ANDLES 
 
 AND -OTHER- POEMS 
 
 ..ZA-BOYLIvCyREILLY 
 
Class __/^^ .£^7 
 
 Copyright ]^^ 
 
 /MS 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
MY CANDLES 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
MY CANDLES 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZA BOYLE O'REILLY 
 
 ^.' i,^ >'> '>' ^: 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LEE AND SHEPARD 
 
 1903 
 
THt LtbRARYOF I 
 CONGRtSS. I 
 
 Two Copies Hdceiveiy I 
 
 SEP 16 »903 
 
 Copyright Entry I 
 
 IbLASS <;u )^^ N* 
 
 COPY B. 
 
 
 Copyright, 1903, bv Lee and Shkpard. 
 
 Entered at Stationers' Hall, London. 
 
 Published August, 1903. 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
 My Candles. 
 
 Norfaoot) J3tt80 
 
 J. a. Cuahing & Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
 Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 My Candles 7 
 
 Return of the Cattle in September 8 
 
 Mona Lisa 10 
 
 A Mile of Eastern Roses 11 
 
 Spring Longings 12 
 
 Thy Grave, and Mine 17 
 
 Courage! 20 
 
 Fancies 22 
 
 Lines at Ipswich 24 
 
 -To Charles Lamb 26 
 
 To-day 28 
 
 While we Sleep ........ 30 
 
 In Patris Memoriam 32 
 
 The Privileged Hour 33 
 
 A Boast and its Answer 41 
 
 Peasants chmbing to Murren 42 
 
 3 
 
4 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Moments 44 
 
 Et Ego in Arcadia ! 46 
 
 Metaphysics 47 
 
 A Ballad of the Loire 48 
 
 Touraine Sonnets : 
 
 I. The Staircase of Blois 50 
 
 II. Sunset at Chaumont 51 
 
 III. Chenonceau 52 
 
 IV. Joan at Chinon 53 
 
 Song 54 
 
 Wordsworth .56 
 
 Rondeaus in a Library, I, II, III 57 
 
 On the Lake : 
 
 I. Youth 60 
 
 II. Shadows 62 
 
 — III. Remonstrance '63 
 
 IV. Noon 65 
 
 V. Afternoon 66 
 
 VI. At Twilight 69 
 
 — VII. Love-Iate-in-Life 70 
 
 Stonehenge 72 
 
 The Poef s Visitant 73 
 
 A Buttress Niche 75 
 
CONTENTS 5 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Death-bed Thought 76 
 
 Shan van vocht T] 
 
 The Clerk of Limburg 79 
 
 Detachment 81 
 
 Trumpets and Bells 84 
 
 A Poet on his Mistress' Blush 88 
 
 Insomnia; Compensations 89 
 
 Tennyson's Child 90 
 
 The Return to Health 92 
 
 Lost Ideals 94 
 
 Once on a Time 95 
 
 Henri de la Rochejaquelein {One Ac£) .... 96 
 
 Notes 121 
 
MY CANDLES 
 
 ONCE in a seaport on the coast of France 
 I found a tranquil church, time-scarred and gray, 
 High on a hill, a beacon to the bay; 
 I saw a rough lad reverently advance. 
 Drop his small coin, and with an upward glance 
 At the dim altar, light his candle. Yea, 
 Amid the wild storm of the ocean spray 
 This token had been vowed against mischance. 
 
 " O Faith ! " I cried, " Thou art a wondrous thing ! " 
 Forthwith I lighted candles that were mine — 
 Tapers of trust in purpose, kindness, youth : 
 Now, when the beating waves or still calms bring 
 Discouragement, I bend before the shrine 
 Of the dead mighty ones who strove for Truth. 
 
 [7] 
 
RETURN OF THE CATTLE IN SEPTEMBER 
 
 (Switzerland) 
 
 DOWN from the crags of the mountains, 
 Down from the lands near the skies, 
 Lands, where the great river fountains 
 
 Rippling arise, 
 Down come the herds of the cattle. 
 Musical bells ringing clear. 
 Back to their bondage as chattel. 
 Lowing in fear. 
 
 Wistful the eyes of the younglings. 
 Born on the heights near the moon 
 Stifling to them is the valley. 
 
 Sun-wrapt at noon ; 
 Frighted, bewildered, they scatter. 
 Pant for their freedom of old. 
 Stern drives the voice of the herdsman 
 
 On to the fold. 
 
 Patient, subdued, plod the elders — 
 Thraldom to man know they well ! — 
 Back in the field and the farm-yard 
 
 Once more to dwell ! 
 [8] 
 
RETURN OF THE CATTLE IN SEPTEMBER 
 
 Herd follows herd down the highroad, 
 Day is o'ershadowed for me, 
 Grieved is my heart by the tramping : 
 Life should be free ! 
 
 Cold, will they dream of their summer ? 
 Dream of their mountains aloft ? 
 Paths never trod by a mortal ? 
 
