PS 3507 
 1898 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Chap. Copyright Xo 
 
 . /^? 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
/' 
 
MOTHER AND OTHERS. 
 
 POEMS BY 
 
 WILFRID J. DORWARD. 
 
 WITH NUMEROUS HALF-TONES FROM THE 
 AUTHOR'S PHOTOGRAPHS. 
 
 THE SENTINEL CO., 
 Milwaukee. 
 
f 
 
 
 ^0554 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1898, 
 
 By Wilfrid J. Dorward, 
 
 In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. D. C. 
 
 (( pro 1. n 0' -.'■. 
 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Pag-e. 
 
 Prelude, ............ 7 
 
 To a Brave Spirit Still in the Flesh 8 
 
 A Ward of the Legion of Honor, ....... 9 
 
 Truce, ............ 10 
 
 Maker to Her Highness, ......... 12 
 
 Wearing of the Green, ........ 14 
 
 Song of the Pink Cocoon, ........ 14 
 
 Children of the Desolate, 19 
 
 The Black Frost, ......... 22 
 
 The European Turkey and Bantam, ...... 24 
 
 When Echo Mocks, .......... 25 
 
 Life's Discontent, .......... 26 
 
 From the Poet's Community Blotter, ...... 27 
 
 Our Picnic Place. .......... 28 
 
 Co-operation, ........... 29 
 
 The Ghost Flower, ......... 30 
 
 Beyond Logic, ........... 31 
 
 Juda Dispersed, .......... 31 
 
 Only When Dead, . . • 38 
 
 To the Memory of D. M. C, 40 
 
 The Immortal Dream, ........ 44 
 
 Self Control, .......... 45 
 
 The Newer Chivalry, ......... 46 
 
 Story of the Hab 47 
 
 My Sweethearts, .......... 66 
 
 The Street Urchin 68 
 
 My Very Dearest Friend, ........ 6g 
 
 A Fancy of the Night, ....... 70 
 
 To 71 
 
 The Librarian, .......... 72 
 
 A Refusal, 73 
 
 Rainy Days, ........... 74 
 
 Why, 75 
 
 Insect Voices, ........... 76 
 
 Mother ; A Poem, 77 
 
INDEX TO ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 See Pafje. 
 
 I. 
 2. 
 
 3. 
 4- 
 5- 
 6. 
 
 7- 
 8. 
 
 g. 
 
 lo. 
 II. 
 
 Frontispiece, 
 
 That Sweet, Gentle Princess, 
 
 A City and a Stream," 
 
 Dark Assunta, " 
 
 Silvia," .... 
 
 A Lattice Screen of Trees," 
 The Ghost B'lowers, 
 D. M. C , 
 
 "I Hear it. Mamma," 
 "The Cross, a Marble Prayer," 
 " White dreams of mimic palace walls. 
 And miracles of glass and iron halls,' 
 " Clasping Baby Hands Together," . 
 
 '3 
 14 
 15 
 17 
 28 
 30 
 40 
 79 
 83 
 
 S7 
 
PRELUDE. 
 
 Fin-de-siecle song! who has the time 
 
 To hnger o'er the crumbs that idly fall 
 
 From strangely varied feast, these hundred years? 
 
 Incense to Beauty, stirring Battle call, 
 
 Voices of Love and Grief, in rarest rhyme — 
 
 All this your portion. Myriads are my peers; 
 
 Enthusiasm great I have not; neither I 
 
 Incite o'er much to laughter, or to tears. 
 
 Perhaps, indeed, I merit but your sneers. 
 
 Yet who, on sighting flame. 
 
 For very shame 
 
 Not tell? 
 
 Who, when the bell, 
 
 Sends forth on vibrant air 
 
 A warning or a prayer, 
 ■ Will not " 
 
 Instant declare: — 
 
 "Hear that faint knell?" 
 
 When bends prismatic bow 
 
 O'er the retreating storm, 
 
 Gladly to all sign: — "Lo 
 
 Fair weather doth return!" 
 
 Sighting the freighted barque 
 
 As comes the dark, 
 
 Speak those wlio wait despondent: — 
 • "With the lark 
 
 She anchors in the bay; 
 
 Wait thou 'till day?" 
 
 Though I no treasure bring. 
 
8 
 
 Spare me that witless fling: — 
 
 "Fly, lacking wing!'' 
 
 Critic, myself will try this thing ;- 
 
 Why think it wrong? 
 
 I prove but the old song — 
 
 "Few of the few can sing.'' 
 
 TO A BRAVE SPIRIT STILL IN THE FLESH. 
 
 (After Reading Warner's "Golden House-") 
 
 What dost thou here imprisoned in clay? 
 The Immortals all long since have grown 
 Glorious; some stand in heaven, they say. 
 Some here — mere efiSgies in stone. 
 
 Brave Spirit! who for man's sake, yea 
 
 For my sake, mercy's sake, stay on, 
 
 Whose frail hands all along the way. 
 
 Have strengthened those whose strength was gone, 
 
 I hail thee, Mortal! Canst thou see 
 
 That Love's a Mirage, Life a Breath? 
 
 Thou canst? — Then shouldst thou immortal be 
 
 On either side the gates of Death. 
 
 — The Glen, '96. 
 
A WAUD OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 
 
 Seven times stricken on the field! 
 In one campaign? yes, one battle; 
 Scarce recovered, under shield. 
 Toiling, — not for praise or chattel — 
 Fighting, spurning, buffeting. 
 Sorrow's Twin, through time, eternal. 
 Brood of ignorance, want, and sin. 
 That each }ear, autumnal, vernal, 
 Swift in tumult, slow in calm. 
 Sends ten millions into silence! 
 Give, O! gilead, of thy balm, 
 — This no war of ruthless violence! — • 
 Sons Off plenty, "lulled by peace," 
 Give of both, her hands to strengthen; 
 Crearar! may thy tribe increase. 
 Let the glorious roll-call lengthen; 
 Dead? — then clasp her sister's hand; 
 What is death — she's used to dying; 
 In the sable ranks she'll stand, 
 'Till cut down, with colors flying! 
 
 — Feb. 1897. 
 
lO 
 TRUCE. 
 
 Within the silent, long, cool ward. 
 With fevering pnlse and eyes like stars, 
 His brain, with many fancies stored. 
 Is rambling back among his wars. 
 
 "No merrier song than bugle call! — 
 No trustier servant than a horse! — 
 No blither whistle than a ball! — 
 — When't passes harmless by, of course — 
 
 "Who said he frowned on honest toil? 
 — He'd raided many a fanner's bin ; 
 Or thought, forsooth, he spurned the soil? 
 ■ — 'Twas good to bury dead men in! 
 
 "He loved to smell the pow^der burn! 
 'Twas manly, striving, men with men ! 
 He toiled his stint, he slept his turn. 
 He noticed that some fell; — but then 
 
 "Men live to die; — the foe — he too; 
 To drink, to sing, perchance to wed. 
 Death was his trade; his fate, he knew; 
 But surely not to die in bed — 
 
 "Bed was for those who needed rest; 
 Got rested, and so rose again 
 Refreshed and strong; yes, in his breast 
 The scheme's all there; — but where — but when- 
 
 "His steed has turned into a ship! 
 Treason! her sails are flags of triiee! 
 Tlie farmer's flail gives him a clip — ■ . 
 
 Oh! God — you choke me — ah! — I'm loose — " 
 
1 1 
 
 A nurse glides, noiseless, to his side, 
 A calming draught holds to his lips, 
 There's nothing else; — he's on the tide 
 That naught can stem; — sight, feeling, slips — 
 
 The pulses mount, the life-warmth fails, 
 The doctor's skill can do no more; 
 Tlie relentless beating of Time's flails. 
 Has riven the last sheaf on the floor. 
 
 The doctor signs, the nurse obeys. 
 And screens the sight from other eyes. 
 Ere those bright windows film and glaze. 
 Ere that faint hectic swoons and dies. 
 
 Many thy years, and oft thy use. 
 Thou battered, dingy, white-gray screen! 
 Curtaining life's "I win — I lose — " 
 .Still gliding Death and Life between. 
 
 Like fluttered rag upon the walls 
 Quells the besieger's shot and shell. 
 Thy signal hushes the hushed halls; 
 Nurses and patients know it well. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Cover the fire: — the darkness falls. 
 Limber the guns; — the city's ta'en. 
 The parting gleam that night recalls — 
 Debars, vet tempts to work again — 
 
 Flickers a moment behind the screen 
 — A wreath of smoke, a mist of rain 
 Glided by gentle hands between — 
 Of the flag, that signals, "Ceased is pain.'' 
 
 —Tub Glen, March 14, 1897. 
 
12 
 
 "MAKER TO HER HIGHNESS. 
 
 (A Real Incident.) 
 
 In a sumptuous suite in London, 
 Well upon the route to honor, 
 High upon the road to favor. 
 Having dined and read the "Nation," 
 Big-Bug "slumbered in his armchair, 
 Many like him slumbered likewise." 
 
 In a little room in London, 
 In a tenement much larger. 
 Bread and tea — most' tea — for supper. 
 Sat a graceful girl of twenty. 
 Eighteen hours she's smiled to order, 
 Now the tears could come unbidden; 
 Eighteen hours she'd handled velvet. 
 Now she looks upon the threadbare; 
 Tastes the bitter; feels the hardness. 
 
 Ah! the biting teeth of hunger, 
 Cold, and heat, and gathering sickness, 
 Waiting on the well, the wealthy. 
 Feigning smiles and step elastic, 
 Doomed to pain and self-repression: 
 And for eighteen hours of labor. 
 But eight shillings at the week's end; 
 This for lodsins:, food, and clothing! 
 
 "Witlh acknawledgmente to 'Dinah Mu'Jock Craik in Murray's Magazine. 
 
■THAT SWEET, GENTLE PRINCESS.' 
 
 (U. K. H. AKx.iii.li.i, l'riiKi-> ,,f Wales.) 
 
Whither flies the young crushed spirit 
 Freed from toil for sleep or recess? 
 Let me whisper and I'll tell you. 
 Two escapes that hound and haunt her, 
 — Shuddering, ghastly, kin to madness, 
 Driven out, returning, beckoning, — 
 Sometimes 'tis the streets — dishonor. 
 Other times the morgue — the churchyard. 
 
 Who could guess it, who believe it? 
 Pretty, graceful, girl of twenty! 
 Why, the very silks and satins, 
 Plushes, laces, that she handles, 
 These alone belie the story; 
 Why, the shop has royal patrons! 
 This indeed proves it a fiction. 
 
 Strange, that fact should oft have proven. 
 Stranger yet than tale of traveler; 
 For the elegant plush mantle, 
 She so swiftly, deftly fashioned, 
 — Fit to grace a Princess' person — 
 Jl'as iinh'cd for royal shoulders! 
 Think! if that sweet, gentle Princess, 
 • — She, the mother of young daughters — 
 Had but known this simple story. 
 Could but guess its deepest import, 
 Less perhaps the textile beauty. 
 Losing — yet to gain distinction. 
 By remembrance of a mercy. 
 By meml)rance of a jiislico. 
 To the slender hands that wrought it. 
 
 — iMarch 15, 1897. 
 
14 
 
 THE WEARING OF THE GREEN. 
 
 One of the primal three, so science now declares, 
 Worn by each shrub and tree, and light the emerald shares, 
 Ah! that United! Free! Isle of the Patriot's prayers, 
 Whose flag that color wears! 
 
 I've loved the yellow sheen; but the leaf, yellowed, falls; 
 Golden thy flag has been; — yellow dyed red, appalls; — 
 O! Great and Gracious Queen, grant us the vernal green 
 Aloft o'er Tara's Halls! ~ 
 
 — The Glen, March 17, 1897. 
 
 SONG or THE PINK COCOON.* 
 
 (J 'alley of the Arno, near Florence-) 
 
 Quite within a morning's stroll 
 Of a city and a stream, 
 Linked forever in the soul 
 With a Dreamer and his Dream; 
 Bird-like, nested 'mid the trees 
 Taking — as who should not? — toll 
 From the tourist, from the bees, 
 Planting, tilling, as you please 
 In the valley, on the slopes 
 Olive, mulberry, and vine; 
 Silvio! thy life's like wine! 
 'Pon my life, I envy thine. 
 So, I sing, the while you ply 
 'Neath a matchless Tuscan sky 
 A cjuaint, ancient industry. 
 
 *With acknowledgments to Janet Ross in .Macmillan's Magazine. 
 
"A CITY AND A STREAM. 
 
 
 
■DARK ASSUNTA 
 
15 
 
 Industry! some find tliee hard; 
 (More a curse than a reward) 
 Thou, and I, no grievance claim, 
 Light and pleasant is the task 
 In the Baclwia's smiles to bask. 
 Taste her glowing lips' pure flame — 
 With her pink and golden threads 
 Twine the silken threads of rhyme, 
 In a silken zephyred clime. 
 
 Industry! may time defend! 
 All the dowry of the girls, 
 Dark Assunta's string of pearls 
 Festive dress — on thee depend. 
 Skill and time are freely given, 
 For the rest, they trust in heaven; 
 For with all man's industry 
 Everything depends on thine. 
 Spinner of the silken threads; 
 Of the threads so strong and fine. 
 
 'Tis the birthday of Saint Mark 
 
 Dav propitious; with the lark 
 
 Send aloft thy matin song, 
 
 ((dadness makes the heart grow strong) 
 
 Then commence a service long; 
 
 Longer than the fast of Lent: 
 
 And if it be illy spent 
 
 Full a twelve-month thou'll repent. 
 
