PS 
 
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 S4 
 
 1903 
 
 Copy 
 
 
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 Zhe Sbabow 
 
 of 
 
 XTiresias 
 
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 Blonso Brown 
 
THt L bKAi^YOF 
 CONGKtSS, 
 
 Tv/o Copies Received 
 
 FEB § i^"^*^ 
 
 A Copyiignt h.r.ry 
 feLASS fc. XXc. No. 
 COPY B. 
 
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 Copyright, 1903, 
 By Alonzo Brown. 
 
 fi>ress of 
 
 Ube Xeebs & «i^6le Co. 
 
 1019=21 /iDarhct Street, 
 
 pbilaDelpbia. 
 
XLhc Sbabow 
 
 of 
 
 XTiveslas 
 
 I heard the wild bird sing 
 
 Over a lonely grave 
 
 In the clear morn of spring. 
 
 Sweet strain ! on what far shore, 
 In what serener clime 
 Heard I that song before ? 
 
 His note an anthem seemed ; — 
 Nor queried I, nor knew, 
 Whether I waked or dreamed. 
 
 Beside a glimmering stone, 
 'Neath the high linden tree, 
 A mourner sat alone. 
 
 I saw a broken lute 
 
 Beside a broken ring : 
 
 The mourner's lips were mute. 
 
 3 
 
The reapers came and went 
 Nor saw him where he sat, 
 Saw not the grassy tent. 
 
 Methought I gazed on him 
 Till a great shadow fell 
 And made my vision dim 
 
 A moment, and behold ! 
 A hundred hundred years 
 Did seem between us rolled. 
 
 Then did my soul o'erspan 
 With tireless wing the gulf, 
 Back to the primal man. 
 
 Beside the glimmering stone 
 I paused to read the name, 
 And lo, it was my own ! 
 
 Still did the wild bird sing ; 
 In the high linden tree 
 I saw his flashing wing. 
 
 There was the broken lute 
 Beside the broken ring ; — 
 The mourner's lips were mute. 
 
 The reapers came and went ; 
 None saw the crumbling stone. 
 The mourner and the tent. 
 
I gazed, but might not stay ; 
 Once more the shadow fell, 
 And I was worlds away. 
 
 Once more my soul did yearn 
 Along the lonely track 
 Of aeons to return. 
 
 Alcyone and Sun 
 
 And the new-zoned Earth 
 
 Did fairer cycle run. 
 
 The stars did o'er me drift — 
 I named them one by one ; 
 And evermore did lift 
 
 Out of the deep-sea blue, 
 The mountains and the isles 
 And cities that I knew. 
 
 High in the linden tree, 
 Still rang the joyous song 
 Of wild bird piping free. 
 
 A mighty reaper bent 
 And flashed his sickle keen 
 Where once the lowly tent. 
 
 Into the wide, deep heaven 
 My soul sent forth a cry. 
 The gates of morn and even 
 5 
 
Heard it, and hearing, paled. 
 Night with her trembHng stars 
 Sat in her temple veiled. 
 
 The Past awoke ; a moan 
 Swept through her sombre halls 
 Responsive to my own. 
 
 An echo far within 
 
 Did mock my cry ; and Death 
 
 Laughed in the House of Sin. 
 
 "Hear me, O Death !" I cried ; 
 "O 'erf old me with thy wing 
 And in oblivion hide. ' ' 
 
 But Death no token gave ; 
 The little dust rose up 
 And circled o'er the grave. 
 
 A wind, a wandering gust, 
 And lo, a prophet's form 
 Wrought of the eddying dust ! 
 
 On golden staff he leant ; 
 His garment was a cloud 
 Of wind and lightning blent. 
 
 His lute did sound afar ; 
 A ring that glimmered fire 
 Hung o'er him like a star. 
 6 
 
II. 
 
 ''Spirit of mortal man 
 That criest in the night, ' ' 
 The prophet thus began, 
 
 "I also strive like thee ; 
 Like thee, I walk with Death 
 To Immortality. 
 
 Like thee, O friend, I too, 
 
 Down to the adamant, 
 
 Would strike the darkness through. 
 