 Cloud-touches soft ? 
 Dream, when the snow hides the valley, 
 Village, and mile-stone, and rill. 
 Dream that a white-shrouded playground 
 
 Misses them still ? 
 
 Down from the crags of the mountains, 
 Down from the lands near the skies. 
 Lands, where the great river fountains 
 
 Rippling arise ; 
 Down come the herds of the cattle. 
 Musical bells ringing clear. 
 Back to their bondage as chattel. 
 
 Lowing in fear. 
 
 [9] 
 
MONA LISA 
 
 AT white-crowned Milan, Leonardo stayed 
 To paint del Giacondo's wife, whose face 
 For him possessed that inward haunting grace. 
 That subtlety of look which he essayed 
 Through life to seize, a mystery to evade 
 All but his perfect master-touch. The space 
 Of four long years he gave to this keen chase, 
 And ever, while he strove, had music played. 
 
 Madonna Lisa smiles on us the same 
 
 As on her tortured painter. Though her bloom 
 
 Faded long since, though dull the canvas stands. 
 
 We still surmise — wisdom or craft — the name 
 
 For her rapt look, inscrutable as doom. 
 
 " Decipher me ! " She waits with folded hands. 
 
 [lo] 
 
A mile of Eastern roses scents one flask 
 A hundred resolutions urge one deed : 
 He who would here fulfil his daily task 
 
 On noblest thoughts must feed — 
 
 Grow gardens for a seed. 
 
 t"] 
 
SPRING LONGINGS 
 
 OH, Pm longing and I'm yearning for the Spring ! 
 Oh, the Spring ! 
 When the brown earth's smell is sweeter 
 Than a summer rose to me. 
 When the lake's dark water gleams again 
 And ice floats down to sea. 
 When I pluck a common bramble 
 Just because it bears a leaf. 
 And I carol with the bluebird, 
 "Fastis winter — past is grief! 
 'Tis the Spring ! " 
 
 Even evergreens are fresher, 
 I shall nibble their new shoots. 
 Crying, " Ho, ye hardy rascals. 
 Ye would play spring's substitutes ? 
 Would be flaunting as the blossoms 
 Heralding their ruddy fruits ? " 
 " Our turn ! " pipe the periwinkles 
 Clustered round the hoary roots — 
 « 'Tis the Spring ! " 
 
SPRING LONGINGS 
 
 And beside the wooded hillock 
 Runs a pathway that I know, 
 Where the pine trees drop their needles. 
 Where the sun rays warmly glow : 
 Ah, the scent of that wild pathway 
 Haunts as poignant memories do. 
 Where the pine trees drop their needles 
 And the golden stars prick through 
 In the Spring ! 
 
 And beyond that vibrant archway 
 Gleams the dog-wood as of old. 
 My own dog-wood bough ! I wonder 
 Will its leaves again unfold 
 With the same white startling radiance ? 
 Will it soar with haughty mien 
 So imperious with the flowering 
 That it scorns the common green 
 Of the Spring ? 
 
 Oh, I'm longing and I'm yearning for the Spring ! 
 
 Oh, the Spring ! 
 When Jack preaches from his pulpit, 
 With severe prim countenance 
 To the thronging reckless columbines, 
 And the lady slippers dance, 
 [•3] 
 
SPRING LONGINGS 
 
 And the sweet, demure anemones 
 Cry — " Such wild extravagance ! " 
 When the blunt wake-robin sturdily 
 Maintains, with bold-eyed glance — 
 " 'Tis the Spring ! " 
 
 Then grow waxen twin-born flowerets 
 Fit to grace a fairy's head — 
 (Autumn gnomes will rob her of them 
 When they turn to berries red !) 
 Then wild lilies of the valley 
 Cool and sylvan carpets spread 
 Much too delicate and lovely 
 For a mortal foot to tread. 
 Oh, the Spring ! 
 
 Far away there is a bower ; 
 Every year I seek it out, 
 Past the furrowed field, the orchard, 
 Near a bank where oak trees sprout ; 
 There the timid yellow bellworts 
 Droop their slender heads, in doubt 
 Whether blossoms claim them kindred 
 Or the fresh young grass about. 
 Oh, the Spring ! 
 [H] 
 
SPRING LONGINGS 
 
 Other flowers are more stately, 
 Rich in color, brave in show. 
 But I hold my simple bellwort 
 Dearer than all flowers that blow ; 
 For I fancy it remembers me 
 All winter 'neath the snow. 
 And when springtime comes, it whispers, 
 " I am waiting ! Will he know 
 'Tis the Spring ? " 
 
 And I purpose — tell it softly, 
 Oh, ye poor leaf-barren trees ! 
 Trill ye cannot, chirp it lightly. 
 Winter birds, adown the breeze. 
 There's a heart I hope to conquer. 
 There's a gentle heart may yield. 
 When the ice-bound brook runs free again 
 And bluets deck the field 
 In the Spring. 
 
