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BY HENRY VAN DYKE 
 
 The Valley of Vision 
 Fighting for Peace 
 The Unknown Quantity 
 The Ruling Passion 
 The Blue Flower 
 
 Out-of-Doors in the Holy Land 
 Days Off 
 Little Rivers 
 Fisherman's Luck 
 
 Poems, Collection in one volume 
 
 Golden Stars 
 
 The Red Flower 
 
 The Grand Canyon, and Other Poems 
 
 The White Bees, and Other Poems 
 
 The Builders, and Other Poems 
 
 Music, and Other Poems 
 
 The Toiling of Felix, and Other Poems 
 
 The House of Rimmon 
 
 Studies in Tennyson 
 Poems of Tennyson 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
THE POEMS ' 
 
 OF 
 
 HENRY VAN DYKE 
 
 A NEW AND REVISED EDITION 
 WITH MANY HITHERTO UNCOLLECTED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 MCMXX 
 
Copyriakt, 1000. 1904, 1908, 1909, 1911, 1914, 1915. 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 19^0, 
 by Charlei Scribner't Soni 
 
 ,Ccfyrighl, 1913, 1914. 1916. 1917. 1918. by Harper &■ Brothers 
 
 Copyright, 1913, by !.'/e Publishing Company 
 
 Copyright, 1918, by P. F. Collier &■ Sou, Inc. 
 
 Copyright, 1915, 1916. 1918, by the Outlook Company 
 
 Copyright, 1916. by Arnerican Academy of Arts and Letters 
 
 Copyright, 1916. by the Kalon Publishing Co., Inc. 
 
 Copyright, 1917, by The Independent 
 
 Copyright, 1917, by The Netu York Times Company 
 
 Copyright, 1918, by The New York Herald Co. 
 
 Copyright, 1918, by .\'eiu York Tribune, Inc. 
 
 Copyright, 1917. by Laud and Ifaler Publishing Co. 
 
 Copyright, 191S, by The Public Ledger 
 
 Copyright, 191!«, by The Press Publishing Co. 
 
 \ 
 
 \1 
 
 
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 tftn^'/- 
 
 !-r- 
 
 THI SCRIBNER PRESS 
 
KATRINA TRASK 
 
 AND 
 
 JOHN HUSTON FINLEY 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 
 
 
 EARLY VERSES 
 
 The After-Echo , . 3 
 
 Dulciora ...... 
 
 . 
 
 4 
 
 Three Alpine Sonnets .... 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Matins 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 The Parting and the Coming Guest 
 
 
 
 10 
 
 If All the Skies 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 Wings of a Dove 
 
 
 
 13 
 
 The Fall of the Leaves 
 
 
 
 14 
 
 A Snow-Song ..... 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 Roslin and Hawthornden 
 
 
 
 17 
 
 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 When Tulips Bloom 
 
 The Whip-Poor-Will . 
 
 The Lily of Yorrow 
 
 The Veery . 
 
 The Song-Sparrow 
 
 The Maryland Yellow-Throat 
 
 A November Daisy 
 
 The Angler's Reveille . 
 
 The Ruby-Crowned Kinglet 
 
 vii 
 
 21 
 24 
 27 
 29 
 31 
 33 
 35 
 37 
 41 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 School .... 
 
 Indian Summer . 
 
 Spring in the North 
 
 Spring in the South 
 
 A Noon Song 
 
 Light Between the Trees 
 
 The Hermit Thrush . 
 
 Turn o' the Tide 
 
 Sierra Madre 
 
 The Grand Canyon 
 
 The Heavenly Hills of Holland 
 
 Flood-Tide of Flowers . 
 
 God of the Open Air 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 The Toiling of Felix 
 Vera . 
 
 Another Chance . 
 A Legend of Service 
 The White Bees . 
 New Year's Eve . 
 The Vain King . 
 The Foolish Fir-Tree 
 "Gran* Boule" . 
 Heroes of the "Titanic" 
 The Standard-Bearer 
 The Proud Lady . 
 
 viii 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 LABOUR AND ROMANCE 
 
 A Mile with Me 165 
 
 The Three Best Things 166 
 
 Rehance ......... 169 
 
 Doors of Daring ........ 170 
 
 The Child in the Garden 171 
 
 Love's Reason ........ 172 
 
 The Echo in the Heart 173 
 
 "Undine" 174 
 
 "Rencontre" 175 
 
 Love in a Look ........ 177 
 
 My April Lady 178 
 
 A Lover's Envy ........ 179 
 
 Fire-Fly City 180 
 
 The Gentle Traveller 182 
 
 Nepenthe 183 
 
 Day and Night 185 
 
 Hesper 186 
 
 Arrival 187 
 
 Departure ......... 188 
 
 The Black Birds 189 
 
 Without Disguise . . . . . . .192 
 
 An Hour . . .193 
 
 "Rappelle-Toi" 194 
 
 Love's Nearness . . . . . . . .196 
 
 Two Songs of Heine . . . . . . .197 
 
 ix 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Eight Echoes from the Poems of Auguste Angellier 
 Rappel d'Amour ...... 
 
 The River of Dreams ..... 
 
 198 
 209 
 210 
 
 HEARTH AND ALTAR 
 
 A Home Song 
 
 
 
 
 . 217 
 
 "Little Boatie" . 
 
 
 
 
 . 218 
 
 A Mother's Birthday . 
 
 
 
 
 . 220 
 
 Transformation . 
 
 
 
 
 . 222 
 
 Rendezvous 
 
 
 
 
 . 223 
 
 Gratitude 
 
 
 
 
 . 224 
 
 Peace 
 
 
 
 
 . 225 
 
 Santa Cliristina . « 
 
 
 
 
 . 226 
 
 The Bargain 
 
 
 
 
 . 229 
 
 To the Child Jesus 
 
 
 
 
 . 230 
 
 Bitter-Sweet 
 
 
 
 
 . 231 
 
 Hymn of Joy 
 
 
 
 
 . 232 
 
 Song of a Pilgrim-Soul 
 
 
 
 
 . 234 
 
 Ode to Peace 
 
 
 
 
 . 235 
 
 Three Prayers for Sleep and ^ 
 
 tVaking 
 
 
 
 . 239 
 
 Portrait and Reality 
 
 
 
 
 . 242 
 
 The Wind of Sorrow 
 
 
 
 
 . 243 
 
 Hide and Seek 
 
 
 
 
 . 244 
 
 Autumn in the Garden 
 
 
 
 
 . 246 
 
 The Message 
 
 
 
 
 . 248 
 
 Dulcis Memoria . 
 
 
 
 
 . 249 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Window 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 251 
 
 Christmas Tears ........ 253 
 
 Dorothea, 1888-1912 255 
 
 EPIGRAMS, GREETINGS, AND INSCRIPTIONS 
 
 For Katrina's Sun-Dial 259 
 
 For Katrina's Window . 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 2G() 
 
 For the Friends at Hurstmont 
 
 
 
 
 
 261 
 
 The Sun-Dial at Morven 
 
 
 
 
 
 263 
 
 The Sun-Dial at Wells College 
 
 
 
 
 
 263 
 
 To Mark Twain . 
 
 
 
 
 
 264 
 
 Stars and the Soul 
 
 
 
 
 
 266 
 
 To Julia Marlowe 
 
 
 
 
 
 268 
 
 To Joseph Jefferson 
 
 
 f 
 
 
 
 268 
 
 The Mocking-Bird 
 
 
 
 
 
 269 
 
 The Empty Quatrain . 
 
 
 
 
 
 269 
 
 Pan Learns Music 
 
 
 
 
 
 270 
 
 The Shepherd of Nymphs 
 
 
 
 
 
 270 
 
 Echoes from the Greek Anthology 
 
 
 
 
 
 271 
 
 One World .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 274 
 
 Joy and Duty .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 274 
 
 The Prison and the Angel 
 
 
 
 
 
 275 
 
 The Way .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 275 
 
 Love and Light . 
 
 
 
 
 
 276 
 
 Facta non Verba .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 276 
 
 Four Things 
 
 
 
 
 
 277 
 
 XI 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Great River . . . . 
 
 Inscription for a Tomb in England 
 The Talisman . . . . 
 
 Thorn and Rose . . . . 
 
 "The Signs" . . . . 
 
 PRO PATRIA 
 Patria 
 America 
 
 The Ancestral Dwellings 
 Hudson's Last Voyage . 
 Sea-Gulls of Manhattan 
 A Ballad of Claremont Hill 
 Urbs Coronata 
 Mercy for Armenia 
 Sicily, December, 1908 
 "Come Back Again, Jeanne d'Arc' 
 National Monuments . 
 The Monument of Francis Makemie 
 The Statue of Sherman by St. Gaudens 
 "America for Me" 
 The Builders 
 
 Spirit of the Everlasting Boy 
 Texas .... 
 
 Who Follow the Flag . 
 
 xii 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Stain not the Sky 362 
 
 Peace-Hymn of the Republic ..... 364 
 
 THE RED FLOWER AND GOLDEN STARS 
 
 The Red Flower 369 
 
 A Scrap of Paper ....... 371 
 
 Stand Fast . 372 
 
 Lights Out 374 
 
 Remarks About Kings ....... 376 
 
 Might and Right 377 
 
 The Price of Peace 377 
 
 Storm-Music 378 
 
 The Bells of Malines 381 
 
 Jeanne d'Arc Returns ....... 384 
 
 The Name of France 385 
 
 America's Prosperity ....... 387 
 
 The Glory of Ships 388 
 
 Mare Liberum ........ 391 
 
 "Liberty Enlightening the World" . . . .393 
 
 The Oxford Thrushes 395 
 
 Homeward Bound ....... 397 
 
 The Winds of War-News 399 
 
 Righteous Wrath 400 
 
 The Peaceful Warrior 401 
 
 From Glory Unto Glory 40? 
 
 xiii 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Britain, France, America 
 
 The Red Cross .... 
 
 Easter Road .... 
 
 America's Welcome Home 
 
 The Surrender of the German Fleet 
 
 Golden Stars .... 
 
 In the Blue Heaven 
 
 A Shrine in the Pantheon 
 
 IN PRAISE OF POETS 
 
 Mother Earth 
 
 Milton 
 
 Wordsworth 
 
 Keats 
 
 Shelley 
 
 Robert Browning 
 
 Tennyson . 
 
 "In Memoriam" . 
 
 Victor Hugo 
 
 Longfellow . 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman 
 
 To James Whitcomb Riley 
 
 Richard Watson Gilder 
 
 The Valley of Vain Verses 
 
 xiv 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 MUSIC 
 
 Music 447 
 
 Master of Music 464 
 
 The Pipes o' Pan 466 
 
 To a Young Girl Singing 467 
 
 The Old Flute 468 
 
 The First Bird o' Spring 470 
 
 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 The House of Rimmon ....... 473 
 
 Dramatis Personse ....... 474 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 CARMINA FESTIVA 
 
 The Little-Neck Clam . 
 
 A Fairy Tale 
 
 The Ballad of the Solemn Ass 
 
 A Ballad of Santa Claus 
 
 Ars Agricolaris 
 
 Angler's Fireside Song . 
 
 How Spring Comes to Shasta Jim 
 
 A Bimch of Trout-Flies 
 
 Index of First Lines 
 
 551 
 555 
 558 
 562 
 565 
 570 
 571 
 574 
 
 577 
 
 XV 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 EARLY VERSES 
 
THE AFTER-ECHO 
 
 How long the echoes love to play 
 Around the shore of silence, as a wave 
 Retreating circles down the sand ! 
 One after one, with sweet delay, 
 The mellow sounds that cliff and island gave, 
 Have lingered in the crescent bay. 
 Until, by lightest breezes fanned. 
 They float far off beyond the dying day 
 And leave it still as death. 
 
 But hark, — 
 Another singing breath 
 Comes from the edge of dark; 
 
 A note as clear and slow 
 As falls from some enchanted bell. 
 Or spirit, passing from the world below, 
 That whispers back, Farewell. 
 
 So in the heart. 
 When, fading slowly down the past. 
 
 Fond memories depart, 
 
 And each that leaves it seems the last; 
 
 Long after all the rest are flown. 
 
 Returns a solitary tone, — 
 
 The after-echo of departed years, — 
 
 And touches all the soul to tears. 
 1871. 
 
DULCIORA 
 
 A TEAR that trembles for a little while 
 Upon the trembling eyelid, till the world 
 Wavers within its circle like a dream, 
 Holds more of meaning in its narrow orb 
 Than all the distant landscape that it blurs. 
 
 A smile that hovers round a mouth beloved, 
 Like the faint pulsing of the Northern Light, 
 And grows in silence to an amber dawn 
 Born in the sweetest depths of trustful eyes. 
 Is dearer to the soul than sun or star. 
 
 A joy that falls into the hollow heart 
 From some far-lifted height of love unseen. 
 Unknown, makes a more perfect melody 
 Than hidden brooks that murmur in the dusk, 
 Or fall athwart the cliff with wavering gleam. 
 
 Ah, not for their own sake are earth and sky 
 And the fair ministries of Nature dear. 
 But as they set themselves unto the tune 
 That fills our life; as light mysterious 
 Flows from within and glorifies the world. 
 
DULCIORA 
 
 For so a common wayside blossom, touched 
 With tender thought, assumes a grace more sweet 
 Than crowns the royal hly of the South; 
 And so a well-remembered perfume seems 
 The breath of one who breathes in Paradise. 
 
 1872. 
 
THREE ALPINE SONNETS 
 
 THE GLACIER 
 
 At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream, 
 The silver-crested waves no murmur make; 
 But far away the avalanches wake 
 
 The rumbling echoes, dull as in a dream; 
 
 Their momentary thunders, dying, seem 
 To fall into the stillness, flake by flake. 
 And leave the hollow air with naught to break 
 
 The frozen spell of solitude supreme. 
 
 At noon unnumbered rills begin to spring 
 Beneath the burning sun, and all the walls 
 
 Of all the ocean-blue crevasses ring 
 With liquid lyrics of their waterfalls; 
 
 As if a poet's heart had felt the glow 
 
 Of sovereign love, and song began to flow. 
 
 Zermatt, 1872. 
 
 6 
 
THREE ALPINE SONNETS 
 II 
 
 THE SNOW-FIELD 
 
 White Death had laid his pall upon the plain, 
 
 And crowned the mountain-peaks like monarchs dead; 
 The vault of heaven was glaring overhead 
 
 With pitiless light that filled my eyes with pain; 
 
 And while I vainly longed, and looked in vain 
 For sign or trace of life, my spirit said, 
 "Shall any living thing that dares to tread 
 
 This royal lair of Death escape again?" 
 
 But even then I saw before my feet 
 A line of pointed footprints in the snow: 
 Some roving chamois, but an hour ago. 
 Had passed this way along his journey fleet, 
 And left a message from a friend unknown 
 To cheer my pilgrim-heart, no more alone. 
 Zermatt, 1872. 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 m 
 
 MOVING BELLS 
 
 I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair 
 And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells, 
 To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells 
 
 Go chiming after her across the fair 
 
 And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare 
 Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells. 
 And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells 
 
 Of peace are woven through the purple air. 
 
 Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems 
 To walk before the dark by falling rills. 
 
 And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams; 
 She opens all the doors of night, and fills 
 
 With moving bells the music of my dreams, 
 That wander far among the sleeping bills. 
 
 Gstaad, August, 1909. 
 
 8 
 
MATINS 
 
 Flowers rejoice when night is done, 
 Lift their heads to greet the sun; 
 Sweetest looks and odours raise, 
 In a silent hymn of praise. 
 
 So my heart would turn away 
 From the darkness to the day; 
 Lying open in God's sight 
 Like a flower in the Ught. 
 
THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST 
 
 Who watched the worn-out Winter die? 
 Who, peering through the window-pane 
 At nightfall, under sleet and rain 
 
 Saw the old graybeard totter by? 
 
 Who listened to his parting sigh. 
 The sobbing of his feeble breath. 
 His whispered colloquy with Death, 
 And when his all of life was done 
 
 Stood near to bid a last good-bye? 
 Of all his former friends not one 
 
 Saw the forsaken Winter die. 
 
 Who welcomed in the maiden Spring? 
 
 Who heard her footfall, swift and light 
 
 As fairy -dancing in the night? 
 Who guessed what happy dawn would bring 
 The flutter of her bluebird's wing, 
 The blossom of her mayflower-face 
 
 To brighten every shady place? 
 
 One morning, down the village street, 
 "Oh, here am I," we heard her sing, — • 
 
 And none had been awake to greet 
 The coming of the maiden Spring. 
 
 10 
 
THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST 
 
 But look, her violet eyes are wet 
 With bright, unf alien, dewy tears; 
 And in her song my fancy hears 
 
 A note of sorrow trembling yet. 
 
 Perhaps, beyond the town, she met 
 Old Winter as he limped away 
 To die forlorn, and let him lay 
 His weary head upon her knee. 
 And kissed his forehead with regret 
 For one so gray and lonely, — see. 
 
 Her eyes with tender tears are wet. 
 
 And so, by night, while we were all at rest, 
 I think the coming sped the parting guest. 
 1873. 
 
 11 
 
IF ALL THE SKIES 
 
 If all the skies were sunshine. 
 Our faces would be fain 
 
 To feel once more upon them 
 The cooling plash of rain. 
 
 If all the world were music, 
 Our hearts would often long 
 
 For one sweet strain of silence. 
 To break the endless song. 
 
 If life were always merry. 
 Our souls would seek relief. 
 
 And rest from weary laughter 
 In the quiet arms of grief. 
 
 12 
 
WINGS OF A DOVE 
 
 I 
 
 At sunset, when the rosy Hght was dying 
 
 Far down the pathway of the west, 
 I saw a lonely dove in silence flying. 
 To be at rest. 
 
 Pilgrim of air, I cried, could I but borrow 
 Thy wandering wings, thy freedom blest, 
 I'd fly away from every careful sorrow. 
 And find my rest. 
 
 II 
 
 But when the filmy veil of dusk was falling. 
 
 Home flew the dove to seek his nest. 
 Deep in the forest where his mate was calling 
 To love and rest. 
 
 Peace, heart of mine ! no longer sigh to wander; 
 
 Lose not thy life in barren quest. 
 
 There are no happy islands over yonder; 
 
 Come home and rest. 
 1874. 
 
 13 
 
THE FALL OF THE LEAVES 
 
 I 
 
 In warlike pomp, with banners flowing. 
 
 The regiments of autumn stood: 
 I saw their gold and scarlet glowing 
 
 From every hillside, every wood. 
 
 Above the sea the clouds were keeping 
 Their secret leaguer, gtay and still; 
 
 They sent their misty vanguard creeping 
 With muffled step from hill to hill. 
 
 All day the sullen armies drifted 
 Athwart the sky with slanting rain; 
 
 At sunset for a space they lifted, 
 With dusk they settled down again. 
 
 II 
 
 At dark the winds began to blow 
 
 With rautterings distant, low; 
 
 From sea and sky they called their strength. 
 Till with an angry, broken roar, 
 Like billows on an unseen shore, 
 
 Their fury burst at length. 
 
 u 
 
THE FALL OF THE LEAVES 
 
 I heard through the night 
 The rush and the clamour; 
 
 The pulse of the fight 
 
 Like blows of Thor's hammer; 
 
 The pattering flight 
 
 Of the leaves, and the anguished 
 
 Moan of the forest vanquished. 
 
 At daybreak came a gusty song: 
 
 " Shout ! the winds are strong. 
 
 The little people of the leaves are fled. 
 
 Shout! The Autumn is dead!" 
 
 Ill 
 
 The storm is ended I The impartial sun 
 Laughs down upon the battle lost and won, 
 And crowns the triumph of the cloudy host 
 In rolling lines retreating to the coast. 
 
 But we, fond lovers of the woodland shade. 
 And grateful friends of every fallen leaf. 
 Forget the glories of the cloud-parade, 
 And walk the ruined woods in quiet grief. 
 
 For ever so our thoughtful hearts repeat 
 On fields of triumph dirges of defeat; 
 And still we turn on gala-days to tread 
 Among the rustling memories of the dead. 
 1874. 
 
 15 
 
A SNOW-SONG 
 
 Does the snow fall at sea? 
 
 Yes, when the north winds })lo\v 
 When the wild clouds fly lo\\ , 
 Out of each gloomy wing, 
 Silently glimmering. 
 Over the stormy sea 
 Falleth the snow. 
 
 Does the snow hide the sea ? 
 Nay, on the tossing plains 
 Never a flake remains; 
 Drift never resteth there; 
 Vanishing everywhere, 
 Into the hungry sea 
 Falleth the snow. 
 
 What means the snow at sea? 
 Whirled in the veering blast. 
 Thickly the flakes drive past; 
 Each like a childish ghost 
 Wavers, and then is lost; 
 In the forgetful sea 
 Fadeth the snow. 
 
 1875. 
 
 16 
 
ROSLIN AND HAWTHORNDEN 
 
 Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine 
 The art that reared thy costly shrine ! 
 Thy carven columns must have grown 
 By magic, like a dream in stone. 
 
 Yet not within thy storied wall 
 Would I in adoration fall. 
 So gladly as within the glen 
 That leads to lovely Hawthornden. 
 
 A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green 
 And vine-clad pillars, while between, 
 The Esk runs murmuring on its way, 
 In Uving music night and day. 
 
 Within the temple of this wood 
 
 The martyrs of the covenant stood, 
 
 And rolled the psalm, and poured the prayer. 
 
 From Nature's solemn altar-stair. 
 
 Edinburgh, 1877. 
 
 17 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 LATEE POEMS 
 
WHEN TULIPS BLOOM 
 
 I 
 
 When tulips bloom in Union Square, 
 And timid breaths of vernal air 
 
 Go wandering down the dusty town, 
 Like children lost in Vanity Fair; 
 
 When every long, unlovely row 
 Of westward houses stands aglow. 
 
 And leads the eyes to sunset skies 
 Beyond the hills where green trees grow; 
 
 Then weary seems the street parade. 
 And weary books, and weary trade: 
 
 I'm only wishing to go a-fishing; 
 For this the month of May was made. 
 
 11 
 
 I guess the pussy-willows now 
 Are creeping out on every bough 
 
 Along the brook; and robins look 
 For early worms behind the plough. 
 
 21 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 The thistle-birds have changed their dun. 
 For yellow coats, to match the sun; 
 
 And in the same array of flame 
 The Dandelion Show's begun. 
 
 The flocks of young anemones 
 
 Are dancing round the budding trees: 
 
 Who can help wishing to go a-fishing 
 In days as full of joy as these? 
 
 in 
 
 I think the meadow-lark's clear sound 
 Leaks upward slowly from the ground, 
 While on the wing the bluebirds ring 
 Their wedding-bells to woods around. 
 
 The flirting chewink calls his dear 
 Behind the bush; and very near, 
 
 Where water flows, where green grass grows. 
 Song-sparrows gently sing, "Good cheer." 
 
 And, best of all, through twilight's calm 
 The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm. 
 
 How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing 
 In days so sweet with music's balm! 
 
 22 
 
WHEN TULIPS BLOOM 
 IV 
 
 *Tis not a proud desire of mine; 
 I ask for nothing superfine; 
 
 No heavy weight, no salmon great. 
 To break the record, or my line. 
 
 Only an idle little stream. 
 Whose amber waters softly gleam, 
 
 Where I may wade through woodland shade, 
 And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream: 
 
 Only a trout or two, to dart 
 
 From foaming pools, and try my art: 
 
 'Tis all I'm wishing — old-fashioned fishing. 
 And just a day on Nature's heart. 
 
 1894. 
 
 23 
 
THE WHIP-POOR-WILL 
 
 Do you remember, father, — 
 It seems so long ago, — 
 
 The day we fished together 
 Along the Pocono? 
 
 At dusk I waited for you, 
 Beside the lumber-mill. 
 
 And there I heard a hidden bird 
 That chanted, "whip-poor-will," 
 " Whippoorivill ! whippoorwill I " 
 Sad and shrill, — '' whippoorwill I" 
 
 The place was all deserted; 
 The mill-wheel hung at rest; 
 
 The lonely star of evening 
 Was throbbing in the west; 
 
 The veil of night was falling; 
 The winds were folded still; 
 
 And everywhere the trembling air 
 Re-echoed "whip-poor-will!" 
 " Whippoorwill ! whippoorwill ! " 
 Sad and shrill, — "ivhippoorwilU" 
 
 You seemed so long in coming, 
 
 I felt so much alone; 
 The wide, dark world was round me. 
 
 And life was all unknown; 
 
 24 
 
THE WHIP-POOR-WILL 
 
 The hand of sorrow touched me. 
 
 And made my senses thrill 
 With all the pain that haunts the strain 
 
 Of mournful whip-poor-will. 
 
 " Whijypoorwill ! whippoorwill ! " 
 
 Sad and shrill, — " whippoorwill T* 
 
 What knew I then of trouble? 
 An idle little lad, 
 
 I had not learned the lessons 
 That make men wise and sad. 
 
 I dreamed of grief and parting, 
 And something seemed to fill 
 
 My heart with tears, while in my ears 
 Resounded "whip-poor-will." 
 " Whippoorvnll ! whippoorwill ! " 
 Sad and shriW,—" whippoonvill ! " 
 
 'Twas but a cloud of sadness, 
 
 That lightly passed away; 
 But I have learned the meaning 
 
 Of sorrow, since that day. 
 For nevermore at twilight. 
 
 Beside the silent mill, 
 I'll wait for you, in the falling dew. 
 
 And hear the whip-poor-will. 
 Whippoonvill ! whippoorwill I ' ' 
 
 Sad and shrill, — "whippoorwill!" 
 25 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 But if you still remember 
 
 In that fair land of light, 
 The pains and fears that touch us 
 
 Along this edge of night, 
 I think all earthly grieving, 
 
 And all our mortal ill. 
 To you must seem like a sad boy's dream. 
 
 Who hears the whip-poor-will. 
 
 " Whippoorwill 1 whippoonoill I " 
 
 A passing thrill, — " whippoorwill I " 
 1894. 
 
 26 
 
THE LILY OF YORROW 
 
 Deep in the heart of the forest the Uly of Yorrow is 
 
 growing; 
 Blue is its cup as the sky, and with mj'^stical odour o'er- 
 
 flowing; 
 Faintly it falls through the shadowy glades when the 
 
 south wind is blowing. 
 
 Sweet are the primroses pale and the violets after a 
 
 shower; 
 Sweet are the borders of pinks and the blossoming grapes 
 
 on the bower; 
 Sweeter by far is the breath of that far-away woodland 
 
 flower. 
 
 Searching and strange in its sweetness, it steals like a 
 
 perfume enchanted 
 Under the arch of the forest, and all who perceive it are 
 
 haunted, 
 Seeking and seeking for ever, till sight of the Hly is 
 
 granted. 
 
 Who can describe how it grows, with its chalice of lazuli 
 
 leaning 
 Over a crystalline spring, where the ferns and the mosses 
 
 are greening.'' 
 Who can imagine its beauty, or utter the depth of its 
 
 meaning ? 
 
 27 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 Calm of the journeying stars, and repose of the moun- 
 tains olden, 
 
 Joy of the swift-running rivers, and glory of sunsets 
 golden, 
 
 Secrets that cannot be told in the heart of the flower 
 are holden. 
 
 Surely to see it is peace and the crown of a life-long 
 
 endeavour; 
 Surely to pluck it is gladness, — but they w'ho have found 
 
 it can never 
 Tell of the gladness and peace: they are hid from our 
 
 vision for ever. 
 
 'Twas but a moment ago that a comrade was walking 
 
 near me: 
 Turning aside from the pathway he murmured a greeting 
 
 to cheer me, — 
 Then he was lost in the shade, and I called but he did 
 
 not hear me. 
 
 Why should I dream he is dead, and bewail him with 
 
 passionate sorrow.'* 
 Surely I know there is gladness in finding the lily of 
 
 Yorrow : 
 He has discovered it first, and perhaps I shall find it 
 
 to-morrow. 
 1894. 
 
 28 
 
THE VEERY 
 
 The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were 
 pouring, 
 
 When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love de- 
 ploring. 
 
 So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and 
 eerie; 
 
 I longed to hear a simpler strain, — the wood-notes of 
 the veery. 
 
 The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish 
 
 heather; 
 It sprinkles down from far away like light and love 
 
 together; 
 He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, 
 
 his dearie; 
 I only know one song more sweet, — the vespers of the 
 
 veery. 
 
 In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity 
 
 treasure, 
 I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry 
 
 measure : 
 The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and 
 
 cheery. 
 And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery. 
 
 29 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing; 
 New England woods, at close of day, with that clear 
 
 chant are ringing: 
 And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh 
 
 are weary, 
 I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the 
 
 veery. 
 
 1895. 
 
 30 
 
THE SONG-SPARROW 
 
 There is a bird I know so well, 
 It seems as if he must have sung 
 Beside my crib when I was young; 
 
 Before I knew the way to spell 
 
 The name of even the smallest bird. 
 His gentle-joyful song I heard. 
 
 Now see if you can tell, my dear. 
 
 What bird it is that, every year. 
 
 Sings "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer." 
 
 He comes in March, when winds are strong. 
 And snow returns to hide the earth; 
 But still he warms his heart with mirth. 
 And waits for May. He lingers long 
 While flowers fade; and every day 
 Repeats his small, contented lay; 
 As if to say, we need not fear 
 The season's change, if love is here 
 With "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer." 
 
 He does not wear a Joseph's-coat 
 Of many colours, smart and gay; 
 His suit is Quaker brown and gray, 
 
 With darker patches at his throat. 
 And yet of all the well-dressed throng 
 31 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 Not one can sing so brave a song. 
 It makes the pride of looks appear 
 A vain and foolish thing, to hear 
 His ''Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer." 
 
 A lofty place he does not love, 
 
 But sits by choice, and well at ease. 
 In hedges, and in little trees 
 That stretch their slender arms above 
 The meadow-brook; and there he sings 
 Till all the field with pleasure rings; 
 And so he tells in every ear. 
 That lowly homes to heaven are near 
 In "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer" 
 
 I like the tune, I like the words; 
 
 They seem so true, so free from art, 
 
 So friendly, and so full of heart. 
 That if but one of all the birds 
 
 Could be my comrade everywhere. 
 
 My little brother of the air, 
 I'd choose the song-sparrow, my dear. 
 Because he'd bless me, every year. 
 With ''Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer ^ 
 
 1895. 
 
THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT 
 
 When May bedecks the naked trees 
 With tassels and embroideries, 
 And many blue-eyed violets beam 
 Along the edges of the stream, 
 I hear a voice that seems to say. 
 Now near at hand, now far away, 
 " Witchery — witchery — witchery." 
 
 An incantation so serene. 
 So innocent, befits the scene: 
 There's magic in that small bird's note- 
 See, there he flits — the YelloW-throat; 
 A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, 
 A spark of light that shines and sings 
 " Witchery — witchery — witchery." 
 
 You prophet with a pleasant name, 
 If out of Mary- land you came. 
 You know the way that thither goes 
 Where Mary's lovely garden grows: 
 Fly swiftly back to her, I pray. 
 And try to call her down this way, 
 " Witchery — witchery — witchery ! " 
 
 33 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 Tell her to leave her cockle-shells. 
 And all her little silver bells 
 That blossom into melody, 
 And all her maids less fair than she. 
 She does not need these pretty things, 
 For everywhere she comes, she brings 
 " Witchery — witchery — witchery I " 
 
 The woods are greening overhead. 
 And flowers adorn each mossy bed; 
 The waters babble as they run — 
 One thing is lacking, only one: 
 If Mary were but here to-day, 
 I would believe your charming lay, 
 " Witchery — witchery — witchery I " 
 
 Along the shady road I look — 
 Who's coming now across the brook? 
 A woodland maid, all robed in white — 
 The leaves dance round her with delight. 
 The stream laughs out beneath her feet — 
 Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete, 
 " Witchery — witchery — ivitchery /" 
 
 1895. 
 
 34 
 
A NOVEMBER DAISY 
 
 Afterthought of summer's bloom ! 
 Late arrival at the feast, 
 Coming when the songs have ceased 
 And the merry guests departed, 
 Leaving but an empty room, 
 Silence, solitude, and gloom, — 
 Are you lonely, heavy-hearted; 
 You, the last of all your kind. 
 Nodding in the autumn wind; 
 Now that all your friends are flown. 
 Blooming late and all alone? 
 
 Nay, I wrong you, little flower, 
 Reading mournful mood of mine 
 In your looks, that give no sign 
 Of a spirit dark and cheerless ! 
 You possess the heavenly power 
 That rejoices in the hour. 
 Glad, contented, free, and fearless. 
 Lift a sunny face to heaven 
 When a sunny day is given ! 
 Make a summer of your own. 
 Blooming late and all alone ! 
 
 35 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 Once the daisies gold and white 
 Sea-Hke through the meadow rolled: 
 Once my heart could hardly hold 
 All its pleasures. I remember. 
 In the flood of youth's delight 
 Separate joys were lost to sight. 
 That was summer ! Now November 
 Sets the perfect flower apart; 
 Gives each blossom of the heart 
 Meaning, beauty, grace unknown, — 
 Blooming late and all alone. 
 November, 1899. 
 
 36 
 
THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE 
 
 What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of 
 
 night, 
 And all the little watchman-stars have fallen asleep in 
 
 light, 
 'Tis then a merry wind awakes, and runs from tree to 
 
 tree. 
 And borrows words from all the birds to sound the 
 
 reveille. 
 
 This is the carol the Robin throws 
 
 Over the edge of the valley; 
 Listen how boldly it flows, 
 Sally on sally: 
 
 Tirra-lirra, 
 
 Early morn. 
 
 New horn 1 
 
 Day is near. 
 
 Clear, clear. 
 
 Down the river 
 
 All a-quiver. 
 
 Fish are breaking ; 
 
 Time for waking. 
 
 Tup, tup, tup I 
 
 Do you hear ? 
 
 All clear — 
 
 Wake up ! 
 37 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished 
 with the dark. 
 
 And Uke a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark; 
 
 Now forth she fares thro' friendly woods and diamond- 
 fields of dew, 
 
 While every voice cries out "Rejoice!" as if the world 
 were new. 
 
 This is the ballad the Bluebird sings. 
 
 Unto his mate replying. 
 Shaking the tune from his wings 
 While he is flying: 
 
 Surely, surely, surely. 
 Life is dear 
 Even here. 
 Blue above. 
 You to love. 
 Purely, purely, 'purely. 
 
 There's wild azalea on the hill, and iris down the dell, 
 And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well; 
 The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow 
 
 pink, 
 Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend 
 
 to drink. 
 
 This is the song of the Yellow-throat, 
 Fluttering gaily beside you; 
 38 
 
THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE 
 
 Hear how each voluble note 
 Offers to guide you: 
 
 Which way, sir ? 
 I say, sir. 
 Let me teach you, 
 I beseech you ! 
 Are you wishing 
 Jolly fishing ? 
 This way, sir 1 
 I'll teach you. 
 
 Then come, my friend, forget your foes and leave your 
 
 fears behind, 
 And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet 
 
 mind; 
 For be your fortune great or small, you take what God 
 
 will give. 
 And all the day your heart will say, " Tis luck enough to 
 
 live." 
 
 This is the song the Brown Thrush flings 
 
 Out of his thicket of roses; 
 Hark how it bubbles and rings, 
 Mark how it closes: 
 Luck, luck. 
 What luck ? 
 Good enough for me, 
 Fm alive, you see I 
 39 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 Sun shining, 
 No repining ; 
 Never borrow 
 Idle sorrow ; 
 Drop it I 
 Cover it up ! 
 Hold your cup I 
 Joy will fill itf 
 Don't spill it. 
 Steady, be ready. 
 Good luck I 
 
 1899. 
 
 40 
 
THE RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET 
 
 Where's your kingdom, little king? 
 Where the land you call your own, 
 Where your palace and your throne? 
 
 Fluttering lightly on the wing 
 
 Through the blossom-world of May, 
 Whither lies your royal way, 
 Little king? 
 
 Far to northward lies a land 
 Where the trees together stand 
 Closely as the blades of wheat 
 When the summer is complete. 
 Rolling like an ocean wide 
 Over vale and mountainside. 
 Balsam, hemlock, spruce and pine, — 
 All those mighty trees are mine. 
 There's a river flounng free, — 
 All its waves belong to me. 
 There's a lake so clear and bright 
 Stars shine out of it all night ; 
 Rowan-berries round it spread 
 Like a belt of coral red. 
 Never royal garden planned 
 Fair as my Canadian land ! 
 41 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 There I build my summer nest. 
 There I reign and there I rest, 
 While from dawn to dark I sing, 
 Happy kingdom I Lucky king I 
 
 II 
 
 Back again, my little king ! 
 Is your happy kingdom lost 
 To the rebel knave, Jack Frost? 
 
 Have you felt the snow-flakes sting? 
 Houseless, homeless in October, 
 Whither now? Your plight is sober. 
 Exiled king ! 
 
 Far to southward lie the regions 
 Where my loyal flower-legions 
 Hold possession of the year. 
 Filling every month vnth cheer. 
 Christmas wakes the winter rose ; 
 New Year daffodils unclose ; 
 Yellow jasmine through the wood 
 Flows in February flood. 
 Dropping from the tallest trees 
 Golden streams that never freeze. 
 Thither now I take my flight 
 Down the pathway of the night. 
 Till I see the southern moon 
 42 
 
THE RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET 
 
 Glisten on the broad lagoon, 
 Where the cypress^ dusky green. 
 And the dark magnolia's sheen, 
 Weave a shelter round my home. 
 There the snow-storms never come ; 
 There the bannered mosses gray 
 Like a curtain gently sway. 
 Hanging low on every side 
 Round the covert where I bide. 
 Till the March azalea glows. 
 Royal red and heavenly rose. 
 Through the Carolina glade 
 Where my winter home is made. 
 There I hold my southern court. 
 Full of merriment and sport : 
 There I take my ease and sing, 
 Happy kingdom ! Lucky king ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Little boaster, vagrant king, 
 
 Neither north nor south is yours, 
 You've no kingdom that endures! 
 
 Wandering every fall and spring, 
 
 With your ruby crown so slender, 
 
 Are you only a Pretender, 
 Landless king? 
 
 43 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 Never king by right divine 
 Ruled a richer realm than mine I 
 What arc lands and golden crowns^ 
 Armies, fortresses and towns. 
 Jewels, sceptres, robes and rings, — 
 What are these to song and wings ? 
 Everywhere that I can fly. 
 There I own the earth and sky ; 
 Everywhere that I can sing. 
 There Fm happy as a king. 
 
 1900. 
 
 44 
 
SCHOOL 
 
 I PUT my heart to school 
 In the world where men grow wise: 
 "Go out," I said, "and learn the rule; 
 "Come back when you win a prize." 
 
 My heart came back again: 
 "Now where is the prize?" I cried. — 
 "The rule was false, and the prize was pain, 
 "And the teacher's name was Pride." 
 
 I put my heart to school 
 
 In the woods where veeries sing 
 
 And brooks run clear and cool. 
 
 In the fields where wild flowers spring. 
 
 "And why do you stay so long 
 
 "My heart, and where do you roam?" 
 
 The answer came with a laugh and a song,— 
 
 "I find this school is home." 
 
 April, 1901. 
 
 45 
 
INDIAN SUMMER 
 
 A SILKEN curtain veils the skies, 
 And half conceals from pensive eyes 
 
 The bronzing tokens of the fall; 
 A calmness broods upon the hills, 
 And summer's parting dream distils 
 
 A charm of silence over all. 
 
 The stacks of corn, in brown array. 
 Stand waiting through the tranquil day, 
 
 Like tattered wigwams on the plain; 
 The tribes that find a shelter there 
 Are phantom peoples, forms of air. 
 
 And ghosts of vanished joy and pain. 
 
 At evening when the crimson crest 
 Of sunset passes down the West, 
 
 I hear the whispering host returning; 
 On far-off fields, by elm and oak, 
 I see the lights, I smell the smoke, — 
 
 The Camp-fires of the Past are burning. 
 
 Tertius and Henry van Dyke, 
 November, 1903. 
 
 46 
 
SPRING IN THE NORTH 
 
 Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days. 
 
 Why the sweet Spring delays. 
 
 And where she hides, — the dear desire 
 
 Of every heart that longs 
 For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire 
 Of maple-buds along the misty hills. 
 And that immortal call which fills 
 
 The waiting wood with songs? 
 The snow-drops came so long ago. 
 
 It seemed that Spring was near! 
 
 But then returned the snow 
 With biting winds, and earth grew sere, 
 
 And sullen clouds drooped low 
 To veil the sadness of a hope deferred: 
 Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain 
 
 Beat on the window-pane. 
 Through which I watched the solitary bird 
 That braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed 
 With rumpled feathers down the wind again. 
 
 Oh, were the seeds all lost 
 When winter laid the wild flowers in their tomb? 
 
 I searched the woods in vain 
 For blue hepaticas, and trilliums white. 
 And trailing arbutus, the Spring's delight, 
 47 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom. 
 
 But every night the frost 
 To all my longing spoke a silent nay. 
 And told me Spring was far away. 
 Even the robins were too cold to sing, 
 Except a broken and discouraged note, — 
 Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat 
 Music has put her triple finger-print, 
 Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint, — 
 "Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!" 
 
 II 
 
 But now, Carina, what divine amends 
 
 For all delay ! What sweetness treasured up. 
 
 What wine of joy that blends 
 A hundred flavours in a single cup. 
 Is poured into this perfect day ! 
 For look, sweet heart, here are the early flowers 
 
 That lingered on their way, 
 Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of May, 
 Entangled with the bloom of later hours, — 
 Anemones and cinque-foils, violets blue 
 And white, and iris richly gleaming through 
 The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze 
 Of butter-cups and daisies in the field. 
 
 Filling the air with praise. 
 As if a chime of golden bells had pealed! 
 48 
 
SPRING IN THE NORTH 
 
 The frozen songs within the breast 
 Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods. 
 
 Melt into rippling floods 
 
 Of gladness unrepressed. 
 Now oriole and bluebird, thrush and lark, 
 Warbler and wren and vireo, 
 Mingle their melody; the living spark 
 Of Love has touched the fuel of desire. 
 And every heart leaps up in singing fire. 
 
 It seems as if the land 
 Were breathing deep beneath the sun's caress, 
 
 Trembling with tenderness. 
 
 While all the woods expand, 
 In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green. 
 To veil a joy too sacred to be seen. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Come, put your hand in mine. 
 True love, long sought and found at last, 
 And lead me deep into the Spring divine 
 
 That makes amends for all the wintry past. 
 For all the flowers and songs I feared to miss 
 
 Arrive with you; 
 And in the lingering pressure of your kiss 
 
 My dreams come true; 
 And in the promise of your generous eyes 
 1 read the mystic sign 
 49 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 Of joy more perfect made 
 
 Because so long delayed, 
 And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise. 
 Ah, think not early love alone is strong; 
 He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait: 
 Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long. 
 You're doubly dear because you come so late. 
 
 50 
 
SPRING IN THE SOUTH 
 
 Now in the oak the sap of Hfe is welling, 
 
 Tho' to the bough the rusty leafage clings; 
 Now on the elm the misty buds are swelling; 
 
 Every little pine- wood grows alive with wings; 
 Blue-jays are fluttering, yodeling and crying. 
 
 Meadow-larks sailing low above the faded grass. 
 Red-birds whistling clear, silent robins flying, — 
 
 Who has waked the birds up ? What has come to pass ? 
 
 Last year's cotton-plants, desolately bowing. 
 
 Tremble in the March-wind, ragged and forlorn; 
 Red are the hillsides of the early ploughing. 
 
 Gray are the lowlands, waiting for the corn. 
 Earth seems asleep, but she is only feigning; 
 
 Deep in her bosom thrills a sweet unrest; 
 Look where the jasmine lavishly is raining 
 
 Jove's golden shower into Danae's breast ! 
 
 Now on the plum-tree a snowy bloom is sifted. 
 
 Now on the peach-tree, the glory of the rose. 
 Far o'er the hills a tender haze is drifted. 
 
 Full to the brim the yellow river flows. 
 Dark cypress boughs with vivid jewels glisten, 
 
 Greener than emeralds shining in the sun. 
 Whence comes the magic ? Listen, sweetheart, listen ! 
 
 The mocking-bird is singing: Spring is begun. 
 
 51 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 Hark, in his song no tremor of misgiving ! 
 
 All of his heart he pours into his lay, — 
 "Love, love, love, and pure dehght of living: 
 
 Winter is forgotten: here's a happy day!" 
 Fair in your face I read the flowery presage, 
 
 Sno\\7^ on your brow and rosy on your mouth: 
 Sweet in your voice I hear the season's message,- 
 
 Love, love, love, and Spring in the South ! 
 
 1904. 
 
 52 
 
A NOON SONG 
 
 There are songs for the morning and songs for the night, 
 
 For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon; 
 But who will give praise to the fulness of light, 
 And sing us a song of the glory of noon? 
 Oh, the high noon, the clear noon, 
 
 The noon with golden crest; 
 When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns 
 With his face to the way of the west ! 
 
 How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength! 
 How slowly he crept as the morning wore by! 
 Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length 
 To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky. 
 Oh, the long toil, the slow toil. 
 
 The toil that may not rest. 
 Till the sun looks down from his journey's crown, 
 To the wonderful way of the west ! 
 
 Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill, 
 
 The wings of the wind in the forest are furled, 
 The river runs softly, the birds are all still, 
 The workers are resting all over the world. 
 Oh, the good hour, the kind hour. 
 The hour that calms the breast ! 
 Little inn half-way on the road of the day, 
 Where it follows the turn to the west ! 
 53 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 There's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade. 
 
 The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune, 
 The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid, 
 
 To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon. 
 Oh, the deep noon, the full noon, 
 
 Of all the day the best ! 
 When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns 
 To his home by the way of the west ! 
 
 1906. 
 
 54 
 
LIGHT BETWEEN THE TREES 
 
 Long, long, long the trail 
 
 Through the brooding forest-gloom, 
 Down the shadowy, lonely vale 
 Into silence, hke a room 
 
 Where the light of life has fled, 
 And the jealous curtains close 
 Round the passionless repose 
 Of the silent dead. 
 
 Plod, plod, plod away. 
 
 Step by step in mouldering moss; 
 Thick branches bar the day 
 
 Over languid streams that cross 
 
 Softly, slowly, with a sound 
 Like a smothered weeping. 
 In their aimless creeping 
 Through enchanted ground. 
 
 "Yield, yield, yield thy quest," 
 
 Whispers through the woodland deep; 
 "Come to me and be at rest; 
 I am slumber, I am sleep." 
 
 Then the weary feet would fail. 
 But the never-daunted will 
 Urges "Forward, forward still! 
 Press along the trail!" 
 55 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 Breast, breast, breast the slope 
 
 See, the path is growing steep. 
 Hark ! a little song of hope 
 
 Where the stream begins to leap. 
 
 Though the forest, far and wide, 
 StiU shuts out the bending blue, 
 We shall finally win through. 
 Cross the long divide. 
 
 On, on, on we tramp ! 
 
 Will the journey never end? 
 Over yonder lies the camp; 
 
 Welcome waits us there, my friend. 
 
 Can we reach it ere the night.? 
 Upward, upward, never fear ! 
 Look, the summit must be near; 
 See the line of hght ! 
 
 Red, red, red the shine 
 
 Of the splendour in the west. 
 Glowing through the ranks of pine. 
 Clear along the mountain-crest ! 
 Long, long, long the trail 
 Out of sorrow's lonely vale; 
 But at last the traveller sees 
 Light between the trees ! 
 
 March, 1904, 
 
 56 
 
THE HERMIT THRUSH 
 
 O wonderful! How liquid clear 
 The molten gold of that ethereal tone, 
 Floating and falling through the wood alone, 
 A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear! 
 
 holy, holy, holy ! Hyaline, 
 
 Long light, low light, glory of eventide ! 
 
 Love far away, far up, — up, — love divine ! 
 
 Little love, too, for ever, ever near. 
 
 Warm love, earth love, tender love of mine. 
 
 In the leafy dark where you hide. 
 
 You are mine, — m,ine, — mine ! 
 
 Ah, my beloved, do you feel with me 
 The hidden virtue of that melody. 
 The rapture and the purity of love. 
 The heavenly joy that can not find the word? 
 Then, while we wait again to hear the bird. 
 Come very near to me, and do not move, — 
 Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anew 
 The cool, green cup of air with harmony. 
 And we will drink the wine of love with you. 
 May, 1908. 
 
 57 
 
TURN O' THE TIDE 
 
 The tide flows in to the harbour, — 
 
 The bold tide, the gold tide, the flood o' the sunlit sea, — 
 And the little ships riding at anchor. 
 
 Are swinging and slanting their prows to the ocean, 
 panting 
 To lift their wings to the wide wild air, 
 And venture a voyage they know not where, — 
 To fly away and be free ! 
 
 The tide runs out of the harbour, — 
 
 The low tide, the slow tide, the ebb o' the moonlit bay, — 
 And the little ships rocking at anchor. 
 
 Are rounding and turning their bows to the landward, 
 yearning 
 To breathe the breath of the sun-warraed strand, 
 To rest in the lee of the high hill land, — 
 To hold their haven and stay ! 
 
 My heart goes round with the vessels, — 
 
 My wild heart, my child heart, in love with the sea 
 and the land, — 
 And the turn o' the tide passes through it. 
 
 In rising and falling with mystical currents, calling 
 At morn, to range where the far waves foam, 
 At night, to a harbour in love's true home, 
 With the hearts that understand ! 
 Seal Harbour, August 12, 1911. 
 
 58 
 
SIERRA MADRE 
 
 O MOTHER mountains ! billowing far to the snow-lands. 
 Robed in aerial amethyst, silver, and blue, 
 
 Why do ye look so proudly down on the lowlands? 
 What have their groves and gardens to do with you? 
 
 Theirs is the languorous charm of the orange and myrtle, 
 Theirs are the fruitage and fragrance of Eden of old, — 
 
 Broad-boughed oaks in the meadows fair and fertile. 
 Dark-leaved orchards gleaming with globes of gold. 
 
 You, in your sohtude standing, lofty and lonely. 
 
 Bear neither garden nor grove on your barren breasts; 
 
 Rough is the rock-loving growth of your canyons, and 
 only 
 Storm-battered pines and fir-trees cling to your crests. 
 
 Why are ye throned so high, and arrayed in splendour 
 Richer than all the fields at your feet can claim? 
 
 What is your right, ye rugged peaks, to the tender 
 Queenly promise and pride of the mother-name? 
 
 Answered the mountains, dim in the distance dreaming: 
 "Ours are the forests that treasure the riches of rain; 
 
 Ours are the secret springs and the rivulets gleaming 
 Silverly down through the manifold bloom of the plain. 
 
 59 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 "Vain were the toiling of men in the dust of the dry 
 land. 
 Vain were the ploughing and planting in waterless fields. 
 Save for the life-giving currents we send from the sky- 
 land. 
 Save for the fruit our embrace with the storm-cloud 
 yields." 
 
 O mother mountains, Madre Sierra, I love you! 
 
 Rightly you reign o'er the vale that your bounty 
 fills,— 
 Kissed by the sun, or with big, bright stars above you, — 
 
 I murmur your name and lift up mine eyes to the hills. 
 Pasadena, March, 1913. 
 
 60 
 
THE GRAND CANYON 
 
 DAYBREAK 
 
 What makes the lingering Night so cling to thee? 
 Thou vast, profound, primeval hiding-place 
 Of ancient secrets, — gray and ghostly gulf 
 Cleft in the green of this high forest land. 
 And crowded in the dark with giant forms ! 
 Art thou a grave, a prison, or a shrine? 
 
 A stillness deeper than the dearth of sound 
 
 Broods over thee: a living silence breathes 
 
 Perpetual incense from thy dim abyss. 
 
 The morning-stars that sang above the bower 
 
 Of Eden, passing over thee, are dumb 
 
 With trembling bright amazement; and the Dawn 
 
 Steals through the glimmering pines with naked feet, 
 
 Her hand upon her lips, to look on thee ! 
 
 She f)eers into thy depths with silent prayer 
 
 For light, more light, to part thy purple veil. 
 
 O Earth, swift-rolling Earth, reveal, reveal, — 
 
 Turn to the East, and show upon thy breast 
 
 The mightiest marvel in the realm of Time ! 
 
 61 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 'Tis done, — the morning miracle of light, — 
 The resurrection of the world of hues 
 That die with dark, and daily rise again 
 With every rising of the splendid Sun ! 
 
 Be still, my heart ! Now Nature holds her breath 
 
 To see the solar flood of radiance leap 
 
 Across the chasm, and crown the western rim 
 
 Of alabaster with a far-away 
 
 Rampart of pearl, and flowing down by walls 
 
 Of changeful opal, deepen into gold 
 
 Of topaz, rosy gold of tourmaline, 
 
 Crimson of garnet, green and gray of jade. 
 
 Purple of amethyst, and ruby red. 
 
 Beryl, and sard, and royal porphyry; 
 
 Until the cataract of colour breaks 
 
 Upon the blackness of the granite floor. 
 
 How far below ! And all between is cleft 
 And carved into a hundred curving miles 
 Of unimagined architecture ! Tombs, 
 Temples, and colonnades are neighboured there 
 By fortresses that Titans might defend. 
 And amphitheatres where Gods might strive. 
 Cathedrals, buttressed with unnumbered tiers 
 Of ruddy rock, lift to the sapphire sky 
 A single spire of marble pure as snow; 
 And huge aerial palaces arise 
 62 
 
THE GRAND CANYON 
 
 Like mountains built of unconsuming flame. 
 Along the weathered walls, or standing deep 
 In riven valleys where no foot may tread, 
 Are lonely pillars, and tall monuments 
 Of perished aeons and forgotten things. 
 My sight is baffled by the wide array 
 Of countless forms: my vision reels and swims 
 Above them, like a bird in whirling winds. 
 Yet no confusion fills the awful chasm; 
 But spacious order and a sense of peace 
 Brood over all. For every shape that looms 
 Majestic in the throng, is set apart 
 From all the others by its far-flung shade. 
 Blue, blue, as if a mountain-lake were there. 
 
 How still it is ! Dear God, I hardly dare 
 To breathe, for fear the fathomless abyss 
 Will draw me down into eternal sleep. 
 
 What force has formed this masterpiece of awe? 
 What hands have wrought these wonders in the waste? 
 O river, gleaming in the narrow rift 
 Of gloom that cleaves the valley's nether deep, — 
 Fierce Colorado, prisoned by thy toil, 
 And blindly toiling still to reach the sea, — 
 Thy waters, gathered from the snows and springs 
 Amid the Utah hills, have carved this road 
 Of glory to the Californian Gulf. 
 
 63 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 But now, O sunken stream, thy splendour lost, 
 'Twixt iron walls thou rollest turbid waves. 
 Too far away to make their fury heard ! 
 
 At sight of thee, thou sullen labouring slave 
 Of gravitation, — yellow torrent poured 
 From distant mountains by no will of thine. 
 Through thrice a hundred centuries of slow 
 Fallings and liftings of the crust of Earth, — 
 At sight of thee my spirit sinks and fails. 
 Art thou alone the Maker? Is the blind 
 Unconscious power that drew thee dumbly down 
 To cut this gash across the layered globe, 
 The sole creative cause of all I see? 
 Are force and matter all? The rest a dream? 
 
 Then is thy gorge a canyon of despair, 
 A prison for the soul of man, a grave 
 Of all his dearest daring hopes ! The world 
 Wherein we live and move is meaningless. 
 No spirit here to answer to our own ! 
 The stars without a guide: The chance-born Earth 
 Adrift in space, no Captain on the ship: 
 Nothing in all the universe to prove 
 Eternal wisdom and eternal love ! 
 And man, the latest accident of Time, — 
 Who thinks he loves, and longs to understand, 
 Who vainly suffers, and in vain is brave, 
 64 
 
THE GRAND CANYON 
 
 Who dupes his heart with immortahty, — 
 
 Man is a Uving lie, — a bitter jest 
 
 Upon himself, — a conscious grain of sand 
 
 Lost in a desert of unconsciousness, 
 
 Thirsting for God and mocked by his own thirst. 
 
 Spirit of Beauty, mother of delight. 
 
 Thou fairest offspring of Omnipotence 
 
 Inhabiting this lofty lone abode. 
 
 Speak to my heart again and set me free 
 
 From aU these doubts that darken earth and heaven I 
 
 Who sent thee forth into the wilderness 
 
 To bless and comfort all who see thy face? 
 
 Who clad thee in this more than royal robe 
 
 Of rainbows? Who designed these jewelled thrones 
 
 For thee, and wrought these glittering palaces? 
 
 Who gave thee power upon the soul of man 
 
 To lift him up through wonder into joy? 
 
 God ! let the radiant cliffs bear witness, God ! 
 
 Let all the shining pillars signal, God ! 
 
 He only, on the mystic loom of light, 
 
 Hath woven webs of loveliness to clothe 
 
 His most majestic works: and He alone 
 
 Hath delicately wrought the cactus-flower 
 
 To star the desert floor with rosy bloom. 
 
 65 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 O Beauty, handiwork of the Most High, 
 Where'er thou art He tells his Love to man. 
 And lo, the day breaks, and the shadows flee ! 
 
 Now, far beyond all language and all art 
 In thy wild sj)lendour. Canyon marvellous, 
 The secret of thy stillness lies unveiled 
 In wordless worship ! This is holy ground; 
 Thou art no grave, no prison, but a shrine. 
 Garden of Temples filled with Silent Praise, 
 If God were blind thy Beauty could not be ! 
 February 24-26, 1913. 
 
 66 
 
THE HEAVENLY HILLS OF HOLLAND 
 
 The heavenly hills of Holland, — 
 
 How wondrously they rise 
 Above the smooth green pastures 
 
 Into the azure skies ! 
 With blue and purple hollows, 
 
 With peaks of dazzling snow. 
 Along the far horizon 
 
 The clouds are marching slow. 
 
 No mortal foot has trodden 
 
 The summits of that range. 
 Nor walked those mystic valleys 
 
 Whose colours ever change; 
 Yet we possess their beauty. 
 
 And visit them in dreams. 
 While ruddy gold of sunset 
 
 From cliff and canyon gleams. 
 
 In days of cloudless weather 
 
 They melt into the light; 
 When fog and mist surround us 
 
 They're hidden from our sight; 
 But when returns a season 
 
 Clear shining after rain. 
 While the northwest wind is blowing. 
 
 We see the hills again. 
 67 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 The old Dutch painters loved them. 
 
 Their pictures show them fair, — 
 Old Hobbema and Ruysdael, 
 
 Van Goyen and Vermeer. 
 Above the level landscape. 
 
 Rich polders, long-armed mills, 
 Canals and ancient cities, — 
 
 Float Holland's heavenly hills. 
 The Hague, November, 1916. 
 
 68 
 
FLOOD-TIDE OF FLOWERS 
 
 IN HOLLAND 
 
 The laggard winter ebbed so slow 
 With freezing rain and melting snow, 
 It seemed as if the earth would stay 
 Forever where the tide was low, 
 In sodden green and watery gray. 
 
 But now from depths beyond our sight, 
 The tide is turning in the night. 
 And floods of colour long concealed 
 Come silent rising toward the light, 
 Through garden bare and empty field. 
 
 And first, along the sheltered nooks, 
 The crocus runs in httle brooks 
 Of joyance, till by light made bold 
 They show the gladness of their looks 
 In shining pools of white and gold. 
 
 The tiny scilla, sapphire blue, 
 
 Is gently seeping in, to strew 
 
 The earth with heaven; and sudden rills 
 
 Of sunlit yellow, sweeping through. 
 
 Spread into lakes of daffodils. 
 
 69 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 The hyacinths, with fragrant heads, 
 Have overflowed their sandy beds, 
 And fill the earth with faint perfume. 
 The breath that Spring around her sheds. 
 And now the tulips break in bloom ! 
 
 A sea, a rainbow-tinted sea, 
 A splendour and a mystery, 
 Floods o'er the fields of faded gray: 
 The roads are full of folks in glee. 
 For lo, — to-day is Easter Day ! 
 AprU, 1916. 
 
 70 
 
ODE 
 GOD OF THE OPEN AIR 
 
 Thou who hast made thy dwelHng fair 
 
 With flowers below, above with starry Hghts 
 And set thine altars everywhere, — 
 
 On mountain heights. 
 
 In woodlands dim with many a dream. 
 
 In valleys bright with springs. 
 
 And on the curving capes of every stream: 
 
 Thou who hast taken to thyself the wings 
 
 Of morning, to abide 
 Upon the secret places of the sea. 
 
 And on far islands, where the tide 
 Visits the beauty of untrodden shores. 
 Waiting for worshippers to come to thee 
 
 In thy great out-of-doors ! 
 To thee I turn, to thee I make my prayer, 
 God of the open air. 
 
 II 
 
 Seeking for thee, the heart of man 
 
 Lonely and longing ran, 
 In that first, solitary hour. 
 
 When the mysterious power 
 71 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 To know and love the wonder of the morn 
 Was breathed within him, and his soul was born; 
 And thou didst meet thy child, 
 Not in some hidden shrine. 
 But in the freedom of the garden wild, 
 
 And take his hand in thine, — 
 There all day long in Paradise he walked. 
 And in the cool of evening with thee talked. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Lost, long ago, that garden bright and pure, 
 Lost, that calm day too perfect to endure. 
 And lost the child-like love that worshipped and was 
 
 sure 
 
 For men have dulled their eyes with sin. 
 And dimmed the light of heaven with doubt, 
 And built their temple walls to shut thee in, 
 And framed their iron creeds to shut thee out. 
 But not for thee the closing of the door, 
 O Spirit unconfined ! 
 Thy ways are free 
 As is the wandering wind. 
 And thou hast wooed thy children, to restore 
 
 Their fellowship with thee, 
 In peace of soul and simpleness of mind. 
 
