WALTER MALONE Age Fortij Years SELECTED POEMS By WALTER MALONE PUBLISHERS John P. Morton & Company Incorporated LOUISVILLE. KENTUCKY 4\ *% A^ Copyright, 1919 By ELLA MALONE WATSON Capleville, Tennessee NOV -8 1919 C1.A5364T2 FOREWORD In loving memory of my brother, the late Judge Walter Malone, this book of selected poems is published. The contents of the volume consists of a large number of un- published poems together with selections made from his many volumes, including the Epic, Hernando De Soto. The sketch of his life is written by Frazer Hood, Ph. D. During brother Walter's later years Dr. Hood was one of his most intimate, personal and literary friends. Ella Malone Watson. I iii ] ACKNOWLEDGMENT Thanks are due the following publishers in giving permission to reprint: To Chas. Scribner's Sons for Solace and Prayer Before Planting Trees; The Four Seas Company for Union of the Seas; The Methodist Quarterly Review for Life and Works of Walter Malone. C iv ] CONTENTS Page Foreword iii Acknowledgment iv In Praise of Myself x Life and Works of Walter Malone xiii Preface to a Book of Poems xxvii Toiler and Idler 1 Memorial Day 3 Forgotten Heroes 5 Abraham Lincoln 6 Robert E. Lee 6 Forrest in Memphis 7 The Return of Dewey 9 America and England 10 America at Manila 10 The Battle 12 The Captured Battleship 12 Cuba Free 14 A Night in Cuba 15 My First Book 16 To an Unknown Reader 16 The Humbler Poets 18 The Poet to His Book 19 To a Poet 21 The Death of Poetry 23 Sonnet on My 21st Birthday, February 10, 1887 23 The Reading Boy 24 The Whistling Boy 25 In an Old Library 26 -Opportunity 27 The World is My Home 28 Omar in Heaven 29 The Penitentiary 33 The Potter's Field 37 The Churchyard 41 Mary 43 To One Departed 44 Confirmation 44 Alone in New York 45 On Returning to New York 46 C v ] Contents Page Ode for Charter Day in New York, May 4, 1898 48 Union Square 49 To A Stranger 51 A Stranger in London 52 Ode for the Semi-Centennial Celebration of the Founding of the Sigma Chi Fraternity, Oxford, Ohio, June 28, 1905 54 The Tree in the City 55 The Charms of the City 56 Sunrise in the Country 58 Mountain Brook 60 Bohemia 62 Pasadena 64 Carroll Vance 65 The Alps 66 The Bay of Naples 68 The Laurels 71 The Soldier of Fortune 72 The Sleeping Idlers 73 The Right to Work 75 The Klondike 78 Success and Failure 79 UNPUBLISHED POEMS Prayer Before Planting Trees 80 To Mike Connolly on his 62nd Birthday 83 A Gift of Flower Seeds 84 The Lights of the City 86 The Dying Tree 89 The Agnostic's Creed 91 The Union of the Seas 95 To a Judge 100 The Lad in Handcuffs 101 The Soldier Boy 102 Had Lincoln Lived 103 The Greek Boy 106 The Rebel 107 The Dried-up Stream Ill Sleep 113 The Son of Adam 115 Annie Laurie 119 The Song of the Frogs 120 Edgar Allen Poe, 1809-1909 121 [ vi ] Contents Page Whence and Whither 122 From Low Beginnings 123 Conquest of China 123 In Praise of Righteous War 125 The Haunted House 127 Epitaph for a Friend 127 To a Mocking-bird Singing in October 128 Mother and Child 129 FROM HERNANDO DE SOTO The Earthquake 130 The Heart's Desire 132 Solace 133 To an Enemy 133 Religion of Brotherhood 134 SELECTED POEMS Frank Fawcett McKernan 137 Will Hubbard Kernan 138 Annie Cook 138 Past and Present 140 Solitude 141 The Queen of the Valentines 143 For Mildred 145 Fireside Fancies 147 An Unsent Letter 148 La Paloma 149 Portrait of Henry Timrod 151 Portrait of Michael Angelo 152 On a Beautiful Portrait by an Unknown Artist 153 Poe's Cottage at Fordham 154 Homer 155 Byron 157 Napoleon and Byron 158 Byron Centenary, 1788-1888 159 Shelley . 159 Tribute to Shelley 160 The Tomb of Galileo 161 Melba 162 Holland 164 Saint Augustine 165 [ vii ] Contents Page San Gabriel Mission 166 The Everglades 167 Noon in the Tropics 167 A Mexican Wayside Station 168 At the Cathedral of Mexico 169 In a Tropical Garden , . . . . 171 Beside the Danube 172 At the Paris Morgue 173 The Desert 174 The Dove of the Desert 176 The Bluebird 177 The Humming Bird 181 The Mocking-bird 182 The Oriole 187 The Wood Thrush 191 The Redbird 192 The Blackbirds 196 The Savannah 196 The Old Mansion 197 The Dunghill and the Moon 198 The Fallen Gods 201 Orchids 204 The Moon-flower 204 L'Amante Du Diable 206 A Defiance 210 Life 211 Idyl of Spring 211 One Summer 213 A Storm in Summer 216 By the Summer Sea 218 A Night in June 219 Mississippi in June 220 July Noontide 221 Drought 223 September in Tennessee 224 October in Tennessee 226 Sunset in Tennessee 227 Autumn in the South 228 An Autumn Morning 229 A Mississippi Swamp 230 To a Friend 231 I Love Thy Faults 232 Mary of Jonesburg 232 C viii ] Contents Page The First Transgression 233 Geraldine Gray 235 Will You Love Me Still 237 The Morning-glory 238 Bridal Ballad 239 The Bachelor 240 Scorn Not The Heart 241 Edith Adair 242 To One I Shall See No More 243 To One Who Shall Be Nameless 244 A Southern Love Song 246 The Lore of Love 247 He Who Hath Loved 248 The Swan of the Slums 249 Martyrdom 250 When Thou Art Near 250 Tempted 251 The Resurrection 253 The Witch of the Wine Glass 255 Little Sweetheart 257 Morning and Evening 258 Zola 259 Ponce De Leon 261 Narcissus 277 To Dr. J. J. Wheat 296 A February Sunset 297 Out of the Fold 298 Jesus Wept 301 Burial of an Old Slave 303 Renan's Life of Jesus 305 The Hymns of Charles Wesley 306 Epitaph for Myself 307 [ ix ] Though many my faults, and my passions strong, and sins of Self were to down, I have forged ahead, and my brow deserves, though never it wear, a crown. So I praise myself for the fights I fought against all the hosts of hell, Though I knew at last was a greedy grave, and a shroud and a funeral bell. I have trod the path which, I know not why, leads on to the lonely tomb, And never a man or seraph or saint more boldly has marched to doom. I care not what sage or sophist might do, what higher beings might say, What counsel of man, what wisdom of God, may have shown a better way ; Had they fought like me, had they bled like me as they crept through earth to die, I would challenge them all to take up my lot and bear it better than I. I have asked for aid from the sons of men — they have left me all alone ; I have prayed the gods for a loaf of bread — they have always given a stone. So I clenched my teeth, and doubled my fists, and I fought to hold my own, And the mobs of men, when I helped myself, have begged me accept a throne. So little I care if they say my words are vanity, pomp or conceit, For I know that Self and Self alone, can bring me a mess of meat. So the little tin gods of the old-time bards I shove in dust on the shelf, And asking no leave of a living soul, I take off my hat to myself. I xii ] Age Six Years Age Sixteen Years m *•> Age Twenty Years Age Tliirtvj Years WALTER MALONE— HIS LIFE AND WORKS Bx, FRAZER HOOD, PL D. The past quarter of a century has witnessed some significant additions to Southern literature. In fiction and in essay, Southern writers have achieved a success which challenges the attention of readers beyond the limits of national boundaries. They have broken the bands of provincialism, which formerly were conspicuous in so many of them, and to-day they write with a vision whose horizon is national in its sweep. In the field of poetry, also, South- ern genius has produced creative results; and while this creative activity has invented no new forms of verse, it has breathed into the old forms a dewy freshness and a wholesome sanity. Among Southern poets, Walter M alone ranks subordi- nate to none. Indeed, there are reasons — which I shall set forth in this paper — strong enough, it seems to me, to justify the conviction that he deserves the foremost place, not only among Southern poets, but among American poets as well. There is, however, an infirmity of mind, a kind of mental hyperopia, that blurs our perception of a contemporary artist and his art. We never feel quite certain that the image we get upon our mental retina is a true one, and we hesitate to hazard a judgment of values. European critics, viewing Poe's art, outre mer, got a perspective that the poet's compatriots were unable to get. We are still disputing among ourselves whether Walt Whitman is a poet at all or not, while to foreign critics he bulks large on the Western shores, the most original of the [ xiii ] new- world poets. Walter Malone being so near us, it is not to be wondered at that our envisagement of him is far from clear-cut and perspective. If our analogy between a judgment of values and a sense-perception be permissible, then it is further true that the distance required for a clear focus is directly propor- tional to the greatness of the achievement. Longfellow and Lowell needed not to be removed in time for our American eyes to see them clearly, but Poe and Whitman did. In the two former pulsed a lesser genius than glowed in the two latter. The beauty that the New England poets felt and perceived was that our familiarity with great poetry had already revealed to us, and their genius was rather that of translating into American idiom what the great masters had uttered in the "grand style." Walter Malone is one of our American poets whom the critics have reserved for some future attention. It may be that time will bury his memory "deep as the hidden sleep" of those who lie in some forgotten churchyard; but my judgment is that the future holds for him a fadeless crown of amaranth and gold. II Walter Malone was born February 10, 1866, in De Soto County, Mississippi, about thirteen miles southeast of Memphis, Tennessee. He was the youngest of a family of welve children. His father, Dr. Franklin Jefferson Ma- lone, was a man of culture and prominence in Mississippi, serving his State as a member of the Mississippi Consti- tutional Convention of 1868. In earlier years he had seen service in the Mexican War as an army surgeon. He died in 1873. Thus deprived of a father's care at the age of seven years, Walter did not have those advantages which the older children enjoyed; but his mother, a woman of rare powers, made amends for the loss as only a woman can do. She managed to give her younger children such edu- cational advantages as the local schools afforded. At the [ xiv ] age of six years Walter was initiated into the mysteries of formal learning at an "old-field schoolhouse," which stood across the State line in Tennessee, three miles from his home. He continued his attendance here until he was six- teen, trudging the distance from his home every day except when work on the farm required his presence there. Dur- ing these ten years his young soul unfolded amid the in- fluence of Nature. His spirit was always responsive to the music of birds and water brooks, to the beauty of Southern flowers, and to the grandeur of tree and hill. His early life is reminiscent of Burns who meditated in the opening fur- rows and caught inspiration for his earlier poems when his young muscles were fatigued from the toil between plow- handles. When twelve years old he made his first attempt to imprison his fancies and emotions in verse. Always a stern critic of his own work, he later destroyed all these boyish efforts. Between thirteen and fourteen he wrote several articles which were published in the Louisville Courier- Journal. Thus encouraged, he began, at fourteen, seriously to write, and continued with adolescent zeal until he was sixteen, when he published his first volume under the title, "Claribel and Other Poems." This was a book of three hundred pages and contained two long narrative poems and a number of shorter ones. While the poems are crude, revealing the touch of youth, they contain the promise and potency of awakening genius. It was the largest book of verse ever printed by a boy under twenty- one. In the fall of 1883 he entered the preparatory depart- ment of the University of Mississippi, where in due course he became a freshman and graduated in the class of 1887. He was not a student after the old time professors' ideal. He never liked mathematics, and until his last two years was a rather indifferent student, giving more time to the library than to the formal work of the class-room. He became early associated with the college magazine, and during his last year was its editor-in-chief. [ xv ] In 1885 he published his second volume, "The Outcast and Other Poems." Even a hurried reading will reveal that these poems are less juvenile and show a steadier power. This book brought forth favorable comment from Edmund Clarence Stedman and Oliver Wendell Holmes. John Greenleaf Whittier, writing to the author, said: "The book gives promise, but it is not what it would be were the author ten years older. Why, at thy age, I could not make a respectable rhyme." After his graduation, Mr. Malone was admitted to the bar at Oxford, Mississippi, and shortly thereafter came to Memphis to engage in the practice of law. He launched himself with a strong initiative into the practice of law, and until 1 891 his Muse was neglected. In the next year he published "Narcissus and Other Poems." Two years later came from the press "Songs of Dusk and Dawn." In 1896 followed "Songs of December and June," a little volume of twenty lyrics; and the next year "The Coming of the King," a collection of eight short stories. Such writers as Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Charles Dudley Warner and Edgar Fawcett were high in their praise of this work. In 1897 he retired from the practice of law and moved to New York, where, for the next three years, he gave himself wholly to literary work. In 1900 he returned to Memphis and published "Songs of North and South," a collection of poems that had appeared in magazines during the previous three years. This volume introduced the author to British readers, receiving generous welcome from Alfred Austin, Israel Zangwill, and English and Scott re- viewers. In 1904 he published a complete edition of such of his poems as he considered worthy of perpetuating. In 1906 appeared "Songs of East and West," a book con- taining twenty-seven poems, many of them being pictures of travel in Europe, California, Florida, Cuba, and Mexico. His most widely known poem, "Opportunity," was pub- lished in Munsey's Magazine in 1905. There is a pretty little incident connected with this poem, which the author told me of, and which very few, [ xvi ] even of his intimate friends, know. I relate it because it illustrates not only what I have just said, but also because it gives a side glance of his fondness for children. Briefly, the story is this: One evening while sitting with some friends in a cafe in New York, a little lad of six years came over to the table where the poet sat, and asked: "Is this Mr. Malone?" "Yes," relied the poet. "Well, Mr. Malone," began the boy, "I want to thank you." "Why so, my little man?" "Because, if you had not written 'Opportunity,' I would not be here to-night." The father, coming up, explained how he had become discour- aged in life and resolved to commit suicide, but while arranging his affairs, the poet's "Opportunity" fell under his eye, and changed his whole design. A year afterwards, the little lad was born. Whatever may be the surer judgment of the critics as to the value of this poem, it is a lyric that awakens a re- sponse in the common man's breast, and makes him feel stronger for the day's work and superior to the day's faults and failures. In 1905, on petition of practically all the Memphis bar, Mr. Malone was appointed Judge of the Second Circuit Court of Shelby County, and later by elec- tion held the office until his death, May 18, 1915. Ill I am writing this on the fourth anniversary of his death, and as I write there comes to my ears the plaintive music of his poem, "To An Unknown Reader": In years to come, when I have passed away, Your careless glance upon this page may fall ; So then, my unknown reader, pause I pray, And hearken to my faint and far-off call. unknown reader, for your sake I pine ; Beside you let me cease my wandering. 1 love you ; let me take your hand in mine And tell you stories, laugh or weep or sing. [ xvii ] From death's dark empire shall my soul depart, Your smile, your friendship, and your love to win; Behold! I come and knock upon your heart: For God's sake, reader, rise and let me in! These lines, so remindful of Beethoven's "Farewell to the Piano," disclose at once a boldness and a childlike uncon- sciousness not found in a lesser soul. To those of us who knew him, Mr. Malone was the most modest of men, in whom verily there dwelt no guile nor conceit. But his graces of mind were plenteous, and he had "a memory like the British Museum Library," and its material arranged as orderly. His interests were uni- versal, and whether the discussion, in a company of friends, turned to the merits of champion chess-players or to great events in history, to the name and habitat of some little- known flower or to the latest discoveries in science, he was equally at home, and generally astonished us by the ac- curacy of his knowledge. He was a keen scholar, a keen artist, and withal a man of modest demeanor, free from those eccentricities and conceits so commonly associated with men of genius. His poetry was the chief concern of his life, and he toiled at uncongenial tasks for the bread that perisheth, only that he might be able to give forth from his soul that which is imperishable. Spinoza, polishing lenses during the day that he might write philosophy at night, presents us with a companion picture. While Judge Malone achieved an enviable eminence in his profession, he never valued this success. From long familiarity with his poetry, and from a care- ful study of its qualities, I am convinced that posterity will make amends for the neglect into which contemporary readers and critics have allowed his poetry to fall. IV The poetry of Walter Malone is no ordinary verse. The sheer quantity of it compels notice. No poetry can be measured alone in terms of volume; but if the other [ xviii ] qualities that go to make great poetry are to be found also, the quantity is a factor that must be given its meed of worth. It is because I find so many evidences of exquisite imagery, so many instances of those characteristics of fine poetry that one must rather feel than describe, I have no timidity in asserting his claim to genius. Lovers of poetry delight in quoting you Browning's fine lines, That's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture, as an example of this indescribable quality of poetic power. In the poetry of our author are many examples of the same power. Describing the strange beauty and melancholy of submarine life, he says: But never trills or warbling wake those bowers; No sound uprises in those songless realms ; The petals of those blossoms never thrill Or tingle with embraces of the bees. Humming-birds seen in tropical forests are, bright banditti of the Southern skies That rifle sylvan hordes of honey dew. And again, take those lines descriptive of the first feelings of love in the adolescent heart: Love then was light as the feet of a fawn, Brilliant of brow as dazzle of dawn, Jocund as June, unwearied of wing, Hearing his heart like a goldfinch sing. And one more example from a Croesus-wealth that makes selection hard : And that longing for their labor in the freemen's hearts shall be Like the green blood of the springtime, tingling in the turf and tree. (Note the use of "blood" from its common association with color to its truer association with function.) [ xix ] The range of his poetic vision is as broad as the world itself. He has given us many love lyrics that burn with passion, many that ache with a sorrow that dews the face of a Niobe in tear-drops sharp as acid. There are poems of awakening love; there are poems of youthful love; and songs of wedded bliss enjoyed far into life. Then there are delicate portraits that glow in the bosom of his volumes like cameos fine-cut. Take that most beautiful of them all, the portrait of lovely Isabel when first her beauty burst upon the soul of De Soto : Oh, she was lovelier than an April morn, With April skies, and April birds and bloom, With April songs, and April suns and showers, Now laughing and now pouting, now in tears, But ever bringing visions of delight. No one but a poet unconscious of his gift would have hazarded such an adjectival repetition, and none but a master could have achieved such result. He loved children, and some of his most cunning work- manship is expended in exhibiting boy-life with its wild, care-free days. Here is one of his boys: Along the street His brown bare feet Remind me of a baby faun, By fern-fringed pool In shadows cool Leading a throng of fluting birds at dawn. No hermit thrush Through woodland hush Could trill a tune more fresh and free ; No mocking-bird More gladly heard Through verdant vine-clad swamps of Tennessee. Then there are poems of wild fancy that startle us by their very boldness. Take, for instance, that weird conceit suggested by Coleridge's line, Woman wailing for her Demon Lover. [ xx ] The conception is poetic to the core. After a few stanzas describing the overthrow of Satan in heaven and his casting out, the woman who had beheld his defeat speaks: Here I come to meet thee, Satan, ruined king whom I adore, Thou, my prince, my lord, my master, and mine idol evermore ! Now I see thee come to meet me, and I rush within thine arms, While my bosom bounds with passion for thy wild and wondrous charms. I, the seraph, blest and beauteous, robed in radiant starry H g ht ' . With my golden locks encircled with the lilies pearly white ; I, that soar on swan-like pinions, blossom-bosomed, flower-fair, I, with eyes like lucid dew-drops, twinkling in the azure air; I have come to meet thee, Satan, with thy wings of ashen gray. Seared with sins and seared with sorrows that shall never pass away! No excerpt from this poem can do it justice, and one must read it through to get the full force of its stately rhythm and its weird passion. As an illustration of his calmer mood which reveals his sensitiveness to friendship, the following lines, "To a Friend," may be recalled: Tormented sorely by the chastening rod, I muttered to myself, "There is no God!" But, faithful friend, I found your soul so true, That God revealed himself in giving you. Time would fail me to speak of all the themes that at- tracted his fancy. There are poems dealing with economic conditions; there are descriptive sketches of landscapes in many lands; sunsets burst upon us in his pages with a variety of forms and colors like those the Divine Artist [ xxi ] throws upon the evening sky. There are matchless poems on birds and flowers and trees; indeed, no poet has given us more Nature poetry than he. In it all one who reads is astonished at his wealth of simile and metaphor, at the music of his lines and the cooling freshness that delights on every page. V It has been remarked by Mr. M. W. Conolly that Judge Malone has given a new note to Southern literature "based upon Southern life, Southern scenes, and Nature as she appears in the South alone. The early writers of America harped on larks and nightingales which they had never heard, and on rosemary and rue which they had never seen The mocking-bird was practically the one Southern bird known to literature. . . . Judge Malone has taken the redbird, the bluebird, the woodpecker, the humming- bird, and others, and put them in the place of the feathered songsters of Europe of which we know nothing. He has taken the magnolia, the dogwood, the redbud, the passion flower, the trumpet flower, and others, and made them popular in literature." While it is true as Alfred Austin said that he finds in the verse of Judge Malone "deference to the best traditions of English poetry," his was no servile imitation of it, and one of the most priceless of these traditions was that a poet was never to try to picture forth anything that he had not first seen and felt in his own experience — a perception of Nature, not the preception of some one else's perception, is demanded by "the best traditions of English poetry." No one can read the poetry of Walter Malone who has not learned the language and felt the heart-pulse of Nature. He speaks in the vernacular of song-birds, thrills with the melody of water brooks, and palpitates with the passion that the flowers feel when the winds of heaven come a- woo- ing among them. "He came from the soil, and remained a son of it," as a friend expressed it. Nature was to him no [ xxii ] panorama o! painted beauty. She was a mother on whose breast he could sob out his sorrows, exult in the tonic of achievement and hope, and to whom he could unlock the sleepless brood Of fancies from his soul, their lurking place, Nor doubt that each would pass ne'er to return To one so loved, so watched, and so secure. He was in something more than a metaphor a child of Nature, taught to speak her language, cunning to interpret her moods, and sensitive to feel her great life. While all his poetry is by no means Nature poetry, it all is suffused with her influence. One could tell, whatever mood the poet was in, whether revealing the untutored soul of pagan brave, or exposing the ugly venom in the heart of crafty Spaniard, or describing the redbird darting zigzag through the green of forest like a flame — one could note the in- fluence of Nature through it all. VI When we come to study his epic poem, Hernando De Soto, we discover an entirely different attitude toward Nature. I think his treatment of Nature here discloses a conception not to be found anywhere else. Wordsworth conceived a preestablished harmony between us and the natural world so that Humanity and Nature can easily live and converse together. Tennyson, with ever- wavering faith, speaks sometimes as if Nature did not exist at all apart from our thought: "Her life the eddying life of our living soul." Browning conceived Nature as a wild, un- human, unmoral, unspiritual being who has an elemental life, but no soul. She has a certain kind of interest in us, an interest, however, not sustained. The powers that play in Nature, if we happen to be in harmony with them, be- friend us: Their work was done — we might go or stay, They relapsed to their ancient mood. [ xxiii ] In the De Soto, while Nature appears in her beneficent and benign aspects, often she is "red in tooth and claw." But even here, to Walter Malone, it was not so much a Ber- serker rage that moves Nature in her destructive force, whether in tornado or miasmas and fevers of a tropical swamp, as it was a godlike resentment at man's shameless intrusion into her sacred sanctuary. The Oriental bard differs widely from the Western poet in his treatment of Nature. In the poetry of the former, Nature is the great reality, man but an incident. Nature is vast, mysterious, transcendent; man a puny creature, scarcely in the thought of Nature at all, and then only as a despicable, sprawling thing. To the Western poet, Nature is but little more than a background of impalpable cloud and sky to his picture of man. Nature sometimes is the theater boards, upon which man stalks in gigantic strides and plays his part. Sometimes Nature is the Ganymede who bears the goblet to the great Olympian, sometimes the gentle Hebe adorning and enlivening the courts of men. However variant the accent, the dynamic stress is always on man. In the De Soto there is another treatment yet. Man and Nature are related not in sub- ordinance. They are peers. Often there are dubious battles waged between them. Sometimes there is a truce, whose term is conditioned upon the observance by each of the other's rights. "The contest with Nature," says the author, "is one which all must face; it is inevitable; it is one that from the cradle to the coffin ceases not. We may live in peace with our neighbors, or we may contend with them, grow weary of strife, and agree on an armistice. But with Nature we can never negotiate a truce; between us there can be no cessation of hostilities." How strangely out of harmony does this conception seem with his treatment of Nature in his earlier poems. This is the conception presented in his epic poem. A careful study of this apparent disharmony may be resolved, I think. If there is nothing new in his treatment of Nature in his earlier poetry, certainly in his epic there is. [ xxiv ] VII A few words must be said on the quality and literary value of his masterpiece, Hernando De Soto. It was the work of eight years. Five years before it was published I read it in manuscript, and the author then thought it would be published shortly ; but so careful an artist was he that he was unwilling to let it go from his hand until he was sure he had exhausted his powers upon it. It is a long poem; its author is one of our generation. These two facts afford sufficient evidence to the minds of many to find an indictment upon. But some of us are willing to overlook the first fault if the interest is sustained, and will be in- clined to hear further evidence which may mitigate the severity of the second. Among critics there is a diversity of opinion as to whether the poem has the power to hold one's interest. My early association with its authorship makes me feel incompetent to pass a judgment free from bias. I have resorted to a method in vogue in psychology study. I arranged certain tests. I read it to rather large audiences — one time to a woman's club, another time to several hundred high-school pupils, again to some fifty business and professional men, and finally to a small group of children. From the results obtained, I am convinced, in my own mind, that whatever other literary merits this epic may lack, it is a story with power to catch and hold the interest. The narrative is full of action, and flows with a strong current which does not eddy into distracting episode. The author is master of the story-teller's art. But some have criticised the poem because there is such an abundance of description. To my mind the criticism reveals a mis- conception of the author's purpose. A more careful reading will show that what is taken as simple description is in reality narrative, wherein not man, but Nature, is in action. Our author says: "In the life of a pioneer like De Soto, the fight against Nature is no mere episode, no passing phase of his mission. It is the beginning, the middle, and the end of all his labors." How else could this fight against [ xxv ] Nature be exhibited but by description? It is a descrip- tion, however, full of movement, and partakes of the nature of narration. It has not been my purpose to write critically of the poetry of Judge Malone. Mine has been the humbler task of registering an appreciation of his work with the hope that the reader will be drawn to the poems themselves. The poet is no longer a contemporary, and judgment may be the more safely pronounced. On May 18, 1915, in the city of Memphis, in a room looking out upon the Mississippi, the river he loved so well, the gentle soul of the poet passed into the Great Beyond. It was a fitting season for the passing of a poet of Nature, for in mid-May ,West Tennessee is riot of floral color and vocal of bird and bee. Let us hope that the longing pulsing through the fol- lowing lines from his pen has had its fruition : I long to soar from sod, And tread in glory of celestial grace ; To live beyond the time my grave is trod, Proving a crown-prince of immortal race ; To emulate beatitudes of God, To reach his Kingdom and behold His face. [ xxvi 1 PREFACE TO A BOOK OF POEMS Forever perished seems the age of gold, With all the May-morn glory of the past; Where now the songs the minstrels sang of old, A-thrill with fervor like a trumpet blast? Ah, in those days Life sipped of morning dew Fresh from the bosom of a springtime bud ; Youth's pink-white feet on skylark pinions flew, All April's ardor tingling through his blood. Now is the sordid age of greed and gain : Now bloated Mammon rules the market-place; The Poet, like the Painter, strives in vain, — O glorious doom, to share their Art's disgrace! Ah, we are only