you of gold, as the sun, Crimson as bright clouds at sunset, Pale as the dawn's coming light, Heavy, with cool morning dew wet, Touched by the breezes of night; Pure as the drift-snow of winter, Glowing as summer's bright sun. Sunshine, that wonderful tinter, Made you the fairest, sweet one. UO SPRING FLOWERS Smooth white petals around the hem, Within, a small red frill, Little green buttons to hold the stem; This is the gay jonquil. The daffodil hides in a yellow bell, But she waves her arms to the breeze; She has many secrets, deep, to tell Of the flowers whose coming she sees. Anemones, so delicate and fair, The flowers of the wind and gentle rain, You come with spring's first warm, inviting air. To sprinkle blossoms o'er the grass again. Deep blue bunches nestling down, Hiding each modest head Under the leaves, from April's frown, Violets bloom in a mossy bed. Shining gold in the soft green grass. The buttercups are here; They glitter and laugh with all who pass. They have lost a spring flower's fear. I thought the snow had come back today On the plum trees all abloom. Until from the breath of each pure white spray Stole a delicate, faint perfume. The grass is high beneath the trees That cast cool shadows so broad and dark, 1^21 The lilac blooms in a southern breeze Toss to and fro; a last bright spark Is lingering on the burning bush; The jonquils white, in long rows Beside the path, bend over and push Their neighbors, as the wind blows. The quince tree blossoms of pink I see, Fairer the apple with faint perfume; As the poet said, the soul of the tree Has come forth in its fair and delicate bloom. Great dogwood flowers of purest white. Apart from all wild blooms you seem — A cold, mysterious, Alpine height Above green hill and stream. As the train sped on 'mid woods and fields To the city noisy and great, Through the door a fragrance the crab tree yields Made us long to linger, to wait Beside the winding quiet stream, Where pink blooms fill the air With perfumes that the sweetest seem Among wild blossoms fair. The dark brown calycanthus. With its scent of strawberries fresh, Is like some quiet, gentle face That hides a golden mesh Of thoughts so rare and charming, A mind so pure and fair That you dreamt not of its wonder 122 'Till it crept in unaware; For when you have folded it closer Its breath waxes sweeter to last Long after the flower is faded, Its freshness a thought of the past; And often a perfume steals toward you When the blossom hides shyly away, As the deeds of good fairies on earth Hidden well from the curious day. Scarlet honeysuckle. Trumpet delicate and bright, Lined with golden pollen, Where the humming bird so light Poised, in mid-air, sipping Honey, hiding at the base, Flits round each slender blossom With a swift and airy grace. Waxlike, heavily-scented flowers Close to the old white fence. Breath of the drowsy summer hours. Stately Syringa; the warm days commence. As I wandered through the garden I met a cornflower gay; He stood erect and slender. While his loose hair blew this way And that, in the southern breezes That came from over the hill. Kissing the tiny rosebuds; The birds began to trill That summer was coming, was coming. That the cherries would soon be red. That the bees had commenced their humming By the sweetest blossoms led. 123 DAISIICS Wnviiii^ p;irrii p;niNH Ovrr llir liill. Soft wiiulH tininniiriii^ Nrvrr (jiiilf mHII; ( inhlrii ryvi\ diiiHirH Wniriii^^ wliilr crowim, ( inirrrnl iiiid diiiiily . I''nr fnHii I lir Iowiin. SmMrii, Mwrrl liiippiiiONH SIchIh not 1^»il; 'Mm- ^rnil woiM'm workHliop im**«m' luiv«* Imowii, I^'roiii IroiiMi- lr«*r, from run*, limnoi), My lilV i;i nil my own. WIml hImiII I <|<) willi llic pnnonh ^ifl? I muMi wiili- il, rlnii iinooK I nnir;! nplift, My lif*-. Ilnil it Mlinm<- not lli«- not, writ In tJint fiiit hool'., I will imM No ^oor«'m-iv«- itM f/Ji-.t^nm^ ;ili«<* Iw K«ron l.lij.i lliip;, intUiiUui To 1.h<* yu'/^' of i.\n' romm|/ n. mikii, h'fti ilioM* wIk* ;',<«in not to ■« « TIm' f><:iuit.iful fill iiroimd In every day sights; to free One song of one sad sound; Onemind of one sad thought One day from pain deep-wrought One soul from dark despair 126 THE VOICE OF NATURE How clear upon the quiet evening air Fall sounds of Nature's children from above, On leafy boughs, or o'er the white fields fair. Where speak all hving things of Nature's love. The wild birds twitter in the green lace-work That holds all life withm its meshes soft; Here squirrels chatter, there the insects lurk; Then all is silent, 'till, from far aloft, There comes a concert, blending in a song From strong, untutored throats. 