I^e ke^end oF 
 
 \^ /Ni^l^tin^ale. 
 
 eiapeoee f-add J)aVi5. 
 
THE LtGEfJD 
 
 \\l NIGflTING/\Lt 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 / 
 
 .CLARENCE LADD DAVIS 
 
 CLA>' DATIS. 
 
 £AST SAGINAW, V;CH. 
 Evening news, P= >.-=== i>.; 5 
 
.^'^ 
 
 V f< 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1888, 
 BY 
 
 Clarence Ladd Davis. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Proem, 5 
 
 The Legend of the Nightingale, 7 
 
 Kismet, 9 
 
 Ariadne, 10 
 
 Had You Been Mine, 11 
 
 Two Lovers, . -^J^- __- • • •- 12 
 
 Old Friends |Are Best, 13 
 
 Justine, 14 
 
 L' Amour Inconnue, 15 
 
 Love and Sorrow, 16 
 
 When I Am Dead, 18 
 
 Actress and Author, 19 
 
 Farewell, 20 
 
 The Poet's Tribute, 21 
 
 Cora, the Sculptress, 22 
 
 The Winds of Fate, 24 
 
 The Cycle, 25 
 
The sofigbird singing on- the'Jjough, 
 Recks not what others say, 
 
 But still sings on tho caiving croi^js 
 Do criticise his lay. 
 
 He sings because his heart is full, — 
 Because God bade Jiiin sing ; 
 
 And so despite the jeering crows, 
 He makes the woodland ring. 
 
 E'en so unmindful of the world, 
 I sijtg these songs of vwie — 
 
 Set simple phrase and homely ivord 
 To Poesy's tune divine. 
 
 As careless as the\7C'Oodland bird. 
 If praise or blame they bring, 
 
 I sing these songs because my heart 
 And soul say to me : Sing ! 
 
(Dedication to "The Legend of the Nightingale," on the occasion of the 
 Complimentary Reception and Banquet to James Newton Matthews, 
 Mason, Illinois, Wednesday evening, May 23d, IS 
 
 TO 
 
 The goodness and purity of whose verse. Is only equaled by the purity and 
 Iness of his heart, these lines are dedicated, by his friend 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
TKe LiegeiAcI of tKe JNigKtip^gale, 
 
 *Rrr in that language given of the gods — 
 The Sanscrit of the Vedas — there is found 
 An ancient legend, hoary with the rime 
 Of thrice a score of centuries, which saith. 
 That once in Eden, when the world was young, 
 Beneath a banyan's shade, within a dell, 
 O'ergrown with flowers and grasses of sweet scent, 
 The feathered songsters of the wood and wold. 
 With Brahm for judge, held tournament of song. 
 The tourney prize, a laurel wreath entwined, 
 Wherewith the victor in the rythmic joust, 
 Should of all singers there be crowned king. 
 First each by each, his tuneful strain essayed. 
 In bloodless battle for that wage of war. 
 With airs for arrows, symphonies for swords; 
 Then altogether joined in one grand hymn 
 Of praise unto Great Brahm, when lo ! just as 
 The setting sun with dying splendor tipped 
 The hills of Eden with a crown of flame. 
 From out the ambush of a tamarind, 
 A new, sweet voice, unheard before joined in. 
 Which held such pathos in its tuneful tone, 
 That with one impulse, all stood dumb and turned 
 
To view the singer of that glorious strain : 
 
 The bulbul of the gods — the nightingale • 
 
 Of Eden and of Ind! He ceased. And then, — 
 
 While yet the atmosphere still ling'ring held — 
 
 As if 'twere loth to let such sweetness die — 
 
 The faint vibrations of that godlike strain, 
 
 Which hke the perfume of a vanished rose, 
 
 Remained behind while yet the flower was gone — 
 
 With one accord they turned to Brahm and cried : 
 
 " We own our Lord! O Brahrm ! give him the crown!' 
 
 So crowned he was; and by Great Brahm's decree 
 
 Forever after, when at eventide 
 
 The bulbul sang, the others they were dumb ! 
 