struggling pioneers, To blaze the path for others yet to be ; Ours is the task to dig through thankless years, And found the temples we shall never see. Some time that golden age again shall come, The olden glory shine once more for men. But that far day shall dawn when we are dumb, And who shall mourn us, who shall miss us then? Far in the future, through the jealous haze, We see the golden city reared to Art ; We see its cloud-encircled turrets blaze, As splendid as the sunset's burning heart. That promised land our feet shall never tread, Our hands shall never pluck its flowers and fruits ; Our cheeks shall never flush from white to red From passion-pealing of its lovers' lutes. [ xxvii ] Yet in that purple age I wish one bard To say of me these little words of praise : "He plodded on through sharpened flint and shard, Though sordid cares pursued him all his days. "In darkest hours he wrought with cheerful will: He shared the exile of his precious Art; Though men denied applause, he labored still, Nor wrote one line to please the vulgar mart. "So, like a priest who guards a temple's light, He trimmed the lamp whose flame was nearly gone : He kept his vow to watch it through the night, And died beside it at the birth of dawn." [ xxviii ] SELECTED POEMS TOILER AND IDLER The laborer is the great high-priest of God, Creator like the Lord who gave him breath, The father of all fruits, spouse of the sod, The friend of life, and enemy of death. But he who toils not, bears a shriveled soul, Is fit for deserts, or for realms of rocks; For him no victor's palm, no race, no goal, Mate for the sloth, true brother to the ox. The man who tills the fields breathes wholesome air, And sleeps a sleep remorse can not affright ; His peace of mind is stranger to despair, His freedom unconfined as morning light. What though the Summer glares with scorching heat? That Winter winds his blood and bone may chill? His manhood scatters hardships in defeat, And every battle makes him stronger still. The brown bee flits amid the clover there, To make him gifts of golden honeycomb ; For him the cherry and the plum and pear, The grapevine swinging on his happy home. For him the daisy dripping with the dew, Peach-blooms above and cowslips at his feet ; For him the green grass and skies of blue, The scarlet poppies and the golden wheat. For him are thrushes warbling in delight On breezes tripping lightly as a fawn ; For him the swan-like noonday's wings of white, The pansy twilight and the primrose dawn. C l ] Selected "Poems For him, Spring like a virgin violet blooms, And Summer blossoms like a yellow rose, Then Autumn like an orange aster looms, And Winter comes, a lily of the snows. The tiller owns no master but his God, And earns by right a heritage divine ; A prophet, striking dust with potent rod, His plow makes earth gush honey, milk, and wine. His hillocks are the altars of the Lord, His granary like a pious temple stands ; The kingdom of the earth his rich reward, The scythe becomes a scepter in his hands. But he, who, discontented with that lot, Tramps through the city, vainly begging work, Shall find his rosy dreams a wretched blot, Facing worse evils than he sought to shirk. O pity not the tiller of the soil, But pity him, the straggler of the street; O pity not the hardened hands of toil, Remembering this poor wanderer's wayworn feet! At night the keen winds pierce his threadbare coat, The rain beats hard down on his dizzy head ; Half-mad, half -starved, he begs a rusty groat, When hope and pride from shivering soul have fled. He sees the street-lamps dripping in the rain, The engine hoarsely thundering through the night ; The dragon Town is heedless of his pain, And spits upon him in his piteous plight. He lounges in the city parks, and sees Ten thousand like himself, in dirt and rags — Poor stranded wrecks by seas of miseries, Surrendered ships, with tattered, conquered flags! [ 2 ] Selected To ems Night comes again, and hungry still, he goes Half-crazed for lack of sleep, in dull despair, To freeze to death when fall the Winter snows, Or plunge, self -murdered, in the river there. The idler is a menace unto heaven, A misery to himself, a foe to man, Unsettled, discontented, dumbly driven, Drainer of life-blood since the world began. No burden breaks the back like idleness, No toil is half so hard, no strain so great, No curse of care has half so much distress, No armored foe a more portentous threat. Ashamed of toil, he wooes no fruit from earth, He beggars those who look to him for aid, And spurred by foolish pride, scorns homely worth, Longing for camp and court, for reeking blade. He can not blame one being but himself If he should crawl with creatures of the mud ; For he who plows is more than prince of pelf, A nobler Knight than any man of blood. MEMORIAL DAY Once more we gather under skies of May, When lilac blossoms and when violet blows, And on these grassy graves we twine a spray Of Northern lily and of Southern rose. Once more we hear the bluebird's song afloat, The thrush's piping in the dewy dell; We thrill to hear the Northern robin's note, And stand ensnared by Southern mock-bird's spell. [ 3 ] Selected Poems Once more the winds through odorous orchards blow, The creamy hawthorns through the fences twine. See ! all the sunrise splendors are aglow Like cataracts of red and golden wine. We bring a wreath, O martyrs numberless, Who perished that your country still might live ; Who fought and bled, the unborn babe to bless, That we should still be brothers, and forgive. But now we come, not as in bygone years, When anger poisoned sorrow through and through ; When no one cried, with blended love and tears, "Forgive them, for they know not what they do!" Thank God, those days have now forever passed, With all their strife of party, clique and clan ; The Northerner, the Southerner, at last Is simply, solely an American. On Santiago summits we unite The grizzled foes of Chickamauga's day; The hatreds of a Shiloh sink from sight Beneath the waters of Manila Bay. Above your graves exultant anthems swell, When Peace and Love have healed the battle's blows ; We thrill with pride to think those fought so well With these, so brave to overcome such foes. Peace unto Grant, the advocate of peace, To Stonewall, of the valor-vibrant name; Peace unto Lee, whose honors shall not cease, To Lincoln, of the everlasting fame! 1899. [ 4 ] Selected Poems FORGOTTEN HEROES I would sing a song to the unknown heroes, who have striven and battled and bled, To the unknown heroes, existing obscure, who are left forgotten when dead, Who have gone to their graves for you and for me, and are sleeping in silent ranks With never a wreath of laurel, or medal, or badge for a nation's thanks. I would sing a song to the heroes neglected so long by you and by me, In the pestilent tropic marshes, on the blistering ships in the tropic sea, To the yoemen, the stokers, the gunners, with perilous duties and beggarly pay, As we shout for the admirals, generals, captains, who bear all the honors away. There in the stifling holds of the ships, half-naked and fainting in fearful heat, And there in the matted vines, or swordgrass stubble that pierces their half -shod feet, And there in the rattle of rifles, where the cynical bullets go snarling by, For me and for you they swelter, for me and for you they reel and they die. No Congress shall ever reward them, no nation ever be filled with their fame, Though they sweat and they swoon and they perish in the pitiless flood or flame ; They are only the unknown heroes, and the mob- world neither heeds nor cares, Though they do and dare for their country more feats than a million millionaires. [ 5 ] Selected Toems They pant by the ship's fierce furnace, that you and I may rest at ease in the shade, They rake and they rout the foeman, that you and I may laugh at his broken blade, They laurel the brows of others, though their own triumph they never shall see, They fight and they bleed and they fall forsaken, for the sake of you and me. I would sing a song to the heroes who have met their doom on the other side, Whose plainings are drowned in our paeans, whose pangs forgot in our flush of pride ; So then, O dying foemen, to your sinking ships and your flaming flags still true, I have brought you a branch of laurel, and a heartfelt song that is all for you. ABRAHAM LINCOLN A blend of mirth and sadness, smiles and tears; A quaint knight-errant of the pioneers ; A homely hero, born of star and sod ; A Peasant-Prince; a Masterpiece of God. ROBERT E. LEE As strong to smite as thunderbolts above, And yet as gentle as a blameless dove. O star of honor, flower of chivalry, Our highest hope should be to be like thee. [ 6 ] Selected Poems FORREST IN MEMPHIS August 21, 1864. Forrest has come from the country down A-raiding the streets of Memphis town; He comes post-haste, a-whiz and a-whir, With clank of sabre and clink of spur. Swooping he speeds with his fearless boys In a cloud of dust, in a storm of noise, With their slouching hats and their coats of gray, Through the half-wake town at the peep o' day. Ahead of them all the leader comes With hurry of hoofs and din of drums, Gallant and grand on his nimble mare, With his coal-black beard and his iron-gray hair. Startled from sleep is the Yankee host, And every man seeks his appointed post; The town is a- whirl in its vague alarms, There's a shout to wake and a call to arms. "Forrest is here!" is the sentry's cry, As the gray troopers go like a hurricane by; "Forrest is here!" men shout on the street, As they see his mare with her flying feet. "Forrest is here!" all the newsboys call, "Forrest is here!" all the bootblacks bawl, "Forrest is here!" cries the red cock, "hark!" 'Forrest is here!" all the watch-dogs bark. < Forrest remounts on his restless steed, And soon with his boys has started a-speed ; The kettle drums rattle, the bass drums beat, The streets are a-din with the tramp of feet. No matter! he leaves as quick as he came, And with hot-haste hoofs the flints are a-flame ; Though the bluecoats rush, they have come too late, And Forrest glides safe through the city gate. And the bluecoat boys they follow him fast, But they lose the trace, and return at last; Too swift and too sly ! So none of his foes Will follow the path where Forrest goes. [ 8 ] Selected Poems THE RETURN OF DEWEY A Nation lifts her voice to greet him home Who raised her flag where East and West are one, Where blends the rising with the setting sun. For this knight-errant of the ocean foam Are cheers from cottage and from marble dome. From sea to sea is heard the cry, "Well done! Among our millions, rivals you have none, Recalling triumphs sung by Greece and Rome." His country offers him a laurel bough, Returning round the planet's purple rim ; But though she seeks to do him honor now, Beside his fame such little gifts grow dim: He placed a greener wreath upon her brow Than any wreath which she can give to him. From pine-plumed mountains by Wisconsin lake, From citrons orchard by Floridian seas ; Where white Alaska's rills and rivers freeze, Where Porto Rico's orchard-blooms awake; From rocks of Maine, where hoary billows break, From Georgia swamps, where jasmines scent the breeze; From Vermont valleys, green Kentucky leas, We greet with pride our Nelson and our Blake. Then make the greetings more resounding still, To him whose gaze was onward and above. For they whose hearts heroic deeds can thrill, Have found the White Ideal, like a dove, And they who honor courage, faith and skill, Have crowned themselves in crowning him they love. [ 9 ] Selected Poems AMERICA AND ENGLAND One of the highest compliments paid to the late Walter Malone is con- tained in Book 29, Chapter 161 (last page) of Ridpath's History of the World, and this consists of coupling his name not only with those of the greatest present-day poets of England and America, hut the author closes this part of his history with a quotation from Walter Malone. The passage is as follows : "The British writers of the period (at the close of the Nineteenth Cen- tury) took up our favorite characters and published panegyrics on Wash- ington and Lincoln and Grant and Lee. Mutual admiration was fanned, and the bards broke out with their rhapsodies. William Watson and Alfred Austin, the new poet laureate, were answered in America by Robert Under- wood Johnson, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, and other American poets of first rank, who strove to express the prevailing aspiration of G-reat Britain and the United States for the closer touch and a more cordial fraternity. Among the expressions of poetic enthusiasm rising into the realm of race affinities and international relations, we may select the following Sonnet by Walter Malone as a fitting conclusion to this brief section of the History of the British Empire: "Beneath the arctic peaks of silent snow; Through tropic isles enwreathed with orange blooms ; Where brown Gibraltar like a giant looms; Where furnaces of red Sahara glow ; In spicy groves, where softest breezes blow; In tangled Hindu jungles' deepest glooms; By mummied Pharaohs' immemorial tombs, — The Saxon legions conquer every foe. "So Alfred's spear and Nelson's sword shall be Guards for the flag that Washington unfurled ; With might of Cromwell, Lincoln, Blake and Lee Our gauntlet at invaders shall be hurled ; Lords of the land and emperors of the sea, The Eagle and the lion face the world!" AMERICA AT MANILA Through mazy moonbeams of the secret night The ships of Dewy reach Manila Bay. The tropic sun leaps forth in sudden light, And lo, the dawn-flushed city far away! Then fleets and forts like waking giants scowl, The swift projectiles whizz and burst a-whirl, The batteries like ferocious lions growl, A hundred guns their hoarse defiance hurl. [ 10 ] Selected Toems Then thunder answers thunder, shock on shock, Shell answers shell, blood-curdling shriek on shriek, Gun answers gun, from shuddering ships a-rock, And flaming decks with crimson rivers reek. A storm of steel tears down Spain's haughty crest, Her glory sinks a-blaze in blood and tears ; The olden East has met the youthful West Rewriting history of six thousand years. Men say the age is sordid, yet we find No Spartans ever breathed from breasts more bold, No doughtier Norsemen fought with wave and wind, No true knights lived with hearts of purer gold. Lo, ancient Asia stands in mute amaze; Few deeds like this Japan hath ever told ; Memorial China turns with startled gaze; Arabia sees come true her dreams of old. Far from the sunrise of their native West, They wake the world at thunder of their guns — • What glory added to your country's crest, O proudest of the proudest of her sons! With regal riches in her kingdom wide, With untold treasures ever at her call, Columbia, like Cornelia, points with pride To you, her jewels, prized above them all. These valorous vikings leave transcendent names To live through ages that are yet to come, Though records perish in the floods and flames, Though marbles crumble, and though lips grow dumb, As long as day shall dawn on shores and seas Where they have won Fame's chaplet, Honor's crown, So long shall sun of glory shine on these, True heroes, everlasting in renown. [ 11 ] Selected Poems THE BATTLE At first a few blasts shake the startled air, And then a hundred burst in serried flame, While all the Earth is quaking in its fear And all the hills are rocking to their base. The iron balls are rushing, crushing by, And all is ruin where they quiver past ; They scatter leaves like fierce December winds, And giant trees come crashing to the ground ; The stones are splintered high upon the hills, The sod is ploughed, the sky is dim with dust; The baleful bombs are bursting far and near, And frightened echoes answer back the sounds. It seems as if the ancient days of Earth Have now returned with all their giant brood, And all the Titans, hurled from lofty heaven, Are struggling with the Thunderer on his throne. THE CAPTURED BATTLESHIP In days long past no happier ship than I Flung forth her empire's banner to the breeze; No bolder bark withstood a stormy sky, With fiercer ardor fought the foaming seas. But then at last a day of evil came On which we met the onslaught of the foe. Oh, who shall tell the story of my shame, My desolation, my disgrace, my woe? My hull was splintered by their bursting shells, My tottering turrets down the deck were hurled ; I heard my dying seamen's shrieks and yells, As red flames through the black smoke waved and whirled. [ 12 ] Selected Poems I saw my gunners fall beside their guns, I saw my captain, sword in hand, drop dead; Shot after shot struck down my splendid sons, And splashed my bosom with a frightful red. Ah, could I then have foundered in the flood, And won the glorious death that waits the brave! Could I have sunk, baptized in precious blood, To endless honor in an ocean grave ! But no, they took me to their far-off shore, And nailed their haughty standard to my mast; I served my king, my fatherland, no more; I fought the flag I bled for in the past! So, like a Judas, I must sail the sea, A traitor to the master loved so well ; A hated outcast, still I flee and flee, Around me ocean — in my heart a hell ! And since that time, when days of peace have come, I sometimes meet old comrade-ships I knew; Ah, how they spurn me as they spurn the scum, And pass me, shamed, and shrinking from their view! Sometimes at dusk I hear my sailors call, And see their hands up-beckoning from the deep ; "Oh, come!" they tell me, "show them after all, Your faith, your honor, you will die to keep!" God grant some night an awful storm shall rise, And give me chance for vengeance on this foe ; How I should gloat to hear their craven cries, As I should pitch to take them all below! Then I should shout above their last wild yell, "I bring them, sons, a sacrifice to you! They lied who said I did not love you well ; O darling sailor boys, my soul is true!" [ 13 ] Selected Toerns CUBA FREE Like Cinderella in her tattered gown, She sits barefooted in the ashes there, Robbed of her sceptre and her throne and crown, A beggar-child, once fairest of the fair. Take courage, little orphan! There shall be A morn of triumph for thy night of woes ; There is a necklace and a ring for thee, A silken garment and a wreath of rose. Like Juliet in her old ancestral halls, Beset by foemen and their treacherous spies, She gazes at the grim, forbidding walls, And spends the weary day in sobs and sighs. Fear not! For Freedom is thy Romeo, And he shall snatch thee from thy hateful cell, Though three-score thousand vassals bid him go, And three-score thousand churls stand sentinel. O captive maiden, though thy castle tower Be girt with fifty battlements of stone, Though flaming dragons should surround thy bower, Thy lover soon shall win thee for his own. So thou shalt come forth blushing by his side, From dungeon, iron gate, and granite wall, His fairy princess and his beauteous bride — For he shall woo and wed thee, spite of all. [ 14 ] Selected Toems A NIGHT IN CUBA Far out to sea the home-bound seabirds wing, Dim in brief twilight of the tropic day; Then, one by one, lights of the city swing A sparkling semicircle round the bay. Above me, from its broad-leaved sheath of green A great banana hangs its purple husk; Beside me, like a seraph half unseen, An odorous oleander haunts the dusk. The moon seems fallen from her throne on high, So clear and close she comes to earthly view, And in the blue corolla of the sky Canopus quivers like a drop of dew. A-thrill with passion, pierced with bliss and pain, A light guitar obeys a lover's hands, And pours a fervid and heart-broken strain, Now sweet, now bitter, from its trembling strands. O lovelorn youth, your dark-brown liquid eyes Need sweet caresses of the dews of sleep : Your lips were made for laughter, not for sighs; Youth comes to gladden, not to make you weep! Youth's wild young feet were made to dance for joy; Youth's sweet wild heart was made to leap with bliss; O revel in your glory, splendid boy, For all the world is craving for your kiss ! In Cuban skies, the palm's imperial crest Lifts plumes forever free from winter snows ; No frost shall ever blight the lily's breast, Nor dim the glory of the ardent rose. C 15 ] Selected Poems Remember, while that flower is free from frost, That bud forever free from winter blight, Youth, once escaping, is forever lost, His feet have wings more swift than swallows' flight! MY FIRST BOOK Poor little volume, awkard, rough and crude, Now soiled and battered like a tarnished toy! Yet thou wert once my childhood's pride and joy Before contemptuous critics might intrude ; And so I treasure still thy verses rude, As some poor mother loves her first-born boy, Who comes deformed, her high hopes to destroy, And fill her breast with sad solicitude. Still, I was happy in those perished years, Ere Sin had lured me onward to her snare, While now my soul is racked with fitful fears, And Sorrow makes my gloomy heart her lair. O for thy childish joys, to dry my tears, Thy childish hopes, to soothe my dark despair! TO AN UNKNOWN READER In years to come, when I have passed away, Your careless glance upon this page may fall ; So then, my unknown reader, pause, I pray, And hearken to my faint and far-off call. O youth, as graceful as a willow bough, As gladsome as a fawn with nimble feet ; O youth, with noble alabaster brow, Flushed with your morning splendor, fresh and sweet :- [ 16 ] Selected Poems Dear boy, mine ears shall never know your voice, Mine eyes shall never know your princely grace, And I shall never in your smile rejoice, And never, never see your fine frank face. O maiden, with the starry eyes of brown, With golden ringlets, peach-bloom cheeks aglow; maiden, wearing love's and beauty's crown, As radiant as a sunrise over snow : — Dear Girl, I never by your side shall tread, And never shall I hear your gentle sighs : 1 never shall behold your lips of red, And never, never see your splendid eyes. I love you, though our paths shall never meet, Though you shall flourish after I have fled, Though living voices seem to you more sweet Than lays of him deserted with the dead. For you, the birds and blossoms of the day, For you, the brilliance of the banquet halls; For me, the lonesome churchyard, old and gray, For me, the prison under charnel walls. For you, the light, the life, the music, mirth, For you love's triumph and love's sweet, sweet pain ; For me, a pillow in the gloomy earth, For me, the sobbing of the midnight rain. Will you neglect me in that far-off day? Shall I forgotten and forsaken lie? Ah, then my heart should bleed, though turned to clay, And that would be another death to die. unknown reader, for your sake I pine ; Beside you let me cease my wandering. 1 love you ; let me take your hand in mine, And tell you stories, laugh or weep or sing. [ 17 ] Selected "Poems For you I suffered in far-distant days ; For you I lost man's favor, maiden's hand; For you my feet forsook their boyhood ways ; For you I wandered through the stranger's land. From death's dark empire shall my soul depart, Your smile, your friendship, and your love to win; Behold! I come and knock upon your heart: For God's sake, reader, rise and let me in! THE HUMBLER POETS The critic wonders why the lowly bards Still write and write when no one seems to read, When fame and fortune still refuse rewards, And when the world gives but a wreath of weed. But still, Sir Critic, they have done their best, And more than that not Shakespeare's self has done; For while God gave ten talents to the rest, To these poor poets He has given but one. And if a lowly singer dries one tear, Or soothes one humble human heart in pain, Be sure his homely verse to God is dear, And not one stanza has been sung in vain. So when they give their humble songs of praise, Their simple lines find favor in His sight, And when He loves to hear their little lays, Rebuke not, for His spirit sayeth, "Write!" They do not come as kings and queens of song, Surrounded by the pomp of spears and shields, But patient peasants, suffering scorn and wrong, To labor in His vineyards and his fields. [ 18 ] Selected Toems Theirs not the strain of thrushes' golden throats That haunt the soul with dreamings of delight, Nor peerless mock-birds' palpitating notes, That thrill the morning and the noon and night; But like the robins, with their hopeful trill, They bring first tidings of the coming spring, Or, like brown snow-birds in the winter chill, They cheer us when their brothers will not sing. They come not like the roses, winged with fire, In scarfs of scarlet or in gowns of gold, Nor like the lilies, spotless in attire, Whose leaflets like a seraph's plumes unfold; But, like wild cowslips, fresh from nature's woof, That make a poet of a farmer boy, Or daisies on a dusty city roof, That give a poor sick working-woman joy. Then sing on, humble poet! God will hear, And He will praise you for your work well done ; Then, when you see Him, you may find no peer Among the throngs that sing around His Throne. THE POET TO HIS BOOK I send thee forth upon an unknown sea, Where many a bark hath perished long before. In thee, my ship, I put the heart of me, To sail, or sink from sight forevermore. My treasures all are there like silken bales, Ambitions, aspirations, fancies, fears, And in thy cargo, under snowy sails, Are all my joys and smiles and hopes and tears. [ 19 ] Selected Toems I see thy white breast, like a stately swan, Go forth to brave the wild waves of the deep, When summer skies are rosy with the dawn, And all deceitful tempests seem asleep. God grant thee strength to live through stormy shocks, God guide thee ever under Summer skies, And send thee safely by the reefs and rocks To ever-blooming isles of Paradise. Mayhap thy verse in ages yet to come Shall tell my secrets unto alien ears, When these poor lips have lain for centuries dumb And I have mouldered for a thousand years ; When she to whom in vain my love is told No longer reigns a Princess young and proud, When clods have covered all her locks of gold And starry eyes are hidden in her shroud. And then perchance when all our tribes have fled, When all the sceptres of the earth are rust, When all the kingdoms of our day are dead, And all our cities crumbled into dust ; When other nations with another tongue Have overcome the nations of to-day, When heroes now unknown are praised and sung, And unborn poets hold the world in sway ; When empires of the Australasian seas Have stolen Europe's light and Europe's soul, And when the traveler knows all mysteries From Afric jungle to the Northern pole; When crumbling idols, wreathed with weeds and vines, Gaze from the ruined temples of to-day, When strange, new gods are throned in other shrines, And all our earth and heaven have passed away ; — [ 20 ] Selected Poems Then may my thoughts in others live again, A million bosoms may my transports share, A million friends may feel my joy and pain, A million lovers feel my deep despair ; And gentle maids may give me soulful sighs For true love offered that was not returned, May hearken to my fervent melodies, And sob at learning how my bosom burned ; And I will tell to all the sons of men How fair the maiden whom I now adore, And they shall hearken to my story then, And learn how I grew sad forevermore ; And they shall know my hours of loneliness, My true heart's anguish and unheeded sighs, And how she slew my hopes of happiness With daggers of her splendor-streaming eyes. TO A POET He greatly errs who hopes to win the bays Without a battle and without a scar, To walk among the lilies all his ways, Or lie in sloth, yet reach and seize a star. O youth, who knockest at the gate of Fame, Long must thy waiting and thy watching be ; Beside that gate, with two-edged sword of flame, A Shape stands guarding that shall challenge thee. Long years shall pass, and find thee waiting still, With eyes grown dim, and bonny locks turned gray; Long years shall pass, and high upon a hill The palace that thou seekest far away! [ 21 ] Selected Poems Long years shall pass, and then the shades of night Shall rust the golden twilight into brown ; Long years shall pass, and in the fading light Far, far away shall shine the promised crown. Who weds the Muse must others all forsake, Who takes her hand must never look behind ; He must not falter, though his heart may break, To all allurements deaf and dumb and blind. To far, far places must thy feet be turned, Where strangers only meet thee with a scowl, When thy brave heart, which once with ardor burned, Shall seem to throb beneath a sable cowl. The love thou longest for may be denied, Thy soul without a comrade evermore, No one to cheer thee, treading at thy side, No fair-haired children playing at thy door. Old friends will say, when other friends have fled, "Forsake the hopeless task thy soul hath sworn! Poor and neglected, thou dost want for bread, Thy coat is threadbare and thy cloak is worn." Like England's Alfred, fleeing in disguise, And hotly hunted, planning desperate schemes, A hag may harry with her shrewish cries For letting cakes burn as you dream your dreams. But yet, like Douglas with the heart of Bruce, Keep safe thy treasures, scorning still to fly; That tempter spurn who would thy soul seduce, And fight to win, or with thy Charge to die. [ 22 ] Selected Toems THE DEATH OF POETRY They tell us that the poet's day is past, That Song no more shall gush from human heart; They tell us all the old dreams must depart, The old ideals by the way be cast. What babbling folly! Frailest dreams outlast The noisiest jargon of the mightiest mart; Great empires crumble, yet the realm of Art, Unconquered, glorious, stands forever fast. When Spring comes not in triumph as of yore, When Earth's last rose her last sweet leaf hath shed; When oceans cease to swell, and peaks to soar, When man and maid no longer woo and wed ; When starry skies proclaim their God no more, — Not till that day shall Poesie be dead. SONNET ON MY TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY February 10, 1887 The restless years at last have reached this day, When youth must leave me, never to return, When Nature's kindly face grows cold and stern, And life seems short, which once stretched far away. No longer shall I rove through fields of May; New toils and cares are mine, hard truths to learn, Which ever faster fall from Sorrow's urn, Since life no longer means a childish play. O Voiceless Future! what fate dost thou hide? Hast thou a tale of darkness or of light? Shall sin and sorrow snare my feet untried, And shall I stand or fall before their might? But lose or win, or weal or woe betide, All is forgotten soon in endless night. [ 23 ] Selected Poems THE READING BOY Sunk in the cushion of a high arm-chair, A volume resting where his knees are crost, With one hand slowly fumbling through his hair, There sits the boy in magic pages lost. At times he lifts a grave, though youthful face, Revealing depths of eyes of liquid brown ; He seems a traveler from some far-off place Who flees us as his flitting glance turns down. O dreamy boy, with fair May-morning brow, What realms of wonders lure your restless feet? In what far kingdom are you treading now? What distant ocean bears your wandering fleet? You sail with Sinbad through enchanted seas, Your pockets stuffed with diamonds from his caves ; You and Aladdin gather gems from trees ; You give your orders to a thousand slaves. With Crusoe you have rifled rich old wrecks, You tame his parrot and you herd his goats ; With Captain Kidd you rake the foeman's decks, And smiling, cut freebooting rivals' throats. Columbus-like, you find another world, You help Magellan sail the globe around ; Your flags with Drake and Raleigh float unfurled From Dutch Guiana unto Puget Sound. You sit with Alexander on his throne, Yet conquer other worlds beyond his wake ; With Caesar you have bridged the Rhine and Rhone, Yet worn the crown which Caesar dared not take. [ 24 ] Selected Poems And yet, my sturdy boy, you soon shall see Youth's peerless poem dwindle into prose; And soon your nimble feet, so wild and free, Shall bleed from thorns of each caressing rose. Boy-Caesar, in the Future's sullen shade, Some envious Casca plans his traitorous part ; Some lean and hungry Cassius whets his blade, Some much-loved Brutus waits to stab your heart. Yet I salute you, ere your dreams go wrong; To you, young master, see my head bowed down; O prince of romance, story, and of song, O lord of gladness, glory and renown! THE WHISTLING BOY So keen, so clear, Falls on the ear The wild, sweet pipings of his lips, So sharp, so tart, I thrill and start, And Fancy tingles to her finger-tips. The dingy town With walls of brown, With grimy streets and pavements gray, Its rush and roar I note no more, And all its fierce commotions pass away. Along the street His brown, bare feet Remind me of a baby faun, By fern-fringed pool In shadows cool Leading a throng of fluting birds at dawn. [ 25 ] Selected Poems No hermit thrush Through woodland hush Could trill a tune more fresh and free ; No mocking bird More gladly heard Through verdant vine-clad swamps of Tennessee. I feel a breeze Through cherry trees, O'er dandelions wet with dew, And on a rail I hear a quail Gladden an old peach orchard through and through Through hazy tears I see old years When I too, happy as a bird, By bubbling streams Dreamed boyish dreams — The dear, dead dreams, so sweet and so absurd. IN AN OLD LIBRARY In this old farmhouse garret where I stray, A refugee from worries of the town, I dig and delve the livelong summer day Through ancient volumes, dusty, worn and brown. On dingy panes a hornet fumes and frets, A beetle thumps the wall with sudden thud ; A wasp hangs captive in a spider's nets A dirt-daub, singing, moulds his house of mud. A mantel holds two antiquated clocks, Where scampering mice go playing hide-and-seek; A wren, snug-nested in an empty box, Sits calm and quiet while her fledglings squeak. [ 26 ] Selected Poems Here, like a vein of purest virgin gold Deep-hidden in the desert rock and sand, Are all the treasures of the days of old, Brought by the Great and Good from every land. Here all the friends of youth (for youth alone Can make the friendships that are sure to last) Soothe once again the heart half turned to stone, With old enchantments that I thought were past. Here, like a pirate at his secret cave, I dig my buried ingots from the junk; And, like a diver, from an ocean grave I raise the Spanish galleons that I sunk. Here all the wise sit in serene array, Where Plato's words flow forth in honeyed sweets; I see the face of Goldsmith and of Gray, I walk with Shelley and I talk with Keats. O magic Past, you woo me from To-day; The frenzied world outside is lost to view. Old friends are best ! I tread this quiet way, Forsaking not the old to win the new. Like mellow wine in cobwebbed cellars stored, Here burn the suns of long-forgotten years ; To-day I revel in their precious hoard Of love and laughter, gladness, grief and tears. OPPORTUNITY They do me wrong who say I come no more When once I knock and fail to find you in ; For every day I stand outside your door, And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win. [ 27 ] Selected Poems Wail not for precious chances passed away, Weep not for golden ages on the wane ! Each night I burn the records of the day, — At sunrise every soul is born again ! Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped, To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; My judgments seal the dead past with its dead, But never bind a moment yet to come. Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep; I lend my arm to all who say "I can!" No shame-faced outcast ever sank so deep, But yet might rise and be again a man ! Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast? Dost reel from righteous Retribution's blow? Then turn from blotted archives of the past, And find the future's pages white as snow. Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell ; Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven ; Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell, Each night a star to guide thy feet to heaven. THE WORLD IS MY HOME I travel to East, I wander to West; Each land that I see is dear to my breast. I greet the green hills as I float down the Rhine, The vineyards of France I love as if mine. With rapture the castles of England I see, And Switzerland's peaks are old friends to me; A freeman of Athens, a tribune of Rome, All men are my brothers, the world is my home. [ 28 ] Selected Poems Let Sultans and Czars make war if they will, But let their own blood on the battlefield spill ; For none but the Fool will lift up his arm To murder the man who has done him no harm. Let the bigot cry out for a bloody crusade, To pierce heathen hearts with his sanctified blade ; From mosque of the Nile to Saint Peter's dome All men are my brothers, the world is my home. Wherever we meet, on sea or on sod, We are brethren of Christ, we are children of God. They may prattle of Codes, or prate of their Creeds — I care not for these, but for brotherly deeds. They may boast of their Church, their Clique or their Clan- I but yearn for the touch of a true fellow-man. So my heart still repeats, wherever I roam, All men are my brothers, the world is my home. OMAR IN HEAVEN Year after year I wait, reposing here Among the Faithful, by the Prophet blest; A stranger now to grief, remorse and fear, My one-time restless heart is wreathed in rest. The years glide on, and still they find me free From every care that dogs the feet of men ; No sun on desert sand, no storm at sea, Shall ever come to vex my soul again. No clouded skies on pages ashen-gray Reflect heart-breaking annals of the earth ; The Judas-kisses all have passed away, With all the madness that eclipsed our mirth. [ 29 ] Selected Toems Here all the year is April, May or June, With bud and blossom free from every blight ; Here all the day is everlasting noon, With glory never dimming in the night. No thorns beset the beauty of the rose, No sweet is ever tinctured with a sour ; We pluck no fruits, — a heavenly zephyr blows And shakes the mellow apple from its bower. No leaflet ever withers on the tree, No bulbul song on desert waste is lost; From drought the date and olive flourish free, No tulip ever shudders from the frost. No traveler's camel pants and kneels to die As hot siroccos fling their fiery dust ; No sun-scorched famine makes of earth and sky A brazen oven and a blackened crust. Here bubbling fountains, cold as mountain snow, Refresh the pilgrim mad with feverish thirst; Here verdant forests dim the noontide glow For caravans from white-hot sands accurst. Songs can not sing the glories here on high, The white, white splendor of this blest estate; One might rejoice ten thousand times to die To peep one instant through its jeweled gate. No hunter here pursues the swift gazelle, The lad no longer here pursues the maid ; The fawn, grown fearless, knows her master well, The loved one by her lover's side is laid. Around me, tripping with a dove-like tread, Are seven times seventy houris, passing sweet; With oils of roses they anoint my head, And bring rose-water jars to wash my feet. [ 30 ] Selected Poems They bring me sherbets cool with creamy snow, They scent my courts with frankincense and myrrh ; With peacock fans they make soft breezes blow, And carol songs that set my heart astir. Ah, they are fairer far than maids of earth, And never flee the lover when he wooes, They seek me dancing in delightful mirth, And always come to kiss me when I choose. They beg me think no more of loves of mine In old-time Aprils there in haunts of men ; They bid me quaff their jug's mellifluous wine, And never ask to see the Earth again. Ah yes, they all surrender free of force, — The bird comes captive though I set no snare ; Yet wines they hand me never bring remorse, The love they lavish never brings despair. And here in everlasting youth we stay, — The youth of roseate feet and soft dark eyes ; Though fifty Sultans rule and pass away The years flit soft as wings of butterflies. Yet, Iran, in my dreams I feel again Your dear temptations, your delightful snares, Your bitter-sweets, your pleasures mixed with pain, Your blissful sorrows, your divine despairs. I long for Bagdad's mosques and minarets, For Shiraz, with its fig-trees, vines and palms; For dear old Ispahan my spirit frets, — O sight more soothing than Arabian balms! I weary of these everlasting Springs, These gardens with their never-fading flowers ; O, bring the North Wind on his eagle wings, To quench their glory in his sleety showers ! [ 31 ] Selected Poems Who cares for youth where every one is young? Who values springtime life where none grow old? All gold with iron in one heap were flung If every ship came weighted down with gold. Where every man is wealthy, none is rich ; Where bids no Evil, there can be no Good; Without some valley's intervening niche No mountain ever stands or ever stood. Though youth on Earth soon shatters like a rose, And love's fresh morning ends at last in night, The song is sweeter for an early close, Love ten times dearer for an early flight. Ah, sweet the prospect of a bliss pursued, Yet sweeter still the bliss we gained and lost ; clutch it not with fingers fondly rude, Or else to-morrow we shall count its cost. We slay the white swan for his peerless plume, — He falls, to splash in mire his snowy down ; We gather grapes, — our hands brush off their bloom; The creamy lily that we touch turns brown. What though the damsel struggle from my arm? What though she laughs and runs beyond my reach? The cherry's tartness proves its chiefest charm, The topmost bough witholds the reddest peach. Only one game is ever worth dispute, Well won with ardors of an anxious day, — To chase the prize, uncertain in pursuit, And having won, soon feel it slip away. 1 envy Earth its secret, stolen bliss, Its fond embraces, half withheld, then given, Its lovers' quarrels, crushed beneath a kiss, Its fond farewells, that makes a hell seem heaven. [ 32 ] Selected Poems I love the world, — its spice of doubts and fears, Its sugared fictions, hiding heartless truth, Its silvery laughter, shining through its tears, The sweet, uncertain tenure of its youth. I beg the Prophet from his judgment seat To let me steal to Earth from heights above, Once more to test its wine-cup's dear deceit, And taste the bitter honey of its love. THE PENITENTIARY I I see the convicts in disgraceful stripes Come homeward to their cells at set of sun, The whole world's most despised, disgusting types, As hopeless as the day that now is done. The penitentiary opens iron jaws To swallow up the mass of shame and sin, The cages seize them in their rusty claws, And giant gates are locked to keep them in. Their faces all are foul, their hands unclean, Their aching ankles drag the iron ball, And two by two they bear a clanking chain ; Their heads are shaved to show their hopeless fall. One sings lewd songs, one tells a wicked jest, They laugh at honor and they laugh at shame ; All that on earth is sweetest and is best Is scoffed and blasphemed with a vulgar name. Here comes a man who sought to make escape ; Behold the swollen stripes of whip and rod ! — What shame to think that one in mortal shape Should beat and spit upon a child of God! [ 33 ] Selected Poems I pity them and feel a rush of tears, But not one creature there has tears to shed, For none have ever sobbed since childhood years, As all their hopes and loves and joys are dead. And then my heart is hardened as I hear How every virtue from their souls is driven ; I shrink and shudder as they come too near, Exiled from Earth and barred from hopes of Heaven ! II And yet I feel all good is not yet lost ; This man would share with me his crust of bread, Would bring me water when with fever tost, Or share with me his narrow iron bed. Or, if I told him some sweet tale of love, A smile would light his face's dull despair, As radiant as the white wings of a dove Amid the darkness of a panther's lair. Once more a tender touch his heart would feel To think of one he loved in years of yore, Before the Law came, with its chains of steel, And bade him banish hope forevermore. Or, if I traveled through a lonely land, In storms of midnight, when my feet grew sore, Were he a hermit, he would take my hand And give me gracious welcome to his door. Or, if a slave, I hid from haunts of men, Or fled in terror from pursuing hounds, This thief would lead me safely to his den, And pour the oil upon my burning wounds. [ 34 ] Selected Toems If this be true of this poor convict now, How sweeter, happier might have been his fate If chance temptation had not warped his brow, And friendly warning had not come too late! And there are thousands in the world to-day Who never will be called to answer crimes, Enthroned in wealth to rule with despot sway, Though viler than these clods a hundred times. The shivering wretch who steals a tattered coat, Or crust to keep his starving soul alive, A rusty penny, or a cankered groat, — That is the thief the world will not forgive. But he who blights a maiden in her bud, Who snatches gold by force, or fraud, or might, And he who bathes a nation in its blood, Walks forth as free as Heaven's own air and light. Here treads a generous spendthrift, who at last, In evil moment, like a culprit fell; His fawners and his flatterers of the past, All, all have left him in a convict's cell; And as he treads in felon's stripes and chains, He learns the story told from sun to sun, — Be generous ; and men mock you for your pains ; Be selfish ; and your crown is surely won. Here comes a poor old drunkard, weak and worn, His face all bloated, dark with leaden care, His ashen eyes, once clear as skies of morn, Are dim and dull with unexpressed despair; While he who held the bottle to his lips, Who robbed him of his last poor coin at play, And she whose sweet lies made his soul's eclipse, Are roving free and happy far away. [ 35 ] Selected Poems Here comes a woman who was pure and young, A lily that was trampled in the dust, Whose lover's treason like an adder stung, — Another victim to a foolish trust; But while she pines in penitentiary walls Her false seducer never shares her doom ; He treads his measures in his gilded halls, She in the treadmill of this living tomb. And she shall kiss no more the rose when red, And in her saucy sweetness laugh aloud; A felon's couch shall be her bridal bed, A wreath of fennel rest upon her shroud. Yet though the world may not believe me just, I pardon him who steals a loaf of bread, But not the wretch who breaks my tender trust, And leaves me with aching heart of lead. My soul forgives that poor old drunken man, That outcast, shivering through the cruel town, But not the chieftain of a robber clan, Who steals my freedom and who wears a crown. But then the world is strong and I am weak; You are the creatures of the powers that be ; So you must fester in your dungeons bleak Till Death shall come at last to set you free. Ill But midnight comes ; each on a bed of straw, I see the two men and the woman lie ; Their servitude has satisfied the law, For now the time of death is drawing nigh. [ 36 ] Selected Poems Their fevered brains are swayed by fitful dreams, Their dim eyes glance through scenes of perished years, And sweet, sad visions come in hazy gleams Beyond the realm of sin and shame and tears. And then remember, in a broken prayer, With deaf, dull ears and dim and dying eyes, How Christ once calmed the dying thief's despair, — 'To-day thou meetest me in Paradise." n' Who is this stranger treading by to-night, — A stranger coming from the far, far lands, His sad face lovely with a smile of light, Who bears the print of nails upon his hands? Behold, ye dying sinners! wake, arise! Ho, turnkey, jailer, open unto me! For we shall meet to-night in Paradise, The King of Heaven Himself has pardoned ye! "Behold, ye dying sinners! wake, arise! Ho, turnkey, jailer, open unto me! The convict in his straw-strewn dungeon dies, For Christ Himself has come to set him free!" THE POTTERS FIELD I See the lonesome fields forsaken in their desolation spread, Heaving with the silent grave-mounds of the nameless pauper dead. Never blooms a rose above them, never peeps a violet here, No one comes to sit beside them, no one comes to shed a tear. [ 37 ] Selected Toems No one speaks a word of pity, no one breathes a word of love, Earth around them shrinks with loathing, heaven recoils with scorn above. Here are sleeping thieves and beggars, here the outcast babes of shame, Here the felon from the gallows, here the waif without a name. Here the suicide lies sleeping, with the madman by his side, And the drunkard and the spendthrift in the same strange home abide. Here the ruined woman slumbers, while her lover, far away In his revels, thinketh never of his victim in the clay. Yet what vernal visions wreathed them in their childhood long ago ! Ah, what aspirations perished in the pauper graveyard low! Ah, what happy mothers kissed them in their pink- white boyish bloom, Never dreaming that their idols thus should share the felon's tomb! Ah, what trustful maidens kissed them, gazing in their eyes so brave, Never dreaming that their lovers thus should share the drunkard's grave! And the ardent lover fondling this frail outcast's golden hair, Never dreamed that he, a traitor, should thus drive her to despair, [ 38 ] Selected Poems Nor that this same trustful being, burning with a love untold, Soon would sink and lie decaying in the pauper graveyard mould, While their babe, scorned and deserted, soon would hide his shameful birth Far below in dust polluted of the pauper graveyard's earth. II But amid the nameless outcasts sleep the good and brave and true, They who lived and died for duty, they the world's Im- mortal Few. For the palm to those deserving evermore shall be denied ; They must tread the earth with beggars, slumber by the beggar's side; And the good and great and generous in a lowly grave lie down Ere the fickle world rewards them with the sceptre and the crown. Here are sleeping peerless poets, they who begged from door to door, But whom Death has wreathed with laurels green and glad forevermore. Here are sleeping brave old martyrs, they who strove to make us free, Whom the flames consume to ashes for their love of you and me. [ 39 ] Selected "Poems And they sleep as sweetly, calmly, in these pauper grave- yard scenes As the laurelled victor slumbers by the side of kings and queens. Here are sleeping countless heroes, whom the world remembers not, They who loved and toiled and struggled in their chill and cheerless lot; But while Earth has turned unheeding in its hurried stir and strife, Angels all their names have treasured in the Master's book of life ! Ill Now I dream I see the dawning of the awful Judgment Day, Far across the Eastern mountains, and the Eastern seas away. And the dull ears of those sleepers hear the trumpet in their palls, While their dumb lips strive to answer to its wild, soul- stirring calls. And from out their rusted coffins myriad bony shapes arise, While their dim eyes catch the glimmer in the vast vague Eastern skies. Then the beggar feebly totters from his grim and gaping grave, And he stands at last the equal of the great and strong and brave; [ 40 ] Selected Toems Then the felon struggles slowly from his dark and dusty shroud, There to face the last of Judges with the rich and high and proud; Then the ruined woman rises with her infant from the tomb, There to meet the trembling lover who at last must share her doom. So the pauper graveyard's children unto endless life arise, Now the equal of the haughty in the great Creator's eyes; Still to live and live forever, when the myriad years have fled, When the world is crushed to atoms, and the suns and stars are dead. THE CHURCHYARD Once I feared thee, mournful Monarch, with thy sad and solemn dells, Haunted by the vesper shadows and the sobbing fu- neral bells ; Haunted by the ghostly roses, in their silken robes of white, And the mock-bird's mystic singing in the dim and dusky night ; Haunted by the tombs of marble gleaming through magno- lia leaves, And the restless moonlight figures where the grave-mound dimly heaves. But my loved ones gather with thee in the fading, fleeting years, And I lay within thy caverns all my joys and hopes and fears. [ 41 ] Selected Toems Thou hast treasures in thy bosom richer than the ocean caves, Where the peerless pearls are beaming and the coral for- est waves, Where the mermaid gathers amber filled with mellow golden light, And the silver-weighted galleons glimmer through the emerald night ; Thou hast hearts of gold within thee, hearts all priceless pearls above, Rich with sweetness, rich with kindness, rich with never- dying love ; Thou hast dreams and aspirations sleeping with thy sheeted dead, Wondrous visions, grand ambitions, from the earth for- ever fled. Thou hast beauties in thy bosom blooming underneath our feet, Lovelier than our purple lilacs and our jasmines soft and sweet ; Thou hast blue-eyed, dimpled children, with their mazy, golden hair, Thou hast maids with brows of beauty, manly figures sleeping there. Thou hast wisdom in thy bosom greater than the lore of earth, Gathered by its gray-haired sages from the dim creation's birth ; Thou hast infants in thy bosom, learned in secrets whis- pered low, Which our wise men seek forever, never find and can not know. [ 42 ] Selected To ems MARY Of all the sweet names that ever were given To mortals on earth or seraphs in heaven, No matter if borne by milkmaid or fairy, The sweetest of all must ever be Mary. There's Helen, the star of song and of story, Men perished to wreathe her ringlets with glory; There also is Ruth, the true and the tender, Whose meekness and faith make strong men surrender. And Mabel's a name that ever sounds sweetly, And charms and enchants a mortal completely, While Katie suggests brown eyes and brown tresses, Created for love and lover's caresses. There's Maud, with a mouth as red as a cherry, With kisses so sweet, with laughter so merry; There's Edith, whose eyes are blue as the fountains, With ringlets of gold like morn on the mountains. There's Blanche and Adele, that sound autocratic, Poor Sarah and Jane that dwell in an attic, While Emma is dear, all dote upon Jenny, And Annie is loved not least among many. But never a name like Mary is spoken ; The dearest of dreams revive at that token ; Each other brings joy or brightness or sweetness, But Mary alone has perfect completeness. The lady high-born who reigns in a castle, The widow forlorn, the spouse of the vassal, The captive chained down in dungeon cell dreary, The diademed queen, may bear the name Mary. And Mary's the soul who opes the heart's portals, A sweetheart, perchance, the dearest of mortals; A sister, whose soul is dowered with beauty, Or mother, who lives for love and for duty. [ 43 ] Selected Poems It was Mary who first shed tears of contrition, It was she who was blest with God's greatest mission; She stood by His Cross, she saw His tomb riven, Her name shall be first on earth and in heaven. TO ONE DEPARTED Thy loving work is done forevermore, Thy tender heart is free from all its cares, For at the coming of the still, sad night, Thy folded hands have won their final rest. So thou art drawing near thy happy home, With gladsome singing and with golden sheaves, Fearing no foe amid the gloom of death, Seeing beyond the radiant wings of dawn The tufted palm trees of a paradise With walls of jasper and with gates of gold. Thy happy days, my dearest, have begun, While we on earth are still amid our woes ; We can not dream of half thy boundless bliss, — Our deepest joy would be a pain to thine. Thou wert the fairest flower of the earth, And now heaven claims thee as its loveliest star. CONFIRMATION The children, robed in spotless white, I see Kneel for a blessing at the bishop's feet, And, as I gaze upon their faces sweet, As pure as doves, from stain of sin so free, Before the priest whose sins unnumbered be, Whose heart for selfish, sordid aims must beat, I marvel why his blessing they entreat, When he to them should rather bend the knee. [ 44 ] Selected Poems Dear little hearts, my soul adopts your creed ; Dear little feet, your pathway I shall share; Dear little hands, my wanderings ye shall lead! Dear little brows, guide with your golden hair; Dear little lips, my God's forgiveness plead; Dear little eyes, shine on my soul's despair! ALONE IN NEW YORK Far from familiar old-time haunts I tread, Far from remembered scenes of Tennessee ; A wilderness of walls I see instead, A surging ocean of humanity. For leafy woods are piles of brick and stone ; For grassy fields a million roofs arise ; For crooning winds, I hear the cable's groan; For lowing herds, I hear the huckster's cries. No mocking-bird is singing to the breeze — I hear the roll of wagon wheels instead. An iron eagle in his iron trees, The engine thunders swooping overhead. Within the city park the sparrow cheeps, Consoling for the warble of a thrush ; Mechanic fountains make mechanic leaps To imitate the mountain torrent's rush. The stiff, ungraceful walks, prim flower-beds, Show gaudy clumps of yellow, red or green ; The trim-clipped hedges lift their tawdry heads To vie with tangled wildwoods I have seen. But here I came for sake of you, my Art, As I had promised in the long ago, To follow you with ever-loyal heart, Though fame and fortune I might never know. [ 45 ] Selected Toems And though I tread alone, I feel your hand Slip into mine as in the dear old days ; And though a stranger in a stranger's land, I hear your footsteps all my crowded ways. And though my heart aches as I go alone, And though mine eyes grow dim with unshed tears, Although my bosom now is steel and stone, Unlike its old self of departed years ; And though at night I toss and toss awake, Within a garret, on a lowly bed; Although my struggling spirit seems to break, When halcyon hopes and darling dreams have fled— I hear you whispher: "Wait, O wait for dawn, When all heart-breaking anguish shall be through ; And should you win or lose, go on, go on, And still, brave heart, be true, be true, be true!" ON RETURNING TO NEW YORK Once more I see your towers touch the sky, And hear the sullen thunder of your street ; Once more I see your legions hurry by, And rush to join them with my restless feet. I come not as I came in other days With ardent and enthusiastic soul, When fame and fortune hovered in my gaze, And, near at hand, I thought I saw the goal. Ah, surely things have sadly changed since then, When you were radiant with deceitful wiles ; A sorrow overclouds thy throngs of men, And sullen scowls erase thine olden smiles. [ 46 ) Selected Toems Plain and prosaic seem thy realms of joy, golden apple of my bygone themes, golden fleece that lured a foolish boy, priceless pearl, diamond of my dreams! Like Atalanta, fleetest of the fleet, Thy lovers come to woo from far and nigh ; They run the race with thee, and in defeat They bend the head beneath thy hand to die. 1 shudder as I see thy crowded gate, And outside, doubting and perplexed, I stand; But now, I proudly come to face my fate, With none to welcome, none to take my hand. Yet, royal city, I have courage still, A spirit that shall never bend the knee ; My soul is guarded with unconquered Will, A sword I never shall surrender thee. I give thee battle, and shall bravely smite, For he who wins must woo thee with the sword ; My feet shall never safety seek in flight, A coffin or a crown be my reward. And there can be no abdication, save When I throw down the sceptre that is mine; If I should fall from glory to the grave, My own hand must my own death-warrant sign. He who relies upon his own right arm, Nor fears his gauntlet at the foe to fling, May drink of poisons, and they shall not harm, And take up serpents, and they shall not sting. C 47 ] Selected Toems ODE FOR CHARTER DAY— NEW YORK, MAY 4, 1898 O Giant Empress of the Western World, Crown princess of the hopes of humankind, What brilliant banners have thy sons unfurled ! What gladsome garlands have thy daughters twined ! Resplendent at thy gateway of the sea, Thou holdest in thy hand the torch of Truth, The greatest of the cities yet to be, In Oriental glory of thy youth. The ancient East brings tribute unto thee, The pearls of Ceylon, spice of Hindu groves, The silks of China, gums of Araby, The dates of Syria and Sumatra cloves. France greets thee with the violet of her vines, And England with the fleeces of her looms ; Here palms of Cuba blend with Norway pines, And Greenland furs with Ethiopian plumes. Yet all these glorious gifts shall pass away, Like Tyrian silver, Carthaginian gold, And in some dim and undiscovered day Like fairy stories shall thy deeds be told. In that far future none shall tribute bring, And none shall stand amazed before thy powers, No poet shall thy strength and splendor sing, No monarch tremble at thy haughty towers. So, stately city, ere thy youth be past, Let Goodness be thy daughter, Truth thy son ; Let Beauty be thy priestess to the last, Thy house their temple till the day is done. [ 48 ] Selected Poems Then in thy strength do deeds that can not die, Win honors that shall never pass their noon ; Let Art unite with Love to rear on high A palace like a lily 'neath the moon. Lo! in thy million homes this very night, God sees thy children shed a flood of tears ; He sees the hungry stranger's piteous plight, And sees thee pass them by with deafened ears. Though thou art rich, thine orphans cry for bread, Thy widows in their anguish weep aloud, Thy wayward sons without thy palace tread, Thine erring daughters find thee cold and proud. Take these upon their bosom, bind their wounds, And let thy boast be through the coming years, "No man was ever hungry in my bounds, No woman wept, but that I dried her tears. 