 Vain thought ; the curtain draw 
 And the long ages scan : — 
 Ever mysterious law-, 
 
 Ever a moving hand, 
 And a great flying throne 
 That shadows sea and land. 
 
 To me, my purpose gained, 
 The Universe is naught ; 
 I seek the unattained. 
 
 A bondsman I, yet free ; 
 A spirit of all time. 
 In spirit, one with thee. 
 7 
 
I bid the prophets hail, 
 I dream in woods of Crete, 
 And the muse-haunted vale, 
 
 Tempe and the high grove 
 Whose leaves, wooed of the wind, 
 Whisper the thoughts of Jove. 
 
 A voice is on the seas 
 Like Niobe forlorn, 
 Or Meleagrides, 
 
 Mourning in all the isles. 
 From Patmos to the peak 
 Where old Parnassus piles 
 
 His marble to the cloud, 
 
 Sibyl or Pythoness, 
 
 Not one can lift the shroud 
 
 That veils the mystery 
 Of mysteries to men. 
 Prophet and prophecy 
 
 Are vain ; — or he that tells 
 The omen of swift wing. 
 Or wizard weaving spells, 
 
 Or he that learns the speech 
 Of lightning, or star-taught 
 Enchanter, — none can reach 
 
The shadow that abides 
 Within, or rend from God 
 The darkness where he hides. 
 
 I seek the hope enshrined 
 In the high-gated East ; 
 I see Maeander wind 
 
 His labyrinth within, 
 Moaning to find the sea ; 
 Broad Oxus and the twin 
 
 Rivers that seek their home 
 Where sullen Ormus rolls 
 To meet them, foam to foam. 
 
 I see Orontes gleam 
 
 His buried empire through, 
 
 And each fair-palaced stream, 
 
 Xanthus and Thermodon. 
 I turn from Memnon's gate 
 And the mute priests of On, 
 
 Dark dreamers of the Nile ; 
 I see Colombo lift 
 Her palm-encircled isle. 
 
 The oracles of Ind 
 I question, one by one ; 
 Then east where the soft wind, 
 9 
 
Blown from a hundred seas, 
 Whispers the Son of Heaven 
 All golden prophecies. 
 
 I question far and near 
 
 The whence, the whither, why ; 
 
 I talk with priest and seer 
 
 And mighty bards that sung 
 In cities that were old 
 When Babylon was young. 
 
 And evermore, the goal 
 
 Receding as I run, 
 
 The thing I call my soul. 
 
 From the unfathomed deep 
 Of Being, wakes and cries. 
 And crying, falls asleep. 
 
 The pale moon ever slips 
 Like ghost, athwart the sky, 
 Her hand upon her lips. 
 
 Mute is the golden lyre 
 Of stars ; Arcturus, dumb. 
 Sits in his wheel of fire. 
 
 Babels beneath the sod 
 Do unremembered lie ; 
 Still, to the unknown God, 
 
The altar and high fane ; 
 Still, the un windowed dome 
 And ever murmuring main. 
 
 Sweet is the rising morn 
 O'er the high-templed hill 
 Where Salem sits forlorn. 
 
 I dream beside her walls 
 Till on the healing pool 
 The angel's shadow falls. 
 
 They quaff ; — or who that died 
 Or that were healed, none tells 
 By that fair fountain-side. 
 
 I question seer and priest 
 Of that clear star whose fire 
 Made splendor in the East. 
 
 I ask, or false or true 
 The life of that great Lord, 
 The Prophet whom they slew. 
 
 And o'er the mountain crest, 
 The wonder-star arose 
 And circled to the west. 
 
 A light that shines afar, 
 A star of glorious streams, 
 A many-citied star. 
 
The cities lift their hands, 
 The rivers flash to heaven, 
 And the wide watered lands 
 
 Look to the firmament, 
 And wave their lofty palms 
 The way the Prophet went. 
 
 And I, do I believe? 
 I answer: who be they 
 That evermore achieve ? 
 
 Ask not, or false or true. 
 But which the fairer hope, 
 This grave, or yonder blue ? 
 
 Not mine the perfect sight ; 
 But in my hand a staff 
 Whose shadow maketh light. 
 