 {Data follovvrs there — anent) 
 
 Dull at first: — thou breedest worms. 
 Hatch them out in countless swarms; 
 Hatch them from those precious eggs, 
 (Kept four days at fever heat) 
 Give them tender leaves to eat: 
 Keep their nursery clean and sweet. 
 
i6 
 
 By the ounce the eggs are sold; 
 
 — Prime Cortona's soaked in wine 
 
 Are worth half their weight in gold — 
 
 But they come from many a clime; 
 
 From Australia, from Japan, 
 
 — Monstrous ones from Turkestan — 
 
 Every one of some repute, 
 
 And a subject of dispute; 
 
 Fancied now, or once had been — 
 
 Various, to fill varying need: — 
 
 Most prefer the rosy sheen 
 
 Of the cocoons, — plump and clean — 
 
 From Cortona's famous breed. 
 
 Day and night they grow and eat — 
 
 Tended still with tireless feet. 
 
 For thou feed'st them sheaves and sheaves 
 
 Of the glossy mulberry leaves; 
 
 But their hunger will abate 
 
 When the nights have numbered eight; — 
 
 Then they'll sleep for twenty hours, 
 
 And awake to quickened powers; 
 
 Cast their skins, and eat again. 
 
 This, repeated, three times o'er 
 Numbers sunsets twenty-four; 
 And they grow, and eat the more. 
 
 Then they sleep two nights, one day: — 
 — Let those idle now who may, 
 Those with silk worms work and pray. 
 No one more enquires thy health 
 But instead, thv chance of wealth; 
 
 "Morn", Signora! how's the worms?" 
 
 "Ah! Assunta, if it storms 
 Then is all our work for naught. 
 
'SILVIA 
 
17 
 
 Pray the Virgin that the sun 
 Still may shine a few days more, 
 Then we'll have great winter store; 
 But the Heavenly Will be done." 
 
 See! the worms translucent grow — 
 
 Restlessly move to and fro, 
 
 Cease to eat — then thou niay'st know 
 
 Shortly their cocoons they'll spin: 
 
 On dry fronds of heath and broom 
 
 In a tidy, empty room 
 
 Best invite them to begin. 
 
 When the room will hold no more 
 
 Carefully close and lock the door; 
 
 Leave the "bosco" all alone, 
 
 'Till at least five days are gone. 
 
 Meanwhile, sounds are heard within — 
 
 Curious sounds, like falling rain; 
 
 To disturb the "wood" were sin — , 
 
 Let it undisturbed remain: 
 
 Sweet the sounds — for thee they spin. 
 
 Rest and listen! work is o'er. 
 But though still outside the tloor, 
 Hope and fancy go before 
 And the "bosco" will explore. 
 Still will Sihia and her maid. 
 Count their chickens not yet hatched ; 
 Silvio, dreaming in the shade, 
 Live in houses not yet thatched; 
 Better so; why plant the thorns 
 That so flourish in most soils? 
 If this year brings no returns. 
 Perhaps the next rewards thy toils. 
 
 This, in passing; while we stand 
 On the skirts of wonderland. 
 
i8 
 
 Hast thou ever, over night 
 
 Drifted backward from the tomb? 
 
 Risen with the morning Hght 
 
 Fouiid the roses all abloom? 
 
 Found that hearts still chime like bells 
 
 When by love their ice is riven? 
 
 Dealt in magic, compassed spells 
 
 When the wood-thrush hymned at even? 
 
 Come then! Come! thou'rt not alone: 
 
 Come! but let us not intrude; 
 
 Silvio flings the portal wide. 
 
 O'er his shoulder peep inside — 
 
 From this distance view the "wood." 
 
 All among the heather twigs 
 Hang the cocoons, big as eggs; 
 Pink and golden, thick as plums 
 When the trees escape the pest; 
 Of tm harvests, this the best. 
 
 Silvio signs that all is well. 
 Silvia, voluble becomes: — 
 "This indeed the sight of sights! 
 Twinkle they like altar lights 
 On the Virgin's festival! 
 Call Assunta, tell the Cure — , 
 Saint Antonio! thee for sure 
 I'll remember on thy feast! 
 Why, there's scores of three* at least" — .' 
 
 Follower of my muse's pranks 
 Value not the yield in francs: 
 Coin the glances, pledge the thanks, 
 Gauge the loz'c, — not count the money: 
 
 (•3 lbs., a kilogramme, worth 5 frs. 20c.) 
 
19 
 
 Outward symbols, some of these — 
 
 — Just the labor of the bees 
 
 Not the sweetness of their honey. 
 
 But to thee with insight lent, 
 
 (If the fund be not misspent) 
 
 This, the perfect valuement: — 
 
 Silvia's love and gratitude 
 
 To the one her promise zvooed — 
 
 For the babe her heart beguiled: — 
 
 Sik'io's solicitude 
 
 For the mother, — for the child. 
 
 — The Glen, March 19, 1897. 
 
 "CHILDREN OF THE DESOLATE." 
 
 By the gate, within the gateway 
 
 Of a City reared with hands, 
 
 There's a Cesspool: when seen, straightway 
 
 Covered; yet it grows — expands. 
 
 When, anon, some fool, unthinking, 
 To one side the cover tossed. 
 There were wails as thousands sinking, — 
 It engidfed the children most. 
 
 Boon companions Wealth and Pleasure, 
 Smug, and portly, passed that way; 
 (Good is joy and good is treasure.) 
 Heard I what they had to say. 
 
20 
 
 Stepped the first within the portal — 
 "Some one's sinking, hear that cry!' 
 "Friend, the malady is mortal. 
 
 None will touch — , we'd best pass by." 
 
 Ah! that's so; but why the — nameless 
 Cannot they keep them out of sight? 
 Suppose my wife — , its shocking, SHAMELESS! 
 God! my nerves are not yet right." 
 
 So he signaled an Inspector 
 
 Of Police to take control: 
 
 Jokes were passed: the boon companions 
 
 Then continued on their stroll. 
 
 Still go on! jocose, unguessing, 
 'Till the Pestilence sweep thy halls! 
 While thy Right is Wrong, a blessing 
 Cannot dwell within thy walls! 
 
 Behold thy Blight, tliou sodden city! 
 Thy wronged children curse the morn; 
 Multiplied, denied even pity. 
 Or the right to be well-born! 
 
 Though the death rate is appalling. 
 Some survive; — farmed out for hire 
 In that solitary calling 
 Where none ask, "Who was thy sire?" 
 
 Old, and Youth will turn informer; 
 Gilt-vice trap them unawares; 
 "Freeze!" or "Go where it is warmer!" 
 Sanctimonio scorn their prayers, 
 
21 
 
 And jMiss Censor strut above them, 
 Always the worst that's false relate; 
 Tell you there is nothing of them 
 But their curse, legitimate. 
 
 And if words so rankle, — blister, — 
 What of that no iiiaji can tell. 
 When as told by Mother, Sister? 
 After this, who says "No Hell!" 
 
 Sister, Brother, in human semblance — 
 — Born of woman — these shapes that pass; 
 In virtue of, by that resemblance. 
 Backward search in a dark glass 
 
 And know thy duty! Mentor! Healer! 
 Bitter truth and torturing leech 
 Spare not! shrink not, Rot-revealer! 
 Out of sight — beyond our reach. 
 
 And, my Muse! if thou leave ever 
 Sword of Thought unfleshed, the hilt 
 Rusted like its scabbard, never 
 Can sloth justify my guilt; 
 
 If thou hast lulled Fear with Falsehood — 
 Had'st not Truth to tell the worst — 
 Had'st not Faith in Right, and Manhood — 
 Scorn, to point out those accursed — 
 
 Better have been blind and voiceless! 
 People! Mightiest of the earth 
 Thunder "NO!" to infamy choiceless; 
 Childhood free before the birth! 
 
22 
 
 And if of that throng uncounted 
 For which Waugh and Froebel planned, 
 Torquil spared, De Paul surmounted. 
 Thou must pass this pallid band, 
 
 Blasted, nine times decimated, 
 Wanting pity, guidance, bread. 
 Desolate, and Desolated, — 
 Ashes! cover thou my head. 
 
 — The Glen, March 27, 1897. 
 
 THE BLACK FROST. 
 
 (May 31, 1S97.) 
 
 At eventide the dallying clouds 
 
 Were journeying south. 
 
 The vagrant wind 
 
 That tossed and teased their whitening shrouds, 
 
 Soon tired; and listless, fell behind. 
 
 Anon, the star-shine, clear and cold; 
 
 No song of thrush or whippoorwill, 
 
 The copse, the spruce, their silent fold; 
 
 Upon the hill 
 
 A hungry fox complaineth shrill 
 
 That but he stirs abroad. 
 
 Presently all was still. 
 
Then Siva breathed; 
 Beneath his breath 
 The garden plot 
 — A beauteous spot — 
 Is black in death. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Up from the east 
 
 Comes the day's prophet-priest, 
 
 Peers at the wintry bhght askance, 
 
 Indignant grows with his advance 
 
 And marking blackening fruit and flower; 
 
 Before his flashing, withering glance 
 
 The blasted victims drop and cower; 
 
 — A last sad tribute to his power. 
 
 Like cheek dull reddening to a blow 
 
 Soul-stinging, but not mortal, lo! 
 
 Some of the oaks wear autumn's hues; 
 
 As drinks the sun the drenching dews 
 
 Creeper and shrub show woundings sore; 
 
 The lovely valley's parlor floor 
 
 Is strewn with hideous ravished flowers; 
 
 Will ever Beauty grace these bowers 
 
 Again? Mark six weeks' sun and rain. 
 
 The maimed concealed, the slain forgot. 
 
 You find it hard to so conceive? 
 
 It should not be; 
 
 The sun's too hot 
 
 Except for lives and growths that live. 
 
24 
 THE EtmOPEAN TURKEY AND BANTAM. 
 
 "See Turkey's bill? well, 'war is war.' " 
 Ah! thanks! think I've heard that before; 
 Guess it, you'd never, from the score, 
 For when it rains 'tis said to pour. 
 
 So this is war? ye common nouns! 
 
 This fleet safe anchored in the Downs? 
 
 This parleying pomp of Royal Clowns? 
 
 These Wants and Wantings, Smiles and Frowns? 
 
 This Thoughtful pose? 'tis something new! 
 "I hit him? why, then he hacks you" (!!!) 
 Perdiction! knave, suppose he do. 
 If serves the end you have in view? 
 
 Far other, red-real war's alarms; 
 The shattered towns, the burning farms, 
 "The Greek! the Greek! they come! to arms!" 
 Light-counted risks, and bankrupt harms, 
 
 The smoke of empires on the air. 
 The shallow trench, sans cofiSn — prayer. 
 The giant might of Die-or-Dare, 
 The mightier Titan of Despair! 
 
 — The Glen, June 2. 
 
25 
 
 WHEN ECHO MOCKS. 
 
 As shell upon the shore, 
 
 That harbors, impotent, the breakers roar, 
 
 As sympathetic glass, 
 
 Tuned to one note, vibrating if that pass, 
 
 As crystal mountain tarn. 
 
 Knowing not its depith, but mirroring the fern 
 
 And other lightest cause along its rim, 
 
 So I, with Life's full goblet in my hand, 
 
 Prattle the afternoon; 
 
 Give drink the thirsty sand; 
 
 Or sip. 
 
 The unconsidered froth upon the brim. 
 
 A sounding brass, — no more; 
 
 A locust in the grass repeating o'er 
 
 Uncounted times inconsequential song; 
 
 — I do the locust wrong — , 
 
 He, pleasures in his strain, 
 
 And pauses soon: 
 
 I, loathing singer, listener, and refrain. 
 
 But failing me of better through sore lack 
 
 Of light or love, keep on: — 
 
 O! would I could take back 
 
 Into unguessed oblivion, thoughts, words (white and black) 
 
 And leave past days a silent night and noon. 
 
 June 4, 1897. 
 
26 
 
 LIFE'S DISCONTENT. 
 
 Out of the Night, long, long before the dawn, 
 'Fore pipe of bird, or toil or pleasure's call 
 A something stirs, a breath, a sigh long-drawn, 
 "If only light would come and lift this pall." 
 
 Out of the Dawn, before the wide full day 
 Seems to fulfillment ripening mood and man, 
 It grieves again; "This whirling hulk of clay 
 I see too well, — the stars I cannot scan.'' 
 
 Out of the Noon, before the tempered sun 
 Flashed from the west his mellowed slanting ray, 
 Methought I heard: "What if a name I've won? 
 It rests me not; — silence and darkness may." 
 
 Again at Eve, unheralded like dew. 
 Steals the same muted strain, beyond the ear 
 ■Within the heart; — "Contentment? not for you, — 
 Perhaps beyond — 'tis certainly — not here." 
 
 — ^The Glex, "97. 
 
27 
 
 FROM THE POET'S COMMUNITY BLOTTER. 
 
 When Philosophy, and the Muse are tired, 
 
 When Theosophy, in doubt has expired, 
 
 When the dainty lies — sung, not meaning harm, 
 
 Which all Poets prize, and with sweets embalm — 
 
 Lose their power to charm. 
 
 Would you of divorce as the poles afar? 
 
 Glance at our Discourse, then look on what we are! 
 
 Loved? In metred flow; from our lives alone 
 
 You might never know love our lives had known. 
 
 Joyful? If the smart gotten in the lists 
 
 Show not: deep at heart we're all Pessimists. 
 
 Hopeful? But to hide from another's gaze 
 
 Spectacle that Pride would but deem Disgrace. 
 