 72 
 
GOD OF THE OPEN AIR 
 IV 
 
 Joyful the heart that, when the flood rolled by, 
 Leaped up to see the rainbow in the sky; 
 And glad the pilgrim, in the lonely night, 
 For whom the hills of Haran, tier on tier. 
 Built up a secret stairway to the height 
 Where stars like angel eyes were shining clear. 
 From mountain-peaks, in many a land and age, 
 
 Disciples of the Persian seer 
 Have hailed the rising sun and worshipped thee; 
 And wayworn followers of the Indian sage 
 Have found the peace of God beneath a spreading tree. 
 
 But One, but One, — ah, Son most dear. 
 And perfect image of the Love Unseen, — 
 
 Walked every day in pastures green, 
 And all his life the quiet waters by, 
 Reading their beauty with a tranquil eye. 
 To him the desert was a place prepared 
 For weary hearts to rest; 
 The hillside was a temple blest; 
 The grassy vale a banquet-room 
 Where he could feed and comfort many a guest. 
 
 With him the lily shared 
 The vital joy that breathes itself in bloom; 
 73 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 And every bird that sang beside the nest 
 
 Told of the love that broods o'er every living thing 
 
 He watched the shepherd bring 
 His flock at sundown to the welcome fold, 
 
 The fisherman at daybreak fling 
 His net across the waters gray and cold, 
 And all day long the patient reaper swing 
 His curving sickle through the harvest-gold. 
 So through the world the foot-path way he trod, 
 Breathing the air of heaven in every breath; 
 And in the evening sacrifice of death 
 Beneath the open sky he gave his soul to God. 
 Him will I trust, and for my Master take; 
 Him will I follow; and for his dear sake, 
 God of the open air, 
 To thee I make my prayer. 
 
 VI 
 
 From the prison of anxious thought that greed has builded. 
 From the fetters that envy has wrought and pride has 
 
 gilded. 
 From the noise of the crowded ways and the fierce con- 
 fusion. 
 From the folly that wastes its days in a world of illusion, 
 (Ah, but the life is lost that frets and languishes there !) 
 I would escape and be free in the joy of the open air. 
 
 74 
 
GOD OF THE OPEN AIR 
 
 By the breadth of the blue that shines in silence o'er me, 
 By the length of the mountain-Hnes that stretch before 
 
 me, 
 By the height of the cloud that sails, with rest in 
 
 motion. 
 Over the plains and the vales to the measureless ocean, 
 (Oh, how the sight of the greater things enlarges the 
 
 eyes !) 
 Draw me away from myself to the peace of the hills and 
 
 skies. 
 
 While the tremulous leafy haze on the woodland is 
 
 spreading, 
 And the bloom on the meadow betrays where May has 
 
 been treading; 
 While the birds on the branches above, and the brooks 
 
 flowing under, 
 Are singing together of love in a world full of wonder, 
 (Lo, in the magic of Springtime, dreams are changed 
 
 into truth !) 
 Quicken my heart, and restore the beautiful hopes of 
 
 youth. 
 
 By the faith that the wild-flowers show when they bloom 
 
 unbidden, 
 By the calm of the river's flow to a goal that is hidden, 
 By the strength of the tree that clings to its deep founda- 
 tion, 
 
 75 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 By the courage of birds' light wings on the long migra- 
 tion, 
 
 (Wonderful spirit of trust that abides in Nature's 
 breast !) 
 
 Teach me how to confide, and live my life, and rest. 
 
 For the comforting warmth of the sun that my body 
 
 embraces, 
 For the cool of the waters that run through the shadowy 
 
 places, 
 For the balm of the breezes that brush my face with their 
 
 fingers. 
 For the vesper-hymn of the thrush when the twilight 
 
 lingers. 
 For the long breath, the deep breath, the breath of a 
 
 heart without care, — 
 I will give thanks and adore thee, God of the open airl 
 
 VII 
 
 These are the gifts I ask 
 
 Of thee. Spirit serene: 
 
 Strength for the daily task, 
 
 Courage to face the road. 
 Good cheer to help me bear the traveller's load. 
 And, for the hours of rest that come between. 
 An inward joy in all things heard and seen. 
 
 7a 
 
GOD OF THE OPEN AIR 
 
 These are the sins I fain 
 Would have thee take away: 
 Mahce, and cold disdain, 
 Hot anger, sullen hate. 
 Scorn of the lowly, envy of the great, 
 And discontent that casts a shadow gray 
 On all the brightness of the common day. 
 These are the things I prize 
 And hold of dearest worth: 
 Light of the sapphire skies. 
 Peace of the silent hills. 
 Shelter of forests, comfort of the grass. 
 Music of birds, murmur of little rills. 
 Shadows of cloud that swiftly pass, 
 And, after showers. 
 The smell of flowers 
 And of the good brown earth, — 
 And best of all, along the way, friendship and mirth. 
 So let me keep 
 These treasures of the humble heart 
 In true possession, owning them by love; 
 And when at last I can no longer move 
 
 Among them freely, but must part 
 From the green fields and from the waters clear. 
 Let me not creep 
 Into some darkened room and hide 
 From all that makes the world so bright and dear; 
 But throw the windows wide 
 77 
 
SONGS OUT OF DOORS 
 
 To welcome in the light; 
 And while I clasp a well-beloved hand, 
 
 Let me once more have sight 
 Of the deep sky and the far-smiling land,- 
 Then gently fall on sleep, 
 And breathe my body back to Nature's care. 
 My spirit out to thee, God of the open air. 
 1904. 
 
 78 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
THE TOILING OF FELIX 
 
 A LEGEND ON A NEW SAYING OF JESUS 
 
In the rubbish heaps of the ancient city of Oxyrhynchus, near the 
 Rivej' Nile, a party of English explorers, in the winter of 1897, discovered 
 a fragment of a papyrus book, written in the second or third century, 
 and hitherto unknown. This single leaf contained parts of seven short 
 sentences of Christ, each introduced by the words, "Jesus says." It 
 is to the fifth of these Sayings of Jesus that the following poem refers. 
 
THE TOILING OF FELIX 
 
 PRELUDE 
 
 Hear a word that Jesus spake 
 Nineteen hundred years ago, 
 Where the crimson hhes blow 
 Round the blue Tiberian lake: 
 There the bread of life He brake, 
 
 Through the fields of harvest walking 
 With His lowly comrades, talking 
 Of the secret thoughts that feed 
 Weary souls in time of need. 
 Art thou hungry? Come and take; 
 Hear the word that Jesus spake ! 
 'Tis the sacrament of labour, bread and wine divinely 
 
 blest; 
 Friendship's food and sweet refreshment, strength and 
 courage, joy and rest. 
 
 But this word the Master said 
 
 Long ago and far away. 
 
 Silent and forgotten lay 
 Buried with the silent dead. 
 Where the sands of Egypt spread 
 
 Sea-like, tawny billows heaping 
 
 Over ancient cities sleeping, 
 83 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 While the River Nile between 
 Rolls its summer flood of green 
 Rolls its autumn flood of red: 
 There the word the Master said. 
 Written on a frail papyrus, wrinkled, scorched by fire, 
 
 and torn, 
 Hidden by God's hand was waiting for its resurrection 
 morn. 
 
 Now at last the buried word 
 By the delving spade is found. 
 Sleeping in the quiet ground. 
 Now the call of life is heard: 
 Rise again, and like a bird, 
 
 Fly abroad on wings of gladness 
 Through the darkness and the sadness, 
 Of the toiling age, and sing 
 Sweeter than the voice of Spring, 
 Till the hearts of men are stirred 
 By the music of the word, — 
 Gospel for the heavy-laden, answer to the labourer's cry: 
 " Raise the stone, and tfiou shall find me ; cleave the wood 
 and there am /." 
 
 84 
 
THE TOILING OF FELIX 
 II 
 
 LEGEND 
 
 Brother-men who look for Jesus, long to see Him close 
 
 and clear, 
 Hearken to the tale of Felix, how he found the Master 
 
 near. 
 
 Born in Egypt, 'neath the shadow of the crumbling gods 
 
 of night, 
 He forsook the ancient darkness, turned his young heart 
 
 toward the Light. 
 
 Seeking Christ, in vain he waited for the vision of the 
 
 Lord; 
 Vainly pondered many volumes where the creeds of men 
 
 were stored; 
 
 Vainly shut himself in silence, keeping vigil night and 
 
 day; 
 A'ainly haunted shrines and churches where the Christians 
 
 came to pray. 
 
 One by one he dropped the duties of the common hfe of 
 
 care. 
 Broke the human ties that bound him, laid his spirit 
 
 waste and bare, 
 
 85 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Hoping that the Lord would enter that deserted dwelUng- 
 
 place, 
 And reward the loss of all things with the vision of His 
 
 face. 
 
 Still the blessed vision tarried; still the light was unre- 
 
 vealed ; 
 Still the Master, dim and distant, kept His countenance 
 
 concealed. 
 
 Fainter grew the hope of finding, wearier grew the fruit- 
 less quest; 
 
 Prayer and penitence and fasting gave no comfort, brought 
 no rest. 
 
 Lingering in the darkened temple, ere the lamp of faith 
 
 went out, 
 Felix knelt before the altar, lonely, sad, and full of 
 
 doubt. 
 
 "Hear me, O my Lord and Master," from the altar-step 
 
 he cried, 
 "Let my one desire be granted, let my hope be satisfied ! 
 
 "Only once I long to see Thee, in the fulness of Thy 
 
 grace: 
 Break the clouds that now enfold Thee, with the sunrise 
 
 of Thy face ! 
 
 86 
 
THE TOILING OF FELIX 
 
 "All that men desire and treasure have I counted loss for 
 
 Thee; 
 Every hope have I forsaken, save this one, my Lord to 
 
 see. 
 
 "Loosed the sacred bands of friendship, solitary stands 
 
 my heart; 
 Thou shalt be my sole companion when I see Thee as 
 
 Thou art. 
 
 "From Thy distant throne in glory, flash upon my in- 
 ward sight, 
 
 Fill the midnight of my spirit with the splendour of Thy 
 light. 
 
 "All Thine other gifts and blessings, common mercies, I 
 
 disown ; 
 Separated from my brothers, I would see Thy face 
 
 alone. 
 
 "I have watched and I have waited as one waiteth for 
 the morn: 
 
 Still the veil is never lifted, still Thou leavest me for- 
 lorn. 
 
 "Now I seek Thee in the desert, where the holy hermits 
 
 dwell; 
 There, beside the saint Serapion, I will find a lonely cell. 
 
 87 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 "There at last Thou wilt be gracious; there Thy presence, 
 
 long-concealed, 
 In the solitude and silence to my heart shall be revealed. 
 
 "Thou wilt come, at dawn or twiUght, o'er the rolling 
 
 waves of sand; 
 I shall see Thee close beside me, I shall touch Thy pierced 
 
 hand. 
 
 "Lo, Thy pilgrim kneels before Thee; bless my journey 
 
 with a word; 
 Tell me now that if I follow, I shall find Thee, O my 
 
 Lord!" 
 
 Felix listened: through the darkness, like a murmur of 
 
 the wind. 
 Came a gentle sound of stillness: "Never faint, and thou 
 
 shalt find." 
 
 Long and toilsome was his journey through the heavy 
 
 land of heat, 
 Egypt's blazing sun above him, blistering sand beneath 
 
 his feet. 
 
 Patiently he plodded onward, from the pathway never 
 
 erred, 
 Till he reached the river-headland called the Mountain 
 
 of the Bird. 
 
 88 
 
THE TOILING OF FELIX 
 
 There the tribes of air assemble, once a year, their noisy 
 flock, 
 
 Then, departing, leave a sentinel perched upon the high- 
 est rock. 
 
 Far away, on joyful pinions, over land and sea they fly; 
 But the watcher on the summit lonely stands against the 
 sky. 
 
 There the eremite Serapion in a cave had made his 
 
 bed; 
 There the faithful bands of pilgrims sought his blessing, 
 
 brought him l)read. 
 
 Month by month, in deep seclusion, hidden in the rocky 
 
 cleft. 
 Dwelt the hermit, fasting, praying; once a year the cave 
 
 he left. 
 
 On that day a happy pilgrim, chosen out of all the 
 
 band, 
 Won a special sign of favour from the holy hermit's 
 
 hand. 
 
 Underneath the narrow window, at the doorway closely 
 
 sealed. 
 While the afterglow of sunset deepened round him, Felix 
 
 kneeled. 
 
 89 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 "Man of God, of men most holy, thou whose gifts cannot 
 
 be priced ! 
 Grant me thy most precious guerdon; tell me how to 
 
 find the Christ." 
 
 Breathless, Felix bent and listened, but no answering 
 voice he heard; 
 
 Darkness folded, dumb and deathlike, round the Moun- 
 tain of the Bird. 
 
 Then he said, "The saint is silent; he would teach my 
 
 soul to wait: 
 I will tarry here in patience, like a beggar at his gate." 
 
 Near the dwelling of the hermit Felix found a rude 
 abode. 
 
 In a shallow tomb deserted, close beside the pilgrim- 
 road. 
 
 So the faithful pilgrims saw him waiting there without 
 
 complaint, — 
 Soon they learned to call him holy, fed him as they fed 
 
 the saint. 
 
 Day by day he watched the sunrise flood the distant plain 
 with gold, 
 
 While the River Nile beneath him, silvery coiling, sea- 
 ward rolled. 
 
 90 
 
THE TOILING OF FELIX 
 
 Night by night he saw the planets range their gUttering 
 
 court on high, 
 Saw the moon, with queenly motion, mount her throne 
 
 and rule the sky. 
 
 Morn advanced and midnight fled, in visionary pomp 
 attired; 
 
 Never morn and never midnight brought the vision long- 
 desired. 
 
 Now at last the day is dawning when Serapion makes his 
 
 gift; 
 Felix kneels before the threshold, hardly dares his eyes 
 
 to lift. 
 
 Now the cavern door uncloses, now the saint above him 
 
 stands, 
 Blesses him without a word, and leaves a token in his 
 
 hands. 
 
 'Tis the guerdon of thy waiting ! Look, thou happy pil- 
 grim, look ! 
 Nothing but a tattered fragment of an old papyrus book. 
 
 Read ! perchance the clue to guide thee hidden in the 
 
 words may lie: 
 "Raise the stone, and thou shall find me ; cleave the wood, 
 
 and there am /." 
 
 91 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Can it be the mighty Master spake such simple words as 
 
 these ? 
 Can it be that men must seek Him at their toil 'mid rocks 
 
 and trees ? 
 
 Disappointed, heavy-hearted, from the Mountain of the 
 
 Bird 
 Felix mournfully descended, questioning the Master's 
 
 word. 
 
 Not for him a sacred dwelling, far above the haunts of 
 
 men: 
 He must turn his footsteps backward to the common life 
 
 again. 
 
 From a quarry near the river, hollowed out amid the 
 
 hills, 
 Rose the clattering voice of labour, clanking hammers, 
 
 clinking drills. 
 
 Dust, and noise, and hot confusion made a Babel of the 
 
 spot : 
 There, among the lowliest workers, Felix sought and found 
 
 his lot. 
 
 Now he swung the ponderous mallet, smote the iron in 
 
 the rock — 
 Muscles quivering, tingling, throbbing — blow on blow and 
 
 shock on shock; 
 
 92 
 
THE TOILING OF FELIX 
 
 Now he drove the willow wedges, wet them till they 
 swelled and split. 
 
 With their silent strength, the fragment, sent it thunder- 
 ing down the pit. 
 
 Now the groaning tackle raised it; now the rollers made 
 
 it slide; 
 Harnessed men, like beasts of burden, drew it to the 
 
 river-side. 
 
 Now the palm-trees must be riven, massive timbers hewn 
 
 and dressed; 
 Rafts to bear the stones in safety on the rushing river's 
 
 breast. 
 
 Axe and auger, saw and chisel, wrought the will of man 
 
 in wood: 
 'Mid the many-handed labour Felix toiled, and found it 
 
 good. 
 
 Every day the blood ran fleeter through his limbs and 
 
 round his heart; 
 Every night he slept the sweeter, knowing he had done 
 
 his part. 
 
 Dreams of solitary saintship faded from him; but, in- 
 stead. 
 Came a sense of daily comfort in the toil for daily bread. 
 
 93 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Far away, across the river, gleamed the white walls of 
 
 the town 
 WTiither all the stones and timbers day by day were 
 
 floated down. 
 
 There the workman saw his labour taking form and bear- 
 ing fruit. 
 
 Like a tree with splendid branches rising from a humble 
 root. 
 
 Looking at the distant city, temples, houses, domes, and 
 
 towers, 
 Felix cried in exultation: "All that mighty work is 
 
 ours. 
 
 "Every toiler in the quarry, every builder on the shore. 
 Every chopper in the palm-grove, every raftsman at the 
 oar, 
 
 "Hewing wood and drawing water, splitting stones and 
 
 cleaving sod. 
 All the dusty ranks of labour, in the regiment of 
 
 God, 
 
 "March together toward His triumph, do the task His 
 
 hands prepare: 
 Honest toil is holy service; faithful work is praise and 
 
 ^ prayer. 
 
 94 
 
THE TOILING OF FELIX 
 
 While he bore the heat and burden Fehx felt the sense of 
 rest 
 
 Flowing softly hke a fountain, deep within his weaiy 
 breast; 
 
 Felt the brotherhood of labour, rising round him like a 
 tide, 
 
 Overflow his heart and join him to the workers at his. 
 side. 
 
 Oft he cheered them with his singing at the breaking of 
 
 the light. 
 Told them tales of Christ at noonday, taught them words 
 
 of prayer at night. 
 
 Once he bent above a comrade fainting in the mid-day 
 heat. 
 
 Sheltered him with woven palm-leaves, gave him water, 
 cool and sweet. 
 
 Then it seemed, for one swift moment, secret radiance 
 filled the place; 
 
 Underneath the green palm-branches flashed a look of 
 Jesus' face. 
 
 Once again, a raftsman, slipping, plunged beneath the 
 
 stream and sank; 
 Swiftly Felix leaped to rescue, caught him, drew him 
 
 toward the bank — 
 
 95 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Battling with the cruel river, using all his strength to 
 
 save— 
 Did he dream ? or was there One beside him walking on 
 
 the wave? 
 
 Now at last the work was ended, grove deserted, quarry 
 
 stilled; 
 Felix journeyed to the city that his hands had helped to 
 
 build. 
 
 In the darkness of the temple, at the closing hour of 
 
 day, 
 As of old he sought the altar, as of old he knelt to 
 
 pray: 
 
 "Hear me, O Thou hidden Master ! Thou hast sent a 
 
 M^ord to me; 
 It is written — Thy commandment — I have kept it faith- 
 
 fully. 
 
 "Thou hast bid me leave the visions of the solitary life. 
 Bear my part in human labour, take my share in human 
 strife. 
 
 "I have done Thy bidding. Master; raised the rock and 
 
 felled the tree. 
 Swung the axe and plied the hammer, working every day 
 
 for Thee. 
 
 96 
 
THE TOILINCx OF FELIX 
 
 "Once it seemed I saw Thy presence through the bending 
 
 palm-leaves gleam; 
 Once upon the flowing water — Nay, I know not; 'twas 
 
 a dream ! 
 
 "This I know: Thou hast been near me: more than this 
 
 I dare not ask. 
 Though I see Thee not, I love Thee. Let me do Thy 
 
 humblest task !" 
 
 Through the dimness of the temple slowly dawned a 
 
 mystic light; 
 There the Master stood in glory, manifest to mortal 
 
 sight : 
 
 Hands that bore the mark of labour, brow that bore the 
 
 print of care; 
 Hands of power, divinely tender; brow of light, divinely 
 
 fair. 
 
 "Hearken, good and faithful servant, true disciple, loyal 
 
 friend ! 
 Thou hast followed me and found me; I will keep thee 
 
 to the end. 
 
 "Well I know thy toil and trouble; often weary, fainting, 
 
 worn, 
 I have lived the life of labour, heavy burdens I have borne. 
 
 97 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 "Never in a prince's palace have I slept on golden 
 
 bed, 
 Never in a hermit's cavern have I eaten unearned bread. 
 
 "Born within a lowly stable, where the cattle round me 
 
 stood, 
 Trained a carpenter in Nazareth, I have toiled, and found 
 
 it good. 
 
 "They who tread the path of labour follow where my 
 
 feet have trod; 
 They who work without complaining do the holy will of 
 
 God. 
 
 "Where the many toil together, there am I among my 
 
 own; 
 Where the tired workman sleepeth, there am I with him 
 
 alone. 
 
 "I, the peace that passeth knowledge, dwell amid the 
 
 daily strife; 
 I, the bread of heaven, am broken in the sacrament of 
 
 life. 
 
 "Every task, however simple, sets the soul that does it 
 
 free; 
 Every deed of love and mercy, done to man, is done to 
 
 me. 
 
 98 
 
THE TOILING OF FELIX 
 
 "Thou hast learned the open secret; thou hast come to 
 
 me for rest; 
 With thy burden, in thy labour, thou art Felix, doubly 
 
 blest. 
 
 "Nevermore thou needest seek me; I am with thee every- 
 where ; 
 
 Raise the sto7ie, and thou shalt find me ; cleave the woody 
 and I am there. ^* 
 
 III 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 The legend of Felix is ended, the toiling of Felix is done; 
 
 The Master has paid him his wages, the goal of his jour- 
 ney is won; 
 
 He rests, but he never is idle; a thousand years pass like 
 a day, 
 
 In the glad surprise of that Paradise where work is 
 sweeter than play. 
 
 Yet often the King of that country comes out from His 
 
 tireless host, 
 And walks in this world of the weary as if He loved it 
 
 the most; 
 For here in the dusty confusion, with eyes that are heavy 
 
 and dim. 
 He meets again the labouring men who are looking and 
 
 longing for Him. 
 
 99 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 He cancels the curse of Eden, and brings them a blessing 
 
 instead : 
 Blessed are they that labour, for Jesus i)artakes of their 
 
 bread. 
 He puts His hand to their burdens, He enters their homes 
 
 at night: 
 Who does his best shall have as a guest the Master of 
 
 life and light. 
 
 And courage will come with His presence, and patience 
 
 return at His touch, 
 And manifold sins be forgiven to those who love Him 
 
 much ; 
 The cries of envy and anger will change to the songs of 
 
 cheer. 
 The toiling age will forget its rage when the Prince of 
 
 Peace draws near. 
 
 This is the gospel of labour, ring it, ye bells of the kirk ! 
 The Lord of Love came down from above, to live witli 
 
 the men who work. 
 This is the rose that He planted, here in the thorn-curst 
 
 soil: 
 Heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of 
 
 Earth is toil. 
 1898. 
 
 100 
 
VERA 
 
 A SILENT world, — ^yet full of vital joy 
 Uttered in rhythmic movements manifold, 
 And sunbeams flashing on the face of things 
 Like sudden smilings of divine delight, — 
 A world of many sorrows too, revealed 
 In fading flowers and withering leaves and dark 
 Tear-laden clouds, and tearless, clinging mists 
 That hung above the earth too sad to weep, — 
 A world of fluent change, and changeless flow, 
 And infinite suggestion of new thought. 
 Reflected in the crystal of the heart, — 
 A world of many meanings but no words, 
 A silent world was Vera's home. 
 
 For her 
 The inner doors of sound were closely sealed 
 The outer portals, delicate as shells 
 Suffused with faintest rose of far-off morn. 
 Like underglow of daybreak in the sea, — 
 The ear-gates of the garden of her soul. 
 Shaded by drooping tendrils of brown hair, — 
 Waited in vain for messengers to pass. 
 And thread the labyrinth with flying feet, 
 And swiftly knock upon the inmost door. 
 And enter in, and speak the mystic word. 
 101 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 But through those gates no message ever came. 
 Only with eyes did she behold and see, — 
 With eyes as luminous and bright and brown 
 As waters of a woodland river, — eyes 
 That questioned so they almost seemed to speak, 
 And answered so they almost seemed to hear, — 
 Only with wondering eyes did she behold 
 The silent splendour of a living world. 
 
 She saw the great wind ranging freely down 
 
 Interminable archways of the wood, 
 
 While tossing boughs and bending tree-tops hailed 
 
 His coming: but no sea- toned voice of pines. 
 
 No roaring of the oaks, no silvery song 
 
 Of poplars or of birches, followed him. 
 
 He passed; they waved their arms and clapped their 
 
 hands; 
 There was no sound. 
 
 The torrents from the hills 
 Leaped down their rocky pathways, like wild steeds 
 Breaking the yoke and shaking manes of foam. 
 The lowland brooks coiled smoothly through the fields. 
 And softly spread themselves in glistening lakes 
 Whose ripples merrily danced among the reeds. 
 The standing waves that ever keep their place 
 In the swift rapids, curled upon themselves. 
 And seemed about to break and never broke; 
 And all the wandering waves that fill the sea 
 
 102 
 
VERA 
 
 Came buffeting in along the stony shore, 
 Or plunging in along the level sands, 
 Or creeping in along the winding creeks 
 And inlets. Yet from all the ceaseless flow 
 And turmoil of the restless element 
 Came neither song of joy nor sob of grief; 
 For there were many waters, but no voice. 
 
 Silent the actors all on Nature's stage 
 Performed their parts before her watchful eyes. 
 Coming and going, making war and love. 
 Working and playing, all without a sound. 
 The oxen drew their load with swaying necks; 
 The cows came sauntering home along the lane; 
 The nodding sheep were led from field to fold 
 In mute obedience. Down the woodland track 
 The hounds with panting sides and lolling tongues 
 Pursued their flying prey in noiseless haste. 
 The birds, the most alive of living things. 
 Mated, and built their nests, and reared their young. 
 And swam the flood of air like tiny ships 
 Rising and falling over unseen waves, 
 And, gathering in great navies, bore away 
 To North or South, without a note of song. 
 
 All these were Vera's playmates; and she loved 
 To watch them, wondering oftentimes how well 
 They knew their parts, and how the drama moved 
 
 103 
 
NAKRATIA E POEMS 
 
 So swiftly, smoothly on from scene to scene 
 Without confusion. But she sometimes dreamed 
 There must be something hidden in the play 
 Unknown to her, an utterance of life 
 More clear than action and more deep than looks. 
 And this she felt most deeply when she watched 
 Her human comrades and the throngs of men, 
 Who met and parted oft with moving lips 
 That had a meaning more than she could see. 
 She saw a lover bend above a maid, 
 With moving lips; and though he touched her not 
 A sudden rose of joy bloomed in her face. 
 She saw a hater stand before his foe 
 And move his lips; whereat the other shrank 
 As if he had been smitten on the mouth. 
 She saw the regiments of toiling men 
 Marshalled in ranks and led by moving lips. 
 And once she saw a sight more strange than all: 
 A crowd of people sitting charmed and still 
 Around a little company of men 
 
 Who touched their hands in measured, rhythmic time 
 To curious instruments; a woman stood 
 Among them, with bright eyes and heaving breast, 
 And lifted up her face and moved her lips. 
 Then Vera wondered at the idle play. 
 But when she looked around, she saw the glow 
 Of deep delight on every face, as if 
 Some visitor from a celestial world 
 
 104 
 
VERA 
 
 Had brought glad tidings. But to her alone 
 No angel entered, for the choir of sound 
 Was vacant in the temple of her soul, 
 And worship lacked her golden crown of song. 
 
 So when by vision baffled and perplexed 
 She saw that all the world could not be seen. 
 And knew she could not know the whole of life 
 Unless a hidden gate should be unsealed. 
 She felt imprisoned. In her heart there grew 
 The bitter creeping plant of discontent, 
 The plant that only grows in prison soil, 
 Whose root is hunger and whose fruit is pain. 
 The springs of still delight and tranquil joy 
 Were drained as dry as desert dust to feed 
 That never-flowering vine, whose tendrils clung 
 With strangling touch around the bloom of life 
 And made it wither. Vera could not rest 
 Within the limits of her silent world; 
 Along its dumb and desolate paths she roamed 
 A captive, looking sadly for escape. 
 
 Now in those distant days, and in that land 
 Remote, there lived a Master wonderful. 
 Who knew the secret of all life, and could. 
 With gentle touches and with potent words. 
 Open all gates that ever had been sealed. 
 And loose all prisoners whom Fate had bound. 
 105 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Obscure he dwelt, not in the wilderness, 
 
 But in a hut among the throngs of men. 
 
 Concealed by meekness and simplicity. 
 
 And ever as he walked the city streets, 
 
 Or sat in quietude beside the sea, 
 
 Or trod the hillsides and the harvest fields, 
 
 The multitude passed by and knew him not. 
 
 But there were some who knew, and turned to him 
 
 For help; and unto all who asked, he gave. 
 
 Thus Vera came, and found him in the field. 
 
 And knew him by the pity in his face. 
 
 She knelt to him and held him by one hand. 
 
 And laid the other hand upon her lips 
 
 In mute entreaty. Then she lifted up 
 
 The coils of hair that hung about her neck. 
 
 And bared the beauty of the gates of sound, — 
 
 Those virgin gates through which no voice had passed,- 
 
 She made them bare before the Master's sight. 
 
 And looked into the kindness of his face 
 
 With eyes that spoke of all her prisoned pain. 
 
 And told her great desire without a word. 
 
 The Master waited long in silent thought, 
 As one reluctant to bestow a gift, 
 Not for the sake of holding back the thing 
 Entreated, but because he surely knew 
 Of something better that he fain would give 
 If only she would ask it. Then he stooped 
 
 106 
 
VERA 
 
 To Vera, smiling, touched her ears and spoke: 
 "Open, fair gates, and you, reluctant doors. 
 Within the ivory labyrinth of the ear. 
 Let fall the bar of silence and unfold ! 
 Enter, you voices of all living things. 
 Enter the garden sealed, — but softly, slowly. 
 Not with a noise confused and broken tumult, — 
 Come in an order sweet as I command you, 
 And bring the double gift of speech and hearing." 
 
 Vera began to hear. At first the wind 
 
 Breathed a low prelude of the birth of sound. 
 
 As if an organ far away were touched 
 
 By unseen fingers; then the little stream 
 
 That hurried down the hillside, swept the harp 
 
 Of music into merry, tinkling notes; 
 
 And then the lark that poised above her head 
 
 On wangs a-quiver, overflowed the air 
 
 With showers of song; and one by one the tones 
 
 Of all things living, in an order sweet. 
 
 Without confusion and with deepening power. 
 
 Entered the garden sealed. And last of all 
 
 The Master's voice, the human voice divine, 
 
 Passed through the gates and called her by her name. 
 
 And Vera heard. 
 
 107 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 II 
 
 What rapture of new life 
 Must come to one for whom a silent world 
 Is suddenly made vocal, and whose heart 
 By the same magic is awaked at once, 
 Without the learner's toil and long delay, 
 Out of a night of dumbly moving dreams, 
 Into a day that overflows with music ! 
 This joy was Vera's; and to her it seemed 
 As if a new creative morn had risen 
 Upon the earth, and after the full week 
 When living things unfolded silently, 
 And after the long, quiet Sabbath day, 
 AVhen all was still, another day had dawned. 
 And through the calm expectancy of heaven 
 A secret voice had said, "Let all things speak." 
 The world responded with an instant joy; 
 And all the unseen avenues of sound 
 Were thronged with varying forms of viewless life. 
 
 To every living thing a voice was given 
 Distinct and personal. The forest trees 
 Were not more varied in their shades of green 
 Than in their tones of speech; and every bird 
 That nested in their branches had a song 
 Unknown to other birds and all his own. 
 The waters spoke a hundred dialects 
 108 
 
VERA 
 
 Of one great language; now with pattering fall 
 
 Of raindrops on the glistening leaves, and now 
 
 With steady roar of rivers rushing down 
 
 To meet the sea, and now with rhythmic throb 
 
 And measured tumult of tempestuous waves, 
 
 And now with lingering lisp of creeping tides, — 
 
 The manifold discourse of many waters. 
 
 But most of all the human voice was full 
 
 Of infinite variety, and ranged 
 
 Along the scale of life's experience 
 
 With changing tones, and notes both sweet and sad. 
 
 All fitted to express some unseen thought, 
 
 Some vital motion of the hidden heart. 
 
 So Vera listened with her new-born sense 
 
 To all the messengers that passed the -gates, 
 
 In measureless delight and utter trust, 
 
 Believing that they brought a true report 
 
 From every living thing of its true life, 
 
 And hoping that at last they would make clear 
 
 The mystery and the meaning of the world. 
 
 But soon there came a trouble in her joy, 
 A note discordant that dissolved the chord 
 And broke the bliss of hearing into pain. 
 Not from the harsher sounds and voices wild 
 Of anger and of anguish, that reveal 
 The secret strife in nature, and confess 
 The touch of sorrow on the heart of life, — 
 109 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 From these her trouble came not. For in these, 
 
 However sad, she felt the note of truth, 
 
 And truth, though sad, is always musical. 
 
 The raging of the tempest-ridden sea, 
 
 The crash of thunder, and the hollow moan 
 
 Of winds complaining round the mountain-crags, 
 
 The shrill and quavering cry of birds of prey, 
 
 The fiercer roar of conflict-loving beasts, — 
 
 All these wild sounds are potent in their place 
 
 Within life's mighty symphony; the charm 
 
 Of truth attunes them, and the hearing ear 
 
 Finds pleasure in their rude sincerity. 
 
 Even the broken and tumultuous noise 
 
 That rises from great cities, where the heart 
 
 Of human toil is beating heavily 
 
 With ceaseless murmurs of the labouring pulse, 
 
 Is not a discord; for it speaks to life 
 
 Of life unfeigned, and full of hopes and fears. 
 
 And touched through all the trouble of its notes 
 
 With something real and therefore glorious. 
 
 One voice alone of all that sound on earth. 
 Is hateful to the soul, and full of pain, — 
 The voice of falsehood. So when Vera heard 
 This mocking voice, and knew that it was false; 
 When first she learned that human lips can speak 
 The thing that is not, and betray the ear 
 Of simple trust with treachery of words; 
 110 
 
VERA 
 
 The joy of hearing withered in her heart. 
 For now she felt that faithless messengers 
 Could pass the open and unguarded gates 
 Of sound, and bring a message all untrue. 
 Or haK a truth that makes the deadliest lie. 
 Or idle babble, neither false nor true, 
 But hollow to the heart, and meaningless. 
 She heard the flattering voices of deceit, 
 That mask the hidden purposes of men 
 With fair attire of favourable words, 
 And hide the evil in the guise of good: 
 The voices vain and decorous and smooth. 
 That fill the world with empty-hearted talk; 
 The foolish voices, wandering and confused, 
 That never clearly speak the thing they would, 
 But ramble blindly round their true intent 
 And tangle sense in hopeless coils of sound, — 
 All these she heard, and with a deep mistrust 
 Began to doubt the value of her gift. 
 It seemed as if the world, the living world. 
 Sincere, and vast, and real, were still concealed. 
 And she, within the prison of her soul. 
 Still waiting silently to hear the voice 
 Of perfect knowledge and of perfect peace. 
 
 So with the burden of her discontent 
 She turned to seek the Master once again, 
 And found him sitting in the market-place, 
 111 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Half-hidden in the shadow of a porch, 
 Alone among the careless crowd. 
 
 She spoke: 
 "Thy gift was great, dear Master, and my heart 
 Has thanked thee many times because I hear 
 But I have learned that hearing is not all; 
 For underneath the speech of men, there flows 
 Another current of their hidden thoughts; 
 Behind the mask of language I perceive 
 The eyes of things unsaid. 
 
 Touch me again, 
 O Master, with thy liberating hand, 
 And free me from the bondage of deceit. 
 Open another gate, and let me hear 
 The secret thoughts and purposes of men; 
 For only thus my heart will be at rest. 
 And only thus, at last, I shall perceive 
 The mystery and the meaning of the world." 
 
 The Master's face was turned aside from her; 
 His eyes looked far away, as if he saw 
 Something beyond her sight; and yet she knew 
 That he was listening; for her pleading voice 
 No sooner ceased than he put forth his hand 
 To touch her brow, and very gently spoke: 
 "Thou seekest for thyself a wondrous gift, — 
 The opening of the second gate, a gift 
 That many wise men have desired in vain: 
 
 112 
 
VERA 
 
 But some have found it, — whether well or ill ! 
 
 For their own peace, they have attained the power 
 
 To hear unspoken thoughts of other men. 
 
 And thou hast begged this gift ? Thou shalt receive,— 
 
 Not knowing what thou seekest, — it is thine: 1 
 
 The second gate is open ! Thou shalt hear 
 
 All that men think and feel within their hearts: 
 
 Thy prayer is granted, daughter, go thy way ! i 
 
 But if thou findest sorrow on this path, 
 
 Come back again, — there is a path to peace." 
 
 I 
 \ 
 
 III \ 
 
 Beyond our power of vision, poets say, 
 There is another world of forms unseen, 
 Yet visible to purer eyes than ours. 
 And if the crystal of our sight were clear, 
 We should behold the mountain-slopes of cloud, 
 The moving meadows of the untilled sea, \ 
 
 The groves of twilight and the dales of dawn. 
 And every wide and lonely field of air. 
 More populous than cities, crowded close 
 With hving creatures of all shapes and hues. : 
 
 But if that sight were ours, the things that now 
 Engage our eyes would seem but dull and dim 
 Beside the wonders of our new-found world. 
 And we should be amazed and overwhelmed 
 Not knowing how to use the plenitude 
 Of vision. ' 
 
 113 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 So in Vera's soul, at first, 
 The opening of the second gate of sound 
 Let in confusion hke a whirUng flood. 
 The murmur of a myriad-throated mob; 
 The trampHng of an army through a place 
 Where echoes hide; the sudden, whistUng flight 
 Of an innumerable flock of birds 
 Along the highway of the midnight sky; 
 The many-whispered rustling of the reeds 
 Beneath the passing feet of all the winds; 
 The long-drawn, inarticulate, wailing cry 
 Of million-pebbled beaches when the lash 
 Of stormy waves is drawn across their back, — 
 All these were less bewildering than to hear 
 "What now she heard at once: the tangled sound 
 Of all that moves within the minds of men. 
 For now there was no measured flow of words 
 To mark the time; nor any interval 
 Of silence to repose the listening ear. 
 But through the dead of night, and through the calm 
 Of weary noon-tide, through the solemn hush 
 That fills the temple in the pause of praise, 
 And through the breathless awe in rooms of death. 
 She heard the ceaseless motion and the stir 
 Of never-silent hearts, that fill the world 
 With interwoven thoughts of good and ill, 
 With mingled music of delight and grief. 
 With songs of love, and bitter cries of hate, 
 
 114 
 
VERA 
 
 With hymns of faith, and dirges of despair, 
 And murmurs deeper and more vague than all, — 
 Thoughts that are born and die without a name, 
 Or rather, never die, but haunt the soul. 
 With sad persistence, till a name is given. 
 These Vera heard, at first with mind perplexed 
 And half-benumbed by the disordered sound. 
 But soon a clearer sense began to pierce 
 The cloudy turmoil with discerning power. 
 She learned to know the tones of human thought 
 As plainly as she knew the tones of speech. 
 She could divide the evil from the good. 
 Interpreting the language of the mind, 
 And tracing every feeling like a thread 
 Within the mystic web the passions weave 
 From heart to heart around the living world. 
 
 But when at last the Master's second gift 
 Was perfected within her, and she heard 
 And understood the secret thoughts of men, 
 A sadness fell upon her, and the load 
 Of insupportable knowledge pressed her down 
 With weary wishes to know more, or less. 
 For all she knew was like a broken word 
 Inscribed upon the fragment of a ring; 
 And all she heard was like a broken strain 
 Preluding music that is never played. 
 
 115 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Then she remembered in her sad unrest 
 The Master's parting word, — "a path to peace," — 
 And turned again to seek him with her grief. 
 She found him in a hollow of the hills, 
 Beside a little spring that issued forth 
 Beneath the rocks and filled a mossy cup 
 With never-failing water. There he sat, 
 With waiting looks that welcomed her afar. 
 "I know that thou hast heard, my child," he said, 
 "For all the wonder of the world of sound 
 Is written in thy face. But hast thou heard. 
 Among the many voices, one of peace? 
 And is thy heart that hears the secret thoughts. 
 The hidden wishes and desires of men. 
 Content with hearing? Art thou satisfied?" 
 "Nay, Master," she replied, "thou knowest well 
 That I am not at rest, nor have I heard 
 The voice of perfect peace; but what' I hear 
 Brings me disquiet and a troubled mind. 
 The evil voices in the souls of men, 
 Voices of rage and cruelty and fear 
 Have not dismayed me; for I have believed 
 The voices of the good, the kind, the true. 
 Are more in number and excel in strength. 
 There is more love than hate, more hope than fear. 
 In the deep throbbing of the human heart. 
 But while I hsten to the troubled sound, 
 One thing torments me, and destroys my rest 
 
 116 
 
VERA 
 
 And presses me with dull, unceasing pain. 
 For out of all the minds of all mankind, 
 There rises evermore a questioning voice 
 That asks the meaning of this mighty world 
 And finds no answer, — asks, and asks again. 
 With patient pleading or with wild complaint, 
 But wakens no response, except the sound 
 Of other questions, wandering to and fro, 
 From other souls in doubt. And so this voice 
 Persists above all others that I hear, 
 And binds them up together into one, 
 Until the mingled murmur of the world 
 Sounds through the inner temple of my heart 
 Like an eternal question, vainly asked 
 By every human soul that thinks and feels. 
 This is the heaviness that weighs me down, 
 And this the pain that will not let me rest. 
 Therefore, dear Master, shut the gates again. 
 And let me live in silence as before ! 
 Or else, — and if there is indeed a gate 
 Unopened yet, through which I might receive 
 An answer in the voice of perfect peace — " 
 
 She ceased; and in her upward faltering tone 
 The question echoed. 
 
 Then the Master said: 
 "There is another gate, not yet unclosed. 
 For through the outer portal of the ear 
 117 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Only the outer voice of things may pass; 
 And through the middle doorway of the mind 
 Only the half-formed voice of human thoughts, 
 Uncertain and perplexed with endless doubt; 
 But through the inmost gate the spirit hears 
 The voice of that great Spirit who is Life. 
 Beneath the tones of living things He breathes 
 A deeper tone than ever ear hath heard; 
 And underneath the troubled thoughts of men 
 He thinks forever, and His thought is peace. 
 Behold, I touch thee once again, my child: 
 The third and last of those three hidden gates 
 That closed around thy soul and shut thee in. 
 Is open now, and thou shalt truly hear." 
 
 Then Vera heard. The spiritual gate 
 Was opened softly as a full-blown flower 
 Unfolds its heart to welcome in the dawn, 
 And on her listening face there shone a light 
 Of still amazement and completed joy 
 In the full gift of hearing. 
 
 What she heard 
 I cannot tell; nor could she ever tell 
 In words; because all human words are vain. 
 There is no speech nor language, to express 
 The secret messages of God, that make 
 Perpetual music in the hearing heart. 
 Below the voice of waters, and above 
 118 
 
VERA 
 
 The wandering voice of winds, and underneath 
 The song of birds, and all the varying tones 
 Of living things that fill the world with sound, 
 God spoke to her, and what she heard was peace. 
 
 So when the Master questioned, "Dost thou hear?" 
 
 She answered, "Yea, at last I hear." And then 
 
 He asked her once again, "^Vllat hearest thou.'* 
 
 What means the voice of Life.'*" She answered, "Love ! 
 
 For love is life, and they who do not love 
 
 Are not alive. But every soul that loves. 
 
 Lives in the heart of God and hears Him speak." 
 
 1898. 
 
 119 
 
ANOTHER CHANCE 
 
 A DRAMATIC LYRIC 
 
 Come, give me back my life again, you heavy-handed 
 
 Death ! 
 Uncrook your fingers from my throat, and let me draw 
 
 my breath. 
 You do me wrong to take me now — too soon for me to 
 
 die — 
 Ah, loose me from this clutching pain, and hear the 
 
 reason why. 
 
 I know I've had my forty years, and wasted every one; 
 And yet, I tell you honestly, my life is just begun; 
 I've walked the world like one asleep, a dreamer in a 
 
 trance ; 
 But now you've gripped me wide awake — I want another 
 
 chance. 
 
 My dreams were always beautiful, my thoughts were 
 
 high and fine; 
 No life was ever lived on earth to match those dreams of 
 
 mine. 
 And would you wreck them unfulfilled ? What folly, nay, 
 
 what crime ! 
 You rob the world, you waste a soul; give me a little 
 
 time. 
 
 120 
 
ANOTHER CHANCE 
 
 You'll hear me? Yes, I'm sure you will, my hope is not 
 
 in vain: 
 I feel the even pulse of peace, the sweet relief from 
 
 pain; 
 The black fog rolls away from me; I'm free once more 
 
 to plan: 
 Another chance is all I need to prove myself a man ! 
 
 The world is full of warfare 'twixt the evil and the 
 
 good; 
 I watched the battle from afar as one who understood 
 The shouting and confusion, the bloody, blundering 
 
 fight- 
 How few there are that see it clear, how few that wage 
 
 it right ! 
 
 The captains flushed with foolish pride, the soldiers pale 
 
 with fear, 
 The faltering flags, the feeble fire from ranks that swerve 
 
 and veer, 
 The wild mistakes, the dismal doubts, the coward hearts 
 
 that flee — 
 The good cause needs a nobler knight to win the victory. 
 
 A man whose soul is pure and strong, whose sword is 
 
 bright and keen. 
 Who knows the splendour of the fight and what its issues 
 
 mean; 
 
 121 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Who never takes one step aside, nor halts, though hope 
 
 be dim. 
 But cleaves a pathway thro' the strife, and bids men 
 
 follow him. 
 
 No blot upon his stainless shield, no weakness in his 
 arm; 
 
 No sign of trembling in his face to break his valour's 
 charm : 
 
 A man like this could stay the flight and lead the waver- 
 ing line; 
 
 Ah, give me but a year of life — I'll make that glory mine ! 
 
 Religion? Yes, I know it well; I've heard its prayers 
 and creeds. 
 
 And seen men put them all to shame with poor, half- 
 hearted deeds. 
 
 They follow Christ, but far away; they wander and they 
 doubt. 
 
 I'll serve him in a better way, and live his precepts out. 
 
 You see, I waited just for this; I could not be content 
 To own a feeble, faltering faith with human weakness 
 
 blent. 
 Too many runners in the race move slowly, stumble, 
 
 fall; 
 But I will run so straight and swift I shall outstrip them 
 
 all. 
 
 122 
 
ANOTHER CHANCE 
 
 Oh, think what it will mean to men, amid their foolish 
 
 strife, 
 To see the clear, unshadowed light of one true Christian 
 
 life, 
 Without a touch of selfishness, without a taint of sin, — 
 With one short month of such a life a new world would 
 
 begin ! 
 
 And love ! — I often dream of that — the treasure of the 
 
 earth; 
 How little they who use the coin have realised its worth ! 
 Twill pay all debts, enrich all hearts, and make all joys 
 
 secure. 
 But love, to do its perfect work, must be sincere and pure. 
 
 My heart is full of virgin gold. I'll pour it out and spend 
 My hidden wealth with open hand on all who call me 
 
 friend. 
 Not one shall miss the kindly deed, the largess of relief. 
 The generous fellowship of joy, the sympathy of grief. 
 
 I'll say the loyal, helpful things that make life sweet and 
 fair, 
 
 I'll pay the gratitude I owe for human love and care. 
 
 Perhaps I've been at fault sometimes — I'll ask to be for- 
 given. 
 
 And make this little room of mine seem like a bit of 
 heaven. 
 
 123 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 For one by one I'll call my friends to stand beside my 
 
 bed; 
 I'll speak the true and tender words so often left unsaid; 
 And every heart shall throb and glow, all coldness melt 
 
 away 
 Around my altar-fire of love — ah, give me but one day ! 
 
 What's that ? I've had another day, and wasted it again ? 
 A priceless day in empty dreams, another chance in vain ? 
 Thou fool — this night — it's very dark — the last — this 
 
 choking breath — 
 One prayer — have mercy on a dreamer's soul — God, this 
 
 is death ! 
 
 124 
 
A LEGEND OF SERVICE 
 
 It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name !) 
 To hear, one day, report from those who came 
 With pitying sorrow, or exultant joy, 
 To tell of earthly tasks in His employ. 
 For some were grieved because they saw how slow 
 The stream of heavenly love on earth must flow; 
 And some were glad because their eyes had seen, 
 Along its banks, fresh flowers and living green. 
 At last, before the whiteness of the throne 
 The youngest angel, Asmiel, stood alone; 
 Nor glad, nor sad, but full of earnest thought, 
 And thus his tidings to the Master brought- 
 "Lord, in the city Lupon I have found 
 "Three servants of thy holy name, renowned 
 "Above their fellows. One is very wise, 
 "With thoughts that ever range beyond the skies; 
 "And one is gifted with the golden speech 
 "That makes men gladly hear when he will teach; 
 "And one, with no rare gift or grace endued, 
 "Has won the people's love by doing good. 
 "With three such saints Lupon is trebly blest; 
 " But, Lord, I fain would know, which loves Thee best ? " 
 Then spake the Lord of Angels, to whose look 
 The hearts of all are like an open book: 
 "In every soul the secret thought I read, 
 
 125 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 "And well I know who loves me best indeed. 
 
 "But every life has pages vacant still, 
 
 "Whereon a man may write the thing he will; 
 
 "Therefore I read the record, day by day, 
 
 "And wait for hearts untaught to learn my way. 
 
 "But thou shalt go to Lupon, to the three 
 
 "Who serve me there, and take this word from me: 
 
 "Tell each of them his Master bids him go 
 
 "Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow; 
 
 "There he shall find a certain task for me: 
 
 "But what, I do not tell to them nor thee. 
 
 "Give thou the message, make my word the test, 
 
 "And crown for me the one who loves me best." 
 
 Silent the angel stood, with folded hands, 
 
 To take the imprint of his Lord's commands; 
 
 Then drew one breath, obedient and elate, 
 
 And passed the self-same hour, through Lupon's gate. 
 
 First to the Temple door he made his way; 
 And there, because it was a holy-day. 
 He saw the folk in thousands thronging, stirred 
 By ardent thirst to hear the preacher's word. 
 Then, while the people whispered Bernol's name, 
 Through aisles that hushed behind him Bernol came; 
 Strung to the keenest pitch of conscious might. 
 With lips prepared and firm, and eyes alight. 
 One moment at the pulpit step he knelt 
 In silent prayer, and on his shoulder felt 
 
 126 
 
A LEGEND OF SERVICE 
 
 The angel's hand: — "The Master bids thee go 
 
 "Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, 
 
 "To serve Him there." Then Bernol's hidden face 
 
 Went white as death, and for about the space 
 
 Of ten slow heart-beats there was no reply; 
 
 Till Bernol looked around and whispered, ''Why?" 
 
 But answer to his question came there none; 
 
 The angel sighed, and with a sigh was gone. 
 
 Within the humble house where Malvin spent 
 His studious years, on holy things intent, 
 Sweet stillness reigned; and there the angel found 
 The saintly sage immersed in thought profound. 
 Weaving with patient toil and willing care 
 A web of wisdom, wonderful and fair: 
 A seamless robe for Truth's great bridal meet. 
 And needing but one thread to be complete. 
 Then Asmiel touched his hand, and broke the thread 
 Of fine-spun thought, and very gently said, 
 "The One of whom thou thinkest bids thee go 
 "Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, 
 "To serve Him there." With sorrow and surprise 
 Malvin looked up, reluctance in his eyes. 
 The broken thought, the strangeness of the call. 
 The perilous passage of the mountain-wall, 
 The solitary journey, and the length 
 Of ways unknown, too great for his frail strength. 
 Appalled him. With a doubtful brow 
 
 127 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 He scanned the doubtful task, and muttered "How? " 
 
 But Asmiel answered, as he turned to go, 
 
 With cold, disheartened voice, "I do not know." 
 
 Now as he went, with fading hope, to seek 
 
 The third and last to whom God bade him speak. 
 
 Scarce twenty steps away whom should he meet 
 
 But Fermor, hurrying cheerful down the street. 
 
 With ready heart that faced his work like play. 
 
 And joyed to find it greater every day ! 
 
 The angel stopped him with uplifted hand. 
 
 And gave without delay his Lord's command: 
 
 "He whom thou servest here would have thee go 
 
 "Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, 
 
 "To serve Him there." Ere Asmiel breathed again 
 
 The eager answer leaped to meet him, " When ? " 
 
 The angel's face with inward joy grew bright. 
 
 And all his figure glowed with heavenly light; 
 
 He took the golden circlet from his brow 
 
 And gave the crown to Termor, answering, "Now! 
 
 "For thou hast met the Master's hidden test, 
 
 "And I have found the man who loves Him best. 
 
 "Not thine, nor mine, to question or reply 
 
 "When He commands us, asking 'how?' or 'why.''' 
 
 "He knows the cause; His ways are wise and just; 
 
 "Who serves the King must serve with perfect trust." 
 
 February, 1902. 
 
 128 
 
THE WHITE BEES 
 I 
 
 LEGEND 
 
 Long ago Apollo called to Aristseus, youngest of the 
 shepherds, 
 Saying, "I will make you keeper of my bees." 
 Golden were the hives and golden was the honey; golden, 
 too, the music 
 Where the honey-makers hummed among the trees. 
 
 Happy Aristseus loitered in the garden, wandered in the 
 orchard, 
 Careless and contented, indolent and free; 
 Lightly took his labour, lightly took his pleasure, till the 
 fated moment 
 When across his pathway came Eurydice. 
 
 Then her eyes enkindled burning love within him; drove 
 him wild with longing 
 For the perfect sweetness of her flower-like face; 
 Eagerly he followed, while she fled before him, over mead 
 and mountain. 
 On through field and forest, in a breathless race. 
 
 But the nymph, in flying, trod upon a serpent; like a 
 dream she vanished; 
 Pluto's chariot bore her down among the dead ! 
 129 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Lonely Aristaeus, sadly home returning, found his garden 
 empty, 
 All the hives deserted, all the music fled. 
 
 Mournfully bewailing, — "Ah, my honey-makers, where 
 have you departed?" 
 Far and wide he sought them over sea and shore; 
 Foolish is the tale that says he ever found them, brought 
 them home in triumph, — 
 Joys that once escape us fly for evermore. 
 
 Yet I dream that somewhere, clad in downy whiteness, 
 dwell the honey-makers. 
 In aerial gardens that no mortal sees: 
 And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us, gather- 
 ing mystic harvest, — 
 So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees. 
 
 II 
 
 THE SWARMING OF THE BEES 
 
 Who can tell the hiding of the white bees' nest? 
 
 Who can trace the guiding of their swift home flight? 
 Far would be his riding on a life-long quest: 
 
 Surely ere it ended would his beard grow white. 
 
 Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring, 
 Never in the passing of the wine-red Fall, 
 
 130 
 
THE WHITE BEES 
 
 May you hear the humming of the white bee's wing 
 Murmur o'er the meadow ere the night bells call. 
 
 Wait till winter hardens in the cold gray sky, 
 
 Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks all freeze. 
 
 Then above the gardens where the dead flowers lie, 
 Swarm the merry millions of the wild white bees. 
 
 Out of the high-built airy hive. 
 Deep in the clouds that veil the sun, 
 Look how the first of the swarm arrive; 
 Timidly venturing, one by one, 
 Down through the tranquil air. 
 Wavering here and there. 
 Large, and lazy in flight, — 
 Caught by a lift of the breeze. 
 Tangled among the naked trees, — 
 Dropping then, without a sound. 
 Feather-white, feather-light, 
 To their rest on the ground. 
 
 Thus the swarming is begun. 
 Count the leaders, every one 
 Perfect as a perfect star 
 Till the slow descent is done. 
 Look beyond them, see how far 
 Down the vistas dim and gray, 
 Multitudes are on the way. 
 131 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Now a sudden brightness 
 Dawns within the sombre day. 
 Over fields of whiteness; 
 And the sky is swiftly alive 
 With the flutter and the flight 
 Of the shimmering bees, that pour 
 From the hidden door of the hive 
 Till you can count no more. 
 
 Now on the branches of hemlock and pine 
 
 Thickly they settle and cluster and swing. 
 
 Bending them low; and the trellised vine 
 
 And the dark elm-boughs are traced with a line 
 
 Of beauty wherever the white bees cling. 
 
 Now they are hiding the wrecks of the flowers, 
 
 Softly, softly, covering all, 
 Over the grave of the summer hours 
 
 Spreading a silver pall. 
 Now they are building the broad roof ledge. 
 Into a cornice smooth and fair, 
 Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge. 
 Into the sweep of a marble stair. 
 Wonderful workers, swift and dumb, 
 Numberless myriads, still they come. 
 Thronging ever faster, faster, faster ! 
 Where is their queen? Who is their master? 
 The gardens are faded, the fields are frore, — 
 What is the honey they toil to store 
 132 
 
THE WHITE BEES 
 
 In the desolate day, where no blossoms gleam? 
 Forgetfulness and a dream I 
 
 But now the fretful wind awakes; 
 I hear him girding at the trees; 
 He strikes the bending boughs, and shakes 
 The quiet clusters of the bees 
 To powdery drift; 
 
 He tosses them away, 
 
 He drives them like spray; 
 He makes them veer and shift 
 
 Around his blustering path. 
 
 In clouds blindly whirling. 
 
 In rings madly swirling, 
 
 Full of crazy wrath. 
 So furious and fast they fly 
 They blur the earth and blot the sky 
 
 In wild, white mirk. 
 They fill the air with frozen wings 
 And tiny, angry, icy stings; 
 They blind the eyes, and choke the breath. 
 They dance a maddening dance of death 
 
 Around their work. 
 Sweeping the cover from the hill, 
 Heaping the hollows deeper still, 
 EflFacing every line and mark, 
 And swarming, storming in the dark 
 Through the long night; 
 133 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Until, at dawn, the wind lies down 
 
 Weary of fight; 
 The last torn cloud, with trailing gown. 
 Passes the open gates of light; 
 And the white bees are lost in flight. 
 
 Look how the landscape glitters wide and still. 
 
 Bright with a pure surprise ! 
 The day begins with joy, and all past ill, 
 
 Buried in white oblivion, lies 
 Beneath the snow-drifts under crystal skies. 
 New hope, new love, new life, new cheer, 
 Flow in the sunrise beam, — 
 The gladness of Apollo when he sees, 
 Upon the bosom of the wintry year. 
 The honey-harvest of his wild white bees, 
 
 Forgetfulness and a dream ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 LEGEND 
 
 Listen, my beloved, while the silver morning, like a 
 tranquil vision. 
 Fills the world around us and our hearts with peace; 
 Quiet is the close of Aristseus' legend, happy is the end- 
 ing- 
 Listen while I tell you how he found release. 
 
 134 
 
THE WHITE BEES 
 
 Many months he wandered far away in sadness, des- 
 olately thinking 
 Only of the vanished joys he could not find; 
 Till the great Apollo, pitying his shepherd, loosed him 
 from the burden 
 Of a dark, reluctant, backward-looking mind. 
 
 Then he saw around him all the changeful beauty of the 
 changing seasons. 
 In the world-wide regions where his journey lay; 
 Birds that sang to cheer him, flowers that bloomed beside 
 him, stars that shone to guide him, — 
 Traveller's joy was plenty all along the way ! 
 
 Everywhere he journeyed strangers made him welcome, 
 listened while he taught them 
 Secret lore of field and forest he had learned: 
 How to train the vines and make the olives fruitful; 
 how to guard the sheepfolds; 
 How to stay the fever when the dog-star burned. 
 
 Friendliness and blessing followed in his footsteps; richer 
 were the harvests. 
 Happier the dwellings, wheresoe'er he came; 
 Little children loved him, and he left behind him, in the 
 hour of parting. 
 Memories of kindness and a god-like name. 
 
 135 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 So he travelled onward, desolate no longer, patient in 
 his seeking, 
 Reaping all the wayside comfort of his quest; 
 Till at last in Thracia, high upon Mount Hsemus, far from 
 human dwelling, 
 Weary Aristseus laid him down to rest. 
 
 Then the honey-makers, clad in downy whiteness, flut- 
 tered soft around him. 
 Wrapt him in a dreamful slumber pure and deep. 
 This is life, beloved: first a sheltered garden, then a 
 troubled journey, 
 Joy and pain of seeking, — and at last we sleep ! 
 1905. 
 
 136 
 
NEW YEAR'S EVE 
 
 The other night I had a dream, most clear 
 
 And comforting, complete 
 
 In every line, a crystal sphere, 
 
 And full of intimate and secret cheer. 
 
 Therefore I will repeat 
 
 That vision, dearest heart, to you, 
 
 As of a thing not feigned, but very true. 
 
 Yes, true as ever in my life befell; 
 
 And you, perhaps, can tell 
 
 Whether my dream was really sad or sweet. 
 