 We shall seek, perhaps together 
 Hand in hand, each well-loved nook, 
 I shall crown her fair with violets 
 Plucked beside the merry brook. 
 Ah, perhaps she'll let me lead her — 
 [•5] 
 
SPRING LONGINGS 
 
 Spring sap surging warm and wild — 
 To the bed of yellow bellwort 
 That I've cherished since a child! 
 Oh, I'm longing and I'm yearning for the Spring ! 
 Oh, the Spring ! 
 
 [.6] 
 
THY GRAVE, AND MINE 
 
 w, 
 
 HEN thou art dead 
 What friendly tree would'st thou have grow 
 
 Above thy head, 
 That this forgetful world may know, 
 Here lieth one who hath outwitted woe ? 
 
 A sturdy oak ? 
 But oaks are for the white-haired sage. 
 
 Since sober cloak 
 And rugged bark are fit for age 
 That hath endured a time-worn pilgrimage : 
 
 A poplar slim ? 
 'Tis meet for those who chant through life 
 
 The easy hymn 
 Of passive quietude, whose knife 
 Forth from its sheath is never drawn in strife 
 ['7] 
 
THY GRAVE, AND MINE 
 
 Nor is the elm 
 Although a fair and gracious tree 
 
 Within thy realm, 
 Thou who dost ever long to be 
 In wildest brakes, at gladsome liberty ! 
 
 No — 'tis the beech 
 That thou must choose. Its rustling shade 
 
 This earth will teach, 
 There is such bliss as moon-lit glade, 
 Such ecstasy as plighted youth and maid ; 
 
 There are such things 
 As perfect growing symmetry. 
 
 As swallow wings. 
 Such keen delight as tossing free 
 Great wind-swept branches in exultant glee. 
 
 And if, my friend, 
 I should the first meet death, I pray 
 
 Above me bend 
 Cedars of Lebanon ! Array 
 These dark-clad kingly aliens here astray, 
 [18] 
 
THY GRAVE, AND MINE 
 
 Sublime bequest 
 To me in my forgotten grave 
 
 So still at rest. 
 Loved tree ! in benediction w^ave 
 O'er one who joys intangible did crave, 
 
 One w^ho, like thee, 
 Strange Cedar ! sighed for far-off lands 
 
 Of mystery. 
 O tree ! dost dream thy mountain scans 
 The wide horizon, for its exiled bands 
 
 Across the sea ? 
 Some distant Lebanon, I know 
 
 Waits too for me. 
 Where saffron-bordered rivers flow. 
 Where aloes bloom, where fragrant breezes blow. 
 
 [■9] 
 
COURAGE ! 
 
 I SHOWED my Love 
 (Tears in her eyes, 
 Thunder above 
 
 All dark her skies,) — 
 
 I showed my Love 
 
 A land bird brave, 
 Floating above 
 
 The clamorous wave. 
 
 Small pinions spread 
 Proudly he sailed : 
 
 Looked down in dread, 
 And fluttering, quailed : 
 
 Rose high anon ; 
 
 Lost heart once more j 
 Still strove he on 
 
 And gained the shore ! 
 
 [20] 
 
COURAGE ! 
 
 If little bird, 
 
 Dear Love, I cried, 
 Soars undeterred 
 
 By fiercest tide. 
 
 Smile then, dark eyes, 
 Love, smile on me. 
 
 Thou too vi^ilt rise. 
 Wilt breast the sea. 
 
 [2.] 
 
FANCIES 
 
 OH, I would be that simple shepherd boy 
 In sea-bound Melos, when he turned the sod 
 That hid through vandal years a perfect joy, 
 
 Ages could not destroy, 
 A marble goddess dreaming of a god. 
 Dinted and stained and broken, no alloy 
 Could taint her ! Did he fall and worship there 
 That island shepherd. Pagan unaware. 
 And ever after go through life astray 
 With thirst no earth-born beauty could allay ? 
 
 Fain would I be that boy ! 
 
 Oh, I would be that distant gazing star 
 That loves each ripple of this earth beneath 
 And one still night when bleak the calendar. 
 
 When shepherds hoar unbar 
 Their snow-flocks, drive them forth o'er hill and heath 
 To hide in spotless white each crag and scar. 
 My star aloft would see with deep surprise 
 This earth he thought he knew, whose rare disguise 
 
FANCIES 
 
 Makes her as strange, as when a noble aim 
 Wraps a friend's frailties from all carping blame. 
 Fain would I be that star! 
 
 Oh, I would be those architects of fire 
 Before whose half-shut eyes an Amiens rose, 
 Or Chartres bodied forth their vast desire, 
 
 And transept, nave, and choir 
 Sprang up, a living thought in stone's repose. 
 Long years have passed away since such men dreamed 
 Doubtful their very names have grown, they seemed 
 To care not for the coming ages' praise. 
 Enough for them one deathless prayer to raise. 
 
 Fain would I soar — their spire ! 
 
 [^3] 
 
LINES AT IPSWICH 
 
 LONG banks of drifted sand shut out the sea, 
 White fossil waves piled up in barren state ; 
 No life lives here : a buried orchard tree 
 But makes the dreary scene more desolate. 
 As one who in a sleep unfortunate, 
 Fain would escape some fast-pursuing fear 
 Yet cannot move, — so strains a traveller here. 
 