 So we court, afar, something — myth, or star — 
 
 Well content to roam ; 
 
 But, on coming home 
 
 Pour o'er our own blood, all the bitter flood 
 
 — Convict load if borne, madness if withstood — 
 
 That exiles the good. 
 
 Still, being naught, we seem; and, self-cursed, would bless; 
 
 Love, a Poet's Theme; Life, a Wilderness. 
 
28 
 
 OTTR PICNIC PLACE. 
 
 A lattice-screen of trees; 
 Through the interstices 
 The sun-gleams slanting fall; 
 The trout's fine speckled sheen, 
 Where sucker and dace had been; 
 The grosbeak's sylvan call. 
 
 Thirty-five years agone, 
 
 These pine trees were ungrown; 
 
 Where that red cedar stands, 
 
 In the warm summer sands, 
 
 Three happy children played; 
 
 Nor guessed that life held shade. 
 
 White pine! red cedar! live! 
 With all the soil can give. 
 The sunlight too thine own; 
 Which of the three to-day. 
 With hurried glance this way. 
 But feels himself outgrown? 
 
 — Glen, June 5th. 
 
■■A LATTICE SCREEN OF TREES.' 
 
29 
 
 CO-OPERATION. 
 
 When lusty shoots of ahen sap 
 Encross, so naught of storm can sever, 
 They creak and groan in windy weather; 
 Wlien growth at last crowds out that gap, 
 They cease their jars and weld together. 
 
 Men crowd the earth ; there's still to eat, 
 There's still to drink — in moderation. 
 But if one part the others cheat 
 "Protecting'' — "Cornering," bread and meat. 
 Famine can bankrupt any nation. 
 
 Without tie, man's a tramp, forsooth. 
 Without two, there was bargain never. 
 Fell-priced my gain if't means thy ruth. 
 Let men and nations learn this truth, 
 Then want and war are done forever. 
 
 — Augfust '97. 
 
THE GHOST FLOWER.* 
 
 Shadow Dweller! Whose shade art thou? 
 Ghost of Blooms! what means this murk brow? 
 Why so pale, 'mid light-born beauty? 
 Why these weeds? doth tragic duty 
 Ask the sable badge of mourning, 
 Thou to living land returning? 
 
 Part translucent — as a spirit, 
 Touched with gold — some hidden merit, 
 Cowled like monk whose head bowed ever 
 Saw earth's worms, her beauty never. 
 Cowled with crape, — as dead, though living, 
 Tempting naught, no sweetness giving. 
 Have you message, have you token? 
 — But — The silence is unbroken. 
 
 — August '97. 
 
 *Popularly supposed to be found blooming only on unknown graves in the 
 woods. 
 
THE GHOST FLOWER. 
 
BEYOND LOGIC. 
 
 A priori, I'm RIGHT, and you wrong, 
 And, therefore, the facts will sustain, — 
 Besi'des, my position's so strong 
 Need I more, while these statements remain? 
 
 No reasoner, Wilfrid, I see; 
 
 Alone, this your argument shelves; 
 
 If base facts and high myths disagree,— 
 
 Why, the facts need sustaining themselves! 
 
 JUDA DISPERSED.* 
 
 The true cosmopolites they stand to-day. 
 Through centuries, since Titus' bloody reign, 
 When Juda mourned five hundred thousand slain, 
 And shattered present hopes unburied lay — 
 Dead, not at rest — above ground still they say, 
 — A lust of empire hid 'neath greed of gain — , 
 First and alone; 'till time — not far away — 
 When ties dissolve and jumbled creeds decay, 
 And men — just men, as kings no longer reign — 
 Known less by birthplace than descent and blood, 
 Shall elbow on the soil, and swarm the flood 
 
 •Acknowledgments to J. H. Bridges. Follow of Oriel College, Oxford. 
 
32 
 
 With sail; all nations cosmopolitan: — 
 
 Until that day this people stands apart, 
 
 In weird prospective back to the dim dawn 
 
 Of histon,'; high in literature, and art 
 
 Of healing, matching brain and brawn 
 
 On field of death with nations proud and bold — 
 
 'Twill never all be told by Gentile muse; 
 
 No matter — 'twill be told, rather retold 
 
 Eternally; the eye canont refuse 
 
 A history, writ so legible in blood. 
 
 'Tis blood, blood, blood, it colors all my rhyme, 
 
 The pound of flesh exacted still with gain 
 
 From "Christian dogs"; considered but sublime 
 
 And awful retribution for the slain — 
 
 The tortured slain — of Christian fire and sword. 
 
 Victims of hate's too cunningly forged word, 
 
 Of the "Stabbed Host," and children cmcified; 
 
 (The best historians say the accusers lied. 
 
 Though in every Christian country they were heard.) 
 
 Nor all in ages dark before our time; 
 
 It dyed Damascus in this century's prime 
 
 With frightful carnage; later sons, sore tried, 
 
 In parts even now are driven up and down, 
 
 Unless they serve (in coin) the King and Crown. 
 
 An impressive figure this within our ken, 
 Jew of the middle centuries, fourteen-ten. 
 Full beard if old, of plausible address. 
 His gait and mien distinctive now as then. 
 His face a monument of storm and stress, 
 Plague, Famine, War, Captivity; 
 His calling various as the forms of toil 
 In every land, and often on the sea, 
 — All but the simple tilling of the soil; 
 
But there is reason strong this last should be. 
 
 Acquiring always, suffered but to keep 
 
 What he could hide and safely hold in hand, 
 
 Small wonder gold and gems were dear, land cheap, 
 
 — A farm, you cannot hide it, or demand — , 
 
 Besides, he could not own, scarce rent, the land. 
 
 So, though he loved his family, creed, race. 
 
 Remembering sore he was compelled to give 
 
 A princely sum for liberty to live. 
 
 He'd cheat the dissolute Gentile to his face; 
 
 And hold that usury is no disgrace, 
 
 Therefore, where gold was changed, he found his place. 
 
 And to this day his brethren there you'll find. 
 
 Despised, feared, hated, courted of their kind. 
 
 Banker to bankrupt prince, matching his greed 
 
 Thrice over, yet with honesty and thrift 
 
 To ripe its fniits, while facing pits and snares 
 
 To trap the gains, the gainer turn adrift. 
 
 Physician to the ills (as needs, as must) 
 
 Of Popes and Crowned Heads, trusted on tlieir stairs. 
 
 Denied the rights of men that safeguard trust, 
 
 He dreamed of vengeance, to his tyrant lied — 
 
 / am not his apologist; — if seek 
 
 Ye Israel's history, then ask him speak 
 
 Who represents her Faith, Intolerance, Pride, 
 
 Juda! still Alien where'er she 'bide, 
 
 Nation within the nations ramified! 
 
 "I am a Jew, forever I'm a Jew, 
 Perhaps ni}- tongue is palsied, because old? 
 Perhaps 'twere better to speak false than tme, 
 Not fact but fable to the world unfold? 
 Not so! the story's too heroic, — vast — 
 — 'Tis somewhat known, indeed, 'neath Christian sway — 
 
34 
 
 This, better told, I'll swiftly hurry past. 
 
 To the Dispersion and the evil day; 
 
 We need not fear the truth, the Gentile may. 
 
 "And, recollecting, as the thouglit takes wings, 
 In evil yesterday, in our proud past, 
 In long descended Prophets, Warriors, Kings, 
 A straightened nation in the furnace cast — 
 An anguished nation driven forth at last — 
 Jehovah, Lord! through all we kept thy word; 
 Our Father's God! remember us these things. 
 
 "Fought we the Romans? yes, 'twas even so. 
 To Freedom's children liberty is life; 
 Captivity is death, or worse than death. 
 So when the cursed load made scant our breath, 
 And Roman eagle turned to carrion crow 
 Or vulture, feeding on our vitals, strife 
 — Not loved, but choiceless chosen — stalked our land; 
 We fired the torch, broke lance, and iieshed the brand, 
 We charged their legions, met them hand to hand — 
 Saw a devoted, ever narrowing band. 
 Yesterday routed, with dawn take new stand; 
 Live to hate life, and die to dye the sand^ — 
 Ah! it was bitter once again to kneel! 
 Sons of the freebom, these be those who feel 
 The fettered wTist, the gyve, the ball-and-chain. 
 Awful the plaint from 'neath the conquering heel, 
 'Cursed are the living, blessed are the slain.' 
 
 "The nation fell beneath their ruined towers 
 Like Sampson, dealing their last desperate stroke; 
 And the torn remnant, through the dust and smoke, 
 Their tombs profaned, their temples desolate, 
 Plague at their heels, a price upon each head, 
 
35 
 
 Fled wildly on a famine attended road; 
 
 Forsook a land where honey and milk once flowed, 
 
 — Now desert — to the conqueror and the dead. 
 
 "Thus Juda sunk for centuries from men's sight. 
 The stricken hide for cure; without the light 
 The germinating seed prepares the way 
 For harvest; — then the ripening — in our might 
 Not yet — but — following night there comes the day. 
 
 "After long centuries came a gray, slow dawn 
 O'ercast and threatening, upon our race. 
 We'd toiled the highways, multiplied apace, 
 We came with peaceful labor, met much scorn — 
 Not for the labor's price — oh! no, — our thorn 
 Their rose; — condoned the unrighteous chase — 
 Their God ordained our life-blood should be drawn. 
 Defeat we'd known, we had not known disgrace; 
 But now. upon our brows, unguessed, we read, 
 A stigma, a reproach, in every face. 
 
 ".■UhKccii to soioiini. net to iiiahc a lioinc! 
 The tyranny political of Caesar's Rome 
 Had passed; its carcass lay like Caesar, — dead; 
 Religious tyranny now reigned instead. 
 Tiirough one weak judge a people stand or fall? 
 A mob — a rabble — a whole nation's shame? 
 Justice! we ask but justice; hear our call 
 O] (iod! if few did sin, all bear the blame. 
 
 "No pen can picture what our race have borne. 
 No tongue can tell it, mock it not with words. 
 Death spelt in many ways, hate, treachery, scorn, 
 Theft, slander, hope deferred, the alien's lot. 
 The right denied us to prove with our swords 
 
36 
 
 Whether our men had manhood; every spot 
 Of Christian Europe, soon or late the scene. 
 And why? Because ive're Jezcs! Indeed, why not? 
 We're outcast, leper, everything unclean. 
 
 "But mark: our gold ne'er soiled the whitest palm; 
 It silenced scruples, played the healing balm 
 To those nice souls not sure we ought to live — 
 Whose doubts returned when we'd no more to give- 
 When, as a "sponge,'' we'd nothing further yield, — 
 "Of Florence gold of good and lawful z^'cight 
 Himself and wife must fourteen pieces pay 
 Each year." Tlie rental, not of mart or field, 
 But right of residence on French estate 
 In Fourteen Hundred. Craftier still the way 
 In merrie England; read and understand 
 The "Jewish Charter" from the kingly hand 
 Of the third Henry: — "Let no Jezv remain 
 In this our land unless he serve the King, — 
 As soon as child is horn of either sex 
 In some zvav let it serz'c us. Neither z'cx 
 With tolls, zcine nieasnrings, customs, coudmts, fees, 
 In toiims allotted to their use; in these 
 Being they are things that to the Crozvn belong 
 N'o vuin must hinder, tax. or do them zvrong; 
 For they our chattels are. our instruments. 
 Wherefore, their lizrs n'c enjoin you to nmintain." 
 
 "But this, though slavery, protected life; 
 There is another page, 'twere well to scan, — 
 A glorious page, some think; when fiercely rife 
 The spirit of the Crusades; hear one man* 
 Who doubtless wrote of what he saw and heard: 
 'That season a great multitude from every land 
 
 ♦Chronicler of Treves. 
 
Both men and z^'oiucii. tozcard Jcntsalcin turned. 
 
 Loz'c of their faith and God within them burned. 
 
 Panting to suffer death, or tread the necks 
 
 Of unbcliex'ing Moor, or Turk, or Jezv, 
 
 Or else eoinfel tJiein to aeeept the Word: — 
 
 Of their approaeli the Jews of Treves heard — ' 
 
 — The story sorely doth my spirit vex — 
 
 Her sires, gray-headed, stifling their own groans 
 
 Sheathing sharp steel in their own flesh and blood, 
 
 Her dames, their bosoms crowding full of stones 
 
 To cast them head-long in the weltering flood; — 
 
 "Better our women welter in the deep. 
 Than blot their chastity's unspotted page; 
 Better my child in Abraham's bosom sleep. 
 Than live, a mockery to the Christian's rage. 
 
 "Four out of seven thousand families 
 Were butchered at Toledo, Spain; at York 
 In "Merrie England" awful was the deed — 
 At M'ayence, Germany, a thousand bleed — 
 'The blood of martynzis the Church's seed' 
 Then count our slain, and see our sons arise, 
 Yea, even legions, all the earth around. 
 Judge then of all, who cumbereth the ground? 
 Consider what in charity is spent — 
 The credit to the humbler brother lent — 
 The oppressed assisted to a kindlier land — 
 A nation's debt transferred to otlier hand 
 With a pen's stroke: — business integrity 
 That floats the nation's commerce on all seas. 
 While others "liquidate," run "corners,'' "squeeze"— 
 Consider Christian Matron's idle ease, 
 Slothful impatience of maternity 
 And all the rest; consider the unblest 
 
38 
 
 Black blot of hell on civilization's face; 
 
 All Christian girls; — just put it to the test, 
 
 Point me the harlot of our creed and race. 
 