 II 
 
 The shadows flecked the elm-embowered street 
 I knew so well, long, long ago; 
 And on the pillared porch where Marguerite 
 Had sat with me, the moonlight lay like snow. 
 But she, my comrade and my friend of youth. 
 Most gaily wise. 
 Most innocently loved, — 
 She of the blue-gray eyes 
 
 That ever smiled and ever spoke the truth, — 
 From that familiar dwelling, where she moved 
 Like mirth incarnate in the years before. 
 Had gone into the hidden house of Death. 
 137 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 I thought the garden wore 
 White mourning for her blessed innocence, 
 And the syringa's breath 
 Came from the corner by the fence 
 Where she had made her rustic seat. 
 With fragrance passionate, intense, 
 As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite. 
 My heart was heavy with a sense 
 Of something good for ever gone. I sought 
 Vainly for some consoling thought. 
 Some comfortable word that I could say 
 To her sad father, whom I visited again 
 For the first time since she had gone away. 
 The bell rang shrill and lonely, — then 
 The door was opened, and I sent my name 
 To him, — but ah ! 'twas Marguerite who came ! 
 There in the dear old dusky room she stood 
 Beneath the lamp, just as she used to stand. 
 In tender mocking mood. 
 "You did not ask for me," she said, 
 "And so I will not let you take my hand; 
 "But I must hear what secret talk you planned 
 "With father. Come, my friend, be good, 
 "And tell me your afiPairs of state: 
 "Why you have stayed away and made me wait 
 "So long. Sit down beside me here, — 
 "And, do you know, it seems a year 
 "Since we have talked together, — why so late.'" 
 138 
 
NEW YEAR'S EVE 
 
 Amazed, incredulous, confused with joy 
 I hardly dared to show, 
 And stammering like a boy, 
 I took the place she showed me at her side; 
 And then the talk flowed on with brimming tide 
 Through the still night. 
 While she with influence light 
 Controlled it, as the moon the flood. 
 She knew where I had been, what I had done. 
 What work was planned, and what begun; 
 My troubles, failures, fears she understood. 
 And touched them with a heart so kind, 
 That every care was melted from my mind, 
 And every hope grew bright. 
 And life seemed moving on to happy ends. 
 (Ah, what self-beggared fool was he 
 That said a woman cannot be 
 The very best of friends?) 
 Then there were memories of old times. 
 Recalled with many a gentle jest; 
 And at the last she brought the book of rhymes 
 We made together, trying to translate 
 The Songs of Heine (hers were always best). 
 "Now come," she said, 
 "To-night we will collaborate 
 "Again; I'll put you to the test. 
 "Here's one I never found the way to do, — 
 "The simplest are the hardest ones, you know, — 
 139 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 "I give this song to you." 
 And then she read: 
 
 Mein Kind, wir war en Kinder, 
 Zioei Kinder, jung und froh. 
 
 But all the while, a silent question stirred 
 Within me, though I dared not speak the word: 
 "Is it herself, and is she truly here, 
 "And was I dreaming when I heard 
 "That she was dead last year? 
 "Or was it true, and is she but a shade 
 "Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear, 
 "Cold though so kind, and will she gently fade 
 "When her sweet ghostly part is played 
 "And the light-curtain falls at dawn of day?" 
 
 But while my heart was troubled by this fear 
 
 So deeply that I could not speak it out. 
 
 Lest all my happiness should disappear, 
 
 I thought me of a cunning way 
 
 To hide the question and dissolve the doubt. 
 
 "Will you not give me now your hand, 
 
 "Dear Marguerite," I asked, "to touch and hold, 
 
 "That by this token I may understand 
 
 "You are the same true friend you were of old?" 
 
 She answered with a smile so bright and calm 
 
 It seemed as if I saw the morn arise 
 
 In the deep heaven of her eyes; 
 
 140 
 
NEW YEAR'S EVE 
 
 And smiling so, she laid her palm 
 
 In mine. Dear God, it was not cold 
 
 But warm with vital heat ! 
 
 "You live!" I cried, "you live, dear Marguerite!" 
 
 Then I awoke; but strangely comforted, 
 
 Although I knew again that she was dead. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Yes, there's the dream ! And was it sweet or sad ? 
 
 Dear mistress of my waking and my sleep. 
 
 Present reward of all my heart's desire. 
 
 Watching with me beside the winter fire. 
 
 Interpret now this vision that I had. 
 
 But while you read the meaning, let me keep 
 
 The touch of you: for the Old Year with storm 
 
 Is passing through the midnight, and doth shake 
 
 The corners of the house, — and oh ! my heart would 
 
 break 
 Unless both dreaming and awake 
 My hand could feel your hand was warm, warm, warm ! 
 
 1905. 
 
 141 
 
THE VAIN KING 
 
 In robes of Tyrian blue the King was drest, 
 
 A jewelled collar shone upon his breast, 
 
 A giant ruby glittered in his crown: 
 
 Lord of rich lands and many a splendid town. 
 
 In him the glories of an ancient line 
 
 Of sober kings, who ruled by right divine. 
 
 Were centred; and to him with loyal awe 
 
 The people looked for leadership and law. 
 
 Ten thousand knights, the safeguard of the land. 
 
 Were like a single sword within his hand; 
 
 A hundred courts, with power of life and death. 
 
 Proclaimed decrees of justice by his breath; 
 
 And all the sacred growths that men had known 
 
 Of order and of rule upheld his throne. 
 
 Proud was the King: yet not with such a heart 
 As fits a man to play a royal part. 
 Not his the pride that honours as a trust 
 The right to rule, the duty to be just: 
 Not his the dignity that bends to bear 
 The monarch's yoke, the master's load of care. 
 And labours like the peasant at his gate. 
 To serve the people and protect the State. 
 Another pride was his, and other joys: 
 To him the crown and sceptre were but toys, 
 
 142 
 
THE VAIN KING 
 
 With which he played at glory's idle game. 
 To please himself and win the wreaths of fame. 
 The throne his fathers held from age to age. 
 To his ambition seemed a fitting stage 
 Built for King Martm to display at will, 
 His mighty strength and universal skill. 
 No conscious child, that, spoiled with praising, tries 
 At every step to win admiring eyes. 
 No favourite mountebank, whose acting draws 
 From gaping crowds the thunder of applause. 
 Was vainer than the King: his only thirst 
 Was to be hailed, in every race, the first. 
 When tournament was held, in knightly guise 
 The King would ride the lists and win the prize; 
 When music charmed the court, with golden lyre 
 The King would take the stage and lead the choir; 
 In hunting, his the lance to slay the boar; 
 In hawking, see his falcon highest soar; 
 In painting, he would wield the master's brush; 
 In high debate, — "the King is speaking! Hush!" 
 Thus, with a restless heart, in every field 
 He sought renown, and made his subjects yield. 
 But while he played the petty games of life 
 His kingdom fell a prey to inward strife; 
 Corruption through the court unheeded crept. 
 And on the seat of honour justice slept. 
 The strong trod down the weak; the helpless poor 
 Groaned under burdens grievous to endure; 
 143 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 The nation's wealth was spent in vain display, 
 And weakness wore the nation's heart away. 
 
 Yet think not Earth is blind to human woes — 
 Man has more friends and helpers than he knows; 
 And when a patient people are oppressed, 
 The land that bore them feels it in her breast. 
 Spirits of field and flood, of heath and hill, 
 Are grieved and angry at the spreading ill; 
 The trees complain together in the night. 
 Voices of wrath are heard along the height. 
 And secret vows are sworn, by stream and strand, 
 To bring the tyrant low and free the land. 
 
 But little recked the pampered King of these; 
 He heard no voice but such as praise and please. 
 Flattered and fooled, victor in every sport. 
 One day he wandered idly with his court 
 Beside the river, seeking to devise 
 New ways to show his skill to wondering eyes. 
 There in the stream a patient angler stood, 
 And cast his line across the rippling flood. 
 His silver spoil lay near him on the green: 
 "Such fish," the courtiers cried, "were never seen! 
 "Three salmon longer than a cloth-yard shaft — 
 "This man must be the master of his craft!" 
 "An easy art!" the jealous King replied: 
 "Myself could learn it better, if I tried, 
 
 144 
 
THE VAIN KING 
 
 "And catch a hundred larger fish a week — 
 "Wilt thou accept the challenge, fellow? Speak!" 
 The angler turned, came near, and bent his knee: 
 "'Tis not for kings to strive with such as me; 
 "Yet if the King commands it, I obey. 
 "But one condition of the strife I pray: 
 "The fisherman who brings the least to land 
 "Shall do whate'er the other may command." 
 Loud laughed the King: "A foolish fisher thou! 
 'For I shall win, and rule thee then as now." 
 
 Then to Prince John, a sober soul, sedate 
 And slow. King Martin left the helm of State, 
 While to the novel game with eager zest 
 He all his time and all his powers addressed. 
 Sure such a sight was never seen before ! 
 In robe and crown the monarch trod the shore; 
 His golden hooks were decked with feathers fine, 
 His jewelled reel ran out a silken line. 
 With kingly strokes he flogged the crystal stream; 
 Far-off the salmon saw his tackle gleam; 
 Careless of kings, they eyed with calm disdain 
 The gaudy lure, and Martin fished in vain. 
 On Friday, when the week was almost spent, 
 He scanned his empty creel with discontent, 
 Called for a net, and cast it far and wide. 
 And drew — a thousand minnows from the tide ! 
 Then came the angler to conclude the match, 
 145 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 A.nd at the monarch's feet spread out his catch — 
 A hundred salmon, greater than before. 
 "I win!" he cried: "the King must pay the score." 
 Then Martin, angry, threw his tackle down: 
 "Rather than lose this game I'd lose my crown!" 
 "Nay, thou hast lost them both," the angler said; 
 And as he spoke a wondrous light was shed 
 Around his form; he dropped his garments mean, 
 And in his place the River-god was seen. 
 "Thy vanity has brought thee in my power, 
 "And thou must pay the forfeit at this hour: 
 "For thou hast shown thyself a royal fool, 
 "Too proud to angle, and too vain to rule, 
 "Eager to win in every trivial strife, — 
 "Go! Thou shalt fish for minnows all thy life!" 
 Wrathful, the King the magic sentence heard; 
 He strove to answer, but he only chirr-r-ed: 
 His royal robe was changed to wings of blue, 
 His crown a ruby crest, — away he flew ! 
 
 So every summer day along the stream 
 The vain King-fisher darts, an azure gleam, 
 And scolds the angler with a mocking scream. 
 April, 1904. 
 
 146 
 
THE FOOLISH FIR-TREE 
 
 A tale that the poet Ruckert told 
 
 To German children, in days of old ; 
 Disguised in a random, rollicking rhyme 
 Like a merry mummer of ancient time. 
 And sent, in its English dress, to please 
 The little folk of the Christmas trees. 
 
 A LITTLE fir grew in the midst of the wood 
 Contented and happy, as young trees should. 
 His body was straight and his boughs were clean; 
 And summer and winter the bountiful sheen 
 Of his needles bedecked him, from top to root, 
 In a beautiful, all-the-year, evergreen suit. 
 
 But a trouble came into his heart one day. 
 When he saw that the other trees were gay 
 In the wonderful raiment that summer weaves 
 Of manifold shapes and kinds of leaves: 
 He looked at his needles so stiff and small, 
 And thought that his dress was the poorest of all. 
 Then jealousy clouded the little tree's mind. 
 And he said to himself, "It was not very kind 
 "To give such an ugly old dress to a tree! 
 "If the fays of the forest would only ask me, 
 "I'd tell them how I should like to be dressed, — 
 "In a garment of gold, to bedazzle the rest!" 
 So he fell asleep, but his dreams were bad. 
 147 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 When he woke in the morning, his heart was glad; 
 For every leaf that his boughs could hold 
 Was made of the brightest beaten gold. 
 I tell you, children, the tree was proud; 
 He was something above the common crowd; 
 And he tinkled his leaves, as if he would say 
 To a pedlar who happened to pass that way, 
 "Just look at me! Don't you think I am fine? 
 "And wouldn't you like such a dress as mine?" 
 "Oh, yes!" said the man, "and I really guess 
 "I must fill my pack with your beautiful dress." 
 So he picked the golden leaves with care, 
 And left the little tree shivering there. 
 
 "Oh, why did I wish for golden leaves?" 
 The fir-tree said, "I forgot that thieves 
 "Would be sure to rob me in passing by. 
 "If the fairies would give me another try, 
 "I'd wish for something that cost much less, 
 "And be satisfied with glass for my dress!" 
 Then he fell asleep; and, just as before. 
 The fairies granted his wish once more. 
 When the night was gone, and the sun rose clear. 
 The tree was a crystal chandelier; 
 And it seemed, as he stood in the morning light. 
 That his branches were covered with jewels bright. 
 "Aha!" said the tree. "This is something great!" 
 And he held himself up, very proud and straight; 
 
 148 
 
THE FOOLISH FIR-TREE 
 
 But a rude young wind through the forest dashed, 
 In a reckless temper, and quickly smashed 
 The delicate leaves. With a clashing sound 
 They broke into pieces and fell on the ground, 
 Like a silvery, shimmering shower of hail, 
 And the tree stood naked and bare to the gale. 
 
 Then his heart was sad; and he cried, "Alas 
 "For my beautiful leaves of shining glass! 
 "Perhaps I have made another mistake 
 "In choosing a dress so easy to break. 
 "If the fairies only would hear me again 
 "I'd ask them for something both pretty and plain: 
 "It wouldn't cost much to grant my request, — 
 "In leaves of green lettuce I'd like to be dressed!" 
 By this time the fairies were laughing, I know; 
 But they gave him his wish in a second; and so 
 With leaves of green lettuce, all tender and sweet. 
 The tree was arrayed, from his head to his feet. 
 "I knew it!" he cried, "I was sure I could find 
 "The sort of a suit that would be to my mind. 
 "There's none of the trees has a prettier dress, 
 "And none as attractive as I am, I guess." 
 But a goat, who was taking an afternoon walk. 
 By chance overheard the fir-tree's talk. 
 So he came up close for a nearer view; — 
 "My salad!" he bleated, "I think so too! 
 "You're the most attractive kind of a tree, 
 149 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 "And I want your leaves for my five-o'clock tea." 
 So he ate them all without saying grace, 
 And walked away with a grin on his face; 
 While the little tree stood in the twilight dim, 
 With never a leaf on a single Hmb. 
 
 Then he sighed and groaned; but his voice was weak- 
 He was so ashamed that he could not speak. 
 He knew at last he had been a fool. 
 To think of breaking the forest rule. 
 And choosing a dress himself to please, 
 Because he envied the other trees. 
 But it couldn't be helped, it was now too late. 
 He must make up his mind to a leafless fate ! 
 So he let himself sink in a slumber deep. 
 But he moaned and he tossed in his troubled sleep. 
 Till the morning touched him with joyful beam. 
 And he woke to find it was all a dream. 
 For there in his evergreen dress he stood, 
 A pointed fir in the midst of the wood ! 
 His branches were sweet with the balsam smell. 
 His needles were green when the white snow fell. 
 And always contented and happy was he, — 
 The very best kind of a Christmas tree. 
 
 150 
 
"GRAN' BOULE" 
 
 A seaman's tale of the sea 
 
 We men that go down for a livin' in ships to the sea, — 
 We love it a different way from you poets that 'bide on 
 
 the land. 
 We are fond of it, sure ! But, you take it as comin' 
 
 from me. 
 There's a fear and a hate in our love that a landsman 
 
 can't understand. 
 
 Oh, who could help likin' the salty smell, and the blue 
 Of the waves that are lazily breathin' as if they dreamed 
 
 in the sun? 
 She's a Sleepin' Beauty, the sea, — but you can't tell 
 
 what she'll do; 
 And the seamen never trust her, — they know too well 
 
 what she's done ! 
 
 She's a wench like one that I saw in a singin'-play, — 
 Carmen they called her, — Lord, what a life her lovers 
 
 did lead ! 
 She'd cuddle and kiss you, and sing you and dance you 
 
 away; 
 And then, — she'd curse you, and break you, and throw 
 
 you down like a weed. 
 
 151 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 You may chance it awhile with the girls hke that, if you 
 
 please ; 
 But you want a woman to trust when you settle down 
 
 with a wife; 
 And a seaman's thought of growin' old at his ease 
 Is a snug little house on the land to shelter the rest of 
 
 his life. 
 
 So that was old Poisson's dream, — did you know the 
 
 Cap'? 
 A brown little Frenchman, clever, and brave, and quick 
 
 as a fish, — 
 Had a wife and kids on the other side of the map, — 
 And a rose-covered cottage for them and him was his 
 
 darlin' wish. 
 
 "I 'ave sail," says he, in his broken-up Frenchy talk, 
 "Mos' forty-two year; I 'ave go on all part of de worl' 
 
 dat ees wet. 
 I'm seeck of de boat and de water. I rader walk 
 Wid ma Josephine in one garden; an' eef we get tire', 
 
 we set ! 
 
 "You see dat bateau, Sainte Brigitte ? I bring 'er dh'are 
 From de Breton coas', by gar, jus' feefteen year bifore. 
 She ole w'en she come on Kebec, but Holloway Freres 
 Dey buy 'er, an' hire me run 'er along dat dam' Nort' 
 Shore. 
 
 152 
 
"GRAN' BOULE" 
 
 "Dose engine one leetl' bit cranky, — too ole, you see, — 
 She roll and peetch in de wave'. But I lak' 'er pretty 
 
 well; 
 An' dat sheep she lak' 'er captaine, sure, dat's me ! 
 Wit' forty ton coal in de bunker, I tek' dat sheep t'rou' 
 
 hell. 
 
 "But I don' wan' risk it no more; I had bonne chance : 
 I save already ten t'ousan' dollar', dat's plenty I s'pose ! 
 Nex' winter I buy dat house wid de garden on France 
 An' I tell adieu to de sea, and I leev' on de Ian' in ripose." 
 
 All summer he talked of his house, — you could see the 
 
 flowers 
 Abloom, and the pear-trees trained on the garden-wall 
 
 so trim. 
 And the Captain awalkin' and smokin' away the hours, — 
 He thought he had done with the sea, but the sea hadn't 
 
 done with him ! 
 
 It was late in the fall when he made the last regular 
 
 run. 
 Clear down to the Esquimault Point and back with his 
 
 rickety ship; 
 She hammered and pounded a lot, for the storms had 
 
 begun; 
 But he drove her, — and went for his season's pay at the 
 end of the trip. 
 
 153 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Now the HoUoway Brothers are greedy and thin Uttle 
 
 men, 
 With their eyes set close together, and money's their 
 
 only God; 
 So they told the Cap' he must run the "Bridget" again, 
 To fetch a cargo from Moisie, two thousand quintals of 
 
 cod. 
 
 He said the season was over. They said: "Not yet. 
 You finish the whole of your job, old man, or you don't 
 
 draw a cent ! " 
 (They had the "Bridget" insured for all they could get.) 
 And the Captain objected, and cursed, and cried. But 
 
 he went. 
 
 They took on the cargo at Moisie, and folks beside, — 
 Three traders, a priest, and a couple of nuns, and a 
 
 girl 
 For a school at Quebec, — when the Captain saw her he 
 
 sighed. 
 And said: "Ma littl' Fifi got hair lak' dat, all curl!" 
 
 The snow had fallen a foot, and the wind was high. 
 When the "Bridget" butted her way thro' the billows 
 
 on Moisie bar. 
 The darkness grew with the gale, not a star in the sky. 
 And the Captain swore: "We mus' make Sept Isles to- 
 night, by gar ! " 
 
 154 
 
''GRAN' BOULE" 
 
 He couldn't go back, for he didn't dare to turn; 
 
 The sea would have thrown the ship like a mustang 
 
 noosed with a rope; 
 For the monstrous waves were leapin' high astern, 
 And the shelter of Seven Island Bay was the only hope. 
 
 There's a bunch of broken hills half sunk in the mouth 
 
 Of the bay, with their jagged peaks afoam; and the Cap- 
 tain thought 
 
 He could pass to the north; but the sea kept shovin' 
 him south. 
 
 With her harlot hands, in the snow-blind murk, till she 
 had him caught. 
 
 She had waited forty years for a night like this, — 
 
 Did he think he could leave her now, and live in a cot- 
 tage, the fool? 
 
 She headed him straight for the island he couldn't miss; 
 
 And heaved his boat in the dark, — and smashed it against 
 Gran' Boule. 
 
 How the Captain and half of the people clambered 
 
 ashore. 
 Through the surf and the snow in the gloom of that 
 
 horrible night. 
 There's no one ever will know. For two days more 
 The death-white shroud of the tempest covered the 
 
 island from sight. 
 
 155 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 How they suffered, and struggled, and died, will never 
 
 be told; 
 We discovered them all at last when we reached Gran* 
 
 Boule with a boat; 
 The drowned and the frozen were lyin' stiff and cold, 
 And the poor little girl with the curls was wrapped in 
 
 the Captain's coat. 
 
 Go write your song of the sea as the landsmen do. 
 And call her your "great sweet mother," your "bride," 
 
 and all the rest; 
 She was made to be loved, — but remember, she won't 
 
 love you, — 
 The men who trust her the least are the sailors who know 
 
 her the best. 
 
 156 
 
HEROES OF THE "TITANIC" 
 
 Honour the brave who sleep 
 
 Where the lost "Titanic" hes, 
 The men who knew what a man must do 
 
 When he looks Death in the eyes. 
 
 "Women and children first," — 
 
 Ah, strong and tender cry ! 
 The sons whom women had borne and nursed. 
 
 Remembered, — and dared to die. 
 
 The boats crept off in the dark: 
 
 The great ship groaned: and then, — 
 
 O stars of the night, who saw that sight, 
 Bear witness. These were men I 
 
 November 9, 1912. 
 
 157 
 
THE STAXnAPvO m.ArvKU 
 
 I 
 
 "How can I tell," Sir Edmund said. 
 
 "Who has tlio riijht or tlio NM\»ni; o' this thiuir? 
 
 C'n>m\voll staiuis for the jHH^plo's raiist\ 
 
 Charles is crowned by the anricnt hiws; 
 Enjilisli meadows are soppiiu: n\i. 
 En^hslimen strikiuij each otJier dead. — 
 
 'Hmes art* black as a raven's \\ini;. 
 Out of the ruck and the nmrk I see 
 
 Only one tliing ! 
 The King has trustetl his banner to me. 
 
 Aiul 1 must tiiiht for the Kiuij.*' 
 
 II 
 
 Into the thick of the Edgehill fight 
 
 Sir Eilmund rvxle with a sliout; and the ring 
 Of grim-faceii. harvl-hitting Parliament men 
 Swalloweil him up. — it was one ajjainst ten ! 
 
 lie finiiiht for the sttuuianl with all his might. 
 
 Never agtiin iliil he ci>me to sight — 
 Victor, hid by the raven's wing ! 
 
 After tJie battle had jmsstnl we found 
 Chdy one thing. — 
 
 The hand of Sir Edmund gripjHxl around 
 The Inmner-staiT of his King. 
 
 U)U. 
 
 i;)S 
 
THE PROUD LADY 
 
 When Stilvoren town was in its prime 
 
 And fiueened the Zuyder Zee, 
 Her ships went out to every clime 
 
 With costly merchantry, 
 
 A lady dwelt in that rich town, 
 
 The fairest in all the land; 
 She walked abroad in a velvet gown, 
 
 With many rings on her hand. 
 
 Her hair was bright as the beaten gold, 
 
 Her lips as coral red. 
 Her roving eyes were IjIuc and bold, 
 
 And her heart with pride was fed. 
 
 For she was proud of her father's ships. 
 As she watched them gaily jiass; 
 
 And pride looked out of her eyes and lij)s 
 When she saw herself in the glass, 
 
 "Now come," she said to the captains ten, 
 Who were ready to put to sea, 
 
 "Ye are all my men and my father's men, 
 And what will ye do for me?" 
 159 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 "Go north and south, go east and west. 
 
 And get me gifts," she said. 
 "And he who bringeth me home the best, 
 
 With that man will I wed." 
 
 So they all fared forth, and sought with care 
 
 In many a famous mart. 
 For satins and silks and jewels rare, 
 
 To win that lady's heart. 
 
 She looked at them all with never a thought, 
 
 And careless put them by; 
 "I am not fain of the things ye brought. 
 
 Enough of these have I." 
 
 The last that came was the head of the fleet. 
 
 His name was Jan Borel; 
 He bent his knee at the lady's feet, — 
 
 In truth he loved her well. 
 
 "I've brought thee home the best i' the world, 
 
 A shipful of Danzig corn ! " 
 She stared at him long; her red lips curled. 
 
 Her blue eyes filled with scorn. 
 
 "Now out on thee, thou feckless kerl, 
 
 A loon thou art," she said. 
 "Am I a starving beggar girl? 
 
 Shall I ever lack for bread?" 
 160 
 
THE PROUD LADY 
 
 "Go empty all thy sacks of grain 
 
 Into the nearest sea, 
 And never show thy face again 
 
 To make a mock of me." 
 
 Young Jan Borel, he answered naught, 
 
 But in the harbour cast 
 The sacks of golden corn he brought, 
 
 And groaned when fell the last. 
 
 Then Jan Borel, he hoisted sail, 
 
 And out to sea he bore; 
 He passed the Helder in a gale 
 
 And came again no more. 
 
 But the grains of corn went drifting down 
 
 Like devil-scattered seed, 
 To sow the harbour of the town 
 
 With a wicked growth of weed. 
 
 The roots were thick and the silt and sand 
 
 Were gathered day by day. 
 Till not a furlong out from land 
 
 A shoal had barred the way. 
 
 Then Stavoren town saw evil years. 
 
 No ships could out or in. 
 The boats lay rotting at the piers. 
 
 And the mouldy grain in the bin. 
 161 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 The grass-grown streets were all forlorn. 
 
 The town in ruin stood, 
 The lady's velvet gown was torn, 
 
 Her rings were sold for food. 
 
 Her father had perished long ago, 
 
 But the lady held her pride, 
 She walked with a scornful step and slow. 
 
 Till at last in her rags she died. 
 
 Yet still on the crumbling piers of the town. 
 When the midnight moon shines free, 
 
 A woman walks in a velvet gown 
 And scatters corn in the sea. 
 
 1917. 
 
 162 
 
LYRICS OF 
 
 LABOUR AND ROMANCE 
 
A MILE WITH ME 
 
 WHO will walk a mile with me 
 Along life's merry way? 
 
 A comrade blithe and full of glee, 
 Who dares to laugh out loud and free, 
 And let his frolic fancy play, 
 Like a happy child, through the flowers gay 
 That fill the field and fringe the way 
 Where he walks a mile with me. 
 
 And who will walk a mile with me 
 
 Along Hfe's weary way? 
 A friend whose heart has eyes to see 
 The stars shine out o'er the darkening lea, 
 And the quiet rest at the end o' the day, — 
 A friend who knows, and dares to say, 
 The brave, sweet words that cheer the way 
 
 Where he walks a mile with me. 
 
 With such a comrade, such a friend, 
 
 1 fain would walk till journeys end. 
 Through summer sunshine, winter rain, 
 And then ? — ^Farewell, we shall meet again ! 
 
 165 
 
THE THREE BEST THINGS 
 
 WORK 
 
 Let me but do my work from day to day, 
 In field or forest, at the desk or loom. 
 In roaring market-place or tranquil room; 
 
 Let me but find it in my heart to say. 
 
 When vagrant wishes beckon me astray, 
 
 "This is my work; my blessing, not my doom; 
 "Of all who live, I am the one by whom 
 
 "This work can best be done in the right way." 
 
 Then shall I see it not too great, nor small. 
 To suit my spirit and to prove my powers; 
 Then shall I cheerful greet the labouring hours, 
 And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall 
 At eventide, to play and love and rest. 
 Because I know for me my work is best. 
 
 166 
 
THE THREE BEST THINGS 
 
 n 
 
 LOVE 
 
 Let me but love my love without disguise, 
 Nor wear a mask of fashion old or new. 
 Nor wait to speak till I can hear a clue, 
 
 Nor play a part to shine in others' eyes, 
 
 Nor bow my knees to what my heart denies; 
 But what I am, to that let me be true. 
 And let me worship where my love is due. 
 
 And so through love and worship let me rise. 
 
 For love is but the heart's immortal thirst 
 To be completely known and all forgiven. 
 Even as sinful souls that enter Heaven: 
 So take me, dear, and understand my worst. 
 And freely pardon it, because confessed. 
 And let me find in loving thee, my best. 
 
 167 
 
LABOUR AND ROMANCE 
 
 III 
 
 LIFE 
 
 Let me but live my life from year to year, 
 With forward face and unreluctant soul; 
 Not hurrying to, nor turning from, the goal; 
 
 Not mourning for the things that disappear 
 
 In the dim past, nor holding back in fear 
 
 From what the future veils; but with a whole 
 And happy heart, that pays its toll 
 
 To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer. 
 
 So let the way wind up the hill or down, 
 
 O'er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy: 
 Still seeking what I sought when but a boy. 
 New friendship, high adventure, and a crown. 
 My heart will keep the courage of the quest. 
 And hope the road's last turn will be the best. 
 
 168 
 
RELIANCE 
 
 Not to the swift, the race: 
 Not to the strong, the fight: 
 Not to the righteous, perfect grace 
 Not to the wise, the hght. 
 
 But often faltering feet 
 Come surest to the goal; 
 And they who walk in darkness meet 
 The sunrise of the soul. 
 
 A thousand times by night 
 The Syrian hosts have died; 
 A thousand times the vanquished right 
 Hath risen, glorified. 
 
 The truth the wise men sought 
 Was spoken by a child; 
 The alabaster box was brought 
 In trembling hands defiled. 
 
 Not from my torch, the gleam, 
 But from the stars above: 
 Not from my heart, life's crystal stream. 
 But from the depths of Love. 
 
 169 
 
DOORS OF DARING 
 
 The mountains that inclose the vale 
 With walls of granite, steep and high, 
 
 Invite the fearless foot to scale 
 Their stairway toward the sky. 
 
 The restless, deep, dividing sea 
 
 That flows and foams from shore to shore. 
 Calls to its sunburned chivalry, 
 
 "Push out, set sail, explore!" 
 
 The bars of life at which we fret, 
 That seem to prison and control, 
 
 Are but the doors of daring, set 
 Ajar before the soul. 
 
 Say not, "Too poor," but freely give; 
 
 Sigh not, "Too weak," but boldly try; 
 You never can begin to live 
 
 Until you dare to die. 
 
 170 
 
THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 
 
 When to the garden ot untroubled thought 
 I came of late, and saw the open door, 
 And wished again to enter, and explore 
 
 The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought. 
 
 And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught, 
 It seemed some purer voice must speak before 
 I dared to tread that garden loved of yore. 
 
 That Eden lost unknown and found unsought. 
 
 Then just within the gate I saw a child, — 
 A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear; 
 
 He held his hands to me, and softly smiled 
 With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear: 
 
 "Come in," he said, "and play awhile with me; 
 
 "I am the little child you used to be." 
 
 171 
 
LOVE'S REASON 
 
 For that thy face is fair I love thee not; 
 Nor yet because thy brown benignant eyes 
 Have sudden gleams of gladness and surprise, 
 
 Like woodland brooks that cross a sunlit spot: 
 
 Nor for thy body, born without a blot. 
 
 And loveliest when it shines with no disguise 
 Pure as the star of Eve in Paradise, — 
 
 For all these outward things I love thee not: 
 
 But for a something in thy form and face. 
 Thy looks and ways, of primal harmony; 
 
 A certain soothing charm, a vital grace 
 That breathes of the eternal womanly. 
 
 And makes me feel the warmth of Nature's breast. 
 
 When in her arms, and thine, I sink to rest. 
 
 172 
 
THE ECHO IN THE HEART 
 
 It's little I can tell 
 
 About the birds in books; 
 
 And yet I know them well, 
 
 By their music and their looks: 
 
 When May comes down the lane, 
 Her airy lovers throng 
 To welcome her with song, 
 And follow in her train: 
 Each minstrel weaves his part 
 In that wild-flowery strain, 
 And I know them all again 
 By their echo in my heart. 
 
 It's little that I care 
 
 About my darling's place 
 In books of beauty rare. 
 Or heraldries of race: 
 
 For when she steps in view. 
 It matters not to me 
 What her sweet type may be. 
 Of woman, old or new. 
 I can't explain the art. 
 But I know her for my own. 
 Because her lightest tone 
 Wakes an echo in my heart. 
 173 
 
"UNDINE" 
 
 'TwAS far away and long ago, 
 
 When I was but a dreaming boy, 
 This fairy tale of love and woe 
 
 Entranced my heart with tearful joy; 
 And while with white Undine I wept 
 
 Your spirit, — ah, how strange it seems,- 
 Was cradled in some star, and slept, 
 
 Unconscious of her coming dreams. 
 
 174 
 
"RENCONTRE" 
 
 Oh, was I born too soon, my dear, or were you born too 
 
 late, 
 That I am going out the door while you come in the 
 
 gate? 
 For you the garden blooms galore, the castle is en 
 
 fete ; 
 You are the coming guest, my dear, — for me the horses 
 
 wait. 
 
 I know the mansion well, my dear, its rooms so rich and 
 
 wide; 
 If you had only come before I might have been your 
 
 guide. 
 And hand in hand with you explore the treasures that 
 
 they hide; 
 But you have come to stay, my dear, and I prepare to 
 
 ride. 
 
 Then walk with me an hour, my dear, and pluck the 
 reddest rose 
 
 Amid the white and crimson store with which your gar- 
 den glows, — 
 
 A single rose, — I ask no more of what your love bestows; 
 
 It is enough to give, my dear, — a flower to him who 
 goes. 
 
 175 
 
LABOUR AND ROMANCE 
 
 The House of Life is yours, my dear, for many and many 
 
 a day, 
 But I must ride the lonely shore, the Road to Far Away: 
 So bring the stirrup-cup and pour a brimming draught, 
 
 I pray, 
 And when you take the road, my dear, I'll meet you on 
 
 the way. 
 
 176 
 
LOVE IN A LOOK 
 
 Let me but feel thy look's embrace, 
 
 Transparent, pure, and warm, 
 And I'll not ask to touch thy face. 
 
 Or fold thee in mine arm. 
 For in thine eyes a girl doth rise, 
 
 Arrayed in candid bliss. 
 And draws me to her with a charm 
 
 More close than any kiss. 
 
 A loving-cup of golden wine, 
 
 Songs of a silver brook. 
 And fragrant breaths of eglantine. 
 
 Are mingled in thy look. 
 More fair they are than any star. 
 
 Thy topaz eyes divine — 
 And deep within their trysting-nook 
 
 Thy spirit blends with mine. 
 
 177 
 
MY APRIL LADY 
 
 When down the stair at morning 
 
 The sunbeams round her float, 
 Sweet rivulets of laughter 
 
 Are ripphng in her throat; 
 The gladness of her greeting 
 
 Is gold without alloy; 
 And in the morning sunlight 
 
 I think her name is Joy. 
 
 When in the evening twilight 
 
 The quiet book -room lies, 
 We read the sad old ballads. 
 
 While from her hidden eyes 
 The tears are falling, falling, 
 
 That give her heart relief; 
 And in the evening twilight, 
 
 I think her name is Grief. 
 
 My little April lady. 
 
 Of sunshine and of showers 
 She weaves the old spring magic, 
 
 And my heart breaks in flowers! 
 But when her moods are ended. 
 
 She nestles like a dove; 
 Then, by the pain and rapture, 
 
 I know her name is Love. 
 178 
 
A LOVER'S ENVY 
 
 I ENVY every flower that blows 
 Along the meadow where she goes. 
 And every bird that sings to her. 
 And every breeze that brings to her 
 The fragrance of the rose. 
 
 I envy every poet's rhyme 
 That moves her heart at eventime. 
 And every tree that wears for her 
 Its brightest bloom, and bears for her 
 The fruitage of its prime. 
 
 I envy every Southern night 
 
 That paves her path with moonbeams white, 
 And silvers all the leaves for her, 
 And in their shadow weaves for her 
 A dream of dear delight. 
 
 I envy none whose love requires 
 Of her a gift, a task that tires: 
 
 I only long to live to her, 
 
 I only ask to give to her. 
 All that her heart desires. 
 
 179 
 
FIRE-FLY CITY 
 
 Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting. 
 Bearing me far away, after a perfect day of love's 
 delight : 
 Wakeful with all the sad-sweet memories of parting, 
 I lift the narrow window-shade and look out on the 
 night. 
 
 Lonely the land unknown, and like a river flowing. 
 Forest and field and hill are gliding backward still 
 athwart my dream; 
 
 Till in that country strange, and ever stranger growing, 
 A magic city full of lights begins to glow and gleam. 
 
 Wide through the landscape dim the lamps are lit in mil- 
 hons; 
 Long avenues unfold clear-shining lines of gold across 
 the green; 
 Clusters and rings of light, and luminous pavilions, — 
 Oh, who will tell the city's name, and what these 
 wonders mean? 
 
 Why do they beckon me, and what have they to show 
 me? 
 Crowds in the blazing street, mirth where the feasters 
 meet, kisses and wine: 
 180 
 
FIRE-FLY CITY 
 
 Many to laugh with me, but never one to know me: 
 A cityful of stranger-hearts and none to beat with 
 mine! 
 
 Look how the ghttering Hues are wavering and lifting, — 
 Softly the breeze of night scatters the vision bright: 
 and, passing fair, 
 
 Over the meadow-grass and through the forest drifting. 
 The Fire-Fly City of the Dark is lost in empty air! 
 
 181 
 
THE GENTLE TRAVELLER 
 
 "Through many a land your journey ran, 
 And showed the best the world can boast: 
 
 Now tell me, traveller, if you can. 
 The place that pleased you most." 
 
 She laid her hands upon my breast. 
 And murmured gently in my ear, 
 
 "The place I loved and liked the best 
 Was in your arms, my dear!" 
 
 182 
 
NEPENTHE 
 
 Yes, it was like you to forget, 
 
 And cancel in the welcome of your smile 
 
 My deep arrears of debt, 
 
 And with the putting forth of both your hands 
 
 To sweep away the bars my folly set 
 
 Between us — bitter thoughts, and harsh demands, 
 
 And reckless deeds that seemed untrue 
 
 To love, when all the while 
 
 My heart was aching through and through 
 
 For you, sweet heart, and only you. 
 
 Yet, as I turned to come to you again, 
 
 I thought there must be many a mile 
 
 Of sorrowful reproach to cross. 
 
 And many an hour of mutual pain 
 
 To bear, until I could make plain 
 
 That all my pride was but the fear of loss. 
 
 And all my doubt the shadow of despair 
 
 To win a heart so innocent and fair; 
 
 And even that which looked most ill 
 
 Was but the fever-fret and efiPort vain 
 
 To dull the thirst which you alone could still. 
 
 But as I turned, the desert miles were crossed, 
 
 And when I came, the weary hours were sped ! 
 
 183 
 
LABOUR AND ROIVIANCE 
 
 For there you stood beside the open door, 
 
 Glad, gracious, sraihng as before. 
 
 And with bright eyes and tender hands outspread 
 
 Restored me to the Eden I had lost. 
 
 Never a word of cold reproof, 
 
 No sharp reproach, no glances that accuse 
 
 The culprit whom they hold aloof, — 
 
 Ah, 'tis not thus that other women use 
 
 The empire they have won ! 
 
 For there is none like you, beloved, — -none 
 
 Secure enough to do what you have done. 
 
 Where did you learn this heavenly art, — 
 
 You sweetest and most wise of all that live, — 
 
 With silent welcome to impart 
 
 Assurance of the royal heart 
 
 That never questions where it would forgive? 
 
 None but a queen could pardon me like this ! 
 
 My sovereign lady, let me lay 
 
 Within each rosy palm a loyal kiss 
 
 Of penitence, then close the fingers up, 
 
 Thus — thus ! Now give the cup 
 
 Of full nepenthe in your crimson mouth, 
 
 And come — the garden blooms with bliss. 
 
 The wind is in the south, 
 
 The rose of love with dew is wet — 
 
 Dear, it was like you to forget ! 
 
 184 
 
DAY AND NIGHT 
 
 How long is the night, brother. 
 
 And how long is the day ? 
 Oh, the day's too short for a happy task, 
 
 And the day's too short for play; 
 And the night's too short for the bhss of love, — 
 
 For look, how the edge of the sky grows gray. 
 While the stars die out in the blue above. 
 
 And the wan moon fades away. 
 
 How short is the day, brother. 
 
 And how short is the night ? 
 Oh, the day's too long for a heavy task. 
 
 And long, long, long is the night, 
 When the wakeful hours are filled with pain, 
 
 And the sad heart waits for the thing it fears. 
 And sighs for the dawn to come again, — 
 
 The night is a thousand years ! 
 
 How long is a life, dear God, 
 
 And how fast does it flow ? 
 The measure of life is a flame in the soul: 
 
 It is neither swift nor slow. 
 But the vision of time is the shadow cast 
 
 By the fleeting world on the body's wall; 
 When it fades there is neither future nor past. 
 
 But love is all in all. 
 185 
 
HESPER 
 
 Her eyes are like the evening air. 
 Her voice is like a rose, 
 
 Her lips are like a lovely song. 
 That ripples as it flows, 
 
 And she herself is sweeter than 
 The sweetest thing she knows. 
 
 A slender, haunting, twilight form 
 Of wonder and surprise. 
 
 She seemed a fairy or a child. 
 Till, deep within her eyes, 
 
 I saw the homeward-leading star 
 Of womanhood arise. 
 
 186 
 
ARRIVAL 
 
 Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of 
 
 land, 
 Along a path I had not traced and could not understand, 
 I travelled fast and far for this, — to take thee by the 
 
 hand. 
 
 A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he would bend 
 
 his knee, 
 A mariner without a dream of what his port would be. 
 So fared I with a seeking heart until I came to thee. 
 
 O cooler than a grove of palm in some heat-weary place, 
 O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild sea race. 
 The quiet room adorned with flowers where first I saw 
 thy face ! 
 
 Then furl the sail, let fall the oar, forget the paths of 
 
 foam ! 
 The fate that made me wander far at last has brought 
 
 me home 
 To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no more will 
 
 roam. 
 
 187 
 
DEPARTURE 
 
 Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun, 
 
 And why is the garden so gay? 
 Do you know that my days of dehght are done. 
 
 Do you know I am going away? 
 If you covered your face with a cloud, I'd dream 
 
 You were sorry for me in my pain. 
 And the heavily drooping flowers would seem 
 
 To be weeping with me in the rain. 
 
 But why is your head so low, sweet heart. 
 
 And why are your eyes overcast? 
 Are you crying because you know we must part, 
 
 Do you think this embrace is our last? 
 Then kiss me again, and again, and again. 
 
 Look up as you bid me good-bye ! 
 For your face is too dear for the stain of a tear, 
 
 And your smile is the sun in my sky. 
 
 188 
 
THE BLACK BIRDS 
 
 Once, only once, I saw it clear, — 
 
 That Eden every human heart has dreamed 
 
 A hundred times, but always far away ! 
 
 Ah, well do I remember how it seemed, 
 
 Through the still atmosphere 
 
 Of that enchanted day, 
 
 To lie wude open to my weary feet: 
 
 A little land of love and joy and rest. 
 
 With meadows of soft green. 
 
 Rosy with cyclamen, and sweet 
 
 With delicate breath of violets unseen, — 
 
 And, tranquil 'mid the bloom 
 
 As if it waited for a coming guest, 
 
 A little house of peace and joy and love 
 
 Was nested like a snow-white dove. 
 
 II 
 
 From the rough mountain where I stood, 
 Homesick for happiness. 
 Only a narrow valley and a darkling wood 
 To cross, and then the long distress 
 Of solitude would be forever past, — 
 I should be home at last. 
 189 
 
LABOUR AND ROMANCE 
 
 But not too soon ! oh, let me linger here 
 And feed my eyes, hungry with sorrow, 
 On all this loveliness, so near. 
 And mine to-morrow! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Then, from the wood, across the silvery blue, 
 A dark bird flew, 
 Silent, with sable wings. 
 Close in his wake another came, — 
 Fragments of midnight floating through 
 The sunset flame, — 
 Another and another, weaving rings 
 Of blackness on the primrose sky, — 
 Another, and another, look, a score, 
 A hundred, yes, a thousand rising heavily 
 From that accursed, dumb, and ancient wood. 
 They boiled into the lucid air 
 Like smoke from some deep caldron of despair I 
 And more, and more, and ever more, 
 The numberless, ill-omened brood 
 Flapping their ragged plumes. 
 Possessed the landscape and the evening light 
 With menaces and glooms. 
 
 Oh, dark, dark, dark they hovered o'er the place 
 Where once I saw the little house so white 
 Amid the flowers, covering every trace 
 190 
 
THE BLACK BIRDS 
 
 Of beauty from my troubled sight, — 
 And suddenly it was night ! 
 
 IV 
 
 At break of day I crossed the wooded vale; 
 And while the morning made 
 A trembling light among the tree-tops pale, 
 I saw the sable birds on every limb. 
 Clinging together closely in the shade, 
 And croaking placidly their surly hymn. 
 But, oh, the little land of peace and love 
 That those night-loving wings had poised above, — 
 Where was it gone? 
 Lost, lost, forevermore ! 
 Only a cottage, dull and gray. 
 In the cold light of dawn, 
 With iron bars across the door: 
 Only a garden where the drooping head 
 Of one sad rose, foreboding its decay. 
 Hung o'er a barren bed: 
 Only a desolate field that lay 
 Untilled beneath the desolate day, — 
 Where Eden seemed to bloom I found but these ! 
 So, wondering, I passed along my way, 
 With anger in my heart, too deep for words. 
 Against that grove of evil-sheltering trees. 
 And the black magic of the croaking birds. 
 191 
 
WITHOUT DISGUISE 
 
 If I have erred in showing all my heart, 
 
 And lost your favour by a lack of pride; 
 
 If standing like a beggar at your side 
 With naked feet, I have forgot the art 
 Of those who bargain well in passion's mart. 
 
 And win the thing they want by what they hide; 
 
 Be mine the fault as mine the hope denied, 
 Be mine the lover's and the loser's part. 
 
 The sin, if sin it was, I do repent. 
 
 And take the penance on myself alone; 
 
 Yet after I have borne the punishment, 
 I shall not fear to stand before the throne 
 
 Of Love with open heart, and make this plea: 
 
 "At least I have not lied to her nor Thee!" 
 
 192 
 
AN HOUR 
 
 You only promised me a single hour: 
 But in that hour I journeyed through a year 
 Of life : the joy of finding you, — the fear 
 
 Of losing you again, — the sense of power 
 
 To make you all my own, — the sudden shower 
 Of tears that came because you were more dear 
 Than words could ever tell you, — then, — the clear 
 
 Soft rapture when I plucked love's crimson flower. 
 
 An hour, — a year, — I felt your bosom rise 
 
 And fall with mystic tides, and saw the gleam 
 
 Of undiscovered stars within your eyes, — 
 
 A year, — an hour? I knew not, for the stream 
 
 Of love had carried me to Paradise, 
 
 Where all the forms of Time are like a dream. 
 
 193 
 
"RAPPELLE-TOI" 
 
 Remember, when the timid hght 
 
 Through the enchanted hall of dawn is gleaming; 
 Remember, when the pensive night 
 
 Beneath her silver-sprinkled veil walks dreaming; 
 When pleasure calls thee and thy heart beats high, 
 When tender joys through evening shades draw nigh. 
 Hark, from the woodland deeps 
 A gentle whisper creeps. 
 Remember ! 
 
 Remember, when the hand of fate 
 
 My life from thine forevermore has parted; 
 When sorrow, exile, and the weight' 
 
 Of lonely years have made me heavy-hearted; 
 Think of my loyal love, my last adieu; 
 Absence and time are naught, if we are true; 
 Long as my heart shall beat, 
 To thine it will repeat, 
 Remember ! 
 
 194 
 
"RAPPELLE-TOI" 
 
 Remember, when the cool, dark tomb 
 
 Receives my heart into its quiet keeping. 
 And some sweet flower begins to bloom 
 
 Above the grassy mound where I am sleeping; 
 Ah then, my face thou nevermore shalt see. 
 But still my soul will linger close to thee. 
 And in the holy place of night, 
 The litany of love recite, — 
 Remember ! 
 Freely rendered from the French oj Alfred de Mussel. 
 
 195 
 
LOVE'S NEARNESS 
 
 I THINK of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer 
 
 Across the sea; 
 And when the waves reflect the moon's pale shimmer 
 
 I think of thee. 
 
 I see thy form when down the distant highway 
 
 The dust-clouds rise; 
 In darkest night, above the mountain by-way 
 
 I see thine eyes. 
 
 1 hear thee when the ocean-tides returning 
 
 Aloud rejoice; 
 And on the lonely moor in silence yearning 
 
 I hear thy voice. 
 
 I dwell with thee; though thou art far removed, 
 
 Yet thou art near. 
 The sun goes down, the stars shine out, — Beloved 
 
 If thou wert here ! 
 From the German 0/ Goethe, 1898. 
 
 196 
 
TWO SONGS OF HEINE 
 
 EIN FICHTENBAUM 
 
 A FIR-TREE standeth lonely 
 On a barren northern height. 
 Asleep, while winter covers 
 His rest with robes of white. 
 
 In dreams, he sees a palm-tree 
 In the golden morning-land; 
 She droops alone and silent 
 In burning wastes of sand. 
 
 II 
 
 "dU BIST WIE EINE BLUMe" 
 
 Fair art thou as a flower 
 
 And innocent and shy: 
 I look on thee and sorrow; 
 
 I grieve, I know not why. 
 
 I long to lay, in blessing, 
 My hand upon thy brow. 
 
 And pray that God may keep thee 
 As fair and pure as now. 
 
 1872. 
 
 197 
 
EIGHT ECHOES FROM THE POEMS OF 
 AUGUSTE ANGELLIER 
 
 I 
 
 THE IVORY CRADLE 
 
 The cradle I have made for thee 
 
 Is carved of orient ivory, 
 
 And curtained round with wavy silk 
 
 More white than hawthorn-bloom or milk. 
 
 A twig of box, a lilac spray. 
 Will drive the goblin-horde away; 
 And charm thy childlike heart to keep 
 Her happy dream and virgin sleep. 
 
 Within that pure and fragrant nest, 
 I'll rock thy gentle soul to rest. 
 With tender songs we need not fear 
 To have a passing angel hear. 
 
 Ah, long and long I fain would hold 
 The snowy curtain's guardian fold 
 Around thy crystal visions, born 
 In clearness of the early morn. 
 
 But look, the sun is glowing red 
 With triumph in his golden bed; 
 198 
 
ECHOES FROM AUGUSTE ANGELLIER 
 
 Aurora's virgin whiteness dies 
 In crimson glory of the skies. 
 
 The rapid flame will burn its way 
 Through these white curtains, too, one day; 
 The ivory cradle will be left 
 Undone, and broken, and bereft. 
 
 199 
 
LABOUR AND ROMANCE 
 II 
 
 DREAMS 
 
 Often I dream your big blue eyes. 
 Though loth their meaning to confess, 
 
 Regard me with a clear surprise 
 Of dawning tenderness. 
 
 Often I dream you gladly hear 
 
 The words I hardly dare to breathe, — 
 
 The words that falter in their fear 
 To tell what throbs beneath. 
 
 Often I dream your hand in mine 
 Falls like a flower at eventide, 
 
 And down the path we leave a line 
 Of footsteps side by side. 
 
 But ah, in all my dreams of bliss. 
 In passion's hunger, fever's drouth, 
 
 I never dare to dream of this: 
 My lips upon your mouth. 
 
 And so I dream your big blue eyes. 
 That look on me with tenderness. 
 
 Grow wide, and deep, and sad, and wise, 
 And dim with dear distress. 
 
 200 
 
ECHOES FROM AUGUSTE ANGELLIER 
 
 III 
 
 THE GARLAND OF SLEEP 
 
 A wreath of poppy flowers. 
 With leaves of lotus blended, 
 
 Is carved on Life's fagade of hours. 
 From night to night suspended. 
 
 Along the columned wall. 
 
 From birth's low portal starting. 
 
 It flows, with even rise and fall, 
 To death's dark door of parting. 
 
 How short each measured arc. 
 How brief the columns' number! 
 
 The wreath begins and ends in dark. 
 And leads from sleep to slumber. 
 
 The marble garland seems, 
 With braided leaf and bloom. 
 
 To deck the palace of our dreams 
 As if it were a tomb. 
 
 201 
 
LABOUR AND ROMANCE 
 IV 
 
 TRANQUIL HABIT 
 
 Dear tranquil Habit, with her silent hands, 
 
 Doth heal our deepest wounds from day to day 
 With cooling, soothing oil, and firmly lay 
 
 Around the broken heart her gentle bands. 
 
 Her nursing is as calm as Nature's care; 
 
 She doth not weep with us; yet none the less 
 Her quiet fingers weave forgetfulness, — 
 
 We fall asleep in peace when she is there. 
 
 Upon the mirror of the mind her breath 
 Is like a cloud, to hide the fading trace 
 Of that dear smile, of that remembered face. 
 
 Whose presence were the joy and pang of death. 
 
 And he who clings to sorrow overmuch, 
 
 Weeping for withered grief, has cause to bless. 
 More than all cries of pity and distress, — 
 
 Dear tranquil Habit, thy consoling touch ! 
 
 202 
 
ECHOES FROM AUGUSTE ANGELLIER 
 
 THE OLD BRroOE 
 
 On the old, old bridge, with its crumbling stones 
 All covered with lichens red and gray. 
 Two lovers were talking in sweet low tones: 
 And we were they ! 
 
 As he leaned to breathe in her willing ear 
 The love that he vowed would never die. 
 He called her his darling, his dove most dear: 
 And he was I ! 
 
 She covered her face from the pale moonlight 
 With her trembling hands, but her eyes looked through. 
 And listened and listened with long delight: 
 And she was you ! 
 
 On the old, old bridge, where the lichens rust. 
 Two lovers are learning the same old lore; 
 He tells his love, and she looks her trust: 
 But we, — no more ! 
 
 203 
 
LABOUR AND ROMANCE 
 VI 
 
 EYES AND LIPS 
 
 Our silent eyes alone interpreted 
 
 The new-born feeling in the heart of each: 
 In yours I read your sorrow without speech, 
 
 Your lonely struggle in their tears unshed. 
 
 Behind their dreamy sweetness, as a veil, 
 I saw the moving lights of trouble shine; 
 And then my eyes were brightened as with wine, 
 
 My spirit reeled to see your face grow pale ! 
 
 Our deepening love, that is not yet allowed 
 Another language than the eyes, doth learn 
 
 To speak it perfectly: above the crowd 
 
 Our looks exchange avowals and desires, — 
 Like wave-divided beacon lights that burn. 
 
 And talk to one another by their fires. 
 
 When I embrace her in a fragrant shrine 
 Of climbing roses, my first kiss shall fall 
 On you, sweet eyes, that mutely told me all, — 
 
 Through you my soul will rise to make her mine. 
 
 Upon your drooping lids, blue-veined and fair. 
 The touch of tenderness I first will lay, 
 204 
 
ECHOES FROM AUGUSTE ANGELLIER 
 
 You springs of joy, lights of my gloomy day, 
 Whose dear discovered secret bade me dare ! 
 
 And when you open, eyes of my fond dove, 
 
 Your look will shine with new delight, made sure 
 
 By this forerunner of a faithful love. 
 
 'Tis just, dear eyes, so pensive and so pure, 
 
 That you should bear the sealing kisses true 
 
 Of love unhoped that came to me through you. 
 
 This was my thought; but when beneath the rose 
 That hides the lonely bench where lovers rest, 
 In friendly dusk I held her on my breast 
 
 For one brief moment, — while I saw you close. 
 
 Dear, yielding eyes, as if your lids, blue-veined 
 And pure, were meekly fain at last to bear 
 The proffered homage of my wistful prayer, — 
 
 In that high moment, by your grace obtained, 
 
 Forgetting your avowals, your alarms. 
 
 Your anguish and your tears, sweet weary eyes, 
 
 Forgetting that you gave her to my arms, 
 
 I broke my promise; and my first caress, 
 
 Ungrateful, sought her lips in sweet surprise, — 
 
 Her lips, which breathed a word of tenderness ! 
 
 205 
 
LABOUR AND ROMANCE 
 VII 
 
 AN EVOCATION 
 
 When first upon my brow I felt your kiss, 
 
 A sudden splendour filled me, like the ray 
 That promptly runs to crown the hills with bliss 
 
 Of purple dawn before the golden day. 
 And ends the gloom it crosses at one leap. 
 
 My brow was not unworthy your caress; 
 For some foreboding joy had bade me keep 
 
 From all affront the place your lips would bless. 
 
 Yet when your mouth upon my mouth did lay 
 The royal touch, no rapture made me thrill. 
 But I remained confused, ashamed, and still. 
 Beneath your kiss, my queen without a stain, 
 
 I felt, — like ghosts who rise at Judgment Day, — 
 A throng of ancient kisses vile and vain ! 
 
 206 
 
ECHOES FROM AUGUSTE ANGELLIER 
 
 VIII 
 
 RESIGNATION 
 
 Well, you will triumph, dear and noble friend ! 
 The holy love that wounded you so deep 
 Will bring you balm, and on your heart asleep 
 
 The fragrant dew of healing will descend. 
 
 Your children, — ah, how quickly they will grow 
 Between us, like a wall that fronts the sun. 
 Lifting a screen with rosy buds o'errun. 
 
 To hide the shaded path where I must go. 
 
 You'll walk in light; and dreaming less and less 
 Of him who droops in gloom beyond the wall, 
 
 Your mother-soul will fill with happiness 
 
 When first you hear your grandchild's babbling call, 
 
 Beneath the braided bloom of flower and leaf 
 
 That life has wrought to veil your vanished grief. 
 
 Then I alone shall suffer! I shall bear 
 The double burden of our grief alone. 
 
 While I enlarge my soul to take your share 
 Of pain and hold it close beside my own. 
 
 Our love is torn asunder; but the crown 
 Of thorns that love has woven I will make 
 207 
 
LABOUR AND ROMANCE 
 
 My relic sacrosanct, and press it down 
 
 Upon my bleeding heart that will not break. 
 
 Ah, that will be the depth of solitude ! 
 For my regret, that evermore endures. 
 Will know that new-born hope has conquered yours; 
 And when the evening comes, no gentle brood 
 Of wondering children, gathered at my side. 
 Will soothe away the tears I cannot hide. 
 Freely rendered from the French, 1911. 
 
 208 
 
RAPPEL D'AMOUR 
 
 Come home, my love, come home ! 
 
 The twilight is falling. 
 
 The whippoorwill calling. 
 
 The night is very near. 
 
 And the darkness full of fear, 
 Come home to my arms, come home ! 
 
 Come home, my love, come home ! 
 
 In folly we parted. 
 
 And now, lonely hearted, 
 
 I know you look in vain 
 
 For a love like mine again; 
 Come home to my arms, come home ! 
 
 Come home, dear love, come home ! 
 
 I've much to forgive you. 
 
 And more yet to give you. 
 
 I'll put a httle light 
 
 In the window every night, — 
 Come home to my arms, come home. 
 
 209 
 
THE RIVER OF DREAMS 
 
 The river of dreams runs quietly down 
 
 From its hidden home in the forest of sleep. 
 With a measureless motion calm and deep; 
 
 And my boat slips out on the current brown. 
 In a tranquil bay where the trees incline 
 Far over the waves, and creepers twine 
 Far over the boughs, as if to steep 
 Their drowsy bloom in the tide that goes 
 By a secret way that no man knows, 
 
 Under the branches bending. 
 
 Under the shadows blending. 
 
 And the body rests, and the passive soul 
 Is drifted along to an unseen goal, 
 
 While the river of dreams runs down. 
 
 The river of dreams runs gently down. 
 
 With a leisurely flow that bears my bark 
 Out of the visionless woods of dark, 
 
 Into a glory that seems to crown 
 
 Valley and hill with light from far, 
 Clearer than sun or moon or star, 
 Luminous, wonderful, weird, oh, mark 
 How the radiance pulses everywhere. 
 In the shadowless vault of lucid air ! 
 
 Over the mountains shimmering. 
 
 Up from the fountains glimmering, — 
 210 
 
THE RIVER OF DREAMS 
 
 'Tis the mystical glow of the inner light. 
 That shines in the very noon of night, 
 While the river of dreams runs down. 
 
 The river of dreams runs murmuring down, 
 
 Through the fairest garden that ever grew; 
 And now, as my boat goes drifting through, 
 
 A hundred voices arise to drown 
 
 The river's whisper, and charm my ear 
 With a sound I have often longed to hear, — 
 A magical music, strange and new, 
 The wild-rose ballad, the lilac-song. 
 The virginal chant of the lilies' throng. 
 
 Blue-bells silverly ringing, 
 
 Pansies merrily singing, — 
 
 For all the flowers have found their voice; 
 And I feel no wonder, but only rejoice. 
 
 While the river of dreams runs down. 
 
 The river of dreams runs broadening down, 
 Away from the peaceful garden-shore. 
 With a current that deepens more and more, 
 
 By the league-long walls of a mighty town; 
 And I see the hurrying crowds of men 
 Gather like clouds and dissolve again; 
 But never a face I have seen before. 
 They come and go, they shift and change. 
 Their ways and looks are wild and strange, — 
 211 
 
LABOUR AND ROMANCE 
 
 This is a city haunted, 
 
 A multitude enchanted ! 
 
 At the sight of the throng I am dumb with fear, 
 And never a sound from their Hps I hear. 
 
 While the river of dreams runs down. 
 
 The river of dreams runs darkly down 
 
 Into the heart of a desolate land, 
 
 With ruined temples half-buried in sand. 
 And riven hills, whose black brows frown 
 
 Over the shuddering, lonely wave. 
 
 The air grows dim with the dust of the grave; 
 
 No sign of life on the dreary strand; 
 
 No ray of light on the mountain's crest; 
 
 And a weary wind that cannot rest 
 Comes down the valley creeping. 
 Lamenting, wailing, weeping, — 
 
 I strive to cry out, but my fluttering breath 
 
 Is choked with the clinging fog of death. 
 While the river of dreams runs down. 
 
 The river of dreams runs trembling down, 
 
 Out of the valley of nameless fear, 
 
 Into a country calm and clear, 
 With a mystical name of high renown, — 
 
 A name that I know, but may not tell, — 
 
 And there the friends that I loved so well, 
 
 Old companions forever dear, 
 212 
 
THE RIVER OF DREAMS 
 
 Come beckoning down to the river shore, 
 And hail my boat with the voice of yore. 
 
 Fair and sweet are the places 
 
 Where I see their unchanged faces ! 
 
 And I feel in my heart with a secret thrill. 
 That the loved and lost are living still. 
 