 The friendly ocean, longing for the fields, 
 Whose rustling groves it hears beyond the sand, 
 Silently up the peaceful river steals 
 And lays its arms about the dune-locked land. 
 Around this hillock, here where oaks command, 
 The sea-born waters lure, and swallows fly 
 Backward and forward, flitting endlessly. 
 
 And skimming o'er the inlets, each can see 
 His mirrored image in the tranquil streams, 
 And breathlessly he dips, as if to be 
 [^4] 
 
LINES AT IPSWICH 
 
 At one with it. In vain ! Like man who dreams 
 That with a loved one's life, his own life seems 
 A perfect unison, till late he learns 
 Each separate soul in isolation yearns. 
 
 On quivering wing the restless swallows float, 
 
 And headlong flashing sweep, and upward soar, 
 
 And curve back to the water. Like remote 
 
 Vague thoughts now seem they, hovering round the door 
 
 Of Mystery, like brooding thoughts that pore 
 
 On the Eternal, touch their wings in flight, 
 
 Yet never wholly lose themselves in light. 
 
 But as I mused, a sportsman in the marsh 
 Scattered a shot, and swift away then sped 
 The frightened scudding swallows, at the harsh 
 Discordant sound. One drooped his eager head, 
 Fluttered, and fell into the water — dead. 
 And then I wondered what that swallow found 
 Within the stream it loved to circle round. 
 
 [^5] 
 
TO CHARLES LAMB 
 
 O CHOICE and kindly spirit, in whose sight 
 The grimy London streets were fair as lanes 
 Of leafy Devon, whose fine fancy found 
 Visions of Venice in a Margate Hoy ! 
 A weary length of days in labor spent 
 Dulled not your soul, and when the respite came, 
 Like some pale victim of the old Bastile 
 Freed from his dungeon after forty years. 
 You wandered forth, perplexed to find yourself 
 Afar from Mincing Lane at hour of 'Change; 
 Till eating of the lotus leaf of rest 
 Those vexing years of arid industry 
 Stretched like a fragile landscape in a mist. 
 
 Rare heart that beat with loyalty undimmed 
 To cheer a tragic mystery of fate ! 
 As true a hero in your lowly life 
 As Nelson dying on his gallant ship ! 
 
 [26] 
 
TO CHARLES LAMB 
 
 O gentle scholar mid your folios old ! 
 O master of shy wit and humour sweet, 
 Of moving pathos, and quaint phantasy, 
 Lead us to courage and a dauntless trust, 
 May we too wander by a turbid Thames 
 As if its waters were the rippling Lee. 
 
 r^7] 
 
TO-DAY 
 
 THERE is a precious flitting thing 
 Almost unknown to fame, 
 Though gentle poets often sing 
 Its pleasing antiquated Spring, 
 Or tell its coming aim, 
 'Tis rarely that these poets wing 
 Their rhymes, to greet this outcast king 
 When Present is its name. 
 
 They sing of happiness gone by. 
 They tell of sorrows past, 
 
 And olden days they beautify. 
 
 And olden ways they dignify. 
 
 And old-time thoughts recast ; 
 
 This living moment they outfly 
 
 Of future hours to prophesy — 
 A future proud and vast. 
 
 [28] 
 
TO-DAY 
 
 And we who are not poets too 
 
 This wistful hour disdain ; 
 Old Yesterday we would renew. 
 And false To-morrow would pursue, 
 
 To-day smiles here in vain. 
 Until it goes with sad " Adieu," 
 To join the Yesterday we rue. 
 
 Too late we cry, " Remain ! " 
 
 [^9] 
 
WHILE WE SLEEP 
 
 WHILE we sleep (we think the world sleeps with us !) 
 Through the moist brown earth the mushroom 
 grows, 
 In the dark it spreads its faery table : 
 
 Night-time knows 
 All the witchcraft of the spider's weaving, 
 Proves his kinship with that spinner rare. 
 Hanging dewdrops in his web of gauze threads, 
 
 Light as air. 
 
 While we sleep (imagining Life sleepeth ! ) 
 There's a flower opens in delight, 
 Yields the fragrance of its snowy blossom 
 
 To the night; 
 But when tfee hardier flowers lift and waken. 
 When earth greets again the gairish day. 
 Then the midnight cei*eus, blighted, drooping. 
 
 Fades away. 
 
 [3°] 
 
WHILE WE SLEEP 
 
 While we sleep (lost in unconscious dreamland !) 
 
 Rises soft the crescent moon afar, 
 
 Close companioned is she by the wondrous 
 
 Morning star: 
 Gleams a pageant, amber, rose, and lilac, 
 Upward is night's sombre curtain drawn 
 For the lucid, opalescent marvel 
 
 Of the dawn. 
 