 Behold a Faith that counts the centuries, 
 
 And sees beliefs arise and crumble down 
 
 As change the nations; some of high renown, 
 
 Others, still-bom, or ruthlessly snuffed out 
 
 For fear their light miglit dim the foe's dull gleam. 
 
 While Juda stands, exclusive, proud, no doubt, 
 
 But not as Persecutor; never crossed the seas 
 
 To force the unbeliever to believe; 
 
 Never placed upright alien under ban — 
 
 While weighing Faith, also appraised the man — 
 
 Passed not the parable of Mote and Beam — 
 
 "But hark! toward Zion many pilgrims stray, 
 Can it be Dawn? O! throbbing heart conceive 
 From north, from south, one, all, nor bond, nor free,- 
 The mist, the dew, the rain, all reach the sea. 
 Enough is said: not of the eyes this sight. 
 Behold we patient watch the still closed door; 
 Our type, belief, endurance, endures; 
 This, with God's favor, surely ensures 
 Juda Dispersed will gather in her might. 
 The earth, God's country, hers as heretofore." 
 
 ONLY WHEN DEAD. 
 
 Through tiny goblet from the spring 
 
 I mix the poppy's alkaloid. 
 
 And bear it to the sufferer's side. 
 
 Who quafifs it down ; 
 
 Then watch the small flood quench and drown 
 
39 
 
 The sense's torture; flitteth siglit and sound, 
 The panting engines that refresh the blood 
 Remit their labored gasp — pulse soft and slow; 
 The weary, clutching fingers silently let go; — 
 Behold he sleeps! a dead-yet-living barque 
 On Lethe's flow. 
 
 Not-known is life, forgotten, Death, 
 
 Past, Present, Future, all gone dark; 
 
 Yet is each sense, though drugged, (list to his breath) 
 
 Key in the lock, while lives the vital spark; 
 
 This dark, dumb mansion still the sense's home. 
 
 And listening, looking, pondering, further afield I roam: — 
 
 Where is the soul? doth stray beyond these walls? 
 
 If so, returning, nothing she recalls. 
 
 Perhaps in sense her sentience lies? 
 
 — As with vibration, music dies; — 
 
 I make no claim. 
 
 This much is clear: — 
 
 While the drugged senses swoon, she sight defies; 
 
 An hour, a day, a month, a year, 
 
 It were the same. 
 
 Perhaps forever 'twere the same; oY stay! 
 
 Doth dissolution grant divorce from sense 
 
 Dissolved, yet furnish flight from hence. 
 
 All mystery solved? Presume not to deride 
 
 He who, impelled to guess, must guess and fail. 
 
 Not wisdom in her day. 
 
 Humility, nor Pride, 
 
 Not I, who sit beside. 
 
 Nor he, on Lethe's tide, not ours the view 
 
 Beyond the Veil: 
 
 Only the Dead. And never one doth life renew 
 
 To tell the tale. 
 
 — January, 1898. 
 
40 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF D. M. C. 
 
 I sing a maid by birth and nature free; 
 
 Of British matron honored and beloved 
 
 In every land where Freedom's breath hath moved; 
 
 Of dauntless girlish heart, 
 
 That championed the Right 
 
 With nothing but the might 
 
 Of a just cause: 
 
 Pledging herself, her art 
 
 — Nature's one, lavish dower — 
 
 To bear a trust bestowed on sturdier frame, 
 
 ■ — Dishonored, to his shame; 
 
 Of intellectual power 
 
 That struggling, indignant, in the mart 
 
 To sell her song, and buy the loved one's bread, 
 
 Would also win the laurel for her head; 
 
 Of love, and sacrifice. 
 
 Soothing an ailing mother's dying bed. 
 
 Looking with young moist eyes 
 
 On the unfriended poor, — scarce clothed — half fed; 
 
 Supporting to the end her charges three; — 
 
 Such is my song. 
 
 And fairer chivalry 
 
 Ne'er touched to greatness, pulses swift and strong. 
 
 The generous ire, intolerance of wrong. 
 
 The earnest pica, nice-fitted to the hour 
 
 And its portentious load. 
 
 Arraigning both law-breaker, and the laws 
 
 That court abuse of power; 
 
D. M. C, 
 
41 
 
 The sage advice, tlie pitying, just reproof, 
 
 The noble rage that scorns to stand aloof 
 
 For fear of fingers soiled; 
 
 The heart unspoiled 
 
 Tho' dusty path and empty hall were toiled, 
 
 Less cheered than cheering, on the upward road, 
 
 All this and more; and as the morning sliine 
 
 The midday chapters glowed. 
 
 But I fail of the beginning: — 
 (Not through her we know the story; 
 Not a sign, and not a token, 
 Thought or word, as writ or spoken ;) 
 Silence, dutiful, did cover 
 The ignoble action over. 
 
 Touch It gently, as is fitting. 
 But if told at all, 'twere fitter 
 Plainly spoken; not unwitting 
 There is sweet within the bitter. 
 
 Twenty sunmiers had not known her 
 When she chose her path, and in a 
 Blaze of love and indignation, 
 Stood between an ailing motlier 
 And a most ungentle father; 
 Sacrificed iier life for others — 
 For a mother and two brothers. 
 
 Did the true ideal sufifer 
 
 From this first eclipse? Say rather 
 
 It grew brighter; you can smother 
 
 Little, puny aspirations; 
 
 But our young and glowing writer 
 
 Knew the heroes of the nations. 
 
42 
 
 "Cast thy bread upon the waters." 
 Fairer than her fancies daughters, 
 True to love, a ceaseless giver 
 From the heart, a crystal river 
 Gliding onward, unrepining. 
 See! upon its bosom shining 
 Comes her bounty and with increase. 
 Happy Wife and Wedded Lover, 
 Now her maiden cares are over. 
 
 Other cares around would cluster; 
 Those who knew her they could trust her 
 Fund of love not all expended; 
 Gracious service ne'er remanded; 
 And the blissful years extended. 
 And the fuller life expanded. 
 
 October! how the years can steal away! 
 
 And we do always count another, where 
 
 The last has been so fair. 
 
 Who thinks of winter when love warms the heart? 
 
 The house, and all, in bridal disarray 
 
 Blithely looked forward to the wedding day. 
 
 But it was not to be: 
 
 Who can foreshadow where the life-streams part? 
 
 On this last moni, both from forebodings free. 
 
 They parted lovingly; the bride to-be — • 
 
 Their daughter — smiled; she, lingered on the sill, 
 
 Fondly remarking, they were lovers still; 
 
 He, cheerfully returning after noon. 
 
 Found the Great Change his guest; 
 
 And the loved one, at rest. 
 
 I've sung of one I loved, tho' sight-unseen; 
 Little 'tis I can tell; her wish had been 
 Her friends should still respect her privacy. 
 
43 
 
 Many did weep, even this side the sea. 
 
 But Iier voice dwells amongst us; loving, we 
 
 Reading the lines and 'tween them say, "that's she." 
 
 Naught breaks this spell; and further bear with me 
 
 Thou who didst wish her well; upstirreth! see 
 
 That the long toil for truth, and pledge unbroken, 
 
 So near her heart, so eloquently spoken, 
 
 Cause of her sisters — suffer not by thee. 
 
 Her life, her death, a lovlier cannot be: — 
 
 Firm friend, true wife, sweet sister, loving daughter, 
 
 She sleeps in Keston Churchyard o'er the water, 
 
 But leaves the world her priceless legacy. 
 
 • — The Glen, January, 1898. 
 
44 
 
 THE "IMMORTAL DREAM." 
 
 A child of song as beautiful as morn, 
 Glorious in strength, imperial, first-born, 
 Approached Olympus, careless made his bow — 
 "Give me a chaplet that I bind my brow." 
 
 The Gods (who ofttimes fooled, or angry, crushed;) 
 Tranquil regarded him until he flushed; 
 "Thy limbs are straight, thy record is unspoiled. 
 But this? — go to! thou hast not even toiled." 
 
 He hurried forth, a fire within his brain, 
 He swam the sea, he cleft the earth in twain. 
 Then to the Mount; the Gods heard him unmoved; 
 "The work is done, but ill; it was not loved." 
 
 He next appears amid the ferns and flowers 
 Of a rare garden; heedless of the hours. 
 Careless of fame; friends say: — "that forehead high 
 Should wear the laurel"; but the Gods deny 
 
 The badge is won, yet hint perhaps it can; 
 He loves, but has not suffered; every man 
 Of woman born shall press against the thorn; 
 If then he sings — 
 
 Before another morn 
 The tempest gathered in its frenzied arms 
 Leaf, bud, and blossom, and crushed out their charms, 
 Tlie poet's voice still sounds, still melody; 
 
 And those about him amourously cry: — 
 "What more can God or mortal ask? decide 
 He wears the crown." The Immortal ones replied: — 
 "Thy hurry is too great; wait — let him die." 
 
 — ^January 31, 1898. 
 
45 
 
 SELF CONTROL. 
 
 (Chicago, 1895-) 
 
 'Twas a wild scene of rescue and of slaughter; 
 The engine's throb — high pressure; trumpet sound; 
 Tile blistering firemen slirieking, "water! water!'' 
 The senseless rabble cumbering the ground. 
 
 Beside me in the press there stood a horse; 
 His smoking flanks and hotly heaving sides 
 Witnessed him first over the urgent course: 
 The snake-like hose wherein the quencher glides, 
 
 Beneath his chest, unequal to the strain, 
 Under the awful pressure burst in twain. 
 A shudder coursed his frame, the eyeballs glared, 
 The feet were braced, the red-hot nostrils flared. 
 
 Then, 'tho unfastened, stuod the steed like stone. 
 The crowd, in panic, hither, thither blown. 
 Trampled each other in their selfish h;iste: 
 Had he, our friend, his courage so disgraced. 
 
 Many had perished 'neath that steel-shod hoof. 
 Did he distinguish on yon tottering roof 
 Masters or brothers? Give him all the doubt 
 The brave fire-fighter, 'till he muster out. 
 
 —March 3, 1898. 
 
46 
 
 THE NEWER CHIVALRY. 
 
 Hast thou seen a warrior brig-ht, 
 Clad in mail, a thing of miglit, 
 Challenging, for wrong or right. 
 Some hot-headed, iucicless wight, 
 Past wounds yet scarce healed? 
 Long, long vanished is the sight. 
 But before me as I write, 
 Athlete-framed, accoutred light. 
 Knowledge, sword and shield; 
 Calm and cheerful, swoni to figfht 
 Death, that spector of affright, 
 Nor with life to yield; 
 Standeth he, our modern knight, 
 On the same old field. 
 
 Quick his midnight couch lie leaves. 
 
 Snaps the dream-thread fancy weaves, 
 
 Passes 'neath the rotting eaves 
 
 Of the hovel, and reprieves 
 
 Some poor soul, 'tho not for long: 
 
 Spite of him and death bereaves! 
 
 Not his will the orphan grieves — 
 
 Widowed heart in sorrow heaves — 
 
 Health and hope his song; 
 
 Ask him not what he believes, 
 
 In the harvest count his sheaves — 
 
 Else you do him wrong: 
 
 And 'tho flesh and bone he cleaves, 
 
 'Tis pity makes him strong. 
 
47 
 
 111, then work and want are ill; 
 Treading, treading in the mill — 
 Grinding slowly, slowly still — 
 Life's spring torrent now a rill — 
 Fractures slow to mend; 
 Failing sight, and weakening will — 
 Yet they both must serve — until — 
 When both purse and strengtli are nil, 
 Wanting, who can spend? 
 Deafness, blindness, do not kill; 
 They but flaw the cup, and spill — ; 
 Who will hand extend? 
 When Adversity doth refill 
 That cup, who is thy friend? 
 
 March, 1898. 
 
 STORY OF THE BAB.* 
 
 In(oi]uof ion. 
 
 In the far east, where morning on the race 
 
 Slow dawned, but left scant record of its light. 
 
 In later day famed for unchanging laws, 
 
 In latter years relapsing into night, 
 
 A generation ere our Civil fight, 
 
 A youth of nineteen, of such time and place 
 
 Knelt, but much doubted, and for scarce-known cause, 
 
 At Prophet's shrine, in Mecca's Jioly place. 
 
 *From "Rrlefjiovs ft Philnsophirs tUnis /Mx/c t'nitralf/' by M. le Corate 
 Gobineau. with acknowledgments to Mary F. \\'i!son. in Coutcmporary Re- 
 view. 
 
48 
 
 Mohammed Shems-Ed-Deen! thou voice apart! 
 Hafiz of Shiraz! would that thou wert here! 
 Stringer of Orient Pearls! thy artless art 
 Could trace this history through its windings clear 
 From mouth to source, and sing it but to charm: 
 The western voice is rough — not meaning harm, 
 The western voice is cold — our winters long; 
 
 Yet — Tigris flows: the murmurs of her song 
 
 Still permeate the perfumed eastern air; 
 
 And with such theme, the bard will not despair: 
 
 Will rather hope, if any chance to read 
 
 They will remember, ('tho some may invade 
 
 The heroic east, in very flesh, or deed) 
 
 'Tis a far country, where he hath not strayed:^ 
 
 Nor yet forget, that lacking much the will 
 
 To clog his verses with unwilling rhymes, 
 
 Or deck theology with plume and frill, 
 
 Bald is the line, verse worse than blank, sometimes. 
 
 A greater bard had willed it otherwise: — 
 
 Such as he is, he offers of his best; 
 
 If he bring heroes' image to the eyes. 
 
 The reader's heart will surelv do the rest. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Leaven. 
 