 While the river of dreams runs down. 
 
 The river of dreams runs dimly down 
 
 By a secret way that no man knows; 
 But the soul lives on while the river flows 
 
 Through the gardens bright and the forests brown; 
 And I often think that our whole life seems 
 To be more than half made up of dreams. 
 The changing sights and the passing shows. 
 The morning hopes and the midnight fears. 
 Are left behind with the vanished years; 
 
 Onward, with ceaseless motion. 
 
 The life-stream flows to the ocean. 
 
 While we follow the tide, awake or asleep. 
 Till we see the dawn on Love's great deep. 
 And the shadows melt, and the soul is free, — 
 The river of dreams has reached the sea. 
 
 1900. 
 
 213 
 
SONGS OF 
 HEARTH AND ALTAR 
 
A HOME SONG 
 
 I READ within a poet's book 
 A word that starred the page: 
 
 "Stone walls do not a prison make, 
 Nor iron bars a cage ! " 
 
 Yes, that is true, and something more: 
 You'll find, where'er you roam. 
 
 That marble floors and gilded walls 
 Can never make a home. 
 
 But every house where Love abides. 
 
 And Friendship is a guest, 
 Is surely home, and home-sweet-home: 
 
 For there the heart can rest. 
 
 217 
 
"LITTLE BOATIE" 
 
 A SLUMBER-SONG FOR THE FISHERMAN's CHILD 
 
 Furl your sail, my little boatie; 
 
 Here's the haven still and deep. 
 Where the dreaming tides in-streaming 
 
 Up the channel creep. 
 Now the sunset breeze is dying; 
 Hear the plover, landward flying, 
 Softly down the twilight crying; 
 Come to anchor, little boatie. 
 In the port of Sleep. 
 
 Far away, my little boatie. 
 
 Roaring waves are white with foam; 
 Ships are striving, onward driving, 
 Day and night they roam. 
 Father's at the deep-sea trawling. 
 In the darkness, rowing, hauling. 
 While the hungry winds are calling, — 
 God protect him, little boatie. 
 Bring him safely home! 
 
 Not for you, my little boatie, 
 
 Is the wide and weary sea; 
 You're too slender, and too tender. 
 You must bide with me. 
 218 
 
"LITTLE BOATIE" 
 
 All day long you have been straying 
 Up and down the shore and playing; 
 Come to harbour, no delaying ! 
 Day is over, little boatie, 
 Night falls suddenly. 
 
 Furl your sail, my little boatie. 
 
 Fold your wings, my weary dove. 
 Dews are sprinkling, stars are twinkling 
 
 Drowsily above. 
 Cease from sailing, cease from rowing; 
 Rock upon the dream-tide, knowing 
 Safely o'er your rest are glowing. 
 All the night, my little boatie, 
 Harbour-lights of love. 
 
 1897. 
 
 219 
 
A MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY 
 
 Lord Jesus, Thou hast known 
 A mother's love and tender care: 
 And Thou wilt hear, 
 While for my own 
 Mother most dear 
 
 I make this birthday prayer. 
 
 Protect her life, I pray, 
 
 Who gave the gift of Ufe to me; 
 And may she know. 
 From day to day. 
 The deepening glow 
 
 Of joy that comes from Thee. 
 
 As once upon her breast 
 
 Fearless and well content I lay. 
 So let her heart. 
 
 On Thee at rest. 
 Feel fear depart 
 
 And trouble fade away. 
 
 Ah, hold her by the hand, 
 As once her hand held mine; 
 And though she may 
 
 Not understand 
 Life's winding way. 
 
 Lead her in peace divine. 
 220 
 
A MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY 
 
 I cannot pay my debt 
 For all the love that she has given; 
 But Thou, love's Lord, 
 
 Wilt not forget 
 Her due reward, — 
 
 Bless her in earth and heaven. 
 
 221 
 
TRANSFORMATION 
 
 Only a little shrivelled seed, 
 It might be flower, or grass, or weed; 
 Only a box of earth on the edge 
 Of a narrow, dusty window-ledge; 
 Only a few scant summer showers; 
 Only a few clear shining hours; 
 That was all. Yet God could make 
 Out of these, for a sick child's sake, 
 A blossom-wonder, fair and sweet 
 As ever broke at an angel's feet. 
 
 Only a life of barren pain, 
 Wet with sorrowful tears for rain. 
 Warmed sometimes by a wandering gleam 
 Of joy, that seemed but a happy dream; 
 A life as common and brown and bare 
 As the box of earth in the Mandow there; 
 Yet it bore, at last, the precious bloom 
 Of a perfect soul in that narrow room; 
 Pure as the snowy leaves that fold 
 Over the flower's heart of gold. 
 
 222 
 
RENDEZVOUS 
 
 I COUNT that friendship Httle worth 
 Which has not many things untold, 
 Great longings that no words can hold. 
 
 And passion-secrets waiting birth. 
 
 Along the slender wires of speech 
 
 Some message from the heart is sent; 
 But who can tell the whole that's meant? 
 
 Our dearest thoughts are out of reach. 
 
 I have not seen thee, though mine eyes 
 Hold now the image of thy face; 
 In vain, through form, I strive to trace 
 
 The soul I love: that deeper lies. 
 
 A thousand accidents control 
 
 Our meeting here. Clasp hand in hand. 
 And swear to meet me in that land 
 
 Where friends hold converse soul to soul. 
 
 223 
 
GRATITUDE 
 
 "T)o you give thanks for this? — or that?" No, God be 
 thanked 
 
 I am not grateful 
 In that cold, calculating way, with blessings ranked 
 As one, two, three, and four, — that would be hateful. 
 
 I only know that every day brings good above 
 
 My poor deserving; 
 I only feel that in the road of Life true Love 
 Is leading me along and never swerving. 
 
 Whatever gifts and mercies to my lot may fall, 
 
 I would not measure 
 As worth a certain price in praise, or great or small; 
 But take and use them all with simple pleasure. 
 
 For when we gladly eat our daily bread, we bless 
 
 The Hand that feeds us; 
 And when we tread the road of Life in cheerfulness. 
 Our very heart-beats praise the Love that leads us. 
 
 224 
 
PEACE 
 
 With eager heart and will on fire, 
 I strove to win my great desire. 
 "Peace shall be mine," I said; but life 
 Grew bitter in the barren strife. 
 
 My soul was weary, and my pride 
 Was wounded deep; to Heaven I cried, 
 "God grant me peace or I must die;" 
 The dumb stars ghttered no reply. 
 
 Broken at last, I bowed my head. 
 Forgetting all myself, and said, 
 "Whatever comes, His will be done;" 
 And in that moment peace was won. 
 
 225 
 
SANTA CHRISTINA 
 
 Saints are God's jBowers, fragrant souls 
 That His own hand hath planted. 
 
 Not in some far-off heavenly place, 
 Or solitude enchanted, 
 
 But here and there and everywhere, — 
 In lonely field, or crowded town, 
 God sees a flower when He looks down. 
 
 Some wear the lily's stainless white. 
 
 And some the rose of passion. 
 And some the violet's heavenly blue, 
 
 But each in its own fashion, 
 With silent bloom and soft perfume, 
 
 Is praising Him who from above 
 
 Beholds each lifted face of love. 
 
 One such I knew, — and had the grace 
 To thank my God for knowing: 
 
 The beauty of her quiet life 
 Was like a rose in blowing. 
 
 So fair and sweet, so all-complete 
 And all unconscious, as a flower, 
 That light and fragrance were her dower. 
 
 226 
 
SANTA CHRISTINA 
 
 No convent-garden held this rose. 
 
 Concealed like secret treasure; 
 No royal terrace guarded her 
 
 For some sole monarch's pleasure. 
 She made her shrine, this saint of mine. 
 
 In a bright home where children played; 
 
 And there she wrought and there she prayed c 
 
 In sunshine, when the days were glad, 
 
 She had the art of keeping 
 The clearest rays, to give again 
 
 In days of rain and weeping; 
 Her blessed heart could still impart 
 
 Some portion of its secret grace. 
 
 And charity shone in her face. 
 
 In joy she grew from year to year; 
 
 And sorrow made her sweeter; 
 And every comfort, still more kind; 
 
 And every loss, completer. 
 Her children came to love her name, — 
 
 "Christina," — 'twas a lip's caress; 
 
 And when they called, they seemed to bless. 
 
 227 
 
HEARTH AND ALTAR 
 
 No more they call, for she is gone 
 
 Too far away to hear them; 
 And yet they often breathe her name 
 
 As if she lingered near them; 
 They cannot reach her with love's speech. 
 
 But when they say "Christina" now 
 
 'Tis like a prayer or like a vow: 
 
 A vow to keep her life alive 
 
 In deeds of pure affection, 
 So that her love shall find in them 
 
 A daily resurrection; 
 A constant prayer that they may wear 
 
 Some touch of that supernal light 
 
 With which she blossoms in God's sight. 
 
 228 
 
THE BARGAIN 
 
 What shall I give for thee, 
 Thou Pearl of greatest price? 
 
 For all the treasures I possess 
 Would not suffice. 
 
 I give my store of gold; 
 
 It is but earthly dross: 
 But thou wilt make me rich, beyond 
 
 All fear of loss. 
 
 Mine honours I resign; 
 
 They are but small at best: 
 Thou like a royal star wilt shine 
 
 Upon my breast. 
 
 My worldly joys I give. 
 
 The flowers with which I played; 
 Thy beauty, far more heavenly fair. 
 
 Shall never fade. 
 
 Dear Lord, is that enough? 
 
 Nay, not a thousandth part. 
 Well, then, I have but one thing more; 
 
 Take Thou my heart. 
 
TO THE CHILD JESUS 
 I 
 
 THE NATIVITY 
 
 Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again, 
 A happy human child, among the homes of men, 
 The age of doubt would pass, — the vision of Thy face 
 Would silently restore the childhood of the race. 
 
 II 
 
 THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT 
 
 Thou wayfaring Jesus, a pilgrim and stranger, 
 
 Exiled from heaven by love at thy birth. 
 Exiled again from thy rest in the manger, 
 
 A fugitive child 'mid the perils of earth, — 
 Cheer with thy fellowship all who are weary. 
 
 Wandering far from the land that they love; 
 Guide every heart that is homeless and dreary, 
 
 Safe to its home in thy presence above. 
 
 230 
 
BITTER-SWEET 
 
 Just to give up, and trust 
 All to a Fate unknown, 
 Plodding along life's road in the dust. 
 Bounded by walls of stone; 
 Never to have a heart at peace; 
 Never to see when care will cease; 
 Just to be still when sorrows fall — 
 This is the bitterest lesson of all. 
 
 Just to give up, and rest 
 
 All on a Love secure. 
 Out of a world that's hard at the best, 
 Looking to heaven as sure; 
 Ever to hope, through cloud and fear. 
 In darkest night, that the dawn is near; 
 Just to wait at the Master's feet — 
 Surely, now, the bitter is sweet. 
 
 231 
 
HYMN OF JOY 
 
 TO THE MUSIC OF BEETHOVEN 's NINTH SYMPHONY 
 
 Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, 
 
 God of glory, Lord of love; 
 Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee, 
 
 Praising Thee their sun above. 
 Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; 
 
 Drive the dark of doubt away; 
 Giver of immortal gladness, 
 
 Fill us with the hght of day! 
 
 All Thy works with joy surround Thee, 
 
 Earth and heaven reflect Thy rays, 
 Stars and angels sing around Thee, 
 
 Centre of unbroken praise: 
 Field and forest, vale and mountain. 
 
 Blooming meadow, flashing sea, 
 Chanting bird and flowing fountain. 
 
 Call us to rejoice in Thee. 
 
 Thou art giving and forgiving, 
 
 Ever blessing, ever blest, 
 Well-spring of the joy of living, 
 
 Ocean-depth of happy rest ! 
 Thou our Father, Christ our Brother, — 
 
 All who live in love are Thine: 
 Teach us how to love each other. 
 
 Lift us to the Joy Divine. 
 232 
 
HYMN OF JOY 
 
 Mortals join the mighty chorus. 
 
 Which the morning stars began; 
 Father-love is reigning o'er us, 
 
 Brother-love binds man to man. 
 Ever singing march we onward, 
 
 Victors in the midst of strife; 
 Joyful music lifts us sunward 
 
 In the triumph song of life. 
 1908. 
 
 233 
 
SONG OF A PILGRIM-SOUL 
 
 March on, my soul, nor like a laggard stay! 
 March swiftly on. Yet err not from the way 
 Where all the nobly wise of old have trod, — 
 The path of faith, made by the sons of God. 
 
 Follow the marks that they have set beside 
 The narrow, cloud-swept track, to be thy guide: 
 Follow, and honour what the past has gained, 
 And forward still, that more may be attained. 
 
 Something to learn, and something to forget: 
 Hold fast the good, and seek the better yet: 
 Press on, and prove the pilgrim-hope of youth: 
 The Creeds are milestones on the road to Truth. 
 
 234 
 
ODE TO PEACE 
 
 IN EXCELSIS 
 
 Two dwellings, Peace, are thine. 
 
 One is the mountain-height. 
 Uplifted in the loneliness of light 
 
 Beyond the realm of shadows, — fine, 
 And far, and clear, — where advent of the night 
 Means only glorious nearness of the stars. 
 And dawn unhindered breaks above the bars 
 That long the lower world in twilight keep. 
 Thou sleepest not, and hast no need of sleep, 
 For all thy cares and fears have dropped away; 
 The night's fatigue, the fever-fret of day, 
 Are far below thee; and earth's weary wars, 
 
 In vain expense of passion, pass 
 Before thy sight like visions in a glass, — 
 Or like the wrinkles of the storm that creep 
 
 Across the sea and leave no trace 
 Of trouble on that immemorial face, — 
 So brief appear the conflicts, and so slight 
 The wounds men give, the things for which they fight ! 
 Here hangs a fortress on the distant steep, — 
 
 A lichen clinging to the rock. 
 There sails a fleet upon the deep, — 
 235 
 
HEARTH AND ALTAR 
 
 A wandering flock 
 Of snow-winged gulls. And yonder, in the plain, 
 
 A marble palace shines, — a grain 
 
 Of mica glittering in the rain. 
 
 Beneath thy feet the clouds are rolled 
 
 By voiceless winds: and far between 
 The rolling clouds, new shores and peaks are seen, 
 
 In shimmering robes of green and gold. 
 And faint aerial hue 
 That silent fades into the silent blue. 
 
 Thou, from thy mountain-hold. 
 All day in tranquil wisdom looking down 
 On distant scenes of human toil and strife. 
 All night, with eyes aware of loftier life 
 Uplifted to the sky where stars are sown. 
 Dost watch the everlasting fields grow white 
 Unto the harvest of the sons of light. 
 And welcome to thy dwelling-place sublime 
 The few strong souls that dare to climb 
 The slippery crags, and find thee on the height. 
 
 II 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS 
 
 But in the depth thou hast another home, 
 
 For hearts less daring, or more frail. 
 Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale; 
 And pilgrim-souls that roam 
 236 
 
ODE TO PEACE 
 
 With weary feet o'er hill and dale. 
 Bearing the burden and the heat 
 Of toilful days, 
 Turn from the dusty ways 
 To find thee in thy green and still retreat. 
 
 Here is no vision wide outspread 
 Before the lonely and exalted seat 
 Of all-embracing knowledge. Here, instead, 
 A little cottage, and a garden-nook. 
 With outlooks brief and sweet 
 Across the meadows, and along the brook, — 
 
 A little stream that nothing knows 
 Of the great sea to which it gladly flows, — 
 A little field that bears a little wheat 
 To make a portion of earth's daily bread. 
 The vast cloud-armies overhead 
 Are marshalled, and the wild wind blows 
 Its trumpet, but thou canst not tell 
 Whence comes the wind nor where it goes; 
 Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well. 
 
 Thy daily task is done. 
 And now the wages of repose are won. 
 Here friendship lights the fire, and every heart. 
 Sure of itself and sure of all the rest. 
 Dares to be true, and gladly takes its part 
 In open converse, bringing forth its best: 
 And here is music, melting every chain 
 Of lassitude and pain: 
 237 
 
HEARTH AND ALTAR 
 
 And here, at last, is sleep with silent gifts, — 
 Kind sleep, the tender nurse who lifts 
 
 The soul grown weary of the waking world. 
 And lays it, with its thoughts all furled. 
 
 Its fears forgotten, and its passions still. 
 
 On the deep bosom of the Eternal Will. 
 
 238 
 
THREE PRAYERS FOR SLEEP AND WAKING 
 
 I 
 
 BEDTIME 
 
 Ere thou sleepest gently lay 
 Every troubled thought away: 
 Put off worry and distress 
 As thou puttest off thy dress: 
 Drop thy burden and thy care 
 In the quiet arms of prayer. 
 
 Lord, Thou knowest how I live, 
 All Fve done amiss forgive : 
 All of good I've tried to do. 
 Strengthen, bless, and carry through : 
 All I love in safety keep. 
 While in Thee I fall asleep. 
 
 239 
 
HEARTH AND ALTAR 
 II 
 
 NIGHT WATCH 
 
 If slumber should forsake 
 Thy pillow in the dark, 
 Fret not thyself to mark 
 
 How long thou liest awake. 
 
 There is a better way; 
 
 Let go the strife and strain, 
 Thine eyes will close again, 
 
 If thou wilt only pray. 
 
 Lord, Thy peaceful gift restore. 
 Give my body sleep once more : 
 While I wait my soul will rest 
 Like a child upon Thy breast. 
 
 240 
 
THREE PRAYERS 
 III 
 
 NEW DAY 
 
 Ere thou risest from thy bed. 
 
 Speak to God Whose wings were spread 
 
 O'er thee in the helpless night: 
 
 Lo, He wakes thee now with light ! 
 
 Lift thy burden and thy care 
 
 In the mighty arms of prayer. 
 
 Lord, the newness of this day 
 Calls me to an untried way : 
 Let me gladly take the road. 
 Give me strength to bear my load. 
 Thou my guide and helper be — 
 / v)ill travel through with Thee. 
 The Mission Inn, California, Easter, 1913. 
 
 241 
 
PORTRAIT AND REALITY 
 
 If on the closed curtain of my sight 
 My fancy paints thy portrait far away, 
 I see thee still the same, by night or day; 
 
 Crossing the crowded street, or moving bright 
 
 'Mid festal throngs, or reading by the light 
 Of shaded lamp some friendly poet's lay, 
 Or shepherding the children at their play, — 
 
 The same sweet self, and my unchanged delight. 
 
 But when I see thee near, I recognize 
 In every dear familiar way some strange 
 
 Perfection, and behold in April guise 
 
 The magic of thy beauty that doth range 
 
 Through many moods with infinite surprise, — 
 Never the same, and sweeter with each change. 
 
 242 
 
THE WIND OF SORROW 
 
 The fire of love was burning, yet so low 
 
 That in the peaceful dark it made no rays. 
 And in the light of perfect-placid days 
 
 The ashes hid the smouldering embers' glow. 
 
 Vainly, for love's delight, we sought to throw 
 New pleasures on the pyre to make it blaze: 
 In life's calm air and tranquil-prosperous ways 
 
 We missed the radiant heat of long ago. 
 
 Then in the night, a night of sad alarms. 
 
 Bitter with pain and black with fog of fears 
 
 That drove us trembling to each other's arms. 
 Across the gulf of darkness and salt tears 
 
 Into life's calm the wind of sorrow came. 
 
 And fanned the fire of love to clearest flame. 
 
 243 
 
HIDE AND SEEK 
 
 All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still, 
 All the fleecy flocks of cloud, gone beyond the hill; 
 Through the noon-day silence, down the woods of June, 
 Hark, a little hunter's voice, running with a tune. 
 
 "Hide and seek! 
 
 "When I speak, 
 
 "You must answer me: 
 
 "Call again, 
 
 "Merry men, 
 "Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!" 
 
 Now I hear his footsteps rustling in the grass: 
 Hidden in my leafy nook, shall I let him pass? 
 Just a low, soft whistle, — quick the hunter turns. 
 Leaps upon me laughing loud, rolls me in the ferns. 
 
 "Hold him fast, 
 
 "Caught at last! 
 
 "Now you're it, you see. 
 
 "Hide your eye, 
 
 "Till I cry, 
 Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!" 
 
 244 
 
HIDE AND SEEK 
 
 II 
 
 Long ago he left me, long and long ago; 
 Now I wander thro' the world, seeking high and low. 
 Hidden safe and happy, in some pleasant place, — 
 If I could but hear his voice, soon I'd see his face ! 
 
 Far away. 
 
 Many a day. 
 
 Where can Barney be? 
 
 Answer, dear. 
 
 Don't you hear? 
 Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee ! 
 
 Birds that every spring-time sung him full of joy, 
 Flowers he loved to pick for me, mind me of my boy. 
 Somewhere he is waiting till my steps come nigh; 
 Love may hide itself awhile, but love can never die. 
 
 Heart, be glad, 
 
 The little lad 
 
 Will call again to thee: 
 
 "Father dear, 
 
 "Heaven is here, 
 " Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee ! " 
 
 1898. 
 
 245 
 
AUTUMN IN THE GARDEN 
 
 When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark 
 
 Makes its mark 
 On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves 
 
 Over fallen leaves; 
 Then my olden garden, where the golden soil 
 
 Through the toil 
 Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep, 
 
 Whispers in its sleep. 
 
 'Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox, 
 
 Where the box 
 Borders with its glossy green the ancient walks, 
 
 There's a voice that talks 
 Of the human hopes that bloomed and withered here 
 
 Year by year, — 
 And the dreams that brightened all the labouring hours. 
 
 Fading as the flowers. 
 
 Yet the whispered story does not deepen grief; 
 
 But relief 
 For the loneliness of sorrow seems to flow 
 
 From the Long-Ago, 
 When I think of other lives that learned, like mine. 
 
 To resign. 
 And remember that the sadness of the fall 
 
 Comes alike to all. 
 246 
 
AUTUMN IN THE GARDEN 
 
 What regrets, what longings for the lost were theirs ! 
 
 And what prayers 
 For the silent strength that nerves us to endure 
 
 Things we cannot cure ! 
 Pacing up and down the garden where they paced, 
 
 I have traced 
 All their well-worn paths of patience, till I find 
 
 Comfort in my mind. 
 
 Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear: 
 
 Yet how near 
 Is the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face, 
 
 Of the human race ! 
 Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart, — 
 
 Not apart ! 
 They who know the sorrows other lives have known 
 
 Never walk alone. 
 October, 1903. 
 
 247 
 
THE MESSAGE 
 
 Waking from tender sleep, 
 
 My neighbour's little child 
 Put out his baby hand to me, 
 
 Looked in my face, and smiled. 
 
 It seems as if he came 
 
 Home from a happy land. 
 To bring a message to my heart 
 
 And make me understand. 
 
 Somewhere, among bright dreams, 
 A child that once was mine 
 
 Has whispered wordless love to him. 
 And given him a sign. 
 
 Comfort of kindly speech. 
 
 And counsel of the wise. 
 Have helped me less than what I read 
 
 In those deep-smiling eyes. 
 
 Sleep sweetly, little friend, 
 And dream again of heaven: 
 
 With double love I kiss your hand, — 
 Your message has been given. 
 
 November, 1903. 
 
 248 
 
DULCIS MEMORIA 
 
 Long, long ago I heard a little song, 
 
 (Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?) 
 So lowly, slowly wound the tune along. 
 
 That far into my heart it found the way: 
 A melody consoling and endearing; 
 And now, in silent hours, I'm often hearing 
 
 The small, sweet song that does not die away. 
 
 Long, long ago I saw a little flower — 
 
 (Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?) 
 So fair of face and fragrant for an hour, 
 
 That something dear to me it seemed to say, — 
 A wordless joy that blossomed into being; 
 And now, in winter days, I'm often seeing 
 
 The friendly flower that does not fade away. 
 
 Long, long ago we had a little child, — 
 
 (Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?) 
 Into his mother's eyes and mine he smiled 
 
 Unconscious love; warm in our arms he lay. 
 An angel called! Dear heart, we could not hold him; 
 Yet secretly your arms and mine infold him — 
 
 Our little child who does not go away. 
 
 249 
 
HEARTH AND ALTAR 
 
 Long, long ago? Ah, memory, make it clear — 
 (It was not long ago, but yesterday,) 
 
 So little and so helpless and so dear — 
 Let not the song be lost, the flower decay ! 
 
 His voice, his waking eyes, his gentle sleeping: 
 
 The smallest things are safest in thy keeping, — 
 Sweet memory, keep our child with us alway. 
 
 November, 1903. 
 
 250 
 
THE WINDOW 
 
 All night long, by a distant bell 
 The passing hours were notched 
 On the dark, while her breathing rose and fell; 
 
 And the spark of life I watched 
 In her face was glowing, or fading, — who could tell? — 
 And the open window of the room, 
 
 With a flare of yellow light. 
 Was peering out into the gloom. 
 
 Like an eye that searched the night. 
 
 Oh, what do you see in the dark, little window, and why do 
 
 you 'peer ? 
 "I see that the garden is crowded with creeping forms of fear : 
 Little white ghosts in the locust-tree, wave in the night-wind's 
 
 breath. 
 And low in the leafy laurels the lurking shadow of death." 
 
 Sweet, clear notes of a waking bird 
 
 Told of the passing away 
 Of the dark, — and my darling may have heard; 
 
 For she smiled in her sleep, while the ray 
 Of the rising dawn spoke joy without a word, 
 Till the splendour born in the east outburned 
 
 The yellow lamplight, pale and thin, 
 And the open window slowly turned 
 To the eye of the morning, looking in. 
 251 
 
HEARTH AND ALTAR 
 
 Oh, what do you see in the room, little window, that makes 
 
 you so bright ? 
 "/ see that a child is asleep on her 'pillow, soft and white: 
 With the rose of life on her lips, the pulse of life in her breast. 
 And the arms of God around her, she quietly takes her rest." 
 Neuilly, June, 1909. 
 
 252 
 
CHRISTMAS TEARS 
 
 The day returns by which we date our years: 
 Day of the joy of giving, — that means love; 
 Day of the joy of Hving, — that means hope; 
 Day of the Royal Child, — and day that brings 
 To older hearts the gift of Christmas tears ! 
 
 Look, how the candles twinkle through the tree. 
 The children shout when baby claps his hands, 
 The room is full of laughter and of song ! 
 Your hps are smiling, dearest, — tell me why 
 Your eyes are brimming full of Christmas tears? 
 
 Was it a silent voice that joined the song? 
 A vanished face that glimmered once again 
 Among the happy circle round the tree? 
 Was it an unseen hand that touched your cheek 
 And brought the secret gift of Christmas tears? 
 
 Not dark and angry like the winter storm 
 Of selfish grief, — but full of starry gleams. 
 And soft and still that others may not weep, — 
 Dews of remembered happiness descend 
 To bless us with the gift of Christmas tears. 
 
 253 
 
HEARTH AND ALTAR 
 
 Ah, lose them not, dear heart, — Hfe has no pearls 
 More pure than memories of joy love-shared. 
 See, while we count them one by one with prayer, 
 The Heavenly hope that lights the Christmas tree 
 Has made a rainbow in our Christmas tears ! 
 
 1912. 
 
 254 
 
DOROTHEA 
 
 1888-1912 
 
 A DEEPER crimson in the rose, 
 A deeper blue in sky and sea. 
 And ever, as the summer goes, 
 A deeper loss in losing thee ! 
 
 A deeper music in the strain 
 Of hermit-thrush from lonely tree; 
 And deeper grows the sense of gain 
 My life has found in having thee. 
 
 A deeper love, a deeper rest, 
 
 A deeper joy in all I see; 
 
 And ever deeper in my breast 
 
 A silver song that comes from thee ! 
 
 Seal Harbour, August 1, 1912. 
 
 ^55 
 
EPIGEAMS, GREETINGS, AND 
 INSCRIPTIONS 
 
FOR KATRINA'S SUN-DIAL 
 
 IN HER GARDEN OF YADDO 
 
 Hours fly, 
 Flowers die 
 New days. 
 New ways. 
 Pass by. 
 Love stays. 
 
 Time is 
 Too Slow for those who Wait, 
 Too Swift for those who Fear, 
 Too Long for those who Grieve, 
 Too Short for those who Rejoice; 
 But for those who Love, 
 
 Time is not. 
 
 ^59 
 
FOR KATRINA'S WINDOW 
 
 IN HER TOWER OF YADDO 
 
 This is the window's message. 
 
 In silence, to the Queen: 
 "Thou hast a double kingdom 
 
 And I am set between: 
 Look out and see the glory, 
 
 On hill and plain and sky: 
 Look in and see the light of love 
 
 That nevermore shall die!" 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Window in the Queen's high tower y 
 This shall he thy magic power I 
 Shut the darkness and the doubt. 
 Shut the storm and conflidy out; 
 Wind and hail and snow and rain 
 Dash against thee all in vain. 
 Let in nothing from the night, — 
 Let in every ray oj lightj 
 
 260 
 
FOR THE FRIENDS AT HURSTMONT 
 
 THE HOUSE 
 
 The cornerstone in Truth is laid, 
 The guardian walls of Honour made. 
 The roof of Faith is built above. 
 The fire upon the hearth is Love: 
 Though rains descend and loud winds call. 
 This happy house shall never fall. 
 
 THE hearth 
 
 When the logs are burning free. 
 Then the fire is full of glee: 
 When each heart gives out its best. 
 Then the talk is full of zest: 
 Light your fire and never fear. 
 Life was made for love and cheer. 
 
 THE DOOR 
 
 The lintel low enough to keep out pomp and pride: 
 The threshold high enough to turn deceit aside: 
 The fastening strong enough from robbers to defend: 
 This door will open at a touch to welcome every friend. 
 
 261 
 
EPIGRAMS AND GREETINGS 
 
 THE DIAL 
 
 Time can never take 
 
 What Time did not give; 
 
 When my shadows have all passed. 
 You shall live. 
 
 262 
 
THE SUN-DIAL AT MORVEN 
 
 FOR BAYARD AND HELEN STOCKTON 
 
 Two hundred years of blessing I record 
 For Morven's house, protected by the Lord: 
 And still I stand among old-fashioned flowers 
 To mark for Morven many sunlit hours. 
 
 THE SUN-DIAL AT WELLS COLLEGE 
 
 FOR THE CLASS OF 1904 
 
 The shadow by my finger cast 
 
 Divides the future from the past: 
 
 Before it, sleeps the unborn hour. 
 
 In darkness, and beyond thy power: 
 
 Behind its unreturning line, 
 
 The vanished hour, no longer thine: 
 
 One hour alone is in thy hands, — 
 
 The NOW on which the shadow stands. 
 
 March, 1904. 
 
 263 
 
TO MARK TWAIN 
 
 AT A BIRTHDAY FEAST 
 
 With memories old and wishes new 
 We crown our cups again, 
 And here's to you, and here's to you 
 With love that ne'er shall wane ! 
 And may you keep, at sixty-seven. 
 The joy of earth, the hope of heaven, 
 And fame well-earned, and friendship true. 
 And peace that comforts every pain. 
 And faith that fights the battle through. 
 And all your heart's unbounded wealth, 
 And all your wit, and all your health, — 
 Yes, here's a hearty health to you, 
 And here's to you, and here's to you. 
 Long life to you, Mark Twain. 
 November SO, 1902. 
 
 II 
 
 AT THE MEMORIAL MEETING 
 
 We knew you well, dear Yorick of the West, 
 The very soul of large and friendly jest ! 
 You loved and mocked the broad grotesque of things 
 In this new world where all the folk are kings. 
 264 
 
TO MARK TWAIN 
 
 Your breezy humour cleared the air, with sport 
 Of shams that haunt the democratic court; 
 For even where the sovereign people rule, 
 A human monarch needs a royal fool. 
 
 Your native drawl lent flavour to your wit; 
 Your arrows lingered but they always hit; 
 Homeric mirth around the circle ran, 
 But left no wound upon the heart of man. 
 
 We knew you kind in trouble, brave in pain; 
 We saw your honour kept without a stain; 
 We read this lesson of our Yorick's years, — 
 True wisdom comes with laughter and with tears. 
 November 30, 1910. 
 
 265 
 
STARS AND THE SOUL 
 
 (to CHARLES A. YOUNG, ASTRONOMER) 
 
 "Two things," the wise man said, "fill me with awe: 
 The starry heavens and the moral law." 
 Nay, add another wonder to thy roll, — 
 The living marvel of the human soul ! 
 
 Born in the dust and cradled in the dark , 
 It feels the fire of an immortal spark, 
 And learns to read, with patient, searching eyes. 
 The splendid secret of the unconscious skies. 
 
 For God thought Light before He spoke the word; 
 The darkness understood not, though it heard: 
 But man looks up to where the planets swim. 
 And thinks God's thoughts of glory after Him. 
 
 What knows the star that guides the sailor's way. 
 Or lights the lover's bower with liquid ray. 
 Of toil and passion, danger and distress. 
 Brave hope, true love, and utter faithfulness? 
 
 But human hearts that suffer good and ill. 
 And hold to virtue with a loyal will. 
 Adorn the law that rules our mortal strife 
 With star-surpassing victories of life. 
 266 . 
 
STARS AND THE SOUL 
 
 So take our thanks, dear reader of the skies, 
 Devout astronomer, most humbly wise. 
 For lessons brighter than the stars can give, 
 And inward light that helps us all to live. 
 
 267 
 
TO JULIA MARLOWE 
 
 (reading KEATs' ode on a GRECIAN URN) 
 
 Long had I loved this "Attic shape," the brede 
 Of marble maidens round this urn divine: 
 
 But when your golden voice began to read, 
 The empty urn was filled with Chian wine. 
 
 TO JOSEPH JEFFERSON 
 
 May ith, 1898. — To-day, fishing down the Swiftwater, I found Joseph 
 Jefferson on a big rock in the middle of the brook, casting the fly for trout. 
 He said he had fished this very stream three-and-forty years ago ; and 
 near by, in the Paradise Valley, he wrote his famous play. — Leaf from my 
 Diary. 
 
 We met on Nature's stage, 
 
 And May had set the scene, 
 With bishop-caps standing in delicate ranks, 
 And violets blossoming over the banks, 
 
 While the brook ran full between. 
 
 The waters rang your call. 
 
 With frolicsome waves a-twinkle, — 
 
 They knew you as boy, and they knew you as man. 
 
 And every wave, as it merrily ran. 
 Cried, "Enter Rip van Winkle!" 
 268 
 
THE MOCKING-BIRD 
 
 In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon, 
 Catching the hit of every easy tune; 
 But when the day departs he sings of love, — 
 His own wild song beneath the listening moon. 
 
 THE EMPTY QUATRAIN 
 
 A FLAWLESS cup: how delicate and fine 
 The flowing curve of every jewelled line ! 
 Look, turn it up or down, 'tis perfect still, — 
 But holds no drop of life's heart-warming wino. 
 
 269 
 
PAN LEARNS MUSIC 
 
 FOR A SCULPTURE BY SARA GREENE 
 
 Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the rock, 
 Where is sweet Echo, and where is your flock? 
 What are you making here? "Listen," said Pan,- 
 "Out of a river-reed music for man!" 
 
 THE SHEPHERD OF NYMPHS 
 
 The nymphs a shepherd took 
 To guard their snowy sheep; 
 He led them down along the brook, 
 And guided them with pipe and crook, 
 Until he fell asleep. 
 
 But when the piping stayed, 
 
 Across the flowery mead 
 The milk-white nymphs ran out afraid: 
 O Thyrsis, wake ! Your flock has strayed,- 
 
 The nymphs a shepherd need. 
 
 270 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY 
 
 STARLIGHT 
 
 With two bright eyes, my star, my love, 
 
 Thou lookest on the stars above: 
 
 Ah, would that I the heaven might be 
 
 With a milhon eyes to look on thee. 
 
 Plato. 
 
 II 
 
 ROSELEAF 
 
 A little while the rose. 
 And after that the thorn; 
 An hour of dewy morn. 
 And then the glamour goes. 
 Ah, love in beauty born, 
 A little while the rose ! 
 Unknown. 
 
 271 
 
EPIGRAMS AND GREETINGS 
 III 
 
 PHOSPHOR — HESPER 
 
 O morning star, farewell ! 
 
 My love I now must leave; 
 The hours of day I slowly tell. 
 And turn to her with the twilight bell,- 
 
 O welcome, star of eve ! 
 Meleager. 
 
 IV 
 
 SEASONS 
 
 Sweet in summer, cups of snow. 
 Cooling thirsty lips aglow; 
 Sweet to sailors winter-bound. 
 Spring arrives with garlands crowned; 
 Sweeter yet the hour that covers 
 With one cloak a pair of lovers. 
 Living lost in golden weather. 
 While they talk of love together. 
 Asclepiades. 
 
 272 
 
ECHOES FROM GREEK ANTHOLOGY 
 
 THE VINE AND THE GOAT 
 
 Although you eat me to the root, 
 I yet shall bear enough of fruit 
 For wine to sprinkle your dim eyes, 
 When you are made a sacrifice. 
 
 Euenus. 
 
 VI 
 
 THE PROFESSOR 
 
 Seven pupils, in the class 
 
 Of Professor Calhas, 
 
 Listen silent while he drawls, — 
 
 Three are benches, four are walls. 
 
 Vnknotan. 
 
 273 
 
ONE WORLD 
 
 " The worlds in which we live are two: 
 The world '/ aj/i' and the world 'I do.'" 
 
 The worlds in which we live at heart are one, 
 The world "I am," the fruit of "I have done"; 
 And underneath these worlds of flower and fruit. 
 The world "I love," — the only living root. 
 
 JOY AND DUTY 
 
 "Joy is a Duty," — so with golden lore 
 The Hebrew rabbis taught in days of yore. 
 And happy human hearts heard in their speech 
 Almost the highest wisdom man can reach. 
 
 But one bright peak still rises far above, 
 And there the Master stands whose name is Love, 
 Saying to those whom weary tasks employ: 
 "Life is divine when Duty is a Joy." 
 
 274 
 
THE PRISON AND THE ANGEL 
 
 Self is the only prison that can ever bind the soul; 
 Love is the only angel who can bid the gates unroll; 
 And when he comes to call thee, arise and follow fast; 
 His way may lie through darkness, but it leads to light 
 at last. 
 
 THE WAY 
 
 Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul, 
 May keep the path, but will not reach the goal; 
 While he who walks in love may wander far. 
 But God will bring him where the Blessed are. 
 
 275 
 
LOVE AND LIGHT 
 
 There are many kinds of love, as many kinds of light, 
 And every kind of love makes a glory in the night. 
 There is love that stirs the heart, and love that gives it 
 
 rest, 
 But the love that leads life upward is the noblest and the 
 
 best. 
 
 FACTA NON VERBA 
 
 Deeds not Words : I say so too ! 
 And yet I find it somehow true, 
 A word may help a man in need. 
 To nobler act and braver deed. 
 
 276 
 
FOUR THINGS 
 
 Four things a man must learn to do 
 If he would make his record true: 
 To think without confusion clearly; 
 To love his fellow-men sincerely; 
 To act from honest motives purely; 
 To trust in God and Heaven securely. 
 
 THE GREAT RIVER 
 
 "In la sua volontade e nostra pace." 
 
 O MIGHTY river ! strong, eternal Will, 
 Wherein the streams of human good and ill 
 Are onward swept, conflicting, to the sea ! 
 The world is safe because it floats in Thee. 
 
 277 
 
INSCRIPTION FOR A TOMB IN ENGLAND 
 
 Read here, O friend unknown, 
 
 Our grief, of her bereft; 
 Yet think not tears alone 
 
 Within our hearts are left. 
 The gifts she came to give, 
 
 Her heavenly love and cheer, 
 Have made us glad to live 
 
 And die without a fear. 
 1912. 
 
 278 
 
THE TALISMAN 
 
 What is Fortune, what is Fame? 
 Futile gold and phantom name, — 
 Riches buried in a cave. 
 Glory written on a grave. 
 
 What is Friendship? Something deep 
 That the heart can spend and keep: 
 Wealth that greatens while we give. 
 Praise that heartens us to live. 
 
 Come, my friend, and let us prove 
 Life's true talisman is love ! 
 By this charm we shall elude 
 Poverty and solitude. 
 January 21, 1914. 
 
 279 
 
THORN AND ROSE 
 
 Far richer than a thornless rose 
 Whose branch with beauty never glows. 
 Is that which every June adorns 
 With perfect bloom among its thorns. 
 
 Merely to live without a pain 
 
 Is little gladness, little gain, 
 
 Ah, welcome joy tho' mixt with grief, — 
 
 The thorn-set flower that crowns the leaf. 
 
 June 20, 1914. 
 
 280 
 
"THE SIGNS" 
 
 Dedicated to the Zodiac Club 
 
 Who knows how many thousand years ago 
 The twelvefold Zodiac was made to show 
 The course of stars above and men below? 
 
 The great sun plows his furrow by its "lines": 
 From all its "houses" mystic meaning shines: 
 Deep lore of life is written in its "signs." 
 
 A Ties — Sacrifice . 
 Snow-white and sacred is the sacrifice 
 That Heaven demands for what our heart doth prize: 
 The man who fears to suffer, ne'er can rise. 
 
 Taurus — Strength . 
 Rejoice, my friend, if God has made you strong: 
 Put forth your force to move the world along: 
 Yet never shame your strength to do a wrong. 
 
 Gemini — Brotherhood. 
 Bitter his life who lives for self alone. 
 Poor would he be with riches and a throne: , 
 But friendship doubles all we are and own. 
 
 281 
 
EPIGRAMS AND GREETINGS 
 
 Cancer — The Wisdom of Retreat. 
 Learn from the crab, O runner fresh and fleet, 
 Sideways to move, or backward, when discreet; 
 Life is not all advance, — sometimes retreat! 
 
 Leo — Fire. 
 The sign of Leo is the sign of fire. 
 Hatred we hate: but no man should desire 
 A heart too cold to flame with righteous ire. 
 
 Virgo — Love. 
 Mysterious symbol, words are all in vain 
 To tell the secret power by which you reign. 
 The more we love, the less we can explain. 
 
 Libra — Justice. 
 Examine well the scales with which you weigh; 
 Let justice rule your conduct every day; 
 For when you face the Judge you'll need fair play. 
 
 Scorpio — Self-Defense. 
 There's not a creature in the realm of night 
 But has the wish to live, likewise the right: 
 Don't tread upon the scorpion, or he'll fight. 
 
 ' Sagittarius — The Archer. 
 
 Life is an arrow, therefore you must know 
 What mark to aim at, how to use the bow, — 
 Then draw it to the head and let it go ! 
 
 282 
 
*'THE SIGNS" 
 
 Capricornus — The Goat. 
 The goat looks solemn, yet he likes to run, 
 And leap the rocks, and gambol in the sun: 
 The truly wise enjoy a little fun. 
 
 Aquarius — Water: 
 "Like water spilt upon the ground," — alas. 
 Our little lives flow swiftly on and pass; 
 Yet may they bring rich harvests and green grass ! 
 
 Pisces — The Fishes. 
 Last of the sacred signs, you bring to me 
 A word of hope, a word of mystery, — 
 We all are swimmers in God's mighty sea. 
 February 28, 1918. 
 
 283 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
PATRIA 
 
 I WOULD not even ask my heart to say " 
 If I could love another land as well 
 As thee, my country, had I felt the spell 
 
 Of Italy at birth, or learned to obey 
 
 The charm of France, or England's mighty sway. 
 I would not be so much an infidel 
 As once to dream, or fashion words to tell, 
 
 What land could hold my heart from thee away. 
 
 For like a law of nature in my blood, 
 America, I feel thy sovereignty, 
 And woven through my soul thy vital sign. 
 My life is but a wave and thou the flood; 
 I am a leaf and thou the mother-tree; 
 Nor should I be at all, were I not thine. 
 June, 1904. 
 
 287 
 
AMERICA 
 
 I LOVE thine inland seas, 
 Thy groves of giant trees, 
 
 Thy rolling plains; 
 Thy rivers' mighty sweep. 
 Thy mystic canyons deep, 
 Thy mountains wild and steep. 
 
 All thy domains; 
 
 Thy silver Eastern strands, 
 Thy Golden Gate that stands 
 
 Wide to the West; 
 Thy flowery Southland fair, 
 Thy sweet and crystal air, — 
 O land beyond compare, 
 
 Thee I love best ! 
 March, 1906. 
 
 288 
 
THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS 
 
 Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America, 
 Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of royal 
 
 splendour; 
 They are simple enough to be great in their friendly 
 
 dignity,— 
 Homes that were built by the brave beginners of a nation. 
 
 I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New England 
 
 valleys, • 
 
 Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feathering over 
 
 them: 
 Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-fashioned 
 
 roses, 
 A fan-light above the door, and little square panes in the 
 
 windows, 
 The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and hickory 
 
 ready for winter. 
 The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with household 
 
 relics, — 
 All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of self- 
 reliance. 
 
 I love the weather-beaten, shingled houses that front the 
 
 ocean; 
 They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is something 
 
 indomitable about them: 
 289 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 Their backs are bowed, and their sides are covered with 
 lichens; 
 
 Soft in their colour as gray pearls, they are full of a 
 patient courage. 
 
 Facing the briny wind on a lonely shore they stand 
 undaunted, 
 
 While the thin blue pennant of smoke from the square- 
 built chimney 
 
 Tells of a haven for man, with room for -a hearth and a 
 cradle. 
 
 I love the stately southern mansions with their tall white 
 
 columns, 
 They look through avenues of trees, over fields where 
 
 the cotton is growing; 
 I can see the flutter of white frocks along their shady 
 
 porches, 
 Music and laughter float from the windows, the yards 
 
 are full of hounds and horses. 
 Long since the riders have ridden away, yet the houses 
 
 have not forgotten, 
 They are proud of their name and place, and their doors 
 
 are always open, 
 For the thing they remember best is the pride of their 
 
 ancient hospitality. 
 
 290 
 
THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS 
 
 In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil Quaker 
 
 dwellings. 
 With their demure brick faces and immaculate marble 
 
 doorsteps; 
 And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their high 
 
 stoops and iron railings, 
 (I can see their little brass knobs shining in the morning 
 
 sunlight) ; 
 And the solid self-contained houses of the descendants of 
 
 the Puritans, 
 Frowning on the street with their narrow doors and 
 
 dormer-windows ; 
 And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions of 
 
 Charleston, 
 Standing open sideways in their gardens of roses and 
 
 magnoHas. 
 
 Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my eyes they 
 are beautiful; 
 
 For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts that 
 have made the nation; 
 
 The glory and strength of America come from her an- 
 cestral dwellings. 
 
 July, 1909. 
 
 291 
 
HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE 
 
 THE SHALLOP ON HUDSON BAY 
 June 22, 1611 
 
 One sail in sight upon the lonely sea, 
 
 And only one ! For never ship but mine 
 
 Has dared these waters. We were first. 
 
 My men, to battle in between the bergs 
 
 And floes to these wide waves. This gulf is mine; 
 
 I name it ! and that flying sail is mine ! 
 
 And there, hull-down below that flying sail. 
 
 The ship that staggers home is mine, mine, mine ! 
 
 My ship Discoverie I 
 
 The sullen dogs 
 Of mutineers, the bitches' whelps that snatched 
 Their food and bit the hand that nourished them. 
 Have stolen her. You ingrate Henry Greene, 
 I picked you from the gutter of Houndsditch, 
 And paid your debts, and kept you in my house. 
 And brought you here to make a man of you ! 
 You Robert Juet, ancient, crafty man. 
 Toothless and tremulous, how many times 
 Have I employed you as a master's mate 
 To give you bread? And you Abacuck Prickett, 
 You sailor-clerk, you salted puritan. 
 You knew the plot and silently agreed, 
 Salving your conscience with a pious lie ! 
 
 292 
 
HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE 
 
 Yes, all of you — hounds, rebels, thieves ! Bring back 
 My ship! 
 
 Too late, — I rave, — they cannot hear 
 My voice: and if they heard, a drunken laugh 
 Would be their answer; for their minds have caught 
 The fatal firmness of the fool's resolve. 
 That looks like courage but is only fear. 
 They'll blunder on, and lose my ship, and drown; 
 Or blunder home to England and be hanged. 
 Their skeletons will rattle in the chains 
 Of some tall gibbet on the Channel cliffs. 
 While passing mariners look up and say: 
 "Those are the rotten bones of Hudson's men 
 "Who left their captain in the frozen North!" 
 
 O God of justice, why hast Thou ordained 
 Plans of the wise and actions of the brave 
 Dependent on the aid of fools and cowards.? 
 
 Look, — there she goes, — her topsails in the sun 
 Gleam from the ragged ocean edge, and drop 
 Clean out of sight ! So let the traitors go 
 Clean out of mind ! We'll think of braver things ! 
 Come closer in the boat, my friends. John King, 
 You take the tiller, keep her head nor'west. 
 You Philip Staffe, the only one who chose 
 Freely to share our little shallop's fate, 
 Rather than travel in the hell-bound ship, — 
 293 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 Too good an English sailor to desert 
 Your crippled comrades, — try to make them rest 
 More easy on the thwarts. And John, my son, 
 My little shipmate, come and lean your head 
 Against my knee. Do you remember still 
 The April morn in Ethelburga's church. 
 Five years ago, when side by side we kneeled 
 To take the sacrament with all our men. 
 Before the Hopewell left St. Catherine's docks 
 On our first voyage.'* It was then I vowed 
 My sailor-soul and yours to search the sea 
 Until we found the water-path that leads 
 From Europe into Asia. 
 
 I believe 
 That God has poured the ocean round His world, 
 Not to divide, but to unite the lands. 
 And all the English captains that have dared 
 In little ships to plough uncharted waves, — 
 Davis and Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher, 
 Raleigh and Gilbert, — all the other names, — 
 Are written in the chivalry of God 
 As men who served His purpose. I would claim 
 A place among that knighthood of the sea; 
 And I have earned it, though my quest should fail ! 
 For, mark me well, the honour of our life 
 Derives from this: to have a certain aim 
 Before us always, which our will must seek 
 Amid the peril of uncertain ways. 
 
 294 
 
HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE 
 
 rhen, though we miss the goal, our search is crowned 
 
 With courage, and we find along our path 
 
 \ rich reward of unexpected things. 
 
 Press towards the aim : take fortune as it fares ! 
 
 [ know not why, but something in my heart 
 Has always whispered, "Westward seek your goal!" 
 rhree times they sent me east, but still I turned 
 rhe bowsprit west, and felt among the floes 
 3f ruttling ice along the Greenland coast, 
 \nd down the rugged shore of Newfoundland, 
 ^nd past the rocky capes and wooded bays 
 Where Gosnold sailed, — like one who feels his way 
 With outstretched hand across a darkened room, — 
 [ groped among the inlets and the isles, 
 Po find the passage to the Land of Spice. 
 [ have not found it yet, — ^but I have found 
 Things worth the finding ! 
 
 Son, have you forgot 
 Those mellow autumn days, two years ago. 
 When first we sent our little ship Half-Moon, — 
 The flag of Holland floating at her peak, — 
 A.cross a sandy bar, and sounded in 
 A.mong the channels, to a goodly bay 
 Where all the navies of the world could ride? 
 A. fertile island that the redmen called 
 Manhattan, lay above the bay: the land 
 A.round was bountiful and friendly fair. 
 
 295 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 But never land was fair enough to hold 
 
 The seaman from the calling of the sea. 
 
 And so we bore to westward of the isle, 
 
 Along a mighty inlet, where the tide 
 
 Was troubled by a downward-flowing flood 
 
 That seemed to come from far away, — perhaps 
 
 From some mysterious gulf of Tartary? 
 
 Inland we held our course; by palisades 
 
 Of naked rock; by rolling hills adorned 
 
 With forests rich in timber for great ships; 
 
 Through narrows where the mountains shut us in 
 
 With frowning cliffs that seemed to bar the stream; 
 
 And then through open reaches where the banks 
 
 Sloped to the water gently, with their fields 
 
 Of corn and lentils smiHng in the sun. 
 
 Ten days we voyaged through that placid land, 
 
 Until we came to shoals, and sent a boat 
 
 Upstream to find, — what I already knew, — 
 
 We travelled on a river, not a strait. 
 
 But what a river! God has never poured 
 A stream more royal through a land more rich. 
 Even now I see it flowing in my dream. 
 While coming ages people it with men 
 Of manhood equal to the river's pride. 
 I see the wigwams of the redmen changed 
 To ample houses, and the tiny plots 
 Of maize and green tobacco broadened out 
 
 296 
 
HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE 
 
 To prosperous farms, that spread o'er hill and dale 
 
 The many-coloured mantle of their crops. 
 
 I see the terraced vineyard on the slope 
 
 Where now the fox-grape loops its tangled vine. 
 
 And cattle feeding where the red deer roam. 
 
 And wild-bees gathered into busy hives 
 
 To store the silver comb with golden sweet; 
 
 And all the promised land begins to flow 
 
 With milk and honey. Stately manors rise 
 
 Along the banks, and castles top the hills. 
 
 And little villages grow populous with trade. 
 
 Until the river runs as proudly as the Rhine, — 
 
 The thread that links a hundred towns and towers ! 
 
 Now looking deeper in my dream, I see 
 
 A mighty city covering the isle 
 
 They call Manhattan, equal in her state 
 
 To all the older capitals of earth, — 
 
 The gateway city of a golden world, — 
 
 A city girt with masts, and crowned with spires, 
 
 And swarming with a million busy men, 
 
 While to her open door across the bay 
 
 The ships of all the nations flock like doves. 
 
 My name will be remembered there, the world 
 
 Will say, "This river and this isle were found 
 
 By Henry Hudson, on his way to seek 
 
 The Northwest Passage." 
 
 Yes, I seek it still, — 
 My great adventure and my guiding star! 
 297 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 For look ye, friends, our voyage is not done; 
 We hold by hope as long as life endures ! 
 Somewhere among these floating fields of ice, 
 Somewhere along this westward widening bay. 
 Somewhere beneath this luminous northern night. 
 The channel opens to the Farthest East, — 
 I know it, — and some day a little ship 
 Will push her bowsprit in, and battle through ! 
 And why not ours, — to-morrow, — who can tell? 
 The lucky chance awaits the fearless heart ! 
 These are the longest days of all the year; 
 The world is round and God is everywhere. 
 And while our shallop floats we still can steer. 
 
 So point her up, John King, nor 'west by north 
 We'll keep the honour of a certain aim 
 Amid the peril of uncertain ways, 
 And sail ahead, and leave the rest to God. 
 July, 1909. 
 
 298 
 
SEA-GULLS OF MANHATTAN 
 
 Children of the elemental mother. 
 
 Born upon some lonely island shore 
 Where the wrinkled ripples run and whisper, 
 
 Where the crested billows plunge and roar; 
 Long-winged, tireless roamers and adventurers, 
 
 Fearless breasters of the Mand and sea. 
 In the far-off solitary places 
 
 I have seen you floating wild and free ! 
 
 Here the high-built cities rise around you; 
 
 Here the cliffs that tower east and west. 
 Honeycombed with human habitations, 
 
 Have no hiding for the sea-bird's nest: 
 Here the river flows begrimed and troubled; 
 
 Here the hurrying, panting vessels fume. 
 Restless, up and down the watery highway, 
 
 While a thousand chimneys vomit gloom. 
 
 Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion. 
 
 Clank and clamour of the vast machine 
 Human hands have built for human bondage — 
 
 Yet amid it all you float serene; 
 Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping lightly 
 
 Down to glean your harvest from the wave; 
 In your heritage of air and water. 
 
 You have kept the freedom Nature gave. 
 299 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 Even so the wild-woods of Manhattan 
 
 Saw your wheeling flocks of white and gray; 
 Even so you fluttered, followed, floated, 
 
 Round the Half -Moon creeping up the bay; 
 Even so your voices creaked and chattered. 
 
 Laughing shrilly o'er the tidal rips, 
 While your black and beady eyes were glistening 
 
 Round the sullen British prison-ships. 
 
 Children of the elemental mother. 
 
 Fearless floaters 'mid the double blue. 
 From the crowded boats that cross the ferries 
 
 Many a longing heart goes out to you. 
 Though the cities climb and close around us, 
 
 Something tells us that our souls are free, 
 While the sea-gulls fly above the harbour. 
 
 While the river flows to meet the sea ! 
 December, 1905. 
 
 300 
 
A BALLAD OF CLAREMONT HILL 
 
 The roar of the city is low. 
 
 Muffled by new-fallen snow, 
 And the sign of the wintry moon is small and round and 
 still. 
 
 Will you come with me to-night, 
 
 To see a pleasant sight 
 Away on the river-side, at the edge of Claremont Hill? 
 
 "And what shall we see there, 
 But streets that are new and bare, 
 
 And many a desolate place that the city is coming to fill; 
 And a soldier's tomb of stone, 
 And a few trees standing alone — 
 
 Will you walk for that through the cold, to the edge of 
 Claremont Hill?" 
 
 But there's more than that for me, 
 In the place that I fain would see: 
 
 There's a glimpse of the grace that helps us all to bear 
 life's ill, 
 
 A touch of the vital breath 
 That keeps the world from death, 
 
 A flower that never fades, on the edge of Claremont Hill. 
 
 For just where the road swings round. 
 In a narrow strip of ground, 
 301 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 Where a group of forest trees are lingering fondly still, 
 There's a grave of the olden time, 
 When the garden bloomed in its prime. 
 
 And the children laughed and sang on the edge of Clare- 
 mont Hill. 
 
 The marble is pure and white, 
 
 And even in this dim light, 
 You may read the simple words that are written there if 
 you will; 
 
 You may hear a father tell 
 
 Of the child he loved so well, 
 A hundred years ago, on the edge of Claremont Hill. 
 
 The tide of the city has rolled 
 
 Across that bower of old, 
 And blotted out the beds of the rose and the daffodil; 
 
 But the little playmate sleeps. 
 
 And the shrine of love still keeps 
 A record of happy days, on the edge of Claremont Hill, 
 
 The river is pouring down 
 To the crowded, careless town, 
 Where the intricate wheels of trade are grinding on like 
 a mill; 
 
 But the clamorous noise and strife 
 Of the hurrying waves of life 
 Flow soft by this haven of peace on the edge of Clare- 
 mont Hill. 
 
 302 
 
A BALLAD OF CLAREMONT HILL 
 
 And after all, my friend, 
 
 When the tale of our years shall end, 
 Be it long or short, or lowly or great, as God may will. 
 
 What better praise could we hear, 
 
 Than this of the child so dear: 
 You have made my life more sweet, on the edge of Clare- 
 
 mont Hill? 
 December, 1896. 
 
 303 
 
URBS CORONATA 
 
 (Song for the City College of New York) 
 
 O YOUNGEST of the giant brood 
 
 Of cities far-renowned; 
 In wealth and glory thou hast passed 
 
 Thy rivals at a bound; 
 Thou art a mighty queen, New York; 
 
 And how wilt thou be crowned? 
 
 "Weave me no palace-wreath of Pride," 
 
 The royal city said; 
 "Nor forge of frowning fortress-walls 
 
 A helmet for my head; 
 But let me wear a diadem 
 
 Of Wisdom's towers instead." 
 
 She bowed herself, she spent herself, 
 She wrought her will forsooth, 
 
 And set upon her island height 
 A citadel of Truth, 
 
 A house of Light, a home of Thought, 
 A shrine of noble Youth. 
 
 304 
 
URBS CORONATA 
 
 Stand here, ye City College towers, 
 And look both up and down; 
 
 Remember all who wrought for you 
 Within the toiling town; 
 
 Remember all their hopes for you. 
 And he the City's Crown. 
 
 June, 1908. 
 
 305 
 
MERCY FOR ARMENIA 
 
 THE TURK S WAY 
 
 Stand back, ye messengers of mercy ! Stand 
 Far off, for I will save my troubled folk 
 In my own way. So the false Sultan spoke; 
 
 And Europe, hearkening to his base command, 
 
 Stood still to see him heal his wounded land. 
 
 Through blinding snows of winter and through smoke 
 Of burning towns, she saw him deal the stroke 
 
 Of cruel mercy that his hate had planned. 
 
 Unto the prisoners and the sick he gave 
 New tortures, horrible, without a name; 
 
 Unto the thirsty, blood to drink; a sword 
 Unto the hungry; with a robe of shame 
 He clad the naked, making life abhorred; 
 
 He saved by slaughter, and denied a grave. 
 
 II 
 
 America's way 
 
 But thou, my country, though no fault be thine 
 
 For that red horror far across the sea; 
 
 Though not a tortured wretch can point to thee. 
 And curse thee for the selfishness supine 
 Of those great Powers that cowardly combine 
 
 306 
 
MERCY FOR ARMENIA 
 
 To shield the Turk in his iniquity; 
 
 Yet, since thy hand is innocent and free, 
 Arise, and show the world the way divine ! 
 Thou canst not break the oppressor's iron rod, 
 
 But thou canst help and comfort the oppressed; 
 Thou canst not loose the captive's heavy chain, 
 But thou canst bind his wounds and soothe his pain. 
 
 Armenia calls thee. Sovereign of the West, 
 To play the Good Samaritan for God. 
 1896. 
 
 307 
 
SICILY, DECEMBER, 1908 
 
 O GARDEN isle, beloved by Sun and Sea, 
 Whose bluest billows kiss thy curving bays, 
 Whose light infolds thy hills with golden rays. 
 
 Filling with fruit each dark-leaved orange-tree. 
 
 What hidden hatred hath the Earth for thee. 
 That once again, in these dark, dreadful days. 
 Breaks forth in trembling rage, and swiftly lays 
 
 Thy beauty waste in wreck and agony ! 
 
 Is Nature, then, a strife of jealous powers. 
 And man the plaything of unconscious fate? 
 Not so, my troubled heart ! God reigns above. 
 
 And man is greatest in his darkest hours. 
 Walking amid the cities desolate. 
 
 Behold the Son of God in human love ! 
 
