PS 3507 
 .0755 
 P6 
 1911 
 Copy 1 
 
 Poems of Fancy 
 
 BY 
 
 A. DONALD DOUGLAS 
 
Poems of Fancy 
 
 c ^r^ BY 
 
 MCDONALD DOUGLAS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 EVERY WHERE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 

 Copyright, 1911,' 
 
 BY 
 
 Every Where Publishing Company 
 all rights reserved 
 
 >CLA30n234 
 

 ^«^^ 
 ^ 
 
 ^ CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 C'Est Mon Monde 1 
 
 "I Byde My Tyme" 2 
 
 Wealth and Poverty . . , . . .3 
 
 Sonnet 4 
 
 Mater Mea ...... 5 
 
 Longing 6 
 
 Why Call Thee a Rose? .... 8 
 
 Past, and Future . . . . . 9 
 
 'The Moving Finger" 10 
 
 To a Friend . . . . . . 15 
 
 Her Farewell 16 
 
 In Love's Garden . . . . . 17 
 
 Ode 19 
 
 On Presenting a Paint-box to a Young Lady 20 
 
 Spring 21 
 
Poems of Fancy* 
 
 CEST MON MONDE. 
 
 She wept: the sky grew dark and black with rain; 
 She frowned : and oceans writhed to see her pain ; 
 She smiled: and Nature gentle grew again; 
 She laughed: her laughter shook the earth amain. 
 
 <b=^tJ^^===^Q<?==^^^ 
 
POEMS OF FANCY. 
 
 "I BYDE MY TYME." 
 
 Though sullen clouds are rolling o'er my sky, 
 And tempests shake foundations of my world; 
 
 Though Heaven's distant, and black Hell is nigh. 
 And on my sea the pirates' flag is furled: 
 I bide my time. 
 
 What though fell tyrants wear my golden crown, 
 My innocence be trampled on by shame. 
 
 What though my highest stars yet tumble down, 
 And those unworthy block my way to fame? 
 I bide my time. 
 
 Sweet hope ne'er dies within the human breast, 
 While truth and honor are not empty name, 
 
 And time will come when virtue shows its crest: 
 Till then I wait — till then I say to Fame: 
 "I bide my time." 
 
WEALTH AND POVERTY. 
 
 WEALTH AND POVERTY. 
 
 When I linger at her side, 
 And in her lovelight dwell, 
 
 I am so rich in all my pride 
 The world is mine to sell. 
 
 But when at last I sadly leave 
 The portals of her door, 
 
 Then vanishes the all I have. 
 And I am beggar-poor. : 
 
POEMS OF FANCY. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 I would not have thee other than thou art, 
 
 Nor beg thee mold in other form thy soul, 
 For did one atom of thy spirit part 
 
 Its wonted place in thy chaste temple's whole, 
 How stranger far would seem to me its hall. 
 
 Whose empty niche would yield me little gain. 
 For treasure thee, I would, dear, all in all 
 
 Nor count thy faults or virtues grain by grain 
 And balance one against the other's weight. 
 
 How niggard then would seem to thee a love, 
 Which, not content in meeting such a mate, 
 
 To earth would drag thy soul from climes above ! 
 *Tis joy enough to love thee as thou art. 
 
 And not to judge thee coldly, part by part! 
 
MATER MEA. 
 
 MATER MEA. 
 
 My mother dear, when often I look back 
 O'ef former times' sweet blossoming, golden field, 
 
 When I was young, when coming Life's attack 
 Was hidden me by your protecting shield: 
 
 I see a face enlightening all the sky: 
 'Tis thine, for darkness fled when thou wert nigh. 
 
 There met my gaze no breakers* jagged teeth. 
 Nor driving storms that wreck Life's foundering 
 ships. 
 
 The sky was ever clear; the gentle breath 
 Of happiness was wafted from thy lips. 
 
 Thy tears my sea ; thy sheltering lap my earth ; 
 Thy smile my sun ; thy frown the tempest's birth. 
 
POEMS OF FANCY. 
 
 LONGING. 
 
 Sweetheart, why this sudden coldness, 
 Why hast frowned so stern? Confess! 
 