 Tarr\'ing at Bagdad on his homeward way, 
 Mirza Ali Mohammed thought to stray 
 Aside and visit Koufa, where the brave 
 Son-in-law of the Prophet found a grave 
 'Neath the assassin's hand. Amid the gloom, 
 Silence, and desolation of the ruined mosque, 
 
49 
 
 He meditated many days, and tossed 
 
 On sleepless pillow through the midnight liours; 
 
 Stirring within he felt the prophet's powers; 
 
 Should he declare it? should he strive to win 
 
 A people — his own people — from their sin? 
 
 The crumbling archways mutely spake of doom — 
 
 Perhaps he also would^nnd a tomb. 
 
 Were these strange visions that so filled his mind, 
 
 This station so exalted 'mong his kind, 
 
 Worthy the risk? His answer you will find 
 
 Along the way — he looked not more behind. 
 
 As slowly winds the caravan along 
 
 Upon the journey, by the evening fire. 
 
 With story, prayer to Allah, sacred song. 
 
 He mingles tidings of the new desire 
 
 Soon to find welcome in the hearts of men, 
 
 Himself the steward of the precious seed: 
 
 — Drink, if athirst, is measure of our need — 
 
 The skeptic marveled much at what he heard; 
 
 The waiting heart responded to his word. 
 
 To Shiraz come, (his birthplace, not outgrown) 
 
 He writes a journal of his pilgrimage. 
 
 And comment on the Koran; many sage 
 
 And precious hidden meanings, there were shown. 
 
 Like unto one who kindleth a fire 
 
 That first consnmeth what is near and dry. 
 
 But soon, outreaching, flaunts its head on high, 
 
 Girdleth the oak, and ever leaping higher 
 
 Wrappeth tlie pine upon the mountain brow 
 
 In sheets of flame, thus Mirza doeth now. 
 
 In public still he owns the Prophets' laws. 
 
 Yet — wins disciples to a teaching strange: — 
 
 He is tiie Bab, "the Door," the only one 
 
 Tlirough which men reach the knowledge of their God. 
 
50 
 
 •One God, eternal, changeless as the truth, 
 The source of alt, to whom all shall return. 
 Made manifest to men by messengers — 
 Moses, The Christ, Mohammed, even lie — 
 Each one the tnedium of a higher truth 
 Than that brought by his predecessor, 'till 
 A greater one than all shall come at last — 
 Revealer, "He ivhom God shall manifest,'^ 
 Who shall preside upon the judgment day, 
 When all the good shall be made one zvith God 
 And evil blotted out. This his belief. 
 He banned polygamy, forbade divorce; 
 Enjoined benevolence and honest toil; 
 Upraised the woman — bade her go unveiled; 
 Cherished with tenderness the little child; 
 Was blameless in his intercourse with men; 
 Kind and considerate to one and all. 
 
 And, in addition, he was wondrous fair; 
 His voice was music, winningly he smiled; 
 He could not part his lips for hymn or prayer 
 But hearts stirred to their depths; he reconciled 
 All truths; if coming, some decried. 
 As surely eulogized, departing thence — 
 Even the unconverted testified 
 Beyond conception was his eloquence. 
 
 The record's very legible to-day — 
 
 Of his first converts scarcely one not slain. 
 
 They perished in unsanctioned, needless fray. 
 
 Or fiendish ingenuity of pain; 
 
 The martyr's steadfastness illumined all. 
 
 Whether of manhood, womanhood, or youth. 
 
 Whether from hovel or from regal hall, 
 
 They died for what they held to be the truth. 
 
51 
 
 'Twas not the ignorant most espoused his cause, 
 But Sheiks and Moullas, learned in the laws, 
 Leaders of men themselves, slow to be led, 
 Who pledged the heart obedient to tlie head, — 
 Houssein Boushrewyeh, a strong man of war; 
 Hadgy Mohammed, reverenced near and far; 
 And last, yet first, upon the Prophet's side, 
 Moulla Mohammed's bride, the city's boast. 
 Her mother's idol, and her father's pride, 
 Tlie "Crown of Gold," renamed "Gourret-iil-ain," 
 The lovely "Consolation-of-the-Eyes." 
 
 The cause had won not such another prize. 
 
 She weeps — her hearers drop their tears like rain; 
 
 She pleads — and acclamations load the air; 
 
 The face transformed, the outpouring, fervid prayer, 
 
 The filmy, fretted sunlight of her hair 
 
 Are hid no more, — the veil aside is flung; 
 
 The wild bees nectar dripping from the comb. 
 
 Not sweeter than the accents of her tongue. 
 
 Words cannot tell the horror and dismay 
 Among her kinsfolk; she was led astray 
 They said, her duty lay not there; 
 Thev strove, entreated, threatened — would she dare- 
 She snapped the bond of lesser good and ill; 
 The "Sent of God" her mission must fulfill. 
 
 Yoimg wife of nineteen hundred, born to ease. 
 Who claimeth understanding more tlmn these, 
 Owneth the Word (slic had not heard it) "He 
 Who loveth father — mother, more than iMe, 
 Is still unworthy of Me," look and see 
 To act its spirit, and as heartily! 
 
Disciples multiplied with every day, 
 
 Each hour the teaching strange gained broader sway; 
 
 The Moullas knew this quickening worked them harm, 
 
 The magistrates began to take alarm. 
 
 Two messages were -hurried to the Crown, 
 
 In hopes before too late to put it down; — 
 
 "He undermines Religion," saith the first; 
 
 "He undermines thy Throne" — this last the worst. 
 
 The teacher, fain to battle for his own. 
 
 Dispatched a counter message to the Throne: 
 
 "Let me," saith Mirza, "face my lord the King, 
 
 And all the Moullas of his broad empire; 
 
 Their lives are dissolute — a nameless thing, 
 
 Their words are barren, and betrayed their trust, 
 
 'Twere well their pride were humbled to the dust. 
 
 If I, as sent by God, new truth can name, 
 
 If I replace a lower with a higher. 
 
 Silence the Moullas, and make good my claim 
 
 To teach the people, let them then retire; 
 
 Ti otherwise, I cause will not deny. 
 
 And, please the King, am willing so to die." 
 
 Much troubled were the King and all his court; 
 'Twere well to check the clergy's arrogance, 
 'Twere ill to stir dissention; and to chance 
 Fierce revolution in the last resort. 
 Enjoin the Rab to silence: let him rest 
 Within his walls at home: let bickering cease; 
 The country needs new doctrine less than peace. 
 Thus the King counselled; and the Bab obeyed. 
 Not so his followers: Wherefore seek the shade? 
 The sun doth shine, we but reflect his light; 
 We seek no conflict: — if it comes — we fight. 
 
53 
 III. 
 
 Ill the I>1ilzeiiilt'i':ill. 
 
 High on the mountain, forest all around, 
 
 A fortress springs like magic from the ground. 
 
 Only for this, and the grim stacks of arms, 
 
 'Twere thought a picnic from the valley farms; 
 
 The children prattle and the maidens sing. 
 
 The matrons dip the bucket at the sprmg, 
 
 A gathering place in front the axmen free, 
 
 The curious pitch their tents continually 
 
 Adown the valley, wellnigh to the plain; 
 
 They thought to come and go — but they remain. 
 
 The warlike Houssein drilled upon the sward; 
 The learned Ilalfouroushy preached reward 
 Exceeding to the slain in holy war; 
 The Consolation-of-the-Eyes once more 
 In sweet, persuasive, eloquent refrain, 
 Told of their hopes, again and yet again. 
 
 A thunder cloud doth sudden shade the plain. 
 ' The King was dead ; now was the time to rise, 
 Ere they recover from their first surprise; 
 Within a year resistance will be vain. 
 And he, the Bab, a world-wide empire gain. 
 The Moulla Houssein warmly thus explains, 
 The ruddy frenzy working in his veins. 
 
 Houssein! thou doest not well! slight good, great harms. 
 
 Subjecting women and frail babes in arms 
 
 To chance of war, its horrors and alarms. 
 
 Thy master sanctions not resort to force ; 
 
 Thy raft once floated on blood's^reeking tide. 
 
 And chance of gales determine,^its course. 
 
 Too late! Armed Babists flock from every side, 
 
 And join his standard, full two thousand strong. 
 
54 
 
 Events succeeding, hurry them along; 
 
 Of different temper is the new crowned King; 
 
 The new Prime Minister is charged to bring 
 
 This budding madness to a speedy end 
 
 By force; he doth immediately send 
 
 To the Mazenderan to clear the land 
 
 Of Babists, and at once; the grandees say 
 
 It shall be done; we start this very day. 
 
 Easy to promise, easy to command, 
 
 And soon at Houssein's gates the soldiers stand. 
 
 These first were routed, and their leader slain. 
 
 Consumed with rage the Minister was fain 
 
 To send an expedition from the court — 
 
 Prince Medy-Kouly-Mirza, with full power 
 
 To levy soldiers, and to raze the fort; 
 
 A Kurdish chieftain volunteered his aid. 
 
 And with much brag and jest the start was made. 
 
 Behold them toiling up the steep defiles, 
 Where winter lurketh even while summer smiles. 
 Passing from tropic vale, within the hour 
 To forest, rocky steep, eternal snow; 
 Jaded to death, they stumble on the foe — 
 Right in their path, an enemy unseen, 
 Uncounted — 'twas the blinding mountain storm. 
 
 The wearied chieftain as the evening fell, 
 
 (Advance impossible for foot or horse. 
 
 As through the drift they could not see the course) 
 
 Sought refuge in a hamlet near at hand; 
 
 Each in the medley strove to keep him warm — 
 
 The sentinels, benumbed, no tales could tell — 
 
 A chartless camp, the whirling snow between. 
 
55 
 
 Forth from their fastness, steals a chosen band — 
 Three hundred men, with Houssein at their head. 
 As jungle tiger, stealthy is their tread, 
 Inured to weather, to the mountain bred, 
 They fell resistless on the sleeping host: 
 The baggage-laden nobles suffered most — 
 Two princes of the blood, and many a chief 
 Torn from their stirrups ere they plied the spur, 
 Received a last attention, sharp and brief — 
 Were trampled under foot like common clay 
 By friend and foe; and all that frantic stir 
 Of horse and foot, drew horror from the night. 
 
 The gloom forbade defense, but favored flight; 
 
 Prince Medy-Kouly-Mirza broke away 
 
 With many, but without their arms and stores. 
 
 Bitterly, long, his losses he deplores; 
 
 Sight of his fear spreads panic everywhere — 
 
 That Houssein is a God many declare; 
 
 Fresh troops were levied — not with ease obtained; 
 
 The prince again advanced — naught else remained 
 
 Unless to speedy death he were resigned; 
 
 Of evils two. the least he will prefer — 
 
 The foe's before — perdiction close behind, 
 
 — Wrath of the terrible Prime Minister. 
 
 Another sortie in the dead of night — 
 
 A scene of blood; but by the torches light 
 
 Houssein exposed himself to marksmen's view — 
 
 "Mark yonder man who wears the turban green? 
 
 Aim thou at him.'' Both marksmen's aim was true; 
 
 Disaster comes their victory between. 
 
 Houssein, sore wounded, ready to expire. 
 
 Calmly directs his followers to retire 
 
 In perfect order, through the opposing bands. 
 
 The castle reached, he lurches from his horse. 
 
 Naught can avail the skill of human hands. 
 
56 
 
 Who shall inspire them, who sliall guide tlieir course? 
 
 Alas! none other — 'tho as brave remain — 
 
 Could compensate for such a leader slain. 
 
 He died exliorting all to steadfast trust, 
 
 Bid them not mourn — he would return again 
 
 In one form or another, from the dust. 
 
 And so the frantic struggle is renewed. 
 
 Terrible was the wrath of court and King 
 
 When four months later, still they're not subdued. 
 
 Prince Medy-Kouly-Mirza is recafled; 
 
 A sterner general is at once installed; 
 
 The cannons thunder and the rifles rmg. 
 
 Yet not on these alone the leader counted, 
 
 Famine will aid — the besieged are short of food. 
 
 The fear of shot and shell they had surmounted, 
 
 This dread, compelled more than unnumbered foes. 
 
 No blade of grass within the enclosure grows. 
 
 The trees are barked, the leather sword belts boiled. 
 
 The grave of Houssein's charger (like their chief 
 
 Buried with fitting honors) for relief 
 
 At last with much misgiving is despoiled. 
 
 Some have deserted, others, tried in vain. 
 
 And 'twi.xt indignant friends, and foes were slain; 
 
 A dauntless handful still the fortress hold; 
 
 Their lives seem charmed ; to break the charm, 'tis told 
 
 For lead, one marksman substitued gold; 
 
 At last the barricade in ruins falls; 
 
 The fortress, nothing but dismantled walls; 
 
 The trench, choked with the dead, can now be crossed 
 
 By trampling on this torn and silent host. 
 
 But the besiegers were not satisfied 
 To capture but the slain, so they decide 
 To offer life to all who now will yield. 
 Perhaps to wife and mother they appealed. 
 
57 
 
 Perhaps these men of valor knew not doubt; 
 
 So, through the victors, silently filed out 
 
 The battered remnant, to their curious view; 
 
 Two hundred uf two thousand — more or less — 
 
 Men — living- skeletons, a ghastly crew — 
 
 Women, of all things womanlike bereft — 
 
 Children, alas! with little semblance left 
 
 Of human babes, but in their helplessness. 
 
 The victors furnished them with tents and food, 
 
 With clothes and service — all that they require; 
 
 And then — black tale of liorror — in cold blood 
 
 The morn saw mother, daughter, jjabe and sire , 
 
 Slain, with unspeakable barbarities. 
 