 [31] 
 
(In Patris Memoriam) 
 
 GREAT men of science say we vainly dream 
 When hoping for a life beyond this soil, 
 Or that reward will crown our ceaseless toil ; 
 They say, " We do not know." And it doth seem 
 To these revealers of Earth's mighty scheme 
 A poorer faith to trust, than to recoil 
 From hope unproved. They hold, in life's turmoil 
 To wait at peace, though blind, the hour supreme. 
 
 In doubt I mused on one whom Death had claimed : 
 
 Now, when I die, he may not welcome me 
 
 I sighed. . . . Across my brain a mean thought brushed, 
 
 A buzzing petty thing I swiftly shamed. 
 
 For suddenly I knew his soul was free 
 
 To read my thought, and in the dark, I blushed. 
 
 [3^] 
 
THE PRIVILEGED HOUR 
 
 I 
 
 UP Lustleigh Cleave I went one summer eve, 
 And as I climbed I met a child at play 
 Of whom I asked " What is a cleave ? " 
 Then through that pleasant Devon way, 
 Through uplands strewn with giant stone. 
 With granite boulders rent and overthrown. 
 She guided me. 
 
 " Some one up there," she said. 
 And heavenward went her eyes, in childhood's vague 
 
 surmise, 
 " I think he scattered something here." 
 I answered, " Mere rough rocks, I fear." 
 Perplexed but confident she shook her head : 
 " Oh — not rocks then ! " she chided me. 
 Thou never failing mystery 
 In which a child can wrap this earth 
 From doubt, from chill of unbelief, this earth 
 Of grievous death, of ever-hopeful birth ! 
 
 [33] 
 
THE PRIVILEGED HOUR 
 
 II 
 
 Within my heart 
 
 That peaceful eve, on Lustleigh Cleave, 
 
 All turned to revery apart ; 
 
 I looked not back, but down, upon the past. 
 
 Breathing an ampler air, I felt a thrill 
 
 Of memory; just as each tor-crowned hill 
 
 Against the opal sky, then seemed so near 
 
 My hand might reach them, past days did appear, 
 
 And all as clear. 
 
 As chalets on a mountain, when a cloud 
 
 Breaks, and they stand rain-washed and proud, 
 
 So clear — each vanished year! 
 
 Then thoughts that warred and struggled seemed to be 
 
 United in a brotherly amity, 
 
 Their jangled notes fell into harmony. 
 
 Then questions answered were. 
 
 Wheat garnered from the tare j 
 
 And routed Wherefore fled outcast, 
 
 Though mocking to the last. 
 
 [34] 
 
THE PRIVILEGED HOUR 
 
 III 
 
 Why vainly should I grieve 
 Because I knew Life was a passing thing. 
 As swift and transient as the eagle wing, 
 That floated high above the fading moor, 
 'Neath Lustleigh Cleave ? 
 For Life fulfils its purpose ; none so poor 
 That He will scorn. Do not His words proclaim 
 Eagle and ant the same ? 
 The busy little ant, close by my feet. 
 As needful in his scheme, as all complete 
 As soaring eagle in the cloud-piled sky ? 
 Then suddenly it seemed that I 
 Was freed a hitherto harsh bond. 
 No more a slave or victim, but a fond 
 And erring child, I crept unto His knee ; 
 No longer dark my onward pathway lay. 
 Since flowers He made to bloom, and birds to sing, 
 Since night and day. 
 
 Sad man may hear this joyous welkin ring. 
 His flowers, His birds. His world, why were they not 
 for me ? 
 
 [35] 
 
THE PRIVILEGED HOUR 
 
 IV 
 
 Clear sight was mine, an hour privileged ! 
 
 Then happiness 
 
 No longer seemed a Golden Fleece to pique 
 
 Our eagerness, 
 
 A Nibelungen treasure, far to seek. 
 
 In every breast it lies, a garden fair, 
 
 Unhedged, 
 
 Free as the universal air. 
 
 Though some there go who have no eyes to see. 
 
 And some have sight but for one hour, ah me ! 
 
 An hour's reprieve, a Lustleigh Cleave ! 
 
 And some who, learned grown in worldly lore, 
 
 Tiresias-like, too closely scrutinize 
 
 This bit of heaven in disguise. 
 
 And straight are stricken blind, and see no more ; 
 
 Still are there others, those we call the seers, 
 
 Who guard this golden inner light for years. 
 
 [36] 
 
THE PRIVILEGED HOUR 
 
 Though swiftly sped my hour and left 
 Me sore bereft, 
 
 Though meagre thoughts again were mine, 
 And faltering design, 
 Yet to my soul was then confided 
 A trust inviolate that since hath guided 
 With voice benign. 
 
 For like the patriarch Isaac, who at eve 
 Oft sought the pensive fields to meditate, a bower, 
 A field apart have I, 
 A memory I know will never die. 
 Serene as solitude it waits at rest. 
 Within its narrow span it holds my best — 
 A single hour 
 
 That from the thousands dead, found strength to raise 
 its head. 
 