 Has my speech aught too much boldness 
 That has froze thy sweet address? 
 
 Wherein did I so offend thee 
 
 That thou turn'st thy smile away? 
 
 Now the Gods must needs commend me 
 In my dark and sullen day. 
 
 For thou hast nor writ nor spoken, 
 Days have fled and days have come. 
 
 Ah ! My aching heart is broken ! 
 So 'twill stay while thou art dumb. 
 
 For the post has brought no letters, 
 Days and weeks I live in gloom; 
 
 Speak, and break my heavy fetters, 
 Else I sorrow in the tomb. 
 
 Is my memory taken from thee? 
 Has another filled my place? 
 6 
 
LONGING, 
 
 Does this silence well become thee? 
 Thou wouldst call such conduct base. 
 
 Faint with longing, sad I linger 
 
 O'er the fields of life's broad plain ; 
 Though the distance veils the singer, 
 '■. Floats there back a sweet refrain. 
 
 Thou alone canst raise and cheer me, 
 Brightening every daily task; 
 
 Though thou art — alas! — ^^not near me, 
 Word from thee is all I ask. 
 
 Wf 
 
 r 
 
POEMS OF FANCY. 
 
 WHY CALL THEE A ROSE? 
 
 I will not name thee, sweet, a rose 
 That swift will droop to dust too soon : 
 
 Thy beauty pales not, nay, it grows 
 As long as shine the sun and moon. 
 
 A rose will fade at Time's harsh breath 
 And lose its sweetness in a night; 
 
 Thou ne'er wilt pale, and e'en in Death 
 Thou still wilt keep thy beauty bright. 
 
 Mayhap thy cheeks will lose their dye, 
 As Time looks on thee with cold smile, 
 
 And yet thy never-darkening eye 
 Will bloom with roses all the while. 
 
 So why call thee a rose, my sweet, 
 Who fairer art than any flower? 
 
 Whose crystal sweetness e*er will greet 
 Thy lover in Love's golden bower. 
 
PAST, AND FUTURE. 
 
 PAST, AND FUTURE. 
 
 Ah! Little it reoks if the clouds of the past are swept 
 
 from the sky of to-day, 
 And its conquered waves beat sullenly over the 
 
 shoals of yesterday — 
 If the debt of the past, on the book of Fate, is finally 
 
 striken away — 
 Then your mind is free and your joyous thoughts may 
 
 frolic in their play: 
 For the past is the past, and the present is here — 
 
 the future lies bright on your way. 
 
POEMS OF FANCY. 
 
 'THE MOVING FINGER.' 
 
 An Allegory. 
 
 I long had prayed that God forgive my sin, 
 
 But in His wrath He turned His face from me; 
 My piteous pleadings found no entrance in 
 
 His Hall: my prayers and penance could not free 
 My soul, nor wash the spot from off my shield. 
 
 The dark cloud hid Him still within its breast; 
 He frowned upon my penance, nor would yield 
 
 A sign of pardon that would give me rest. 
 
 My dreams had brought a voice that oft had told me : 
 
 "The Cross alone can save thee and release." 
 The arms of my black shame did still enfold me, 
 
 Nor had a sign been granted me of peace. 
 Would shadowy phantom of a Cross at sunrise, 
 
 Or place of wayside Calvary be sent? 
 My hands were red; the echoes of my cries 
 
 But beat 'gainst Heaven's stony battlement. 
 
 The scourge with iron tips yet drew my blood, 
 
 And days I fasted in my rocky cave : 
 It needed all my strength and hardihood 
 10 
 
"THE MOVING FINGER," 
 
 To drive me on and yet my soul to save. 
 There flashed before me ever my fell deed: 
 
 The country bloomed in summer. On the hill 
 Was perched a cottage, and kind Nature's meed 
 
 Was granted all. Along the purling rill 
 
 There strolled a youth and maid in light of love; 
 
 And all responded to the happy pair. 
 The blessing of the Queen of Stars above 
 
 Rained down upon them from the crystal air. 
 The city's polish thin-veneered the youth — 
 
 The citadel was stormed. The simple maid 
 Thought all were pure as she in love and truth : 
 
 The lover's touch awoke the strings that played. 
 