 Tertius and Henry van Dyke. 
 
 308 
 
"COME BACK AGAIN, JEANNE D'ARC" 
 
 The land was broken in despair, 
 
 The princes quarrelled in the dark. 
 When clear and tranquil, through the troubled air 
 Of selfish minds and wills that did not dare, 
 Your star arose, Jeanne d'Arc. 
 
 O virgin breast with lilies white, 
 
 O sun-burned hand that bore the lance. 
 You taught the prayer that helps men to unite. 
 You brought the courage equal to the fight. 
 You gave a heart to France ! 
 
 Your king was crowned, your country free. 
 
 At Rheims you had your soul's desire: 
 And then, at Rouen, maid of Domremy, 
 The black-robed judges gave your victory 
 The martyr's crown of fire. 
 
 And now again the times are ill. 
 
 And doubtful leaders miss the mark; 
 The people lack the single faith and will 
 To make them one, — your country needs you still,- 
 Come back again, Jeanne d'Arc! 
 
 S09 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 O woman-star, arise once more 
 
 And shine to bid your land advance: 
 The old heroic trust in God restore. 
 Renew the brave, unselfish hopes of yore. 
 And give a heart to France ! 
 Paris, July, 1909. 
 
 310 
 
NATIONAL MONUMENTS 
 
 Count not the cost of honour to the dead ! 
 The tribute that a mighty nation pays 
 To those who loved her well in former days 
 
 Means more than gratitude for glories fled; 
 
 For every noble man that she hath bred. 
 
 Lives in the bronze and marble that we raise, 
 Immortalised by art's immortal praise, 
 
 To lead our sons as he our fathers led. 
 
 These monuments of manhood strong and high 
 Do more than forts or battle-ships to keep 
 
 Our dear-bought liberty. They fortify 
 
 The heart of youth with valour wise and deep; 
 
 They build eternal bulwarks, and command 
 
 Immortal hosts to guard our native land. 
 
 February, 1905. 
 
 311 
 
THE MONUMENT OF FRANCIS MAKEMIE 
 
 (Presbyter of Christ in Ariaerica, 1683-1708) 
 
 To thee, plain hero of a rugged race, 
 
 We bring the meed of praise too long delayed ! 
 Thy fearless word and faithful work have made 
 
 For God's Republic firmer resting-place 
 
 In this New World: for thou hast preached the grace 
 And power of Christ in many a forest glade. 
 Teaching the truth that leaves men unafraid 
 
 Of frowning tyranny or death's dark face. 
 
 Oh, who can tell how much we owe to thee, 
 Makemie, and to labour such as thine. 
 For all that makes America the shrine 
 
 Of faith untrammelled and of conscience free? 
 
 Stand here, gray stone, and consecrate the sod 
 
 Where rests this brave Scotch-Irish man of God ! 
 
 April, 1908. 
 
 312 
 
THE STATUE OF SHERMAN BY ST. GAUDENS 
 
 This is the soldier brave enough to tell 
 The glory-dazzled world that 'war is hell': 
 Lover of peace, he looks beyond the strife, 
 And rides through hell to save his country's life. 
 April, 1904. 
 
 313 
 
"AMERICA FOR ME" 
 
 'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down 
 
 Among the famous palaces and cities of renown, 
 
 To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of the 
 
 kings, — 
 But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things. 
 
 So ifs home again, and home again, America for me ! 
 My heart is turning home again, and there I long to he. 
 In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars, 
 Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars. 
 
 Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; 
 And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; 
 And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study 
 
 Rome; 
 But when it comes to living there is no place like home. 
 
 I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions drilled; 
 I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains 
 
 filled; 
 But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a 
 
 day 
 In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her 
 
 way! 
 
 314 
 
'* AMERICA FOR ME" 
 
 I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to 
 
 lack: 
 The Past is too much with her, and the people looking 
 
 back. 
 But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free, — 
 We love our land for what she is and what she is to be. 
 
 Oh, ifs home again, and home again, America for me ! 
 I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the rolling 
 
 sea, 
 To the blessSd Land of Room Enough beyond the ocean 
 
 bars. 
 Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars. 
 June, 1909. 
 
 315 
 
THE BUILDERS 
 
 ODE FOR THE HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF 
 PRINCETON COLLEGE 
 
 October 21, 1896 
 
 Into the dust of the making of man 
 Spirit was breathed when his Hfe began, 
 Lifting him up from his low estate, 
 With masterful passion, the wish to create. 
 Out of the dust of his making, man 
 Fashioned his works as the ages ran; 
 Fortress, and palace, and temple, and tower. 
 Filling the world with the proof of his power. 
 Over the dust that awaits him, man, 
 Building the walls that his pride doth plan. 
 Dreams they will stand in the light of the sun 
 Bearing his name till Time is done. 
 
 II 
 
 The monuments of mortals 
 Are as the glory of the grass; 
 
 Through Time's dim portals 
 
 A voiceless, viewless wind doth pass. 
 
 The blossoms fall before it in a day, 
 316 
 
THE BUILDERS 
 
 The forest monarchs year by year decay, 
 And man's great buildings slowly fade away. 
 One after one, 
 They pay to that dumb breath 
 The tribute of their death, 
 
 And are undone. 
 The towers incline to dust, 
 The massive girders rust. 
 The domes dissolve in air. 
 The pillars that upbear 
 The lofty arches crumble, stone by stone. 
 While man the builder looks about him in despair, 
 For all his works of pride and power are overthrown. 
 
 Ill 
 
 A Voice came from the sky: 
 'Set thy desires more high. 
 Thy buildings fade away 
 Because thou buildest clay. 
 Now make the fabric sure 
 With stones that will endure ! 
 Hewn from' the spiritual rock. 
 
 The immortal towers of the soul 
 At Death's dissolving touch shall mock. 
 
 And stand secure while seons roll." 
 
 317 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 IV 
 
 Well did the wise in heart rejoice 
 To hear the summons of that Voice, 
 
 And patiently begin 
 
 The builder's work within, 
 
 Houses not made with hands, 
 
 Nor founded on the sands. 
 And thou, Revered Mother, at whose call 
 We come to keep thy joyous festival. 
 And celebrate thy labours on the walls of Truth 
 Through sevenscore years and ten of thine eternal youth- 
 
 A master builder thou. 
 
 And on thy shining brow. 
 Like Cybele, in fadeless light dost wear 
 A diadem of turrets strong and fair. 
 
 I see thee standing in a lonely land. 
 But late and hardly won from solitude, 
 
 Unpopulous and rude, — 
 On that far western shore I see thee stand. 
 Like some young goddess from a brighter strand. 
 While in thine eyes a radiant thought is born. 
 Enkindling all thy beauty like the morn. 
 Sea-like the forest rolled, in waves of green. 
 And few the lights that glimmered, leagues between. 
 318 
 
THE BUILDERS 
 
 High in the north, for fourscore years alone 
 Fair Harvard's earhest beacon-tower had shone 
 When Yale was lighted, and an answering ray 
 Flashed from the meadows by New Haven Bay. 
 But deeper spread the forest, and more dark, 
 Where first Neshaminy received the spark 
 Of sacred learning to a woodland camp, 
 And Old Log College glowed with Tennant's lamp. 
 Thine, Alma Mater, was the larger sight, 
 That saw the future of that trembling light. 
 And thine the courage, thine the stronger will, 
 That built its loftier home on Princeton Hill. 
 
 "New light !" men cried, and murmured that it came 
 From an unsanctioned source with lawless flame; 
 It shone too free, for still the church and school 
 Must only shine according to their rule. 
 But Princeton answered, in her nobler mood, 
 "God made the light, and all the light is good. 
 There is no war between the old and new; 
 The conflict lies between the false and true. 
 The stars, that high in heaven their courses run, 
 In glory differ, but their light is one. 
 The beacons, gleaming o'er the sea of life, 
 Are rivals but in radiance, not in strife. 
 Shine on, ye sister-towers, across the night ! 
 I too will build a lasting house of light." 
 
 319 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 VI 
 
 Brave was that word of faith and bravely was it kept; 
 With never-wearying zeal that faltered not, nor slept. 
 Our Alma Mater toiled, and while she firmly laid 
 The deep foundation-walls, at all her toil she prayed. 
 And men who loved the truth because it made them free, 
 And clearly saw the twofold Word of God agree, 
 Reading from Nature's book and from the Bible's page 
 By the same inward ray that grows from age to age, 
 Were built like living stones that beacon to uplift. 
 And drawing light from heaven gave to the world the gift. 
 Nor ever, while they searched the secrets of the earth, 
 Or traced the stream of life through mystery to its birth, 
 Nor ever, while they taught the lightning-flash to bear 
 The messages of man in silence through the air. 
 Fell from their home of light one false, perfidious ray 
 To blind the trusting heart, or lead the life astray. 
 But still, while knowledge grew more luminous and broad 
 It lit the path of faith and showed the way to God. 
 
 VII 
 
 Yet not for peace alone 
 
 Labour the builders. 
 Work that in peace has grown 
 Swiftly is overthrown. 
 When in the darkening skies 
 320 
 
THE BUILDERS 
 
 Storm-clouds of wrath arise, 
 And through the cannon's crash. 
 War's deadly hghtning-flash 
 
 Smites and bewilders. 
 Ramparts of strength must frown 
 Round every placid town 
 
 And city splendid; 
 All that our fathers wrought 
 With true prophetic thought. 
 
 Must be defended ! 
 
 VIII 
 
 But who could raise protecting walls for thee, 
 Thou young, defenceless land of liberty? 
 Or who could build a fortress strong enough, 
 Or stretch a mighty bulwark long enough 
 To hold thy far-extended coast 
 Against the overweening host 
 That took the open path across the sea, 
 And like a tempest poured 
 Their desolating horde, 
 To quench thy dawning light in gloom of tyranny? 
 Yet not unguarded thou wert found 
 When on thy shore with sullen sound 
 The blaring trumpets of an unjust king 
 Proclaimed invasion. From the ground. 
 In freedom's darkest hour, there seemed to spring 
 321 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 Unconquerable walls for her defence; 
 Not trembling, like those battlements of stone 
 That fell when Joshua's horns were blown; 
 But firm and stark the living rampart rose. 
 To meet the onset of imperious foes 
 With a long line of brave, unyielding men. 
 This was thy fortress, well-defended land. 
 And on these walls, the patient, building hand 
 Of Princeton laboured with the force of ten. 
 Her sons were foremost in the furious fight; 
 Her sons were firmest to uphold the right 
 In council-chambers of the new-born State, 
 And prove that he who would be free must first be great 
 In heart, and high in thought, and strong 
 In purpose not to do or suffer wrong. 
 Such were the men, impregnable to fear. 
 Whose souls were framed and fashioned here; 
 And when war shook the land with threatening shock. 
 The men of Princeton stood like muniments of rock. 
 
 Nor has the breath of Time 
 
 Dissolved that proud array 
 
 Of never-broken strength: 
 
 For though the rocks decay. 
 
 And all the iron bands 
 Of earthly strongholds are unloosed at length. 
 And buried deep in gray oblivion's sands; 
 
 The work that heroes' hands 
 Wrought in the light of freedom's natal day 
 322 
 
THE BUILDERS 
 
 Shall never fade away, 
 
 But lifts itself, sublime 
 
 Into a lucid sphere, 
 
 For ever calm and clear. 
 Preserving in the memory of the fathers' deed, 
 A never-failing fortress for their children's need. 
 There we confirm our hearts to-day, and read 
 On many a stone the signature of fame. 
 The builder's mark, our Alma Mater's name. 
 
 IX 
 
 Bear with us then a moment, while we turn 
 From all the present splendours of this place — 
 The lofty towers that like a dream have grown 
 Where once old Nassau Hall stood all alone — 
 Back to that ancient time, with hearts that burn 
 
 In filial gratitude, to trace 
 The glory of our mother's best degree. 
 In that "high son of Liberty," 
 Who like a granite block. 
 Riven from Scotland's rock. 
 Stood loyal here to keep Columbia free. 
 Born far away beyond the ocean's tide. 
 He found his fatherland upon this side; 
 And every drop of ardent blood that ran 
 Through his great heart, was true American. 
 He held no fealty to a distant throne, 
 323 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 But made his new-found country's cause his own. 
 
 In peril and distress. 
 
 In toil and weariness. 
 
 When darkness overcast her 
 
 With shadows of disaster. 
 
 And voices of confusion 
 
 Proclaimed her hope delusion. 
 
 Robed in his preacher's gown. 
 
 He dared the danger down; 
 Like some old prophet chanting an inspired rune 
 In freedom's councils rang the voice of Witherspoon. 
 
 And thou, my country, write it on thy heart: 
 Thy sons are they who nobly take thy part; 
 Who dedicates his manhood at thy shrine. 
 Wherever horn, is horn a son of thine. 
 Foreign in name, hut not in soul, they come 
 To find in thee their long desired home; 
 Lovers of liberty and haters of disorder. 
 They shall be built in strength along thy border. 
 
 Dream not thy future foes 
 Will all be foreign-born ! 
 Turn thy clear look of scorn 
 Upon thy children who oppose 
 Their passions wild and policies of shame 
 To wreck the righteous splendour of thy name. 
 Untaught and overconfident they rise, 
 324 
 
THE BUILDERS 
 
 With folly on their lips, and envy in their eyes: 
 Strong to destroy, but powerless to create, 
 And ignorant of all that made our fathers great. 
 Their hands would take away thy golden crown. 
 And shake the pillars of thy freedom down 
 In Anarchy's ocean, dark and desolate. 
 
 O should that storm descend. 
 
 What fortress shall defend 
 
 The land our fathers wrought for. 
 
 The liberties they fought for? 
 
 What bulwark shall secure 
 Her shrines of law, and keep her founts of justice pure? 
 Then, ah then. 
 As in the olden days. 
 
 The builders must upraise 
 
 A rampart of indomitable men. 
 And once again. 
 Dear Mother, if thy heart and hand be true. 
 There will be building work for thee to do; 
 
 Yea, more than once again. 
 
 Thou shalt win lasting praise, 
 And never-dying honour shall be thine. 
 For setting many stones in that illustrious line, 
 To stand unshaken in the swirling strife. 
 And guard their country's honour as her life. 
 
 325 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 Softly, my harp, and let me lay the touch 
 Of silence on these rudely clanging strings; 
 
 For he who sings 
 Even of noble conflicts overmuch, 
 Loses the inward sense of better things; 
 
 And he who makes a boast 
 Of knowledge, darkens that which counts the most,- 
 
 The insight of a wise humility 
 That reverently adores what none can see. 
 
 The glory of our life below 
 Comes not from what we do, or what we know. 
 But dwells forevermore in what we are. 
 There is an architecture grander far 
 Than all the fortresses of war, 
 More inextinguishably bright 
 Than learning's lonely towers of light. 
 Framing its walls of faith and hope and love 
 In souls of men, it lifts above 
 The frailty of our earthly home 
 An everlasting dome; 
 The sanctuary of the human host, 
 The living temple of the Holy Ghost. 
 
 326 
 
THE BUILDERS 
 XI 
 
 If music led the builders long ago, 
 
 When Arthur planned the halls of Camelot, 
 And made the royal city grow, 
 
 Fair as a flower in that forsaken spot; 
 What sweeter music shall we bring. 
 To weave a harmony divine 
 
 Of prayer and holy thought 
 Into the labours of this loftier shrine, 
 
 This consecrated hill. 
 Where through so many a year 
 Our Alma Mater's hand hath wrought, 
 With toil serene and still. 
 And heavenly hope, to rear 
 Eternal dwellings for the Only King? 
 Here let no martial trumpets blow. 
 Nor instruments of pride proclaim 
 The loud exultant notes of fame ! 
 But let the chords be clear and low, 
 And let the anthem deeper grow, 
 And let it move more solemnly and slow; 
 For only such an ode 
 Can seal the harmony 
 Of that deep masonry 
 Wherein the soul of man is framed for God's abode. 
 
 327 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 XII 
 
 O Thou whose boundless love bestows 
 The joy of earth, the hope of Heaven, 
 
 And whose unchartered mercy flows 
 O'er all the blessings Thou hast given; 
 
 Thou by whose light alone we see; 
 
 And by whose truth our souls set free 
 
 Are made imperishably strong; 
 
 Hear Thou the solemn music of our song. 
 
 Grant us the knowledge that we need 
 To solve the questions of the mind. 
 
 And light our candle while we read. 
 To keep our hearts from going blind; 
 
 Enlarge our vision to behold 
 
 The wonders Thou hast wrought of old; 
 
 Reveal thyself in every law, 
 
 And gild the towers of truth with holy awe. 
 
 Be Thou our strength if war's wild gust 
 Shall rage around us, loud and fierce; 
 Confirm our souls and let our trust 
 
 Be like a shield that none can pierce; 
 Renew the courage that prevails, 
 The steady faith that never fails. 
 And make us stand in every fight 
 Firm as a fortress to defend the right. 
 328 
 
THE BUILDERS 
 
 O God, control us as Thou wilt, 
 
 And guide the labour of our hand; 
 Let all our work be surely built 
 
 As Thou, the architect, hast planned; 
 But whatso'er thy power shall make 
 Of these frail lives, do not forsake 
 Thy dwelling: let thy presence rest 
 For ever in the temple of our breast. 
 
 329 
 
SPIRIT OF THE EVERLASTING BOY 
 
 ODE FOR THE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF 
 LAWRENCEVILLE SCHOOL 
 
 June 11, 1910 
 
 The British bard who looked on Eton's walls, 
 Endeared by distance in the pearly gray 
 And soft aerial blue that ever falls 
 On English landscape with the dying day. 
 Beheld in thought his boyhood far away. 
 Its random raptures and its festivals 
 
 Of noisy mirth, 
 The brief illusion of its idle Joys, 
 And mourned that none of these can stay 
 With men, whom life inexorably calls 
 To face the grim realities of earth. 
 His pensive fancy pictured there at play 
 From year to year the careless bands of boys. 
 Unconscious victims kept in golden state, 
 
 While haply they await 
 The dark approach of disenchanting Fate, 
 
 To hale them to the sacrifice 
 Of Pain and Penury and Grief and Care, 
 Slow-withering Age, or Failure's swift despair. 
 Half-pity and half-envy dimmed the eyes 
 330 
 
SPIRIT OF THE EVERLASTING BOY 
 
 Of that old poet, gazing on the scene 
 Where long ago his youth had flowed serene, 
 And all the burden of his ode was this: 
 "Where ignorance is bliss, 
 'Tis folly to be wise." 
 
 II 
 
 But not for us, O plaintive elegist, 
 
 Thine epicedial tone of sad farewell 
 
 To joy in wisdom and to thought in youth ! 
 
 Our western Muse would keep her tryst 
 
 With sunrise, not with sunset, and foretell 
 
 In boyhood's bliss the dawn of manhood's truth. 
 
 Ill 
 
 O spirit of the everlasting boy, 
 
 Alert, elate. 
 And confident that Ufe is good, 
 Thou knockest boldly at the gate, 
 
 In hopeful hardihood, 
 Eager to enter and enjoy 
 
 Thy new estate. 
 
 Through the old house thou runnest everywhere. 
 Bringing a breath of folly and fresh air. 
 Ready to make a treasure of each toy. 
 Or break them all in discontented mood; 
 331 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 Fearless of Fate, 
 Yet strangely fearful of a comrade's laugh; 
 Reckless and timid, hard and sensitive; 
 In talk a rebel, full of mocking chaff, 
 
 At heart devout conservative; 
 In love with love, yet hating to be kissed; 
 Inveterate optimist. 
 And judge severe. 
 In reason cloudy but in feeling clear; 
 Keen critic, ardent hero-worshipper. 
 Impatient of restraint in little ways, 
 
 Yet ever ready to confer 
 On chosen leaders boundless power and praise; 
 Adventurous spirit burning to explore 
 Untrodden paths where hidden danger lies, 
 And homesick heart looking with wistful eyes 
 Through every twilight to a mother's door; 
 Thou daring, darling, inconsistent boy. 
 
 How dull the world would be 
 Without thy presence, dear barbarian. 
 And happy lord of high futurity ! 
 Be what thou art, our trouble and our joy. 
 Our hardest problem and our brightest hope ! 
 And while thine elders lead thee up the slope 
 Of knowledge, let them learn from teaching thee 
 That vital joy is part of nature's plan, 
 And he who keeps the spirit of the boy 
 Shall gladly grow to be a happy man. 
 332 
 
SPIRIT OF THE EVERLASTING BOY 
 
 IV 
 
 What constitutes a school? 
 Not ancient halls and ivy-mantled towers, 
 
 Where dull traditions rule 
 With heavy hand youth's lightly springing powers; 
 
 Not spacious pleasure courts. 
 And lofty temples of athletic fame, 
 
 Where devotees of sports 
 Mistake a pastime for life's highest aim; 
 
 Not fashion, nor renown 
 Of wealthy patronage and rich estate; 
 
 No, none of these can crown 
 A school with light and make it truly great. 
 
 But masters, strong and wise. 
 Who teach because they love the teacher's task, 
 
 And find their richest prize 
 In eyes that open and in minds that ask; 
 
 And boys, with heart aglow 
 To try their youthful vigour on their work. 
 
 Eager to learn and grow. 
 And quick to hate a coward or a shirk: 
 
 These constitute a school, — 
 A vital forge of weapons keen and bright. 
 
 Where living sword and tool 
 Are tempered for true toil or noble fight ! 
 
 But let not wisdom scorn 
 The hours of pleasure in the playing fields: 
 333 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 There also strength is born, 
 And every manly game a virtue yields. 
 
 Fairness and self-control, 
 Good-humour, pluck, and patience in the race, 
 
 Will make a lad heart-whole 
 To win with honour, lose without disgrace. 
 
 Ah, well for him who gains 
 In such a school apprenticeship to life: 
 
 With him the joy of youth remains 
 In later lessons and in larger strife ! 
 
 On Jersey's rolling plain, where Washington, 
 
 In midnight marching at the head 
 
 Of ragged regiments, his army led 
 
 To Princeton's victory of the rising sun; 
 
 Here in this liberal land, by battle won 
 
 For Freedom and the rule 
 Of equal rights for every child of man, 
 
 Arose a democratic school, 
 To train a virile race of sons to bear 
 With thoughtful joy the name American, 
 And serve the God who heard their father's prayer. 
 No cloister, dreaming in a world remote 
 From that real world wherein alone we live; 
 No mimic court, where titled names denote 
 A dignity that only worth can give; 
 334 
 
SPIRIT OF THE EVERLASTING BOY 
 
 But here a friendly house of learning stood. 
 
 With open door beside the broad highway, 
 
 And welcomed lads to study and to play 
 
 In generous rivalry of brotherhood. 
 
 A hundred years have passed, and Lawrenceville, 
 
 In beauty and in strength renewed. 
 
 Stands with her open portal still. 
 
 And neither time nor fortune brings 
 
 To her deep spirit any change of mood. 
 
 Or faltering from the faith she held of old. 
 
 Still to the democratic creed she clings: 
 
 That manhood needs nor rank nor gold 
 
 To make it noble in our eyes; 
 
 That every boy is born with royal right. 
 
 From blissful ignorance to rise 
 
 To joy more lasting and more bright. 
 
 In mastery of body and of mind, 
 
 King of himself and servant of mankind. 
 
 VI 
 
 Old Lawrenceville, 
 Thy happy bell 
 Shall ring to-day. 
 O'er vale and hill, 
 O'er mead and dell, 
 While far away, 
 With silent thrill, 
 335 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 The echoes roll 
 Through many a soul. 
 That knew thee well, 
 In boyhood's day, 
 And loves thee still. 
 
 Ah, who can tell 
 How far away, 
 Some sentinel 
 Of God's good will. 
 In forest cool. 
 Or desert gray. 
 By lonely pool. 
 Or barren hill. 
 Shall faintly hear. 
 With inward ear, 
 The chiming bell, 
 Of his old school. 
 
 Through darkness pealing; 
 
 And lowly kneeling. 
 Shall feel the spell 
 Of grateful tears 
 His eyelids fill; 
 And softly pray 
 To Him who hears: 
 
 God bless old Lawrenceville 
 
 330 
 
TEXAS 
 
 A DEMOCRATIC ODE 
 
 THE WILD-BEES 
 
 All along the Brazos river, 
 
 All along the Colorado, 
 
 In the valleys and the lowlands 
 
 Where the trees were tall and stately. 
 
 In the rich and rolling meadows 
 
 Where the grass was full of wild-flowers, 
 
 Came a humming and a buzzing, 
 
 Came the murmur of a going 
 
 To and fro among the tree-tops. 
 
 Far and wide across the meadows. 
 
 And the red-men in their tepees 
 
 Smoked their pipes of clay and listened. 
 
 "What is this?" they asked in v/onder; 
 
 "Who can give the sound a meaning.? 
 
 Who can understand the language 
 
 Of this going in the tree-tops.'*" 
 
 Then the wisest of the Tejas 
 
 Laid his pipe aside and answered: 
 
 "O my brothers, these are people. 
 
 Very little, winged people, 
 
 * Read at the Dedication of the Rice Institute, Houston, Texas, 
 October, 1912. 
 
 337 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 Countless, busy, banded people, 
 Coming humming through the timber. 
 These are tribes of bees, united 
 By a single aim and purpose. 
 To possess the Tejas' country, 
 Gather harvest from the prairies, 
 Store their wealth among the timber. 
 These are hive and honey makers, 
 Sent by Manito to warn us 
 That the white men now are coming. 
 With their women and their children. 
 Not the fiery filibusters 
 Passing wildly in a moment. 
 Like a flame across the prairies, 
 Like a whirlwind through the forest, 
 Leaving empty lands behind them ! 
 Not the Mexicans and Spaniards, 
 Indolent and proud hidalgos, 
 Dwelling in their haciendas, 
 Dreaming, talking of tomorrow. 
 While their cattle graze around them, 
 And their fickle revolutions 
 Change the rulers, not the people ! 
 Other folk are these who follow 
 When the wild-bees come to warn us; 
 These are hive and honey makers. 
 These are busy, banded people. 
 Roaming far to swarm and settle, 
 338 
 
TEXAS 
 
 Working every day for harvest. 
 Fighting hard for peace and order, 
 Worshipping as queens their women, 
 Making homes and building cities 
 Full of riches and of trouble. 
 All our hunting-grounds must vanish, 
 All our lodges fall before them. 
 All our customs and traditions, 
 All our happy life of freedom. 
 Fade away like smoke before them. 
 Come, my brothers, strike your tepees. 
 Call your women, load your ponies ! 
 Let us take the trail to westward. 
 Where the plains are wide and open. 
 Where the bison-herds are gathered 
 Waiting for our feathered arrows. 
 We will live as lived our fathers. 
 Gleaners of the gifts of nature, 
 Hunters of the unkept cattle. 
 Men whose women run to serve them. 
 If the toiling bees pursue us, 
 If the white men seek to tame us. 
 We will fight them off and flee them. 
 Break their hives and take their honey. 
 Moving westward, ever westward. 
 There to live as lived our fathers." 
 So the red-men drove their ponies. 
 With the tent-poles trailing after, 
 339 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 Out along the path to sunset, 
 While along the river valleys 
 Swarmed the wild -bees, the forerunners; 
 And the white men, close behind them. 
 Men of mark from old Missouri, 
 Men of daring from Kentucky, 
 Tennessee, Louisiana, 
 Men of many States and races. 
 Bringing wives and children with them. 
 Followed up the wooded vallej^s, 
 Spread across the rolling prairies. 
 Raising homes and reaping harvests. 
 Rude the toil that tried their patience, 
 Fierce the fights that proved their courage, 
 Rough the stone and tough the timber 
 Out of which they built their order ! 
 Yet they never failed nor faltered. 
 And the instinct of their swarming 
 Made them one and kept them working, 
 Till their toil was crowned with triumph. 
 And the country of the Tejas 
 Was the fertile land of Texas. 
 
 340 
 
TEXAS 
 II 
 
 THE LONE STAR 
 
 Behold a star appearing in the South, 
 A star that shines apart from other stars, 
 
 Ruddy and fierce Hke Mars ! 
 Out of the reeking smoke of cannon's mouth 
 That veils the slaughter of the Alamo, 
 
 Where heroes face the foe, 
 One man against a score, with blood-choked breath 
 Shouting the watchword, "Victory or Death — " 
 Out of the dreadful cloud that settles low 
 
 On Goliad's plain. 
 Where thrice a hundred prisoners lie slain 
 Beneath the broken word of Mexico — 
 Out of the fog of factions and of feuds 
 
 That ever drifts and broods 
 Above the bloody path of border war, 
 
 Leaps the Lone Star ! 
 
 What light is this that does not dread the dark? 
 What star is this that fights a stormy way 
 
 To San Jacinto's field of victory? 
 
 It is the fiery spark 
 
 That burns within the breast 
 Of Anglo-Saxon men, who can not rest 
 
 Under a tyrant's sway; 
 
 The upward-leading ray 
 341 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 That guides the brave who give their Hves away 
 
 Rather than not be free ! 
 O question not, but honour every name, 
 Travis and Crockett, Bowie, Bonham, Ward, 
 Fannin and King, and all who drew the sword 
 And dared to die for Texan liberty ! 
 Yea, write them all upon the roll of fame. 
 But no less love and equal honour give 
 To those who paid the longer sacrifice — 
 Austin and Houston, Burnet, Rusk, Lamar 
 And all the stalwart men who dared to live 
 Long years of service to the lonely star. 
 
 Great is the worth of such heroic souls: 
 Amid the strenuous turmoil of their deeds. 
 They clearly speak of something that controls 
 The higher breeds of men by higher needs 
 Than bees, content with honey in their hives ! 
 
 Ah, not enough the narrow lives 
 On profitable toil intent ! 
 And not enough the guerdons of success 
 Garnered in homes of affluent selfishness ! 
 
 A noble discontent 
 
 Cries for a wider scope 
 To use the wider wings of human hope; 
 
 A vision of the common good 
 Opens the prison-door of solitude; 
 
 And, once beyond the wall, 
 342 
 
TEXAS 
 
 Breathing the ampler air. 
 The heart becomes aware 
 That life without a country is not life at all. 
 A country worthy of a freeman's love; 
 A country worthy of a good man's prayer; 
 A country strong, and just, and brave, and fair,- 
 A woman's form of beauty throned above 
 The shrine where noble aspirations meet — 
 To live for her is great, to die is sweet ! 
 
 Heirs of the rugged pioneers 
 
 Who dreamed this dream and made it true. 
 
 Remember that they dreamed for you. 
 
 They did not fear their fate 
 
 In those tempestuous years. 
 But put their trust in God, and with keen eyes, 
 Trained in the open air for looking far, 
 
 They saw the many-million-acred land 
 
 Won from the desert by their hand, 
 
 Swiftly among the nations rise, — 
 Texas a sovereign State, 
 And on her brow a star ! 
 
 343 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 III 
 
 THE CONSTELLATION 
 
 How strange that the nature of light is a thing l)eyond 
 our ken, 
 And the flame of the tiniest candle flows from a foun- 
 tain sealed ! 
 How strange that the meaning of life, in the little lives 
 of men, 
 So often baffles our search with a mystery unrevealed ! 
 
 But the larger life of man, as it moves in its secular 
 sweep. 
 Is the working out of a Sovereign Will whose ways 
 appear; 
 And the course of the journeying stars on the dark blue 
 boundless deep. 
 Is the place where our science rests in the reign of law 
 most clear. 
 
 I would read the story of Texas as if it were written on 
 high; 
 I would look from afar to follow her path through the 
 calms and storms; 
 With a faith in the worldwide sway of the Reason that 
 rules in the sky. 
 And gathers and guides the starry host in clusters and 
 swarms. 
 
 344 
 
TEXAS 
 
 When she rose in the pride of her youth, she seemed to 
 be moving apart, 
 As a single star in the South, self-Hmited, self-pos- 
 sessed; 
 But the law of the constellation was written deep in her 
 heart, 
 And she heard when her sisters called, from the North 
 and the East and the West. 
 
 They were drawn together and moved by a common 
 hope and aim — 
 The dream of a sign that should rule a third of the 
 heavenly arch; 
 The soul of a people spoke in their call, and Texas came 
 To enter the splendid circle of States in their onward 
 march. 
 
 So the glory gathered and grew and spread from sea to 
 sea, 
 And the stars of the great republic lent each other 
 light; 
 For all were bound together in strength, and each was 
 free — 
 Suddenly broke the tempest out of the ancient night ! 
 
 It came as a clash of the force that drives and the force 
 that draws; 
 And the stars were riven asunder, the heavens were 
 desolate, 
 
 345 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 While brother fought with brother, each for his coun- 
 try's cause: 
 But the country of one was the Nation, the country 
 of other the State. 
 
 Oh, who shall measure the praise or blame in a strife 
 so vast? 
 And who shall speak of traitors or tyrants when all 
 were true? 
 We lift our eyes to the sky, and rejoice that the storm 
 is past, 
 And we thank the God of all that the Union shines in 
 the blue. 
 
 Yea, it glows with the glory of peace and the hope of a 
 mighty race, 
 High over the grave of broken chains and buried 
 hates; 
 And the great, big star of Texas is shining clear in its 
 place 
 In the constellate symbol and sign of the free United 
 States. 
 
 346 
 
TEXAS 
 IV 
 
 AFTER THE PIONEERS 
 
 After the pioneers — 
 
 Big-hearted, big-handed lords of the axe and the plow 
 and the rifle, 
 
 Tan-faced tamers of horses and lands, themselves re- 
 maining tameless, 
 
 Full of fighting, labour and romance, lovers of rude ad- 
 venture — 
 
 After the pioneers have cleared the way to their homes 
 and graves on the prairies: 
 
 After the State-builders — 
 
 Zealous and jealous men, dreamers, debaters, often at 
 
 odds with each other, 
 All of them sure it is well to toil and to die, if need be. 
 Just for the sake of founding a country to leave to their 
 
 children — 
 After the builders have done their work and written their 
 
 names upon it: 
 
 After the civil war — 
 
 Wildest of all storms, cruel and dark and seemingly 
 
 wasteful, 
 Tearing up by the root the vines that were splitting the 
 
 old foundations, 
 
 347 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 Washing away with a rain of blood and tears the dust of 
 
 slavery, 
 After the cyclone has passed and the sky is fair to the 
 
 far horizon; 
 After the era of plenty and peace has come with full 
 
 hands to Texas, 
 Then — what then? 
 
 Is it to be the life of an indolent heir, fat-witted and self- 
 contented. 
 
 Dwelling at ease in the house that others have builded. 
 
 Boasting about the country for which he has done 
 nothing ? 
 
 Is it to be an age of corpulent, deadly-dull prosperity. 
 
 Richer and richer crops to nourish a race of Philistines, 
 
 Bigger and bigger cities full of the same confusion and 
 sorrow. 
 
 The people increasing mightily but no increase of the joy ? 
 
 Is this what the forerunners wished and toiled to win 
 for you, 
 
 This the reward of war and the fruitage of high en- 
 deavor, 
 
 This the goal of your hopes and the vision that satisfies 
 you? 
 
 Nay, stand up and answer — I can read what is in your 
 
 hearts — 
 You, the children of those who followed the wild-bees, 
 
 348 
 
TEXAS 
 
 You, the children of those who served the Lone Star, 
 Now that the hives are full and the star is fixed in the 
 
 constellation, 
 I know that the best of you still are lovers of sweetness 
 
 and light ! 
 
 You hunger for honey that comes from invisible gardens; 
 
 Pure, translucent, golden thoughts and feelings and in- 
 spirations. 
 
 Sweetness of all the best that has bloomed in the mind 
 of man. 
 
 You rejoice in the light that is breaking along the bor- 
 ders of science; 
 
 The hidden rays that enable a man to look through a 
 wall of stone; 
 
 The unseen, fire-filled wings that carry his words across 
 the ocean; 
 
 The splendid gift of flight that shines, half-captured, 
 above him; 
 
 The gleam of a thousand half-guessed secrets, just ready 
 to be discovered ! 
 
 You dream and devise great things for the coming race — 
 
 Children of yours who shall people and rule the domain 
 of Texas; 
 
 They shall know, they shall comprehend more than 
 their fathers. 
 
 They shall grow in the vigour of well-rounded manhood 
 and womanhood, 
 
 349 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 Riper minds, richer hearts, finer souls, the only true 
 
 wealth of a nation — 
 The league-long fields of the State are pledged to ensure 
 
 this harvest! 
 
 Your old men have dreamed this dream and your young 
 men have seen this vision. 
 
 The age of romance has not gone, it is only begin- 
 ning; 
 
 Greater words than the ear of man has heard are wait- 
 ing to be spoken. 
 
 Finer arts than the eyes of man have seen are sleeping 
 to be awakened: 
 
 Science exploring the scope of the world. 
 
 Poetry breathing the hope of the world, 
 
 Music to measure and lead the onward march of man ! 
 
 Come, ye honoured and welcome guests from the elder 
 
 nations, 
 Princes of science and arts and letters, 
 Look on the walls that embody the generous dream of 
 
 one of the old men of Texas, 
 Enter these halls of learning that rise in the land of the 
 
 pioneer's log-cabin. 
 Read the confessions of faith that are carved on the 
 
 stones around you: 
 Faith in the worth of the smallest fact and the laws that 
 
 govern the starbeams, 
 
 350 
 
TEXAS 
 
 Faith in the beauty of truth and the truth of perfect 
 beauty, 
 
 Faith in the God who creates the souls of men by knowl- 
 edge and love and worship. 
 
 This is the faith of the New Democracy — 
 Proud and humble, patiently pressing forward, 
 Praising her heroes of old and training her future leaders. 
 Seeking her crown in a nobler race of men and women — 
 After the pioneers, sweetness and light ! 
 October, 1912. 
 
 351 
 
WHO FOLLOW THE FLAG 
 
 PHI BETA KAPPA ODE 
 HARVARD UNIVERSITY 
 
 June 30, 1910 
 
 All day long in the city's canyon-street. 
 With its populous cliffs alive on either side, 
 I saw a river of marching men like a tide 
 Flowing after the flag: and the rhythmic beat 
 
 Of the drums, and the bugles' resonant blare 
 Metred the tramp, tramp, tramp of a myriad feet, 
 While the red-white-and-blue was fluttering everywhere. 
 And the heart of the crowd kept time to a martial air: 
 
 brave flag, bright flag, flag to lead the free ! 
 
 The glory of thy silver stars. 
 
 Engrailed in blue above the bars 
 
 Of red for courage, white for truth. 
 
 Has brought the world a second youth 
 And drawn a hundred million hearts to follow after thee. 
 
 II 
 
 Old Cambridge saw thee first unfurled, 
 
 By Washington's far-reaching hand. 
 To greet, in Seventy-six, the wintry morn 
 Of a neV year, and herald to the world 
 352 
 
WHO FOLLOW THE FLAG 
 
 Glad tidings from a Western land, — 
 A people and a hope new-born ! 
 The double cross then filled thine azure field, 
 In token of a spirit loath to yield 
 The breaking ties that bound thee to a throne. 
 But not for long thine oriflamme could bear 
 That symbol of an outworn trust in kings. 
 The wind that bore thee out on widening wings 
 Called for a greater sign and all thine own, — 
 A new device to speak of heavenly laws 
 And lights that surely guide the people's cause. 
 Oh, greatly did they hope, and greatly dare. 
 Who bade the stars in heaven fight for them. 
 And set upon their battle-flag a fair 
 New constellation as a diadem ! - 
 Along the blood-stained banks of Brandywine 
 The ragged troops were rallied to this sign; 
 Through Saratoga's woods it fluttered bright 
 Amid the perils of the hard-won fight; 
 O'er Yorktown's meadows broad and green 
 It hailed the glory of the final scene; 
 And when at length Manhattan saw 
 The last invaders' line of scarlet coats 
 Pass Bowling Green, and fill the waiting boats 
 
 And sullenly withdraw. 
 
 The flag that proudly flew 
 Above the battered line of buff and blue. 
 Marching, with rattling drums and shrilling pipes, 
 353 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 Along the Bowery and down Broadway, 
 Was this that leads the great parade to-day ,- 
 The glorious banner of the stars and stripes. 
 
 First of the flags of earth to dare 
 
 A heraldry so high ; 
 First of the flags of earth to bear 
 
 The blazons of the sky ; 
 Long may thy constellation glow. 
 
 Foretelling happy fate ; 
 Wider thy starry circle grow. 
 
 And every star a State ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Pass on, pass on, ye flashing files 
 
 Of men who march in militant array; 
 
 Ye thrilling bugles, throbbing drums, 
 
 Ring out, roll on, and die away; 
 
 And fade, ye crowds, with the fading day ! 
 
 Around the city's lofty piles 
 
 Of steel and stone 
 
 The lilac veil of dusk is thrown, 
 Entangled full of sparks of fairy light; 
 And the never-silent heart of the city hums 
 To a homeward-turning tune before the night. 
 But far above, on the sky-line's broken height. 
 From all the towers and domes outlined 
 354 
 
WHO FOLLOW THE FLAG 
 
 In gray and gold along the city's crest, 
 I see the rippling flag still take the wind 
 With a promise of good to come for all mankind. 
 
 IV 
 
 O banner of the west, 
 
 No proud and brief parade. 
 
 That glorifies a nation's holiday 
 With show of troops for warfare dressed. 
 
 Can rightly measure or display 
 
 The mighty army thou hast made 
 Loyal to guard thy more than royal sway. 
 
 Millions havQ come across the sea 
 
 To find beneath thy shelter room to grow; 
 Millions were born beneath thy folds and know 
 
 No other flag but thee. 
 And other, darker millions bore the yoke 
 Of bondage in thy borders till the voice 
 
 Of Lincoln spoke. 
 And sent thee forth to set the bondmen free. 
 
 Rejoice, dear flag, rejoice ! 
 Since thou hast proved and passed that bitter strife. 
 Richer thy red with blood of heroes wet. 
 Purer thy white through sacrificial life. 
 Brighter thy blue wherein new stars are set. 
 
 Thou art become a sign. 
 Revealed in heaven to speak of things divine: 
 355 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 Of Truth that dares 
 
 To slay the He it sheltered unawares; 
 
 Of Courage fearless in the fight, 
 Yet ever quick its foemen to forgive; 
 Of Conscience earnest to maintain its right 
 And gladly grant the same to all who live. 
 
 Thy staff is deeply planted in the fact 
 
 That nothing can ennoble man 
 
 Save his own act, 
 And naught can make him worthy to be free 
 But practice in the school of liberty. 
 The cords are two that lift thee to the sky: 
 Firm faith in God, the King who rules on high; 
 
 And never-failing trust 
 In human nature, full of faults and flaws, 
 Yet ever answering to the inward call 
 That bids it set the "ought" above the "must," 
 In all its errors wiser than it seems, 
 In all its failures full of generous dreams. 
 Through endless conflict rising without pause 
 To self-dominion, charactered in laws 
 That pledge fair-play alike to great and small, 
 And equal rights for each beneath the rule of all. 
 
 These are thy halyards, banner bold, 
 
 And while these hold. 
 Thy brightness from the sky shall never fall, 
 Thy broadening empire never know decrease, — 
 Thy strength is union and thy glory peace. 
 35G 
 
WHO FOLLOW THE FLAG 
 
 Look forth across thy widespread lands, 
 O flag, and let thy stars to-night be eyes 
 
 To see the visionary hosts 
 Of men and women grateful to be thine. 
 
 That joyfully arise 
 From all thy borders and thy coasts. 
 And follow after thee in endless line ! 
 They lift to thee a forest of saluting hands; 
 They hail thee with a rolling ocean-roar 
 
 Of cheers; and as the echo dies. 
 There comes a sweet and moving song 
 Of treble voices from the childish throng 
 Who run to thee from every school-house door. 
 Behold thine army ! Here thy power lies : 
 The men whom freedom has made strong. 
 And bound to follow thee by willing vows; 
 
 The women greatened by the joys 
 Of motherhood to rule a happy house; 
 
 The vigorous girls and boys. 
 Whose eager faces and unclouded brows 
 Foretell the future of a noble race, 
 Rich in the wealth of wisdom and true worth ! 
 While millions such as these to thee belong. 
 
 What foe can do thee wrong, 
 What jealous rival rob thee of thy place 
 
 Foremost of all the flags of earth? 
 357 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 VI 
 
 My vision darkens as the night descends; 
 
 And through the mystic atmosphere 
 
 I feel the creeping coldness that portends 
 
 A change of spirit in my dream 
 The multitude that moved with song and cheer 
 
 Have vanished, yet a living stream 
 
 Flows on and follows still the flag, 
 But silent now, with leaden feet that lag 
 
 And falter in the deepening gloom, — 
 A weird battalion bringing up the rear. 
 All, who are these on whom the vital bloom 
 Of life has withered to the dust of doom? 
 These little pilgrims prematurely worn 
 And bent as if they bore the weight of years? 
 These childish faces, pallid and forlorn. 
 Too dull for laughter and too hard for tears? 
 Is this the ghost of that insane crusade 
 That led ten thousand children long ago, 
 A flock of innocents, deceived, betrayed, 
 Yet pressing on through want and woe 
 To meet their fate, faithful and unafraid? 
 
 Nay, for a million children now 
 Are marching in the long pathetic line, 
 With weary step and early wrinkled brow; 
 And at their head appears no holy sign 
 
 Of hope in heaven; 
 
 For unto them is given 
 358 
 
WHO FOLLOW THE FLAG 
 
 No cross to carry, but a cross to drag. 
 
 Before their strength is ripe they bear 
 
 The load of labour, toiling underground 
 
 In dangerous mines and breathing heavy air 
 
 Of crowded shops; their tender lives are bound 
 
 To service of the whirling, clattering wheels 
 
 That fill the factories with dust and noise; 
 
 They are not girls and boys. 
 But little "hands" who blindly, dumbly feed 
 With their own blood the hungry god of Greed. 
 
 Robbed of their natural joys. 
 And wounded with a scar that never heals. 
 They stumble on with heavy-laden soul. 
 And fall by thousands on the highway lined 
 With little graves; or reach at last their goal 
 Of stunted manhood and embittered age, 
 To brood awhile with dark and troubled mind. 
 Beside the smouldering fire of sullen rage. 
 On life's unfruitful work and niggard wage. 
 Are these the regiments that Freedom rears 
 
 To serve her cause in coming years.'' 
 Nay, every life that Avarice doth maim 
 And beggar in the helpless days of youth. 
 
 Shall surely claim 
 A just revenge, and take it without ruth; 
 And every soul denied the right to grow 
 Beneath the flag, shall be its secret foe. 
 Bow down, dear land, in penitence and shame ! 
 359 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 Remember now thine oath, so nobly sworn, 
 
 To guard an equal lot 
 For every child within thy borders born ! 
 These are thy children whom thou hast forgot: 
 They have the bitter right to live, but not 
 The blessed right to look for happiness. 
 O lift thy liberating hand once more, 
 To loose thy little ones from dark duress; 
 The vital gladness to their hearts restore 
 In healthful lessons and in happy play; 
 And set them free to climb the upward way 
 That leads to self-reliant nobleness. 
 Speak out, my country, speak at last, 
 
 As thou hast spoken in the past. 
 
 And clearly, bravely say: 
 
 "I will defend 
 "The coming race on whom my hopes depend: 
 "Beneath my flag and on my sacred soil 
 "No child shall bear the crushing yoke of toil." 
 
 360 
 
WHO FOLLOW THE FLAG 
 VII 
 
 Look up, look up, ye downcast eyes ! 
 
 The night is almost gone: 
 Along the new horizon flies 
 
 The banner of the dawn; 
 The eastern sky is banded low 
 
 With white and crimson bars. 
 While far above the morning glow 
 
 The everlasting stars. 
 
 bright flag, brave flag, flag to lead the free ! 
 
 The hand of God thy colours blent. 
 
 And heaven to earth thy glory lent. 
 
 To shield the weak, and guide the strong 
 
 To make an end of human wrong. 
 And draw a couritless human host to follow after thee ! 
 
 361 
 
STAIN NOT THE SKY 
 
 Ye gods of battle, lords of fear. 
 Who work your iron will as well 
 
 As once ye did with sword and spear. 
 With rifled gun and rending shell, — 
 
 Masters of sea and land, forbear 
 The fierce invasion of the inviolate air! 
 
 With patient daring man hath wrought 
 A hundred years for power to fly; 
 
 And will you make his winged thought 
 A hovering horror in the sky, 
 
 Where flocks of human eagles sail. 
 Dropping their bolts of death on hill and dale? 
 
 Ah no, the sunset is too pure. 
 
 The dawn too fair, the noon too bright 
 
 For wings of terror to obscure 
 
 Their beauty, and betray the night 
 
 That keeps for man, above his wars. 
 The tranquil vision of untroubled stars. 
 
 362 
 
STAIN NOT THE SKY 
 
 Pass on, pass on, ye lords of fear ! 
 
 Your footsteps in the sea are red. 
 And black on earth your paths appear 
 
 With ruined homes and heaps of dead. 
 Pass on to end your transient reign. 
 And leave the blue of heaven without a stain. 
 
 The wrong ye wrought will fall to dust, 
 
 The right ye shielded will abide; 
 The world at last will learn to trust 
 
 In law to guard, and love to guide; 
 And Peace of God that answers prayer 
 Will fall like dew from the inviolate air. 
 March 5, 1914. 
 
 363 
 
PEACE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 
 
 Lord our God, Thy mighty hand 
 Hath made our country free; 
 From all her broad and happy land 
 May praise arise to Thee. 
 Fulfill the promise of her youth, 
 Her liberty defend; 
 By law and order, love and truth, 
 America befriend ! 
 
 The strength of every State increase 
 In Union's golden chain; 
 Her thousand cities fill with peace, 
 Her million fields with grain. 
 The virtues of her mingled blood 
 In one new people blend; 
 By unity and brotherhood, 
 America befriend ! 
 
 864 
 
PEACE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 
 
 O suffer not her feet to stray; 
 
 But guide her untaught might. 
 
 That she may walk in peaceful day. 
 
 And lead the world in light. 
 
 Bring down the proud, lift up the poor. 
 
 Unequal ways amend; 
 
 By justice, nation-wide and sure, 
 
 America befriend! 
 
 Thro' all the waiting land proclaim 
 
 Thy gospel of good- will; 
 
 And may the music of Thy name 
 
 In every bosom thrill. 
 
 O'er hill and vale, from sea to sea. 
 
 Thy holy reign extend; 
 
 By faith and hope and charity, 
 
 America befriend ! 
 
 365 
 
THE RED FLOWER 
 
 AND 
 
 GOLDEN STARS 
 
These verses were tvritten during the terrible world-war, and 
 immediately after. The earlier ones had to be unsigned because 
 America was still "neutral" and I held a diplomatic post. The 
 rest of them were printed after I had resigned, and was free to 
 speak out, and to take active service in the Navy, when America 
 entered the great conflict for liberty and peace on earth. 
 
 Avalon, February 22, 1920, 
 
THE RED FLOWER 
 
 June, 1914 
 
 In the pleasant time of Pentecost, 
 
 By the Httle river Kyll, 
 I followed the angler's winding path 
 
 Or waded the stream at will, 
 And the friendly fertile German land 
 
 Lay round me green and still. 
 
 But all day long on the eastern bank 
 
 Of the river cool and clear, 
 Where the curving track of the double rails 
 
 Was hardly seen though near, 
 The endless trains of German troops 
 
 Went rolling down to Trier. 
 
 They packed the windows with bullet heads 
 
 And caps of hodden gray; 
 They laughed and sang and shouted loud 
 
 When the trains were brought to a stay; 
 They waved their hands and sang again 
 
 As they went on their iron way. 
 
 369 
 
THE RED FLOWER 
 
 No shadow fell on the smiling land, 
 
 No cloud arose in the sky; 
 I could hear the river's quiet tune 
 
 When the trains had rattled by; 
 But my heart sank low with a heavy sense 
 
 Of trouble, — I knew not why. 
 
 Then came I into a certain field 
 
 Where the devil's paint-brush spread 
 
 'Mid the gray and green of the rolling hills 
 A flaring splotch of red, — 
 
 An evil omen, a bloody sign. 
 And a token of many dead. 
 
 I saw in a vision the field-gray horde 
 Break forth at the devil's hour, 
 
 And trample the earth into crimson mud 
 In the rage of the Will to Power, — 
 
 All this I dreamed in the valley of Kyll, 
 At the sign of the blood-red flower. 
 
 370 
 
A SCRAP OF PAPER 
 
 'Will you go to war just for a scrap of paper?" — Question of the German 
 Chancellor to the British Ambassador, August 5, 1914. 
 
 A MOCKING question ! Britain's answer came 
 Swift as the light and searching as the flame. 
 
 "Yes, for a scrap of paper we will fight 
 Till our last breath, and God defend the right ! 
 
 "A scrap of paper where a name is set 
 Is strong as duty's pledge and honor's debt. 
 
 "A scrap of paper holds for man and wife 
 The sacrament of love, the bond of life. 
 
 "A scrap of paper may be Holy Writ 
 With God's eternal word to hallow it. 
 
 "A scrap of paper binds us both to stand 
 Defenders of a neutral neighbor land. 
 
 "By God, by faith, by honor, yes! We fight 
 To keep our name upon that paper white." 
 September, 1914. 
 
 371 
 
STAND FAST 
 
 Stand fast, Great Britain ! 
 Together England, Scotland, Ireland stand 
 One in the faith that makes a mighty land, — 
 True to the bond you gave and will not break 
 And fearless in the fight for conscience' sake ! 
 Against the Giant Robber clad in steel. 
 With blood of trampled Belgium on his heel. 
 Striding through France to strike you down at last, 
 
 Britain, stand fast ! 
 
 Stand fast, brave land ! 
 The Huns are thundering toward the citadel; 
 They prate of Culture but their path is Hell; 
 Their light is darkness, and the bloody sword 
 They wield and worship is their only Lord. 
 O land where reason stands secure on right, 
 O land where freedom is the source of light. 
 Against the mailed Barbarians' deadly blast, 
 
 Britain, stand fast ! 
 
 372 
 
STAND FAST 
 
 Stand fast, dear land ! 
 Thou island mother of a world-wide race, 
 Whose children speak thy tongue and love thy face. 
 Their hearts and hopes are with thee in the strife, 
 Their hands will break the sword that seeks thy life; 
 Fight on until the Teuton madness cease; 
 Fight bravely on, until the word of peace 
 Is spoken in the English tongue at last, — 
 
 Britain, stand fast ! 
 September, 1914. 
 
 373 
 
LIGHTS OUT 
 
 (1915) 
 
 "Lights out" along the land, 
 
 "Lights out" upon the sea. 
 
 The night must put her hiding hand 
 
 O'er peaceful towns where children sleep. 
 
 And peaceful ships that darkly creep 
 
 Across the waves, as if they were not free. 
 
 The dragons of the air. 
 
 The hell-hounds of the deep, 
 
 Lurking and prowling everywhere. 
 
 Go forth to seek their helpless prey. 
 
 Not knowing whom they maim or slay — 
 
 Mad harvesters, who care not what they reap. 
 
 Out with the tranquil lights, 
 
 Out with the lights that burn 
 
 For love and law and human rights! 
 
 Set back the clock a thousand years: 
 
 All they have gained now disappears, 
 
 And the dark ages suddenly return. 
 
 374 
 
LIGHTS OUT 
 
 Kaiser, who loosed wild death, 
 
 And terror in the night, 
 
 God grant you draw no quiet breath. 
 
 Until the madness you began 
 
 Is ended, and long-suffering man. 
 
 Set free from war lords, cries, "Let there be Light." 
 
 October, 1915. 
 
 Read at the meeting of the American Academy, Boston, November, 
 1915. 
 
 375 
 
REMARKS ABOUT KINGS 
 
 "God said I am tired of kings." — Emerson. 
 
 God said, "I am tired of kings," — 
 
 But that was a long while ago ! 
 
 And meantime man said, "No, — 
 
 I like their looks in their robes and rings." 
 
 So he crowned a few more, 
 
 And they went on playing the game as before. 
 
 Fighting and spoiling things. 
 
 Man said, " I am tired of kings ! 
 
 Sons of the robber-chiefs of yore, 
 
 They make me pay for their lust and their war; 
 
 I am the puppet, they pull the strings; 
 
 The blood of my heart is the wine they drink. 
 
 I will govern myself for awhile I think, 
 
 And see what that brings!" 
 
 Then God, who made the first remark, 
 Smiled in the dark. 
 October, 1915. 
 
 Read at the meeting of the American Academy, Boston, Novem- 
 ber, 1915. 
 
 376 
 
MIGHT AND RIGHT 
 
 If Might made Right, Hfe were a wild-beasts' cage; 
 If Right made Might, this were the golden age; 
 But now, until we win the long campaign. 
 Right must gain Might to conquer and to reign. 
 July 1, 1915. 
 
 THE PRICE OF PEACE 
 
 Peace without Justice is a low estate, — 
 A coward cringing to an iron Fate ! 
 But Peace through Justice is the great ideal,- 
 We'U pay the price of war to make it real. 
 December 28, 1916. 
 
 377 
 
STORM-MUSIC 
 
 O Music hast thou only heard 
 The laughing river, the singing bird, 
 The murmuring wind in the poplar-trees, — 
 Nothing but Nature's melodies? 
 Nay, thou hearest all her tones, 
 As a Queen must hear ! 
 Sounds of wrath and fear, 
 Mutterings, shouts, and moans. 
 Madness, tumult, and despair, — 
 All she has that shakes the air 
 With voices fierce and wild ! 
 Thou art a Queen and not a dreaming child, — 
 Put on thy crown and let us hear thee reign 
 Triumphant in a world of storm and strain ! 
 
 Echo the long-drawn sighs 
 Of the mounting wind in the pines; 
 And the sobs of the mounting waves that rise 
 
 In the dark of the troubled deep 
 To break on the beach in fiery lines. 
 
 Echo the far-off roll of thunder. 
 Rumbling loud 
 
 And ever louder, under 
 
 The blue-black curtain of cloud, 
 
 Where the lightning serpents gleam. 
 378 
 
STORM-MUSIC 
 
 Echo the moaning 
 Of the forest in its sleep 
 Like a giant groaning 
 In the torment of a dream. 
 
 Now an interval of quiet 
 For a moment holds the air 
 In the breathless hush 
 Of a silent prayer. 
 
 Then the sudden rush 
 
 Of the rain, and the riot 
 
 Of the shrieking, tearing gale 
 
 Breaks loose in the night, 
 
 With a fusillade of hail ! 
 
 Hear the forest fight. 
 With its tossing arras that crack and clash 
 
 In the thunder's cannonade, 
 
 While the lightning's forked flash 
 Brings the old hero-trees to the ground with a crash I 
 Hear the breakers' deepening roar, 
 
 Driven like a herd of cattle 
 
 In the wild stampede of battle. 
 Trampling, trampling, trampling, to overwhelm the shore ! 
 
 379 
 
THE RED FLOWER 
 
 Is it the end of all? 
 
 Will the land crumble and fall? 
 
 Nay, for a voice replies 
 
 Out of the hidden skies, 
 "Thus far, O sea, shalt thou go. 
 So long, O wind, shalt thou blow: 
 Return to your bounds and cease. 
 And let the earth have peace!" 
 
 O Music, lead the way — 
 The stormy night is past, 
 Lift up our hearts to greet the day. 
 And the joy of things that last. 
 
 The dissonance and pain 
 That mortals must endure. 
 Are changed in thine immortal strain 
 To something great and pure. 
 
 True love will conquer strife. 
 
 And strength from conflict flows, 
 
 For discord is the thorn of life 
 And harmony the rose. 
 
 May, 1916. 
 
 380 
 
THE BELLS OF MALINES 
 
 August 17, 1914 
 
 The gabled roofs of old Malines 
 
 Are russet red and gray and green, 
 
 And o'er them in the sunset hour 
 
 Looms, dark and huge, St. Rombold's tower. 
 
 High in that rugged nest concealed. 
 
 The sweetest bells that ever pealed. 
 
 The deepest bells that ever rung, 
 
 The lightest bells that ever sung. 
 
 Are waiting for the master's hand 
 
 To fling their music o'er the land. 
 
 And shall they ring to-night, Malines.? 
 In nineteen hundred and fourteen, 
 The frightful year, the year of woe, 
 When fire and blood and rapine flow 
 Across the land from lost Liege, 
 Storm-driven by the German rage? 
 The other carillons have ceased: 
 Fallen is Hasselt, fallen Diest, 
 From Ghent and Bruges no voices come, 
 Antwerp is silent, Brussels dumb ! 
 
 381 
 
THE RED FLOWER 
 
 But in thy belfry, O Malines, 
 
 The master of the bells unseen 
 
 Has climbed to where the keyboard stands, 
 
 To-night his heart is in his hands ! 
 
 Once more, before invasion's hell 
 
 Breaks round the tower he loves so well, 
 
 Once more he strikes the well-worn keys. 
 
 And sends aerial harmonies 
 
 Far-floating through the twilight dim 
 
 In patriot song and holy hymn. 
 
 O listen, burghers of Malines ! 
 Soldier and workman, pale beguine. 
 And mother with a trembling flock 
 Of children clinging to thy frock, — 
 Look up and listen, listen all ! 
 What tunes are these that gently fall 
 Around you like a benison? 
 "The Flemish Lion," "Brabangonne," 
 "O brave Liege," and all the airs 
 That Belgium in her bosom bears. 
 
 Ring up, ye silvery octaves high. 
 Whose notes like circling swallows fly; 
 And ring, each old sonorous bell, — 
 "Jesu," "Maria," "Michael!" 
 
 382 
 
THE BELLS OF MALINES 
 
 Weave in and out, and high and low, 
 The magic music that you know, 
 And let it float and flutter down 
 To cheer the heart of the troubled town. 
 Ring out, "Salvator," lord of all, — 
 "Roland" in Ghent may hear thee call! 
 