 ND so, O Poet! even as the birds, 
 
 When first they heard the bulbul's tuneful song, 
 Stopped swift their own, to listen to his strain, 
 We minor singers of thy land and time, 
 Have ceased our songs to hearken unto thine, 
 And as we listen stand before thee dumb. 
 Save only, that we cry aloud to Fame — 
 As did the birds to Brahm : "Give him the crown !" 
 
Kismet. 
 
 ^WO hands that trembled at each other's touch; 
 Two hearts that leapt when came the other near; 
 Love speaking eyes two stam'ring tongues above: 
 Two souls that sought each other's presence much, 
 To whom each day of absence seemed a year : 
 xA.nd that was Love ! 
 
 Two souls that sought thro' weary years in vain, 
 That sweet content which nevermore would come; 
 
 Two lives forever drear and desolate; 
 Two souls enshadowed by the pall of Pain ; 
 Two hearts that broke, yet were forever dumb : 
 And that was Fate ! 
 
Ariad 
 
 i 
 
 naaiAe. 
 
 Y soul was weary with long years of strife. 
 My heart was sad with longings unfulfilled 
 No loved ones wej^t me when I traveled far, 
 Nor when returning smiled a welcome back. 
 Life had no charms — unloving and unloved, 
 Alone I stood, my sky of life o'ercast 
 With clouds of dark despair, thro' which no ray 
 Of light and hope shone down into my heart. 
 And then you came- — you with your heart of truth, 
 And face Madonna-like; and when I looked 
 Into your deep brown eyes, O Love! and saw 
 The sweet pure soul that lay behind them hid; 
 As when Aurora and her legions fair 
 Across the sky drive back the hosts of night, 
 The radiant morn in roseate splendor paints 
 With gold and crimson all the eastern skies. 
 In promise of the coming day, so then 
 Into the Orient of my life there trembling came 
 The glorious radiance of a new Hope's dawn, 
 That shown adown my path, a cheering light 
 To lead me on to higher things, for there 
 Within my heart, lo. Love ! the King ! was born ! 
 
Had You BeeiA Mir\e, 
 
 fAD you been mine, my heart would ne'er have failed 
 At Fortune's frowns my cheek would ne'er have paled 
 With you my own true loving wife and mate, 
 I'd scorned Despair, laughed loud and long at Fate; 
 Ay! face to face with Death would not have quailed. 
 
 For you I would have wrought, perchance have scaled 
 The hights of Fame in Love's own armor mailed. 
 And at your feet laid trophies of the strife; 
 Had you been mine. 
 
 At gods and men I would not then have railed ; 
 Of wasted years I could not then have wailed ; 
 
 Instead, with Joy had then been crowned my life; 
 
 My nights with wassail then had not been rife. 
 Nor I pale Pleasure as my life's queen hailed; 
 Had you been mine. 
 
JWo ljo\/^ers, 
 
 rHERE was a maid two lovers' hearts had stole, 
 A not uncommon case, 
 One loved her for her sweet, pure heart and soul, 
 One for her handsome face. 
 
 The first adored her as the nuns adore 
 
 Madonna and the Child; 
 Albeit, longvvhile her flouting frowns he bore, 
 
 Content if she but smiled. 
 
 She loved the second as a man above 
 
 All other men, perforce; 
 He only loved her as a man may love 
 
 His deerhound or his horse. 
 
 Death's Angel came and bore her soul away. 
 
 Beyond dark Lethe's tide; 
 The second wept above her grave a day, — 
 
 The other, — till he died ! 
 
Old Friends j\re Best. 
 
 §LD friends are best! "What of the new?" 
 Well, my new friend, I say to you, 
 And in my heart do you no wrong : 
 For latest love is alway strong, 
 New friends are many, old are few. 
 
 Good is to bad as one to two; 
 
 Give to new friends all that's their due, 
 
 And slight them not, still true my song : 
 Old friends are best ! 
 
 The sieve of years the chaff falls through, 
 The grain alone remains in view ; 
 
 True hearts cling closer for Time's thong; 
 
 He loveth best who loveth long; 
 And gray beards all will swear 'tis true : 
 Old friends are best ! 
 
 13 
 
Just 
 
 iiAe. 
 