 This awful deed of blood to heaven cries; 
 Quenched is the fire in the Mazenderan, 
 Only to blaze forth further to the east; 
 Mohammed AH is their warrior-priest. 
 And fifteen thousand men his ranks contain. 
 
 'Twere useless repetition to recall 
 
 The heroic campaign, to its fore-doomed close. 
 
 Not even these can meet unnumbered foes — 
 
 Slaying and slain, but in the end they fall. 
 
 'Twas as the last: unparalled disdain 
 
 Of fear, high hopes, stupendous feats of arms, 
 
 The ever-strengthening, ever-tightening chain 
 
 Of the investment, foray's and alarms. 
 
 The fallen leader, and the failing bread, 
 
 The thousands wounded and the thousands dead. 
 
 'Till, under solemn promise, signed and sealed. 
 
 Of liberty and life — at last — they yield. 
 
 And just as truly was the promise kept; 
 
 Butchered like vermin, from the muzzle swept 
 
 Of hot-breathed cannon, three were further spared 
 
 To grace the triumph; then their limbs were bared 
 
5S 
 
 To executioner's lancet, and their blood 
 Slowly, drop upon drop, with life outflows; 
 And close beside, exultingly there stood 
 The grim Prime Minister, to mark the close. 
 
 Glut ye with blood to-day! thine own shall turn 
 In horror to the heart, as swift and stern 
 An avenging human fiend gloats o'er thy fall! 
 These last heroic three foretold it all: 
 The royal master will reward thee not — • 
 Thy bloody zeal will win but similar doom — 
 Even by this very road;* above thy tomb 
 These names will flourish when thou art forgot. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Denth of the Uali. 
 
 A patient prisoner "tween his own four walls, 
 Mirza, the Bab, had passed these many days. 
 A man of peace, nor troubled what befalls, 
 He worketh calmly; hastens, nor delays 
 The end, now long foreseen — that he must die. 
 He doubtless heard the trumpet from afar, 
 — Waged in his name — of bloody civil war; 
 No slightest sanction had they from their chief; 
 He even viewed the sacrifice with grief; 
 But left the burden, to the One on high. 
 The armed hostility, as has been shown. 
 Had finally been conquered, and put down; 
 The smouldering under foot had greater grown 
 All through the country, and in every town. 
 This could not last — it would break forth again, 
 Uncalculated evils in its train; 
 
 •Mirza Taghy had his veins opened by royal order in 1852. 
 
59 
 
 This bootless waste of treasure and of men, 
 The life and sinew of the country drain; 
 Behold! one pestilential fellow stands 
 Accountable for all — he's in our hands — 
 Strike at the root — below the sources delve; 
 Off-shoot and top will wither of itself. 
 Thus thought the Minister, until a doubt 
 Whether the Bab's mere death, as seen or told, 
 With secret circumstance, or seeming rout. 
 Would not just largely swell the alien fold. 
 
 Prince Mirza Taghy little guessed his rank; 
 
 He pictured him a charlatan, gross-grown; 
 
 Vulgar and ignorant, a movmtebank — 
 
 Too weak to plan, too cowardly to command; 
 
 Great while unseen, and powerful while unknown 
 
 To credulous ignorance, throughout the land. 
 
 Unseen, unheard, a halo round his head. 
 
 His power were greater as a martyr, dead, 
 
 Than living; even were his death believed: 
 
 His taking off would nothing have achieved 
 
 Unless a moral ruin he were shown; 
 
 An abject craven, pleading for his life; 
 
 A heretic retracting; then the knife 
 
 Might fall with profit; but enquiry proved 
 
 To Mirza Taghy, his ingenious plan 
 
 Failed in one point — the prophet was a man 
 
 Mighty in argument, at heart serene: 
 
 Disquieted, he conjured up a scene — 
 
 The priests confounded, jubilant their foes; 
 
 Too great the risk; due caution much behooved; 
 
 Let gates of Tabreez fortress keep him close. 
 
 Prince Hamze Mirza, governor of that fort. 
 With other three, essayed a doubtful task — ■ 
 To refute the doctrine by the Bab proposed; 
 
6o 
 
 But even Mussulmen could see 'twere sport 
 Mirza Mohammed made, of one and all: 
 The argument was most abruptly closed; 
 — In eastern countries might is right — why ask 
 A fitter time and place? His head shall fall! 
 
 With two disciples, who his prison shared, 
 At early morning, loaded down with chains. 
 They left the citadel; the streets and lanes, 
 The market-place, were trod; abuse unspared 
 From mob and soldiers, elbowing each for place 
 To taunt, and strike the martyrs in the face, 
 Followed their march for many weary hours. 
 Afterward (mockery of judicial jiowers) 
 They are condemned before tril^unals three 
 For felony; and death the penalty. 
 
 The stormy closing scenes upon this day 
 Recall more sacred story — the mock trial — 
 The outburst of blind fury — the denial 
 By loved and trusted friend — for toward the close 
 Seid Houssein, staggering, drunken with his woes, 
 Half dead with suffering, dropt to the ground 
 And begged for mercy; he was dragged around 
 To face his Master, weak and worn as he: 
 Asked: — "Will you curse him. if we set you free?'' 
 Houssein did so: "Now spit you in his face!" 
 The craven, thus completing his disgrace. 
 They struck his chains, and left him in the road; 
 And onward the tumultuous concourse flowed. 
 
 Delighted with this unforeseen success. 
 
 The officers the last disciple press. 
 
 Young, rich, with everything his heart desired. 
 
 Surely he too will yield: he was required 
 
 To face his wife and children, for whom his heart 
 
 Had hungered long: O! it was hard to part, 
 
6i 
 
 To turn deaf ear to entreaty to remain 
 And cherish them: but he was sterner stuff 
 Than Seid Houssein ; tlie entreaty was in vain. 
 
 Back to the citadel as sinks the sun 
 
 Thunders tiie rabble; eager, every one. 
 
 Two human forms suspended to descry 
 
 Athwart the wall with ropes 'twixt earth and sky. 
 
 The worn disciple makes his final plea: 
 
 "Master, and art thou satisfied with me?" 
 
 The deadly volley silenced the reply; 
 
 One life it severed, and the other's cords; 
 
 He dropt to earth: On every tonsjue the words 
 
 "A miracle!" were ready to be s[)(iken — 
 
 "Divine!" "A prophet!" "this wliercof the token." 
 
 Had he but claimed it there before them all, 
 
 The reigning dynasty must quake and fall, 
 
 As multitudes responded to his call. 
 
 He claimed it not; the lenglhened agony 
 
 Had done its work; he uttered not one cry, 
 
 But blinded, stupefied, instinctively 
 
 Besought a refuge through an open door 
 
 Hard by: one. following, struck him to the floor, 
 
 The soldiers came — and his young life is o'er. 
 
 V. 
 
 Cftiic'InNiiiii. 
 
 And Mirza Taghy now could sleep in peace. 
 And trusted peace would settle on the land. 
 Never did more delusive hope expand; 
 Bv his own act disruption will increase. 
 "Who is this Tving and Minister in ])ower? 
 Sovereigns legitimate, the Prophet's seed? 
 No! 'tho they rule us, mongrel is the breed; 
 Beside these dwarfs, the Scyds as giants tower. 
 Mirza AH Mohammed was a ScyJ 
 
62 
 
 By both lines of descent; a man of God; 
 A man of peace; who ruled not with the rod; 
 'Tho he obeyed, they slew him in their pride. 
 We owe no more allegiance." 
 
 Round and round 
 This creed is circulated, near and far. 
 The Bab's successor had forbidden war, 
 But hot, rebellious converts still were found; 
 And thus a year had scarcely passed away 
 Ere Mirza Taghy rude reminder gains 
 He sleeps above explosives for his pains. 
 The King, while traveling a summer's day 
 Is fired upon, and wounded; one is slain, 
 Two captured; cheerfully these declare 
 Their youth and fortunes, yes, they are aware 
 That they must die; that were not loss, but gain. 
 
 Suspicion counseled measures prompt and sure; 
 Teheran's gates are closed and sentineled. 
 Detectives shadow every meeting held. 
 All Babists caught, must suffer or abjure. 
 Forty are quickly captured, young and old. 
 Among them "Consolation-of-the-Eyes" — 
 The search stopped here abruptly; were it wise 
 To scent great disaffection in the fold? 
 There may be thousands more; where will it end? 
 Learn first how far this faith has taken root; 
 A smouldering volcano underfoot. 
 Each fears his neighbor, and suspects his friend. 
 
 The judges thought intelligence to gain 
 Of who, and where, how many, were tlie rest; 
 Put to the torture, still not one confessed; 
 Mute were the captives; treating with disdain 
 The bribe, the threat, the flatten,-, or the pain; 
 About themselves— if they must die, 'twere well; 
 About the rest — they nothing had to tell. 
 
63 
 
 The case was graver than at first supposed; 
 
 The wonderful endurance thus disclosed, 
 
 The strange new faith that made weak women strong, 
 
 Children heroic — might it not be wrong, 
 
 Unwise, 'gainst such, a needless zeal to show? 
 
 Would they abjure, or simply answer, No 
 
 To careless question — just a form, a show, 
 
 The Shah, quite satisfied, will let them go. 
 
 But failure met the judges here as well; 
 First with Gourret-ul-ain; her powerful friend 
 The jMahmond Khan, returning from the court. 
 Told her he had most welcome news to tell. 
 "For you, to-morrow will the judges send; 
 Question: — 'Are you a Babist?' and report. 
 Just answer No, you will not be believed; 
 All know you are one — no one is deceived — 
 Nothing more will be asked — you will be free.'' 
 And she: — "Than this, 'tis better far for me; 
 You do not know the news to-morrow brings; 
 To-morrow noon will grant me glorious things; 
 Thyself will kindleth my funeral fire; 
 But mine the honor, ere I shall expire. 
 To witness publicly for God. the slain 
 His Sublime Highness, and eternal gain. 
 And now, O! Mahmond Khan, hear what I say, 
 And let my death to-morrow be the sign 
 I speak the truth: O! squander not the day: 
 The King vou serve will not reward thy zeal ; 
 He'll cause thy death with cruelty and design;* 
 Search out the truth, and find eternal weal.'' 
 
 *Tbis proptecy, like the last, mis"ht possibly tend to work out its own 
 fulfillment: indeed, in Persia it needed little penetmtion to foretetll the sud- 
 den taking off of political favoritee. Nevertheless, it is worth recording that 
 some years later, it becajme a fact in the experience of the humane Mahm- 
 ond Khan. 
 
64 
 
 And as she sayeth, it all came to pass. 
 Asked of her faith, exultant she declares 
 Cause of her hope, and altar of her prayers, 
 Object beloved, while she have life and breath. 
 Nothing remains — they sentence her to death. 
 
 A heap of plaited straw, and woven grass, 
 Stacked in the market-place, where crowds assail; 
 Tlie meshes of the long abandoned veil 
 Hiding the head so beautiful and young; 
 As a last act of mercy, ere the fire 
 The stranglers — then upon the funeral pyre- 
 Cindered to ashes — to the winds afiung. 
 
 Not different the record of the rest. 
 
 In that they all did witness with their lives. 
 
 And there were sons and daughters, husbands, wives, 
 
 Among them Seyd Houssein, he the unblest 
 
 Apostate on the day the Bab was slain; 
 
 But now athirst the martyr's crown to gain. 
 
 They all refused the proffered open door 
 
 To freedom — greater freedom lay before. 
 
 Base Persecutors! canst thou fear or feel? 
 Why chafest that thy victims will not kneel? 
 Why crave a triumph never yet thine own? 
 A grain of incense on an altar thrown — 
 A mock salute to God of myth or stone? 
 Is it that thou wouldst spare a noble life. 
 Seen yet unfogged by soul-obscuring strife? 
 No! 'tis to captive at thy chariot wheel 
 The semblant shadow, failing of the real, 
 To sop thy pride, thy vanity to heal! 
 
 Teheran's streets had often tasted blood; 
 
 Yet not at once will she forget the day, 
 
 When these last Babist martyrs passed her way. 
 
 Their wounds, garnished with blazing tow; the flood 
 
65 
 
 Life-giving, welling, purpling the stones; 
 Humble and patient, yet as victors proud; 
 Amid the awe-struck silence of the crowd 
 That lined the way, singing in joyful tones: 
 "Truly, yes, truly we belong to God. 
 From God we came, look upon our return." 
 
 Not for each other's sufferings thev mourn ; 
 And when the weaklings fell, they onward trod 
 As if they marked not, 'tho 'twas their own child. 
 A brutal soldier tells a father there 
 (Hoping to kindle something like despair) 
 "Upon thy breast I'll slay thy little son." 
 Perhaps even yet, some have not faced tlie worst — 
 The heroic man stretched forth his arms ami smiled; 
 A bright-eyed lad of fourteen forward prest. 
 Threw his charred members on the father'.s breast — 
 "Father! the eldest I, let mc be first." 
 A look of love and faith supreme — one kiss — 
 And as the brute suggested, it was done. 
 Nothing could conquer courage like to this! 
 
 Finished at last! and the calm summer nisfht 
 
 Fell on a hideous, mangled, bloody mass. 
 
 To which there trooped the dogs — a ravening h.orde. 
 
 The martyrs' heads were Inmg in pulilic sightj 
 
 Grim witnesses, to whosoe'er might pass. 
 
 My task is done — the public record ends. 
 
 The King saw his mistake, and made amends 
 
 After his fashion; question not, nor pry, 
 
 Into the secret strength of faith profound ; 
 
 The dogs of war must other hunting ground — 
 
 Let sleeping canines slumber — pass them by. 
 