'Tis Nature's cry. More glad, more sad than all those that belong To greater songsters, though I know not why. For has a bird a thought — a soul? Ah, no! *Tis Nature singing in each little throat, And as we nearer to true Nature go More thrilling is the song, more true the note To move our hearts; to give to us the peace That steals down gently as the lengthening rays Stretch o'er the grass when noisy labors cease, And all the restfulness of summer days: The fields, the flowers, the trees that soft lights find, The waving branch, the slender quivering blade Of grass, imprint upon the influenced mind A glory that will never pale nor fade. 127 SKY AND SUNSHINE A break in the clouds, — The blue, blue sky, — And a wild North wind That whistles by! A quick glad joy In the sparkling light, In the blue above And the dark cloud's flight! A thought that has made One more bright space. That f utiu*e clouds Can never erase! If6 FROST FLOWERS Tiny white frost flowers glinting, Late in spring, upon the grass Jack Frost left, in airy printing, As one night he chanced to pass. "Ah," he cried, " you say the garden Far more beauteous doth shine. Fray, just let me ask your pardon As I say more fair is mine. **For those blossoms on the tree boughs Droop at last, to fade and fall. Little time the earth allows To hide and bury all. **But my frost flowers in the simshine. With one flash of sparkling joy, I«ave no trace to make us pine For the earth and its alloy, "Leap into the air above them. Join that clear, ethereal sphere, Far from bournes that closely hem; Shed but one great tear *For the world's terrestrial beauties — Then the tear is lost in air; Free from earth's successive duties My flowers need no thought nor care." 120 ON SEEING A FLOCK OF WILD DUCKS FLY OVERHEAD A flash of blue and silver Against the azure sky, — A flock of swift-winged wild ducks Fly like an arrow by. Their heads together pointed, To the Eastward move the wings, Full extended to the breezes, Close, compact, the whole flock clings. Off into the misty blueness They are gone, a passing thought; But the flash of blue and silver In a memory is wrought. lio A DROWSY AFTERNOON What can the wind be saying, As whispering, slipping down, With cornstalks lightly playing, He glides through the sleepy town That the summer sun so drowsy made; He hears no answering sound, He creeps along, almost half-afraid Of the stillness all around; But his footsteps the insects have waked, His breath has shaken the leaves. And softly the lawn has been raked By his fingers . The bright sun grieves ; And withdraws the golden glory From lawn and garden green. But the wind sings on his story In shadow or sunhght sheen. 181 HEIDELBERG The broad low window all in light, The garden dim and dark, Some students, singing through the night, And echoing music from the park; The wooded hill beyond, a wall Of blackness, where one ray From lofty heights its light lets fall — A glittering star, astray. Morning! There is the castle old, That gray, majestic pile. Last night deep-hid in shadowy fold Of evening's mantle, all the while. Up by the winding, shady path Above the Neckar's stream; What charm this ancient woodland hath, A mediseval dream! " The moat is deep, the tower high, The walls are still upright, But enter, Ladye, pass not by. At the castle gate waits a faithful knight. Come through the great watch-tower. With coat-of-arms o'er the gate. Fit emblem of the feudal power In a mighty and olden state. This Gothic wing was Ruprechtsbau, In fourteen hundred called to rule The Roman Empire on the brow Of a Rhenish hill, the Konigstuhl. Now, crossing the level road again. Pause at this ancient well a time, Upheld by columns that Charlemagne Once placed in his palace at Ingelheim. 13d Still glorious stand the inner walls, Which emperors' statues and saints' adorn; On their stony heads the sun's rays fall Unbidden; no beggar more forlorn." "Interminable seem these winding ways Sir Knight, half -ruined, and half -walled in, Faint traces of halls in better days, And many shadowy rooms therein." "Come to the balcony, stranger fair; In this turret rest, look down At the clustered houses below us, where Is passing the life of a modern town; While the octagon tower above us stands. Clasping young ivy, a century old;" "Sir Ejaight!" the ladye held up her hands, "Sir Knight! young ivy!" His brow grew cold. "Come back to the court," he grimly said. They passed through an archway low. And stood, where the knight had swiftly led. In the sun's last, fading glow, Before a lofty facade, where placed In niches, many and high, A line of statues the spaces graced. Of princes whose thrones in dust now lie. "My niche is there," the knight bent low, "Farewell, 'tis my only day In the century." Wan his face did grow, Cold his eyes; his hair was gray. "Farewell!" The ladye, trembling, turned; Then upward gazed from the courtyard lone — The sun's last, lingering brightness burned High, over a knightly form of stone. 