 [37] 
 
THE PRIVILEGED HOUR 
 
 VI 
 
 Wisely that happy little child, 
 
 Her fancies of the world did weave. 
 
 At play upon thy Devon wild, 
 
 O Lustleigh Cleave ! 
 
 And since that summer day I too believe. 
 
 Not with an alien eye I look 
 
 On mystics who have shut life's active book. 
 
 And isolated on the mountains pray ; 
 
 A kindling ray 
 
 Has taught me sympathy with all who bend the knee, 
 
 With joyous carol, or with plaintive plea. 
 
 Whether in Trappist cell they kneel. 
 
 Or Eastern mosque. 
 
 All are found worthy in the end I feel. 
 
 If from the heart rises the holocaust. 
 
 Though some may call Him Nature, the Ideal, 
 
 His mind, all-knowing, reads beneath the name, 
 
 The vague and hidden aim. 
 
 In the true brotherhood of those who think and dream, 
 
 Who upward yearn with prayer, or strife 
 
 Incessant, therein lies the gleam. 
 
 The bond that binds us to His perfect Life. 
 
 [38] 
 
THE PRIVILEGED HOUR 
 
 vn 
 
 O Lustleigh Cleave that brought my hour to me, 
 
 O desolate wan scene, the Druid's old demesne. 
 
 Mist-hid thy hills and streams may be. 
 
 And others find thee not so fair to see ! 
 
 For one, thou art the outward sign of grace. 
 
 Of that sweet inward grace, man's restless soul doth trace 
 
 Through level deserts of material things. 
 
 O soaring wings 
 
 Whereon I rose to heights above my power! 
 
 radiant remnant of a dower. 
 Inherited from far and lofty lineage ! 
 White-gleaming landmark ! thou dost show 
 The skyward path that I, so low 
 
 Here on the ground, now desolate. 
 Once mounted in my pilgrimage 
 To thy high state : 
 The vast Eternal through this gate 
 
 1 sought, the Inaccessible through this portico. 
 Ah, when at last we pierce the veiling haze. 
 The luring mystery of the inner shrine. 
 Then shall we know, ah, then shall we divine, 
 
 [39] 
 
THE PRIVILEGED HOUR 
 
 Why He hath hidden His almighty ways 
 From our close-prying sceptic gaze ; 
 Then shall we praise 
 His wisdom infinite, His great design ! 
 
 [4°] 
 
A BOAST AND ITS ANSWER 
 
 DELIGHT, and love, and song, and ecstasy, 
 ril write in golden letters on the sky, 
 And gloom, and fear, and hate, and misery. 
 In the earth's centre buried deep will lie, 
 When I am King. Oh, what a world 'twill be ! 
 
 What will poor sparrows do when peacocks sing ? 
 When thunder never rolls, no rainbow span ! 
 When tears mean joy, sweet sympathy, take wing ! 
 When June is endless, fly, dear hope, from man ! 
 A stupid world 'twill be, when you are King ! 
 
 [41] 
 
PEASANTS CLIMBING TO MURREN 
 
 ALOFT we climb, aloft, aloft ! 
 We leave the troubled vale below, 
 The tumbling rivulets rave and flow, 
 The fretting cataracts downward go. 
 
 Aloft we climb, aloft ! 
 And sweet and clear our lilts we sing, 
 And far and far our yodels fling. 
 And wide and wide the echoes ring. 
 Aloft we climb, aloft ! 
 
 Through fields we mount, by chalets lone. 
 By rustling oak, by startling birch, 
 A single bird chants from his perch, 
 Mid groves of larch, the Alpine church 
 
 Calm worship claims her own. 
 Faint grows the troubled vale below. 
 The tumbling rivulets rave and flow. 
 The fretting cataracts downward go ; 
 
 Aloft we climb, aloft ! 
 
 [4^] 
 
PEASANTS CLIMBING TO MURREN 
 
 Zigzag we mount, pass and repass, 
 The woods are spent, the rocks are bare, 
 Steep is the way, but keen the air. 
 The snow gleams white, and almost there 
 
 Led on by waiting, loving lass, 
 Aloft we climb, aloft, aloft ! 
 And sweet and clear our lilts we sing, 
 And far and far our yodels fling. 
 And wide and wide the echoes ring. 
 
 Aloft we climb, aloft ! 
 
 r43] 
 
MOMENTS 
 
 SOMETIMES when we stretch our finite vision 
 To the stars, we tremble at the thought — 
 Countless years their light hath hither travelled, 
 
 Ages, fought 
 Strenuous cleaving pathway through the ether ! 
 Breathlessly we picture nameless spheres 
 Whose white radiance never yet has reached us, 
 -^on-years ! 
 
 Sometimes when we pause in midmost ocean, 
 
 Watch unlimited the darkness spread. 
 
 While the tearing, shuddering vessel thunders. 
 
 We are led 
 To an altar of a deep thanksgiving 
 That a pygmy mortal still may hold 
 Safe his way, mid vast unconquered powers 
 
 Manifold ! 
 