 Not far the Fount of Grace, 
 Not dark the Sibyl's cave. 
 Each grove a Holy Place ; 
 
 Each mount of high control 
 A Delphi, and each isle 
 A Delos to my soul. 
 
 No high upbuilded creeds 
 Falling like Babel towers. 
 My steadfast spirit heeds. 
 
In light, or shadow dim, 
 I waver not from God ; 
 I do but move with Him. 
 
 And ever this my cry : 
 Affirm, affirm, affirm, 
 Though all the world deny ! 
 
 Affirm, — behold the key 
 To which unceasing turn 
 The doors of Destiny. 
 
 Affirm, — the sorceress, Sin, 
 Breaks her enchanted cup ; 
 The Fates forget to spin. 
 
 Affirm, — dark error dies. 
 And the old empire wanes, 
 And the new worlds arise. 
 
 Affirm, — and further roll 
 Athena's winged wheels 
 Into the realm of soul. 
 
 To mourn the wasted day. 
 To watch the glorious hope 
 Slow wither to decay, — 
 
 This is the curse of sin ; 
 And this to me is Heaven, — 
 To feel, though life within 
 13 
 
Be richer, nobler grown, :"•'• 
 
 All that I know or dream 
 Is naught to the unknown. 
 
 I follow, though I fail, 
 
 No circle, no ellipse, 
 
 But the wild comet's trail. 
 
 And sweet to feel how far 
 Soe'er my own do shine, 
 It dims no brother star. 
 
 Sweet, rise my soul or fall. 
 To know the Infinite 
 Is wide enough for all. 
 
 The spirit I adore 
 
 Doth change and change and change, 
 
 And this forevermore. 
 
 My .soul, a breath, a flame. 
 Made new forevermore, 
 Yet evermore the same. 
 
 Spirit of mortal man, 
 
 The world to them that strive ! 
 
 Lo, he that willeth, can ! 
 
 My love for thee wouldst prove ? 
 I make the dust a harp 
 To tell thee of my love. 
 14 
 
Go, thy own heart made free, 
 Some other comfort thou 
 As I do comfort thee. 
 
 I leave thee ; this the stair! 
 E'en in the Father's House, 
 The living hope more fair 
 
 Than the dead hope fulfilled. 
 So, turn thee to the light. 
 And let the great Sun build, 
 
 Out of the ocean-foam, 
 Pillared with fire and air. 
 The Hkeness of thy home." 
 
 III. 
 
 The voice of prophet old 
 Shrilled like a whistling reed 
 Out of the mountain rolled 
 
 A mist that did enshroud. 
 And with the roar of flame. 
 Did vanish seer and cloud. 
 
 The magic star was set, 
 The vision was no more, 
 But ne'er shall I forget 
 15 
 
How glorious did seem 
 The minstrel and the sound 
 Of harping in my dream. 
 
 His speech a joyous wine; 
 My lips did purer seem 
 That his were so divine. 
 
 Sun doth to ocean burn, 
 Tingeing the wave with fire ; 
 
 0, when shall they return, 
 
 Exultant or forlorn. 
 The little ships that sail 
 Into the mist at morn ? 
 
 1, too, my sail unfurled, 
 Steer by a star that moves 
 Unto an unknown world. 
 
 E'en the all-seeing Sun 
 Discerneth not his goal, 
 Yet, doth untiring run. 
 
 So I, and not in vain ; 
 Though I do miss the crown, 
 The strife itself is gain. 
 
 Not in the unseen lands, 
 But here and now I build 
 The House not made with hands. 
 i6 
 
O cast the horoscope ; — 
 
 Lo, Death, and the great door 
 
 Of a more glorious hope ! 
 
 After long groping, sight ; 
 After the forest dim. 
 The city and the light. 
 
 After the barren sand. 
 
 The glory of the sea 
 
 And the broad-rivered land. 
 
 Like unto them that dream, 
 The captives, home returned, 
 Saw tower and temple gleam ; 
 
 I, too, returned sometime, 
 Shall touch the Master's hand ; 
 Sometime, I too, shall climb 
 
 Above the clouds that hide 
 The glory of the Mount 
 Where the great seers abide 
 
 With Him. Meanwhile, the Rod 
 And Staff ; here, this sweet vale. 
 And there, the hills of God. 
 