1 So then, O princess, bring thy cruse of oil, Like Mary, in her day of dark despair, And wash His feet from dust of travel-toil, And dry them with the tresses of thy hair. M Then let years die and generations pass, Thy temples totter, palaces decay. Though these may perish like the Summer grass, Thy greater glory shall not fade away. For thou shalt raise an altar on this sod, Triumphant over funeral torch and bell, peerless daughter of the living God ! O heroine who withstood the hosts of hell ! UNION SQUARE 1 watch the water lilies in this pond, The white, the blue, the yellow and the red, The sparrow tripping on their pads beyond, And splashing dewdrops on his wings and head. [ 49 ] Selected Toems The lotus, like a Cleopatra there, Reveals a bosom with a roseate glow, As in her gorgeous old Egyptian lair She fascinated heroes long ago. A-down the walk a throng of children goes With dewy eyes a-peep through hazy curls, When years are poems, every month a rose, All morns are rubies and all noons are pearls. Around these seats I see a motley crowd Of listless loungers, miserable and low, With backs bent double, wrinkled faces bowed, Or, aimless, straggling by with footsteps slow. With corncob pipes, these old men mumbling sit, Forsaken, friendless, waiting but for death, When, like the dead leaves that around them flit, They fall to be forgotten in a breath. And here a hard-faced girl reclines alone, Dreaming of dead days with their holy calm, Before her happy heart was turned to stone, And slumber to her spirit brought no balm. Here the young poet, once a farmer-boy, Who with glad heart unto the city came, Sees manhood years his high-born hopes destroy, And slay his dreams of fortune and of fame. When night descends, electric argent lamps Like radiant cactus blossoms blaze on high ; The city seems a world of war-like camps, While Broadway with its legions thunders by. In gilt play-houses hundreds sigh to see The mimic woes of actors on the stage, But not one tear for actual grief shall be, The snares for childhood or the pangs of age. [ 50 ] Selected "Poems Around this Square rich men and women ride, Bedizened creatures in their fashion flaunt, While this starved outcast, planning suicide, Steals back to perish in his dismal haunt. Strange, while is known so well the sparrow's fall, Man heeds not when his brother's plaint is made; Strange, that the brightest, whitest light of all Should cast the deepest and the darkest shade! But still the world denies its helping hand To those most worthy of its love and care. If Christ returned to-night, he too would stand Homeless and friendless, here on Union Square. TO A STRANGER Along a giant city's streets I go: Three million strangers right and left I see ; Three million faces I shall never know ; Three million hearts, and not one heart for me ! O stranger passing by with careless glance, I long to greet you, long to know you well, But still I falter, fearing to advance, My words of frienship in your ears to tell. Your soul seems careless and your heart seems cold, Your eyes averted, lips a-curl with pride; Yet half your secrets in your face are told, Your tragic story can not be denied. Like you, such pride has made me lift my head When dull Despair was sitting in my heart, Has made me smile when old-time friends have fled, And breathe defiance when my hopes depart. [ 51 ] Selected Poems Like you, O stranger, I have loved and lost, Like you, have seen my brave ambitions end, Like you, on seas of sorrow have been tost, Like you, I seek a sympathetic friend. Come, let me tell you secrets like your own, Till all your dull indifference shall depart, — Truths that should melt a bosom wrought of stone, And bring the red sparks from a flinty heart. For we were born to share this fleeting life, To tread the morning of one little day, To feel the noontide sorrow, joy and strife, And in the selfsame twilight pass away. Like mine, your heart is diamond clogged with clay, Your being dust and air and dew and fire, And as you see earth's blossoms all decay, You gaze to heaven with untold desire. For we are spirits manacled in sod, Two wandering heirs of all eternity, Two exiled princes who are sons of God, Two blendings of the dust and deity. A STRANGER IN LONDON Here in the greatest city of the world A hundred thousand people pass me by. The old, the young, the rich, the poor I see, All rushing on to different destinies. I have no friend amid the swarming throng, No man, no woman here gives thought to me. I never saw one being here before, Nor shall I see one being here again. [ 52 ] Selected Poems Alone, deserted in this stranger land, I feel my utter insignificance, And say, "It matters not what one may be, What one may plan, his dreams, his destiny, Since all his life is merest nothingness." And then I turn, and hurrying swiftly by, A careless stranger almost touches me. I ask him to direct me to a place Which I have sought an hour or more in vain. Then all at once his half-impatient face Breaks in a kindly and good-natured smile. Not only does he tell me how to go, Which way to turn, and where to find my place, But suddenly he says: "Come, go with me; I'll show the way myself." Though I protest, He leads the whole way, till we reach the spot. And so we part. A pleasant good-bye next, A friendly smile from him and thanks from me, And then I see him lost amid the crowd. I never saw the stranger's face before, And never shall I see his face again. And yet, O stranger, you have taught me this: All men are brothers ! Though the nations fight For fancied wrongs, and though the poor and weak Must bleed and die to glorify the Great, I feel that artificial boundaries, Frontiers and outposts, cannot make us foes. The little deed of kindness you have done Shows all mankind are kinsmen unto me, That you and I, contemporaries, friends, Put here to share our portion of the earth, And born to live the selfsame day and time, Are children of the true and only God. [ 53 ] Selected Poems ODE For the Semi-centennial Celebration of the Founding of the Sigma Chi Fraternity, Oxford, Ohio, June 28, 1905. A half a hundred years ago to-day Seven youths joined hands to consecrate this shrine, Where friendship's fires might never fade away, But glow forever with a flame divine. Youth is the father of all fellowship, Begetter of the Brotherhood of Men. Oh, when his suns in twilight darkness dip, The old-time thrills are never known again ! We drift on desert seas of selfishness, When cold Indifference steers the bark alone ; We heed no shipwreck's signals of distress, Forgetting others' miseries in our own. But here we anchor for one happy day, And tread old memory-gardens of the past, To pledge old friendships, made in morns of May — God grant them leal and loyal to the last ! Let Youth's pink roses twine through locks of Age; Come back, dear boy-hearts, from your tombs of yore! Oh, let us read once more from this sweet page Of a lost volume we shall clasp no more ! Come, let us gather, old-time friends, again, Within the temple we have loved so long ; See here the old ideals, free from stain, The old-time precepts, sweet as heavenly song:. Here, like the seven golden candlesticks Beheld by John on Patmos long ago, Seven lights are set, on which our eyes may fix, To guide our feet when darkness comes below. [ 54 ] Selected Toems One candlestick is Friendship, one is Truth, And one is Faith, and Hope another yet; And one is Peace, and one called Glow of -Youth, With Love high over all the others set. Oh, be they not like torches quenched in strife, Nor light of Laodicea, soon to wane, But true as Smyrna, crowned with endless life, And steadfast as the Philadelphian fane ! THE TREE IN THE CITY Amid the fret and fever of the street, Calm, peaceful and serene this giant stands; Amid the strife, the worry of the town, His mighty heart remains in deep repose ; Among the seething multitudes of men, Their restlessness cannot disturb his rest. I watch the emerald ocean of his leaves, And every heaving billow speaks of joy — The joy of living, joy of strength and health, Of peace of mind, of duty well performed. For he has kept the law with God and man, Done well his part, nor sought to shun his lot; So, hearty, hale and wholesome, he uprears In green old age a tower of hardihood. Like some old man whose youth was free from blame, Whose temperate manhood brought him no reproach, He reaps the rich rewards of goodly years, Erect and strong in gray magnificence. I see him, and I tread old times again, A barefoot boy upon my father's farm. I hear the warble of a wheatfield quail, I gather sprays of dewy wilding flowers, I breathe soft odors of the apple blooms, And hear the cowbells tinkling in the lane. [ 55 ] Selected Poems A schoolboy in the old schoolhouse again, I hear the children droning at their books, I see my little sweetheart's soft brown eyes. patriarch of the multitudious leaves, Content and calm amid this rush and roar, Still uncontaminated in this strife, Free from repining for the fields or woods — Teach me the grandeur of thy deep repose, Teach me the glory of thy goodly soul, That];I may walk with conscience undisturbed Amid the struggle in the marts of men ! THE CHARMS OF THE CITY Though misanthropes may praise the country more, And turn from mankind to some rude retreat, 1 seek the City, with its rush and roar, Its eager and enthusiastic street. I turn from fellowship of beast and bird, The coarse backwoodsman and unlettered swain, To where heart-blood of humankind is stirred, To share my brother's pleasure and his pain. I love the City's wilderness of stone, Its flags, like scarlet poppies in the air, Where Wealth erects a gold and silver throne, And Fashion charms with silk and satin snare. I love its splendid shops, where jewels blaze, And crystals glitter like a starry crown, With mirrors, plumes and laces, like a maze, With furs and velvets, soft as thistle-down. I walk its midnight meadows, and I mark The flaming lamps of red and blue and white, — Its dazzling daisies, come to cheer the dark, Its morning-glories, born to bless the night. [ 56 ] Selected Toems flaming flowers of the City's gloom, You shine through Summer, Winter, Fall and Spring, When snowflakes flutter on the tulip's tomb, When leaves are brown, and birds have ceased to sing. 1 turn from bobolinks in cherry trees To sweet girl-faces dimpling in delight, Their rosy ribbons flitting in the breeze, — Seraphic doves in plumes of pink and white. I love to pet these mischief-making boys Whose eyes are twinkling stars in dewy dawns, More nimble than the squirrels, full of noise, More wild and wilful than a flock of fawns. O, why should man seek soulless solitude, From life and love to desert caves depart? Nay, give me friends of sympathetic mood, To share my spirit, understand my heart! With friends like these I fill my pipe and smoke, And brim the mug with brown Autumnal brew; We talk together till the midnight stroke, On themes delightful to the Chosen Few. I see the play, and Shakespeare speaks once more The masterpieces of his matchless art. I hear the lecture ; Science bids me soar, And draw the mystic veils of God apart. I read the papers, and I see all strands, I live through peace and war, on field and flood ; I dwell in Europe, roam Sahara sands, And all the wide world is my neighborhood. I love the City's darkness and despair, Its grandeur, grief, its glory and its gloom; My brother's bliss and bitterness I share, And with him march to meet the Common Doom. [ 57 ] Selected "Poems I love the lights that glitter through its dusk Like star-strewn skies downfallen from above ; I crave the fruitage of its iron husk, Red -veined with life-blood from the breast of love. Though buds may blossom, Autumn foliage flush, This laughing girl is lovelier than them all ; More charming than a blackbird or a thrush, The schoolboy's whistle and the newsboy's call. Let hermit heed the babble of the brooks, Let anchorites be comrades of the clod ; I turn from sticks and stones to read good books, And study Man, the first-born son of God. SUNRISE IN THE COUNTRY I have grown weary of the noise and dust, Weary of heat, and smoky, fetid air ; But now at last I walk in the country lanes, And drink cool breezes of the flowery fields. No more I vex to hear the trolley's gong, I hear instead the bells of grazing cows ; The rattling and the rumbling hucksters' carts Are now forgotten as I hear a thrush ; The shriek of locomotives now is still, And in its stead I hear the crowing cock. The clanging chimes of churches are forgot In chirp of bluejays and in hum of bees. I rise when dews bespangle fern and flower, When farmer boys go whistling at the plow, When mocking-birds are sprinkling showers of song, And leaves are dancing for the joy of life. How fresh, how cool, how pure the morning air! I drink it as some rare elixir, brewed To give my soul an everlasting life, And give my body never-dying youth. [ 58 ] Selected Toems The bubbling spring from white Olympian snows Leaps not more fresh for goblets of the gods. O, let me watch the rising of the sun With scarlet robe and diadem of fire, Through roses dewy with the morning stars, And clouds embroidered with a cloth of gold. He comes in glory and in majesty, He comes in splendor and sublimity. Now, as I hear the wrens trill matin hymns, And hear a million crickets chirp his praise, As slender leaves pour forth libation dews, And fields of corn salute with banners green, My soul remembers old forgotten faiths Taught in the tents by far-off Eastern palms ; With old ancestors on the desert sands It bends its knees in worship of the sun. O, let me drink this bracing morning breeze, And fiery liquors shall my lips disdain. I quaff the cooling goblet to its depth, And hate the riotous revel yesternight. Here is a brew that makes the spirit glad, Yet never makes a misery shadow mirth ; Here is a cup to give the bosom cheer, Without the poison of the serpent's sting. I see this yellow primrose, and my heart Forgets the bitter quarrel yesterday ; This dewy dandelion gives me gold Worth more than that I lost in city marts ; This silver-throated quail shall drive away My vain regrets for follies of the past; This warbling grosbeak makes my heart forgive The friend who proved me false on yesterweek ; This morning-glory, dangling with its dews, Gives power to smile at scowls of enemies. [ 59 ] Selected Poems O, I have known the poignant pangs of love, And felt its baneful fevers in my blood, My heart has melted with its hot desire, And grown delirious, fierce with passion-fire. My soul has burned beneath seductive smiles, And reeled from daggers of disdainful eyes. Oft have I tossed in dreams of fancied bliss, Only to wake with empty, aching arms. My blood has boiled, impatient for its own, And frozen when its loved one gave it scorn. My limbs have wearied in a hot pursuit Of clasps and kisses fraught with wild unrest. Come to the country! See the sun arise, And all ferocious passions then shall flee. Behold this pied wood-lily, and be cured Of poison that distills from dark brown eyes. Wade barefoot in this brook, and you shall pine Not for the fairest face in all the world. Hark to the field-lark's note, and find release From all the pangs of unrequited love. MOUNTAIN BROOK Mountain brook, wild mountain brook, Roaring through this rocky nook, Tell me why you twist and toss On from couch to couch of moss? Tell me why your spirit yearns, Heedless of caressing ferns, And the laurel's pleading look As she begs you linger, brook? Hear the murmur of the pines, Heed the kiss of columbines : How they call to you to stay Ere you leap your headlong way ! [ 60 ] Selected Poems Yet in foaming haste you go, Far from parent peaks of snow, Leaping cream-white cascades down, Speeding to yon lowland town. Pause, O, pause before you leap Down this vine-entangled steep! Linger here with peaks of snow Flushed with morn's carnation glow; Linger here in hemlock bowers, Play with rhododendron flowers ; Linger here in youth and joy, Like a bonny blithesome boy! In that soiled and sinful town Crystal waves are smirched with brown ; Soon your airy white attire Draggles in the murky mire; You shall curdle green with scum, And your happy voice grow dumb. Ere you leap, I beg you look, Pure and peerless mountain brook! But, you answer, "I must go Far through panting plains below; I must rescue fainting wheat Drooping in the brazen heat; I must bear to parching corn Vigor of this mountain morn; I must bring from melting snows Blood for blushes on the rose. "I must come to aid of men In yon far-off huddled den ; Rush where huts and hovels scowl Over alleys close and foul. [ 61 ] Selected Poems I must make the factory hum, Though it curdle me with scum. I must cleanse the sink and sewer Though they make myself impure." Mountain brook, wild mountain brook, Heaven had planned the course you took. Though the blossom soon must fade, Though the leaf soon hangs decayed ; Though the star must sink in gloom, Though I soon shall seek the tomb ; — Let us go with gladsome look, God's hand leading, mountain brook. BOHEMIA Bohemia, Bohemia, The land of verdant hills, Of clustered vineyards, flowery fields, Of blue and bubbling rills! I love your orchards and your farms, Your gardens neat and trim, Your rocky rivers, crystal-clear, With shouting boys a-swim. Bohemia, Bohemia, You give your charming name To comrade-life, to fellowship, To life that leads to fame. And every woman, every man Among the Faithful Few, Bohemia, Bohemia, Is always named for you. [ 62 ] Selected Toems Bohemia, Bohemia, The Kingdom of Good Cheer, Of tankards crowned with feathery foam, From mellow golden beer. The land that Shylocks ever shun, That makes the dunces rage, But where the Chosen People come To live their Golden Age. Bohemia, Bohemia, The realm of poetry, Of romance, story and of song, Of love and loyalty! The home of splendid girls and boys, The land of dear delights, Of happy morns, of blissful noons, And passion-pulsing nights. Bohemia, Bohemia, Since first I loved your name, Fond hopes have sped, sweet dreams have fled, And youth has lost its flame. Yet young and joyous, old and gray, Your lover tried and true, Bohemia, Bohemia, Is faithful still to you! Bohemia, Bohemia, When I your flag unfurled, The smiles of Fortune changed to frowns, For you I lost the world. But let the Gentiles go their way, And let the heathen bawl, — Bohemia, Bohemia, You're ten times worth them all! [ 63 ] Selected Toems PASADENA Pasadena, charming town, Wears a fruit-and-flower crown. There the tendrils, boughs and twigs Bend with lemons, grapes or figs. Purple bougainvillea vines Interlace with palms and pines, And the buff and crimson cannas Wave beside broad-leaved bananas. In the dallying ocean breeze Swing the feathery pepper-trees ; Here nasturtiums, orange-red, Wreathe the scarlet salvia-bed ; Here are lilies, pink or pied, Spotted like a leopard's hide; Here the marigold in yellow Mocks the apricot grown mellow. Morning-glories float and flow Like a cloud of indigo ; Blooming eucalyptus trees' Blood-hued clusters tempt the bees ; Rank geraniums fringe the ways With a splendid sunset blaze ; Like a flame-robed Witch of Endor Yon hibiscus shines in splendor. Green pomegranates' blossom-stars Glare and glow like angry Mars; Here lantana clusters burn, Trumpet-flowers with passion yearn. Here are cactus, fuschia, rose, Oleanders' fragrant snows, Blue solanum, red tacoma, Heliotrope with blest aroma. [ 64 ] Selected Poems Here are scattered on her slopes Strawberries, melons, cantaloupes; Here the golden orange clings, Here the odorous grape-fruit swings. Here are dangling in your reach Olive, plum, and pear and peach, Purple aster, red verbena, Saffron poppy, — Pasadena! CARROLL VANCE We sigh because you passed away so young, Forsaking us, who wander still below, When life was like a lute with strings unstrung, A-thrillwith music Earth may never know. But we, not you, deserve the piteous plaint, The sob, the sigh, the wringing of the hands, Soul freed at last from every mortal taint, Among the lilies of enchanted lands! For us, the slowly creeping steps of age, For you, the halcycn heart forever young; For us, the garment soiled, the blotted page, For you, the glory of the songs unsung. For us, the sad September's withered sheaves, For you, the peach-blooms of an April day; For us, the numb November's hectic leaves, For you, the verdure of the morns of May. Best is that death when Life is in its Spring, When morning skies are gowned in blue and gold, Before one bird has ever ceased to sing, And not one" forest leaf has yet grown old. [ 65 ] Selected Toems Ah, kindly Fate, forever thus to be, When Love, the wild gazelle, treads not amiss, When pearly-footed Youth forbears to flee, And dimpled Joy defers his farewell kiss ! For you, assassin Autumn never comes To stab white-blossomed Summer to the heart, No winds of Winter beat their muffled drums To bid the brilliant tropic birds depart. You shall not see Hope's shattered roses strewn, Nor golden locks flecked into frosty gray, Nor learn the disillusions of the noon, Nor see at last Affection's dull decay. For you no fairy story came untrue, No Gospel seemed unworthy of belief ; The peasant still will be king to you, And every wisp of tares a golden sheaf. Rest, calm and peaceful ; you have naught to fear, Who drove all hate and malice from your side, Nor gave one being cause to shed a tear, Until that day, dear boy, on which you died. THE ALPS Fresh air, green grass, and water crystal-clear, Dew-sprinkled meadows, forests cool and dark, These bid good-morning to the mountaineer Who whistles as his waking watch-dogs bark. Steep daisy-dappled pastures, grazing cows, And scattered sheep with tiny bells a-ring; A deep calm pool, with overhanging boughs, Where early birds, from sleep awakened, sing. [ 66 ] Selected To ems An apple orchard, mossy, gnarled and old, Clings to a crag with bony-finger roots ; Wild flowers, pure as vestals, brave the cold, Their odors frail as notes from fairy flutes. A peasant's cottage clutches to a cliff, A rocky pasture feeds a flock of goats ; And then a breeze comes in a sudden whiff, And over all a cloudy curtain floats. A brawling brook with rustic bridge is seen, And girls with pitchers coming to a spring, Far down below, the lake lies glossy green, With snowy sails like swans upon the wing. Here, fragile as two airy wisps of lace, From mossy rocks twin cascades leap and call ; Another quivers with a plume-like grace, And others still in thundering torrents fall. Some sparkle like a radiant shower of gems, And some are misty as a cloud of cream ; They grace the ferns with dewy diadems, And weave their rainbows like a seraph's dream. The cascades echo to the hunter's horn, The cascades waft soft incense from the sod ; These are the goblets whence the hand of Morn Pours out libations at the feet of God. Here lies the land from tyrant fetters freed, Where Liberty forevermore shall dwell. Here every bird sings praise to Winkleried, And everv mountain speaks of William Tell. Far on the top of yonder stormy peak The unblest bones of Pontius Pilate lie ; In vain his ghost a resting place shall seek, — For in the tomb his memories will not die ! [ 67 ] Selected Poems High over all rise peaks on peaks of snow, White-robed and silent, stately and sublime ; Their age, their birth, no man shall ever know; Their crowns shall glitter to the end of time. O awful white-browed ministers of God, No storms can ever rend your steadfast thrones ; In vain the thunders shake your quivering sod, In vain the lightnings shiver through your stones. The'Csesars and Napoleons all have gone, Dark Hannibal no longer roves at will ; Yet^pure and white as at primeval dawn The day of judgment shall behold you still. Like grateful Noah's smoking sacrifice On Ararat, when earth was flood -restored, Your altars, clouded with their incense, rise In everlasting glory to the Lord. THE BAY OF NAPLES Here bends the road around a mountain-side, With laurels twined in myrtles like a hedge ; Beneath the cliff, in comes the ocean tide, And breaks in billows on a rocky ledge. A sulphur-yellow crescent, sweeps the town Around the bay, as blue as indigo ; Vesuvius, smoking, lifts a cone of brown Above the terraced villas strewn below. Here claret-colored dahlias fringe the wall, While cactus fattens on the ruined tombs, And like a splendid purple waterfall, The morning-glories hang their heavenly blooms. [ 68 ] Selected "Poems Here golden-globuled oranges swing low, With breath as sweet as songs of Paradise; Pomegranate blossoms in vermilion glow, And mottled pansies open argus eyes. A weeping willow overhangs the way, A eucalyptus rears toward the sky ; Pears, over-ripe, slow falling day by day, In scattered red and yellow clusters lie. A herd of goats creeps trudging through the dust, An old hag prods them with a splintered beam; An ancient water-wheel, a-creak with rust, Turned by a donkey, pours a little stream. A friar, robed in black, and sleek and fat, Smiles forth a Pax Vobiscum passing by; A purple tassel in his glossy hat Is dancing to the twinkle in his eye. A mother in her peasantry finery dressed Smiles proudly on you like a festal morn, As if to say the urchin at her breast Is finest of all babies ever born. And now the beggars in battalions come, The old, the young, the crippled and the blind, The halt, the lame, the deaf, deformed and dumb, Some running fast, some hobbling up behind. As graceful as gazelles, with slender feet, With glossy curls, brown cheeks and dewy eyes, The beggar boys and girls their woes repeat, And storm your heart with piteous smiles and sighs. A lad sits here, a melon in his lap, Its crimson pulp is melting in his mouth ; Here figs in baskets ooze with honeyed sap, — The trickling sultry-sweetness of the South. [ 69 ] Selected Poems Some ear-ringed, turbaned sailors on a boat Dance while the vagabond musicians play ; The sounds of flute and violin afloat Soothe into dreams the eyes of dozing day. O violin, chained in your fiery strings, Italia, like a bird within a cage, Of all her woe, her grief and glory sings, Her love, her hate, her anguish and her rage! A lovely barefoot girl before me stands, Her oval face like sunset-crimsoned dusk; From tattered sleeves she lifts imploring hands, — A Queen of Beauty begging for a husk. O barefoot beggar-maid, I fear your kiss, I fear the glory of your twilight eyes ! Thorns mingle in the blossoms of your bliss, You smite the strong, you stultify the wise. Behind your smile I see the scowl of hate, Your dimple hides a dagger like a sheath ; Beside you is the warning face of Fate, To love you means to play at dice with Death. For over there the hills of Capri swell, Like deep blue clouds afloat in pale blue skies, Where dark Tiberius learned his lesson well, — All earthly joys and ecstacies are lies! And, silent, over all Vesuvius looms, Like Gabriel waiting for the Judgment Day, When Naples shall become a waste of tombs, And all this youth and beauty pass away. C 70 ] Selected Poems THE LAURELS Along the noisy city streets I go, Unknown, unheeded by the careless throng; But in my heart I feel a morning glow, And on my lips the spirit of a song. All unbefriended, I receive no smiles, And feel no pressure of a helping hand ; Yet I have journeyed for a thousand miles To win a triumph in this alien land. Butlo! Success awaits me as my bride, Crowned with a crown of gold, and robed in white, And there I see my handmaids at her side, Fame on her left and Fortune on her right. high-born lady, I have come to woo, And I shall win you by the force of will ; Do not deny me ! When I come for you No fortress can withstand my strength and skill. What though the rabble turns away from me? What though my rights have been withheld for years ? That rabble shall my brilliant victory see, And change their servile hisses into cheers. What though pretenders now usurp my throne? What though imposters now my sceptre wield? 1 bravely come to battle for my own, And charlatans who trespass all must yield. What though my heart has felt corroding care? What though I wince from iron fangs of want? My soul will grapple with, and choke Despair, And strangle Hunger, though his jaws be gaunt. [ 71 ] Selected "Poems What though I clutch with pinching poverty? What though the honors now are claimed by knaves? All foes were raised before my face to flee, And all privations born to be my slaves. Chance, stand aside! I do not bow to you ; Success, strew laurels, and my triumph sings! Behold, you now shall give me tribute due, And make obeisance to your rightful king! THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE I seek for gold in Klondike mountain snow, And diamonds in the Transvaal waste afar; I dive for pearls where Ceylon currents flow, And gather furs beneath the polar star. I hook the spouting whale in seas to south, I gather corals by Sicilian strands ; I hunt for amber at the Baltic's mouth, And ivory far beyond Sahara sands. A bare-foot boy, I leave the prosy farm To make my fortune in the marts of men ; With not a friend but one unconquered arm I beard the Monster, London, in his den. In rags and tatters, seeking wealth and fame, I sweat, I struggle over all to rise; I fight, I bleed, I win a noble name, And stab my Evil Fortune till he dies. A beggar lad, I carve, I sing, I paint, Till laurel leaf and myrtle bough are mine ; Supernal Beauty, free from mortal taint, Beneath my brush and chisel wakes divine. [ 72 ] Selected Toems Unknown, disdained, I strike the poet's lyre, And maidens scatter roses in my path ; A peasant soldier, under fiercest fire, I snatch a red wreath from the brow of Wrath. I am the slayer of the dragon Fear; The traitor, Chance, must cringe to me as lord; All foes are frightened when my name they hear, All opposition flees before my sword. Why should I quail because a woman frowns? Why should I whine because she turns away? I am no trailer after girlish gowns ; Maids were not born to rule me, but obey. A world of women waits me to be won, And woman's kisses are the victor's right; I cull the loveliest under every sun, Beneath the Southern Cross or Northern Light. All things are mine. I do not fear or flinch. All fruits, all flowers I claim by right of birth. I fear no foe ; I never yield an inch ; I conquer all the kingdoms of the earth. THE SLEEPING IDLERS St. James Park Stretched on the grass the weary outcasts lie; No one disturbs them in their heavy sleep ; Though London like an ocean thunders by, It leaves them stranded in its onward sweep. These are the men who lost the game of life, These are the men whom Failure calls her own. Success forsook them in the selfish strife, With broken blades and banners overthrown. L 73 ] Selected "Poems Here lie the vanquished on a battlefield More vast than any history's page can show. Bowed in defeat, they drop the spear and shield, And only beg for quarter from the foe. Yet ah, what hopes they had in youthful years, When marching proudly forth to fight the world ! Then came the toil, the sweat, the blood and tears, And foes in overwhelming columns hurled. Where now the songs of triumph that they sung, Where now the blazoned banners lifted high? Ah, who can sing with heart no longer young, And one is only waiting here to die? Gone are the glories that they strove to win, Their dreams of fame and fortune all have fled ; They huddle here in misery, shame and sin, Their bodies living, though their souls are dead. But still your jealous Mother guards your sleep, And bids you good-night when your sun has set ; Be sure a faithful vigil she will keep, For England claims you as her children yet. Though she has sons who wooed and won success, Whose memories she records in bronze and stone, Because you failed she does not love you less, But clasps you to her bosom as her own. And it is well. For some who fight must fail, Must play their part like those who fight and win. Is not the price of bliss another's bale? Is glory not the flaming flower of sin? Then let them sleep, and dream that life is sweet, That friends are firm, that men can never lie, Forgetting Love hath wings on truant feet, That days will come when one may wish to die. [74 ] Selected Toems And when the feverish noon of life is past They reach the end appointed at our birth ; They gain what weary emperors crave at last, — A long, long sleep on breast of Mother Earth. THE RIGHT TO WORK There is work for all the millions, whether on the sea or land; Every human being's birthright brings a task unto his hand. Earth is ready for the toiler who may come to sow and reap, Ready for the delving miner, for the sailor on the deep. There are golden grains to garner, there are silver mines to dig, There are gardens of the melon, orchards of the peach and fig. There are pearls for every diver, corals waiting in the caves, There is wealth of mellow amber in the sweep of ocean waves. There are purpled-treasured vineyards, dangling with de- licious wines, Hives that overflow with honey, woods of oaks and elms and pines. There is work in forge and furnace, manufactory and mill, Work in farm and work in foundry, street of city, country hill. Work for poet, work for painter, work for him who carves and sings, Coming with an inspiration like the touch of angel wings. [ 75 ] Selected Poems And that longing for their labor in the freeman's hearts shall be Like the green blood of the springtime, tingling in the turf and tree. They are coming not as beggars, but as men demanding work; Not as vagabonds or vagrants, but as men who scorn to shirk. They are mouthing not for mercy, — justice only they de- mand, For the right to share the blessings of their great Creator's hand. Not for alms these men are asking, but the right to share the earth, Right to build, create, to chisel, right to claim their royal birth. But the Masters of the Market, bloated