 [44] 
 
MOMENTS 
 
 Or at times upon a mountain summit, 
 Viewing town and hamlet, lake and stream, 
 Sometimes then we faintly feel a portent. 
 
 Touch a dream ; 
 Wake, to find again that we know nothing. 
 Age has followed age with dreams the same ! 
 We are insects beating wings of tissue 
 
 Round a flame. 
 
 [45] 
 
ET EGO IN ARCADIA! 
 
 OF all the sad things in this world that are, 
 The saddest is a lonely heart in Spring, 
 Lone as a tawny thrush with broken wing. 
 Silent, when woodlands sing. 
 
 [46] 
 
METAPHYSICS 
 
 FROM early ages men have tried to read 
 The world and human destiny : in vain 
 By vv^ater, fire, or numbers they explain 
 The universe. Each, from a varying need, 
 Cries — " Here is truth ! " The vaunted pathways lead 
 To phantom bridges that can bear no strain. 
 Illusive deeps these mariners attain. 
 Where circles circles endlessly succeed. 
 
 A lesson could they learn of him who drew 
 The famed Last Supper, on a convent wall. 
 Still potent, though in ruin. Since he knew 
 How futile was the effort to inthrall 
 His archetype, he made man's image true, 
 But left unfinished the chief Head of all. 
 
 [47] 
 
A BALLAD OF THE LOIRE 
 
 (Ballade a Double Refrain) 
 
 FRANCE in her garden of Touraine 
 With vine and orchard casts her spell, 
 With fields of flax, and lands of grain. 
 With castle, spire, and citadel. 
 White solemn towns like monks in cell ; 
 And past them all, with dashing spray, 
 Or languid, lazy, lilting swell. 
 On rolls the Loire to Biscay Bay. 
 
 Flowing from hills of mist and rain, 
 In far Le Puy, it heard the bell 
 Ring from that high basaltic chain 
 With castle, spire, and citadel j 
 Bordered with gorse and asphodel. 
 By Blois and her road-stairways gay, 
 Sliding through arches parallel. 
 On rolls the Loire to Biscay Bay. 
 
 [48] 
 
A BALLAD OF THE LOIRE 
 
 Chaumont, Amboise, and Tours, in vain 
 Woo it to linger, each to tell 
 She is the loveliest in its train 
 With castle, spire, and citadel ; 
 Mirror for Cinq Mars' sentinel. 
 Brooding on that grim sphinx astray, 
 Dreaming of things that once befell 
 On rolls the Loire to Biscay Bay. 
 
 Envoy 
 
 Prince : be you true or infidel 
 With castle, spire, and citadel. 
 Though Time and Ruin clmm you prey 
 On rolls the Loire to Biscay Bay. 
 
 [49] 
 
TOURAINE SONNETS 
 
 THE STAIRCASE OF BLOIS 
 
 HERE up and down went kings and queens in gold 
 And damask, echoes of their pageant days 
 Still haunt this stairway ; past these empty bays 
 Flit ghosts that should in marble tombs lie cold. 
 'Tis here the palace-building prince enrolled 
 His salamander, in a wondrous maze 
 Of lovely images ! Intrigues, displays. 
 And tales of crime, these worn gray steps withhold ! 
 
 Unknown the carver of this gem may be ; 
 
 Surely its fair design is worthy him 
 
 Who thought a king for patron not amiss : 
 
 The great Da Vinci found beside the sea. 
 
 One day, a wave-washed shell (so 'tis my whim 
 
 To fancy) from whose spiral whorl grew this. 
 
 [50] 
 
TOURAINE SONNETS 
 
 II 
 
 SUNSET AT CHAUMONT 
 
 A scorching heat had burned the fields of hay, 
 And shrunk the Loire within dull banks of sand ; 
 Whitened with dust I sighed : Is this the land 
 Where Francis rode with feast and roundelay ? 
 Did wily Catherine, from her casement-bay 
 Watch her weak lord, a falcon on his hand, 
 Hunting with dark Diane, this woodless strand ? 
 Is castled history so parched and gray ? 
 
 But when from Chaumont's cliff I saw the sun, 
 Beyond the river sink, a crimson sphere. 
 Faint grew the days when noble or high dame 
 Strolled this fair court ; as if to honor one, 
 A wandering prince of Art, who lingered here, 
 The royal sunset flamed in Turner's name. 
 
 [;■] 
 
TOURAINE SONNETS 
 
 III 
 
 CHENONCEAU 
 
 In the long gallery that spans the stream 
 
 At Chenonceau, walked Mary when a bride, 
 
 Mary of Scotland, in her youthful pride 
 
 As queen, and there she dreamed her radiant dream 
 
 Of early love, and her white life did seem 
 
 To stretch enticing as the river side 
 
 In all its sunny loveliness. No guide, 
 
 Alas, to counsel her mid snare and scheme ! 
 