 Sing, wild bird, clear and strong. 
 Ho for the linden tree 
 And the eternal song ! 
 17 
 
(Bob of the Silver Bow. 
 
 O light of Hellas, O famed in story, 
 
 Lift high the portals 
 And from the City of the Immortals 
 
 Come thou in glory, 
 Hyperion, trailing thy robes of gold. 
 
 Thy spell entrancing is round and o'er me ; 
 I bow before thee ; 
 Let me adore thee, 
 O lord of music, Olympian old ! 
 
 In yon deep heaven 
 
 How shine at even, 
 The clouds that pillar thy azure hall ! 
 
 They burst asunder, 
 
 They pass in thunder 
 And I behold thee as lightning fall. 
 
 Lo ! thou descendest ; 
 Once more returning, on me thou bendest, 
 
 Morn-like, the splendor of thy smile. 
 O, fair thy seeming, lord of the lyre 
 
 And the silver bow, 
 
As when, with anthem and altar-fire 
 
 In the long ago, 
 Thy people gloried 
 
 Within the storied 
 Temples of the Ortygian isle. 
 
 The gods assemble ; — 
 The Empyrean 
 Doth shake and tremble 
 Beneath the treading of feet divine. 
 I see the gleam of thy temples olden, 
 
 While dark Aegean, 
 With shout of gladness, doth flash to golden 
 And pour around me his waves of wine. 
 
 Hark, hark ! the chorus 
 Of Muses chanting the sweet refrain, 
 
 While Phoebus proudly is sounding o'er us. 
 In frenzy firing 
 The soul-inspiring 
 And deathless strain. 
 And rapt in vision, 
 I pass within them, the Fields Elysian, 
 
 Through the gate of dreams. 
 I hear the choiring of the Eternal ; 
 I list the music of winds supernal. 
 Ambrosial blowing, 
 And the murmurous flowing 
 Of amber streams. 
 19 
 
Come then, Hyperion, in splendor trailing 
 Thy robes of gold ; 
 Thy spell unfailing 
 With sweet entralment is round and o'er me ; 
 I bow before thee, 
 Yea, I adore thee, 
 O lord of music, Olympian old. 
 
 20 
 
^be Seven Stars. 
 
 We pass in dream, my soul and I, 
 Where the immortal cities lie; 
 From the cold marble comes the sigh 
 
 Of vanished ages. 
 I turn the glass ; the fleeting sands 
 Run backward to enchanted lands ; 
 I feel the touching of the hands 
 
 Of mighty sages. 
 
 With knights of eld we roam again ; 
 We see the world beneath the reign 
 Of Alfred and of Charlemagne 
 
 In glory brightening. 
 With ladies fair of old romance 
 We join the revel and the dance ; 
 The torch-lit helmet and the lance 
 
 Make golden lightning. 
 
 We glide by hall and garden trim ; — 
 
 Beneath the forest arching dim, 
 
 The moon-wrought elf and giant grim 
 
 Do flee before us. 
 The sweet bells toll the midnight hours ; 
 
On castled steep, in lordly bowers, 
 The lights from high, imperial towers 
 Are gleaming o'er us. 
 
 We wander far and ever deem 
 
 O'er each high grove, on lake and stream, 
 
 Shines the lost Pleiad of our dream, 
 
 Arthurian City. 
 In Avalon, each haunted grot 
 Echoes the name of Camelot ; 
 Her maidens call, she answers not ; 
 
 They weep for pity. 
 
 The Alps look from their hills of snow 
 On storied Arno and the Po ; 
 Each doth unto a city flow 
 
 That hath foundations. 
 And one did sound a wizard lyre. 
 And one did evermore aspire. 
 Each, evermore, a lamp of fire 
 
 To all the nations. 
 
 O Florence, proud in thy decline, 
 We greet thee ; at thy shrine 
 A hundred sons, and all divine, 
 
 Do bow before thee. 
 Mother of gods, thou canst not die ; 
 The stars that gem thy forehead high 
 Make thee eternal as the sky 
 
 That arches o'er thee. 
 