with their sense of might, Seek to wring from struggling brothers this their imme- morial right. As in brutal barbarous ages, they have dealt in souls of men, And humanity is bartered in these latter days as then. In their train is heard the murmur of a thousand million slaves, And behind them is a desert of a thousand million graves. So the tramp, the prowling vagrant, maddened for the want of bread, Makes the beggar, thief or robber, bends with shame his childrens' head. [ 76 ] Selected Poems So the homeless, hungry outcast, stealing sleepless through the night, Seeks in suicide a refuge from a world where Might is Right. So at last the ruined woman, once unscarred by brand of blame, Walks the streets of wicked cities dealing in a life of shame. Lo! the Masters of the Market dine from gold and silver plate, Parks and palaces surround them in their insolence of state. They have seized the fruits of labor, snatched the bread from those who toiled, They have crushed the patient peasant, all his vineyards have despoiled. While they seek their selfish pleasures, Lazarus at their gateway lags, While their wives are decked with jewels, peasant wives are hung with rags. While their darling dogs are petted, children cry from wasting want, While their stables all are sumptuous, men go wandering pinched and gaunt. They deny to manly merit this one right to manly toil, They deny to God's own children God's own fruits of sea and soil. Let them tremble! in the future looms the iron face of Fate; Let them tremble! no intrenchments shall protect their guilty state. [ 77 ] Selected Poems For the wrath of millions gathers in an overwhelming flood, And their march shall be resistless, and their cry be "Bread or Blood!" THE KLONDIKE Wrapped in a robe of everlasting snow, Where icy blasts eternal revel hold, Where gaunt pines shiver in the piercing cold, Where mellow summer noontides never glow, And sleety crags no springtime ever know — Thus, like a miser, in his freezing fold, The Arctic King has gathered heaps of gold To lead deluded wanderers unto woe. So in his radiant diamond palace there, Amid white splendors of his thousand thrones, Where keen auroras glitter, blaze and glare, And like a wandering Jew the wild wind moans, He smiles at wretches in their last despair, Who dig for gold among their comrades' bones. II About my home I see the springtime bloom, The sheaves of summer or the autumn fruits ; To make me glad, the robin lends his lute, The lilies blossom, lilacs breathe perfume, The red leaves flutter, golden asters loom. Around me, tones of loved ones, never mute, Are sweeter than the viol or the flute Through June-time gladness or December gloom. [ 78 ] Selected "Poems The daffodils their golden treasures pour By lapfuls to my children as they play; The vines, with clustered rubies at my door, Gladden my good wife through the livelong day; So in this humble nest, my wealth is more Than all the gold and silver dug from clay. 1897. SUCCESS AND FAILURE One is a maiden crowned with locks of gold, With cheeks like morning in the summer skies; Around her, silken garments float and fold, And gems are gleaming with their peacock eyes. The other is her sister, thoughtful-browed, With ashen tresses and with eyes of gray, With shades of sadness lingering like a cloud Upon a visage like an autumn day. One, like an empress, holds the world in thrall, And millions prostrate lie before her car ; Her subjects dwell in every hut and hall, And swarms of flatterers seek her from afar. The other is forsaken by the world, Forgotten by the fickle sons of men ; Beside her, tattered conquered flags are furled That never in the skies shall float again. One is attended by the rich and proud, Praised by the voice of princes, queens and kings ; To welcome her, the drum is beat aloud, The bell goes pealing, and the cymbal rings. [ 79 ] Selected Toems One is attended by the friendless poor, The sunburnt peasant and the burdened slave; No callers ever knock upon her door, Her hearth is lonesome as an unknown grave. One counts the smooth time-server in her train, The crafty courtier and the fawning friend, Him, who like Faust, would sell his soul for gain, And him who filches means to win the end. The other notes the unknown soldier's name, And gives the homeless poet sympathy ; She cheers the martyr on his couch of flame, And teaches countless heroes how to die. The names they bear on earth need not be told ; But God will crown the one we love the less; He calls her "Failure," who hath locks of gold, And names her gray-haired sister there, "Success.' PRAYER BEFORE PLANTING TREES Lord, we are setting in this chosen ground These tender nurselings, trusting in Thy grace To cherish them through infancy, to guide Their tiny rootlets through the darksome earth, To lift their boughs to heaven, and give them power To yield their tribute unto grateful men In fruit or flower or shade. For who but Thou, And Thou alone, O God, amidst the gloom Of never-ending night beneath the sod, Can weave the network of those fragile roots, And make their long antennae feel the way To nooks of moisture and fertility? [ 80 ] Selected Poems And who but Thou can pilot up the stem The warm sweet sap, like green blood making glad The veinlets of the utmost little twig? And who but Thou, O Lord, in mystic wise, With alchemy divine, can from the earth, This sordid earth, extract pure essences To paint the cheeks of blossoms, scent their breath, To swell the fruits with lusciousness, and make The leafy boughs one mass of heavenly green, Haunts for the song-birds, cool retreats for men? Yea, all these powers are Thine. But on this day, In lowly imitation of Thine own Parental care, we plant these infant trees To be a blessing in the far-off years Unto our children and our childrens' children, When we ourselves shall tread the earth no more. Unselfish in Thy bounty, Thou hast strewn Blessings around us, though partaking not Thyself of that abundance which Thy hand Alone created. In the by-gone years, To please us Thou hast reared Thy goodly trees, Glowing with fruitage, spreading green with shade, Or clustered with delightsome odorous blooms. Shall we Thy largess take with selfish ease, And not in some small way, though feeble, seek To emulate Thy goodness, and bequeath Unto succeeding generations, gifts We never can share ourselves? O God of Love, Make us unselfish in this task: our hearts Uplift; and move our hands to speed with joy In this, our labor, whereby we shall seek To bless the lives of others yet to come, When we ourselves have mingled with the dust Wherein we plant these trees. [ 81 ] Selected "Poems In days to be, When we are long forgotten, may these boughs Rustle with gladness in the winds of Spring: Amongst them let the thrush at dusk and dawn, And the sweet mock-bird on moon-silvered nights, Warble their wild wood lays: here let the dove, Soft-cooing, woo his mate, and wooing, win, So that the two together here may brood Over their nest of love. Upon these boughs, From April unto April, June to June, Hang the soft blossoms through the emerald glooms, Wafting sweet odors, and with honey-dew Burdening the murmuring bees. Here let the sheep And cattle through the fervid blaze of noon, Chewing the cud, dozing and drowsing, rest Free from the torrid glare. Here hang Thy fruits, Ruddy or tawny, apple, peach or pear, To make the hearts of barefoot urchins glad When school is over, and the lads go free, Shouting and romping noisily: for they, O Father, are Thy children, and we know Their clamorous joyhood Thou wilt mark with smiles, Pleased that these thoughtless ones are happy. Here Let gentle lovers in the friendly shades, With scattered petals at their feet, and songs Of sweet encouragement from sprays above, Wander in joy, and vow the dear old vows Of love that we ourselves, in our lost youth Of forgotten years of long ago, Were thrilled with bliss to hear. And in those days, Dear Father, when our names from minds of men Have all been canceled, and we lie alone, Forsaken and forgotten, dust in dust, Perchance Thine eyes may look upon these trees, [ 82 ] Selected Toems Still hale and green and sturdy, and Thy heart Incline to pity and to mercy: so For sake of these, from records of our souls Thy hand may blot some past transgression. Then, O Father, as Thou liftest up to heaven The tree in verdure and in flower and fruit, Uplift us likewise from our dungeon-cell In the dark earth, and in the radiant skies Let us rejoice to see Thy Light again. TO MIKE CONNOLLY ON HIS 62nd BIRTHDAY Mike! You have lived to see another Spring Coming in joyous triumph as of old, And you shall hear once more the red-bird sing, And see the hyacinth sprouting from the mould. Yes, we are still here. But the friends we knew In many a happy scene of youthful days, Have left us. Though a thousand trumpets blew, None could recall them to our earthly ways. Yea, though the Springtime pours her gentle showers, And bids the ice-bound rills of Winter flow, Though all her songsters greet her opening flowers, She wakens not the sleepers there below. But we, the friends still left thee by the years, After thy long life's double share of pain Rejoice to see thee spared the fatal shears, Not young indeed, yet not upon the wane. Not perfect thou! No, not a tiresome saint Sent to reproach us with thy faultlessness, And chain good fellowship in dull restraint, — Wert thou less faulty we had loved thee less! [ 83 ] Selected Poems Not on a snow-clad peak, whose wintry gale Stings keenly, and whose white waste blinds the eyes, Thou dwellest, but within a lowly vale Often in shadow, yet with lovely skies. Thine is the word of cheer, the kindly hand, The loyal friendship and unshaken trust, And thine the voice that in a weary land Uplifts thy fallen brother from the dust. Long flourish ! But when quitting haunts of men To greet old comrades on some happier shore, mayest thou, Michael, blithe and young again, Rejoice to greet the Springtime as of yore! A GIFT OF FLOWER SEEDS To the Boys of a Reform School Dear boys, the gift I send you is but small, A trifle men and women might disdain ; Yet with it I have sent my heart to all, Hoping the poor remembrance not in vain. Your lives have never known their rightful share Of sweetness or of beauty or of joy; Before your time, man's heavy load of care Has weighted down the shoulders of the boy. You have a right divine to happiness, To claim just measure of this world's delight, And shun acquaintance of the soul's distress While heaven-born Youth forbears to take his flight. Perchance you strayed from duty; but in truth 1 love you all the better as you are : God gave you that impassioned heart of youth, And the wild wayward feet that roved afar ! [ 84 ] "■■''! Selected Poems These walls must never be your boyhood's tomb: Your days not all delightless, you shall know A little portion of the splendid bloom That sets the Spring and Summer fields aglow. Old-fashioned flowers you shall have, like those That once, perchance, in lost years far away, Around the doorway of your home arose, Beaming upon you in your happy play. You shall have pansies, purple, golden, pied, And fragrant sweet-peas, white and pink and red, While tawny tiger-lilies in their pride Shall lift behind the pathway where you tread. Nasturtiums there shall be, of orange hue, And brilliant poppies, flaunting scarlet flame, While morning-glories of celestial blue Shall be as lovely as their lovely name. White lilies you shall have, sweet as the days Before your feet in banishment were driven, And they shall breathe of long-untrodden ways, Of mother, father, and of home and heaven. So, when the lowly earth-strewn blooms you see, Or those that cluster in the vines above, Your hearts may turn one moment unto me, Remembering that I sent them with my love. C 85 ] Selected Toems THE LIGHTS OF THE CITY Here in this quaint old farmhouse, late at night, Soft pillows woo me vainly: slumberless, Tossing unrestful, weary eyes I turn Unto the window by my bed, and gaze On the dark skies without. Faintly I hear Whispers of wandering winds through leafless trees A lamb, housed with its mother in the fold, Bleats pleadingly, and then is still : a cow, Dozing beneath her shelter, stirs a little, Half rouses, and breathes deeply; but ere long She too is quiet. Through the ancient house Lie all the other inmates, fast asleep: I only am awake. With all this peace And restf ulness about me ; in this calm That Nature, like a benediction, folds Around me, and around the little world Of simple beings where I stay to-night, — My soul will not be soothed to harmony With scenes reposeful. For without, I see, Like a great silvery Moondawn in the North, Lights of the far-off City, and my heart, Forgetful of this homely humdrum life, With all its sober joys and sorrows, turns To you, O haunts endeared and unforgot, Ways where my brothers tread in grief or joy, And where in triump or in ruin sweep The tidal-billows of humanity! Yea, beast and bird and tree, when I have fled To arms of Nature from the noisy crowd, May yield me solace ; but at last I turn To you with deepest and sincerest love, C 86 ] Selected Poems O City, wilful, wild and passionate, O City, kind yet cruel, warm yet cold, Dread masterpiece of cunning hands of clay, Boast, beauty and brilliance of Mortality, The gloom-enshrouded glory of the world! My heart hath wandered back to thee, O scene Of splendor and of squalor, bliss and pain, Laughter and jest and singing, dance and play, Of moaning and of misery and despair, — Owner of all things but Contentedness, Giver of all things but the pearl of Peace! Like gorgeous poppies, purple, yellow and red, Thy varicolored lights are blooming; there, Dazzlingly white, a star-rayed Cereus That blossoms only in the fields of night, Glitters the great electric flames. Athwart Thy radiant world, what scowling shadows fall From those resplendent lamps! Stretched on a cot In a dark room, where a pale candle's beam Flickers as feebly as the wavering life Beneath it, one is dying. Not afar Is heard a childish wail, whereby we know Another soul has entered into the world, To take the dead man's place. In festal halls Are mirth and wine and music. In a cell Stone-floored and iron-grated, cowers a wretch Who gaily danced and feasted through his day, And now, clanking his chain, the debt repays. Here the young painter in his attic loft, Despite the mean surroundings, labors on, Hopeful of fame and fortune. In the parks Lounge the old derelicts, who, long ago, Likewise had plans for conquest of the world, [ 87 ] Selected Poems But subjugated now in dark defeat, Devise brave schemes no longer. Through the night Bedless and supperless, the vagabonds Mumble and drowse and grumble. Strange indeed, That though the sheep are gathered safe in fold, And herds of cattle all are snugly housed, Still the great herds of fallen humanity Wander unshepherded, unloved and lost! Rambling these streets, the rustic lad, whose heart, Burning with high hope, scorned the prosy farm, Now seeks his fortune in the town. Ah, boy, Hast ever, in secluded fields at home, Or in dark wild woods there, felt loneliness As deep as in this human wilderness? And yet, if thou art lonely, lonelier still Is the gray scholar, who in that vast throng Is known of all men, yet misunderstood! His face men recognize ; they call his name : And yet he roams a stranger still. He speaks, But none will hear, or hearing, comprehend. O deep-souled, pensive wise man, how profound, How hopeless is thy solitude ! The cave Of the lone hermit in the desert waste Keeps not its tenant further from mankind Than high thoughts in the heart of one who roves A wanderer through the frivolous multitude. Here, nimble-footed, happy-hearted, trips Youth, with the downy cheeks and dewy eyes, Youth, with the frank face and the eager air, — Fresh as the Springtime, radiant as the dawn! All the world wooes thee with insidious arts, Careless, wild-bosomed Youth! Snares it hath woven To trip thy feet. Yet I, who fear for thee, While warning thee, have not the heart to chide. God gave to thee that flaming spirit : He Surely will guide thee to the rightful way. [ 88 ] Selected Toetns Here the frail sister, who in sweet slain years Was gladdest of all gladsome bonnibels, Strays now bedraggled in the mire of sin, Haunting the night-time like an evil dream. And yet, poor outcast, fallen as thou art, Still art thou daughter of the King of Kings, And sister of the pure and stainless Christ. Nor ever will that Father, erring child, Disown thee: and upon this very night, Thine Elder Brother calls thee, claims thee still, And knocks upon the portals of thine heart. But now, O turbulent City, midnight comes: My weary eyes must turn away. Forget In gentle sleep thy sufferings and thy sins, Thy vain ambitions and thy fleeting joys. With God's hand resting on thy fevered brow, Be as a little child that sinks to rest: Peace, peace, wild-hearted City, — rest in peace! THE DYING TREE Old veteran who hast fought three hundred years, Three hundred winters with their sleets and snows, And welcomed back from exile, Spring by Spring, The South wind as thine ally and thy friend, — At last thy great campaigns are over ; now Nears to its end thy long and blameless life. Dear old companion of my boyhood hours, Our neighbor on that day when I was born, Our neighbor on that day my father died, — You knew old friends of mine who past away, Gone to the churchyard — scattered over earth ; Now comes thy summons, and my list of friends Shall lessen as thou goest on before. [ 89 ] Selected Toems Ah, thou wert true in many, many things, And never wast thou false to aught on earth ; Ah, thou hast showered blessings many times, But never have thy branches waved a curse. Gift after gift hath fallen from thy hands, Though no one ever brought a gift to thee. The blue jay from thy branches, like a shrew, Hath fumed and fretted at some crawling snake ; The crow hath croaked and quarreled from thy limbs, The owl hath cried, the whippoorwill complained; In Summer, doves have mourned among thy leaves, In Winter, winds have moaned among thy boughs; But never, in the seasons foul or fair, Hast thou spoke ill of any living thing. Through fiery noons the patient sheep have lain, Cud-chewing, dozing in thy grateful shade ; The squirrel found a home within thy trunk, Thy boughs were free for nest of every bird ; Thine acorns fell to please the chuckling swine, The chipmunk scooped a lodging at thy roots; The raccoon and opossum, close pursued, Found refuge from the hunter and his hounds. Yet not one bird that ever flew through heaven, And not one crawling creature of the ground, Gave thanks for shelter, refuge, or a home, Or brought thee gold or silver for thy pains. There too, a boy, I dreamed my foolish dreams As long, long Summer days would wax and wane ; Lost in the pages of some magic book, I fancied for myself its glorious deeds. Thou sawest when my wild, impatient feet, Left the old farm to wander through the world ; Thou sawest me when I left thee, full of hope, And then, long after, in defeat return. Then lying at thy feet, mine aching heart Learned its hard lesson, — patience with its lot. [ 90 ] Selected Poems No wise man ever said thou hadst a soul, No creed hath promised thee a hope of heaven ; Yet thou, without inducement of reward, Eschewed all Evil, giving only Good. The artist dreams of palms of Paradise, The poet sings of meeting friends in heaven ; And thou, fast-rooted by the stream of life Shouldst be at home in Eden, as on earth. Then, since no man can rend the secret veil, Who knows that you and I shall never meet again? THE AGNOSTICS CREED At last I have ceased repining, at last I accept my fate ; No longer I beat at the Portal, I have ceased to knock at the Gate ; I have ceased to work at the Puzzle, for the Secret I have ended my search, And I know that the Key is entrusted to never a creed or church. They have threatened with lakes of fire, they have threat- ened with fetters of hell ; They have offered me heights of heaven with their fields of asphodel ; But the Threat and the Bribe are useless if Reason be strong and stout, And an honest man can never surrender an honest doubt. The fables of hell and of heaven are but worn-out Christmas toys, To coax or to bribe or to frighten the grown-up girls and boys; I have ceased to be an infant, I have traveled beyond their span, — It may do for women and children, but it never will do for a man. [ 91 ] Selected Poems They are all alike, these churches, Mohammedan, Chris- tian, Parsee; You are vile, you are curst, you are outcast, if you be not as they be ; But my Reason stands aginst them, and I go as it bids me go, Its commands are as calls of a trumpet, and I follow for weal or woe. But O, it is often cheerless, and O, it is often chill, And I often sigh to heaven as my path grows steep and still. I have left behind my comrades, with their prattle and childish noise; My boyhood now is behind me, with all of its broken toys! I have renounced my dream of heaven, with its siren song of hope, And I know that beyond the darkness no vision of man can grope. I am treading the mountain heights alone, through the silent flakes of snow, And I long for the hut of the herdsman, far down, with its hearth aglow. They may sing in the lowly valleys, where the milkmaid flirts with her swain, But he who would scale the mountains must stifle in silence his pain. Let the girls and the boys go churchward, and let them believe and receive, — The Thinker may envy the thoughtless, but Reason he cannot deceive. He must seek the Good for the Good's own sake, and not for the hope of heaven, He must flee from Wrong from dislike of Wrong, and not by the devil driven ; [ 92 ] Selected Poems He distrusts the virtue that works for reward, the virtue that clamors for pay, And spurns the piety spurred by fear to depart from the evil way. He is friend of every religion, of Socrates, Buddha or Christ, There is good in all of the dogmas, though none of them ever sufficed ; The evil that cankers among them he tosses away to dust, But he seeks and he treasures the jewels he picks from their charnel rust. He may pray not, public or private, a hypocrite plea for his foes, But he never longs for Gehenna to swallow them in its woes ; He would welcome annihilation, where the dawn comes never again, Rather than behold one foeman condemned to an endless pain. He never pretends acquaintance of a God he never knew, Nor pretends to receive revelations not given to me or you ; Though he loves the summit's grandeur, and the forest's holy hush, He pretends no one-man message from mountain or burn- ing bush. He boasts of no Royal Favor, of no deity friend at Court, — He knows on his own weak merits he must find his only support. He cares not for circumcision, baptism, Atonement or Fall, For the Jew and the Mormon and Brahmin are but man- kind, after all. He has carved no hideous idol, and said it was God that frowned, He has mapped no petty province and declared it Holy Ground. [ 93 ] Selected Voems God lives not alone for the Hindoo, nor the Congo blacka- moor, But alike for every nation, and alike for the rich and poor. That God has no holy cities, for in all there is evil and good; In Paris, Jerusalem, Mecca, alike have His temples stood. That God has no chosen people, no heathens to slight or scorn, For they all are His lawful children, to His royal house- hold born. Oh, that God of gods is glorious, the emperor of every land ; He carries the moon and the planets in the palm of His mighty hand ; He is girt with the belt of Orion, He is Lord of the suns and stars, A wielder of Constellations, of Canopus, Arcturus and Mars! I believe in Love and Duty, I believe in the True and Just; I believe in the common kinship of everything born from dust. I hope that the Right will triumph, that the sceptred Wrong will fall, That Death will at last be defeated, that the Grave will not end all. I believe in the martyrs and heroes who have died for the sake of Right, And I promise, like them, to follow in my Reason's faithful light; If my Reason errs in judgment, I but honestly strive as I can; If a God decrees my downfall, I shall stand it like a man. [ 94 ] Selected Poems THE UNION OF THE SEAS On the Completion of the Panama Canal. Athwart the Isthmian realm, — that slender band Wherewith God holds two continents in leash, — We lay this thread of ocean, and with eyes Averted to the past a moment, then Turned forward, make a forecast of the years Yet hidden in the voiceless future. Here, Four hundred years ago, that sturdy knight, Balboa, striding through the yellow sands Marging the vast Pacific, reached the waves Of the gray King of Oceans, and with feet Adventurous braved the flood, till round his knees The surging waters murmured. On the beach Behind him, Spanish veterans, browned and scarred From savage warfare under tropic skies, Stood with the dusk barbarians of this land, Naked like graceful porphyry statues, — all Gazing intently on their leader's form As it strode onward. From above, the sun, In his prime glory, deluged all the sea With molten gold. At last the Knight stood still, In shining armor panoplied, with plumes Nodding above his brows, a glittering sword Uplifted in his right hand, while his left Upheld the banner of triumphant Spain, Gorgeous in saffron and in scarlet hues. Then rearing high that banner and that sword, The Great Sea, with its golden continents And palmy isles unnumbered, one and all, He called on heaven to witness, hence should be Domains forever of Iberia's King. [ 95 ] Selected Toems For two long savage centuries from that day The history of this fated land but seemed A chronicle of groans, — mildewed with tears, And writ with sword-points dipped in human gore. Here was it that Piazarro first imbibed His lessons in the school of cruelty, And from these shores he swooped upon the south To be its modern Attila. Here Drake, That Tamerlane of ocean, scoured the shores With torch and steel. That king of buccaneers, Morgan, here burned the palace, robbed the hut, Sacked cities, clogged the streets with slaughtered men, And wrought such havoc in the Spaniard's house, As more than paid in vengeance all the wrongs Of Aztec or of Inca in the past. But we, unlike that western Chief of Huns, And those grim Tartars of the sea, come not To pillage, burn or slay: nor even yet Like stout Balboa, do we come to claim A lordship over continents or isles Or oceans. For we come with peaceful hands To raise a trophy not baptized in blood, But in the sweat of generous toil ; to rear A monument, not to ourselves alone, But all humanity; to dedicate A high memorial, not to kings or queens, But unto patient Labor and to Skill. Yea! it shall be a fane for all the world, Offered to God, and all the sons of God. This modern wonder of the world we raise Not for caprice, or pride or vanity, But daily use; prosaic it may seem, Prosaic as our daily meat and bread, And yet, God grant it may ever be A blessing like that good but homely food. [ 96 ] Selected Poems Here are no Hanging Gardens, reared aloft To please some idle princess : here arise No monstrous pyramids, like hills of stone, Costing innumerous lives of groaning slaves, Yet cumbering earth, and useless unto Man: Nor have we here a mausoleum, raised To keep alive some deedless name, that else The indifferent world had canceled from its mind. This is the work of free men, made to bless No pampered favorite, but the multitude, A highway for the living, not a cave With dusty catacombs for mummied forms Of long- forgotten despot Pharaohs. Here all the argosies of all the world May pass in peace. A worthy sequel here The voyage of Columbus finds ; and here We see a climax to the glorious deeds That Vasco and Magellan gave mankind. And here is found a work that typifies The race of Morse and Fulton, — that same race That made the vapor's fragile wreath become A chained leviathan to draw great ships Over long leagues of ocean ; that compelled The lightning's flash to bear its torch, uplift Its burdens like a willing slave, and speak Its message unto Iceland or to Ind. But still, with hearts regretful we confess That seeking for the Useful, we have oft Passed heedless by the Beautiful. Our sires, Felling the gloomy forests, and at war With wild-beast or with savage, might not pause To heed the thrush's lyric; nor have we, Building the city, tunneling through the mount, Or interveining barren desert sands With fruitful man-made rivers, ceased from work To learn the violet's mission. Yet the toil [ 97 ] Selected Poems Of plain Utility shall build the bridge, And pave the highway to the fane of Art, Where all the noblest lessons of this life Our children shall be taught. And may our God Soon send that purple age ! For now we stand No longer pioneers ; raiment and food No longer are our only needs. The True, the Good, The Beautiful, — that Trinity of Earth, — Must be the end of all enlightenment; And as the traveler circling round the globe Only returns at last from whence he came, So all true Progress, with these three beginning, Though wandering far, must yet to these return. Oft have we stumbled on our forward course, And oft shall stumble yet, ere we attain Our white ideal. In the past our sins Have led our feet astray, and coming years Shall see us stray again. And yet, O God, We pray Thee, lift and lead us onward still, Hopeful though erring. Ever hallowed keep Within our hearts the memories of those Who made our country great, — men of the mould Of Washington, of Lincoln and of Lee. And in our lapsings, let us not forget That never yet hath Springtime come to bring Her joyance to the world, without dark days Of frost and winds of Winter that delayed The leaf and blossom : that no man may climb The mountain by a straight unvarying path, But by a labyrinthine trail that winds And twists and turns, upward and downward leading Ere it attains the summit of the peak: That never yet hath saint arisen to heaven Without some sin that burdened down his wings, Or soiled the whiteness of his heavenly robes, Keeping in doubt his victory to the end. [ 98 ] Selected Poems That nation can not stray afar that keeps Ever before its mind the simple worth And courage unadorned of those plain men Who freed this land from pestilence, — those men Of unromantic lives, in days of prose, Who yet braved death, giving themselves to stings Of poisonous insect pests that bore the seeds Of the foul plague. Not pompously they went Into the jaws of Pestilence, and yet How glorious was their battle! Overthrown, The enemy they met shall nevermore Reap his dread harvest. And these heroes died, Or, hovering near the iron-gated tomb, Were snatched from death by heaven. Their names obscure No poet sings : no magic legendry Is woven round their story. In their lives No bugle urged them on, no banner streamed, No high-born lady from her castle-tower Waved them adieu. Above those who are gone, No marble cenotaph, no eulogy From lips of oratory, and no shout From fervent multitudes, uplifts in praise. Yet never rode a knight through Arthur's realm, Seeking the Holy Grail, that wore a plume Whiter than their devotion : never a king Taking his throne on Coronation morn Wore ermine that was purer! Then, O Lord, Make us esteem their names forever! Make Thy servants ever emulate their deeds; Make us unselfish, striving for the good, As they strived, hopeless of reward. And make Thy servants seek to purify the world Of all uncleanness of the heart, as they Saved pure men's bodies from the unclean plague' [ 99 ] Selected Poems All these things grant us, Lord. And speed that day, That day desired through long millenniums, When man is truly worthy of his Sire. And as we now in wedlock shall unite These mighty oceans, grant that all the tribes And kingdoms of the world shall soon be one, Blest with one common hope, one end and aim, One stainless flag, one Fatherland, One God. TO A JUDGE O thou who wieldest