 O brave bell-music of Malines, 
 
 In this dark hour how much you mean ! 
 
 The dreadful night of blood and tears 
 
 Sweeps down on Belgium, but she hears 
 
 Deep in her heart the melody 
 
 Of songs she learned when she was free. 
 
 She will not falter, faint, nor fail, 
 
 But fight until her rights prevail 
 
 And all her ancient belfries ring 
 
 "The Flemish Lion," "God Save the King!' 
 
JEANNE D'ARC RETURNS* 
 
 1914-1916 
 
 What hast thou done, O womanhood of France, 
 Mother and daughter, sister, sweetheart, wife, 
 What hast thou done, amid this fateful strife. 
 
 To prove the pride of thine inheritance 
 
 In this fair land of freedom and romance? 
 
 I hear thy voice with tears and courage rife, — 
 Smiling against the swords that seek thy life, — 
 
 Make answer in a noble utterance: 
 
 "I give France all I have, and all she asks. 
 
 Would it were more! Ah, let her ask and take: 
 
 My hands to nurse her wounded, do her tasks, — 
 My feet to run her errands through the dark, — 
 
 My heart to bleed in triumph for her sake, — 
 And all my soul to follow thee, Jeanne d'Arc!" 
 
 April 16, 1916. 
 
 * This sonnet belongs with the poem on page 309, " Come Back Again, 
 Jeanne D'Arc." 
 
 884 
 
THE NAME OF FRANCE 
 
 Give us a name to fill the mind 
 With the shining thoughts that lead mankind, 
 The glory of learning, the joy of art, — 
 A name that tells of a splendid part 
 In the long, long toil and the strenuous fight 
 Of the human race to win its way 
 From the feudal darkness into the day 
 Of Freedom, Brotherhood, Equal Right, — 
 A name like a star, a name of light. 
 I give you France ! 
 
 Give us a name to stir the blood 
 With a warmer glow and a swifter flood, 
 At the touch of a courage that conquers fear, — 
 A name like the sound of a trumpet, clear. 
 And silver-sweet, and iron-strong, 
 That calls three million men to their feet. 
 Ready to march, and steady to meet 
 The foes who threaten that name with wrong,- 
 A name that rings like a battle-song. 
 I give you France I 
 
 385 
 
THE RED FLOWER 
 
 Give us a name to move the heart 
 
 With the strength that noble griefs impart, 
 
 A name that speaks of the blood outpoured 
 
 To save mankind from the sway of the sword, — 
 
 A name that calls on the world to share 
 
 In the burden of sacrificial strife 
 
 When the cause at stake is the world's free life 
 
 And the rule of the people everywhere, — 
 
 A name like a vow, a name like a prayer. 
 
 I give you France I 
 The Hague, September, 1916. 
 
 386 
 
AMERICA'S PROSPERITY 
 
 They tell me thou art rich, my country: gold 
 
 In glittering flood has poured into thy chest; 
 
 Thy flocks and herds increase, thy barns are pressed 
 With harvest, and thy stores can hardly hold 
 Their merchandise; unending trains are rolled 
 
 Along thy network rails of East and West; 
 
 Thy factories and forges never rest; 
 Thou art enriched in all things bought and sold! 
 
 But dost thou prosper? Better news I crave. 
 O dearest country, is it well with thee 
 Indeed, and is thy soul in health? 
 A nobler people, hearts more wisely brave, 
 
 And thoughts that lift men up and make them free, — 
 These are prosperity and vital wealth ! 
 The Hague, October 1, 1916. 
 
 387 
 
THE GLORY OF SHIPS 
 
 The glory of ships is an old, old song, 
 since the days when the sea-rovers ran, 
 
 In their open boats through the roaring surf, 
 and the spread of the world began; 
 
 The glory of ships is a light on the sea, 
 and a star in the story of man. 
 
 When Homer sang of the galleys of Greece 
 
 that conquered the Trojan shore. 
 And Solomon lauded the barks of Tyre 
 
 that brought great wealth to his door, 
 'Twas little they knew, those ancient men, 
 
 what would come of the sail and the oar. 
 
 The Greek ships rescued the West from the East, 
 when they harried the Persians home; 
 
 And the Roman ships were the wings of strength 
 that bore up the empire, Ronae; 
 
 And the ships of Spain found a wide new world, 
 far over the fields of foam. 
 
 388 
 
THE GLORY OF SHIPS 
 
 Then the tribes of courage at last saw clear 
 
 that the ocean was not a bound, 
 But a broad highway, and a challenge to seek 
 
 for treasure as yet unfound; 
 So the fearless ships fared forth to the search, 
 
 in joy that the globe was round. 
 
 Their hulls were heightened, their sails spread out, 
 they grew with the growth of their quest; 
 
 They opened the secret doors of the East, 
 and the golden gates of the West; 
 
 And many a city of high renown 
 was proud of a ship on its crest. 
 
 The fleets of England and Holland and France 
 were at strife with each other and Spain; 
 
 And battle and storm sent a myriad ships 
 to sleep in the depths of the main; 
 
 But the seafaring spirit could never be drowned, 
 and it filled up the fleets again. 
 
 They greatened and grew, with the aid of steam, 
 
 to a wonderful, vast array. 
 That carries the thoughts and the trafl5c of men 
 
 into every harbor and bay; 
 And now in the world-wide work of the ships 
 
 'tis England that leads the way. 
 
 389 
 
THE RED FLOWER 
 
 O well for the leading that follows the law 
 
 of a common right on the sea ! 
 But ill for the leader who tries to hold 
 
 what belongs to mankind in fee ! 
 The way of the ships is an open way, 
 
 and the ocean must ever be free ! 
 
 Remember, O first of the maritime folk, 
 how the rise of your greatness began. 
 
 It will live if you safeguard the round-the-world road 
 from the shame of a selfish ban; 
 
 For the glory of ships is a light on the sea, 
 and a star in the story of man! 
 
 September 12, 1916. 
 
 390 
 
MARE LIBERUM 
 
 You dare to say with perjured lips, 
 "We fight to make the ocean free"? 
 You, whose black trail of butchered ships 
 Bestrews the bed of every sea 
 Where German submarines have wrought 
 Their horrors ! Have you never thought, — 
 What you call freedom, men call piracy ! 
 
 II 
 
 Unnumbered ghosts that haunt the wave, 
 
 Where you have murdered, cry you down; 
 
 And seamen whom you would not save. 
 
 Weave now in weed-grown depths a crown 
 
 Of shame for your imperious head, 
 
 A dark memorial of the dead 
 
 Women and children whom you sent to drown. 
 
 391 
 
THE RED FLOWER 
 III 
 
 Nay, not till thieves are set to guard 
 The gold, and corsairs called to keep 
 O'er peaceful commerce watch and ward. 
 And wolves to herd the helpless sheep. 
 Shall men and women look to thee. 
 Thou ruthless Old Man of the Sea, 
 To safeguard law and freedom on the deep ! 
 
 IV 
 
 In nobler breeds we put our trust: 
 The nations in whose sacred lore 
 The "Ought" stands out above the "Must," 
 And honor rules in peace and war. 
 With these we hold in soul and heart. 
 With these we choose our lot and part, 
 Till Liberty is safe on sea and shore. 
 London Times, February 12, 1917. 
 
 39^ 
 
"LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD" 
 
 Thou warden of the western gate, above Manhattan 
 
 Bay, 
 The fogs of doubt that hid thy face are driven clean 
 
 away : 
 Thine eyes at last look far and clear, thou liftest high 
 
 thy hand 
 To spread the light of liberty world-wide for every land. 
 
 No more thou dreamest of a peace reserved alone for 
 
 thee, 
 While friends are fighting for thy cause beyond the 
 
 guardian sea: 
 The battle that they wage is thine; thou fallest if they 
 
 fall; 
 The swollen flood of Prussian pride will sweep unchecked 
 
 o'er all. 
 
 O cruel is the conquer-lust in Hohenzollern brains: 
 The paths they plot to gain their goal are dark with 
 
 shameful stains; 
 No faith they keep, no law revere, no god but naked 
 
 Might; 
 They are the foemen of mankind. Up, Liberty, and 
 
 smite ! 
 
 39S 
 
THE RED FLOWER 
 
 Britain, and France, and Italy, and Russia newly born, 
 Have waited for thee in the night. Oh, come as comes 
 
 the morn! 
 Serene and strong and full of faith, America, arise. 
 With steady hope and mighty help to join thy brave 
 
 Allies. 
 
 O dearest country of my heart, home of the high desire, 
 
 Make clean thy soul for sacrifice on Freedom's altar- 
 fire: 
 
 For thou must suffer, thou must fight, until the war- 
 lords cease. 
 
 And all the peoples lift their heads in liberty and peace. 
 
 London Times, April 12, 1917. 
 
 394 
 
THE OXFORD THRUSHES 
 
 February, 1917 
 
 I NEVER thought again to hear 
 The Oxford thrushes singing clear. 
 Amid the February rain, 
 Their sweet, indomitable strain. 
 
 A wintry vapor lightly spreads 
 Among the trees, and round the beds 
 Where daffodil and jonquil sleep; 
 Only the snowdrop wakes to weep. 
 
 It is not springtime yet. Alas, 
 What dark, tempestuous days must pass, 
 Till England's trial by battle cease, 
 And summer comes again with peace. 
 
 The lofty halls, the tranquil towers. 
 Where Learning in untroubled hours 
 Held her high court, serene in fame, 
 Are lovely still, yet not the same. 
 
 The novices in fluttering gown 
 No longer fill the ancient town; 
 But fighting men in khaki drest. 
 And in the Schools the wounded rest. 
 395 
 
THE RED FLOWER 
 
 Ah, far away, 'neath stranger skies 
 Full many a son of Oxford lies, 
 And whispers from his warrior grave, 
 "I died to keep the faith you gave." 
 
 The mother mourns, but does not fail. 
 Her courage and her love prevail 
 O'er sorrow, and her spirit hears 
 The promise of triumphant years. 
 
 Then sing, ye thrushes, in the rain 
 Your sweet indomitable strain. 
 Ye bring a word from God on high 
 And voices in our hearts reply. 
 
 396 
 
HOMEWARD BOUND 
 
 Home, for my heart still calls me; 
 
 Home, through the danger zone; 
 Home, whatever befalls me, 
 
 I will sail again to my own ! 
 
 Wolves of the sea are hiding 
 
 Closely along the way, 
 Under the water biding 
 
 Their moment to rend and slay. 
 
 Black is the eagle that brands them, 
 Black are their hearts as the night. 
 
 Black is the hate that sends them 
 To murder but not to fight. 
 
 Flower of the German Culture, 
 Boast of the Kaiser's Marine, 
 
 Choose for your emblem the vulture. 
 Cowardly, cruel, obscene ! 
 
 Forth from her sheltered haven 
 Our peaceful ship glides slow. 
 
 Noiseless in flight as a raven. 
 Gray as a hoodie crow, 
 397 
 
THE RED FLOWER 
 
 She doubles and turns in her bearing. 
 Like a twisting plover she goes; 
 
 The way of her westward faring 
 Only the captain knows. 
 
 In a lonely bay concealing 
 She lingers for days, and slips 
 
 At dusk from her covert, stealing 
 Thro' channels feared by the ships. 
 
 Brave are the men, and steady. 
 Who guide her over the deep, — 
 
 British mariners, ready 
 To face the sea-wolf's leap. 
 
 Lord of the winds and waters. 
 Bring our ship to her mark. 
 
 Safe from this game of hide-and-seek 
 With murderers in the dark ! 
 
 On the S, S. Baltic, May, 1917. 
 
 398 
 
THE WINDS OF WAR-NEWS 
 
 The winds of war-news change and veer: 
 Now westerly and full of cheer, 
 Now easterly, depressing, sour 
 With tidings of the Teutons' power. 
 
 But thou, America, whose heart 
 
 With brave Allies has taken part, 
 
 Be not a weathercock to change 
 
 With these wild winds that shift and range. 
 
 Be thou a compass ever true. 
 Through sullen clouds or skies of blue. 
 To that great star which rules the night, — 
 The star of Liberty and Right. 
 
 Lover of peace, oh set thy soul, 
 
 Thy strength, thy wealth, thy conscience whole. 
 
 To win the peace thine eyes foresee, — 
 
 The triumph of Democracy. 
 
 December 19, 1917. 
 
 399 
 
RIGHTEOUS WRATH 
 
 There are many kinds of anger, as many kinds of fire; 
 And some are fierce and fatal with murderous desire; 
 And some are mean and craven, revengeful, sullen, slow. 
 They hurt the man that holds them more than they 
 hurt his foe. 
 
 And yet there is an anger that purifies the heart: 
 The anger of the better against the baser part. 
 Against the false and wicked, against the tyrant's sword, 
 Against the enemies of love, and all that hate the Lord, 
 
 O cleansing indignation, O flame of righteous wrath. 
 Give rae a soul to feel thee and follow in thy path ! 
 Save me from selfish virtue, arm me for fearless fight. 
 And give me strength to carry on, a soldier of the Right ! 
 January, 1918. 
 
 400 
 
THE PEACEFUL WARRIOR 
 
 I HAVE no joy in strife, 
 
 Peace is my great desire; 
 Yet God forbid I lose my life 
 
 Through fear to face the fire. 
 
 A peaceful man must fight 
 
 For that which peace demands, — 
 
 Freedom and faith, honor and right. 
 Defend with heart and hands. 
 
 Farewell, my friendly books; 
 
 Farewell, ye woods and streams; 
 The fate that calls me forward looks 
 
 To a duty beyond dreams. 
 
 Oh, better to be dead 
 
 With a face turned to the sky, 
 Than live beneath a slavish dread 
 
 And serve a giant lie. 
 
 Stand up, my heart, and strive 
 For the things most dear to thee ! 
 
 Why should we care to be alive 
 Unless the world is free? 
 
 May, 1918. 
 
 401 
 
FROM GLORY UNTO GLORY 
 
 AMERICAN FLAG SONG 
 1776 
 
 O DARK the night and dim the day 
 
 When first our flag arose; 
 It fluttered bravely in the fray 
 
 To meet o'erwhelming foes. 
 Our fathers saw the splendor shine, 
 
 They dared and suffered all; 
 They won our freedom by the sign- 
 The holy sign, the radiant sign — 
 
 Of the stars that never fall. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 All hail to thee, Young Glory ! 
 
 Among the flags of earth 
 We'll ne'er forget the story 
 
 Of thy heroic birth. 
 
 1861 
 
 O wild the later storm that shook 
 
 The pillars of the State, 
 When brother against brother took 
 
 The final arms of fate. 
 But union lived and peace divine 
 
 Enfolded brothers all; 
 402 
 
FROM GLORY UNTO GLORY 
 
 The flag floats o'er them with the sign — 
 The loyal sign, the equal sign — 
 Of the stars that never fall. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 All hail to thee, Old Glory! 
 
 Of thee our heart's desire 
 Foretells a golden story. 
 
 For thou hast come through fire. 
 
 1917 
 
 O fiercer than all wars before 
 
 That raged on land or sea. 
 The Giant Robber's world-wide war 
 
 For the things that shall not be ! 
 Thy sister banners hold the line; 
 
 To thee, dear flag, they call; 
 And thou hast joined them with the sign- 
 The heavenly sign, the victor sign — 
 
 Of the stars that never fall. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 All hail to thee, New Glory ! 
 
 We follow thee unfurled 
 To write the larger story 
 
 Of Freedom for the World. 
 September 4, 1918. 
 
 403 
 
BRITAIN, FRANCE, AMERICA 
 
 The rough expanse of democratic sea 
 Which parts the lands that Hve by Hberty 
 Is no division; for their hearts are one. 
 To fight together till their cause is won. 
 
 For land and water let us make our pact, 
 And seal the solemn word with valiant act: 
 No continent is firm, no ocean pure. 
 Until on both the rights of man are sure. 
 April, 1917. 
 
 404 
 
THE RED CROSS 
 
 Sign of the Love Divine 
 That bends to bear the load 
 
 Of all who suffer, all who bleed. 
 Along life's thorny road: 
 
 Sign of the Heart Humane, 
 That through the darkest fight 
 
 Would bring to wounded friend and foe 
 A ministry of light: 
 
 O dear and holy sign. 
 
 Lead onward like a star ! 
 The armies of the just are thine, 
 
 And all we have and are. 
 
 October 20, 1918. 
 
 For the Red Cross Christmas Roll Call. 
 
 405 
 
EASTER ROAD 
 
 1918 
 
 Under the cloud of world-wide war, 
 While earth is drenched with sorrow, 
 I have no heart for idle merrymaking, 
 Or for the fashioning of glad raiment. 
 I will retrace the divine footmarks, 
 On the Road of the first Easter 
 
 Down through the valley of utter darkness 
 
 Dripping with blood and tears; 
 
 Over the hill of the skull, the little hill of great anguish, 
 
 The ambuscade of Death. 
 
 Into the no-man's-land of Hades 
 
 Bearing despatches of hope to spirits in prison, 
 
 Mortally stricken and triumphant 
 
 Went the faithful Captain of Salvation. 
 
 Then upward, swiftly upward, — 
 Victory, liberty, glory, 
 
 The feet that were wounded walked in the tranquil gar- 
 den. 
 Bathed in dew and the light of deathless dawn. 
 
 O my soul, my comrades, soldiers of freedom, 
 Follow the pathway of Easter, for there is no other, 
 
 406 
 
EASTER ROAD 
 
 Follow it through to peace, yea, follow it fighting. 
 
 This Armageddon is not darker than Calvary. 
 
 The day will break when the Dragon is vanquished; 
 
 He that exalteth himself as God shall be cast down, 
 
 And the Lords of war shall fall. 
 
 And the long, long terror be ended, 
 
 Victory, justice, peace enduring ! 
 
 They that die in this cause shall live forever, 
 
 And they that live shall never die. 
 
 They shall rejoice together in the Easter of a new world. 
 
 March 31, 1918. 
 
 407 
 
AMERICA'S WELCOME HOME 
 
 Oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue, 
 America's crusading host of warriors bold and true; 
 They battled for the rights of man beside our brave 
 
 Allies, 
 And now they're coming home to us with glory in their 
 
 eyes. 
 
 Oh, iVs home again, and home again, America for me ! 
 Our hearts are turning home again and there we long to he. 
 In our beautifid big country beyond the ocean bars. 
 Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of 
 stars. 
 
 Our boys have seen the Old World as none have seen 
 
 before. 
 They know the grisly horror of the German gods of war: 
 The noble faith of Britain and the hero-heart of France, 
 The soul of Belgium's fortitude and Italy's romance. 
 
 They bore our country's great word across the rolling sea, 
 "America swears brotherhood with all the just and free." 
 They wrote that word victorious on fields of mortal strife. 
 And many a valiant lad was proud to seal it with his life. 
 
 408 
 
AMERICA'S WELCOME HOME 
 
 Oh, welcome home in Heaven's peace, dear spirits of the 
 dead ! 
 
 And welcome home ye living sons America hath bred ! 
 
 The lords of war are beaten down, your glorious task is 
 done; 
 
 You fought to make the whole world free, and the vic- 
 tory is won. 
 
 Now iVs home again, and home again, our hearts are 
 
 turning west. 
 Of all the lands beneath the sun America is best. 
 We're going home to our own folks, beyond the ocean bars. 
 Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of 
 
 stars. 
 
 November 11, 1918. 
 
 A sequel to "America For Me," written in 1909. Page 314. 
 
 409 
 
THE SURRENDER OF THE GERMAN FLEET 
 
 Ship after ship, and every one with a high-resounding 
 name, 
 
 From the robber-nest of Hehgoland the German war- 
 fleet came; 
 
 Not victory or death they sought, but a rendezvous of 
 shame. 
 
 Sing out, sing out, 
 
 A joyful shout. 
 
 Ye lovers of the sea ! 
 
 The "Kaiser" and the " Kaiserin," 
 
 The "Konig" and the ''Prinz" 
 
 The 'potentates of piracy. 
 
 Are coming to surrender. 
 
 And the ocean shall be free. 
 
 They never dared the final fate of battle on the blue; 
 Their sea-wolves murdered merchantmen and mocked the 
 
 drowning crew; 
 They stained the wave with martyr-blood, — but we sent 
 
 our transports through ! 
 
 410 
 
SURRENDER OF THE GERMAN FLEET 
 
 What flags are these that dumbly droop from the gaff o' 
 the mainmast tall? 
 
 The black of the Kaiser's iron cross, the red of the Em- 
 pire's fall ! 
 
 Come down, come down, ye pirate flags. Yea, strike 
 your colors all. 
 
 The Union Jack and the Tricolor and the Starry Flag o' 
 
 the West 
 Shall guard the fruit of Freedom's war and the victory 
 
 confest. 
 The flags of the brave and just and free shall rule on the 
 
 ocean's breast. 
 
 Sing out, sing out, 
 A mighty shout. 
 Ye lovers of the sea ! 
 The "Kaiser" and the " Kaiserin," 
 The "Konig" and the "Prinz," 
 The robber-lords of death and sin, 
 Have come to their surrender. 
 And the ocean shall be free I 
 November 20, 1918. 
 
 411 
 
GOLDEN STARS 
 
 It was my lot of late to travel far 
 
 Through all America's domain, 
 
 A willing, gray-haired servitor 
 
 Bearing the Fiery Cross of righteous war. 
 
 And everywhere, on mountain, vale and plain, 
 
 In crowded street and lonely cottage door, 
 
 I saw the symbol of the bright blue star. 
 
 Millions of stars ! Rejoice, dear land, rejoice 
 
 That God hath made thee great enough to give 
 
 Beneath thy starry flag unfurled 
 
 A gift to all the world, — 
 
 Thy living sons that Liberty might live. 
 
 II 
 
 It seems but yesterday they sallied forth 
 Boys of the east, the west, the south, the north. 
 High-hearted, keen, with laughter and with song. 
 Fearless of lurking danger on the sea, 
 Eager to fight in Flanders or in France 
 Against the monstrous German wrong, 
 And sure of victory ! 
 
 Brothers in soul with British and with French 
 412 
 
GOLDEN STARS 
 
 They held their ground in many a bloody trench; 
 And when the swift word came — 
 Advance ! 
 
 Over the top they went through waves of flame- 
 Confident, reckless, irresistible. 
 Real Americans, — 
 Their rush was never stayed 
 Until the foe fell back, defeated and dismayed. 
 O land that bore them, write upon thy roll 
 Of battles won 
 To liberate the human soul, 
 Chdteau Thierry and Saint Mihiel 
 And the fierce agony of the Argonne; 
 Yea, count among thy little rivers, dear 
 Because of friends whose feet have trodden there, 
 The Marne, the Meuse, and the Moselle. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Now the vile sword 
 In Potsdam forged and bathed in hell. 
 Is beaten down, the victory given 
 To the sword forged in faith and bathed in heaven. 
 Now home again our heroes come: 
 Oh, welcome them with bugle and with drum, 
 Ring bells, blow whistles, make a joyful noise 
 Unto the Lord, 
 
 And welcome home our blue-star boys, 
 413 
 
GOLDEN STARS 
 
 Whose manhood has made known 
 
 To all the world America, 
 
 Unselfish, brave and free, the Great Republic, 
 
 Who lives not to herself alone. 
 
 IV 
 
 But many a lad we hold 
 
 Dear in our heart of hearts 
 
 Is missing from the home-returning host. 
 
 Ah, say not they are lost. 
 
 For they have found and given their life 
 
 In sacrificial strife: 
 
 Their service stars have changed from blue to gold ! 
 
 That sudden rapture took them far away, 
 
 Yet are they here with us to-day. 
 
 Even as the heavenly stars we cannot see 
 
 Through the bright veil of sunlight. 
 
 Shed their influence still 
 
 On our vexed life, and promise peace 
 
 From God to all men of good will. 
 
 What wreaths shall we entwine 
 
 For our dear boys to deck their holy shrine? 
 
 Mountain-laurel, morning-glory, 
 
 Goldenrod and asters blue. 
 
 Purple loosestrife, prince's-pine, 
 414 
 
GOLDEN STARS 
 
 Wild-azalea, meadow-rue, 
 
 Nodding-lilies, columbine, — 
 All the native blooms that grew 
 In these fresh woods and pastures new, 
 Wherein they loved to ramble and to play. 
 Bring no exotic flowers: 
 America was in their hearts, 
 And they are ours 
 For ever and a day. 
 
 VI 
 
 O happy warriors, forgive the tear 
 
 Falling from eyes that miss you; 
 Forgive the word of grief from mother-lips 
 
 That ne'er on earth shall kiss you; 
 Hear only what our hearts would have you hear,- 
 Glory and praise and gratitude and pride 
 From the dear country in whose cause you died. 
 Now you have run your race and won your prize. 
 Old age shall never burden you, the fears 
 And conflicts that beset our lingering years 
 Shall never vex your souls in Paradise. 
 Immortal, young, and crowned with victory. 
 From life's long battle you have found release. 
 
 And He who died for all on Calvary 
 Has welcomed you, brave soldiers of the cross, 
 
 Into eternal Peace. 
 
 415 
 
GOLDEN STARS 
 VII 
 
 Come, let us gird our loins and lift our load, 
 
 Companions who are left on life's rough road, 
 
 And bravely take the way that we must tread 
 
 To keep true faith with our beloved dead. 
 
 To conquer war they dared their lives to give. 
 
 To safeguard peace our hearts must learn to live. 
 
 Help us, dear God, our forward faith to hold ! 
 
 We want a better world than that of old. 
 
 Lead us on paths of high endeavor. 
 
 Toiling upward, climbing ever. 
 
 Ready to suffer for the right. 
 
 Until at last we gain a loftier height, 
 
 More worthy to behold 
 
 Our guiding stars, our hero-stars of gold. 
 
 Ode for the Memorial Service, 
 
 Princeton University, December 15, 1918. 
 
 416 
 
IN THE BLUE HEAVEN 
 
 In the blue heaven the clouds will come and go, 
 Scudding before the gale, or drifting slow 
 As galleons becalmed in Sundown Bay: 
 And through the air the birds will wing their way 
 Soaring to far-off heights, or flapping low. 
 Or darting like an arrow from the bow; 
 And when the twilight comes the stars will show. 
 One after one, their tranquil bright array 
 In the blue heaven. 
 
 But ye who fearless flew to meet the foe. 
 Eagles of freedom, — nevermore, we know, 
 Shall we behold you floating far away. 
 Yet clouds and birds and every starry ray 
 Will draw our heart to where your spirits glow 
 In the blue Heaven. 
 
 For the American Aviators who died in the war. 
 March, 1919. 
 
 417 
 
A SHRINE IN THE PANTHEON 
 
 FOR THE UNNAMED SOLDIERS WHO DIED IN FRANCE 
 
 Universal approval has been accorded the proposal made in the 
 French Chamber that the ashes of an unnamed French soldier, fallen 
 for his country, shall be removed with solemn ceremony to the Pantheon. 
 In this way it is intended to honor by a symbolic ceremony the memory 
 of all who lie in unmarked graves. 
 
 Here the great heart of France, 
 
 Victor in noble strife, 
 Doth consecrate a Poilu's tomb 
 
 To those who saved her Hfe. 
 
 Brave son without a name, 
 Your country calls you home, 
 
 To rest among her heirs of fame. 
 Beneath the Pantheon's dome ! 
 
 Now from the height of Heaven, 
 
 The souls of heroes look; 
 Their names, ungraven on this stone, 
 
 Are written in God's book. 
 
 Women of France, who mourn 
 Your dead in unmarked ground. 
 
 Come hither ! Here the man you loved 
 In the heart of France is found ! 
 
 418 
 
IN PKAISE OF POETS 
 
MOTHER EARTH 
 
 Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers de- 
 parted, 
 
 Mother of all the grass that weaves over their graves 
 the glory of the field, 
 
 Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep-bosomed, 
 patient, impassive. 
 
 Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sorrows ! 
 
 Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth below 
 thy breast. 
 
 Issued in some strange way, thou lying motionless, voice- 
 less. 
 
 All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate, yearn- 
 ing. 
 
 Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth returning. 
 
 Dust are the blood-red hearts that beat in time to these 
 measures. 
 
 Thou hast taken them back to thyself, secretly, irre- 
 sistibly 
 
 Drawing the crimson currents of life down, down, down 
 
 Deep into thy bosom again, as a river is lost in the sand. 
 
 But the souls of the singers have entered into the songs 
 that revealed them, — 
 
 Passionate songs, immortal songs of joy and grief and 
 love and longing, 
 
 421 
 
IN PRAISE OF POETS 
 
 Floating from heart to heart of thy children, they echo 
 
 above thee: 
 Do they not utter thy heart, the voices of those that love 
 
 thee? 
 
 Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed by some 
 
 old enchantment 
 Into an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speechless. 
 Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thy Lord 
 
 and Lover 
 Wakened the man-child within thee to tell thy secret. 
 All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flowing 
 
 waters 
 Are but the rhythmical forms to reveal the life of the 
 
 spirit; 
 Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain and meadow 
 
 and ocean. 
 Boldest the poem of God, eternal thought and emotion. 
 December, 1905. 
 
 422 
 
MILTON 
 
 Lover of beauty, walking on the height 
 
 Of pure philosophy and tranquil song; 
 
 Born to behold the visions that belong 
 To those who dwell in melody and light; 
 Milton, thou spirit delicate and bright ! 
 
 What drew thee down to join the Roundhead throng 
 
 Of iron-sided warriors, rude and strong, 
 Fighting for freedom in a world half night? 
 
 Lover of Liberty at heart wast thou. 
 
 Above all beauty bright, all music clear: 
 
 To thee she bared her bosom and her brow. 
 Breathing her virgin promise in thine ear, 
 
 And bound thee to her with a double vow, — 
 Exquisite Puritan, grave Cavalier ! 
 
 II 
 
 The cause, the cause for which thy soul resigned 
 
 Her singing robes to battle on the plain. 
 
 Was won, O poet, and was lost again; 
 And lost the labour of thy lonely mind 
 On weary tasks of prose. What wilt thou find 
 
 To comfort thee for all the toil and pain? 
 
 What solace, now thy sacrifice is vain 
 And thou art left forsaken, poor, and blind? 
 
 423 
 
IN PRAISE OF POETS 
 
 Like organ-music comes the deep reply: 
 
 "The cause of truth looks lost, but shall be won. 
 
 For God hath given to mine inward eye 
 Vision of England soaring to the sun. 
 
 And granted me great peace before I die, 
 In thoughts of lowly duty bravely done." 
 
 Ill 
 
 O bend again above thine organ-board, 
 
 Thou blind old poet longing for repose ! 
 
 Thy Master claims thy service not with those 
 Who only stand and wait for His reward; 
 He pours the heavenly gift of song restored 
 
 Into thy breast, and bids thee nobly close 
 
 A noble life, with poetry that flows 
 In mighty music of the major chord. 
 
 Where hast thou learned this deep, majestic strain, 
 Surpassing all thy youthful lyric grace, 
 
 To sing of Paradise.'^ Ah, not in vain 
 
 The griefs that won at Dante's side thy place. 
 
 And made thee, Milton, by thy years of pain, 
 The loftiest poet of the English race ! 
 
 1908. 
 
 424 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls 
 Among the mountains, and thy song is fed 
 By living springs far up the watershed; 
 
 No whirling flood nor parching drought controls 
 
 The crystal current: even on the shoals 
 
 It murmurs clear and sweet; and when its bed 
 Deepens below mysterious cliffs of dread, 
 
 Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our souls. 
 
 But thou in youth hast known the breaking stress 
 Of passion, and hast trod despair's dry ground 
 Beneath black thoughts that wither and destroy. 
 Ah, wanderer, led by human tenderness 
 
 Home to the heart of Nature, thou hast found 
 The hidden Fountain of Recovered Joy. 
 
 October, 1906. 
 
 425 
 
KEATS 
 
 The melancholy gift Aurora gained 
 
 From Jove, that her sad lover should not see 
 The face of death, no goddess asked for thee, 
 
 My Keats ! But when the scarlet blood-drop stained 
 
 Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained, — 
 Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy ! 
 And then, — a shadow fell on Italy: 
 
 Thy star went down before its brightness waned. 
 
 Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed: 
 Never to feel the pain of growing old. 
 
 Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty's truth, 
 But with the ardent lips Urania kissed 
 
 To breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grew cold. 
 Become the Poet of Immortal Youth. 
 August, 1906. 
 
 426 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 Knight-Errant of the Never-ending Quest, 
 And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled Desire; 
 For ever tuning thy frail earthly lyre 
 
 To some unearthly music, and possessed 
 
 With painful passionate longing to invest 
 The golden dream of Love's immortal fire 
 With mortal robes of beautiful attire. 
 
 And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast ! 
 
 What wonder, Shelley, that the restless wave 
 
 Should claim thee and the leaping flame consume 
 Thy drifted form on Viareggio's beach? 
 These were thine elements, — thy fitting grave. 
 But still thy soul rides on with fiery plume. 
 Thy wild song rings in ocean's yearning speech ! 
 August, 1906. 
 
 427 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 How blind the toil that burrows like the mole, 
 In winding graveyard pathways underground, 
 For Browning's lineage ! What if men have found 
 
 Poor footmen or rich merchants on the roll 
 
 Of his forbears? Did they beget his soul? 
 Nay, for he came of ancestry renowned 
 Through all the world, — the poets laurel-crowned 
 
 With wreaths from which the autumn takes no toll. 
 
 The blazons on his coat-of-arms are these: 
 The flaming sign of Shelley's heart on fire. 
 The golden globe of Shakespeare's human stage, 
 The staff and scrip of Chaucer's pilgrimage, 
 The rose of Dante's deep, divine desire, 
 The tragic mask of wise Euripides. 
 November, 1906. 
 
 428 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 In Lucem Transitus, October, 1892 
 
 From the misty shores of midnight, touched with splen- 
 dours of the moon, 
 
 To the singing tides of heaven, and the Hght more clear 
 than noon, 
 
 Passed a soul that grew to music till it was with God in 
 tune. 
 
 Brother of the greatest poets, true to nature, true to art; 
 Lover of Immortal Love, uplifter of the human heart; 
 Who shall cheer us with high music, who shall sing, if 
 thou depart? 
 
 Silence here — for love is silent, gazing on the lessening 
 sail; 
 
 Silence here — for grief is voiceless when the mighty min- 
 strels fail; 
 
 Silence here — but far beyond us, many voices crying, 
 Hail! 
 
 429 
 
"IN MEMORIAM" 
 
 The record of a faith sublime, 
 
 And hope, through clouds, far-off discerned; 
 
 The incense of a love that burned 
 Through pain and doubt defying Time: 
 
 The story of a soul at strife 
 
 That learned at last to kiss the rod, 
 And passed through sorrow up to God, 
 
 From living to a higher life: 
 
 A light that gleams across the wave 
 Of darkness, down the rolling years. 
 Piercing the heavy mist of tears — 
 
 A rainbow shining o'er a grave. 
 
 430 
 
VICTOR HUGO 
 
 1802-1902 
 
 Heart of France for a hundred years, 
 Passionate, sensitive, proud, and strong, 
 
 Quick to throb with her hopes and fears. 
 Fierce to flame with her sense of wrong ! 
 You, who hailed with a morning song 
 
 Dream-Hght gilding a throne of old: 
 
 You, who turned when the dream grew cold. 
 
 Singing still, to the light that shone 
 
 Pure from Liberty's ancient throne. 
 Over the human throng ! 
 
 You, who dared in the dark eclipse, — 
 When the pygmy heir of a giant name 
 Dimmed the face of the land with shame, — 
 
 Speak the truth with indignant lips, 
 
 Call him little whom men called great. 
 Scoff at him, scorn him, deny him. 
 
 Point to the blood on his robe of state. 
 Fling back his bribes and defy him ! 
 
 You, who fronted the waves of fate 
 
 As you faced the sea from your island home, 
 Exiled, yet with a soul elate, 
 
 Sending songs o'er the rolling foam. 
 Bidding the heart of man to wait 
 For the day when all should see 
 431 
 
IN PRAISE OF POETS 
 
 Floods of wrath from the frowning skies 
 
 Fall on an Empire founded in lies, 
 And France again be free ! 
 You, who came in the Terrible Year 
 
 Swiftly back to your broken land, 
 Now to your heart a thousand times more dear, — 
 
 Prayed for her, sung to her, fought for her, 
 
 Patiently, fervently wrought for her. 
 Till once again. 
 
 After the storm of fear and pain. 
 High in the heavens the star of France stood clear ! 
 
 You, who knew that a man must take 
 Good and ill with a steadfast soul, 
 Holding fast, while the billows roll 
 
 Over his head, to the things that make 
 Life worth living for great and small. 
 Honour and pity and truth. 
 The heart and the hope of youth, 
 And the good God over all ! 
 
 You, to whom work was rest. 
 Dauntless Toiler of the Sea, 
 Following ever the joyful quest 
 Of beauty on the shores of old Romance, 
 Bard of the poor of France, 
 And warrior-priest of world-wide charity ! 
 
 You who loved little children best 
 Of all the poets that ever sung, 
 432 
 
VICTOR HUGO 
 
 Great heart, golden heart. 
 Old, and yet ever young. 
 
 Minstrel of liberty, 
 Lover of all free, winged things, 
 
 Now at last you are free, — 
 Your soul has its wings ! 
 Heart of France for a hundred years. 
 
 Floating far in the light that never fails you. 
 Over the turmoil of mortal hopes and fears 
 
 Victor, forever victor, the whole world hails you ! 
 March, 1902. 
 
 433 
 
LONGFELLOW 
 
 In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour and 
 riches and confusion, 
 
 Where there were many running to and fro, and shout- 
 ing, and striving together, 
 
 In the midst of the hurry and the troubled noise, I heard 
 the voice of one singing. 
 
 " What are you doing there, O man, singing quietly amid 
 
 all this tumult? 
 This is the time for new inventions, mighty shoutings, 
 
 and blowings of the trumpet." 
 But he answered, "I am only shepherding my sheep 
 
 with music." 
 
 So he went along his chosen way, keeping his little flock 
 around him; 
 
 And he paused to listen, now and then, beside the an- 
 tique fountains. 
 
 Where the faces of forgotten gods were refreshed with 
 musically falling waters; 
 
 Or he sat for a while at the blacksmith's door, and heard 
 
 the cling-clang of the anvils; 
 Or he rested beneath old steeples full of bells, that 
 
 showered their chimes upon him; 
 Or he walked along the border of the sea, drinking in 
 
 the long roar of the billows; 
 434 
 
LONGFELLOW 
 
 Or he sunned himself in the pine-scented shipyard, amid 
 
 the tattoo of the mallets; 
 Or he leaned on the rail of the bridge, letting his thoughts 
 
 flow with the whispering river; 
 He hearkened also to ancient tales, and made them 
 
 young again with his singing. 
 
 Then a flaming arrow of death fell on his flock, and 
 
 pierced the heart of his dearest ! 
 Silent the music now, as the shepherd entered the 
 
 mystical temple of sorrow: 
 Long he tarried in darkness there: but when he came 
 
 out he was singing. 
 
 And I saw the faces of men and women and children 
 
 silently turning toward him; 
 The youth setting out on the journey of life, and the old 
 
 man waiting beside the last mile-stone; 
 The toiler sweating beneath his load; and the happy 
 
 mother rocking her cradle; 
 
 The lonely sailor on far-off seas; and the gray-minded 
 
 scholar in his book-room; 
 The mill-hand bound to a clacking machine; and the 
 
 hunter in the forest; 
 And the solitary soul hiding friendless in the wilderness 
 
 of the city; 
 
 435 
 
IN PRAISE OF POETS 
 
 Many human faces, full of care and longing, were drawn 
 
 irresistibly toward him, 
 By the charm of something known to every heart, yet 
 
 very strange and lovely, 
 And at the sound of his singing wonderfully all their 
 
 faces were lightened. 
 
 " Why do you listen, O you people, to this old and world- 
 worn music? 
 
 This is not for you, in the splendour of a new age, in the 
 democratic triumph ! 
 
 Listen to the clashing cymbals, the big drums, the brazen 
 trumpets of your poets." 
 
 But the people made no answer, following in their hearts 
 
 the simpler music: 
 For it seemed to them, noise-weary, nothing could be 
 
 better worth the hearing 
 Than the melodies which brought sweet order into life's 
 
 confusion. 
 
 So the shepherd sang his way along, until he came unto 
 
 a mountain: 
 And I know not surely whether the mountain was called 
 
 Parnassus, 
 But he climbed it out of sight, and still I heard the 
 
 voice of one singing. 
 January, 1907. 
 
 436 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 I 
 
 BIRTHDAY VERSES, 1906 
 
 Dear Aldrich, now November's mellov/ days 
 Have brought another Festa round to you, 
 
 You can't refuse a loving-cup of praise 
 
 From friends the fleeting years have bound to you 
 
 Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear Bad Boy, 
 
 Prudence, and Judith the BethuHan, 
 And many more, to wish you birthday joy. 
 
 And sunny hours, and sky cerulean ! 
 
 Your children all, they hurry to your den. 
 
 With wreaths of honour they have won for you. 
 
 To merry-make your threescore years and ten. 
 You, old ? Why, life has just begun for you ! 
 
 There's many a reader whom your silver songs 
 And crystal stories cheer in loneliness. 
 
 What though the newer writers come in throngs ? 
 You're sure to keep your charm of only-ness. 
 
 437 
 
IN PRAISE OF POETS 
 
 You do your work with careful, loving touch, — 
 An artist to the very core of you, — 
 
 You know the magic spell of "not-too-much": 
 We read, — and wish that there was more of you. 
 
 And more there is: for while we love your books 
 Because their subtle skill is part of you; 
 
 We love you better, for our friendship looks 
 Behind them to the human heart of you. 
 
 II 
 
 MEMORIAL SONNET, 1908 
 
 This is the house where little Aldrich read 
 The early pages of Life's wonder-book 
 With boyish pleasure: in this ingle-nook 
 
 He watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy shed 
 
 Bright colour on the pictures blue and red: 
 
 Boy-like he skipped the longer words, and took 
 His happy way, with searching, dreamful look 
 
 Among the deeper things more simply said. 
 
 Then, came his turn to write: and still the flame 
 Of Fancy played through all the tales he told. 
 
 And still he won the laurelled poet's fame 
 
 With simple words wrought into rhymes of gold. 
 
 Look, here's the face to which this house is frame,- 
 A man too wise to let his heart grow old ! 
 438 
 
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 
 
 (Read at His Funeral, January 21, 1908) 
 
 Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch 
 
 Of beauty or of truth, 
 Rich in the thoughtfulness of age, 
 
 The hopefulness of youth, 
 The courage of the gentle heart, 
 
 The wisdom of the pure, 
 The strength of finely tempered souls 
 
 To labour and endure ! 
 
 The blue of springtime in your eyes 
 
 Was never quenched by pain; 
 And winter brought your head the crown 
 
 Of snow without a stain. 
 The poet's mind, the prince's heart. 
 
 You kept until the end. 
 Nor ever faltered in your work. 
 
 Nor ever failed a friend. 
 
 439 
 
IN PRAISE OF POETS 
 
 You followed, through the quest of life. 
 
 The light that shines above 
 The tumult and the toil of men, 
 
 And shows us what to love. 
 Right loyal to the best you knew. 
 
 Reality or dream, 
 You ran the race, you fought the fight, 
 
 A follower of the Gleam. 
 
 We lay upon your folded hands 
 
 The wreath of asphodel; 
 We speak above your peaceful face 
 
 The tender word Farewell ! 
 For well you fare, in God's good care, 
 
 Somewhere within the blue, 
 And know, to-day, your dearest dreams 
 
 Are true, — and true, — and true ! 
 
 440 
 
TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 ON HIS "book of joyous CHILDREN" 
 
 Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers; 
 
 Joyous children delight to play there; 
 Weary men find rest in its bowers, 
 
 Watching the lingering light of day there. 
 
 Old-time tunes and young love-laughter 
 Ripple and run among the roses; 
 
 Memory's echoes, murmuring after. 
 
 Fill the dusk when the long day closes. 
 
 Simple songs with a cadence olden — 
 
 These you learned in the Forest of Arden: 
 
 Friendly flowers with hearts all golden — 
 These you borrowed from Eden's garden. 
 
 This is the reason why all men love you; 
 
 Truth to life is the finest art: 
 Other poets may soar above you — 
 
 You keep close to the human heart. 
 December, 1903. 
 
 441 
 
RICHARD WATSON GILDER 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 Soul of a soldier in a poet's frame, 
 
 Heart of a hero in a body frail; 
 
 Thine was the courage clear that did not quail 
 Before the giant champions of shame 
 Who wrought dishonour to the city's name; 
 
 And thine the vision of the Holy Grail 
 
 Of Love, revealed through Music's lucid veil. 
 Filling thy hfe with heavenly song and flame. 
 
 Pure was the light that lit thy glowing eye, 
 
 And strong the faith that held thy simple creed. 
 Ah, poet, patriot, friend, to serve our need 
 
 Thou lea vest two great gifts that will not die: 
 
 Above the city's noise, thy lyric cry, — 
 Amid the city's strife, thy noble deed 
 
 November, 1909. 
 
 442 
 
THE VALLEY OF VAIN VERSES 
 
 The grief that is but feigning, 
 And weeps melodious tears 
 Of delicate complaining 
 From self-indulgent years; 
 The mirth that is but madness. 
 And has no inward gladness 
 Beneath its laughter straining. 
 To capture thoughtless ears; 
 
 The love that is but passion 
 Of amber-scented lust; 
 The doubt that is but fashion; 
 The faith that has no trust; 
 These Thamyris disperses, 
 In the Valley of Vain Verses 
 Below the Mount Parnassian, — 
 And they crumble into dust. 
 
 443 
 
MUSIC 
 
MUSIC 
 
 PRELUDE 
 
 Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night 
 When, pierced with pain and bitter-sweet delight, 
 She knew her Love and saw her Lord depart, 
 Then breathed her wonder and her woe forlorn 
 Into a single cry, and thou wast born ! 
 Thou flower of rapture and thou fruit of grief; 
 Invisible enchantress of the heart; 
 Mistress of charms that bring relief 
 To sorrow, and to joy impart 
 A heavenly tone that keeps it undefiled, — 
 Thou art the child 
 Of Amor, and by right divine 
 A throne of love is thine. 
 Thou flower-folded, golden-girdled, star-crowned Queen, 
 Whose bridal beauty mortal eyes have never seen ! 
 
 9. 
 
 Thou art the Angel of the pool that sleeps, 
 While peace and joy lie hidden in its deeps. 
 Waiting thy touch to make the waters roll 
 In healing murmurs round the weary soul. 
 
 447 
 
MUSIC 
 
 Ah, when wilt thou draw near, 
 Thou messenger of mercy robed in song? 
 My lonely heart has listened for thee long; 
 And now I seem to hear 
 Across the crowded market-place of life, 
 
 Thy measured foot-fall, ringing light and clear 
 Above unmeaning noises and unruly strife. 
 In quiet cadence, sweet and slow, 
 Serenely pacing to and fro. 
 Thy far-off steps are magical and dear, — 
 Ah, turn this way, come close and speak to me ! 
 From this dull bed of languor set my spirit free. 
 And bid me rise, and let me walk awhile with thee. 
 
 II 
 
 INVOCATION 
 
 Where wilt thou lead me first? 
 In what still region 
 Of thy domain. 
 Whose provinces are legion. 
 Wilt thou restore me to myself again. 
 And quench my heart's long thirst? 
 I pray thee lay thy golden girdle down. 
 And put away thy starry crown: 
 For one dear restful hour 
 Assume a state more mild. 
 Clad only in thy blossom-broidered gown 
 448 
 
MUSIC 
 
 That breathes familiar scent of many a flower, 
 Take the low path that leads through pastures green; 
 
 And though thou art a Queen, 
 Be Rosamund awhile, and in thy bower. 
 By tranquil love and simple joy beguiled, 
 Sing to my soul, as mother to her child. 
 
 Ill 
 
 PLAY SONG 
 
 O lead me by the hand. 
 
 And let my heart have rest, 
 And bring me back to childhood land. 
 To find again the long-lost band 
 
 Of playmates blithe and blest. 
 
 Some quaint, old-fashioned air, 
 
 That all the children knew. 
 Shall run before us everywhere. 
 Like a little maid with flying hair, 
 
 To guide the merry crew. 
 
 Along the garden ways 
 
 We chase the light-foot tune, 
 And in and out the flowery maze, 
 With eager haste and fond delays, 
 
 In pleasant paths of June. 
 
 449 
 
MUSIC 
 
 For us the fields are new. 
 
 For us the woods are rife 
 With fairy secrets, deep and true, 
 And heaven is but a tent of blue 
 
 Above the game of life. 
 
 The world is far away: 
 
 The fever and the fret, 
 And all that makes the heart grow gray. 
 Is out of sight and far away, 
 Dear Music, while I hear thee play 
 That olden, golden roundelay, 
 
 "Remember and forget!" 
 
 IV 
 
 SLEEP SONG 
 
 Forget, forget ! 
 The tide of life is turning; 
 The waves of light ebb slowly down the west: 
 Along the edge of dark some stars are burning 
 To guide thy spirit safely to an isle of rest. 
 A little rocking on the tranquil deep 
 
 Of song, to soothe thy yearning, 
 A little slumber and a little sleep. 
 And so, forget, forget ! 
 
 450 
 
MUSIC 
 
 Forget, forget, — 
 The day was long in pleasure; 
 Its echoes die away across the hill; 
 Now let thy heart beat time to their slow measure, 
 That swells, and sinks, and faints, and falls, till all is still. 
 Then, like a weary child that loves to keep 
 
 Locked in its arms some treasure. 
 Thy soul in calm content shall fall asleep. 
 And so forget, forget. 
 
 Forget, forget, — 
 And if thou hast been weeping, 
 Let go the thoughts that bind thee to thy grief: 
 Lie still, and watch the singing angels, reaping 
 The golden harvest of thy sorrow, sheaf by sheaf; 
 
 Or count thy joys like flocks of snow-white sheep 
 
 That one by one come creeping 
 Into the quiet fold, until thou sleep. 
 And so forget, forget ! 
 
 Forget, forget, — 
 Thou art a child and knowest 
 So httle of thy life ! But music tells 
 The secret of the world through which thou goest 
 To work with morning song, to rest with evening bells: 
 Life is in tune with harmony so deep 
 
 That when the notes are lowest 
 Thou still canst lay thee down in peace and sleep. 
 For God will not forget. 
 451 
 
MUSIC 
 
 HUNTING SONG 
 
 Out of the garden of playtime, out of the bower of rest, 
 Fain would I follow at daytime, music that calls to a quest. 
 Hark, how the galloping measure 
 Quickens the pulses of pleasure; 
 Gaily saluting the morn 
 With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn. 
 Echoing up from the valley. 
 Over the mountain side, — 
 Rally, you hunters, rally. 
 Rally, and ride ! 
 
 Drink of the magical potion music has mixed with her wine. 
 Full of the madness of motion, joyful, exultant, divine ! 
 Leave all your troubles behind you. 
 Ride where they never can find you. 
 Into the gladness of morn, 
 With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, 
 Swiftly o'er hillock and hollow. 
 
 Sweeping along with the wind, — 
 Follow, you hunters, follow. 
 Follow and find! 
 
 What will you reach with your riding? What is the 
 
 charm of the chase? 
 Just the delight and the striding swing of the jubilant pace. 
 
 452 
 
MUSIC 
 
 Danger is sweet when you front her, — 
 In at the death, every hunter ! 
 Now on the breeze the mort is borne 
 In the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, 
 Winding merrily, over and over, — 
 
 Come, come, come ! 
 Home again. Ranger ! home again, Rover ! 
 Turn again, home ! 
 
 VI 
 
 DANCE-MUSIC 
 
 Now let the sleep-tune blend with the play-tune. 
 Weaving the mystical spell of the dance; 
 Lighten the deep tune, soften the gay tune, 
 Mingle a tempo that turns in a trance. 
 Half of it sighing, half of it smiling. 
 Smoothly it swings, with a triplicate beat; 
 Calling, replying, yearning, beguiling. 
 Wooing the heart and bewitching the feet. 
 
 Every drop of blood 
 
 Rises with the flood, 
 Rocking on the waves of the strain; 
 
 Youth and beauty glide 
 
 Turning with the tide — 
 Music making one out of twain, 
 453 
 
MUSIC 
 
 Bearing them away, and away, and away, 
 
 Like a tone and its terce — 
 Till the chord dissolves, and the dancers stay, 
 And reverse. 
 
 Violins leading, take up the measure. 
 Turn with the tune again, — clarinets clear 
 Answer their pleading, — harps full of pleasure 
 Sprinkle their silver like light on the mere. 
 
 Semiquaver notes, 
 
 Merry little motes. 
 
 Tangled in the haze 
 
 Of the lamp's golden rays, 
 
 Quiver everywhere 
 In the air, 
 Like a spray, — 
 Till the fuller stream of the might of the tune. 
 Gliding like a dream in the light of the moon. 
 Bears them all away, and away, and away. 
 Floating in the trance of the dance. 
 
 Then begins a measure stately. 
 
 Languid, slow, serene; 
 
 All the dancers move sedately. 
 
 Stepping leisurely and straitly. 
 
 With a courtly mien; 
 
 454 
 
MUSIC 
 
 Crossing hands and changing places, 
 
 Bowing low between, 
 While the minuet inlaces 
 Waving arms and woven paces, — 
 
 Glittering damaskeen. 
 Where is she whose form is folden 
 
 In its royal sheen? 
 From our longing eyes withholden 
 By her mystic girdle golden, 
 
 Beauty sought but never seen, 
 Music walks the maze, a queen. 
 
 VII 
 
 WAR-MUSIC 
 
 Break off ! Dance no more ! 
 
 Danger is at the door. 
 
 Music is in arms. 
 To signal war's alarms. 
 
 Hark, a sudden trumpet calling 
 
 Over the hill! 
 Why are you calling, trumpet, calhng? 
 
 What is your will.? 
 
 Men, men, men ! 
 Men who are ready to fight 
 For their country's life, and the right 
 455 
 
MUSIC 
 
 Of a liberty-loving land to be 
 
 Free, free, free ! 
 Free from a tyrant's chain, 
 Free from dishonor's stain, 
 Free to guard and maintain 
 All that her fathers fought for. 
 All that her sons have wrought for, 
 
 Resolute, brave, and free ! 
 
 Call again, trumpet, call again, 
 Call up the men ! 
 
 Do you hear the storm of cheers 
 
 Mingled with the women's tears 
 And the tramp, tramp, tramp of marching feet? 
 
 Do you hear the throbbing drum 
 
 As the hosts of battle come 
 Keeping time, time, time to its beat? 
 
 O Music give a song 
 
 To make their spirit strong 
 For the fury of the tempest they must meet. 
 
 The hoarse roar 
 Of the monster guns; 
 And the sharp bark 
 Of the lesser guns; 
 The whine of the shells, 
 The rifles' clatter 
 
 456 
 
MUSIC 
 
 Where the bullets patter, 
 
 The rattle, rattle, rattle 
 
 Of the mitrailleuse in battle, 
 
 And the yells 
 
 Of the men who charge through hells 
 
 Where the poison gas descends, 
 
 And the bursting shrapnel rends 
 
 Limb from limb 
 
 In the dim 
 
 Chaos and clamor of the strife 
 
 Where no man thinks of his life 
 
 But only of fighting through, 
 
 Blindly fighting through, through ! 
 
 'Tis done 
 At last! 
 
 The victory won. 
 The dissonance of warfare past! 
 
 O Music mourn the dead 
 
 Whose loyal blood was shed, 
 And sound the taps for every hero slain; 
 
 Then lead into the song 
 
 That made their spirit strong, 
 And tell the world they did not die in vain. 
 
 Thank God we can see, in the glory of morn, 
 The invincible flag that our fathers defended; 
 457 
 
MUSIC 
 
 And our hearts can repeat what the heroes have sworn. 
 
 That war shall not end till the war-lust is ended. 
 Then the bloodthirsty sword shall no longer be lord 
 Of the nations oppressed by the conqueror's horde. 
 But the banners of Liberty proudly shall wave 
 O'er the world of the free and the lands of the brave. 
 
 May, 1916. 
 
 VIII 
 
 THE SYMPHONY 
 
 Music, they do thee wrong who say thine art 
 
 Is only to enchant the sense. 
 For every timid motion of the heart, 
 
 And every passion too intense 
 To bear the chain of the imperfect word. 
 And every tremulous longing, stirred 
 By spirit winds that come we know not whence 
 And go we know not where, 
 And every inarticulate prayer 
 Beating about the depths of pain or bliss, 
 
 Like some bewildered bird 
 That seeks its nest but knows not where it is. 
 And every dream that haunts, with dim delight. 
 The drowsy hour between the day and night. 
 The wakeful hour between the night and day, — 
 Imprisoned, waits for thee. 
 Impatient, yearns for thee, 
 458 
 
MUSIC 
 
 The queen who comes to set the captive free ! 
 Thou lendest wings to grief to fly away, 
 And wings to joy to reach a heavenly height; 
 And every dumb desire that storms within the breast 
 Thou leadest forth to sob or sing itself to rest. 
 
 All these are thine, and therefore love is thine. 
 
 For love is joy and grief. 
 And trembling doubt, and certain-sure belief, 
 And fear, and hope, and longing unexpressed. 
 In pain most human, and in rapture brief 
 
 Almost divine. 
 Love would possess, yet deepens when denied; 
 And love would give, yet hungers to receive; 
 Love like a prince his triumph would achieve; 
 And like a miser in the dark his joys would hide. 
 Love is most bold. 
 He leads his dreams like armed men in line; 
 Yet when the siege is set, and he must speak, 
 
 Calling the fortress to resign 
 Its treasure, valiant love grows weak. 
 And hardly dares his purpose to unfold. 
 Less with his faltering lips than with his eyes 
 He claims the longed-for prize: 
 Love fain would tell it all, yet leaves the best untold. 
 But thou shalt speak for love. Yea, thou shalt teach 
 The mystery of measured tone, 
 The Pentecostal speech 
 459 
 
MUSIC 
 
 That every listener heareth as his own. 
 
 For on thy head the cloven tongues of fire, — 
 
 Diminished chords that quiver with desire, 
 
 And major chords that glow with perfect peace, — 
 
 Have fallen from above; 
 
 And thou canst give release 
 In music to the burdened heart of love. 
 
 Sound with the 'cellos' pleading, passionate strain 
 The yearning theme, and let the flute reply 
 In placid melody, while violins complain. 
 And sob, and sigh. 
 With muted string; 
 Then let the oboe half-reluctant sing 
 Of bliss that trembles on the verge of pain, 
 While 'cellos plead and plead again. 
 With throbbing notes delayed, that would impart 
 To every urgent tone the beating of the heart. 
 
 So runs the andante, making plain 
 The hopes and fears of love without a word. 
 Then comes the adagio, with a yielding theme 
 Through which the violas flow soft as in a dream. 
 While horns and mild bassoons are heard 
 In tender tune, that seems to float 
 
 Like an enchanted boat 
 Upon the downward-gliding stream. 
 Toward the allegro's wide, bright sea 
 Of dancing, glittering, blending tone, 
 460 
 
MUSIC 
 
 Where every instrument is sounding free. 
 And harps Hke wedding-chimes are rung, and trumpets 
 blown 
 
 Around the barque of love 
 That rides, with smiling skies above, 
 
 A royal galley, many-oared. 
 Into the happy harbour of the perfect chord. 
 
 IX 
 
 IRIS 
 
 Light to the eye and Music to the ear, — 
 These are the builders of the bridge that springs 
 From earth's dim shore of half-remembered things 
 
 To reach the heavenly sphere 
 Where nothing silent is and nothing dark. 
 
 So when I see the rainbow's arc 
 Spanning the showery sky, far-off I hear 
 
 Music, and every colour sings: 
 And while the symphony builds up its round 
 Full sweep of architectural harmony 
 Above the tide of Time, far, far away I see 
 A bow of colour in the bow of sound. 
 
 Red as the dawn the trumpet rings; 
 
 Blue as the sky, the choir of strings 
 Darkens in double-bass to ocean's hue. 
 Rises in violins to noon-tide's blue, 
 With threads of quivering light shot through and through; 
 
 461 
 
MUSIC 
 
 Green as the mantle that the summer flings 
 Around the world, the pastoral reeds in tune 
 Embroider melodies of May and June. 
 Purer than gold, 
 Yea, thrice-refined gold, 
 And richer than the treasures of the mine. 
 
 Floods of the human voice divine 
 Along the arch in choral song are rolled. 
 So bends the bow complete: 
 And radiant rapture flows 
 Across the bridge, so full, so strong, so sweet. 
 That the uplifted spirit hardly knows 
 Whether the Music-Light that glows 
 Within the arch of tones and colours seven, 
 Is sunset-peace of earth or sunrise-joy of Heaven. 
 
 SEA AND SHORE 
 
 Music, I yield to thee 
 
 As swimmer to the sea, 
 I give my spirit to the flood of song ! 
 
 Bear me upon thy breast 
 
 In rapture and at rest. 
 Bathe me in pure delight and make me strong; 
 
 From strife and struggle bring release, 
 And draw the waves of passion into tides of peace. 
 
 462 
 
MUSIC 
 
 Remembered songs most dear 
 
 In living songs I hear, 
 While blending voices gently swing and sway, 
 
 In melodies of love, 
 
 Whose mighty currents move 
 With singing near and singing far away; 
 
 Sweet in the glow of morning light, 
 And sweeter still across the starlit gulf of night. 
 
 Music, in thee we float. 
 
 And lose the lonely note 
 Of self in thy celestial-ordered strain, 
 
 Until at last we find 
 
 The life to love resigned 
 In harmony of joy restored again; 
 
 And songs that cheered our mortal days 
 Break on the shore of light in endless hymns of praise. 
 December, 1901— May, 1903— May, 1916. 
 