 The windows of her purity reflected 
 
 The innocence that lay within her mind; 
 She thought — poor soul — ^that all mankind respected 
 
 The trust her temples pure, fond, dreamed to find 
 In shields of all, unsullied as her faith. 
 
 He loved at first, but soon his summer faded; 
 Yon city's pleasures and the other's wraith. 
 
 He left her — fled the walks he had invaded. 
 
 Betrayed, deserted — poor, unhappy mother! 
 
 The youth fled her, but ne'er could flee his sin. 
 Once vows he'd bartered, now swore to another. 
 
 But this time he meant faith. His conscience' din 
 Was quieted. The vows he had forsook 
 11 
 
POEMS OF FANCY. 
 
 Thought merely youth's mad folly of the past, 
 But the finger wrote as surely in the book. 
 Ere he could wed his sweetheart, rumor's blast 
 
 Had blown unto her ears what he had done : 
 
 The other's babe was dead, and so was she. 
 They scorned him all; his race its course had run. 
 
 She'd have none of him: no, it could not be. 
 In horror of himself and deed as well. 
 
 He fled unto the seaside's rocky shore 
 Where rugged cliffs leaned o'er the ocean's swell. 
 
 And waves sprang in the aether with a roar. 
 
 I was that Youth. And fondly I did dream. 
 
 The thunder of the waves would wash me clean; 
 And that the winds would blow me but a beam 
 
 Of Hope. In vain, she ne'er would come again. 
 The waves broke on my soul's bleak, barren strand, 
 
 The winds but blew me what there might have been, 
 But which 1 had destroyed with rude, rough hand. 
 
 Ah, would her figure be forever seen 
 
 That held the lifeless babe up in its arms? 
 
 My penance seemed like ages spent in hell. 
 "What can I do to wash me of the harms 
 
 That I inflicted? Must I ever dwell 
 In torment?" Mocking voices seemed to say : 
 
 "What's done is written, not your prayers nor 
 tears 
 
 12 
 
"THE MOVING FINGER." 
 
 Can ever drive the clouds from out your day." 
 I near despaired, when whispered in my ears 
 
 A voice that spoke: "Go, climb the rugged cliff: 
 
 Upon the summit you'll find what you seek--- 
 Forgiveness." So one morn when vapors' whiff 
 
 Was shimmering before me, and the shriek 
 Of winds was whistling through my ragged cave, 
 
 I threw around my shoulders, scarred by wrath, 
 The hooded gown; and hoping to retrieve 
 
 My shame, set forth upon the rocky path. 
 
 A storm was raging o'er the foaming deep 
 
 From whence a voice oft called to me in scorn: 
 "Return. Your sowing cannot harvest reap." 
 
 A mist was rising in the coming morn; 
 The vapors hid from me the sun's hot ray; 
 
 Dark chasms yawned around me, at whose base 
 The waters surged and gurgled in their play. 
 
 Shrill laughter mocked me as I sped my race. 
 
 The ribbon of the path unwound above me; 
 
 The coast was sounding with the surge of tide. 
 A misstep — ^but Hope stretched her arm to save me, 
 
 And She seemed ever to stay at my side. 
 I upward crept, until the mists concealed me, 
 
 Where gulls were darting in the vaporous air; 
 A pile of heaped stones was now revealed me. 
 
 That promised of a cross and safety there. 
 13 
 
POEMS OF FANCY. 
 
 The dashing waves bedewed me with their spray, 
 
 The wind was tugging at my flapping gown. 
 She seemed to float before me on my way, 
 
 My spirits rose each obstacle to down. 
 The tumbling mass of all the ocean drear 
 
 Seemed breaking 'gainst my heart's encircling 
 keep ; 
 My soul drove out the shadowy form of fear. 
 
 I threw me then upon the stony heap: 
 But suddenly the sun broke through the clouds, 
 And showed a reeking gibbet hung with shrouds. 
 
 l'envoi. 
 