for one fleeting day The power that belongs alone to God : — O idol moulded out of common clay, To sway one little hour an iron rod, — Dost thou not tremble to assume thy seat, And judge thy fellow-travelers to the tomb? Dost thou not falter as thy lips repeat Thy Comrade's downfall, thy Companion's doom? A word from you, and Fortune flies away, While silks and satins tatters into rags ; The banquet revellers scatter in dismay, And Pride and Pomp haul down their flaunting flags. You sentence, and your brother, lost to light, Sits crouching in a dungeon dark and damp ; No stream can ever wash his brow to white From inky impress of your iron stamp. He bids farewell to all things fair and sweet, Exiled from fields and forests, blooms and birds; He hears no more his children's pattering feet, Their liquid lisping of their mother's words. [ 100 ] Selected Poems Your hapless fellow-man must heed your call To mount the scaffold, — you have power to kill, And Life, the greatest miracle of all, Is ended in obedience to your will. Your softest speech may smirch the fairest name, — What reputations hang upon your breath ! Your fiats may translate from fame to shame, Or bring dishonor blacker-hued than death. Then be so wise, so merciful, so kind, The words "Well done!" may never come begrudged; For thou, the master, shalt a Master find, And thou who judgest soon shalt be adjudged. THE LAD IN HANDCUFFS Being Carried to Prison Thy fault was trivial, but our man-made law, Which lets the strong break through, yet holds the weak, Hath clutched the captive in its vulture-claw, And fed thy young heart to its vulture-beak. Thy very vigor urged thee on to harm ; Thy courage bade thee snatch forbidden fruit; Walls tempted thee to use that lithe young arm; Those slender, swift limbs yearned for Joy's pursuit. That vigor made thee wild and spirited, And planted mischief in thy boyish breast — Youth will be youth, as long as cheeks are red, As long as Spring is sweet, or Life has zest! Green fields and groves were made to feast thine eyes, Big brother unto Puck and all the elves ! And they should mirror back the Summer skies, Not bluer and not brighter than themselves. [ 101 ] ; Selected Poems Those nimble feet were formed to wander free, Caressed and kissed by daisies drenched in dew, To wade the brawling brook, to climb the tree, And lead thee where thy darling dreams come true. Those downy lips should whistle like a bird In vine-clad woodlands of the month of May — O boy, to think some man may speak one word, And brush the beauty of thy life away ! Those strong brown hands, fast-fettered in their shame, An eaglet's cunning talons locked in steel, Were made to govern flood and frost and flame, And bring all Nature underneath thy heel. God gave dominion unto thee, my man, To take the silken leopard in a snare, To hurl the harpoon in leviathan, And seize the raging lion in his lair ! Yet thou art doomed to mope behind the bars, And bend thy proud young neck beneath a rod, O Son of Him who rules the Suns and Stars, O splendid youthful image of thy God ! THE SOLDIER BOY soldier boy, my soldier boy, 1 see you march away While fifes and bugles play, Bright, brave and debonair, With Springtime in your clear blue eyes and in your sunny hair. O soldier boy, my soldier boy, There in the morning sky The brilliant banners fly, And in the shouting street Are lovely maidens who are scattering flowers at thy feet. [ 102 ] Selected Toems Yet soldier boy, my soldier boy, Soon shall yon flag be torn, Yon bugle peal forlorn, And not one lonely bloom Of all that scatter on thee here shall grace thy lowly tomb. O soldier boy, my soldier boy, Yon eager-hearted maid When thou in dust art laid Tearful, shall pine alone; O bonny lad, the Queen of Death shall claim thee for her own! HAD LINCOLN LIVED Had Lincoln lived, the aftermath of war, More terrible than war itself, had lost Half of the miseries of its harvesting. But Lincoln passed away, and there the South Lost her best friend! I seem to hear him say: "Now, boys, the War is over: stack your arms: Let us be brothers once again. No, no, My friends, don't strike them when they're down ! They fought us Fairly and squarely, and they gave us all We could well stand, I tell you! But we won, And having won, why not be satisfied? Come, come, let us shake hands, forget the past, And let old grudges die." Such words indeed He uttered, but the shock of sudden death Thwarted his kindly purpose, and deferred The era of good will and brotherhood Through a dark age of virulence. [ 103 ] Selected "Poems But still I love to think of Lincoln living on After the roar of conflict long had past. Had he thus lived, — the martyr's aureole Encircling not his brows, the martyr's doom, Shedding no awful grandeur on his name, — I feel that none the less would we to-day Yield him our hearts. For, not mythologized Beyond all recognition, he would stand The simple, homely, gentle soul he was, Faithful and honest as the plain old sod, And good and wholesome as the daily bread That plain old sod produces. So I seem To see him living to a great old age. White are his locks with years, but still his form Rears vigorous. In a little country town, Under an old green leafy tree, before Some village lawyer's office, sits the man Who freed the bondman and restored the State. For now he comes to visit well-known scenes Of boyhood, and we see him seated, calm, Peaceful and cheerful in an easy chair, Whittling a stick. Round him, a throng of friends, Old comrades of the long-lost years, is drawn. His lank and rugged frame, his awkward limbs, And his quaint, kindly face, we easily know As we first see him. At his feet, a dog Lies peacefully dozing. Hitched to the same tree That shades the group, a farmer's horse and wagon Are waiting; for the owner of the team Has left the driver's seat, and stands with awe Viewing the man who was once President. As Lincoln slowly whittles on his stick, [ 104 ] Selected Poems And tells his anecdotes, in loud guffaws His friends respond: or, now and then one speaks, Asking a question, or familiarly Bantering "Old Abe," as they all fondly call him. But though he loves his jests, his every thought Is sound and weighty: simple are his words, Yet terse and wise, and true as truth itself. And though he loves the sturdy sound of laughter, In his worn face and in his patient eyes One reads the story of those weary years Of suffering, when he stood and steered the ship Of his great Nation into port again. Ah, never was he happy in those times, With all that weight upon him, as he now Is happy in this little country town, Among his old friends of the long ago! Like Diocletian with his cabbages, Dalmatia he prefers to purple Rome ! So we will leave him in these sunset years Soft and reposeful, and a while believe The picture true to history. And I like The picture better than the rigid Fact. They tell us that the pure white ray of light Is woven of the seven prismatic hues That deck the rainbow. To the weary eye Longing for rest, those hues are lovelier Than all the dazzling radiance of the noon. So, Lincoln's memory I would not enrobe In the white, blinding light of Saintliness, But in the tints that wed to make that light, — The colors of the noble heavenly arch, Spanning our dark clouds after dreadful war, — The tender vernal green of joy, the calm Celestial blue of prudent thought, the gold Of wisdom's mellow age, the violet [ 105 ] Selected "Poems Of sweet humility, and the warm red Of glowing human kindness. And although This memory of the Martyred one may lack That other memory's lofty dignity, Be sure the world had known and prized his worth, And loved him none the less, — had Lincoln lived! THE GREEK BOY To this cheap restaurant I sometimes come And see him working. Now he scrubs the floor, Now sets the chairs, now with a nimble step He waits here at my table. As I look Upon his poor surroundings here to-night, I mutter, "Evil days have come to thee And thine, O boy of Hellas!" But I muse Deeply upon him, and his fine young face Allures me more and more. That pure white brow, Shadowed by glossy, jetty hair; those eyes, More softly brown than brown Autumnal woods At twilight ; and that curving boyish mouth Smiling so sweetly, — youth of Hellas, while I gaze upon you, these environments, Sordid and low, evanish, and with thee I seem to wander in a happier land, And in an age more glorious. Here the peak Of Helicon arises, forested In paradisal green, with crystal springs Gushing from out of its bosom. On the steep Of Latmos, with thy flocks, a shepherd lad Thou roamest, and when moondawn in the east Silvers the balmy night, thy Cynthia comes To clasp and kiss thee, her Endymion. On Lesbos, thine own Sappho strikes her harp To flaming lyrics as she pines for thee C 106 ] Selected Poems In all thy fresh young beauty. Under the snows Of smoking Aetna, from the bending vines Thou pluckest the purple grapes, and from the shades Of cypress and of pine thou gazest forth On yellowing wheat-fields with Theocritus. Athens arises with her marble fanes In all their olden splendor. Corinth wakes From ruins into stately palaces, And Argos, loved of Hera, lifts again The walls long leveled by barbaric hands. Yea, in thine eyes I see the Spartan fire That flamed in glances of Leonidas Facing the Persians at the dreaded Pass. But now I start, and look about me. Gone, All gone, those visions ! Once again I see Only the mean appointments of this place, — Low walls and dingy ceilings, battered chairs And rickety tables : now I hear alone The clatter of plates and knives and forks and spoons, Yells of the waiters, and the noise of crowds Talking but never thinking: and I sit An exile in an unfamiliar land, Unnoticed, — dazed and silenced by the din, Babble and jargon of an age of prose. THE REBEL You were known of old, Johnny Rebel, to soldier, to prince and to priest, In the aeons ere Egypt had risen, or the Aryans tramped from the East ; Antedating dynasties of China, more ancient than Gypsy or Jew, Religions, languages, empires, are of yesterday unto you. [ 107 ] Selected Poems yes, well I know they denounce you ; you have long been under the ban ; 1 know that they hunt and they hound you, and they crucify when they can ; For you is the fetter, the fagot, and for you is the dungeon cell, And for you in another existence are provided the torments of hell. Ah, the prince and the priest and the soldier, how they yearn to possess your head ! Ah, the prince and the priest and the soldier, how they chuckle when they think you dead ! For you flout them all and defy them, with their mitres and sceptres and swords, — These owners of earth and of heaven, these heirs of the Lord of Lords! But you look on them all as upstarts, their threats as but bluster and brag; To you the crown is but tinsel, and the royal robe is a rag; They may boast of their arms and escutcheons, of succes- sion from Peters or Pauls; You remember their fathers as butchers, or as keepers of cobblers' stalls. You remember their little beginnings in the scramble to reach the top, How they grabbed and they gouged and they elbowed to palace from tailor-shop; Your memory is vilely tenacious; old foemen you seldom forget ; You fought them while climbing the ladder, — on the roof you will fight them yet ! [ 108 ] Selected Toems On the wild, bleak Steppes with the Tartars, you defied the Chief of the clan; On the sands of Arabian desert you rebelled at the sheik and the khan; You clinched with the robber-barons in the teeth of their castled crags, And you face the Yankee moguls on their ramparts of money-bags. This world of the men who are living is controlled by the men who are dead ; This age of the vital present holds the past in a nameless dread ; We may boast of our strength and cunning, and scoff at the folk of the dust, But the beings who make us or mar us, lie under the mundane crust. The catiffs, freebooters and pirates of the mediaeval gloom Still stalk in their ghostly armor, and decide for us still our doom; The medicine-men and witch-doctors, in a time when men are called free Still set up their icons and idols, where we mumble and bend the knee. We may boast of our modern freedom, but the thoughts that we think we think Were exhumed from the charnel and coffin, — you can trace them link by link! O yes! we are free, we are footloose, but a dead hand pokes from its hole, And we find, when we seek to struggle, we are bondmen, body and soul. [ 109 ] Selected Poems If you look for God, you must search him out in the fables of barbarous folk, If you hunt for Truth, you must swallow the myths Mohammed or Moses spoke; If you seek the Law, think not for yourself, for a priest a thousand years dead Will tell you the right, and will tell you the wrong, — so nothing more need be said! But you flee not, Johnny Rebel, from the spooks of a bygone day; You will not be made the lackey of a master turned to clay ; You believe in living people, — that the living should own the world ; You would leave the mummies quiet, in their catacombs snugly curled. You have stood for the rights of "the people," but "the people" are a sorry lot; They hoot you, abandon, betray you; when you warn them they heed you not; You love them, and yet you loathe them, gross creatures, half-gorilla, half -god, These crawlers, half formed from the star-beams, and half from the dunghill sod! You fight and you flay their master, and you bend and you break their chains; But the helots turn on you in frenzy, and they quarter you for your pains ; Barabbas they choose to be pardoned, and Pilate they place in the chair; They ridicule, curse and belie you, and they nail to the cross in air! [ HO ] Selected Toems You lead them to lands of promise, where the manna and quails are showered, But they whine for fleshpots of Egypt, the onions and leeks once devoured! You free them from devilish despots, — they return to the nabob and duke, As the sow returns to her wallow, as the dog returns to his puke. You've been hung by the thumbs, old fellow; they have made you a galley-slave, Bastinadoed, beheaded and burned you; they have rushed to spit on your grave ; And then in their maudlin repentance they have raised you a tablet of brass, And have dubbed you a prophet and hero, whom living they had jeered as an ass. But still, like a good old phoenix, you arise from your ashes once more, And the prince and the priest and the soldier you fight as you fought them of yore. I drink to your health, Johnny Rebel! There is worth in your honest eyes; You're the only knight-errant still roaming in a world enamored of lies. THE DRIED-UP STREAM This poem has reference to the old swimming hole on the Malone farm, where the boys of the neighborhood used to gather to go in swimming. O you who wander by this shallow bed, All dry, except one tiny, dwindling pool, Remember me, who knew you when a boy, Who bore you on her bosom in the past ! [ Hi ] Selected Poems How changed, how shrunken I am now, you say, Choked up with sand and overgrown with weeds ; O you who knew me in those far-off years, My glorious, gladsome youth will come no more! Ah, then the mosses velveted in green The gentle banks that sloped to pet my waves ; The brilliant cardinal flowers, white button-balls, And blue-eyed ageratums wreathed my ways. The red-bud and the dogwood hung above, To find a mirror for their bloomy boughs. Great elms threw twisted roots in monstrous coils To drink my dews, and gather giant strength; Huge oaks have blessed me as they raised on high Their chaplets of a myriad million leaves. Here mocking-birds have flitted down to drink, And thanked me in a rain of silvery songs, And here the redbird fluttered in delight To see reflections of his breast of fire. But most of all I loved the Summer days When bathers came to wanton in mine arms. Then gathered groups of slender fair-haired lads, With youths as splendid as the morning stars, And glorious young men, shapely, strong and tall, To leap and dive and swim the hours away. Disrobing on my tufted banks of fern, And parting leafy boughs to plunge below, Their marble feet, their graceful curving limbs Beamed white as moonlight through the sprays of green Revealing unabashed to all my world Such living charms no sculptor cuts from stone, But frankly naked like the happy gods Who tripped through woods of Doric hills at dawn, O, then I thrilled from trembling wave to wave, To drink their youth, their beauty and their joy. [ 112 ] Selected Poems Ah, all those comrades of the past have gone, And left me here to dwindle day by day. First came the woodsmen, and they felled my trees; Then blazing sunshine drank my dews away. Drought followed, so the thirsty cattle came And left a trickling stream half choked with mud. Sands gathered weeds and rushed on my way, Till only this poor tiny pool is left. The birds and blooms have all deserted me, With all the other friends I made in youth. But most of all I pine to see again The lovely boys who swam me long ago. Ah, they are boys no longer! Grizzled men, Grown gray with years, and stooped and warped with toil, Uncouth and rough from strife and grief and sin, They hobble on, and hobble, hobble still, When all the world is weary of the sight. You, too, have changed! the wrinkles on your brow, The restless eyes, the light hair flaked with frost, The lips that ever seem to breathe a sigh, All tell me that your fate and mine are one! Come, see your image in my mirror here! Do you recall your laughing boyhood face, And would you know it if you saw it there? Ah, old-time comrade, we have come to grief, The boy grown wrinkled, and the stream gone dry! SLEEP « In bygone years I sought to win renown, And longed for titles, riches, pomp and power; But Fate with hand relentless held me down, And gave a hovel for a castle-tower. [ 113 ] Selected Poems In later years, Love came to share my path, Yet bruised my bosom as he thrilled my heart ; His April morning died in clouds of wrath As I beheld his dove-like wings depart. I sought to drown my anguish deep in wine, But saw the serpent in the goblet's wreath ; I roved from Tropic palm to Arctic pine, Yet in my heart the Sword still found its sheath. I dreamed of heroes, of contending powers, Of daring deeds on far-off strands and seas, Yet feared those troubled isles of blood-red flowers, Where Glory plucked from bitter-fruited trees. So now I come to be your humble guest When selfish, vain ambitions find surcease, O gentle Sleep, whose other name is Rest, O golden Sleep, whose other name is Peace. With you my feet shall cease their wandering In fragrant fields besprent with dews of Morn, O magic wine without the serpent's sting, O fleckless pearl, O rose without a thorn! When youth is dead, one seeks your dulcet rest, And roams through gardens of undying bloom; Though loved no more, he sinks upon your breast, And One he loved rejoins him from the tomb. O soothing Sleep, the mother of all men, You bring back childhood with your lullabies ; The graybeard wreck becomes a babe again, And feels a parent's kisses close his eyes. Time, distance, chance, misfortune, end in thee; What means the desert waste, the ocean foam? With you the captive from his chain goes free, The broken-hearted exile wanders home. [ 114 3 Selected Poems You stay all judgments; you blot out all sins; Your pardon comes at nightfall swift and sure ; The Best and Worse lie side by side like twins, All felons guiltless and all sinners pure. O balmy Sleep, you wipe out all disgrace, You ease all anger, end all thirst for blood ; You level every wordly rank and race, You right all wrongs, and make all evil good. THE SON OF ADAM They have sung the depths of the ages past of the beauties of sea and sky, Of the forests and fields in their robes of green, of the peaks of snow on high ; They have sung of Summer and sung of Spring, of the hush of the twilight hour, They have sung of the star, of the seaside shell, of leaf and of fruit and flower. And the bards have sung from forgotten times of the glorious gods in heaven ; They have called them good, they have called them kind, have thanked them for sins forgiven ; They have grovelled, and covered their heads with dust, in ashes and sackcloth lain, — They have begged for an answer ten trillion times, but have always begged in vain. They have sung of childhood's golden hair, of the patter of childish feet, Of the liquid lisp, of the dimpled cheek, of the love-words softly sweet ; They have sung of lovers with eager eyes, of the care-free boys and girls, They have harped and harped of the beauteous brows, and the wealth of their clustering curls. [ 115 ] Selected Poems They have sung the praises of woman, too, from Winter to Summer sun, — From the dawn to dusk, from the dusk to dawn, that worship is never done. They have sung of her beauty, her goodness, her grace, they have sung of her faith and truth, They have sung with the blind devotional hymns of a blind and headstrong youth. But they never sing in their puny strains of the grand and good in Man, Of his masculine soul, that has led the race from the day that it first began. He is called a worm which crawls in the dust, which never looks up, but down; He is theme for the penny-a-liner's screed, he is butt for the jest of the clown. And yet he has fathomed the ocean depths, he has measured the orbits of stars, He has tunnelled the Alps and the Andes peaks, rode the clouds in his railway cars ; He has conquered the desert and jungle and marsh, he has bridged the chasm and flood, And has sent his message on lightning wings through the air and the deep-sea mud. He has weighed the earth, the planets, the sun, he has mapped the face of the moon ; He has dived far down in the coral grove, he has sailed in the light balloon ; He has bulwarked the land from the tidal wave, exploded and shattered the shoal ; He has found the source of the Niger and Nile, — he will find the Northern Pole. [ 116 ] Selected Poems The great behemoth and mammoth he slew; he has slaughtered the spouting whale; He has trapped the fox and the beaver and wolf, he has followed the panther's trail ; He has captured the lion and tiger and bear, unmindful of hurt or harm, And condor and ostrich and eagle and hawk succumb to his stalwart arm. He has reared the castle and palace and tower, he has laid out the road and the street, He is planter of corn, of cotton and rice, he is reaper of barley and wheat. To the daughter of Eve is given one task, and that one task alone, But the Son of Adam has the whole world's weight on his sturdy shoulders thrown. But he seeks not alone for the Useful Device; he is lord of the works of the heart ; He is master of sculpture and painting and song, he is prince of the poet's art. He has strung the lyre of Homer and Keats, to Shakespeare given a stage, He has written the book of Dante and Poe, he is glowing in Byron's page. He has reared the marbles of Phildias, too, the Cathedral of Angelo ; He is Rembrandt's mind, he is Raphael's soul, he is heart of Correggio ; He is heard in the storms of Beethoven's bars, and in Mendelssohn's magic notes, With Mozart he sings in a heavenly choir of a thousand nightingale throats. [ 117 ] Selected Poems He has given us Newton and Darwin and Morse, Confucius and Plato and Paul, He has given Aurelius, Isaiah and Job, and Jesus, the gentlest of all; Though he fights for his rights and holds to them fast, and rebels at the chastening rod, He is author of all religions and creeds, creator of every God. They say he is selfish and heartless and cold, but he plows through the flood and the field, And for those he loved he has fought and bled, till Nature was forced to yield ; He sweats in the tunnel and furnace and mine, he is toiler of toil that is scorned, He digs for the gold and he dives for the pearls, that the Daughters of Eve be adorned. He plods through the swamps and the barrens and bogs, over steppes and Saharas accurst, And he calls aloud through the ocean storm, "Save the women and children first." He plunges to death at the engine brake, burns to death as the boat strikes shore ; He has mortgaged his head and his body and soul for the wife and the child she bore. And his very faults are the sure result of his courage, his might and skill; If he strikes and smites, if he takes by force, he does it for loved ones still. If he stifles with gas in depths of the pit, if he falls on the battle-line, He has sold his life for the ones at home with never a whimper or whine. [ 118 ] Selected Poems •ij There is beauty in woman, there is grace in the ch there is charm in the leaf and flower, But the Son of Adam is strong and sublime, he is Glory and Grandeur and Power; He is broad as the seas, he is kind as the sun, as useful as homely sod, He is next in rank to the Cherubim, he is wrought in the image of God. ANNIE LAURIE For you the lover spake his fondest vow, For you the poet breathed his sweetest sigh : To twine your myrtle wreath around her brow The fairest empress might rejoice to die. And yet your loyal lover sued in vain ; You proved unfaithful to your "promise true," And never did he kiss your face again On green Maxwelton banks at fall of dew. O lass, your lad was bonnie, brave and grand, If you but willed, had "laid him down and died"; None other had the right to claim your hand, — How could you live to be another's bride? The lyric of your love is never done, But speeds forever, on from soul to soul; The traveler hums it in the Afric sun, And sings it as he seeks the Northern Pole. Yet through the solemn nights and silvery noons Your fickle heart hears fond reproaches fall ; Your story to her babe the mother croons, The schoolboy's whistle tells the tale to all. C 119 ] Selected Poems As long as Scotland's mountains pierce the skies, And green Maxwelton banks are gemmed with dew, Your broken vows shall cause the lover's sighs, And maids shall weep to hear you proved untrue. Far from your gentle lover's side to wend, Your heart must miss him as you fare alone. The ghost of Love shall haunt you to the end, O loveliest ingrate that the world has known ! THE SONG OF THE FROGS When the soft south wind is blowing, and the melted streams are flowing, It is then I hear a croaking in the marsh; By and by the notes grow stronger, and the little strain grows longer, Though the music still is just a little harsh. Oh, you little hump-backed hero, you defy the Winter Nero, And a thrilling message of delight you bring; O, you quaint amphibious satyr, in your ever welcome clatter You have brought the first glad tidings of the Spring. Soon your brethren join your singing, till the tangled swamps are ringing, And my heart is bounding blithely at your call. Soon the swaying reeds and rushes shall be thrilled by notes of thrushes; But your bagpipe made the summons first of all. Soon shall come the swift song-sparrows, like a flight of feathered arrows, And the mocking-bird and redbird and the wren ; Then shall come the rose and lily, hyacinth, crocus, daf- fodilly, And the old, old world shall then be young again. [ 120 ] Selected Toems Soon yon bleak and barren highlands, wreathed in green, shall kiss the skylands; Soon their old Arcadian sports begin once more. In the breast of every virgin love shall bud and love shall burgeon, And the youth shall flush and quiver o'er and o'er. Under beams of mild-eyed Venus, friendly myrtle bought shall screen us; We shall tell the old, old story at her fane; There young lovers shall be treading, there'll be wooing, there'll be wedding, With the old, old painful bliss and blissful pain. We shall hear the hosts of Bacchus through the verdant woodlands track us, Old Silenus on his donkey in the rear; We shall hear their shouting shepherds, we shall see their gliding leopards, We shall hear their loud and boisterous hymns of cheer. We shall see gold-haired Apollo in a vine-clad, ferny hollow Come with all the muses back to haunts of men. For the frogs say Winter's over, they predict the bloom of clover, And they say the world shall soon be young again. EDGAR ALLEN POE 1809-1909 Far through the hazes of a hundred years We see him, wrapped in solitude and gloom. Enchanted gardens, haunts of pallid bloom, Amid the desert shadowland of Tears, Girt by the dark, wild wilderness of Fears, Glow pale as moongleams on a hoary tomb : There roamed he, sealed to melancholy doom, Fate whispering "Never, never!" in his ears. [ 121 ] Selected Poems Death bade the Raven of his soul depart, With all the aching and unrest of yore ; The stainless marble fane he reared to Art Shall be his mausoleum evermore ; And there the anguish of his eager heart, Shall find surcease in love of lost Lenore ! WHENCE AND WHITHER O River, from where dost thou come? By what peaks of snow, Pink orchards a-blow, By what lakes and lawns, Green forests of fawns, By what castles and cots do thy rivulets hum? O tell unto me, What far distant sea You hasten to join through dusks and through dawns? O ship say from where dost thou hail? From what fronded palms, From what tropic calms, With gums and with spice From what far paradise, From what blissful isles hast thou trimmed thy sails? To where will thine oars Bear thy fragrant stores, Thy honey, thy fruit, and thy silken bales? O babe with thy prattle so sweet, What seraphs have blessed you, What cherubs caressed you? What heavenly singers Have fondled your fingers What lilies of Eden have fondled your feet? And where will you go From this world of woe By what strands where billows of Eternity beat? [ 122 ] Selected Poems O barque with thy mystical lore, From what far-off lands, From what shining strands, From what stars have you brought The wisdom you taught To Enlighten the darkness of this earthly shore? For what home dost thou yearn At last to return When the day of thy detention is oe'r? FROM LOW BEGINNINGS No thing on earth can be contemptible in Wisdom's eyes. This brown mud-spattered bulb a splendid lily may arise, This freckled egg may be a peacock or a bird of paradise, This peasant boy a Shakespeare or a Caesar in disguise. THE CONQUEST OF CHINA "Be Christians in the cheerful endurance of sufferings. May honor and glory follow your army and flags. * * * No quarter is to be given, prisoners are not to be taken. * * * Preserve your military discipline, and may God's blessings be with you. The prayers of the people and my best wishes accompany you. Open a way for civilization once for all. Emperor William. None now but heathens heed the voice of Christ ; The Poor In Spirit all have learned to shoot ; The Sinner, not the Saint, is sacrificed ; The Meek and Lowly have their turn to loot. We thrust the Gospel in a sabre stroke, We search the pockets of our erring brother ; We ease him of his coat, — he gives his cloak; We smite his right cheek, — and he turns the other. [ 123 ] Selected Poems We long to lead this Gentile to the fold, — We kindly kick him if he dares resist. We love our neighbor, — and we love his gold ; Our hand of fellowship is now a fist. We come to give the pagan Church and School, His burning home shall light his barbarous gloom ; The Gatling Gun shall preach the Golden Rule, And Joyful Tidings in the Bombshell boom. No quarter! Let him kick and squirm alone! None but the Righteous have the nerves to feel. The poor blind heathen bows to Wood and Stone,— We'll make him bow to Sulphur and to Steel. The Christian-Up-To-Date, with prayer for pelf, Has made his heel tramp human hearts in mud, Made him burn incense at the Shrine of Self, And belt the whole world in a zone of blood. And so this pious Pharisee hath set The snares once woven by bloodthirsty Rome, And come with brandy, bible, bayonet, To rob the naked native of his home. But China flourished in Creation's gloam, Before the gods of Syria were adored, Ere Abraham and Sarah left their home To pitch their tents in deserts unexplored. She mapped the earth, she named the stars above When Gaul and Teuton burrowed with the Mole ; She taught forgiveness, preached the law of love Before the Briton thought