 'Twas breathed there were a hundred thousand more 
 
 Throughout the kingdom — 'twas a subject sore 
 
 To those in power; 'twas seldom touched upon. 
 
 The tale is told — in part; the years roll on. 
 
66 
 
 Yet not unmoved shall the tale be heard, 
 While men shall thirst to hear a prophet's word, 
 While shrinking nesh to torture shall be given. 
 Freely, yea, joyfully, for promised heaven. 
 While blood and treasure, measureless, unsold, 
 Shall be as water poured, for fairy gold. 
 Yes, yet while many, failing Hope — Belief, 
 Dubious of Joy, superior to Grief, 
 Find yet in Action, insecure relief. 
 
 -March 4, 1898. 
 
 MY SWEETHEARTS. 
 
 With boyish heart I wooed the birds and flowers, 
 The songs and blossoms all my ver>' own, 
 But winter left me cold and silent bowers, 
 The flowers all dead, my tuneful sweethearts flown. 
 
 I drifted here and there on Life's broad sea. 
 My boat a prey to storms, without control. 
 My only wish some font of sympathy. 
 At which to slake the thirstings of my soul. 
 
 In one of Eva's daughters, young and fair, 
 I thought to find this wondrous gift of Heaven, 
 Instead, I found when well within the snare. 
 Girls do not know their hearts at ten and seven. 
 
 A while I studied every changing mood, 
 To-day all smiles, to-morrow cold and strange, 
 Then my half famished heart cried out for food. 
 The Idol that I worship must not change. 
 
67 
 
 Priestess of Song! sweet Maid! melodious Musel 
 Waiting these years my fickle roving heart, 
 'Tis thine to-day; ah! no, do not refuse, 
 I'll now be faithful, thy faith's counterpart. 
 
 Yes, found at last a sweetheart fond and true. 
 How fond, how true, my pen can not portray. 
 Yet, while for me the summer sky is blue, 
 My heart shall sing her praises every day. 
 
 This mystic bond, this sweet captivity. 
 Only my faithlessness can e'er destroy, 
 In every tuneful voice she speaks to me 
 Sharing my toil and rest, my grief, my joy. 
 
 A royal Maid, she proudly doth demand 
 A whole heart's homage, a deep contempt of gold, 
 And promiseth nothing: yet with generous hand, 
 Requiteth all my love a thousand fold. 
 
68 
 
 THE STREET URCHIN. 
 
 A bright and fearless little fellow, 
 A dirty, tearless, little fellow, 
 Shoeless, graceless, out at elbow, 
 Yet shall he and I be friends. 
 
 Eager he in quest of knowledge, 
 (Not always as taught at college) 
 Old, yet youthful, blunt, defiant, 
 Yet to kindness quick unbends. 
 
 Underneath that tattered jacket, 
 Where the city's soot won't black it 
 Lurks a sense of faith and duty. 
 Noble deeds, unselfish ends. 
 
69 
 
 MY VERY DEAREST FRIEND. 
 
 "My very dearest friend," 
 The sweetest, holiest name 
 This heart can claim. 
 
 Perhaps thou wouldst disown 
 This tie, to manhood grown? 
 I would not blame. 
 
 Our life streams run apart, 
 Thy throbbing brain and heart 
 Know not my need. 
 
 Yet while my life remain 
 
 I'll bear through sun and rain. 
 
 That precious seed 
 
 We planted long ago 
 
 Though winter's frost and snow 
 
 Thy name defend. 
 
 If this should meet thine eye, 
 Deal gently with the memory 
 Of thy friend. 
 
^o 
 
 A FANCY OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 I dreamed I floated on a raft 
 
 Adovvn a river swift and wide, 
 
 The day was fair, the wind was aft, 
 We careless drifted down the tide. 
 
 But, as the river swifter grew, 
 
 I know not how the scene was changed; 
 The laughing crowd in haste withdrew, 
 
 I, and one female form remained. 
 
 In front I spied a rocky shore, 
 
 The river did not further flow, 
 
 But down a cleft with deafening roar 
 The waters sought the depths below. 
 
 The raft towards the rocks made haste, 
 
 The maiden trembling sought my side, 
 
 I clasped my arm about her waist. 
 
 In death to wed my unknown bride. 
 
 With gurgling crash we're cast ashore 
 Past, safely past, the wave's alarms, 
 
 And, wondrous joy unknown before, 
 
 'Twas thee I clasped within my arms. 
 
71 
 
 TO 
 
 Fair fortune doth frown for I crave not her treasut«, 
 'Twere useless, I know, for she favors but few, 
 Yet I humbly ask leave of thy sweet gracious pleasure. 
 To love thee, sweet maid, with love constant and true. 
 
 Yet, for fear fickle fortune should foully endeavor 
 To foil me, by saying, "this is not his due," 
 I have ventured — forgive me— without asking whether. 
 To love thy sweet self with love constant and true. 
 
 When I thrill with the magic evoked by thy fingers 
 More favored admirers I heedlessly view, 
 No room for anght else where thy glad presence lingers 
 As long as this fond heart is constant and true. 
 
 I ask not, fair maid, for sweet smiles or shy glances. 
 Though daring to love, I aspire not to woo; 
 But blest be my labors and rest, if it chances 
 That tliou dost believe I am constant and true. 
 
72 
 
 THE LIBRAE.IAN. 
 
 With noiseless step across the floor, 
 She brings the volume I desired, 
 With a sweet grace I feel the more. 
 Her eyes so plainly say, "Quite tired?" 
 
 And, that I may without delay 
 Solve a small doubt, she hands me down 
 A generous handful, though to-day 
 I know she's busy: yet no frown. 
 
 Silent she serves the overwise. 
 With kindness she assists the fool, 
 On children smiles with loving eyes, 
 Ever one's friend, but no one's tool. 
 
 So often asked to break the rules. 
 So oft provoked by broken ones. 
 Teaching and studying in life's schools, 
 And through so fnany moons and suns. 
 
 I'm not a lover of my kind, 
 I'm prone to carp and criticise. 
 Yet, if the lady does not mind, 
 She'll join my treasured memories. 
 
THE KErUSAL. 
 
 I would not cloud thy summer sky 
 With any shadow from my own, 
 Or dim that laughter loving eye 
 With tears mine only should have known. 
 
 I would not reap with ruthless hand 
 The smiling fields that thou didst seed, 
 Or bid thee to a barren land, 
 All grown with thistle, burr and weed. 
 
 Not 'till my fields are broad and fair, 
 Not 'till my name bestows renown. 
 Will I, presumptuous, ask to share 
 Thy loving heart and queenly crown. 
 
74 
 
 RAINY DAYS. 
 
 ("Into each life some rain )nust fall.") 
 
 I idly plucked a blooming flower, 
 It withered in a short half hour, 
 Why did I ruthless rob the bower 
 So heedlessly. 
 
 I caged a curious butterfly, 
 I watched it droop, I saw it die, 
 Why did I bar it from the sky 
 So needlessly. 
 
 I fondly loved a maiden fair. 
 My humble lot she would not share. 
 And Oh! she drove me to despair 
 So smilingly. 
 
 I had a friend, he shared my heart, 
 Death rudely hurried us apart. 
 Ah! why this last most cruel dart 
 That pierceth me. 
 
 Is all within that coffin hid? 
 
 Flowers, butterflies, and heart, all dead? 
 
 Yes, they are dead, yet still I bid 
 
 Me call these vain regrets — 
 
 To venter's threat the spring replies, 
 The frozen brooklet sings again. 
 And oft the sunny azure skies 
 Smile above frost and pain. 
 
75 
 
 WHY? 
 
 Is it because thy face is sweet and fair? 
 
 Because thy hair's a glossy silken snare 
 
 To enthrall my heart? 
 
 Is it because thy hand, of matcliless form, 
 
 Is soft, and white, and talented and warm, 
 
 Thrilling with tuneful art? 
 
 Is it thy winning ways or sunny smile, 
 
 Thy stately dignity, thy faultless style 
 
 That weaves this spell? 
 
 Or shall I never know the hidden springs 
 
 Of this sweet pain, of which each poet sings? 
 
 Ah! thou Shalt tell. 
 
INSECT VOICES. 
 
 'Neath a golden liarvest moon 
 Forth I wander with delight, 
 
 While a tiny fairy tune, 
 
 Steals upon the air of night. 
 
 Tiny voices clear and shrill, 
 
 Voices cheery, plaintive, gay, 
 
 Sound from meadow, marsh and hill. 
 Nature's Autumn roundelay. 
 
 Silent now the birds of spring 
 
 Swift to Southern shores they stray, 
 
 Other minstrels round us sing, 
 'Tis the insects' holiday. 
 
 Hear that plaintive alto voice! 
 
 'Tis the dusky Grasshopper, 
 While the dainty Cricket's choice 
 
 Is a chirp much livelier. 
 
 Long before the season's done, 
 
 Cold and damp will thin their ranks, 
 
 Though their race is nearly run. 
 
 Still they sing from sheltered banks. 
 
 When the hoar frost's crisp at dawn, 
 And the evening air grows chill, 
 Weak the minstrels on the lawn, 
 "Few and faint but fearless still." 
 
 One by one they silent grow, 
 
 And the snowflakes drape their bier. 
 But their children sleep below 
 
 Next bright Autumn to appear. 
 
MOTHER: A POEM. 
 
 Dedication: To that uncounttd. couutless tlii-vMig— earth's mothers; 
 First to my own. and then t j all ttc others. 
 
 I. 
 
 Tbf Rocortl. 
 
 Forty years it stands to-day:* 
 
 Forly years bcloz'cd! nor hated 
 
 Smallest fraction of the tvay 
 
 Night or storm! O! never-sated 
 
 Hungered, yearning, heart-relief, 
 
 Vestal flame, unmatched, unmated, 
 
 Liglit the sight less can perceive, 
 
 Bit of heaven to earth translated, 
 
 Woman's might, and woman's weakness, 
 
 Woman's pride, and lowly meekness, 
 
 Jealous, 'tho unselfish wholly, 
 
 — Often scourged far worse than folly. 
 
 Universal, of all stations. 
 
 Free of Tongues, Creeds, Races, Nations, 
 
 Simple — just itself — none other — ■ 
 
 The devotion of a Mother! 
 
 II. 
 
 TUp Hnliy. 
 
 Why do we call Mamma's wee darling "little stranger"? 
 Stranger to me, to you per'haps, hut not to her; 
 Close to her heart the secret grew for many days; 
 
 ♦This poem in part, and without apology, is tranlcly personal to the 
 author. 
 
78 
 
 Hidden, the mystery expanded into bloom; 
 Chastened by suffering the offering was made meet; — 
 Radiant Daughter of Hope, the New Life's Burden Bearer, 
 To thee no human hfe is strange — , thou know'st us all! 
 
 (Cradle Song-) 
 
 Baby, baby, 
 
 Mamma rocks the cradle; 
 
 Maybe, maybe, 
 
 'Till in sleep the shades fall. 
 
 Trusting, knowing, 
 
 All the earth her neighbors; 
 
 Rocking, sewing, — 
 
 Light and sweet such labors. 
 
 Smiles abeaming, 
 
 From T\Iay meads the lambs call; 
 
 Dreaming, dreaming, 
 
 O'er wee eves the shades fall. 
 
 III. 
 
 Birthdays. 
 
 All round the year like a garland they twine, 
 Gift-day, and Hope-day, with health pledged in wine, 
 Mamma's long-waited-for, red-letter days. 
 Keep with a loving observance always. 
 
 Spring, and the first-born, and gladdening sunshine; 
 March and the bluebird; his carol and mine; 
 Autumn — the vintage — our last and our best; 
 December and January claim all the rest. 
 
HEAR IT, MAMA' 
 
79 
 
 First-born is First — 'till tlie second appears; 
 ""Fll love this best," says Mamma Twenty-years; 
 Forty-years smiles, but with no thought of blame:— 
 "Eight have I borne, — I loved each one the same." 
 
 Days of new youth to the old and the young, 
 Natal days! welcome the smile and the song; 
 Days with new hope and new promise to cheer, 
 Mamma's-days! Keep them the days of the year! 
 
 IV. 
 The Heroic In I'liiiitnR'iiioi] Lives. 
 
 Tales of heroines and heroes, 
 
 How the childish heart commends them! 
 
 Hugs them to that heart unquestioned — 
 
 Multiplies, transmutes, extends them. 
 
 Doubt lopped ne'er one silken tassel. 
 
 Razed one grim enchanter's castle; 
 
 Bid a Princess or a lover 
 
 Rashly leave the twilight cover; 
 
 From one twilight to another 
 
 They will "keep tlie place" for mother; 
 
 Confident again to hold them — 
 
 "Sure! had not .\[ainiiia told them?" 
 
 Simple hearts! so trusting, loyal. 
 Breathless for the battle royal, 
 "Mad," if Bluebeard dies too easily, 
 Mamma's pleasure 'tis to please thee. 
 So she never tells the story, 
 — Fraught with pain and strange to glory- 
 Story not of giant unruly, 
 But of things that happened truly. 
 
8o 
 
 When our fair young state was younger, 
 Wlien Dame Plenty's lap was empty 
 Sometimes, and Health out of season, 
 When the wolf, real or symbolic, 
 Roamed the wild, and at the cottage- 
 Door made weird, blood-curdling howlings. 
 When to Toil was wedded Hunger, 
 In an unfamiliar landscape, 
 Through a wilderness scarce-traveled, 
 Four long days of foot-sore journey, 
 In her arms a four-months' baby, 
 A young mother of the people. 
 Forty miles pressed forward bravely. 
 