 463 
 
MASTER OF MUSIC 
 
 (In memory of Theodore Thomas, 1905) 
 
 Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and 
 bard. 
 Living forever in temple and picture and statue and 
 song, — 
 Look how the world with the lights that they lit is il- 
 lumined and starred; 
 Brief was the flame of their life, but the lamps of their 
 art burn long ! 
 
 Wliere is the Master of Music, and how has he vanished 
 away ? 
 Where is the work that he wrought with his wonderful 
 art in the air? 
 Gone, — it is gone like the glow on the cloud at the close 
 of the day ! 
 The Master has finished his work and the glory of 
 music is — where? 
 
 464 
 
MASTER OF MUSIC 
 
 Once, at the wave of his wand, all the billows of musical 
 sound 
 Followed his will, as the sea was ruled by the prophet 
 of old: 
 Now that his hand is relaxed, and his rod has dropped 
 to the ground, 
 Silent and dark are the shores where the marvellous 
 harmonies rolled ! 
 
 Nay, but not silent the hearts that were filled by that 
 life-giving sea; 
 Deeper and purer forever the tides of their being will 
 roll. 
 Grateful and joyful, O Master, because they have listened 
 to thee; 
 The glory of music endures in the depths of the human 
 soul. 
 
 465 
 
THE PIPES O' PAN 
 
 Great Nature had a million words, 
 In tongues of trees and songs of birds. 
 But none to breathe the heart of man. 
 Till Music filled the pipes o' Pan. 
 1909. 
 
 466 
 
TO A YOUNG GIRL SINGING 
 
 Oh, what do you know of the song, my dear. 
 And how have you made it your own? 
 
 You have caught the turn of the melody clear, 
 And you give it again with a golden tone, 
 Till the wonder-word and the wedded note 
 Are flowing out of your beautiful throat 
 With a liquid charm for every ear: 
 And they talk of your art, — but for you alone 
 The song is a thing, unheard, unknown; 
 You only have learned it by rote. 
 
 But when you have lived for awhile, my dear, 
 I think you will learn it anew ! 
 
 For a joy will come, or a grief, or a f^ar, 
 
 That will alter the look of the world for you; 
 
 And the lyric you learned as a bit of art. 
 
 Will wake to life as a wonderful part 
 
 Of the love you feel so deep and true; 
 
 And the thrill of a laugh or the throb of a tear. 
 
 Will come with your song to all who hear; 
 
 For then you will know it by heart. 
 
 April. 1911. 
 
 467 
 
THE OLD FLUTE 
 
 The time will come when I no more can play 
 This polished flute: the stops will not obey 
 My gnarled fingers; and the air it weaves 
 In modulations, like a vine with leaves 
 Climbing around the tower of song, will die 
 In rustling autumn rhythms, confused and dry. 
 My shortened breath no more will freely fill 
 This magic reed with melody at will; 
 My stiffened lips will try and try in vain 
 To wake the liquid, leaping, dancing strain; 
 The heavy notes will falter, wheeze, and faint. 
 Or mock my ear with shrillness of complaint. 
 
 Then let me hang this faithful friend of mine 
 
 Upon the trunk of some old, sacred pine, 
 
 And sit beneath the green protecting boughs 
 
 To hear the viewless wind, that sings and soughs 
 
 Above me, play its wild, aerial lute. 
 
 And draw a ghost of music from my flute ! 
 
 So will I thank the gods; and most of all 
 The Delian Apollo, whom men call 
 The mighty master of immortal sound, — 
 Lord of the billows in their chanting round, 
 Lord of the winds that fill the wood with sighs, 
 4G8 
 
THE OLD FLUTE 
 
 Lord of the echoes and their sweet rephes, 
 
 Lord of the little people of the air 
 
 That sprinkle drops of music everywhere, 
 
 Lord of the sea of melody that laves 
 
 The universe with never silent waves, — 
 
 Him will I thank that this brief breath of mine 
 
 Has caught one cadence of the song divine; 
 
 And these frail fingers learned to rise and fall 
 
 In time with that great tune which throbs thro' all; 
 
 And these poor lips have lent a lilt of joy 
 
 To songless men whom weary tasks employ ! 
 
 My life has had its music, and my heart 
 
 In harmony has borne a little part, 
 
 And now I come with quiet, grateful breast 
 
 To Death's dim hall of silence and of rest. 
 
 Freely rendered from the French of Auguste Angellier, 1911. 
 
 469 
 
THE FIRST BUD O' SPRING 
 
 TO OLIVE WHEELER 
 
 Winter on Mount Shasta, 
 
 April down below; 
 
 Golden hours of glowing sun, 
 
 Sudden showers of snow ! 
 
 Under leafless thickets 
 
 Early wild-flowers cling; 
 
 But, oh, my dear, I'm fain to hear 
 
 The first bird o' Spring! 
 
 Alders are in tassel, 
 
 Maples are in bud; 
 
 Waters of the blue McCloud 
 
 Shout in joyful flood; 
 
 Through the giant pine-trees 
 
 Flutters many a wing; 
 
 But, oh, my dear, I long to hear 
 
 The first bird o' Spring! 
 
 470 
 
THE FIRST BIRD O' SPRING 
 
 Candle-light and fire-light 
 
 Mingle at "the Bend;" 
 
 'Neath the roof of Bo-hai-pan 
 
 Light and shadow blend. 
 
 Sweeter than a wood-thrush 
 
 A maid begins to sing; 
 
 And, oh, my dear, I'm glad to hear 
 
 The first bird o' Spring! 
 
 The Bend, California, April 29, 1913. 
 
 471 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Benhadad : 
 Rezon : 
 Saballidin : 
 Hazael 
 izdubhar 
 Rakhaz 
 Shumakim: 
 Elisha : 
 NAAMAN: 
 RUAHMAH; 
 TsARPi : 
 Khamma 
 
 NUBTA 
 
 King of Damascus. 
 
 High Priest of the House of Rimmon. 
 
 A Noble. 
 
 Courtiers. 
 
 The King's Fool. 
 
 Prophet of Israel. 
 
 Captain of the Armies of Damascus. 
 
 A Captive Maid of Israel. 
 
 Wife to Naaman. 
 
 Attendants of Tsarpi. 
 
 Soldiers, Servants, Citizens, etc., etc. 
 
 Scene: Damascus and the Mountains of Samaria. 
 
 Time: 850 B. C. 
 
ACT I 
 
 Scene I 
 
 Night, in the garden of Naaman at Damascus. At the left 
 the palax;e, with softly gleaming lights and music coming 
 from the open latticed loindows. The garden is full of 
 oleanders, roses, pomegranates, abundance of crimson 
 flowers; the air is heavy vnth their fragrance: a fountain 
 at the right is plashing gently: behind it is an arbour 
 covered with vines. Near the centre of the garden stands 
 a small, hideous image of the god Rimmon. Beyond 
 the arbour rises the lofty square tower of the House of 
 Rimmon, which casts a shadow from the moon across the 
 garden. The background is a wide, hilly landscape, with 
 the snow-clad summit of Mount Herman in the distance. 
 Enter by the palace door, the lady Tsarpi, robed in red 
 and gold, and followed by her maids, Khamma and Nubta. 
 She remains on the terrace: they go down into the gar- 
 den, looking about, and returning to her. 
 
 Khamma : 
 
 There's no one here; the garden is asleep. 
 
 Nubta : 
 
 The flowers are nodding, all the birds abed, — 
 Nothing awake except the watchful stars ! 
 
 Khamma : 
 
 The stars are sentinels discreet and mute: 
 How many things they know and never tell ! 
 475 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i. sc. i 
 
 TsARPi : [Impatiently.] 
 
 Unlike the stars, how many things you tell 
 
 And do not know ! When comes your master home ? 
 NuBTA : 
 
 Lady, his armour-bearer brought us word, — 
 
 At moonset, not before. 
 
 TsARPi : 
 
 He haunts the camp 
 And leaves me much alone; yet I can pass 
 The time of absence not unhappily. 
 If I but know the time of his return. 
 An hour of moonhght yet ! Khamma, my mirror ! 
 These curls are ill arranged, this veil too low, — 
 So, — that is better, careless maids ! Withdraw, — 
 But bring me word if Naaman appears ! 
 
 Khamma : 
 
 Mistress, have no concern; for when we hear 
 The clatter of his horse along the street, 
 We'll run this way and lead your dancers down 
 With song and laughter, — you shall know in time. 
 [Exeunt Khamma and Nubta laughing, Tsarpi 
 descends the steps.] 
 
 Tsarpi : 
 
 My guest is late; but he will surely come ! 
 The man who burns to drain the cup of love, 
 The priest whose greed of glory never fails. 
 Both, both have need of me, and he will come. 
 And I, — what do I need.'' Why everything 
 476 
 
ACT I. SCI] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 That helps my beauty to a higher throne; 
 All that a priest can promise, all a man 
 Can give, and all a god bestow, I need: 
 This may a woman win, and this will I. 
 
 [Enter Rezon quietly from the shadow of the trees. 
 He stands behind Tsarpi and listens, smiling, 
 to her last words. Then he drops his mantle of 
 leopard-skin, and lifts his high priesfs rod of 
 bronze, shaped at one end like a star.] 
 Rezon : 
 
 Tsarpi ! 
 Tsarpi: [Bowing low before him.] 
 
 The mistress of the house of Naaman 
 Salutes the master of the House of Rimmon. 
 Rezon : 
 
 Rimmon receives you with his star of peace. 
 For you were once a handmaid of his altar. 
 
 [He lowers the star-point of the rod, which glows 
 for a moment with rosy light above her head.] 
 And now the keeper of his temple asks 
 The welcome of the woman for the man. 
 Tsarpi : [Giving him her hand, but holding off his embrace.] 
 No more, — till I have heard what brings you here 
 By night, within the garden of the one 
 Who scorns you most and fears you least in all 
 Damascus. 
 
 Rezon: 
 
 Trust me, I repay his scorn 
 
 477 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [acti.sc . 
 
 With double hatred, — Naaman, the man 
 Who stands against the nobles and the priests, 
 This powerful fool, this impious devotee 
 Of liberty, who loves the people more 
 Than he reveres the city's ancient god: 
 This frigid husband who sets you below 
 His dream of duty to a horde of slaves: 
 This man I hate, and I will humble him. 
 
 TsARPi: 
 
 I think I hate him too. He stands apart 
 From me, ev'n while he holds me in his arms. 
 By something that I cannot understand. 
 He swears he loves his wife next to his honour ! 
 Next ? That's too low ! I will be first or nothing. 
 
 Rezon : 
 
 With me you are the first, the absolute ! 
 
 When you and I have triumphed you shall reign; 
 
 And you and I will bring this hero down. 
 
 TsARPi : 
 
 But how? For he is strong. 
 
 Rezon : 
 
 By this, the hand 
 
 Of Tsarpi; and by this, the rod of Rimmon. 
 TsARPi : 
 
 Your plan? 
 
 Rezon : 
 
 You know the host of Nineveh 
 Is marching now against us. Envoys come 
 478 
 
ACT I. SCI] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 To bid us yield before a hopeless war. 
 
 Our king is weak: the nobles, being rich, 
 
 Would purchase peace to make them richer still: 
 
 Only the people and the soldiers, led 
 
 By Naaman, would fight for liberty. 
 
 Blind fools ! To-day the envoys came to me. 
 
 And talked with me in secret. Promises, 
 
 Great promises ! For every noble house 
 
 That urges peace, a noble recompense: 
 
 The King, submissive, kept in royal state 
 
 And splendour: most of all, honour and wealth 
 
 Shall crown the House of Rimmon, and his priest, — 
 
 Yea, and his priestess ! For we two will rise 
 
 Upon the city's fall. The common folk 
 
 Shall suffer; Naaman shall sink with them 
 
 In wreck; but I shall rise, and you shall rise 
 
 Above me ! You shall climb, through incense-smoke. 
 
 And days of pomp, and nights of revelry, 
 
 Unto the topmost room in Rimmon's tower, 
 
 The secret, lofty room, the couch of bliss. 
 
 And the divine embraces of the god. 
 
 TsARPi: [Throwing out her arms in exultation.] 
 All, all I wish! What must I do for this.? 
 
 Rezon : 
 
 Turn Naaman away from thoughts of war. 
 
 TsARPi : 
 
 But if I fail? His will is proof against 
 The lure of kisses and the wile of tears. 
 479 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i, sc. i 
 
 Rezon : 
 
 Where woman fails, woman and priest succeed. 
 Before the King decides, he must consult 
 The oracle of Rimmon. This my hands 
 Prepare, — and you shall read the signs prepared 
 In words of fear to melt the brazen heart 
 Of Naaman. 
 
 TsARPi : 
 
 But if it flame instead? 
 
 Rezon : 
 
 I know a way to quench that flame. The cup, 
 The parting cup your hand shall give to him ! 
 What if the curse of Rimmon should infect 
 That sacred wine with poison, secretly 
 To work within his veins, week after week 
 Corrupting all the currents of his blood. 
 Dimming his eyes, wasting his flesh .^ What then? 
 Would he prevail in war? Would he come back 
 To glory, or to shame? What think you? 
 
 TsARPi: 
 
 I?— 
 I do not think; I only do my part. 
 But can the gods bless this? 
 
 Rezon : 
 
 The gods can bless 
 Whatever they decree; their will makes right; 
 And this is for the glory of the House 
 480 
 
ACT I, SCI] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 Of Rimmon, — and for thee, my queen. Come, come ! 
 The night grows dark: we'll perfect our alliance. 
 [Rezon draws her with him, embracing her, through 
 the shadows of the garden. Ruahmah, who has 
 been sleeping in the arbour, has been awakened 
 during the dialogue, and has been dimly visible 
 in her white dress, behind the vines. She parts 
 them and comes out, pushing back her long, dark 
 hair from her temples.] 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 What have I heard? O God, what shame is this 
 
 Plotted beneath Thy pure and silent stars ! 
 
 Was it for this that I was brought away 
 
 A captive from the hills of Israel 
 
 To serve the heathen in a land of lies.'* 
 
 Ah, treacherous, shameful priest ! Ah, shameless wife 
 
 Of one too noble to suspect thy guilt ! 
 
 The very greatness of his generous heart 
 
 Betrays him to their hands. What can I do ! 
 
 Nothing, — a slave, — hated and mocked by all 
 
 My fellow-slaves ! O bitter prison-hf e ! 
 
 I smother in this black, betraying air 
 
 Of lust and luxury; I faint beneath 
 
 The shadow of this House of Rimmon. God 
 
 Have mercy ! Lead me out to Israel. 
 
 To Israel! 
 
 [Music and larighter heard within the palace. The 
 doors fly open and a flood of men and women, 
 481 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON Ucti.sc. i 
 
 dancers, players, flushed with wine, dishevelled, 
 pour down the steps, Khamma and Nubta with 
 them. They crown the image with roses and 
 dance around it. Ruahmah is discovered 
 crouching beside the arbour. They drag her oid 
 beside the image.] 
 
 Nubta : 
 
 Look ! Here's the Hebrew maid, — 
 
 She's homesick ; let us comfort her ! 
 Khamma: {They put their arms around her.] 
 
 Yes, dancing is the cure for homesickness. 
 
 We'll make her dance. 
 Ruahmah: [She slips away.] 
 
 I pray you, let me go ! 
 
 I cannot dance, I do not know your measures. 
 Khamma : 
 
 Then sing for us, — a song of Israel ! 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 How can I sing the songs of Israel 
 
 In this strange country ? O my heart would break ! 
 
 A Servant: 
 
 A stubborn and unfriendly maid ! We'll whip her. 
 [They circle around her, striking her with rose- 
 branches ; she sinks to her knees, covering her 
 face vnih her bare arms, which bleed.] 
 Nubta : 
 
 Look, look ! She kneels to Rimmon, she is tamed. 
 482 
 
ACT I, SCI] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 Ruahmah: [Springing up and lifting her arms.] 
 Nay, not to this dumb idol, but to Him 
 Who made Orion and the seven stars ! 
 All: 
 
 She raves, — she mocks at Rimmon ! Punish her ! 
 The fountain ! Wash her blasphemy away ! 
 
 [They push her toward the fountain, laughing and 
 shouting, hi the open door of the palace 
 Naaman appears, dressed in blue and silver, 
 bareheaded and unarmed. He comes to the top 
 of the steps and stands for a moment, astonished 
 and angry.] 
 NAA^L^N : 
 
 Silence ! What drunken rout is this ? Begone, 
 Ye barking dogs and mewing cats ! Out, all ! 
 Poor child, what have they done to thee? 
 
 [Exeunt all except Ruahmah, who stands vnth her 
 face covered by her hands. Naaman comes to 
 her, laying his hand on her shoulder.] 
 Ruahmah : [Looking up in his face.] 
 
 Nothing, 
 My lord and master ! They have harmed me not. 
 Naaman: [Touching her arm.] 
 Dost call this nothing? 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 Since my lord is come ! 
 Naaman: 
 
 I do not know thy face, — who art thou, child? 
 483 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i. sc. i 
 
 RUAHMAH : 
 
 The handmaid of thy wife. 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 WTience comest thou? 
 Thy voice is like thy mistress, but thy looks 
 Have something foreign. Tell thy name, thy land. 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 Ruahmah is my name, a captive maid, 
 The daughter of a prince in Israel, 
 Where once, in olden days, I saw my lord 
 Ride through our highlands, when Samaria 
 Was allied with Damascus to defeat 
 Our common foe. 
 
 Naaman: 
 
 And thou rememberest this? 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 As clear as yesterday ! Master, I saw 
 
 Thee riding on a snow-white horse beside 
 
 Our king; and all we joyful little maids 
 
 Strewed boughs of palm along the victors' way, 
 
 For you had driven out the enemy, 
 
 Broken; and both our lands were friends and free. 
 
 Naaman: [Sadly.] 
 
 Well, they are past, those noble days ! The days 
 When nations would imperil all to keep 
 Their liberties, are only memories now. 
 The common cause is lost, — and thou art brought. 
 The captive of some mercenary raid, 
 484 
 
ACT I. SCI] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 Some skirmish of a gold-begotten war. 
 
 To serve within my house. Dost thou fare well? 
 
 RUAHMAH : 
 
 Master, thou seest. 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 Yes, I see! My child. 
 Why do they hate thee so? 
 
 RuAHMAH : 
 
 I do not know. 
 Unless because I will not bow to Rimmon. 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 Thou needest not. I fear he is a god 
 Wlio pities not his people, will not save. 
 My heart is sick with doubt of him. But thou 
 Shalt hold thy faith, — I care not what it is, — 
 Worship thy god; but keep thy spirit free. 
 
 [He takes the amulet from his neck and gives it to 
 her.] 
 Here, take this chain and wear it with my seal. 
 None shall molest the maid who carries this. 
 Thou hast found favour in thy master's eyes; 
 Hast thou no other gift to ask of me? 
 
 Ruahmah: [Earnestly.] 
 
 My lord, I do entreat thee not to go 
 To-morrow to the council. Seek the King 
 And speak with him in secret; but avoid 
 The audience-hall. 
 
 485 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON Uci i, sc. i 
 
 Na AM AN : 
 
 Why, what is this? Thy wits 
 Are wandering. My honour is engaged 
 To speak for war, to lead in war against 
 The Assyrian Bull and save Damascus. 
 Ruahmah: [With confused earnestness.] 
 
 Then, lord, if thou must go, I pray thee speak, — 
 I know not how, — ^but so that all must hear. 
 With magic of unanswerable words 
 Persuade thy foes. Yet watch, — beware, — 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 Of what.? 
 
 Ruahmah: [Turning aside.] 
 
 I am entangled in my speech, — no hght, — 
 How shall I tell him.'^ He will not believe. 
 O my dear lord, thine enemies are they 
 Of thine own house. I pray thee to beware, — 
 Beware, — of Rimmon ! 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 Child, thy words are wild: 
 Thy troubles have bewildered all thy brain. 
 Go, now, and fret no more; but sleep, and dream 
 Of Israel ! For thou shalt see thy home 
 Among the hills again. 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 Master, good-night. 
 And may thy slumber be as sweet and deep 
 As if thou camped at snowy Hermon's foot, 
 
 486 
 
Acii.sc .1] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 Amid the music of his waterfalls. 
 
 There friendly oak-trees bend their boughs above 
 
 The weary head, pillowed on earth's kind breast, 
 
 And unpolluted breezes lightly breathe 
 
 A song of sleep among the murmuring leaves. 
 
 There the big stars draw nearer, and the sun 
 
 Looks forth serene, undimmed by city's mirk 
 
 Or smoke of idol-temples, to behold 
 
 The waking wonder of the wide-spread world. 
 
 There life renews itself with every morn 
 
 In purest joy of living. May the Lord 
 
 Deliver thee, dear master, from the nets 
 
 Laid for thy feet, and lead thee out along 
 
 The open path, beneath the open sky ! 
 
 [Exit RuAHMAH : Naaman stands looking after her.] 
 
 Scene II 
 
 Time: The following morning 
 
 The audience-hall in Benhadad's palace. The sides of the 
 hall are lined with lofty columns: the hack opens toward 
 the city, with descending steps: the House of Rimmon 
 with its high tower is seen in the background. The throne 
 is at the right in front : opposite is the royal door of en- 
 trance, guarded by four tall sentinels. Enter at the rear 
 between the columns, Rakhaz, Saballidin, Hazael, 
 
 IZDUBHAR. 
 
 Izdubhar: [An excited old man.] 
 
 The city is all in a turmoil. It boils like a pot of 
 
 487 
 
 Vol. X 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i. sc. n 
 
 lentils. The people are foaming and bubbling 
 round and round like beans in the pottage. 
 Hazael: [A lean, crafty man.] 
 
 Fear is a hot fire. 
 Rakhaz: [A fat, pompous man.] 
 
 Well may they fear, for the Assyrians are not three 
 days distant. They are blazing along like a water- 
 spout to chop Damascus down Hke a pitcher of 
 spilt milk. 
 Saballidin: [Young and frank.] 
 
 Cannot Naaman drive them back? 
 Rakhaz: [Puffing and hloiving.] 
 
 Ho ! Naaman ? Where have you been living ? 
 Naaman is a broken reed whose claws have been 
 cut. Build no hopes on that foundation, for it 
 will run away and leave you all adrift in the con- 
 flagration. 
 Saballidin: 
 
 He clatters like a windmill. What would he say, 
 Hazael ? 
 Hazael: 
 
 Naaman can do nothing without the command of 
 the King; and the King fears to order the army 
 to march without the approval of the gods. The 
 High Priest is against it. The House of Rimmon 
 is for peace with Asshur. 
 Rakhaz : 
 
 Yes, and all the nobles are for peace. We are the 
 488 
 
ACT X. sen] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 men whose wisdom lights the rudder that upholds 
 the chariot of state. Would we be rich if we 
 were not wise ? Do we not know better than the 
 rabble what medicine will silence this fire that 
 threatens to drown us? 
 
 IZDUBHAR : 
 
 But if the Assyrians come, we shall all perish; they 
 will despoil us all. 
 Hazael : 
 
 Not us, my lord, only the common people. The 
 envoj^s have offered favourable terms to the priests, 
 and the nobles, and the King. No palace, no 
 temple, shall be plundered. Only the shops, and 
 the markets, and the houses of the multitude shall 
 be given up to the Bull. He will eat his supper 
 from the pot of lentils, not from our golden 
 plate. 
 Rakiiaz : 
 
 Yes, and all who speak for peace in the council shall 
 be enriched; our heads shall be crowned with 
 seats of honour in the procession of the Assyrian 
 king. He needs wise counsellors to help him guide 
 the ship of empire onto the solid rock of prosperity. 
 You must be with us, my lords Izdubhar and 
 Saballidin, and let the stars of your wisdom roar 
 loudly for peace. 
 Izdubhar : 
 
 He talks like a tablet read upside down, — a wild ass 
 489 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i, sen 
 
 braying in the wilderness. Yet there is poHcy in 
 his words. 
 Saballidin : 
 
 I know not. Can a kingdom Hve without a people 
 or an army.'' If we let the Bull in to sup on the 
 lentils, will he not make his breakfast in our vine- 
 yards ? 
 
 [Enter other courtiers following Shumakim, a hump- 
 backed jester, in blue, green and red, a wreath of 
 poppies around his neck and a flagon in his 
 hand. He walks unsteadily, and stutters in his 
 speech.] 
 Hazael: 
 
 Here is Shumakim, the King's fool, with his legs full 
 of last night's wine. 
 Shumakim : [Balancing himself in front of them and chuck- 
 ling.] 
 Wrong, my lords, very wrong ! This is not last 
 night's wine, but a draught the King's physician 
 gave me this morning for a cure. It sobers me 
 amazingly! I know you all, my lords: any fool 
 would know you. You, master, are a statesman; 
 and you are a politician; and you are a patriot. 
 Rakhaz : 
 
 Am I a statesman.'' I felt something of the kind 
 about me. But what is a statesman.? 
 Shumakim : 
 
 A politician that is stuffed with big words; a fat 
 490 
 
ACT I. sen] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 man in a mask; one that plays a solemn tune on 
 a sackbut full o' wind. 
 Hazael : 
 
 And what is a politician? 
 Shumakim : 
 
 A statesman that has dropped his mask and cracked 
 his sackbut. Men trust him for what he is, and 
 he never deceives them, because he always lies. 
 Izdubhar : 
 
 Why do you call me a patriot.'' 
 Shumakim : 
 
 Because you know what is good for you; you love 
 your country as you love your pelf. You feel for 
 the common people, — as the wolf feels for the 
 sheep. 
 Saballidin : 
 
 And what am I? 
 Shumakim : 
 
 A fool, master, just a plain fool; and there is hope of 
 thee for that reason. Embrace me, brother, and 
 taste this; but not too much, — it will intoxicate 
 thee with sobriety. 
 
 [The hall has been slowly filling with courtiers and 
 soldiers; a crowd of people begin to come up 
 the steps at the rear, where they are halted by a 
 chain guarded by servants of the palace. A bell 
 tolls; the royal door is thrown open; the aged 
 King totters across the hall and takes his seat on 
 491 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i. sc. n 
 
 the throne with the Jour tall sentinels standing 
 behind him. All how down shading their eyes 
 with their hands.] 
 Benhadad : 
 
 The hour of royal audience is come. 
 
 I'll hear the envoys. Are my counsellors 
 
 At hand ? Where are the priests of Rimmon's house ? 
 [Gongs sound. Rezon comes in from the side, 
 followed by a procession of priests in black and 
 yellow. The courtiers bow; the King rises; 
 Rezon takes his stand on the steps of the throne 
 at the left of the King.] 
 Benhadad : 
 
 Where is my faithful servant Naaman, 
 
 The captain of my host.'' 
 
 [Trumpets sound from the city. The crowd on the 
 steps divide; the chain is lowered; Naaman 
 enters, followed by six soldiers. He is dressed 
 in chain-mail with a silver helmet and a cloak of 
 blue. He uncovers, and kneels on the steps of 
 the throne at the King's right.] 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 My lord the King, 
 The bearer of thy sword is here. 
 Benhadad: [Giving Naaman his hand, and sitting down.] 
 
 Welcome, 
 My strong right arm that never me failed yet ! 
 I am in doubt, — but stay thou close to me 
 492 
 
ACT I, sen] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 While I decide this cause. Where are the envoys? 
 Let them appear and give their message. 
 
 [Enter the Assyrian envoys; one in white and the 
 other in red; both with the golden Bull's head 
 embroidered on their robes. They come from 
 the right, rear, bow slightly before the throne, and 
 take the centre of the hall.] 
 White Envoy: [Stepping forward.] 
 
 Greeting from Shalmaneser, Asshur's son, 
 
 Who rules the world from Nineveh, 
 
 Unto Benhadad, monarch in Damascus ! 
 
 The conquering Bull has led his army forth; 
 
 The south has fallen before him, and the west 
 
 His feet have trodden; Hamath is laid waste; 
 
 He pauses at your gate, invincible, — 
 
 To offer peace. The princes of your court, 
 
 The priests of Rimmon's house, and you, the 
 
 King, 
 If you pay homage to your Overlord, 
 Shall rest secure, and flourish as our friends, 
 Assyria sends to you this gilded yoke; 
 Receive it as the sign of proffered peace. 
 
 [He lays a yoke on the steps of the throne.] 
 Benhadad : 
 
 What of the city? Said your king no word 
 Of our Damascus, and the many folk 
 That do inhabit her and make her great? 
 What of the soldiers who have fought for us? 
 493 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i, sen 
 
 White Envoy: 
 
 Of these my royal master did not speak. 
 Benhadad: 
 
 Strange silence ! Must we give them up to him ? 
 Is this the price at which he offers us 
 The yoke of peace? What if we do refuse? 
 Red Envoy: [Stepping forward.] 
 
 Then ruthless war ! War to the uttermost. 
 No quarter, no compassion, no escape ! 
 The Bull will gore and trample in his fury 
 Nobles and priests and king, — none shall be spared ! 
 Before the throne we lay our second gift; 
 This bloody horn, the symbol of red war. 
 
 [He lays a long bull's horn, stained with blood, on 
 the steps of the throne.] 
 White Envoy: 
 
 Our message is delivered. We return 
 Unto our master. He will wait three days 
 To know your royal choice between his gifts. 
 Keep which you will and send the other back. 
 The red bull's horn your youngest page may bring; 
 But with the yoke, best send your mightiest army ! 
 [The Envoys retire, amid confused murmurs of 
 the people, the King silent, his head, sunken on 
 his breast.] 
 Benhadad : 
 
 Proud words, a bitter message, hard to endure ! 
 We are not now that force which feared no foe: 
 494 
 
ACT I, sen] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 Our old allies have left us. Can we face the Bull 
 Alone, and beat him back? Give me your counsel. 
 
 [Many speak at once, confusedly.] 
 What babblement is this ? Were ye born at Babel .'* 
 Give me clear words and reasonable speech. 
 
 Rakhaz: [Pompously.] 
 
 O King, I am a reasonable man ! 
 
 And there be some who call me very wise 
 
 And prudent; but of this I will not speak, 
 
 For I am also modest. Let me plead. 
 
 Persuade, and reason you to choose for peace. 
 
 This golden yoke may be a bitter draught, 
 
 But better far to fold it in our arms. 
 
 Than risk our cargoes in the savage horn 
 
 Of war. Shall we imperil all our wealth, 
 
 Our valuable lives? Nobles are few, 
 
 Rich men are rare, and wise men rarer still; 
 
 The precious jewels on the tree of life, 
 
 Wherein the common people are but bricks 
 
 And clay and rubble. Let the city go, 
 
 But save the corner-stones that float the ship ! 
 
 Have I not spoken well? 
 
 BE>rHADAD: [Shaking his head.] 
 
 Excellent well ! 
 Most eloquent ! But misty in the meaning. 
 
 Hazael: [With cold decision.] 
 
 Then let me speak, O King, in plainer words ! 
 The days of independent states are past: 
 495 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i. sc n 
 
 The tide of empire sweeps across the earth; 
 Assyria rides it with resistless power 
 And thunders on to subjugate the world. 
 Oppose her, and we fight with Destiny; 
 Submit to her demands, and we shall ride 
 With her to victory. Therefore accept 
 The golden yoke, Assyria's gift of peace. 
 Naaman: [Starting forward eagerly.] 
 
 •There is no peace beneath a conqueror's yoke! 
 For every state that barters liberty 
 To win imperial favour, shall be drained 
 Of her best blood, henceforth, in endless wars 
 To make the empire greater. Here's the choice. 
 My King, we fight to keep our country free. 
 Or else we fight forevermore to help 
 Assyria bind the world as we are bound. 
 I am a soldier, and I know the hell 
 Of war ! But I will gladly ride through hell 
 To save Damascus. Master, bid me ride ! 
 Ten thousand chariots wait for your command; 
 And twenty thousand horsemen strain the leash 
 Of patience till you let them go; a throng 
 Of spearmen, archers, swordsmen, like the sea 
 Chafing against a dike, roar for the onset ! 
 O master, let me launch your mighty host 
 Against the Bull, — we'll bring him to his knees ! 
 [Cries of " war T' from the soldiers and the people ; 
 *' peace!" from the courtiers and the priests. 
 496 
 
ACT I. sen] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 The King rises, turning toward Naaman, and 
 seems about to speak. Rezon lifts his rod.] 
 Rezon : 
 
 Shall not the gods decide when mortals doubt? 
 
 Rimmon is master of the city's fate; 
 
 We read his will, by our most ancient-faith, 
 
 In omens and in signs of mystery. 
 
 Must we not hearken to his high commands? 
 Benhadad: [Sinking back on the throne, submissively.] 
 
 I am the faithful son of Rimmon 's House. 
 
 Consult the oracle. But who shall read? 
 Rezon : 
 
 Tsarpi, the wife of Naaman, who served 
 
 Within the temple in her maiden years, 
 
 Shall be the mouth-piece of the mighty god, 
 
 To-day's high -priestess. Bring the sacrifice ! 
 
 [Gongs and cymbals sound: enter priests carrying 
 an altar on which a lamb is bound. The altar 
 is placed in the centre of the hall. Tsarpi fol- 
 lows the priests, covered with a long transparent 
 veil of black, sown with gold stars; Ruahmah, 
 in white, bears her train. Tsarpi stands before 
 the altar, facing it, and lifts her right hand hold- 
 ing a knife. Ruahmah steps back, near the 
 throne, her hands crossed on her breast, her head 
 bowed. The priests close in around Tsarpi and 
 the altar. The knife is seen to strike downward. 
 Gongs and cymbals sound: cries of ^'Rimmon, 
 497 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i. sen 
 
 hear us!" The circle of priests opens, and 
 TsARPi turns slowly to face the King.] 
 TsARPi : [Monotonously.] 
 
 Black is the blood of the victim, 
 
 Rimmon is unfavourable, 
 
 Asratu is unfavourable; 
 
 They will not war against Asshur, 
 
 They will make a league with the God of Nineveh. 
 
 Evil is in store for Damascus, 
 
 A strong enemy will lay waste the land. 
 
 Therefore make peace loith the Bull; 
 
 Hearken to the voice of Rimmon. 
 
 [She turns again to the altar, and the priests close 
 in around her. Rezon lifts his rod toward the 
 tower of the temple. A flash of lightning fol- 
 lowed by thunder; smoke rises from the altar; 
 all except Naaman and Ruahmah cover their 
 faces. The circle of priests opens again, and 
 TsARPi comes forward slowly, chanting.] 
 
 Chant : 
 
 Hear the words of Rimmon! Thus your Maker 
 
 speaketh : 
 I, the god of thunder, riding on the whirlwind, 
 I, the god of lightning leaping from the storm-cloud, 
 I vrill smite with vengeance him who dares defy me! 
 He who leads Damascus into war with Asshur, 
 Conquering or conquered, bears my curse upon him. 
 498 
 
ACTi,8c. n] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 Surely shall my arrow strike his heart in secret. 
 Burn his flesh with fever, turn his blood to poison. 
 Brand him with corruption, drive him into darkness; 
 He shall surely perish by the doom of Rimmon. 
 
 [All are terrified and look toward Naaman, shud- 
 dering. RuAHMAH alone seems not to heed the 
 curse, but stands with her eyes fixed on Naaman.] 
 
 RuAHMAH : 
 
 Be not afraid ! There is a greater God 
 Shall cover thee with His almighty wings: 
 Beneath his shield and buckler shalt thou trust. 
 
 Benhadad: 
 
 Repent, my son, thou must not brave this curse. 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 My King, there is no curse as terrible 
 As that which lights a bosom-fire for him 
 Who gives away his honour, to prolong 
 A craven life whose every breath is shame ! 
 If I betray the men who follow me. 
 The city that has put her trust in me, 
 What king can shield me from my own deep scorn 
 What god release me from that self-made hell? 
 The tender mercies of Assyria 
 I know; and they are cruel as creeping tigers. 
 Give up Damascus, and her streets will run 
 Rivers of innocent blood; the city's heart. 
 That mighty, labouring heart, wounded and crushed 
 Beneath the brutal hooves of the wild Bull, 
 499 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i. sc. n 
 
 Will cry against her captain, sitting safe 
 Among the nobles, in some pleasant place. 
 I shall be safe, — safe from the threatened wrath 
 Of unknown gods, but damned forever by 
 The men I know, — that is the curse I fear. 
 Benhadad : 
 
 Speak not so high, my son. Must we not bow 
 Our heads before the sovereignties of heaven? 
 The unseen rulers are Divine. 
 
 Naaman: 
 
 O King, 
 
 I am unlearned in the lore of priests; 
 Yet well I know that there are hidden powers 
 About us, working mortal weal and woe 
 Beyond the force of mortals to control. 
 And if these powers appear in love and truth, 
 I think they must be gods, and worship them. 
 But if their secret will is manifest 
 In blind decrees of sheer omnipotence, 
 That punish where no fault is found, and smite 
 The poor with undeserved calamity, 
 And pierce the undefended in the dark 
 With arrows of injustice, and foredoom 
 The innocent to burn in endless pain, 
 I will not call this fierce almightiness 
 Divine. Though I must bear, with every man, 
 The burden of my life ordained, I'll keep 
 My soul unterrified, and tread the path 
 500 
 
ACT I, sc. II] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 Of truth and honour with a steady heart! 
 Have ye not heard, my lords? The oracle 
 Proclaims to me, to me alone, the doom 
 Of vengeance if I lead the army out. 
 "Conquered or conquering!" I grip that chance! 
 Damascus free, her foes all beaten back, 
 The people saved from slavery, the King 
 Upheld in honour on his ancient throne, — 
 O what's the cost of this? I'll gladly pay 
 Whatever gods there be, whatever price 
 They ask for this one victory. Give me 
 This gilded sign of shame to carry back; 
 I'll shake it in the face of Asshur's king, 
 And break it on his teeth. 
 
 Benhadad: [Rising.] 
 
 Then go, my never-beaten captain, go ! 
 And may the powers that hear thy solemn vow 
 Forgive thy rashness for Damascus' sake. 
 Prosper thy fighting, and remit thy pledge. 
 
 Rezon: [Standing beside the altar.] 
 
 The pledge, O King, this man must seal his pledge 
 At Rimmon's altar. He must take the cup 
 Of soldier-sacrament, and bind himself 
 By thrice-performed libation to abide 
 The fate he has invoked. 
 
 Naaman: [Slowly.] 
 
 And so I will. 
 [He comes down the steps, toward the altar, where 
 501 
 
THE HOUSE OE RIMMON [act i, sc. h 
 
 Rezon is filling the cup which Tsarpi holds. 
 RuAHMAH throws herself before Naaman, clasp- 
 ing his knees.] 
 Ruahmah: [Passionately and wildly.] 
 
 My lord, I do beseech you, stay ! There's death 
 Within that cup. It is an offering 
 To devils. See, the wine blazes like fire, 
 It flows like blood, it is a cursed cup, 
 Fulfilled of treachery and hate. 
 Dear master, noble master, touch it not ! 
 Naaman : 
 
 Poor maid, thy brain is still distraught. Fear not. 
 But let me go ! Here, treat her tenderly ! 
 
 [Gives her into the hands of Saballidin.] 
 Can harm befall me from the wife who bears 
 My name? I take the cup of fate from her. 
 I greet the unknown powers; [Pours libation.] 
 I will perform my vow; [Again.] 
 I will abide my fate; [Again.] 
 I pledge my hfe to keep Damascus free. 
 [He drains the cup, and lets it fall.] 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 502 
 
ACT II 
 
 Time: A week later 
 
 The fore-court of the House of Rimmon. At the back the 
 broad steps and double doors of the shrine; above them the 
 tower of the god, its summit invisible. Enter various 
 groups of citizens, talking, laughing, shouting: Rakhaz, 
 Hazael, Shumakim and others. 
 
 First Citizen: 
 
 Great news, glorious news, the Assyrians are beaten ! 
 Second Citizen: 
 
 Naaman is returning, crowned with victory. Glory 
 to our noble captain ! 
 Third Citizen: 
 
 No, he is killed. I had it from one of the camp- 
 followers who saw him fall at the head of the bat- 
 tle. They are bringing his body to bury it with 
 honour. O sorrowful victory ! 
 Rakhaz : 
 
 Peace, my good fellows, you are ignorant, you have 
 not been rightly informed, I will misinform you. 
 The accounts of Naaman's death are overdrawn. 
 He was killed, but his life has been preserved. One 
 of his wounds was mortal, but the other three were 
 curable, and by these the physicians have saved 
 him. 
 
 503 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act n ! 
 
 Shumakim: [Balancing himself before Rakhaz in pre- . 
 
 tended admiration.] \ 
 
 O wonderful ! Most admirable logic ! One mortal, ! 
 
 and three curable, therefore he must recover as it 
 
 were, by three to one. Rakhaz, do you know that , 
 
 you are a marvelous man? | 
 
 Rakhaz : 
 
 Yes, I know it, but I make no boast of my knowledge. ' 
 
 Shumakim : i 
 
 Too modest, for in knowing this you know more than j 
 
 any other in Damascus ! i 
 
 [Enter, from the right, Saballidin in armour: I 
 
 from the left, Tsarpi with her attendants, among \ 
 
 whom is Ruahmah.] ! 
 
 Hazael: j 
 
 Here is Saballidin, we'll question him; ' 
 
 He was enflamed by Naaman's wild words, i 
 
 And rode with him to battle. Give us news, I 
 
 Of your great captain ! Is he safe and well ? j 
 
 When will he come? Or will he come at all? i 
 
 [All gather around him listening eagerly.] 
 
 Saballidin : i 
 
 He comes but now, returning from the field ' 
 
 Where he hath gained a crown of deathless fame ! 
 
 Three times he led the charge; three times he fell , 
 
 Wounded, and the Assyrians beat us back. j 
 
 Yet every wound was but a spur to urge 
 
 His valour onward. In the last attack 
 
 504 I 
 
ACT II] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 He rode before us as the crested wave 
 That leads the flood; and lo, our enemies 
 Were broken hke a dam of river-reeds. 
 The flying King encircled by his guard 
 Was lodged like driftwood on a little hill. 
 Then Naaman, who led our foremost band 
 Of whirlwind riders, hammered through the hedge 
 Of spearmen, brandishing the golden yoke. 
 "Take back this gift," he cried; and shattered it 
 On Shalmaneser's helmet. So the fight 
 Dissolved in universal rout; the King, 
 His chariots and his horsemen fled away; 
 Our captain stood the master of the field. 
 And saviour of Damascus ! Now he brings. 
 First to the King, report of this great triumph. 
 [Shouts of joy and applause.] 
 
 Ruahmah: [Coming close to Saballidin.] 
 
 But what of him who won it? Fares he well? 
 My mistress would receive some word of him. 
 
 Saballidin : 
 
 Hath she not heard? 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 But one brief message came: 
 A letter saying, "We have fought and conquered," 
 No word of his own person. Fares he well? 
 Saballidin : 
 
 Alas, most ill ! For he is like a man 
 Consumed by some strange sickness : wasted, wan, — 
 505 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act n 
 
 His eyes are dimmed so that he scarce can see; 
 His ears are dulled; his fearless face is pale 
 As one who walks to meet a certain doom 
 Yet will not flinch. It is most pitiful, — 
 But you shall see. 
 
 RUAHMAH : 
 
 Yea, we shall see a man 
 Who dared to face the wrath of evil powers 
 Unknown, and hazard all to save his country. 
 [Enter Benhadad with courtiers.] 
 Benhadad : 
 
 Where is my faithful servant Naaman, 
 The captain of my host? 
 
 Saballidin : 
 
 My lord, he comes. 
 
 [Trumpet sounds. Enter company of soldiers in 
 armour. Then four soldiers bearing captured 
 standards of Asshur. Naaman follows, very 
 pale, armour dinted and stained; he is blind, 
 and guides himself by cords from the standards 
 on each side, but walks firmly. The doors of 
 the temple open slightly, and Rezon appears at 
 the top of the steps. Naaman lets the cords fall, 
 and gropes his way for a few paces.] 
 
 Naaman: [Kneeling.] 
 
 Where is my King? 
 
 Master, the bearer of thy sword returns. 
 The golden yoke thou gavest me I broke 
 On him who sent it. Asshur's Bull hath fled 
 50G 
 
ACT II] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 Dehorned. - The standards of his host are thine ! 
 Damascus is all thine, at peace, and free ! 
 
 Benhadad: [Holding out his arms.] 
 
 Thou art a mighty man of valour ! Come, 
 And let me fold thy courage to my heart. 
 
 Rezon: [Lifting his rod.] 
 
 Forbear, O King ! Stand back from him, all men ! 
 By the great name of Rimmon I proclaim 
 This man a leper ! See, upon his brow, 
 This little mark, the death-white seal of doom ! 
 That tiny spot will spread, eating his flesh, 
 Gnawing his fingers -bone from bone, until 
 The impious heart that dared defy the gods 
 Dissolves in the slow death which now begins. 
 Unclean ! unclean ! Henceforward he is dead : 
 No human hand shall touch him, and no home 
 Of men shall give him shelter. He shall walk 
 Only with corpses of the selfsame death 
 Down the long path to a forgotten tomb. 
 Avoid, depart, I do adjure you all. 
 Leave him to god, — the leper Naaman ! 
 
 [All shrink back horrified. Rezon retires into the 
 temple; the crowd melts away, wailing; Tsarpi 
 is among the first to go, followed by her attend- 
 ants, except RuAHMAH, who crouches, with her 
 face covered, not far from Naaman.] 
 
 Benhadad: [Lingering and turning back.] 
 Alas, my son ! O Naaman, my son ! 
 Why did I let thee go.'' I must obey. 
 507 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act n 
 
 Who can resist the gods? Yet none shall take 
 
 Thy glorious title, captain of my host ! 
 
 I will provide for thee, and thou shalt dwell 
 
 With guards of honour in a house of mine 
 
 Always. Damascus never shall forget 
 
 What thou hast done ! O miserable words 
 
 Of crowned impotence ! O mockery of power 
 
 Given to kings who cannot even defend 
 
 Their dearest from the secret wrath of heaven ! 
 
 Naaman, my son, my son ! [Exit.] 
 
 Naaman: [Slowly passing his hand over his eyes, and look- 
 ing up.] 
 
 Am I alone 
 With thee, inexorable one, whose pride 
 Offended takes this horrible revenge? 
 
 1 must submit my mortal flesh to thee. 
 Almighty, but I will not call, thee god ! 
 
 Yet thou hast found the way to wound my soul 
 Most deeply through the flesh; and I must find 
 The way to let my wounded soul escape ! 
 
 [Drawing his sword.] 
 Come, my last friend, thou art more merciful 
 Than Rimmon. Why should I endure the doom 
 He sends me? Irretrievably cut off 
 From all dear intercourse of human love, 
 From all the tender touch of human hands. 
 From all brave comradeship with brother-men. 
 With eyes that see no faces through this dark, 
 508 
 
ACT II] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 With ears that hear all voices far away, 
 Why should I cling to misery, and grope 
 My long, long way from pain to pain, alone? 
 
 RuAHMAH : [At his feet.] 
 
 Nay, not alone, dear lord, for I am here; 
 And I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee ! 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 What voice is that? The silence of my tomb 
 Is broken by a ray of music, — whose? 
 
 Ruahmah: [Rising.] 
 
 The one who loves thee best in all the world. 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 Why that should be, — dare I dream it true? 
 Tsarpi, my wife ? Have I misjudged thy heart 
 As cold and proud ? How nobly thou forgivest ! 
 Thou com'st to hold me from the last disgrace,— 
 The coward's flight into the dark. Go back 
 Unstained, my sword ! Life is endurable 
 While there is one alive on earth who loves us, 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 My lord, — my lord, — O listen ! You have erred,- 
 You do mistake me now, — this dream — 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 Ah, wake me not ! For I can conquer death 
 Dreaming this dream. Let me at last believe, 
 Though gods are cruel, a woman can be kind. 
 Grant me but this ! For see, — I ask so little, — 
 509 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON Uct n 
 
 Only to know that thou art faithful, 
 That thou art near me, though I touch thee not, — 
 O this will hold me up, though it be given 
 From pity more than love. 
 
 Ruahmah: [Trembling, and speaking slowly.] 
 
 Not so, my lord ! 
 My pity is a stream; my pride of thee 
 Is like the sea that doth engulf the stream; 
 My love for thee is like the sovereign moon 
 That rules the sea. The tides that fill my soul 
 Flow unto thee and follow after thee: 
 And where thou goest I will go; and where 
 Thou diest I will die, — in the same hour. 
 
 [She lays her hand on his arm. He draws back.] 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 O touch me not ! Thou shalt not share my doom. 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 Entreat me not to go. I will obey 
 
 In all but this; but rob me not of this, — 
 
 The only boon that makes life worth the living, — 
 
 To walk beside thee day by day, and keep 
 
 Thy foot from stumbhng; to prepare thy food 
 
 When thou art hungry, music for thy rest. 
 
 And cheerful words to comfort thy black hour; 
 
 And so to lead thee ever on, and on. 
 
 Through darkness, till we find the door of hope. 
 
 Naaman: 
 
 What word is that? The leper has no hope. 
 510 
 
ACT II] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 RUAHMAH : 
 
 Dear lord, the mark upon thy brow is yet 
 No broader than my Httle finger-nail. 
 Thy force is not abated, and thy step 
 Is firm. Wilt thou surrender to the enemy 
 Before thy strength is touched? Why, let me put 
 A drop of courage from my breast in thine ! 
 There is a hope for thee. The captive maid 
 Of Israel who dwelt within thy house 
 Knew of a god very compassionate, 
 Long-suffering, slow to anger, one who heals 
 The sick, hath pity on the fatherless. 
 And saves the poor and him who has no helper. 
 His prophet dwells nigh to Samaria; 
 And I have heard that he hath brought the dead 
 To life again. We'll go to him. The King, 
 If I beseech him, will appoint a guard 
 Of thine own soldiers and Saballidin, 
 Thy friend, to convoy us upon our journey. 
 He'll give us royal letters to the King 
 Of Israel to make our welcome sure; 
 And we will take the open road, beneath 
 The open sky, to-morrow, and go on 
 Together till we find the door of hope. 
 Come, come with me ! 
 [She grasps his hand.] 
 Naaman: [Drawing back.] 
 
 Thou must not touch me! 
 511 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON (act n 
 
 Ruahmah: [Unclasping her girdle and putting the end in 
 his hand.] 
 
 Take my girdle, then ! 
 Naaman: [Kissing the clasp of the girdle.] 
 I do begin to think there is a God, 
 Since love on earth can work such miracles ! 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
 512 
 
ACT III 
 
 Time: A month later: dawn 
 
 Scene I 
 
 Naaman's tent, on high ground among the mountains near 
 Samaria: the city beloiv. In the distance, a wide and 
 splendid landscape. Saballidin and soldiers on guard 
 heloio the tent. Enter Ruahmah in hunter's dress, with a 
 lute slung from her shoulder. 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 Peace and good health to you, Saballidin. 
 Good morrow to you all. How fares my lord ? 
 
 Saballidin : 
 
 The curtains of his tent are folded still: 
 
 They have not moved since we returned, last night. 
 
 And told him what befell us in the city. 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 Told him ! Why did you make report to him 
 And not to me? Am I not captain here. 
 Intrusted by the King's command with care 
 Of Naaman until he is restored? 
 'Tis mine to know the first of good or ill 
 In this adventure: mine to shield his heart 
 From every arrow of adversity. 
 What have you told him ? Speak ! 
 513 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act m, sc. i 
 
 Saballidin: 1 
 
 Lady, we feared 
 To bring our news to you. For when the King 
 Of Israel had read our monarch's letter, 
 He rent his clothes, and cried, "Am I a god. 
 To kill and make alive, that I should heal 
 A leper? Ye have come with false pretence, 
 Damascus seeks a quarrel with me. Go ! " 
 But when we told our lord, he closed his tent, 
 And there remains enfolded in his grief. 
 I trust he sleeps; 'twere kind to let him sleep! 
 For now he doth forget his misery, 
 And all the burden of his hopeless woe 
 Is lifted from him by the gentle hand 
 Of slumber. Oh, to those bereft of hope 
 Sleep is the only blessing left, — the last 
 Asylum of the weary, the one sign 
 Of pity from impenetrable heaven. 
 Waking is strife; sleep is the truce of God ! 
 Ah, lady, wake him not. The day will be 
 Full long for him to suffer, and for us 
 To turn our disappointed faces home 
 On the long road by which we must return. 
 
 RUAHMAH : 
 
 Return ! Who gave you that command ? Not I ! 
 The King made me the leader of this quest, 
 And bound you all to follow me, because 
 He knew I never would return without 
 514 
 
ACT III. 8c. I] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 j 
 
 The thing for which he sent us. I'll go on I 
 
 Day after day, unto the uttermost parts I 
 
 Of earth, if need be, and beyond the gates 
 
 Of morning, till I find that which I seek, — ] 
 
 New life for Naaman. Are ye ashamed i 
 
 To have a woman lead yoti ? Then go back 
 
 And tell the King, "This huntress went too far 
 
 For us to follow: she pursues the trail 
 
 Of hope alone, refusing to forsake 
 
 The quarry: we grew weary of the chase; 
 
 And so we left her and retraced our steps, ; 
 
 Like faithless hounds, to sleep beside the fire." i 
 
 Did Naaman forsake his soldiers thus ' 
 
 When you went forth to hunt the Assyrian Bull? 
 
 Your manly courage is less durable i 
 
 Than woman's love, it seems. Go, if you will, — J 
 
 Who bids me now farewell? 
 
 Soldiers: 
 
 Not I, not I! 
 Saballidin : '* 
 
 Lady, lead on, we'll follow you forever ! 
 
 RUAHMAH : 
 
 i 
 Why, now you speak like men ! Brought you no 
 
 word 
 
 Out of Samaria, except that cry 
 
 Of impotence and fear from Israel's King? i 
 
 Saballidin : , 
 
 I do remember while he spoke with us ii 
 
 515 ^ 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [actih.sc. i 
 
 A rustic messenger came in, and cried 
 "Elisha saith, bring Naaman to me 
 At Dothan, he shall surely know there is 
 A God in Israel." 
 
 RUAHMAH : 
 
 What said the King? 
 
 Saballidin: 
 
 He only shouted "Go!" more wildly yet, 
 And rent his clothes again, as if he were 
 Half-maddened by a coward's fear, and thought 
 Only of how he might be rid of us. 
 What comfort could there be for him, what hope 
 For us, in the rude prophet's misty word? 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 It is the very word for which I prayed ! 
 My trust was not in princes; for the crown, 
 The sceptre, and the purple robe are not 
 Significant of vital power. The man 
 Who saves his brother-men is he who lives 
 His life with Nature, takes deep hold on truth. 
 And trusts in God. A prophet's word is more 
 Than all the kings on earth can speak. How far 
 Is Dothan? 
 
 Soldier: 
 
 Lady, 'tis but three hours' ride 
 Along the valley southward. 
 
 Ruahmah: 
 
 Near! so near? 
 516 
 
ACT III, 9c. I] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 I had not thought to end my task so soon ! 
 Prepare yourselves with speed to take the road. 
 I will awake my lord. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Saballidin and Ruahmah. She 
 goes toward the tent.] 
 
 Saballidin: 
 
 Ruahmah, stay ! [She turns back,] 
 I've been your servant in this doubtful quest, 
 Obedient, faithful, loyal to your will, — 
 What have I earned by this? 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 The gratitude 
 Of him we both desire to serve: your friend, — 
 My master and my lord. 
 
 Saballidin : 
 
 No more than this? 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 Yes, if you will, take all the thanks my hands 
 
 Can hold, my lips can speak. 
 
 Saballidin : 
 
 I would have more. 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 My friend, there's nothing more to give to you. 
 My service to my lord is absolute. 
 There's not a drop of blood within my veins 
 But quickens at the very thought of him; 
 And not a dream of mine but he doth stand 
 Within its heart and make it bright. No man 
 517 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act m, sc. i 
 
 To me is other than his friend or foe. 
 You are his friend, and I believe you true ! 
 Saballidin : 
 
 I have been true to him, — now, I am true 
 To you. 
 
 RUAHMAH : 
 
 Why, then, be doubly true to him. 
 O let us match our loyalties, and strive 
 Between us who shall win the higher crown ! 
 Men boast them of a friendship stronger far 
 Than love of woman. Prove it ! I'll not boast, 
 But I'll contend with you on equal terms 
 In this brave race: and if you win the prize 
 I'll hold you next to him: and if I win 
 He'll hold you next to me; and either way 
 We'll not be far apart. Do you accept 
 My challenge? 
 
 Saballidin: 
 
 Yes ! For you enforce my heart 
 By honour to resign its great desire. 
 And love itself to offer sacrifice 
 Of all disloyal dreams on its own altar. 
 Yet love remains; therefore I pray you, think 
 How surely you must lose in our contention. 
 For I am known to Naaman: but you 
 He blindly takes for Tsarpi. 'Tis to her 
 He gives his gratitude: the praise you win 
 Endears her name. 
 
 518 
 
ACTiii,8c. 1] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 RUAHMAH : 
 
 Her name? Why, what is that? 
 A name is but an empty shell, a mask 
 That does not change the features of the face 
 Beneath it. Can a name rejoice, or weep, 
 Or hope? Can it be moved by tenderness 
 To daily services of love, or feel the warmth 
 Of dear companionship? How many things 
 We call by names that have no meaning ! Kings 
 That cannot rule; and gods that are not good; 
 And wives that do not love ! It matters not 
 What syllables he utters when he calls, 
 'Tis I who come, — 'tis I who minister 
 Unto my lord, and mine the living heart 
 That feels the comfort of his confidence. 
 The thrill of gladness when he speaks to me, — 
 I do not hear the name ! 
 
 Saballidin : 
 
 And yet, be sure 
 There's danger in this error, — and no gain ! 
 
 RuAHMAH : 
 
 I seek no gain: I only tread the path 
 Marked for me daily by the hand of love. 
 And if his blindness spared my lord one pang 
 Of sorrow in his black, forsaken hour, — 
 And if this error makes his burdened heart 
 More quiet, and his shadowed way less dark. 
 Whom do I rob? Not her who chose to stay 
 519 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [actih.sc. i 
 
 At ease in Rimmon's House ! Surely not him ! 
 Only myself ! And that enriches me. 
 Why trouble we the master? Let it go, — 
 To-morrow he must know the truth, — and then 
 He shall dispose of me e'en as he will ! 
 Saballidin : 
 
 To-morrow ? 
 
 RUAHMAH : 
 
 Yes, for I will tarry here. 
 While you conduct him to Elisha's house 
 To find the promised healing. I forebode 
 A sudden danger from the craven King 
 Of Israel, or else a secret ambush 
 From those who hate us in Damascus. Go, 
 But leave me twenty men: this mountain-pass 
 Protects the road behind you. Make my lord 
 Obey the prophet's word, whatever he commands, 
 And come again in peace. Farewell ! 
 
 [Exit Saballidin. Ruahmah goes toward the 
 
 tent, then pauses and turns back. She takes her 
 
 lute and sings.] 
 
 Song 
 
 Above the edge of dark appear the lances of the sun ; 
 
 Along the mountain-ridges clear his rosy heralds run; 
 The vapours down the valley go 
 Like broken armies, dark and low. 
 Look up, my heart, from every hill 
 520 
 
ACT III, 8c. I] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 In folds of rose and daffodil 
 The sunrise banners flow. 
 
 fly away on silent iving, ye boding owls of night! 
 welcome little birds that sing the coming-in of light! 
 
 For new, and new, and ever-new. 
 
 The golden bud within the blue; 
 
 And every morning seems to say: 
 
 " There's something happy on the way^ 
 
 "And God sends love to you /" 
 
 Naaman: [Appearing at the entrance of his tent.] 
 O let me ever wake to music ! For the soul 
 Returns most gently then, and finds its way 
 By the soft, winding clue of melody, 
 Out of the dusky labyrinth of sleep. 
 Into the light. My body feels the sun 
 Though I behold naught that his rays reveal. 
 Come, thou who art my daydawn and my sight. 
 Sweet eyes, come close, and make the sunrise mine ! 
 
 Ruahmah: [Coming near.] 
 
 A fairer day, dear lord, was never born 
 In Paradise ! The sapphire cup of heaven 
 Is filled with golden wine: the earth, adorned 
 With jewel-drops of dew, unveils her face 
 A joyful bride, in welcome to her king. 
 And look ! He leaps upon the Eastern hills 
 All ruddy fire, and claims her with a kiss. 
 521 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act m, sc. i 
 
 Yonder the snowy peaks of Hermon float 
 Unmoving as a wind-dropt cloud. The gulf 
 Of Jordan, filled with violet haze, conceals 
 The river's winding trail with wreaths of mist. 
 Below us, marble-crowned Samaria thrones 
 Upon her emerald hill amid the Vale 
 Of Barley, while the plains to northward change 
 Their colour like the shimmering necks of doves. 
 The lark springs up, with morning on her wings, 
 To climb her singing stairway in the blue. 
 And all the fields are sprinkled with her joy ! 
 Naaman : 
 
 Thy voice is magical : thy words are visions ! 
 I must content myself with them, for now 
 My only hope is lost: Samaria's King 
 Rejects our monarch's message, — hast thou heard? 
 "Am I a god that I should cure a leper?" 
 He sends me home unhealed, with angry words, 
 Back to Damascus and the lingering death. 
 
 RUAHMAH : 
 
 What matter where he sends? No god is he 
 
 To slay or make alive. Elisha bids 
 
 You come to him at Dothan, there to learn 
 
 There is a God in Israel. 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 I fear 
 
 That I am grown mistrustful of all gods; 
 
 Their secret counsels are implacable. 
 
 522 
 
ACT III. 8c. I] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 RUAHMAH : 
 
 Fear not ! There's One who rules in righteousness 
 High over all. 
 
 Naaman: 
 
 What knowest thou of Him? 
 