he had a soul. In that far time, no ship sailed Tyrian Seas, No Roman banner in the breeze unfurled ; The Southern Cross shone on the Hebrides, Another pole-star glimmered on the world. [ 124 ] Selected Toems She saw old Thebes and Tadmor pass away, She saw the god-built Trojan towers fall. She saw her foeman flourish, — then decay; She knelt to conquerers, — yet outlived them all. The Kings may crush her, but they cannot slay; She shall survive their puny petty spite; For they are but the upstarts of to-day, Toadstools and mushrooms sprouted yesternight. IN PRAISE OF RIGHTEOUS WAR I am coming not in a weakling's verse, with a milk-sop's feeble whine, With uplifted hand and with pious drawl, aghast at the battle-line ; But I come to praise the fight that is fought for the sake of Truth and Right, The fight that is fought for God and for Home, that will mate the Right with Might. Yes, patience is good, and humility, too, and so is the pipe of peace; But the time will come when forbearence ends, and your sugary smiles must cease; Then either your hand must grip at your gun, and brighten the sword from its rust, Or your slavish neck must bend to the yoke, and your mouth must chew the dust. You must fight for the fire that toasts your feet, for the roof that shelters your head, For the herd that yields you its milk or meat, for the field that gives you bread; You must fight for bed, you must fight for board, for the woman you love the best, And O, you must fight with a ten-fold will for the baby at her breast. [ 125 ] Selected Toems When a mad-dog comes down your village street, with the green foam in his jaws, Do you greet him with bibles and hymn-books, and lovingly bid him pause? When a rattlesnake rises amidst your path, alert with his fiery sting, Do you pet him, and pat him, and wish him well, and a song of welcome sing? When a big-armed bully among the Powers says the folk of a little land Must sprawl in the dirt, and confess to a crime that never besmirched their land, Do you blame that people that rises up, a pigmy ready to fight, A David, aroused, with only a sling, defying Goliath's might? When a vain war-lord with a swollen head, and inflamed with a brute desire, Through a little state that was lapped in peace, comes tramping with blood and fire, Despoiling the fields and looting the towns, — do you blame that blameless state, For rousing in godlike righteous wrath, and hitting with righteous hate? And war is the great Arouser; it silences whimpering tongues ; It toughens the muscles, it hardens the fist, and brings fresh air to the lungs; Though it comes with torch and it strikes with steel, and shortens life's petty span, That life it exalts to heroic heights, so a man is twice a man. [ 126 ] Selected Toems Yes, patience is good, and so is peace; but he is not worthy of good Who will not rush forth when the spoiler comes, to defend it with his blood : When that Spoiler comes with his bandit crew, to shatter with shot and shell, Let the good man rise, with a fervent prayer, and give him hell for hell! THE HAUNTED HOUSE Thou art a haunted house, my heart, Where joys have lived and died, And stealing back to olden scenes, Like pallid spectres glide. There haggard wraiths of ancient griefs Pace the old ivied walls, And ghostly triumphs and defeats Stalk through the ruined halls. At twilight, round the lonesome hearths Gather dead hopes and fears, And there Repentance and Regret Sit bathed in phantom tears. Old hates are there ; and sweet lost loves, After youth's days depart, Wander with white unresting feet That haunted house, my heart! EPITAPH FOR A FRIEND Stranger! A Man of men sleeps here in dust: Life he made lovelier in the days of yore : Now Death he makes less dreadful, since we trust That Death will lead us to his side once more. [ 127 ] Selected Toems TO A MOCKING-BIRD Singing in October Dost thou not know, sweet bird, that Spring hath fled, Taking the youth and joyance of the year? That Summer's gladsome hours of gold have sped, Leaving the fields and wildwoods sad and sere? Above, through melancholy skies of grey, The red leaves flutter on the chilly breeze, And birds of passage, calling, wing their way From Norland shores to strands by tropic seas. Yet still thou singest ; and thy presence bright Cheers the lone bowers beneath a faded sun Like the sweet spirit of a lost delight Haunting old scenes when life's best days are done. O teach me, noble songster, how to wend My life's autumnal pathway, strong of heart When youth and youthful fervor have their end, And all the old ambitious dreams depart. Teach me to sing when dim October skies Are flecked with dead leaves on the north wind whirled, When the rose, shattered, by the pathway lies, And Sorrow, like a shadow, walks the world. Teach me to sing for sake of song alone As I go unapplauded or unheard, When laurels that I longed to call mine own Encircle not my brow, celestial bird ! C 128 ] Selected Poems MOTHER AND CHILD I pass the two upon this crowded street, And mark their strong resemblence at a glance, — One like a living Poem, freshly sweet, One like the spectre of some slain Romance. How strange it is, each seeming like the other, Yet differing as the dawn from chastening dusk! The happy, heedless child, the care-worn mother, The pink-white blossom and the faded husk! Yet in that lovely child's cerulean eyes I see the mother's girlhood ere its wane ; I see the springtime of purpureal skies Which never in her world shall be again. The golden tresses on that pearly brow Were filched from sunshine of forgotten years, The bloom upon that face plucked from a bough In long-lost isles beyond a sea of tears. Pale, care-worn mother with the beauteous child, In those old days thou, too, wert wondrous fair, — Thy step as joyous and thy heart as wild As that of one who trips beside thee there. Relentless years have tamed thee to thy fate, And made thee patient with thy prosy life ; Long hast thou ceased to batter at The Gate, And wage with powers of heaven unequal strife ! Men have forgotten thou wert once a swan That soared above the snow-peaks, white like thee; That close-clipped wing no more shall cleave the dawn, With rose-wreathed clouds to bear thee company! [ 129 ] Selected Poems But not afar, pale mother, need we seek, The blossoms that were rifled from thy bower ; Thine own heart's blood incarnadined that cheek, And made those child-lips seem a scarlet flower. For, like some glowing rose in years long past Twined by a lover in his loved-one's tress, Which, dying, bound the man and maiden fast, — Thy brilliance paled, another's life to bless. And blest of women art thou in thy doom, O thou unselfish one, O true Life Giver, Who fadest that another's cheek may bloom, Whose beauty dies, yet dies to live forever! THE EARTHQUAKE Judge Malone, of Memphis, Term., author of the remarkable American epic poem, "Hernando de Soto" (just published by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York), from which the following impressive and peculiarly timely passage is extracted, has put forth several earlier volumes of lyrics, including the famous lines on "Opportunity." Alfred Austin, the English Laureate, writes of this American con- temporary's work: "I find in it deference to the best traditions of English poetry, and a rare power of continuous yet never tiresome narrative." Bells toll in steeples where no human hand Puts forth to ring them ; great cathedral walls Fall crashing to the ground, and overwhelm Under their ruins frantic multitudes Whose shrieks they smother into silence. Birds Are stifled by the ashes and the fumes, And fall like dead leaves headlong from the skies. Wild beasts forsake their highland fastnesses In rocky dens and caverns, or their lairs Amidst the forest's deep untrodden glooms, [ 130 ] Selected Poems Trembling with terror, and into homes of men Creep tamed and whining. Everlasting hills Seem sick men writhing in convulsive spasm ; The mountains rock and quiver ; ocean waves Dash wildly on the promontory's brow. Keen lightnings round the lofty craters glitter; The sun turns red, grows murky, disappears. With wrench on wrench and frightful quake on quake The heavens and the earth seem gulfed together. Stupendous chasm yawns ; in awful pangs The hoarse-voiced subterranean thunder roars ; Explosion on explosion rends the peaks With great concussions that the mariner Feels on his bark an hundred leagues at sea. Amidst the din of houses tumbling down, The sickening shocks, the suffocating dust, And the deep darkness veiling earth and heaven, Women and men, bewildered, agonized, And lifting feeble rushlights in their hands, Rush to and fro, crying the names of friends Now lost or dead. But through that sulphurous pall Their tapers glimmer but a cubit's length, And none can find his comrade. On their heads They scatter dust, or on their shoulders bear The weight of heavy crosses for their sins. And quivering through that midnight of despair, One hears the deep-toned chanting of the priest, While frenzied mortals, barefoot, grimed with soot, In rags and tatters, with disheveled hair, With white lips, and with wild distended eyes, Delirious in their terror, supplicate, And shriek to God to save them from their doom. C 131 ] Selected Toems THE HEART'S DESIRE From Hernando De Soto Give me, Fate, some one to love And one to love me in return ; To win this blessing Saints above For old-time earthly haunts might yearn. Oh, for the touch of gentle hands, The spell of accents sweet and low! One cannot crush the heart's demands; Nature will not be cheated so ! Man's bosom ever seeks its mate; No soul that lives can live alone Unloved, the king in kingliest state But banquets on a crust and bone. The dream, I dream may be in vain, My idol be with earth alloyed, But shield me from this deadening pain Of seeing faith and trust destroyed ! The disenchantments learned from truth Fall blotting life's unsullied page; Better sweet follies born of youth Than bitter wisdom bought of age ! Reft of its plumage sinks the dove, Reft of its dewdrops droops the fern ; Give me, O Fate, some one to love, And one to love me in return. [ 132 ] Selected "Poems SOLACE From Hernando De Soto When I am bowed with grief, let me not say, "Lord, I am cheered in mine adversity To know that countless thousands in this world To-day are bowed with burdens heavier Than those allotted unto me." Let not The selfish thought that hearts of others ache With pangs more poignant than mine own, be made A balm to soothe me to contentedness. No, rather let me say, "Though I am thrall To sorrow, it is comfort unto me, To know that countless others at this hour Are glad of heart. I thank Thee that my gloom Eclipses not the noontide of their joy." O, brother, though my heart be desolate, Lonely and dreary, let my solace be To know that in thy house is warmth and love, Dancing and feasting, and the sound of mirth : Yea, brother, let my worthier comfort be To know thy path is bright though mine is dark. TO AN ENEMY From Hernando De Soto Although I love my friend, still let me yield This tribute to thy worth, mine enemy! Unjust thou art, perchance, no doubt unkind, Yet much I owe to thee, stern monitor! Faults though thou hast, due honor shall be thine. Close, keen-eyed critic, oft thy scrutiny Hath made me blush defenseless, and in shame Turn from my darling idols. Thou hast set [ 133 ] Selected Toetns Full oft in paths of righteousness my feet, That else had wandered in forbidden ways, Lovely yet treacherous, and thy censure harsh Hath oft rebuked my days of dalliance In pleasant fields where pitfalls hid in flowers Awaited me with secret perils. Yea, Thy sneer hath been a sword to prod me on To duty; it hath been a goading spur To make me win a race I counted lost. Thy jeer hath oft aroused me till I swore To reach success despite thy prophesies Of my defeat ; thy challenge, like a blast Of trumpets when the battle hangs in doubt, Hath nerved my hand to snatch the victor's wreath That else had never graced my brows. Again, Amidst my paeans sung by parasites, Thy frown from mien austere remindeth me That I am merely mortal, child of dust, Soon summoned unto strict account. Stern friend, Not thine to soothe with silken flatteries, Nor gloze with unctuous phrases ; it is thine To do much more — to save me from myself! THE RELIGION OF BROTHERHOOD From Hernando De Soto There is a great day that is yet to corne, A morn more glorious than all morns before. Far, far away I see that marvelous time, Though we shall never live to greet it here. In that blest day all nations shall be one, And one resplendent banner wave for all, Frontiers and boundaries then shall be no more, And Fatherland shall mean the Whole Wide World. C 134 ] Selected Toems To-day we count that man an enemy Because he dwells beyond a fancied line ; We only call him friend whose span of life Is rounded by the colors of a map. We slay the man who never did us harm Because his monarch and our own are foes ; We rob the maiden of her heart's own boy For fancied wrongs from dusty archives dug; We part the widow from her only son To bring some mounted soldier to renown. Our hates are fixed by planes of latitude, And longitude has governed laws of love. Because the heathen in his blindness bows To gaping idols hewn from wood and stone We wade the green scum of tropic swamps, We drink the fevers of its fetid air, We rouse the tiger and the hooded snake, To force the naked savage from his gods, With crash of bomb and thrust of bayonet, And all for what? Because his simple faith Was handed from his fathers down to him, While we accept the faith our fathers taught Yet blind ourselves we seek to lead the blind, While still the Great Unknown is hid from all. O brothers, let the Lapland peasant dream His snow clad forest is a paradise ; Still let the Congo native loudly boast His^snaky jungle is the realm for kings; Still let the huddled Chinese millions claim Their yellow rivers lave celestial fields. Let us remember there are other lands Beyond the hilltops of our boyhood home; Let us remember other men have hearts, Although they march beneath another flag, [ 135 ] Selected Poems O let us not forget that pious souls Will bow to-night to other gods than ours In awe, in reverence, and in living trust, Which shame us in the boldness of our sins. Who knows that God will spurn the heathen's prayer Because he calls Him by another name? What matter, when that idol, wood or stone Is merely symbol of the Great Unknown? Men seek Him by a thousand different names, Yet all those names are titles of The Lord. That swarthy savage in the trackless woods Who leads the famished hunter to his hut, And shares his little store of food and drink, Is brother unto me, is Son of God. That Hindoo mother, who, when famine comes, Dies that her child might eat the crust and live, Is sister of the meek and lowly Christ Although her ears have never known His name, Although in death she bows to wood and stone. O brother of that far-off glorious time When only Love is Force, when Right is Might, O brother of that undiscovered day Which sees the Lion playing with the Lamb, Remember us your brethren of the Past, Who groped in darkness and in doubt and fear ! Our rude ancestors rose above the brute, And stumbled slowly up to higher things, To-day we struggle for a better life, Although your glory we shall never share ; Remember how we strove, and fought, and bled, While still the old, old Adam clutched below, And sought to stay us as we climbed the height, All this remember in your glorious age, And breathe one word of kindness for us here, Who prophesied and hailed you from afar! [ 136 ] Selected Poems FRANK FAWCETT McKERNAN Died March 6, 1902. In a great city, where my friends were few, Where myriads struggled in life's selfish race — Amid those days of darkness first I knew The perfect poem of your fine young face. When shrouded Sorrow sat within my heart, You came to meet me in the stranger's land ; Though all forsaken, thou didst take my part, And though deserted, thou didst hold my hand. Long have I wished to see your face again, But you have left me in the gathering gloam; Death must have loved you, for he eased your pain, God must have loved you, for he called you home. Ah, you will make new friends where you have gone — Friends free from faults you knew in me of yore, And they may bid you to forget the one Whose shadowed life is linked with yours no more, But, O, if new companions take your hand, If splendid seraphs greet you there on high, Forget me not in this far-distant land — For none will love you half as well as I. And though your heart may never miss its mate Among the lilies there in Paradise, Remember old times, when we fought with Fate, And wandered homeless under scowling skies. Though still I wander through this desert dearth, Where hopes prove false, where tears are never dried — Remember still your old friend here on earth, Whose heart and soul were darkened when you died. [ 137 ] Selected Toems WILL HUBBARD KERNAN Thou art the poet of the realms of Night, Of anguish, desolation, and despair. Like stern-browed Orcus leaping from his lair, While Enna's blossoms withered in their fright, Thou treadest through the earth with blast and blight, The sweet muse from her gardens glad to tear, That she thy mournful kingdom's gloom may share, A bride enrobed in funeral garb of white. She roams our fields when Spring is rich and green, And when the golden Summer crowns the years ; But when the Autumn's haggard face is seen, And icy Winter's stormy brow uprears, Returns to be Death's sad and solemn queen, With thee, weird king of terrors and of tears. ANNIE COOK Died September 11, 1878 Your life, in youth, was written all in wine, You gathered poppies of the poisoned breath. Sin was so beautiful she seemed divine, Thou daughter of the Devil and of Death. But soon you saw her loveliness depart, You saw her splendor and her glory dead, And you were left with bruised and bleeding heart, When all the comrades of your youth had fled. Yes, all had fled, sweet youths of long ago; Where now their fruity lips, their clustering curls, Their May-morn eyes, their dimpled cheeks aglow, The peach-bloom boys, the morning-glory girls! [ 138 ] Selected Toems Yes, all had left you to your bitter fate, To walk the highways of the wicked town, To hear your heart cry out "Too late, too late! Amid the darkness when the sun went down. 11 The City's noises seemed to mock your pain ; The iron engine like Prometheus groaned, Like drowning Sappho sobbed the midnight rain, And like King Lear the winds of winter moaned. Then fell the plague on men with poisoned breath, And weakling saints were scattered far in flight. But you were firm, you would not flee from death; You dressed the dead, you nursed the sick at night. Deserted and abandoned by them all, When even God seemed frowning from the skies, You would not shirk the sufferer's piteous call, But faced the Terror with unflinching eyes. Where death was strongest, thou wert sure to be; Where hope was weakest, thou wert sure to come. Then He who knew thy sorrows pitied thee ; Thy kind eyes closed, thy faithful hands grew numb. What Priest, what Sage, can solve life's mysteries? We know not whether hope died in thy pall, If thou dost tread to-day in Paradise, Or whether in thy grave was end of all. Yet I would lay a lily on thy tomb, O thou who in the steps of Jesus trod, O heroine who defied the voice of doom, O daughter of the true and only God! [ 139 ] Selected Toems PAST AND PRESENT You said you loved me, when my heart was gay, When Fortune was a guest within my door; But will you love me in this gloaming gray, When others, whom I cherished, love no more? Who needs a friend when Fortune is his friend? Who needs a guide through sunlit fields a-bloom? But when disaster gathers in the end, Where is the hand to lead me through the gloom? Love, how I need you! As the Summer grain Needs benediction of God's golden light, As fading foliage needs the rippling rain, As wan moonflowers need the soothing night. I ask you, "Do you love me?" Not as then, When Life was laughing, wreathed with roses red, But now, when darkness drapes the world of men, And all the splendors of my youth have sped. Then, like a brilliant cactus blazed the noon, And twilight flitted like a brown-eyed fawn, Then, like a white swan sailed the May-night moon, And like a purple poppy flamed the dawn. Young April, in her girlish frock of green, Blonde August, with her glory-gleaming eyes, Brunette October, like an Arab queen, And gray December, with his gloomy skies, — These with their flowers and snowflakes strewed the ground In jest and joyance through the years of yore; Love's lilies blossomed all the year around, His birds went sweetly singing evermore. [ 140 ] Selected Toems But like Aladdin when he lost his lamp, I saw my childhood's palace pass away; So then, forsaken, I was forced to tramp All weary, worn and footsore, day by day. Yet as I grope through ebon glooms of night And know a jasmine by its rich perfume, So, sweet, I know you in this fading light, A princess, come to share a peasant's doom! And like a crystal palace in the heart Which keeps through Winter warmth of Summer noons, Love's tropic splendors never shall depart, Still glowing through their everlasting Junes. Then come to me, O precious, as of old, Bring back the brilliance of the perished years, Bring back the glory of my age of gold, And end my exile in the realm of tears. Then we shall lose the false for real bliss ; True love turns not when fickle youth forsakes ; A fairy prince, beneath his ardent kiss, The Sleeping Beauty of the soul awakes. SOLITUDE He who ascends the cloud-encircled peak And gropes along through mist when twilight comes, When all the rocks are veiled in gloomy gray, Has trembled in a fearful Solitude. He who has trod the trackless wilderness Where giant trees turn noontide into night, Where monstrous vines are twisting coil on coil, Where unknown birds chirp through the loneliness, And unknown beasts are crying from afar, — [ 141 ] Selected Toems Has felt an awful silence in his soul. He who, shipwrecked, a thousand miles from land, Drifts on and on, and never sights a sail, With but a stormy petrel flitting by, Has longed to clasp a helping hand again. He who has wandered through a foreign land, And trod a giant city's crowded streets, And knows no one amid the myriad throngs, And only hears an unfamiliar tongue, — He, too, has known the depths of loneliness. He who imprisoned in a dungeon cell, Sees no one, but beholds a stealthy hand Slip through the iron grating day by day, And leave a cup of water, crust or bone, And cowers in that dungeon thirty years, Yet never knows his captor or his crime, — He, too, has craved a comrade's sympathy. But, still, my soul, your awful solitude Is more than his who climbs the mountain peak, Than his who treads the trackless wilderness, Than that of him adrift upon a spar, Than that of him lost in a foreign town. More lonely than the prisoner in his cell Are you, O soul, whom no man ever knows. You strive to speak, but none will understand, You call for help, but no one ever comes. No friend can ever share your confidence, No spouse the secret chamber of your mind! Wise men may read the ruined monuments Which tell the stories of forgotten kings, May read the parchment or the papyrus, And learn the legends of forgotten years, But none may translate from the secret book Locked in the dungeon seen by you alone. [ 142 ] Selected Poems Soul, you sail strange oceans like a ship Steered by a pilot whom you never see, Ruled by a captian you have never known, Bound from a land you cannot recollect, And destined for a harbor never told. Come, tell me, are you seeking for a strand Where tufted palms wave under blissful skies? Or, are you only speeding on your way To wreck your cargo on a desert shore? Or, are you only hastening after all To sink forever in the ocean waves? Sometimes I see another ship afar, And clap my hands and cry, "A sail! A sail!" 1 wave a signal, never understood, And then the bark fades swiftly from my sight. O soul, amid your awful solitude You sail without a compass or a chart. No consort cleaves the ocean by your side, You know not whence you came, nor where you go. THE QUEEN OF THE VALENTINES I "Little bird, little bird, coming back from the South, Where spring-time's youth never dies, With a melody sweet in your passionate mouth To gladden our gloomy skies ; "Little bird, little bird, in the days long ago, A prince you lived and you died, And you flit like a leaf through the sun and the snow, Over earth and ocean wide. [ 143 ] Selected Poems "You have seen in the days that forever have fled Full many a fair, fair face, And to-day you behold merry maidens that tread With gladsomest fawn-like grace ; "Will you say, little bird, if you've seen in your flight A maiden as fair as mine ; With a smile half as sweet, with a step half as light, Or eyes, like her own, divine?" II "Never, O never, in sunshine or shadow, Never, O never, on mountain or meadow, Never, O never, in legends of glory, Never, O never, in song or in story, "On the glad, green earth or the ocean wide, Has a maiden lived or a maiden died, In the huts below or the halls above, As sweet as the sweet, sweet maid you love. "There were proud, proud queens in the days of old, With their white, white brows and their locks of gold, So stately and tall, so witchingly sweet, That the heroes died at their lovely feet ; "There were maids beloved by the bards of yore, Whose beauty is treasured for evermore In the songs still sung as the bards sang then, And ever shall be by the sons of men ; "Though the heart regrets, and the memory lingers On the vanished queens and sweethearts of singers, O lover, O lover, the maiden thou greetest Is fairest of all, and brightest and sweetest." r 144 ] Selected Poems III All things that are fair at night and at noon Are blent in the face of my sweet, From the stately orb of the full white moon To the bluebell low at her feet; From the diamond crown of the evening star To the dew on the pansy's plume, From the blush in cheeks of the dawn afar To the blush on the peach tree's bloom Fairer than them all in the ages fled, In the banished or vanished scenes, Than roses living or the lilies dead, Sweetest of sweethearts, queen of queens! FOR MILDRED O lovely maiden of the peach-bloom face, So artless in your morning mirthfulness, O maiden tripping in unstudied grace, This weary world to beautify and bless ; You bring strange memories to my callous heart, Forgotten fancies from forsaken years, Old joys, that long ago I saw depart Amid the hazes of regretful tears. You bring to mind those dear departed Springs, Those Summers that vanished evermore, A halcyon youth, whose head and feet had wings In lost rose-gardens of the years of yore. You bring to mind the days of dead romance, When my young heart was like a dewy flower, When song and story centered in a glance, And pain was but a passing April shower. [ 145 ] Selected Toetns How all is changed ! The fairy stories close, The fields are faded, dull the skies above; The life that once was poetry, is prose ; None seek me now to bring me gifts of love. I do not wonder as I gaze at thee, How Helen thrilled the nations far and wide, How Cleopatra weaved her witchery, Till heroes for her glory bled and died. For such as you were leveled walls of Troy, And Actium's ships were wrapped in sheeted flame, With fire and sword were ravaged realms of joy, Leaving great cities but a storied name. So then, remember that thy subtle power Is like a magic sceptre in thy hands, To rear to God upon a rock a tower, Or scatter hopes like houses built on sands. So, when the One of All shall come to woo, Remember thou canst make him or canst mar, His love in ashes and in dust to strew, Or fix his aspirations on a star. Within thy heart, ere youth has flitted by, Let Love, the Rose, its blossoms never cease, Beneath it place the Violet, Modesty, And high above them all the Lily, Peace. Amid the blessings that to thee are given, Let Self upon thy shrine be sacrificed, Becoming then the blessed bride of Heaven, Daughter of God, and sister unto Christ. [ 146 ] Selected Toems FIRESIDE FANCIES Here, hand in hand, we sit to-night, Flushed in the logwood's ruddy light, While red coals glow and blue flames leap And hot sap sings and crickets cheep. Outside we hear the wild winds call And down the pane see snowflakes fall, While Winter, like a hungry hound, Hunts over hills with bay and bound. A palace in the brilliant fires Rears garnet walls and golden spires, And many a labarynthine maze Bedecked with opal hearts ablaze. The smoke, an azure banner, curls O'er halls of rubies and of pearls; Blue sapphire turrets flame and flare, And jasper columns glow and glare. Here, hand in hand, my love and I List to the wild winds whistling by; We hear the sap sing, crickets cheep, And see the lithe blue blazes leap. And then, as chill winds whistle on, We talk of youthful days long gone; Of love that laughed through summer days Then left us treading thorny ways. To-night, our hearts, like brands aglow, Are burning in a world of snow; For in your love is summer peace And summer joys that never cease. I kiss you, take your hand in mine, And feel my sordid soul divine. Let worldly wealth and glory be, But leave you, precious, still with me! [ 147 ] Selected Poems So here we sit, still hand in hand, And tread a wonderous fairy-land — The kingdom of a lover's dreams, With bloomy woods and murmuring streams. Still let the wild winds shriek and shout, Still set the flying snows to rout; I care not where my feet may be When God has put you, love, with me. AN UNSENT LETTER Yellow and worn after long, long years, Hiding its treasures of smiles and tears, Breathing soft odors from days of old, Sweetest of stories, yet still untold! Whispers I hear from the faded sheet, Saying, "I love you, I love you, sweet! Foolishly fond though my words may be, Tell me, O tell me, if you love me!" Love then was light as the feet of a fawn, Brilliant of brow as dazzle of dawn, Jocund as June, unwearied of wing, Hearing his heart like a goldfinch sing. Life was as sweet as a seraph's bliss, Youth was a dream, a dimple, a kiss, — Beautiful girls and beautiful boys, Jubilant smiles and jubilant joys! Tattered alone in the garret here, Breathing its tidings of hope and fear, After the writer grows old and gray, After his passion has passed away. [ 148 ] Selected Toems Did the maiden watch with anxious eyes, Pining away with her secret sighs, Treading alone with her dead, dull pain, Waiting your coming, but still in vain? Never, O never, love's clasp and kiss, Never, O never, love's honeyed bliss, Never, O never, love's Summer sun Came to the hearts that should have been one. Over the earth he wanders alone, Callous and cold and cynical grown ; She who should be a mother and wife, Faces alone a long, loveless life. Silent in dust you will sleep at last, After dull years of waiting have passed. Shall you meet some day in God's own fold, And the words of love at last be told? LA PALOMA* Peerless love-song of the golden South, Melodious lyric of the lands of light, Warm as the kisses from a wooing mouth, As brilliant as the dawn and sad as night! 