 "The Moving Finger writes, and having writ 
 Moves on : nor all your Piety nor Wit, 
 
 Can lure it back to cancel half a Line, 
 Nor all your Tears wash out a word of it." 
 
 14 
 
TO A FRIEND. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 It is my plea 
 
 To ask of thee 
 That thou e'er call'st me friend- 
 
 A friend in need 
 
 Is one in deed, 
 Whom trouble cannot bend. 
 
 This much I ask — 
 
 A little task- 
 To keep me in your heart. 
 
 So treasure yet, 
 
 Nor e'er forget. 
 Until at death we part. 
 
 15 
 
POEMS OF FANCY. 
 
 HER FAREWELL. 
 
 With tears in my eyes I kissed thee, 
 For the time of our parting had come : 
 
 The call of thy country must list thee, 
 And now thou art leaving thy home. 
 
 My love, will I e'er more behold thee? 
 
 God grant this is not the last kiss! 
 Will my arms in the future enfold thee? 
 
 Wilt thou sink soon in Death's dark abyss? 
 
 Oh, why must the war of the Nations 
 Drag thee from the arms of thy wife? 
 
 Ah, would there were peaceful relations 
 And none of this death in our life! 
 
 I kiss thee with tears of deep sorrow, 
 
 But give all I have to my land. 
 A widow I may be to-morrow, 
 
 For thy life-blood is written on sand. 
 
 16 
 
IN LOVE'S GARDEN. 
 
 IN LOVE'S GARDEN. 
 
 Thou hast mine heart in golden keep, 
 
 And all that I call mine; 
 My love for thee is far too deep 
 
 To grudge thee aught that's thine. 
 
 But give me not mine heart again — 
 The heart thou keepest warm, 
 
 For if thy light were once withdrawn 
 'Twould die in winter's storm. 
 
 Mine heart is gay when thou art glad. 
 
 And yet its hardihood 
 Is vanished when thou weepest sad: 
 
 Its tears are tears of blood. 
 
 Unto mine heart thine eyes are stars, — 
 
 Above its fragrant bower 
 Thy smile sends down its golden bars; 
 
 Mine heart's a tender flower. 
 
 Its falling rain are thy sad tears, 
 With rainbow's colors light; 
 
 Thy voice the music of the spheres, 
 That sing of Love's delight. 
 17 
 
POEMS OF FANCY, 
 
 Unto mine heart thou art the earth 
 
 And all that is divine. 
 Oh, fount of sorrow and of mirth, 
 
 Come plant thine heart with mine ! 
 
 18 
 
ODE, 
 
 ODE. 
 
 To Her Cat. 
 
 In ancient book 
 They often sing : 
 
 "A cat may look 
 Upon a king." 
 
 Far happier is 
 Her cat, I ween, 
 
 For he may gaze 
 Upon a queen. 
 
 19 
 
POEMS OF FANCY. 
 
 ON PRESENTING A PAINT-BOX TO 
 A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 The rainbow's colors here to thee I give: 
 Is it an artist I would turn thee now? 
 
 No, no, for such a use do not believe 
 I give them thee! for 'tis not so, I trow. 
 
 The rainbow's colors these compose, I ween: 
 Thou canst not find the answer in thy heart? 
 
 If thou couldst steal its glory or its sheen, 
 They could not make thee fairer than thou art. 
 
 QOU 
 
 20 
 
SPRING. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 The fragrance of roses fills the air, 
 The violets bloom in the fields; 
 
 The heart, dead in winter, is free from care- 
 To thoughts light and joyous it yields. 
 
 For Spring is here, 
 
 The skies are fair. 
 The robins rear 
 
 Their young with care. 
 
 Oh, the heart of man is free and gay, 
 Away with work and on with play! 
 
 The Wanderlust stirs us to do ; 
 To meadows green and pastures new. 
 
 The grass is green, 
 
 The trees bud forth 
 'Neath skies serene. 
 
 The wint'ry North 
 That brings the snow 
 
 We laugh to scorn : 
 His wings we know 
 
 Have now been shorn. 
 For Spring has come. Dead world, awake ! 
 Rise from thy couch — now do and make! 
 21 
 
m 23 isi« 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div, 
 OCT 2'« '»"