 FACE, a form, like a statue rare; 
 Two lips, twin roses; bright golden hair 
 Flowing and rippling o'er shoulders fair; 
 
 Two violet eyes, whose melting sheen 
 Would thrill the heart of a marble man. 
 Till his blood in amorous riot ran 
 To the tune Love plays on the pipes of Pan ; 
 Such is your picture. O fair Justine! 
 
 And so men love you. Ah! if they knew, 
 Those poor fools dui)ed by your smiles untrue. 
 Into a soul scorching love for you. 
 
 That that angel face and form that-s seen,- 
 A Death's head hid by a silver casque, — 
 Is but the beautiful, lying mask, 
 The Devil gave you to do his task, 
 
 Of luring men into Hell, Justine! 
 
s 
 
 U Amour lr\cor\r\ue, 
 
 LOVE that is to be 1 O heart cUvine ! 
 Whom I have sought thro' long and weary years — 
 Thro' joy and pain — in laughter and in tears, 
 Yet have not found you, — you whose soul in mine 
 Fate hath decreed shall find its ]:)erfect mate, 
 Where art thou, I.ove ? 
 
 Thro' what strange paths and by what devious ways. 
 Shall thy dear feet draw near unto my own ? 
 Art thou a friend whom I full long have known? 
 Or some fair stranger, who in future days 
 
 Shall cross my path ? Too long, O Sweet I I wait. 
 Where art thou, Love ? 
 
 Somewhere thou waitest, yet I know not where; 
 I seek thee blindly, groping in the dark. 
 With hands outstretched and eyes that cannot mark : 
 If thou art near or far all unaware, 
 
 The days are long without thee, O my Fate ! 
 Where art thou, Love ? 
 
 15 
 
LioVe ar\d SorroW. 
 
 §NCE when the world was young, it chanced one day 
 That Love the wanton, wand'ring in the wood, 
 His sole companion, fair rose-crowned Joy, 
 Lulled by her kisses into sweet repose. 
 Clasped in her arms, upon her bosom slept. 
 When lo ! upon them came sad-hearted Sorrow, 
 Shunned of gods and men, — of all save only 
 Her dark parents, hard-featured Pain, and Sin 
 The scarlet clad, — the twins hell-born of Greed 
 And lawless Lust, from whom she weeping fled. 
 At their iniquity aghast. And she. 
 Looking on Love, felt thro' her being thrill 
 The pent-up longings of her loveless life. 
 For sweet companionship so long denied. 
 As if the cord which bound them in her heart, 
 Had snapped asunder at the sight of Love, 
 So, creeping softly to his side she filched 
 From Love his bow and arrows, and then stooped 
 And kissed him on the veined lids that hid 
 His laughing eyes, till then to tears unknown; 
 Whereat Love starting, woke with tear-dimmed eyes. 
 And seeing Sorrow standing by his side, — 
 Within her hands his arrows and his bow, 
 
 i6 
 
Fell down before her, clasped her knees and begged 
 With many tears, his weapons at her hands. 
 Thi's would she not, until the god had sworn 
 Forever after she might follow him ; 
 And so, from out the wood the three passed on, 
 I^ove leading, and the twain behind, and now 
 Love comes with smiling lips and tearful eyes, 
 And Joy and Sorrow follow in his train. 
 
WKeiA I am Dead. 
 
 |HEN I am dead, the songbird's tuneful note, 
 Will lose Its sweetness to no ear ; no throat 
 Be choked with tears at mention of my name, 
 When I am dead. 
 
 ^-^nd yet perchance, some song that 1 have wrote. 
 
 To sinful hearts, sad with the mad world's blame, 
 May bring surcease of sorrow, hope from shame, 
 When I am dead. 
 
 If that may be, I am content that Fame, 
 
 Among her poets ne'er my name should quote. 
 And worldlings say: " He died not worth a groat I" 
 When I am dead. 
 
 \ 
 
 18 
 
/\ctress ar\cl /\vjtKor. 
 
 (Written between the Acts of " My Geraidine,'' and dedicated to 
 Bartley Campbelll. 
 
 N the blaze and glare of the footlights, 
 In the gilded Temple of Art, 
 To the world of wealth and fashion. 
 The actress played her part: 
 
 And with phrase from the playwrigiit borrowed- 
 
 The fruit of his toiling years, — 
 Touched the golden chords of pathos, 
 
 And drew from their eyes the tears. 
 