1 see the vine-clad tropic mountains there, The birds of gorgeous plumage flitting by, The tangled forest and the panther's lair, The dark-blue ocean and the dark-blue sky. I see the star-eyed Spanish damsel there, A blood-red cactus on her beauteous breast, And dazzling diamonds in her dusky hair, Like a proud peacock's iridescent crest. [ 149 ] Selected 'Poems And close beside the daughter of old Spain, I see her lover of the years of yore, I feel the fierce heart-hunger of his pain, When peace and rest have fled forevermore. O lover, lover, cease thy sobs and sighs ! Soft sleep deserts us when our souls adore ; For those who love not are the truly wise, And those who love are happy nevermore. O lover, lover, she must soon grow old ; Her stately step will be no longer proud ; Her heart will crumble in the churchyard mould, And dewy dark eyes vanish in her shroud. O lover, lover, in her coffin low, The pure white flowers will wither on her breast, That fair, fair breast whose love you longed to know, Forgotten like a swan's forsaken nest. But still thy passion leaps to mine own heart, Thy grief, thy joy, thy clasping and thy kiss, — Love's honeyed whispers and his poisoned dart, His thorns among the roses of his bliss. And when I hearken to thy melodies I feel thine anguish in my bosom burn — The pangs of gazing into dark brown eyes, — And pine to love and be loved in return. O lover, lover, though thy heart and hand Are crumbling clay amid the charnel rust, They come to haunt me in this Northern land Till I, like thee, am ashes and am dust. Yet, lover, lover, cease thy sobs and sighs; Soft sleep deserts us when our souls adore ; For those who love not are the truly wise, And those who love are happy nevermore. *"The Dove," a Spanish-American love song. [ 150 ] Selected Poems A PORTRAIT OF HENRY TIMROD Strange eyes gaze sadly from that weary face, Beneath a brow that shows the seal of care; Defeat and Disappointment leave their trace Upon the youthful visage pictured there. The same old story here is handed down — The true-born poet and the same old doom — The bard who starves while rhymesters wear the crown, Who finds his throne erected in a tomb. Gone are the glories of your halcyon days, Gone are the heroes whom you sung of yore ; Their banners in the skies no longer blaze, Their fervent shouts are stilled forevermore. No more their white steeds paw the bloody field, No more their trumpets rouse the raptured soul, No more their ranks in fiery fight are wheeled, No more their drums like sullen thunders roll. Yet as I view your old-time picture, all The proud past blossoms, though your day has fled; Once more I hear your Stuart's battle-call, And see your Stonewall rising from the dead. I see their blazoned banners float like fire, I hear their shouts sweep down the perished years ; I hear once more the throbbing of your lyre, Ecstatic with a nation's hopes and fears. And foes with friends now come to honor you, O poet, free from blemish and from blame. A wreath is yours as long as men are true, As long as Courage wins the crown of Fame. C 151 ] Selected Poems THE PORTRAIT OF MICHAELANGELO Here, painted by himself with rugged force, The master's likeness gravely gazes down ; A man advanced in years, in garments coarse, Is limned in sober gray and black and brown. See here the firm-set mouth, the shaggy hair, The bushy beard, the high, determined jaw, The knotted hand, as though from out his lair A dreaming lion stretched his mighty paw. High over all, his many- wrinkled brows Lift like a thunder-smitten mountain dome, — A head to wear Athenian myrtle boughs, And laurel chaplets of Eternal Rome ! As in a rough brown bulb with ragged husk, A splendid starry lily has its birth, His genius groped to dawn amid this dusk, And brought from heaven new glories for the earth. Here, in this Winter landscape, white with snow, With naked rocks, bare trees and shivering herds, The Springtime slept, to wake in godlike glow, With new-born blossoms lulled by songs of birds. In melancholy majesty he stands, Alone, and all bereft of earthly ties. No maiden ever kissed those rugged hands, Or lured the love-light from those solemn eyes ! Born of no mother, save a marble sheath, His offspring, waiting for him, slept alone; His Moses and his David first caught breath, Begotten by their father out of stone. Like one who roams at twilight, lone and late, A mountain peak, where winds of Winter moan, The truly wise can never find a mate, The truly great must always tread alone ! [ 152 ] Selected Toetns Down in deep vales he hears the herdsman's cries, The cowbells faintly tinkling far below, — But all around him as the daylight dies, Eternal cold, and everlasting snow! ON A BEAUTIFUL PORTRAIT BY AN UNKNOWN ARTIST A sweet face smiles upon me from this frame, A high-born beauty, reigning long ago; But not a record gives the artist's name; His home, his country, none shall ever know. O what an art, to triumph o'er the tomb, To keep that lovely face forever fair, To keep that youth in everlasting bloom, Defeating Death, and bidding Time despair! Old age can never fade this virgin rose, Nor mar that smile, which flits but never flies, Nor fleck those tresses with December snows, Nor dim the glory of those splendid eyes. The peaches of those cheeks are blushing still, As in enchanted orchards long ago, When some forgotten Autumn felt a thrill Of mellow honey through its fruitage glow The cherries of those lips are ripe and red, But still unplucked, and free from all decay, Though poaching birds and bare-foot truants fled As seasons came and pined and passed away. Yet Artist, Artist, in thine ecstacy, Thou hast forgotten all the world holds dear; Fame, fortune, power, all eluded thee, No acclamations thou shalt ever hear. [ 153 ] Selected "Poems Upon thy brow shall never rest a wreath, No princely palm thy hand shall ever hold, And thee, victorious over envious Death, Oblivion's mantle ever shall enfold. Day after day, mayhap, thy feet have gone In weary, weary search for daily bread, Or thou hast labored from the dusk till dawn, And tears of anguish in a garret shed. Yet Artist, Artist, in thine eager joy Of toiling lovingly and toiling well, Like some enthusiastic, ardent boy, Thy thrill of triumph none can ever tell. For he who saves from death the works of God, Upon his shoulders feels the bud of wings, Has plucked a blossom never sprung from sod, Is greater than the greatest of the kings. POE'S COTTAGE AT FORDHAM Here stands the little antiquated house, A few old.-f ashioned flowers at the door ; The dead past leaves it, quiet as a mouse, Though just beyond a giant city roar. See here the curious porch, the attic there, The quaint square window with its awkward blind, The weather-beaten wall, so blank and bare, And shadowed by an apple tree behind. Within this room Virginia lay when ill, A black cat nestling there to warm her feet ; And so she languished, growing paler still, And shivering as the winds of Winter beat. [ 154 ] Selected Poems And here her mother through the long, long night Watched ever by the poor consumptive's side. Here by the smoky lamp's low flickering light They looked upon Virginia when she died. And here it was they wrapped her in her shroud, And hence they took her through the falling snow. So on this old house closed at last the cloud That haunts it still with griefs of long ago. And here the poet's life grew darker still As dream by dream had vanished into air; Here day by day grew weaker yet his will, As golden hopes were rusted in despair. But here were born those strains that can not die, Romances that shall rule the human heart. Here Fame, whose summer hears no autumn sigh, Shall rear immortal marbles to his art. Here Ligeia haunts us with enchanting eyes, We catch the rustle of Morella's gown; Here Usher treads, and William Wilson dies, And Israfel sings Poe's supreme renown. HOMER What earthly King who envies not my name? What century shall behold my honor dim? As virile and as vigorous is my fame As when mankind first heard my morning hymn. Caesar has come, has conquered, passed away; Young Alexander's empire is a dream ; Napoleon shared my sceptre for a day, Then saw the snapping of his cobweb scheme. [ 155 ] Selected Toems But I, who living begged my daily bread, Found death the gateway to a golden throne ; I rule the living, though they call me dead, And time to me is but a term unknown. I see new poets come to take my place ; They can not lift my lance or bend my bow; If in their lines be loveliness or grace, I said the same three thousand years ago. So Babylon and Ninevah have gone, While I rejoice in everlasting day; Paris, Manhattan, London, had their dawn, And I shall see their splendor fade away. The dear old gods I knew in ancient days, Of Egypt and Assyria, Greece and Rome, Have lost their crowns, and strange new idols gaze Across the desert and the ocean foam. The golden-haired Apollo is no more, But songs I sang him still have power to thrill; Though Pallas pass, I keep my strength of yore; Great Pan is dead, but I am living still. Lo, by the everlasting throne of God Sits Gabriel with his trumpet in his hand, Waiting that far, far day, when sea and sod Give up their dead, before that Judge to stand. Not till that trumpet bids the sun grow black, Shall breath of God blow out my radiant flame ; Not till the earth shall wander from her track, And there is no more sea, shall die my name. [ 156 ] Selected Toems BYRON His heart was moulded in the weakness of the crumbling dust and clay, Yet mighty as the summit of some granite mountain, old and gray. His fancy twined the blushing roses round the crystal cup of mirth, Then like a fleeting phantom wandered through the des- ert's parching dearth ; Within his portals Love was throned in richest Oriental state, While at his doorway flourished thistles, thorns, and loath- some weeds of hate ; His spirit knew not Spring-time's songsters, nor her dewy waking flowers, But loved the sad magnificence of Autumn's gorgeous dying bowers ; His feet were strangers to the purple morning's palaces of light, But haunted vistas where the twilight's tearful eyes grew dim with night. The world hath grander, purer bards, like Alps enthroned on spotless snow, While he, like raging Aetna, flames forever with a fevered glow; But round their chilly crowns of ice the timid blossoms fear to twine, Whilst through his lavas spring the olive and the purple- clustered vine. [ 157 ] Selected Toems The world hath poets who from tears and thraldom rose to royal fame, While he from state descended to assume the bard's and patriot's name ; They with the spell of old Timotheus raised their muses to the sky, While he, like Saint Cecelia, drew his seraph earthward from on high. His name, though mark for fling of despot, and the blinded bigot's thrust, Shall live when Europe's tongues are silenced and the lips that spake them dust. NAPOLEON AND BYRON Two names together linked for evermore ; Their onward march no kingdoms can retard ; Their banners flame on every sea and shore, Immortal chieftain and immortal bard. Napoleon's name no longer awes the world; His legions long ago have shared his doom, His stately empire in the dust is hurled, His aspirations ended in a tomb. And Byron lost the fickle praise of man Amid the blossom of his youthful grace ; So then Death came to drag unto his den The classic beauty of that perfect face. And yet they live triumphant o'er their shrouds, In song and story, legend and romance. One, like an eagle, soars above the clouds, One, like a lion, rules the soul of France. Sons of the mountains and the stormy sea, With souls of thunder, and with hearts of flame, The czar of heroes, prince of poesy, The Spouse of Beauty, and the King of Fame. [ 158 ] 1 Selected Poems THE BYRON CENTENARY 1788—1888 A hundred summers since his first birthday Have shone in splendor, then have drooped and died ; Earth's fond old heart has throbbed with joyous pride To greet them with their garlands green and gay, And ached with anguish as they passed away. But brightest summer decked her kingdoms wide When unto Byron's lyre her mounts replied — He perished, and her fields were sere and gray. Her sweetest buds were blooming when he came, But faded as his footsteps turned to leave. Among her sons is many a mighty name, But none like him, the reckless, bright and brave. He died, like music in a glorious dream, And Love's own heart was laid in Byron's grave. SHELLEY 1792—1892 He came amongst us, wandering from on high, Like golden-haired Apollo, long ago, To share with us our lives and labors low, And gaze with longing on his native sky; To sing sweet songs whose strains shall never die For weary mortals on their paths of woe ; To cause a golden city's walls to grow By magic of his heavenly harmony. But now the singer hath forever flown, And left us beating still our prison bars; His spirit over midnight's jeweled zone Returned to reign with Mercury and Mars, With Cassiopeia on her dazzling throne, And dusk Orion crowned with flaming stars. [ 159 ] Selected Poems TRIBUTE TO SHELLEY He was the son of Beauty and of Love, Born in the lilies of the land of dreams ; A blithesome boy, who wandered from his home In all his sweetness and his innocence, And brought to earth mellifluous melodies, Sung by the song-birds in its wondrous woods. The gladsome singer of the summer hours, The fair-haired playmate of the budding blooms, Who flitted like a shadow from our sight Amid our Autumn's waste of withered leaves. O wondrous child, thine innocence hath power To soar to heights where sages can not tread, Thy sweetness thrills the cheerless heart of earth, With strains triumphant of a starry lyre ; Our poets bring us fading flowers of earth, Thou bearest blossoms from the fields of heaven. His heart was deathless, but his form was dust, His breath is still, and he will sing no more! It seems the fire that smouldered in his heart Should warm his breast within the frozen ground, So that the Earth would throb within her womb And give new birth unto her fairest son, Just as the violets of the fragrant spring Are withered but to rise as fair again. But only humblest buds again can bloom ; — When angels fall they fall to rise no more, And stars once darkened, never beam again. But he shall dwell in lovelier lands than this, Low Earth he leaves to reign in Paradise, — A land of lilies and a land of love, Rich with the glories of eternal day, [ 160 ] Selected Poems Beyond the woes of this poor world of ours, Beyond the splendors of the radiant morn, Where Love doth live unchanged, unharmed by time, And where the canker touches not the flower. I am left here in loneliness and pain, Condemned to sing such humble songs as this, To yearn for power that is all his own ; Where all our best songs crave for nobler things, — Whose mortal rage, chained down, laments our fate, — The common wailings of all hearts together. But I am happy if my loving hands Add one poor leaflet to his laurel wreath. THE TOMB OF GALILEO I have grown weary of the idle show Of pompous Castle and pretentious Court, Of Churches — dingy wrecks of long ago — Of swords and guns in arsenal or fort. I sicken at the sight of tarnished toys, Of dead-and-buried mistresses of kings, Of spears of warring barons — bearded boys Who fumed and fought for cheap and childish things. I care not for the saint of mythic fame, Who wore brass haloes on an empty haed, The so-called patriot, who in Freedom's name, Heaped neighboring lands with hillocks of the dead. But here lies one, the brave, the great, the good, Worth all the kings and queens the whole world round ;- Make bare your head in reverential mood, For here indeed you tread on Holy Ground. [ 161 ] Selected Toems His life, from selfish earthly motives purged, Was consecrated unto you and me ; He took the blow, that we might go unscourged, And wore the chains, that we might wander free. He found the long-lost Pleiad, Saturn's band, And brought Jove's moons to yonder Tuscan hill ;— The second Joshua, at whose command The heavens ceased turning and the sun stood still. The moon in starry-frosted skies of night Shall write in splendor Galileo's name, And sun to sun at noon and morning light Shall blazon heaven with Galileo's fame. MELBA In radiating circles all aglow, The galleries glitter like a Northern light ; Electric torches wreathe the stage below Like royal gems of some Arabian night. I see the silks and satins swirling by With misty laces and aerial plumes, And diamonds palpitating far and nigh Through bowers of a paradise of blooms. Blue eyes outbeam the sapphire's bluish spark, O'er feathery fans like doves a-flutter there; Tiaras glimmer over tresses dark, And moon-like pearls on moon-like maids more fair. The curtain rises on a splendid scene Amid the plaudits of that splendid throng, And then She comes, of queenly beings Queen, World-famous Empress of the world of song. [ 162 ] Selected Poems stately singer, from thy magic voice The present, like a dreary dream, hath fled, In glories that have perished we rejoice, And transcendental splendors that were dead. 1 hear a wild swan's piercing melodies At shrine of Venus, on the Cyprian shore, — Dying in glory under diamond skies When Venus, Queen of Beauty, reigns no more. In Persian gardens, under golden moons, I hear the nightingale still woo the rose, Though faded are their far, forgotten Junes, And twice five hundred years have healed their woes. By mediaeval castle, thrilled with bliss, I see the lovers trysting through the dark; In odorous dewy dusk I see them kiss, Till startled by the lyric of the lark. O thou hast suffered, peerless Queen of Song, And thrilled with keener than terrestrial joy, Hast loved and languished, borne the yoke of Wrong, And seen stern Fate thy noble hopes destroy. Upon thy brow the white swan lives again, And in thy lips the perished Persian rose, Within thy heart the nightingale's own pain, And in thy soul the dear dead lover's woes. The music ceases, and I wake to find The dull, dry story of our sordid life, The same old ways, where blind men lead the blind Through all the selfsame sorrow, toil and strife. Alas, to think that voice must pass away, And leave no marvel of thy matchless art, And never, never, after this short day, One breathing being shall those strains impart! [ 163 ] Selected Poems Alas, to think those lips shall then be dumb, That glorious name be graven on the tomb, And never, never, through the years to come Those notes divine shall vibrate through the gloom ! But, peerless lady, like thy silver songs, The stateliest empires soon must pass away, With all the murmur of their mighty throngs Like chirp of insects on a Summer day. Then princely Paris, radiant realm of art, Shall be abandoned in a waste alone, Manhattan but a long-forgotten mart, And lordly London but a heap of stone. Yet perfume cannot pass to nothingness. No blush on blossom ever come to naught; In some far Spring, beneath a beam's caress, They live again, with soulful sweetness fraught. No song, no poem ever thrilled in vain, Nor word of kindness, lover's smile or sigh: The True and Good and Beautiful remain, And Love lives on, though lovers all must die. So no thing beautiful is lost in death ; All that returns for which our souls repine ; Fadeless thy laurel and thy myrtle wreath, O peerless Empress of the voice divine! HOLLAND A land of straight canals, of quaint old towns, Fat cows, fine horses roaming level leas; Of poplar-bordered roads, of dykes and downs, And fisher-boats a-sail on misty seas. [ 164 ] Selected Poems A land of windmills and of wooden shoes, Stork-trodden marshes, meadows white with sheep, Where salt sea winds their vital forces infuse, And salt sea billows rouse the soul from sleep. A land which, hating sluggards, drones and slaves, Faced tides and tyrants since its life began. Brave little Conqueror of the ocean waves, Brave little Champion of the Rights of Man! SAINT AUGUSTINE Saint Augustine, Saint Augustine, What memories come to me, While treading down your quaint old streets, Along the tropic sea ! Where old Fort Marion rears his walls Of mouldering shells and sands, And green against an opal sky The tall palmettos stand. Here mocking-birds entrance the air With keen and quivering notes, And through the long gray Spanish moss The redbird's love-song floats. Here orange gardens scent thej breeze With wreaths of starry blooms, And citrons with the lemons hang Like gold in emerald glooms. Like Ponce de Leon, I have come, Old town, forever young, To find your bubbling Fount of .Youth For ages sought and sung. Alas! I find you fresh and green, Blithe in your old-time joy; But man, for all his plaints and ^prayers, Is only once a boy. [ 165 ] Selected Poems SAN GABRIEL MISSION A long, low building, reared of brick and stone, An iron railing running up its side ; A churchyard with its graves weed-over grown, And epitaphs which tall geraniums hide. A plumy pepper-tree hangs billowy boughs To shade the portals of the ancient church ; On crumbled walls the droning hornets drowse, And now and then some pigeon finds a perch. Two swarms of bees have found a quiet home In hollowed niches of the Mission's side; Here they have treasured honey, hung the comb, As years have flourished, pined away and died. Here in the chapel hang the old-time saints, Brought centuries past from convent-cells of Spain ; Stern-browed and formal, in their vivid paints They hold their own as empires wax and wane. This quaint baptismal font of copper here, Old monks beat into shape for pious need ; Here fired with zeal, yet half in doubt and fear, Three thousand red men chose the white man's creed. Around the rectory door frail roses twine, In pink and yellow clusters faintly sweet; Lan tanas glow like red and golden wine, In brilliant sprays that hang from head to feet. Flame not, lan tana, with too bold a red, Flush not, young rose, in vanity or pride; Remember how your loving Master bled, Remember how your loving Master died ! [ 166 ] Selected Toems Without these walls one hears the mighty world Rage like an awful ocean in alarm ; Here in this haven every sail is furled, And every sailor safe from every harm. Without these walls let revolutions roll, Let opochs march, let progress never cease; Here seek the balm that soothes the weary soul, That gives the broken-hearted wanderer peace! THE EVERGLADES Vast, watery fields of slender waving grass; Near by, a green and matted mangrove swamp ; Huge live-oak limbs where verdant creepers romp, And orchids hang red flowers in a mass ; A river in a bramble-tangled pass, Where trumpet blossoms swing in scarlet pomp ; Great bamboo thickets, oozy, dark and damp, And starry lilies in a green morass. White cranes on yonder cypress boughs alight, An old gray heron stalks demure and slow ; Then gliding through the gray-mossed forest's night, A water-snake dives in the dim bayou. I wonder, as the reptile sinks from sight, What monster shapes are swimming down below. NOON IN THE TROPICS A violet ocean and a violet sky; A glistening beach of red and yellow sands ; A promontory where one palm-tree stands ; Green orange groves, gold-fruited, far and nigh; Here clumps of cocoanuts soar to the sky, Here spreads the sugar and tobacco lands ; Here, deftly tilled by swarthy negro hands, Pineapple fields in burning sunshine lie. [ 167 ] Selected Toems Ah, what relief, should summer pass away, And bring this gorgeous pageant to a close ! Once more to see a dark November day Shake down his dead leaves while the north wind blows ! Once more to see December, cold and gray, From leaden clouds sweep swirls of fluttering snows! A MEXICAN WAYSIDE STATION A red-hot sun is blazing fiercely down On red-hot hills of dreary desert sand ; The ragged sage-brush all is scorched to brown, And gray with dust the mesquite bushes stand. Like grizzled ghosts the cactus thickets lift Their gaunt, gnarled fingers, barbed with spines for claws; Thorn-girdled, thrusting from a rocky rift, Are serried teeth of aloes sharp as saws. A stockade wall surrounds a hut of mud, Where naked urchins romp with mangy curs ; Dumb as a painted post, with scarlet hood, A mongrel native stares but never stirs. An ancient bucket hangs above a well, The well-rope dangling from a crooked stick ; Here beggars swarm, their harrowing tales to tell, Where hobbling hunchbacks crowd the maimed and sick. And here a broken wooden plough is left, Discarded with a battered wooden wheel, And here like shipwrecked seamen, all bereft, Two oxen by a shattered wagon kneel. On brazen zinnias withering blazes beat, The hollyhock in thirsty anguish dies ; The prickly-pears, a-blister in the heat, Ooze out their sickly syrup for the flies. [ 168 ] Selected Toems But here a-swing from cracks of mud-built walls, There blooms a peerless lovely yellow rose ; Her sweetness all the Northern Spring recalls, New-born at melting of the northern snows. And here, like Patience, still she waits and waits In burning suns that doom her soon to die, Yet never breathes a murmur at the fates Who forced her exile from her native sky. The railroad trains pass thundering North and South, And bear rich gifts to others far away ; But here she lingers in the land of drought, Forgotten as she fades from day to day. Here one by one her golden petals fall, Yet hear no sighs borne on her fragrant breath ; Rose of Patience! Life soon takes your all, And leaves you to an unregretted death. And so, my heart, in patience still you wait, While fame and fortune come and pass me by ; The great world rumbles on in pomp and state, — It would not answer though it heard you cry. So, glorious dreams, here I can only sit With folded hands and watch you fade from view ; 1 smile in silence as I see you flit, Yet all my life is lost in losing you. AT THE CATHEDRAL OF^MEXICO Here gold and silver glimmer everywhere, Through gracious twilight, down the solemn aisles; A cloud of incense dims the dreamy air, As up yon stair a long procession files. [ 169 ] Selected Poems They reach the altar ; priests and chorus-boys Are all enrobed in scarlet draped in white ; How quiet! Not the shadow of a noise Disturbs the pious meaning of the sight. Then like a constellation, star by star, The golden candlesticks have burst in bloom ; Now like great winds from Paradise afar The glorious organ pipes begin to boom. The sweet, sharp voices of the bird-like boys Respond to deep-toned chan tings of the priest ; O what a call to heaven's transcendent joys Beside the Bridegroom at His wedding feast ! Yon sculptured angel with the golden wings Seems beckoning to a blissful realm above ; Ah, is it true, that song the choir-boy sings, Of endless life, of everlasting love? And then my gaze falls on a wooden saint Whose wooden feet long in this niche have stood ; Poor little doll! Your lips, through gaudy paint, Seem saying "I would help you if I could." O wooden saint, outside, on yonder square, The Inquisition fixed its fearful stake ; O whisper not the horrors that were there, — And all enacted for Religion's sake! Down yonder street, housed in yon rambling pile, Are hideous Aztec idols, all a-grin; — Nay, do not shrink my question with a smile, — Those Gods, like yours, presumed to pardon sin! There stands the Aztec sacrificial stone ; Above it frightful Aztec idols scowl ; They heard ten thousand human victims groan, And heard a million maddened votaries howl! [ 170 ] Selected Toems Perplexed, confused between the warring creeds, I can not tell which way to turn, in sooth. My anxious soul, beset by sorest needs, Like Pilate, still is asking "What is Truth?" O, breathe me, wooden saint, one precious word! Come, tell me, as we two forever part, — Will all these prayers in heaven at last be heard, Or end forever at your wooden heart? IN A TROPICAL GARDEN Here every honey-hearted sweet In fruits of gold and red The heavy-laden tropic trees With rich profusion shed. Here buff and scarlet blossoms hang From vines of glossy green, And humming birds, with ruby throats, Like floating flames are seen. Here pink and purple passion-flowers Hang scarfs of airy silk, And claret-clouded orchids bloom By orchids white as milk. Here red and yellow mangoes cling, Here citrons bend the twigs, Here green and golden melons trail, Here swing delicious figs. What gorgeous flowers, what luscious fruits Unknown to me before ! I gaze in wonder on them now, But soon shall see no more. Their blaze of glory stills the speech, Their brilliance blinds the eyes ; What Tyrian tints, what heavenly hues, Like flaming sunset skies ! [ 171 ] Selected Poems No Northern violet opens here Its baby eyes of blue; No daisy lifts from tufted grass To drink the morning dew. No oak tree ever quivers here In wanton winds of heaven ; — Ah, I am but a stranger, too, Here for a moment driven. Yet, Beauty ever hand in hand With Sadness still is met; These glories only fill my heart With longing and regret. What sorrow haunts this scented air For bliss once all my own ; Yes, Love and Joy should both be mine, Yet here am I alone ! BESIDE THE DANUBE Beside the Danube let me sit And view the scene before me, While olden griefs and olden joys On spirit wings flit o'er me. This is the stream in song renowned, Far-famed in storied pages, Whose shores are haunted by the dreams Of lost romantic ages. And yet, O Danube, as I muse Beside your rippling waters, I think not of your chivalry, Your splendid sons and daughters. Forgotten are your mounts and vales, Your peasant-cots, your castles, Your Kings and Queens, your peace, your wars, Your noblemen, your vassals. [ 172 ] Selected Toems I think of one who sang to me In years gone by forever, Of lovers, who one night in June Rowed on you, Danube River. O, I remember still that night, Your city lights a-glimmer, And how the mellow moon arose And made your wavelets shimmer. Ah, in those days we never thought We ever would be parted ; We thought to wander side by side, Forever single-hearted. How strange ! Beneath her churchyard grass She dreams no more, O, never, Of one, six thousand miles away Beside the Danube River. AT THE PARIS MORGUE Behind a glass, all in a ghastly row, We here behold the loathsome pauper dead ; Sick at the sight, our horror bids us go; We shudder, start, we turn away the head. Shocked and disgusted at those staring eyes, Those blue-white brows, lips withered, pinched and brown, We quail at hideous Death without disguise, And like a leaden lump our hearts sink down. And yet, poor creatures, you have loved and laughed, And known Parisian glory in your prime ; The cup of passion and of mirth you quaffed, Before the days you fell to want and crime. [ 173 ] Selected Poems Old woman, in your girlhood long ago, Some lover's fingers fondled through your hair ; He breathed sweet words no other ears might know, And clasped you close, and swore that you were fair. Old man, your mother would not know you now, — Her blue-eyed boy is now a shocking sight ! — God ! who would think a man could fall so low, That such a dawn could die in such a night? Young woman, trusting hearts are seldom wise! You here forsaken in the Morgue alone? Man's sweetest vows are oft but honeyed lies; Youth's tender heart may sometimes turn to stone! Young man, you loudly swore to win the race; Hither you came in all your boyhood bloom ; See, glorious Paris turns away her face, And leaves you in the horror of this tomb ! O Paris, Paris, you have slain them all, Your foolish lovers, snared within your spell ; You sit enthroned, robed in a funeral pall, Your face a heaven, and your heart a hell! THE DESERT Streched helpless on the burning sands I lie, While scorching suns beat on me as they pass. Day after day I watch the glaring sky, A fiery furnace reared like burnished brass. Spread like a tawny lion's shaggy hide, The yellow plains reach hillocks red and brown ; See here the bones where dogs and men have died, While imp-faced rocks in hideous hate looked jdown ! [ 174 ] Selected Toems No living thing will come to share my grief, Save when at night the famished coyotes howl, Or, coiled at twilight by some withered sheaf, The rattler hisses at the screeching owl. Ah, if I only once could hear the birds Trill songs of joy in woodlands fresh and cool! Ah, if I only once could see the herds Wade, lowing, knee-deep in some dark-green pool ! Ah, if I only once could feel the tide Come thundering with its giant foaming waves ; Through all my burning veins cool streams should glide, And raise the corpses from my world ;of graves! But year by year I wait and wait and wait, And year by year I linger in despair ; Yet still I hear the stern decree of Fate ; 'No rain, No rain!" through white-hotfnoons a-glare. <