 Little thing, as now remembered. 
 Light as jest wellnigh forgotten. 
 Not to be compared to other 
 Glorious deeds that fiction blazons; 
 Just a mother very wear\' — 
 Just an infant wailing feebly. 
 One thing links it to the present. 
 One thing makes the record precious. 
 The recorder's lip to tremble, 
 This: — The lady, O! so weary. 
 That was Mamma now so cheery; 
 And the babe that cried "hoo hoo," sir. 
 Little roguish-eyes, 'twas yon, sir! 
 
 V. 
 
 He knows the taste of Mamma's love. 
 
 And any tricks he'll foil ; 
 
 He does not aloes take, or salts, 
 
8i 
 
 Rhubarb, or castor oil. 
 
 He'd tied her tail; she scratched him sonie- 
 
 (Better'n Tom— she bit his thumb.) 
 
 But bravely to her side he slid, 
 
 To hear what n; ughty Tommy did: — 
 
 "Within the oven immured the cat, 
 The kitten in the churn; 
 'Monstrus!' saith Papa, "what is that?' 
 Each face showed much concern. 
 'Was that roast dead?" (this to the cook) 
 Here Tommy slunk away, 
 And pussy from the fire they took, 
 Her nine lives saved that day." 
 
 "Now Mamma's boy would not do that. 
 
 And singe the pretty pussy cat 
 
 Until her fur would smell?" 
 
 "O! no." quoth Johnny cheerfully, 
 
 "I'll put her in the well!" 
 
 VI. 
 
 Fop:ivene.«*«. 
 
 The Mother's heart will always find the way 
 
 To pardon and take back the erring child; 
 
 Unlocked, ajar, that portal night and day. 
 
 And within, light and warmth ; while generous piled 
 
 Divinest traits, distinctively her own: — 
 
 Under injustice more of sorrow shown, 
 
 And less a blind instinctive sense of wrong; 
 
 With feebler will. afTection true as strong; 
 
 And so completely she in others doth live, 
 
 She deems it rapturous duty to forgive. 
 
"Forgive — forget!" few o'er the last make haste, 
 All know the difference who have transgressed. 
 Forgiveness with no bitter aftertaste, 
 Nor lurking sense of injury unconfessed, 
 Self-rigliteous pose, or chill superior mien, 
 Perfect and whole; a gracious suppliant queen 
 Asking thy favor! Grace once more renew! 
 Thy mother shares thy shame, and spares it, too! 
 
 VII. 
 Lite. 
 
 "Felix, at zvhat a price wc live!" 
 
 Nothing for naught: we cannot choose but pay. 
 
 A careless joy, its ofifset. too, is cheap. 
 
 What her heart asked, she saw it straightway done- 
 
 Her children scarce were ill within her memory; 
 
 And now she's gone. 
 
 Was gladness hers all day? 
 
 If joy, she sadness hath. 
 
 She pictures sickness — sorrow in the path. 
 
 And beyond that — not wide, but dreaded deep — 
 
 The "narrow sea." 
 
 Privileged boon of wed estate. 
 
 Its joys are many; 
 
 They should be. 
 
 For all too soon 
 
 Comes death. 
 
 Life is ,1 trembling breath, 
 
 Shuddering 'twixt bliss and swoon. 
 
 The heart that throbs, doth bleed: 
 
 The Mother's joy is very great, indeed; 
 
 So is the agony. 
 
THE CROSS, A MARBLE PRAYER.' 
 
83 
 vm. 
 
 "These Tiventy Years." 
 
 The snowdrops nestle there, 
 The cross — a marble prayer, 
 Rises, divinely fair 
 Above his head; 
 
 The shadow comes and goes. 
 The grass but sparsely grows, 
 One frail "dear wilding rose" 
 Blossoms, dew-fed; 
 
 The pine trees overhead 
 A perfumed coolness spread, 
 We pass, with muffled tread 
 Upon their leaves; 
 
 Of sound, the calm suspense. 
 Life's turmoil has gone hence, 
 'Round every tired sense 
 Still sweetness weaves. 
 
 • * * 
 
 Cut dowai before his prime. 
 Scarce blossomed in this clime. 
 And Manhood's w'ords unsaid. 
 
 Gone, but remembered yet; 
 What mother can forget 
 The birthday of her dead? 
 
 Few will need Barrie's art 
 To devine the tender grace; 
 They read it in her face- 
 She keeps it in her heart. 
 
^4 
 
 IX. 
 The Picture. 
 
 A mighty nation's year of holiday 
 Full of white dreams of mimic palace walls, 
 And miracles of glass and iron halls 
 Was slipping by; a cripple made his way 
 From the more densely packed domain of art 
 Up to the balcony; and there, apart 
 Before a canvas large, there clustered close 
 Some score, their wrapt regard as like repose: 
 He joined the silent throng, himself was hushed — 
 Then swift as summer storm, the hot tears rushed. 
 
 The central figure, calm and self-possessed, 
 — -The mighty surgeon, frankly self-confessed — 
 The stupor'd living clay beneath his hand — 
 Think you that these the flood-gates so command? 
 No! (for a man himself) he feared not blood; 
 But to the right from where the surgeon stood 
 A woman, shuddering, shrank upon the floor. 
 Wretched and old; worn hands her face before 
 Clawed back the horror offered to her sight: 
 He sees but this — and transformed; in the light 
 Of breathless mem'ry, 'tho the years are dim; — 
 His mother she, that silent form was him! 
 
 He lay like that within the hospital; — 
 Imagination works — why part not all? 
 Thus would she suffer while he could not soothe; 
 Suffer for both, her deathless love to prove, 
 The while he slumbered, knowing naught of pain: 
 Ah! there are things he would not have again — 
 The ether's throttling draught, — no more! no more! 
 'Tis mercv mothers are denied the door. 
 
'White dreams of mimic palace walls. 
 And miracles of glass and iron halls." 
 
85 
 
 And from the mighthy Fair he brought away 
 Something that tarries with him night and day; 
 He nevermore can see gray hair uncoiled, 
 Those crooked fingers that for him have toiled, 
 Eyes growing dim, 'tho sightful yet of pain, 
 But Eakins' canvas visits him again. 
 "The scene is false; the treatment, too, astray." 
 'Tis granted — yes; dear critic turn away, 
 Or turn, and that even yet thou mayst be wise. 
 Read deeper truths in the spectator's eyes. 
 What matters that the brushwork might be ill? 
 ^adn-s,' salt font it to the brim could fill! 
 
 X. 
 
 Tbe Minlsteiliis Angel. 
 
 In the black tower hangs a silvery bell, 
 
 Ponderous and rugged, swung 'mid bats and gloom; 
 
 From child to grandsire everyone knows well 
 
 Its peal of joy, its tolling to the tomb. 
 
 Its counting of their hours and their days: 
 
 And if for sloth, or other care or toil, 
 
 — Good cause or bad — the sexton late delays 
 
 To reel the cord, the wheels on wheels to oil. 
 
 Old Sol and Luna on its record gain. 
 
 He heard it, fettered to his bed of pain. 
 But could not make it out ; for in the race 
 From morn to morn, together all kept pace. 
 What was the matter? was the sun run down? 
 Was every sexton lazy in the town. 
 The moon anapping, and Times' hour-glass slow? 
 Then anguish blots — he could not answer now — 
 He guessed it later, when health came again. 
 
86 
 
 Dwell not too much upon a long past night: 
 Dwell not so lightly that you nothing learn. 
 Even now that bell is sounding from the height, — 
 "Hold fast the good, nor dread the ill return." 
 Even now that silvery chime a wraith evokes: — 
 The hearing ears, 'tho weariness o'erpowers — - 
 Slow centuries between its counted hours, 
 As hours, as days, the silence 'tween its strokes. 
 
 But through them, service — living, loving, warm — 
 Unseen with eyes, with ears unheard — but there 
 Silent and watchful; lest the cjuick despair 
 Of pain intolerable, work for harm. 
 
 * » * 
 
 Blessed the morning, after night of pain; 
 A cause for joy, both bright, the past, and dim; 
 Blessed the sun-calm after stomi and rain; 
 Thrice blest the son whose mother's spared to him. 
 
 XI. 
 Divei*j\5:euce. 
 
 Hast thou knelt at mother's knee 
 
 In the years when Time seemed wasteful 
 
 Of his hours? then follow me. 
 
 Come! it should not prove distasteful 
 
 If yet sad — for life is so: 
 
 Only lights and shadows blending. 
 
 Crossing, flitting to and fro. 
 
 Only the procession, ending 
 
 Not to-day, or yet next year. 
 
 — Silence hides the date it started — 
 
 Mothers — children: brush a tear 
 
 That they ever should be parted. 
 
' reacliiiirj baby lips to pray. 
 Clasping baby hands together" 
 
87 
 
 What is it that mamma says? 
 
 Part of the Eternal Story. 
 
 What is it that mamma prays? 
 
 Mamma's boy shall see its glory; 
 
 Be with her forever blest, 
 
 — Blessedness uncomprehended — ; 
 
 Share with her a perfect rest, 
 
 When the toil of time is ended. 
 
 Linking this, not understood, 
 
 To that life past understanding, — 
 
 (Wonder, Faith, and Hope seem good 
 
 To the rare new life expanding,) 
 
 Every night and every day, 
 
 In all lands, in every- weather, 
 
 Teaching baby lips to pray, 
 
 Clasping baby hands together. 
 
 Lisping speech's sweet intent, 
 
 Guiding sure, 'tho slowly, rather, 
 
 One, and yet as different — 
 
 Earthly Papa, Heavenly Father — 
 
 Who will judge one mother's wTong? 
 
 Poor mad fool! his heart is blighted. 
 
 Yet the time will come ere long — 
 
 Even now's divergence sighted' — 
 
 Childish wonder — boyish question ; 
 
 Youthful questioning. — man's demand; 
 
 Mother's love a fulfilled promise, 
 
 Why not other promise stand? 
 
 Who athirst will pass the font? 
 
 See! the sons of men apanting 
 
 Toil both up and down the mount 
 
 Parclied and fevered; wanting — wanting, 
 
 By the doorway of the grot 
 
 They may vainly pause and parley, 
 
 "Open Sesame" forgot, 
 
 Bootless here to tender "barley" — 
 
88 
 
 Mother! not for that thy son 
 
 Spurns thy faith; 'twere his, and gladly, 
 
 Could it be: not all in one 
 
 Faith were taught; and so, 'tho sadly, 
 
 Each must seek unto his need: 
 
 Not even mother's love can vanquish 
 
 Yearnings for the perfect creed 
 
 Sought and found not, 'tho in angfuish 
 
 Spent the night and sped the day, 
 
 Tasting, proving, weighing, doubting, 
 
 From companions of the way. 
 
 Harkening bitter, senseless flouting, 
 
 Blaming not her glad assent, 
 
 Never claiming they're above her. 
 
 Only — only different. 
 
 Thirsting more because they love her. 
 
 Fearful, dreading tender ties 
 
 Under stress, were broke asunder, 
 
 Passing blind where safety lies. 
 
 Feeling all a horrid blunder; 
 
 All these ('tho the heart keep warm) 
 
 Harrowing memories that so cling. 
 
 Alienate the outward form; — 
 
 If they lovetft less, 'twere as nothing. 
 
 XII. 
 Heartbreak. 
 
 O! stupid weights, 
 
 O! measures vain. 
 
 Questionings, doublings, reasons plain 
 
 These many years: 
 
 Logic, — a schooled and ordered brain. 
 
 Conviction, — ah! here gives the pain; 
 
 Against it all — just mother's tears. 
 
89 
 
 Speak gently, friend, 
 
 If in thy sight 
 
 The breaking heart pause in tlie fight, 
 
 And Truth appears 
 
 In truth a dim and fitfid liglit; 
 
 Right merged in W'rong, and Day with Night 
 
 The while he sees poor mother's tears. 
 
 XIII. 
 1 
 
 Convergence. 
 
 Sabine maids, hut Roman matrons, 
 Saved their husbands and their brothers; 
 Alothers — always war's worst patrons — 
 Yet will save beyond these mothers. 
 
 Think not naught this century? needs 
 Must find true hearts (that long impelled them) 
 Softened much toward many creeds, 
 Wonderfully, toward those who held them. 
 
 Hate compels, while love impels us; 
 Seek such paths where bickerings cease. 
 Paths of peace lie all around us — 
 Paths of duty, and of peace. 
 
 Mother! first thy sweet intent; 
 Each his own way forward striving; 
 One. and yet as dififerent — 
 And the good ianaW surviving. 
 
90 
 
 XIV. 
 Conclnsion. 
 
 Fullest heart wins faltering tongiie; 
 Weakly, brokenly, I've sung, 
 Commonplace, poor words I've spoken 
 Of my own; of hers, slight token; 
 Yet will not, may not disguise 
 Miracle, nor show surprise 
 If pure gold to mother's eyes, 
 
 Wliat were vanity of speech. 
 Craft's conceited utmost reach. 
 Waking dream, or nightly round. 
 Sounds, that sounding, only sound, 
 Or allusion, rhyme, mismated; 
 When in language of her heart, 
 With its higher, holier art, 
 Read as wondrously translated? 
 
 Mother's sons! as friends and brothers 
 Harken! love that love of mothers. 
 Shame not lads to take it all — 
 Honor thine as thus beholden; 
 But — be all deceit above; 
 Ask thyselves a question small — 
 Ccnid'st thou, zvould'st thou have thy love 
 Passed for gold, nor make it golden? 
 
 — ^Thb Glen, March 14, 1S90. 
 
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