 RuAHMAH : 
 
 Oh, I have heard, — the maid of Israel, — 
 Rememberest thou? She often said her God 
 Was merciful and kind, and slow to wrath, 
 And plenteous in forgiveness, pitying us 
 Like as a father pitieth his children. 
 Naaman : 
 
 If there were such a God, I'd worship Him 
 Forever ! 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 Then make haste to hear the word 
 His prophet promises to speak to thee ! 
 Obey it, my dear lord, and thou shalt find 
 Healing and peace. The light shall fill thine eyes. 
 Thou wilt not need my leading any more, — 
 Nor me, — for thou wilt see me, all unveiled, — 
 I tremble at the thought. 
 
 Naaman: 
 
 Why, what is this? 
 Why shouldst thou tremble? Art thou not mine 
 own? 
 Ruahmah: [Turning to him and speaking in broken words.] 
 I am, — thy handmaid, — all and only thine, — 
 523 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act m. sc. i 
 
 The very pulses of my heart are thine ! 
 
 Feel how they throb to comfort thee to-day — 
 
 To-day ! Because it is thy time of trouble. 
 
 [She takes his hand and puts it to her forehead and 
 her lips, but before she can lay it upon her heart, 
 he draws away from her.] 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 Thou art too dear to injure with a kiss, — 
 How should I take a gift may bankrupt thee. 
 Or drain the fragrant chalice of thy love 
 With lips that may be fatal? Tempt me not 
 To sweet dishonour; strengthen me to wait 
 Until thy prophecy is all fulfilled, 
 And I can claim thee with a joyful heart. 
 
 Ruahmah: [Turning away.] 
 
 Thou wilt not need me then, — and I shall be 
 No more than the faint echo of a song 
 Heard half asleep. We shall go back to where 
 We stood before this journey. 
 
 Naaman: 
 
 Never again ! 
 
 For thou art changed by some deep miracle. 
 
 The flower of womanhood hath bloomed in thee, — 
 
 Art thou not changed.'* 
 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 Yea, I am changed, — and changed 
 Again, — bewildered, — till there's nothing clear 
 To me but this: I am the instrument 
 524 
 
ACT in, sc. ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 In an Almighty hand to rescue thee 
 
 From death. This will I do, — and afterward — 
 
 [A trumpet is blown unthout.] 
 Hearken, the trumpet sounds, the chariot waits. 
 Away, dear lord, follow the road to light ! 
 
 Scene II * 
 
 The house of Elisha, upon a terraced hillside. A loio stone 
 cottage with vine-trellises and flowers; a flight of steps, at 
 the foot of which is Naaman's chariot. He is standing in 
 it; Saballidin beside it. Two soldiers come down the 
 steps. 
 
 First Soldier: 
 
 We have delivered my lord's greeting and his mes- 
 sage. 
 Second Soldier: 
 
 Yes, and near lost our noses in the doing of it ! For 
 the servant slammed the door in our faces. X 
 most unmannerly reception ! 
 First Soldier: 
 
 But I take that as a good omen. It is a mark of holy 
 men to keep ill-conditioned servants. Look, the 
 door opens, the prophet is coming. 
 Second Soldier: 
 
 No, by my head, it is that notable mark of his mas- 
 
 * Note that this scene is not intended to be put upon the stage, the 
 efiFect of the action upon the drama being given at the beginning of 
 Act IV. 
 
 5'i5 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act m, sc. n 
 
 ter's holiness, that same Ian tern- jawed lout of a 
 servant. 
 
 [Gehazi loiters down the steps and comes to Naa- 
 MAN loith a slight obeisance.] 
 Gehazi: 
 
 My master, the prophet of Israel, sends word to 
 Naaman the Syrian, — are you he? — "Go wash in 
 Jordan seven times and be healed." 
 
 [Gehazi turns and goes slowly up the steps.] 
 Naaman : 
 
 What insolence is this? Am I a man 
 To be put off with surly messengers? 
 Has not Damascus rivers more renowned 
 Than this rude muddy Jordan? Crystal streams, 
 Abana ! Pharpar ! flowing smoothly through 
 A paradise of roses? Might I not 
 Have bathed in them and been restored at ease? 
 Come up, Saballidin, and guide me home ! 
 Saballidin : 
 
 Bethink thee, master, shall we lose our quest 
 
 Because a servant is uncouth? The road 
 
 That seeks the mountain leads us through the vale. 
 
 The prophet's word is friendly after' all; 
 
 For had it been some mighty task he set. 
 
 Thou wouldst perform it. How much rather then 
 
 This easy one? Hast thou not promised her 
 
 Who waits for thy return? Wilt thou go back 
 
 To her unhealed? 
 
 5^6 
 
ACT III, sc. II] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 No ! not for all my pride ! 
 I'll make myself most humble for her sake, 
 And stoop to anything that gives me hope 
 Of having her. Make haste, Saballidin, 
 Bring me to Jordan. I will cast myself 
 Into that river's turbulent embrace 
 A hundred times, until I save my life 
 Or lose it! 
 
 [Exeunt. The light fades: musical interlude. 
 The light increases again with ruddy sunset 
 shining on the door of Elisha's house. The 
 prophet appears and looks off, shading his eyes 
 with his hand as he descends the steps. Trumpet 
 blows, — ^Naaman's call; — sound of horses gal- 
 loping and men shouting. Naaman enters joy- 
 ously, followed by Saballidin and soldiers, with 
 gifts.] 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 Behold a man delivered from the grave 
 By thee ! I rose from Jordan's waves restored 
 To youth and vigour, as the eagle mounts 
 Upon the sunbeam and renews his strength ! 
 O mighty prophet deign to take from me 
 These gifts too poor to speak my gratitude; 
 Silver and gold and jewels, damask robes, — 
 
 Elisha : [Interrupting.] 
 
 As thy soyl Uveth I will not receive 
 527 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act m, sc. n 
 
 A gift from thee, my son ! Give all to Him 
 Whose mercy hath redeemed thee from thy plague. 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 He is the only God ! I worship Him ! 
 
 Grant me a portion of the blessed soil 
 
 Of this most favoured land where I have found 
 
 His mercy; in Damascus will I build 
 
 An altar to His name, and praise Him there 
 
 Morning and night. There is no other God 
 
 In all the world. 
 
 Elisha : 
 
 Thou needst not 
 This load of earth to build a shrine for Him; 
 Yet take it if thou wilt. But be assured 
 God's altar is in every loyal heart. 
 And every flame of love that kindles there 
 Ascends to Him and brightens with His praise. 
 There is no other God ! But evil Powers 
 Make war against Him in the darkened world; 
 And many temples have been built to them. 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 I know them well ! Yet when my master goes 
 To worship in the House of Rimmon, I 
 Must enter with him; for he trusts me, leans 
 Upon my hand; and when he bows himself 
 I cannot help but make obeisance too, — 
 But not to Rimmon! To my country's King 
 528 
 
ACT III, 8C. IlJ 
 
 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 I'll bow in love and honour. Will the Lord 
 Pardon thy servant in this thing? 
 
 Elisha : 
 
 My son, 
 Peace has been granted thee. 'Tis thine to find 
 The only way to keep it. Go in peace. 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 Thou hast not answered me, — may I bow down.'' 
 
 Elisha : 
 
 The answer must be thine. The heart that knows 
 The perfect peace of gratitude and love. 
 Walks in the light and needs no other rule. 
 When next thou comest into Rimmon's House, 
 Thy heart will tell thee how to go in peace. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
 529 
 
ACT IV 
 
 Scene I 
 
 The interior of Naaman's tent, at night. Ruahmah alone, 
 sleeping on the ground. A vision appears to her through 
 the curtains of the tent: Elisha standing on the hillside 
 at Dothan: Naaman, restored to sight, comes in and 
 kneels before him. Elisha blesses him, and he goes out 
 rejoicing. The vision of the prophet turns to Ruahmah 
 and lifts his hand in warning. 
 
 Elisha : 
 
 Daughter of Israel, what dost thou here? 
 Thy prayer is granted. Naaman is healed: 
 Mar not true service with a selfish thought. 
 Nothing remains for thee to do, except 
 Give thanks, and go whither the Lord commands. 
 Obey, — obey ! Ere Naaman returns 
 Thou must depart to thine own house in Shechem, 
 [The vision vanishes.] 
 
 Ruahmah: [Waking and rising slowly.] 
 
 A dream, a dream, a messenger of God ! 
 O dear and dreadful vision, art thou true.'' 
 Then am I glad with all my broken heart. 
 Nothing remains, — nothing remains but this, — 
 Give thanks, obey, depart, — and so I do. 
 . 530 
 
ACT IV. sc. I] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 Farewell, my master's sword ! Farewell to you, 
 My amulet ! I lay you on the hilt 
 His hand shall clasp again: bid him farewell 
 For me, since I must look upon his face 
 No more for ever ! — Hark, what sound was that ? 
 [Enter soldier hurriedly.] 
 
 Soldier: 
 
 Mistress, an armed troop, footmen and horse, 
 Mounting the hill ! 
 
 RUAHMAH : 
 
 My lord returns in triumph. 
 Soldier : 
 
 Not so, for these are enemies; they march 
 In haste and silence, answering not our cries. 
 
 RuAHMAH : 
 
 Our enemies ? Then hold your ground, — on guard ! 
 
 Fight ! fight ! Defend the pass, and drive them down. 
 [Exit soldier. Ruahmah draws Naaman's sword 
 from the scabbard and hurries out of the tent. 
 Confused noise of fighting outside. Three or 
 four soldiers are driven in by a troop of men in 
 disguise. Ruahmah follows: she is beaten to 
 her knees y and her sword is brokeyi.] 
 
 Rezon: [Throwing aside the cloth which covers his face.] 
 Hold her ! So, tiger-maid, we've found your lair 
 And trapped you. Where is Naaman, 
 Your master? 
 
 531 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv. sc. i 
 
 Ruahmah: [Rising, her arms held by two of Rezon's /o/- 
 lowers.] 
 
 He is far beyond your reach. 
 Rezon: 
 
 Brave captain ! He has saved himself, the leper, 
 And left you here? 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 The leper is no more. 
 Rezon : 
 
 What mean you? 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 He has gone to meet his God. 
 Rezon : 
 
 Dead.'' Dead? Behold how Rimraon's wrath is 
 swift ! 
 
 Damascus shall be mine; I'll terrify 
 
 The King with this, and make my terms. But no ! 
 
 False maid, you sweet-faced harlot, you have lied 
 
 To save him, — speak. 
 Ruahmah : 
 
 I am not what you say. 
 
 Nor have I lied, nor will I ever speak 
 
 A word to you, vile servant of a traitor-god. 
 Rezon : 
 
 Break off this little flute of blasphemy, 
 
 This ivory neck, — twist it, I say ! 
 
 Give her a swift despatch after her leper! 
 
 But stay, — if he still lives he'll follow her. 
 
 And so we may ensnare him. Harm her not ! 
 532 
 
ACT IV, sc. I] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 Bind her ! Away with her to Rimmon's House ! 
 
 Is all this carrion dead ? There's one that moves, — 
 
 A spear, — fasten him down ! All quiet now ? 
 
 Then back to our Damascus ! Rimmon's face 
 
 Shall be made bright with sacrifice. 
 
 [Exeunt, forcing Ruahmah ivith them. Musical 
 interlude. A wounded soldier crawls from a 
 dark corner of the tent and finds the chain with 
 Naaman's seal, which has fallen to the ground 
 in the struggle.] 
 Wounded Soldier: 
 
 The signet of my lord, her amulet ! 
 
 Lost, lost ! Ah, noble lady, — let me die 
 
 With this upon my breast. 
 
 [The tent is dark. Enter Naaman and his com- 
 pany in haste, with torches.] 
 
 Naaman: 
 
 What bloody work 
 Is here? God, let me live to punish him 
 Who wrought this horror ! Treacherously slain 
 At night, by unknown hands, my brave companions: 
 Tsarpi, my best beloved, light of my soul, 
 Put out in darkness ! O my broken lamp 
 Of life, where art thou? Nay, I cannot find her. 
 Wounded Soldier: [Raising himself on his arm.] 
 
 Master ! 
 Naaman: [Kneels beside him.] 
 
 One living ? Quick, a torch this way ! 
 533 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv, sc. i 
 
 Lift up his head, — so, — carefully ! 
 
 Courage, my friend, your captain is beside you. 
 
 Call back your soul and make report to him. 
 
 Wounded Soldier: 
 
 Hail, captain ! O my captain, — here ! 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 Be patient, — rest in peace, — the fight is done. 
 Nothing remains but render your account. 
 
 Wounded Soldier: 
 
 They fell upon us suddenly, — we fought 
 Our fiercest, — every man, — our lady fought 
 Fiercer than all. They beat us down, — she's gone. 
 Rezon has carried her away a captive. See, — 
 Her amulet, — I die for you, my captain. 
 
 Naaman: [He gently lays the dead soldier on the ground, 
 and rises.] 
 Farewell. This last report was brave; but strange 
 Beyond my thought! How came the High Priest 
 
 here? 
 And what is this ? my chain, my seal ! But this 
 Has never been in Tsarpi's hand. I gave 
 This signet to a captive maid one night, — 
 A maid of Israel. How long ago.'* 
 Ruahmah was her name, — almost forgotten ! 
 So long ago, — how comes this token here? 
 What is this mystery, Saballidin? 
 
 Saballidin : 
 
 Ruahmah is her name who brought you hither. 
 534 
 
ACT IV, 8c. I] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 Where then is Tsarpi? 
 Saballidin : 
 
 In Damascus. 
 
 She left you when the curse of Rimmon fell, — 
 
 Took refuge in his House, — and there she waits 
 
 Her lord's return, — Rezon's return. 
 Naaman : 
 
 'Tis false! 
 Saballidin : 
 
 The falsehood is in her. She hath been friend 
 With Rezon in his priestly plot to win 
 Assyria's favour, — friend to his design 
 To sell his country to enrich his temple, — 
 And friend to him in more, — I will not name it. 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 Nor will I credit it. Impossible ! 
 
 Saballidin : 
 
 Did she not plead with you against the war. 
 Counsel surrender, seek to break your will.'^ 
 
 Naaman: 
 
 She did not love my work, a soldier's task. 
 She never seemed to be at one with me 
 Until I was a leper. 
 
 Saballidin : 
 
 From whose hand 
 Did you receive the sacred cup.? 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 From hers. 
 535 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv. sc. i 
 
 Saballidin: 
 
 And from that hour the curse began to work. 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 But did she not have pity when she saw 
 Me smitten? Did she not beseech the King 
 For letters and a guard to make this journey? 
 Has she not been the fountain of my hope. 
 My comforter and my most faithful guide 
 In this adventure of the dark? All this 
 Is proof of perfect love that would have shared 
 A leper's doom rather than give me up. 
 Can I doubt her who dared to love like this? 
 
 Saballidin : 
 
 O master, doubt her not, — but know her name; 
 Ruahmah! It was she alone who wrought 
 This wondrous work of love. She won the King 
 To furnish forth this company. She led 
 Our march, kept us in heart, fought off despair, 
 Watched over you as if you were her child, 
 Prepared your food, your cup, with her own hands, 
 Sang you asleep at night, awake at dawn, — 
 
 Naaman : [Interrupting.] 
 
 Enough! I do remember every hour 
 Of that sweet comradeship! And now her voice 
 Wakens the echoes in my lonely breast. 
 Shall I not see her, thank her, speak her name? 
 Ruahmah! Let me live till I have looked 
 Into her eyes and called her my Ruahmah ! 
 536 
 
ACT IV, sc. n] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 [To his soldiers.] . 
 Away ! away ! I burn to take the road 
 That leads me back to Rimmon's House, — 
 But not to bow, — by God, never to bow ! 
 
 Scene II 
 
 Time: Three days later 
 
 Inner court of the House of Rimmon; a temple with huge 
 pillars at each side. In the right foreground the seat of 
 the King; at the left, of equal height, the seat of the High 
 Priest. In the background a broad flight of steps, rising 
 to a curtain of cloudy gray, embroidered with two gigan- 
 tic hands holding thunderbolts. The temple is in half 
 darkness at first. Enter Khamma and Nubta, robed as 
 Kharimati, or religious dancers, in gowns of black gauze 
 with yellow embroideries and mantles. 
 
 Khamma : 
 
 All is ready for the rites of worship; our lady will 
 play a great part in them. She has put on her 
 Tyrian robes, and all her ornaments. 
 Nubta : 
 
 That is a sure sign of a religious purpose. She is 
 most devout, our lady Tsarpi ! 
 Khamma : 
 
 A favourite of Rimmon, too ! The High Priest has 
 assured her of it. He is a great man, — next to the 
 King, now that Naaman is gone. 
 537 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv, sc. n 
 
 NUBTA : 
 
 But if Naaman should come back, healed of the 
 leprosy ? 
 Khamma : 
 
 How can he come back? The Hebrew slave that 
 went away with him, when they caught her, said 
 that he was dead. The High Priest has shut her 
 up in the prison of the temple, accusing her of 
 her master's death. 
 
 NuBTA : 
 
 Yet I think he does not believe it, for I heard him 
 telling our mistress what to do if Naaman should 
 return. 
 
 Khamma : 
 
 What, then? 
 
 NuBTA : 
 
 She will claim him as her husband. Was she not 
 wedded to him before the god? That is a sacred 
 bond. Only the High Priest can loose it. She 
 will keep her hold on Naaman for the sake of the 
 House of Rimmon. A wife knows her husband's 
 
 secrets, she can tell 
 
 [Enter Shumakim, with his flagon, walking un- 
 steadily.] 
 
 Khamma : 
 
 Hush! here comes the fool Shumakim. He is never 
 sober. 
 
 538 
 
ACT IV, sen] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 Shumakim: [Laughing.] 
 
 Are there two of you ? I see two, but that is no proof. 
 I think there is only one, but beautiful enough for 
 two. What were you talking to yourself about, 
 fairest one ! 
 Khamma : 
 
 About the lady Tsarpi, fool, and what she would do 
 if her husband returned. 
 Shumakim: 
 
 Fie ! fie ! That is no talk for an innocent fool to 
 hear. Has she a husband.'* 
 Nubta: 
 
 You know very well that she is the wife of Lord 
 Naaman. 
 Shumakim : 
 
 I remember that she used to wear his name and his 
 jewels. But I thought he had exchanged her, — 
 for a leprosy. 
 Khamma: 
 
 You must have heard that he went away to Samaria 
 to look for healing. Some say that he died on 
 the journey; but others say he has been cured, 
 and is on his way home to his wife. 
 Shumakim : 
 
 It may be, for this is a mad world, and men never 
 
 know when they are well off, — except us fools. 
 
 But he must come soon if he would find his wife 
 
 as he parted from her, — or the city where he left 
 
 539 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv, sc. n 
 
 it. The Assyrians have returned with a greater 
 army, and this time they will make an end of us. 
 There is no Naaman now, and the Bull will devour 
 Damascus like a bunch of leeks, flowers and all, — • 
 flowers and all, my double-budded fair one ! Are 
 you not afraid? 
 
 NUBTA : 
 
 We belong to the House of Rimmon. He will pro- 
 tect us. 
 Shumakim : 
 
 What.'* The mighty one who hides behind the cur- 
 tain there, and tells his secrets to Rezon ? No doubt 
 he will take care of you, and of himself. What- 
 ever game is played, the gods never lose. But for 
 the protection of the common people and the rest 
 of us fools, I would rather have Naaman at the 
 head of an army than all the sacred images be- 
 tween here and Babylon. 
 Khamma : 
 
 You are a wicked old man. You mock the god. He 
 will punish you. 
 Shumakim: [Bitterly.] 
 
 How can he punish me? Has he not already made 
 me a fool? Hark, here comes my brother the 
 High Priest, and my brother the King. Rimmon 
 made us all; but nobody knows who made Rimmon, 
 except the High Priest; and he will never tell. 
 Gongs and cymbals sound. Enter Rezon with priests, and 
 
 540 
 
ACT IV, sc. II] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 the King with courtiers. They take their seats. A throng 
 of Khali and Kharimati come in, Tsarpi presiding ; a 
 sacred dance is 'performed with torches, burning incense, 
 and chanting, in which Tsarpi leads. \ 
 
 Chant 
 
 Hail, mighty Rimmon, ruler of the tvhirl-storm. 
 Hail, shaker of mountains, breaker-down of forests. 
 Hail, thou who roarest terribly in the darkness. 
 Hail, thou whose arrows flame across the heavens! 
 Hail, great destroyer, lord of flood and tempest. 
 In thine anger almighty, in thy wrath eternal. 
 Thou who delightest in ruin, maker of desolations, 
 Immeru, Addu, Berku, Rimmon! 
 See we tremble before thee, low we boio at thine altar. 
 Have mercy upon us, be favourable unto us. 
 Save us from our enemy, accept our sacrifice, 
 Barku, Immeru, Addu, Rimmon! 
 
 [Silence follows, all bovnng down.] 
 Rezon : 
 
 O King, last night the counsel from above 
 Was given in answer to our divination. 
 Ambassadors must go forthwith to crave 
 Assyria's pardon, and a second offer 
 Of the same terms of peace we did reject 
 Not long ago. 
 
 Benhadad : 
 
 Dishonour ! Yet I see 
 541 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv, sc. n 
 
 No other way ! Assyria will refuse, 
 
 Or make still harder terms. Disaster, shame 
 
 For this gray head, and ruin for Damascus ! 
 
 Rezon : 
 
 Yet may we trust Rimmon will favour us, 
 
 If we adhere devoutly to his worship. 
 
 lie will incline his brother-god, the Bull, 
 
 To spare us, if we supplicate him now 
 
 With costly gifts. Therefore I have prepared 
 
 A sacrifice: Rimmon shall be well pleased 
 
 With the red blood that bathes his knees to-night ! 
 
 Benhadad : 
 
 My mind is dark with doubt, — I do forebode 
 Some horror ! Let me go, — I am an old man, — 
 If Naaman my captain were alive ! 
 But he is dead, — the glory is departed ! 
 
 [He rises, trembling, to leave the throne. Trumpet 
 sounds, — Naaman's call; — enter Naaman, fol- 
 lowed by soldiers; he kneels at the foot of the 
 throne.] 
 
 Benhadad : [Half -whispering.] 
 
 Art thou a ghost escaped from Allatu.'' 
 
 How didst thou pass the seven doors of death? 
 
 O noble ghost I am afraid of thee. 
 
 And yet I love thee, — let me hear thy voice ! 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 No ghost, my King, but one who lives to serve 
 Thee and Damascus with his heart and sword 
 542 
 
ACT IV, 8c. II] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 As in the former days. The only God 
 Has healed my leprosy: my life is clean 
 To offer to my country and my King. 
 Benhadad: [Starting toward him.] 
 
 O welcome to thy King ! Thrice welcome ! 
 Rezon: [Leaving his seat and coining toward Naaman.] 
 
 Stay! 
 The leper must appear before the priest, 
 The only one who can pronounce him clean. 
 
 [Naaman turns; they stand looking each other in 
 the face.] 
 Yea, — thou art cleansed: Rimmon hath pardoned 
 
 thee, — 
 In answer to the daily prayers of her 
 Whom he restores to thine embrace, — thy wife. 
 [TsARPi comes slowly toward Naaman.] 
 Naaman: 
 
 From him who rules this House will I receive 
 Nothing ! I seek no pardon from his priest. 
 No wife of mine among his votaries ! 
 TsARPi: [Holding out her hands.] 
 
 Am I not yours? Will you renounce our vows? 
 Naaman: 
 
 The vows were empty, — never made you mine 
 In aught but name. A wife is one who shares 
 Her husband's thought, incorporates his heart 
 With hers by love, and crowns him with her trust. 
 She is God's remedy for loneliness, 
 543 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 lACT IV, 8C. II 
 
 And God's reward for all the toil of life. 
 
 This you have never been to me, — and so 
 
 I give you back again to Rimmon's House 
 
 Where you belong. Claim what you will of mine, — 
 
 Not me ! I do renounce you, — or release you, — 
 
 According to the law. If you demand 
 
 A further cause than what I have declared, 
 
 I will unfold it fully to the King. 
 
 Rezon: [Interposing hurriedly.] 
 
 No need of that ! This duteous lady yields 
 To your caprice as she has ever done: 
 She stands a monument of loyalty 
 And woman's meekness. 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 Let her stand for that ! 
 Adorn your temple with her piety! 
 But you in turn restore to me the treasure 
 You stole at midnight from my tent. 
 
 Rezon: 
 
 What treasure ! I have stolen none from you. 
 
 Naaman: 
 
 The very jewel of my soul, — ^Ruahmah! 
 
 My King, the captive maid of Israel, 
 
 To whom thou didst commit my broken life 
 
 With letters to Samaria, — my light. 
 
 My guide, my saviour in this pilgrimage, — 
 
 Dost thou remember? 
 
 544 
 
ACT IV, sc. II] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 Benhadad : 
 
 I recall the maid, — 
 But dimly, — for my mind is old and weary. 
 She was a fearless maid, I trusted her 
 And gave thee to her charge. Where is she now? 
 
 Naaman : 
 
 This robber fell upon my camp by night, — 
 While I was with Elisha at the Jordan, — 
 Slaughtered my soldiers, carried off the maid, 
 And holds her somewhere in imprisonment. 
 
 give this jewel back to me, my King, 
 And I will serve thee with a grateful heart 
 For ever. I will fight for thee, and lead 
 Thine armies on to glorious victory 
 
 Over all foes! Thou shalt no longer fear 
 The host of Asshur, for thy throne shall stand 
 Encompassed with a wall of dauntless hearts. 
 And founded on a mighty people's love. 
 And guarded by the God of righteousness. 
 Benhadad : 
 
 1 feel the flame of courage at thy breath 
 Leap up among the ashes of despair. 
 
 Thou hast returned to save us ! Thou shalt have 
 The maid ; and thou shalt lead my host again ! 
 Priest, I command you give her back to him, 
 Rezon : 
 
 O master, I obey thy word as thou 
 Hast ever been obedient to the voice 
 545 
 
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv, sc. u 
 
 Of Rimmon, Let thy fiery captain wait 
 Until the sacrifice has been performed, 
 And he shall have the jewel that he claims. 
 Must we not first placate the city's god 
 With due allegiance, keep the ancient faith, 
 And pay our homage to the Lord of Wrath? 
 Benhadad: [Sinking back upon his throne in fear.] 
 I am the faithful son of Rimmon's House, — • 
 And lo, these many years I worship him ! 
 My thoughts are troubled, — I am very old. 
 But still a King ! O Naaman, be patient ! 
 Priest, let the sacrifice be offered. 
 
 [The High Priest lifts his rod. Gongs and cymbals 
 sound. The curtain is rolled back, disclosing 
 the image of Rimmon; a gigantic and hideous 
 idol, with a cruel human face, four horns, the 
 mane of a lion, and huge paws stretched in front 
 of him enclosing a low altar of black stone. 
 RuAHMAH stands on the altar, chained, her 
 arms are bare and folded on her breast. Tlie 
 people prostrate themselves in silence, with signs 
 of astonishment and horror.] 
 Rezon : 
 
 Behold the sacrifice ! Bow down, bow down ! 
 Naaman: [Stabbing Imn.] 
 
 Bow thou, black priest! Down, — down to hell! 
 Ruahmah ! do not die ! I come to thee. 
 
 [Naaman rushes toward her, attacked by the priests, 
 crying "Sacrilege! Kill him!" But the sol- 
 546 
 
ACT XV. sen] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 
 
 diers stand on the steps and beat them back. He 
 springs upon the altar and clasps her by the 
 hand. Tumult and confusion. The King rises 
 and speaks with a loud voice, silence follows.] 
 Benhadad : 
 
 Peace, peace ! The King commands all weapons 
 
 down ! 
 O Naaman, what wouldst thou do? Beware 
 Lest thou provoke the anger of a god. 
 Naaman : 
 
 There is no God but one, the Merciful, 
 Who gave this perfect woman to my soul 
 That I might learn through her to worship Him, 
 And know the meaning of immortal Love. 
 Benhadad: [Agitated.] 
 
 Yet she is consecrated, bound, and doomed 
 To sacrificial death; but thou art sworn 
 To live and lead my host, — Hast thou not sworn.'* 
 Naaman: 
 
 Only if thou wilt keep thy word to me ! 
 Break with this idol of iniquity 
 Whose shadow makes a darkness in the land; 
 Give her to me who gave me back to thee; 
 And I will lead thine army to renown 
 And plant thy banners on the hill of triumph. 
 But if she dies, I die with her, defying Rimmon. 
 [Cries of "Spare them! Release her! Give us 
 back our Captain!" and "Sacrilege! Let them 
 die ! " Then silence, all turning toward the King.] 
 547 
 
1 
 
 i 
 
 ] 
 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv. sc. n j 
 
 Benhadad : j 
 
 Is this the choice? Must we destroy the bond i 
 
 Of ancient faith, or slay the city's hving hope ! | 
 
 I am an old, old man, — and yet the King ! j 
 
 Must I decide ? — O let me ponder it ! j 
 
 [His head sinks upon his breast. All stand eagerly j 
 looking at him.] 
 
 Naaman : '' 
 
 Ruahmah, my Ruahmah ! I have come 
 To thee at last ! And art thou satisfied ? 
 
 Ruahmah: [Looking into his face.] I 
 
 Beloved, my beloved, I am glad 
 
 Of all, and glad for ever, come what may. ! 
 
 Nothing can harm me, — since my lord is come ! 
 
 548 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 CARMINA FESTIVA 
 
THE LITTLE-NECK CLAM 
 
 A modern verse-sequence, showing how a native American subject, 
 strictly realistic, may be treated in various manners adapted to the 
 requirements of different magazines, thus combining Art-for-Art's- 
 Sake with Writing-for-the-Market. Read at the First Dinner of the 
 American Periodical Publishers' Association, in Washington, April, 
 1904. 
 
 The Anti-Trust Clam 
 
 For McClure's Magazine 
 
 The clam that once, on Jersey's banks. 
 Was like the man who dug it, free. 
 Now slave-like thro' the market clanks 
 In chains of corporate tyranny. 
 
 The Standard Fish-Trust of New York 
 Holds every clam-bank in control; 
 And like base Beef and menial Pork, 
 The free-born Clam has lost its soul. 
 
 No more the bivalve treads the sands 
 In freedom's rapture, free from guilt: 
 It follows now the harsh commands 
 Of Morgiman and Rockabilt. 
 
 Rise, freemen, rise ! Your wrath is just ! 
 Call on the Sherman Act to dam 
 The floods of this devouring Trust, 
 And liberate the fettered Clam. 
 551 
 
CARMINA FESTIVA 
 
 II 
 
 The Whitmaniac Clam 
 
 For the Bookman 
 
 Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno, 
 Not Burns who plowed the banks and braes of bonnie 
 
 Ayr, 
 Not even Shakspere on the shores of Avon, — ah, no ! 
 Not one of those great bards did taste true Poet's Fare. 
 
 But Whitman, loafing in Long Island and New Jersey, 
 Found there the sustenance of mighty ode and psalm, 
 And while his rude emotions swam around in verse, he 
 Fed chiefly on the wild, impassioned, sea-born clam. 
 
 Thus in his work we feel the waves' bewildering motion, 
 And winds from mighty mud-flats, weird and wild: 
 His clam-filled bosom answered to the voice of ocean, 
 And rose and fell responsively with every tide. 
 
 55^ 
 
THE LITTLE-NECK CLAM 
 
 III 
 
 II Mercatore Italiano Della Clamma 
 
 For the Century Magazine 
 
 "Clam O! Fres' Clam!" How strange it sounds and 
 
 sweet, 
 The Dago's cry along the New York street ! 
 "Dago" we call him, like the thoughtless crowd; 
 And yet this humble man may well be proud 
 To hail from Petrarch's land, Boccaccio's home, — 
 Firenze, Gubbio, Venezia, Rome, — 
 From fair Italia, whose enchanted soil 
 Transforms the lowly cotton-seed to olive-oil. 
 
 To me his chant, with alien accent sung. 
 
 Brings back an echo of great Virgil's tongue: 
 
 It seems to cry against the city's woe. 
 
 In liquid Latin syllables, — Clamo ! 
 
 As thro' the crowded street his cart he jams 
 
 And cries aloud, ah, think of more than clams ! 
 
 Receive his secret plaint with pity warm. 
 
 And grant Italia's plea for Tenement-House Reform ! 
 
 553 
 
CARMINA FESTIVA 
 
 IV 
 
 The Social Clam 
 
 For the Smart Set 
 
 Fair Phyllis is another's bride: 
 Therefore I like to sit beside 
 Her at a very smart set dinner, 
 And whisper love, and try to win her. 
 
 The little-necks, — in number six, — 
 That from their pearly shells she picks 
 And swallows whole, — ah, is it selfish 
 To wish my heart among those shell-fish ? 
 
 "But Phyllis is another's wife; 
 
 And if she should absorb thy life 
 
 'T would leave thy bosom vacant." — Well, 
 
 I'd keep at least the empty shell ! 
 
 V 
 
 The Recreant Clam 
 
 For the Outlook 
 
 Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze, 
 Because thy slothful spirit doth refuse 
 The bliss of battle and the strain of strife. 
 Rise, craven clam, and lead the strenuous life ! 
 554> 
 
A FAIRY TALE 
 
 For the Mark Twain Dinner, December 5, 1905 
 
 Some three-score years and ten ago 
 A prince was born at Florida, Mo.; 
 And though he came incognito, 
 With just the usual yells of woe, 
 The watchful fairies seemed to know 
 
 Precisely what the row meant; 
 For when he was but five days old, 
 (December fifth as I've been told,) 
 They pattered through the midnight cold. 
 And came around his crib, to hold 
 
 A Council of Endowment." 
 
 "I give him Wit," the eldest said, 
 And stooped above the little bed, 
 To touch his forehead round and red. 
 "Within this bald, unfurnished head, 
 "Where wild luxuriant locks shall spread 
 
 "And wave in years hereafter, 
 "I kindle now the lively spark, 
 "That still shall flash by day and dark, 
 "And everywhere he goes shall mark 
 
 "His way with light and laughter." 
 
 555 
 
CARMINA FESTIVA 
 
 The fairies laughed to think of it 
 That such a rosy, wrinkled bit 
 Of flesh should be endowed with Wit! 
 But something serious seemed to hit 
 The mind of one, as if a fit 
 
 Of fear had come upon her. 
 "I give him Truth," she quickly cried, 
 "That laughter may not lead aside 
 "To paths where scorn and falsehood hide, — 
 
 "I give him Truth and Honour!" 
 
 "I give him Love," exclaimed the third; 
 And as she breathed the mystic word, 
 I know not if the baby heard. 
 But softly in his dream he stirred. 
 And twittered like a little bird. 
 
 And stretched his hands above him. 
 The fairy's gift was sealed and signed 
 With kisses twain the deed to bind: 
 "A heart of love to human-kind, 
 
 "And human-kind to love him!" 
 
 556 
 
A FAIRY TALE 
 
 "Now stay your giving!" cried the Queen. 
 "These gifts are passing rich I ween; 
 "And if reporters should be mean 
 "Enough to spy upon this scene, 
 "'Twould make all other babies green 
 
 "With envy at the rumour. 
 "Yet since I love this child, forsooth, 
 "I'll mix your gifts, Wit, Love and Truth, 
 "With spirits of Immortal Youth, 
 
 "And call the mixture Humour!" 
 
 The fairies vanished with their glittering train; 
 
 But here's the Prince with all their gifts, — Mark Twain. 
 
 557 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE SOLEMN ASS 
 
 Recited at the Century Club, New York: Twelfth Night. 190G 
 
 Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times. 
 You've made a Poet Laureate, now you must hear his 
 
 rhymes. 
 Extend your ears and I'll respond by shortening up my 
 
 tale : — 
 Man cannot live by verse alone, he must have cakes and 
 
 ale. 
 
 So while you wait for better things and muse on schnapps 
 
 and salad, 
 I'll try my Pegasus his wings and sing a little ballad: 
 A legend of your ancestors, the Wise Men of the East, 
 Who brought among their baggage train a quaint and 
 
 curious beast. 
 
 Their horses were both swift and strong, and we should 
 think it lucky 
 
 If we could buy, by telephone, such horses from Ken- 
 tucky ; 
 
 Their dromedaries paced along, magnificent and large. 
 
 Their camels were as stately as if painted by La Farge. 
 
 But this amazing little ass was never satisfied. 
 He made more trouble every day than all the rest beside: 
 
 558 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE SOLEMN ASS 
 
 His ears were long, his legs were short, his eyes were 
 
 bleared and dim, 
 But nothing in the wide, wide world w^as good enough 
 
 for him. 
 
 He did not hke the way they went, but lifted up his 
 
 voice 
 And said that any other way would be a better choice. 
 He braced his feet and stood his ground, and made the 
 
 wise men wait. 
 While with his heels at all around he did recalcitrate. 
 
 It mattered not how fair the land through which the 
 
 road might run. 
 He found new causes for complaint with every Morning 
 
 Sun: 
 And when the shades of twilight fell and all the world 
 
 grew nappy. 
 They tied him to his Evening Post, but still he was not 
 
 happy. 
 
 He thought his load was far too large, he thought his 
 
 food was bad, 
 He thought the Star a poor affair, he thought the Wise 
 
 Men mad: 
 He did not like to hear them laugh, — 'twas childish to 
 
 be jolly; 
 And if perchance they sang a hymn, — 'twas sentimental 
 
 folly ! 
 
 559 
 
CARMINA FESTIVA 
 
 So day by day this little beast performed his level best 
 To make their life, in work and play, a burden to the rest: 
 And when they laid them down at night, he would not 
 
 let them sleep, 
 But criticized the Universe with hee-haws loud and deep. 
 
 One evening, as the Wise Men sat before their fire-lit 
 
 tent, 
 And ate and drank and talked and sang, in grateful 
 
 merriment. 
 The solemn donkey butted in, in his most solemn way, 
 And broke the happy meeting up with a portentous bray. 
 
 "Now by my head," Balthazar said (his real name was 
 
 Choate), 
 "We've had about enough of this! I'll put it to the 
 
 vote. 
 "I move the donkey be dismissed; let's turn him out to 
 
 grass, 
 "And travel on our cheerful way, without the solemn ass." 
 
 The vote was aye ! and with a whack the Wise Men 
 
 drove him out; 
 But still he wanders up and down, and all the world 
 
 about ; 
 You'll know him by his long, sad face and supercilious 
 
 ways. 
 And hkewise by his morning kicks and by his evening 
 
 brays. 
 
 560 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE SOLEMN ASS 
 
 But while we sit at Eagle Roost and make our Twelfth 
 Night cheer, 
 
 Full well we know the solemn ass will not disturb us here: 
 
 For pleasure rules the roost to-night, by order of the 
 King, 
 
 And every one must play his part, and laugh, and like- 
 wise sing. 
 
 The road of life is long, we know, and often hard to find. 
 
 And yet there's many a pleasant turn for men of cheer- 
 ful mind: 
 
 We've done our day's work honestly, we've earned the 
 right to rest, 
 
 We'll take a cup of friendship now and spice it with a 
 jest. 
 
 A silent health to absent friends, their memories are 
 
 bright ! 
 A hearty health to all who keep the feast with us to-night ! 
 A health to dear Centuria, oh, may she long abide ! 
 A health, a health to all the world, — and the solemn ass, 
 
 outside ! 
 
 561 
 
A BALLAD OF SANTA CLAUS 
 
 For the St. Nicholas Society of New York 
 
 Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira, 
 I find the one whose name we hold, St. Nicholas of Myra : 
 The best-beloved name, I guess, in sacred nomenclature, — 
 The patron-saint of helpfulness, and friendship, and good- 
 nature. 
 
 A bishop and a preacher too, a famous theologian, 
 He stood against the Arian crew and fought them like a 
 
 Trojan : 
 But when a poor man told his need and begged an alms 
 
 in trouble. 
 He never asked about his creed, but quickly gave him 
 
 double. 
 
 Three pretty maidens, so they say, were longing to be 
 
 married ; 
 But they were paupers, lack-a-day, and so the suitors 
 
 tarried. 
 St. Nicholas gave each maid a purse of golden ducats 
 
 chinking. 
 And then, for better or for worse, they wedded quick as 
 
 winking. 
 
 d62 
 
A BALLAD OF SANTA CLAUS 
 
 Once, as he sailed, a storm arose; wild waves the ship 
 
 surrounded; 
 The sailors wept and tore their clothes, and shrieked 
 
 "We'll all be drownded!" 
 St. Nicholas never turned a hair; serenely shone his halo; 
 He simply said a little prayer, and all the billows lay low. 
 
 The wicked keeper of an inn had three small urchins 
 
 taken, 
 And cut them up in a pickle-bin, and salted them for 
 
 bacon. 
 St. Nicholas came and picked them out, and put their 
 
 limbs together, — 
 They lived, they leaped, they gave a shout, "St. Nicholas 
 
 forever !" 
 
 And thus it came to pass, you know, that maids without 
 
 a nickel, 
 And sailor-lads when tempest blow, and children in a 
 
 pickle, 
 And every man that's fatherly, and every kindly matron. 
 In choosing saints would all agree to call St, Nicholas 
 
 patron. 
 
 563 
 
CARMINA FESTIVA 
 
 He comes again at Christmas-time and stirs us up to 
 
 giving; 
 He rings the merry bells that chime good-will to all the 
 
 living; 
 He blesses every friendly deed and every free donation; 
 He sows the secret, golden seed of love through all creation. 
 
 Our fathers drank to Santa Claus, the sixth of each De- 
 cember, 
 
 And still we keep his feast because his virtues we remem- 
 ber. 
 
 Among the saintly ranks he stood, with smiling human 
 features, 
 
 And said, ''Be good! But not too good to love your fellow- 
 creatures!" 
 
 December 6, 1907. 
 
 564 
 
ARS AGRICOLARIS 
 
 An Ode for the "Farmer's Dinner," University Club, New York, 
 January 23, 1913 
 
 All hail, ye famous Farmers ! 
 
 Ye vegetable-charmers, 
 
 Who know the art of making barren earth 
 
 Smile with prolific mirth 
 
 And bring forth twins or triplets at a birth ! 
 
 Ye scientific fetilizers of the soil. 
 
 And horny-handed sons of toil ! 
 
 To-night from all your arduous cares released, 
 
 With manly brows no longer sweat-impearled, 
 
 Ye hold your annual feast. 
 
 And like the Concord farmers long ago, 
 
 Ye meet above the "Bridge" below, 
 
 And draw the cork heard round the world ! 
 
 What memories are yours ! What tales 
 Of triumph have your tongues rehearsed. 
 Telling how ye have won your first 
 Potatoes from the stubborn mead, 
 (Almost as many as ye sowed for seed !) 
 And how the luscious cabbages and kails 
 Have bloomed before you in their bed 
 At seven dollars a head ! 
 And how your onions took a prize 
 565 
 
CARMINA FESTIVA 
 
 For bringing tears into the eyes 
 
 Of a hard-hearted cook ! And how ye slew 
 
 The Dragon Cut- worm at a stroke ! 
 And how ye broke, 
 
 Routed, and put to flight the horrid crew 
 
 Of vile potato-bugs and Hessian flies ! 
 And how ye did not quail 
 
 Before th' invading armies of San Jose Scale, 
 But met them bravely with your little pail 
 Of poison, which ye put upon each tail 
 
 O' the dreadful beasts and made their courage fail ! 
 And how ye did acquit yourselves like men 
 In fields of agricultural strife, and then, 
 Like generous warriors, sat you down at ease 
 And gently to your gardener said, "Let us have 
 Pease r 
 
 But were there Pease ? Ah, no, dear Farmers, no ! 
 The course of Nature is not ordered so. 
 For when we want a vegetable most, 
 She holds it back; 
 And when we boast 
 To our week-endly friends 
 Of what we'll give them on our farm, alack. 
 Those things the old dam, Nature, never sends. 
 
 566 
 
ARS AGRICOLARIS 
 
 O Pease in bottles, Sparrow-grass in jars, 
 
 How often have ye saved from scars 
 
 Of shame, and deep embarrassment. 
 
 The disingenuous farmer-gent. 
 
 To whom some wondering guest has cried, 
 
 "How do you raise such Pease and Sparrow-grass?" 
 
 Whereat the farmer-gent has not denied 
 
 The comphment, but smiUng has repUed, 
 
 "To raise such things you must have lots of glass." 
 
 From wiles like these, true Farmers, hold aloof; 
 Accept no praise unless you have the proof. 
 If niggard Nature should withhold the green 
 And sugary Pea, welcome the humble Bean. 
 Even the easy Radish, and the Beet, 
 If grown by your own toil are extra sweet. 
 Let malefactors of great wealth and banker-felons 
 Rejoice in foreign artichokes, imported melons; 
 But you, my Farmers, at your frugal board 
 Spread forth the fare your Sabine Farms afford. 
 Say to Maecenas, when he is your guest, 
 "No peaches ! try this turnip, 'tis my best." 
 Thus shall ye learn from labors in the field 
 What honesty a farmer's life may yield. 
 And like G. Washington in early youth. 
 Though cherries fail, produce a crop of truth 
 
 567 
 
CARMINA FESTIVA 
 
 But think me not too strict, O followers of the plough; 
 Some place for fiction in your lives I would allow. 
 In January when the world is drear, 
 And bills come in, and no results appear, 
 
 And snow-storms veil the skies. 
 
 And ice the streamlet clogs, 
 Then may you warm your heart with pleasant lies 
 And revel in the seedsmen's catalogues ! 
 What visions and what dreams are these 
 
 Of cauliflower obese, — 
 Of giant celery, taller than a mast, — 
 
 Of strawberries 
 Like red pincushions, round and vast, — 
 
 Of succulent and spicy gumbo, — 
 
 Of cantaloupes, as big as Jumbo, — 
 
 Of high-strung beans without the strings, — 
 And of a host of other wild, romantic things ! 
 
 Why, then, should Doctor Starr declare 
 That modern habits mental force impair? 
 
 And why should H. Marquand complain 
 That jokes as good as his will never come again? 
 And why should Bridges wear a gloomy mien 
 About the lack of fiction for his Magazine? 
 The seedsman's catalogue is all we need 
 To stir our dull imaginations 
 
 To new creations, 
 And lead us, by the hand 
 Of Hope, into a fairy-land. 
 568 
 
ARS AGRICOLARIS 
 
 So dream, my friendly Farmers, as you will; 
 
 And let your fancy all your garners fill 
 
 With wondrous crops; but always recollect 
 
 That Nature gives us less than we expect. 
 
 Scorn not the city where you earn the wealth 
 
 That, spent upon your farms, renews your health; 
 
 And tell your wife, whene'er the bills have shocked her, 
 
 "A country -place is cheaper than a doctor." 
 
 May roses bloom for you, and may you find 
 
 Your richest harvest in a tranquil mind. 
 
 569 
 
ANGLER'S FIRESIDE SONG 
 
 Oh, the angler's path is a very merry way. 
 And his road through the world is bright; 
 
 For he lives with the laughing stream all day. 
 And he lies by the fire at night. 
 
 Sing hey nonny, ho nonny 
 
 And likewise well-a-day ! 
 
 The angler's life is a very jolly life 
 
 And that's what the anglers say ! 
 
 Oh, the angler plays for the pleasure of the game, 
 
 And his creel may be full or light, 
 But the tale that he tells will be just the same 
 
 When he lies by the fire at night. 
 
 Sing hey nonny, ho nonny 
 And likewise well-a-day ! 
 We love the fire and the music of the lyre. 
 And that's what the anglers say ! 
 To the San Francisco Fly-Casting Club, April, 1913. 
 
 570 
 
HOW SPRING COMES TO SHASTA JIM 
 
 I NEVER seen no "red gods"; I dunno wot's a "lure"; 
 But if it's sumpin' takin', then Spring has got it sure; 
 An' it doesn't need no KipHns, ner yet no London Jacks, 
 To make up guff about it, w'ile settin' in their shacks. 
 
 It's sumpin' very simple 'at happens in the Spring, 
 But it changes all the lookin's of every blessed thing; 
 The buddin' woods look bigger, the mounting twice as 
 
 high. 
 But the house looks kindo smaller, tho I couldn't tell ye 
 
 why. 
 
 It's cur'ous wot a show-down the month of April makes, 
 Between the reely livin', an' the things 'at's only fakes ! 
 Machines an' barns an' buildin's, they never give no sign; 
 But the livin' things look lively w'en Spring is on the line. 
 
 She doesn't come too suddin, ner she doesn't come too 
 
 slow; 
 Her gaits is some cayprishus, an' the next ye never 
 
 know, — 
 A single-foot o' sunshine, a buck o' snow er hail, — 
 But don't be disapp'inted, fer Spring ain't goin' ter fail. 
 
 571 
 
CARMINA FESTIVA 
 
 She's loopin' down the hillside, — the driffs is fadin' out. 
 She's runnin' down the river, — d'ye see them risin' trout ? 
 She's loafin' down the canyon, — the squaw-bed's growin' 
 
 blue, 
 An' the teeny Johnny -jump-ups is jest a-peekin' thru. 
 
 A thousan' miles o' pine-trees, with Douglas firs between. 
 Is waitin' fer her fingers to freshen up their green; 
 With little tips o' brightness the firs 'ill sparkle thick, 
 An' every yaller pine-tree, a giant candle-stick ! 
 
 The underbrush is risin' an' spreadin' all around, 
 
 Jest like a mist o' greenness 'at hangs above the ground; 
 
 A million manzanitas 'ill soon be full o' pink; 
 
 So saddle up, my sonny, — it's time to ride, I think ! 
 
 We'll ford er swim the river, becos there ain't no bridge; 
 We'll foot the gulches careful, an' lope along the ridge; 
 We'll take the trail to Nowhere, an' travel till we tire, 
 An' camp beneath a pine-tree, an' sleep beside the fire. 
 
 We'll see the blue-quail chickens, an' hear 'em pipin' 
 
 clear; 
 An' p'raps we'll sight a brown-bear, er else a bunch o' 
 
 deer; 
 But nary a heathen goddess or god 'ill meet our eyes; 
 For why ? There isn't any ! They're jest a pack o' lies ! 
 
 572 
 
HOW SPRING COMES TO SHASTA JIM 
 
 Oh, wot's the use o' "red gods," an' "Pan," an' all that 
 
 stuff? 
 The natcheral facts o' Springtime is wonderful enuff ! 
 An' if there's Someone made 'em, I guess He understood, 
 To be alive in Springtime would make a man feel good. 
 California, 1913. 
 
 573 
 
A BUNCH OF TROUT-FLIES 
 
 For Archie Rutledge 
 
 Here's a half-a-dozen flies. 
 Just about the proper size 
 For the trout of Dickey's Run, — 
 Luck go with them every one ! 
 
 Dainty httle feathered beauties, 
 Listen now, and learn your duties: 
 Not to tangle in the box; 
 Not to catch on logs or rocks. 
 Boughs that wave or weeds that float. 
 Nor in the angler's "pants" or coat! 
 Not to lure the glutton frog 
 From his banquet in the bog; 
 Nor the lazy chub to fool, 
 Splashing idly round the pool; 
 Nor the sullen horned pout 
 From the mud to hustle out ! 
 
 574 
 
A BUNCH OF TROUT-FLIES 
 
 None of this vulgarian crew, 
 Dainty flies, is game for you. 
 Darting swiftly through the air 
 Guided by the angler's care, 
 Light upon the flowing stream 
 Like a winged fairy dream; 
 Float upon the water dancing, 
 Through the lights and shadows glancing. 
 Till the rippling current brings you. 
 And with quiet motion swings you. 
 Where a speckled beauty lies 
 Watching you with hungry eyes. 
 
 Here's your game and here's your prize ! 
 Hover near him, lure him, tease him, 
 Do your very best to please him. 
 Dancing on the water foamy. 
 Like the frail and fair Salome, 
 Till the monarch yields at last; 
 Rises, and you have him fast ! 
 Then remember well your duty, — 
 Do not lose, but land, your booty; 
 For the finest fish of all is 
 Salvelinus Fontinalis. 
 
 575 
 
CARMINA FESTIVA 
 
 So, you plumed illusions, go. 
 Let my comrade Archie know 
 Every day he goes a-fishing 
 I'll be with him in well-wishing. 
 Most of all when lunch is laid 
 In the dappled orchard shade, 
 With Will, Corinne, and Dixie too. 
 Sitting as we used to do 
 Round the white cloth on the grass 
 While the lazy hours pass, 
 And the brook's contented tune 
 Lulls the sleepy afternoon, — 
 Then's the time my heart will be 
 With that pleasant company ! 
 June 17, 1913. 
 
 576 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A deeper crimson in the rose, 255 
 
 A 6r-tree standeth lonely 197 
 
 A flawless cup: how delicate and fine 269 
 
 A little fir grew in the midst of the wood 147 
 
 A mocking question ! Britain's answer came 371 
 
 A silent world, — yet full of vital joy 101 
 
 A silken curtain veils the skies, 46 
 
 A tear that trembles for a little while 4 
 
 Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land, .... 187 
 
 Afterthought of summer's bloom ! 35 
 
 Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days • . . 47 
 
 All along the Brazos River, 337 
 
 All day long in the city's canyon-street, 352 
 
 All hail, ye famous Farmers ! 565 
 
 All night long, by a distant liell 251 
 
 All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still, 244 
 
 Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira 562 
 
 At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream, 6 
 
 At sunset, when the rosy light was dying 13 
 
 Children of the elemental mother, . . 299 
 
 "ClamO! Fres'Clam!" How strange it sounds and sweet, . . 553 
 
 Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times, .... 558 
 
 Come, give me back my life again, you heavy-handed Death ! . . 120 
 
 Come home, my love, come home ! 209 
 
 Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again, 230 
 
 Count not the cost of honour to the dead ! 311 
 
 Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night 447 
 
 Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days 437 
 
 Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America, .... 289 
 
 Deeds not Words : I say so too ! 276 
 
 Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing; . . 27 
 
 "Do you give thanks for this? — or that?" No, God be thanked 224 
 
 Do you remember, father, — 24 
 
 Does the snow fall at sea? 16 
 
 577 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ere thou sleepest gently lay 239 
 
 Fair Phyllis is another's bride: 554 
 
 Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine 17 
 
 Far richer than a thornless rose 280 
 
 Flowers rejoice when night is done 9 
 
 For that thy face is fair I love thee not; 172 
 
 Four things a man must learn to do 277 
 
 From the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendours of 
 
 the moon, 429 
 
 Furl your sail, my little boatie; 218 
 
 Give us a name to fill the mind , . . 385 
 
 Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard, . . . 464 
 
 God said, "I am tired of kings," — 376 
 
 Great Nature had a million words 466 
 
 Hear a word that Jesus spake 83 
 
 Heart of France for a hundred years, 431 
 
 Her eyes are like the evening air, 186 
 
 Here's a half-a-dozen flies, 574 
 
 Here the great heart of France 418 
 
 Home, for my heart still calls me; 397 
 
 Honour the brave who sleep 157 
 
 Hours fly 259 
 
 How blind the toil that burrows like the mole, 428 
 
 "How can I tell," Sir Edmund said 158 
 
 Hoio long is the night, brother, 185 
 
 How long the echoes love to play 3 
 
 I count that friendship little worth 223 
 
 I envy every flower that blows 179 
 
 I have no joy in strife, 401 
 
 I love thine inland seas, 288 
 
 I never seen no "red gods"; I dunno wot's a "lure"; 571 
 
 I never thought again to hear 395 
 
 I put my heart to school 45 
 
 I read within a poet's book 217 
 
 I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer 196 
 
 I would not even ask my heart to say . . . 287 
 
 If all the skies were sunshine 12 
 
 If I have erred in showing all my heart, 192 
 
 If Might made Right, life were a wiKl-beasts' cage; 377 
 
 578 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 If on the closed curtain of my sight 242 
 
 In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour and riches and 
 
 confusion, 434 
 
 In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon, 269 
 
 In robes of Tyrian blue the King was drest, 142 
 
 In the blue heaven the clouds will come and go, 417 
 
 In the pleasant time of Pentecost, 369 
 
 Into the dust of the making of man 316 
 
 In warlike pomp, with banners flowing, 14 
 
 It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!) 125 
 
 It's little I can tell 173 
 
 It was my lot of late to travel far 412 
 
 "Joy is a Duty," — so with golden lore 274 
 
 Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, 232 
 
 Just to give up, and trust 231 
 
 Knight-Errant of the Never-ending Quest 427 
 
 Let me but do my work from day to day, 166 
 
 Let me but feel thy look's embrace, 177 
 
 " Lights out " along the land, 374 
 
 Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting, 180 
 
 Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the rock, 270 
 
 Lord Jesus, Thou hast known 220 
 
 Long ago Apollo called to Arist;eus, youngest of the shepherds, . . 129 
 
 Long had I loved this "Attic shape," the brede 268 
 
 Long, long ago I heard a little song, 249 
 
 Long, long, long the trail 55 
 
 Lover of beauty, walking on the height 423 
 
 Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze 554 
 
 March on, my soul, nor like a laggard stay ! 234 
 
 Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed, .... 421 
 
 Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno, 552 
 
 Not to the swift, the race: 169 
 
 Now in the oak the sap of life is welling, 51 
 
 O dark the night and dim the day 402 
 
 O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea, 398 
 
 O Lord our God, Thy mighty hand 334 
 
 O mighty river ! strong, eternal Will, 277 
 
 579 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 O Mother mountains ! billowing far to the snow-lands 59 
 
 O Music hast thou only heard 378 
 
 O who will walk a mile with me 165 
 
 O wonderful ! How liquid clear 57 
 
 O youngest of the giant brood 304 
 
 Oil, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue 408 
 
 Oil, quick to feel the lightest touch 439 
 
 Oil, the angler's path is a very merry way, 570 
 
 Oil, was I born too soon, my dear, or were you born too late, . . 175 
 
 Oh, what do you know of the song, my tlear, 467 
 
 Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun, 188 
 
 Once, only once, I saw it clear, — 189 
 
 One sail in sight upon the lonely sea, 292 
 
 Only a little shrivelled seed, 224 
 
 Peace without Justice is a low estate, — 377 
 
 Read here, O friend unknown, 278 
 
 Remember, when the timid light 194 
 
 Saints are God's flowers, fragrant souls 226 
 
 Self is the only prison that can ever bind the soul; 275 
 
 Ship after ship, and every one with a high-resounding name, . . . 410 
 
 Sign of the Love Divine 405 
 
 Some three-score years and ten ago 555 
 
 Soul of a soldier in a poet's frame 442 
 
 Stand back, ye messengers of mercy ! Stand 306 
 
 Stand fast. Great Britain! 372 
 
 The British bard who looked on Eton's walls, 330 
 
 The clam that once, on Jersey's banks, 551 
 
 The cornerstone in Truth is laid, 261 
 
 The cradle I have made for thee 198 
 
 The day returns by which we date our years: 253 
 
 The fire of love was burning, yet so low 243 
 
 The gabled roofs of old Malines 381 
 
 The glory of ships is an old, old song, 388 
 
 The grief that is but feigning, 443 
 
 The heavenly hills of Holland, — 67 
 
 The laggard winter ebbed so slow 69 
 
 The land was broken in despair, 309 
 
 The melanclioly gift Aurora gained i . . . 426 
 
 The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring, . . 29 
 
 580 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The mountains that inclose the vale 170 
 
 The nymphs a shepherd took 270 
 
 The other night I had a dream, most clear 137 
 
 The record of a faith sublime 430 
 
 The river of dreams runs quietly down 210 
 
 The roar of the city is low, 301 
 
 The rough expanse of democratic sea 404 
 
 The shadow by my finger cast 263 
 
 The tide flows in to the harbour, — 58 
 
 The time will come when I no more can play 468 
 
 The winds of war-news change and veer; 399 
 
 The worlds in which we live at heart are one, 274 
 
 There are many kinds of anger, as many kinds of fire; 400 
 
 There are many kinds of love, as many kinds of light, 276 
 
 There are songs for the morning and songs for the night, .... 53 
 
 There is a bird I know so well, 31 
 
 They tell me thou art rich, my country: gold 387 
 
 This is the soldier brave enough to tell 313 
 
 This is the window's message 260 
 
 Thou warden of the western gate, above Manhattan Bay, .... 393 
 
 Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair 71 
 
 " Through many a land your journey ran, 182 
 
 'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down 314 
 
 To thee, plain hero of a rugged race, 312 
 
 Two dwellings, Peace, are thine 235 
 
 Two hundred years of blessing I record 263 
 
 "Two things," the wise man said, "fill me with awe: 266 
 
 'Twas far away and long ago, 174 
 
 Under the cloud of world-wide war 406 
 
 Waking from tender sleep 248 
 
 We men that go down for a livin' in .ships to the sea, — 1j1 
 
 We met on Nature's stage, 268 
 
 What hast thou done, O womanhood of France, 384 
 
 What is Fortune, what is Fame ? 279 
 
 WTiat makes the lingering Night so cling to thee ? 61 
 
 What shall I give for thee, 229 
 
 What time the rose of da^vn is laid across the lips of night, ... 37 
 
 When down the stair at morning 178 
 
 When May bedecks the naked trees 33 
 
 When Stavoren town was in its prime 159 
 
 When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark 246 
 
 581 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 When tulips bloom in Union Square, 21 
 
 When to the garden of untroubled thought 171 
 
 Where's your kingdom, little king ? 41 
 
 Who knows how many thousand years ago 281 
 
 Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul, 275 
 
 Who watched the worn-out Winter die ? 10 
 
 Winter on Mount Shasta, 470 
 
 With eager heart and will on fire, 225 
 
 With memories old and wishes new 264 
 
 With two bright eyes, my star, my love, 271 
 
 Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls 425 
 
 Ye gods of battle, lords of fear 362 
 
 Yes, it Avas like you to forget 183 
 
 You dare to say with perjured lips, 391 
 
 You only promised me a single hour: 193 
 
 Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers; 441 
 
 582 
 
 31^77-9