 They gave to her their plaudits. 
 
 But not one of the wee})ing throng, 
 
 Gave thought to the stricken author. 
 Who had wove from his soul her song! 
 
 T9 
 
FareWell, 
 
 S sometimes ships upon the ocean meeting, 
 Bound for some distant shore. 
 Do stay their course to give each other greeting, 
 Then part to meet no more, 
 
 So have we met and sailed across Life's ocean 
 
 In consort for a day; 
 And now the winds of Fate in their commotion, 
 
 Do waft us far away. 
 
 But to what lands, into what unknown harbor, 
 
 Alas, we cannot know; 
 If to disaster, or to Joy's bright arbor, 
 
 We cannot help but go. 
 
 And as ships sundered by the dismal mistral, 
 
 Wave farewell o'er the sea, 
 Across the sea of Life, thus do I signal : 
 
 " Goodwill! Godspeed!" to thee. 
 
JKe J^oet s Jribvite, 
 
 (Detroit Art Loan, 1888.) 
 
 PON these walls, from floor to ceiling hung, 
 All countries' and all ages' works of art, 
 To-day speaks to our souls a common tongue, — 
 The untaught language of the human heart. 
 
 Here as we stand in silent awe and view 
 Some symphony in color, by hands that lie 
 
 Long silent in the grave, we feel 'tis true : 
 Tho' all are mortal, artists never die. 
 
 And as we read some artist's deathless lay, 
 
 That brings us nearer to the World's great heart, 
 
 We say with rev'rence, as we turn away : 
 "Mankind is better for the Painter's Art." 
 
Cora, tKe Scvilptress. 
 
 rHERE is a legend found in Grecian song, 
 Which saith, that long, long centuries ago. 
 P^'re yet the art of sculpture had been born, 
 Cora, the beautiful, — a maid whose sire 
 Frescoed with figures of her ancient gods 
 The temple walls of Athens, — loved, as maids 
 Had loved before her, and will love again, 
 A comely youth of presence fair and fine; 
 Who, bound for battle, came one day to bid 
 His love adieu; when lo 1 it chanced just as 
 She tearful clung about his neck, the sun 
 The shadow of the soldier cast upon 
 The rock wall of her dwelling, and the maid 
 By love inspired caught up the pencil of 
 Her artist sire, and on the wall quick traced 
 His shadowed profile; and in after days 
 I>est by some dark and dire mischance the face 
 Of her dear love be lost to her for aye, 
 With loving hands carved at the stubborn stone, 
 Until upon the wall his face stood out 
 In bold relief, a monument of love, 
 
And womans' tenderness — a rocky germ 
 
 From whence there sprung the sculptured art of Greece. 
 
 SO runs the story of the ancient song, 
 And I do hold the old time legend true, 
 For lo ! her namesake of these modern days, 
 Herself a sculptress, radiant and fair, 
 With form divine, and saintly face crowned with 
 A wealth of golden tresses that do shame 
 The summer sunbeams, with their glorious light. 
 With Cupid's golden arrows, diamond tipped, 
 Upon my heart hath carved her own sweet face. 
 
 23 
 
TKe WiiAcIs of Fate. 
 ♦ ♦ ♦ 
 
 (Written on a lady's fan.) 
 
 Y trifles light as the atoms wafted 
 
 Aloft on the wings of a fan's soft breeze, 
 Our lives are fashioned, and conscripts drafted, 
 We march with the armies of Pain or Ease. 
 
 Light as thistledown blown 'mid the ripened sheaves, 
 Doth Aveigh in Time's balance our love or hate, 
 
 For we all are blown as the autumn leaves, 
 To Heaven or Hell by the Winds of Fate. 
 
 24 
 
TKe Gy 
 
 cie. 
 
 IS Love alone creates and doth destroy — 
 Sweet Love is lord alike of life and Death 
 For Love is father unto joyous Life, 
 And Life in turn is mother to Desire, 
 And honey-lipped Desire the dam of Death, 
 And Death, destroyer of all living things. 
 Ay, even slayer of Desire herself. 
 So ran the cycle since Time first began : 
 Sweet Love, Life, mad Desire and Death; and so 
 Will run the cycle until Time shall end. 
 
 25 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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