133 ALEXANDRIA {Egypt) Beyond the sea there rises A stretch of yellow sand — One of those swift surprises. The first faint sight of land. No mountains towering upward, No bleak cliffs on the shore. But only a desert landward, And the delta's field-decked floor; Only a modern city Despoiled of her ancient fame, Once, seat of the brave and witty, Glorious was her name; Built in a sunny comer Where desert and delta meet, The wealth of the Nile to adorn her Was laid at her proud white feet; And scholars, great Ptolemy seeking, Set sail for that distant shore Where the rulers in Greek tongue were speaking, Who had opened the land's long-closed door. From all countries these kings sought to bor- row Much valued, historical pages. Which to the world's infinite sorrow Are lost for enquiring ages. The greatest books Ptolemy treasured, To the owners sent copies well-penned. With a sum of gold, carefully measured. That complaints they might never dare send. 134 The volumes by thousands were numbered. With worth far too great to be known. When eleven Greek Ptolemies slumbered To a wonder world-wide they had grown. Cleopatra, not least of your mad wiles, In result, was conceived, on that day When Caesar, urged on by your false smiles, Burned your brother's armed fleet in the bay. Twas war time: the red galleys floated To the shore, the hot fire soon spread — All was lost of the library noted, On the world's riches fast the flames fed. From your granaries you squandered the corn- wealth. From your people you taxed the last breath, Not for buildings, for army, for truth, health, But a song and a dance to the death. Tis not your mad life that we most mourn, Nor the heroes whose cards you did play. But peasants, poor, half -clothed, forlorn. And armies you turned in a day. The face of the conflict was oft changed, To Asia, to Rome, and to Greece, Your influence o'er the wide seas ranged. In the end, only death brought you peace. We wander through narrow, bright highways — They say 'tis Mahomet's birthday — Down crowded and noisy, dark byways, O'ershadowed by broad awnings gay; In the midst, Pompey's pillar, the only Tall monument left on the sand: Thoughtless present, and gray past so lonely That blend at the gates of the land. IS6 SUNSET ON THE COLUMBIA RIVER (Oregon) Sunset on broad Columbia! Burnished gold Reflected from the sky's deep-lighted edge, Which mountains, bluest of the blue, enfold. Above the green-banked river — one long ledge Of deepest turquoise 'neath the amber sky; The stream another sky, smooth-glazed below; Between, four giant snow-peaks, clear and high, Their huge forms on the sea of color throw. Saint Helen's stands, in snowy mantle dressed, A gorgeous, marble, scintillating dome. Where rosy light her outUne has impressed — A perfect wave of sunset-tinted foam — From base to summit rising o'er the range. Not even her white foot hidden by the hills, A vision beautiful, and new, and strange. That all the waving sheen with glory fills. And then Mount Rainier, peering o'er the heights, To view Columbia flowing broadly by. Though distant, clearly seen on such June nights. Its double point all whitely clad and high. Mount Adams, too, is far away, its peaks Standing as crystal on the golden sky; Not glorious, but purely white, it seeks Each color-loving, moimtain-loving eye. Moimt Jefferson, the pyramid, called, "Hail!" To Mount Hood's peak, suffused in rosy Hght, Until the sky tints growing faint and pale. Mount Hood, a phantom, rose up in the night; Glorious in simhght, delicate in shade, 136 A dream of radiance, spirit of the night, Whose beauties ever change, but never fade — The subtle, wondrous, gracious power of light. TO PIKE'S PEAK Giant of the pleasing valleys. Sentinel of the boundless plain, Clear-cut on a sky of azure. Drawing o*er it clouds and rain; Broad, majestic, red, and barren. Boulder-strewn above the pines. Cherishing the fairest blossoms In its hard and rugged Unes ! Peak of grandeur! Peak of beauty ! Found a century since by Pike; Rearing high its rocky headland. Seeming misty clouds to strike; Beckoning to the snow and rain-drops, Clasping close each flower bright, 'Till, straight looking towards the "Far West," Pike's Peak bids the sun, "Good Night." 137 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS ililiillil" 018 360 175 1