 22 
 
Queen of the sea, fair Venice, too, 
 High on her throne of isles, anew 
 Sits glassing in the Hadrian blue 
 
 Her marble splendor. 
 We gaze upon her thousand fleets ; 
 We thread her labyrinth of streets ; 
 Our wondering eyes what glory meets ! 
 
 What pomps attend her ! 
 
 How like the gods her men of old ! 
 Her mighty deeds the bards have told ; 
 With hands of more than mortal mold 
 
 Her stones are graven. 
 Her daughters fair, empalaced high. 
 Do watch the ships go sailing by ; 
 The rich corn-laden barges lie 
 
 Locked in her haven. 
 
 I pass within the temple-gate 
 Where captive princes bow and wait. 
 And hoary senators debate 
 
 With high decorum. 
 I hear the roar of triumph loud, 
 The tramp of legions ; waving proud, 
 Rome's eagles like a golden cloud 
 
 Float o'er the Forum. 
 
 I read her name as on a scroll 
 From pillared Gades to the goal 
 23 
 
Where Euphrate and Hydaspes roll 
 
 And fabled Ha^^s. 
 O'er dust of kings and whitened bones, 
 She buildeth fair of polished stones, 
 The marble of a hundred thrones, 
 
 Great Caesar's palace. 
 
 Dread sorceress, her mighty hand 
 Shadows the ocean and the land ; 
 She stretches out her iron wand, 
 
 And empires vanish. 
 Her eye is dim, her star is pale ; 
 I watch the light of ages fail ; 
 Her children bid the tyrant hail. 
 
 And Freedom banish. 
 
 The sailor's heart no tremor thrills ; 
 No pilate hears, presaging ills, 
 The harping in the Seven Hills 
 
 Of that great Siren. 
 Silent the Fountain and the Cave 
 Of prophecy ; by Stygian wave 
 The spirits of her warriors brave 
 
 Weep tears of iron. 
 
 In lofty woods of Helicon 
 Athena dreamed, and for her own, 
 Athens, a dream in Parian stone, 
 She wrought immortal ; 
 24 
 
The gods approved with loud acclaim 
 The city and the House of Fame 
 And every god did write his name, 
 On her high portal. 
 
 I stand on Areopagus ; 
 
 The shadow of the throne of Zeus 
 
 Is on my soul ; all glorious 
 
 The empyrean. 
 Each grove doth arch a poet's grave, 
 A sage's tomb ; for heroes brave 
 A requiem sounds in every wave 
 
 Of old Aegean. 
 
 Silent, where once did pour along 
 The chariots and Olympic throng ; 
 Hushed is the paean and the song 
 
 Of high endeavor. 
 Still rolls Hyperion coursing true 
 His wheel of fire in yonder blue, 
 But in the street, the lyre he knew 
 
 Is mute forever. 
 
 The prophets fail ; the years increase ; 
 Yet one clear bugle without cease 
 Through all the cycle soundeth Greece 
 
 On hill and mountain ; 
 And Alph to her he loveth best, 
 Still 'neath the sea is rolling west ; 
 25 
 
We hear in some far isle of rest 
 Their mingled fountain. 
 
 We rear the mast, we call the breeze ; 
 
 Again with old Maeonides, 
 
 We sail the dark wine-tinted seas 
 
 All famed in story ; 
 Till bursting through the mists of morn, 
 To sound of lyre and golden horn, 
 The towers of Ilium music-born 
 
 Arise in glory. 
 
 sacred mount, high dwelling-place. 
 The temple and the shrine of Grace, 
 Where the world turns his pilgrim-face 
 
 At morn and even, — 
 Where God hath set his diadem 
 On Judah's hills, O glorius gem, 
 
 1 look to thee, Jerusalem, 
 
 The Gate of Heaven. 
 
affliction. 
 
 Go prate of thorns within thy crown ; 
 Curse on, thy woes rehearsing. 
 Beneath the shadow of God's frown, 
 Thou hast no strength for cursing. 
 When he doth speak, thy lips are dumb 
 Stilled is thy vain repining ; 
 In awful silence aye doth come 
 The fire of his refining. 
 
 27 
 
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