 " Adieu, charmant paye de France," she sang. 
 Watching the low-hung Norman coast recede : 
 Far north in her bleak castle when the wind 
 Swept down from Arthur's Seat did not a pang 
 Of longing come for distant Cher's gay mead. 
 For days of simple faith, untortured mind ? 
 
 [5^] 
 
TOURAINE SONNETS 
 
 IV 
 
 JOAN AT CHINON 
 
 When travel-stained Joan an audience prayed 
 Of Charles, another served as king, to be 
 Her test, and sceptic lordlings thronged to see 
 The peasant girl's defeat ; but unafraid 
 She, for a space, the dazzling court surveyed. 
 Then going to the true king, bowed her knee : 
 " O gentle Dauphin ! God is pleased to free 
 Your captive France through poor Joan the Maid." 
 
 " But yonder is the king ! " cried Charles, in fear. 
 
 Joan uplifted eyes of purest trust : 
 
 "'Tis you, my Prince, must wield the sword I bring,' 
 
 She answered, led by vision-guide as clear 
 
 As is a certain voice called conscience, just 
 
 Firm voice that leads as well a languid king 
 
 [53] 
 
SONG 
 
 HEIGH-HO ! the sun shines 
 In this heart-happy May. 
 And the bobolink sings. 
 And my heart is as gay, 
 And the columbine swings ! 
 And each shy little leaf 
 DofFs her cloak, noon is brief. 
 Heigh-ho ! the sun shines ! 
 
 Ah me ! the rain falls ! 
 And the song-thrush is dumb. 
 And the woodlands are drear, 
 And the blight time has come : 
 Every joy leaves a tear 
 Just as roses — a thorn. 
 Just as eve follows morn. 
 
 Ah me ! the rain falls ! 
 [54] 
 
SONG 
 
 3 
 
 Wake ! while the sun shines ! 
 Jocund Spring, fickle sprite, 
 With the foam-flower flies. 
 Wings its radiant flight 
 When the fawn-lily sighs, 
 Soon November will bring 
 Chilling frosts, then in Spring, 
 
 Wake ! while the sun shines ! 
 
 [55] 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 THE olden Prophets bore no loftier name 
 Than thine, O Poet of the peaceful hills ! 
 Whose inward eye found bliss in daffodils. 
 Austerely pure, remote from sordid aim. 
 The lowly ones of earth from thee could claim 
 Impassioned contemplation. Thy word refills 
 The sinking lamps of wayfarers, and stills 
 Their flickering light to burn a constant flame. 
 
 And when the fretting cities warp and bind 
 With customs, lifeless as the desert sand, 
 When scentless droop the lily and the rose. 
 Then is thy " mountain atmosphere of mind." 
 Thy steadfast quietude of heart and hand, 
 An oasis of luminous repose. 
 
 [56] 
 
RONDEAUS IN A LIBRARY 
 
 I 
 
 FRIENDS we can claim who neither change nor die, 
 Who rouse, who cheer, who soothe, who satisfy : 
 Whether true knight, or monkish chronicler. 
 Saint who loved bird and beast, bold voyager, 
 A slave of low estate, an Emperor high. 
 
 Courtier or peasant, each must justify 
 His right to enter here, must not belie 
 Fame's choice, till called by Time, (stern arbiter !) 
 
 Friends we can claim. 
 
 Yet from this treasure wantonly we fly ! 
 Nor list these voices brotherly that cry ! 
 We stumble on, and newer gods prefer; 
 The best is here, the great Past's messenger. 
 But with impatient sigh we still deny 
 
 Friends we can claim ! 
 
 [57] 
 
RONDEAUS IN A LIBRARY 
 
 II 
 
 THE ENGLISH POETS 
 
 Bird choristers thrive in this fair domain, 
 Here happy warblers trill, and doves complain. 
 Larks soar and sing, a " moon-tranced nightingale " 
 Floods for one short-lived hour the breathless vale, 
 And pensive pew^ees sound a thoughtful strain ; 
 
 Here graceful mocking-birds true voices feign. 
 Here thrushes in the w^ood high notes attain 
 Of rich cathedral music, all — we hail 
 
 Brave choristers ! 
 
 There is one songster holds supremest reign. 
 And when he sings, then other songs are vain, 
 Before his harmonies all rivals pale : 
 It seems as if the tenderest birdling frail 
 Lodged in an eagle's breast; of joy, of pain 
 
 Chief chorister ! 
 
 [58] 
 
RONDEAUS IN A LIBRARY 
 
 III 
 
 Most sad but true, there are no friends so free 
 And stanch as they who make this silent plea : 
 No fret find here, no alienations dark ; 
 Perpetual youth is ours : would you but hark 
 To us — your ever steadfast comrades we ! 
 
 With us you sail the skies, you hold the key 
 That locks the universe, you taste the tree 
 Of knowledge, finite limitations mark 
 
 Most sad but true. 
 
 And would you know the inner man you see ? 
 Ask him his teaching sage ; what melody 
 Can thrill his soul ; what pilot steers his bark 
 To islands of the Blest ; his kindling spark. 
 The boundless soul shrinks to its choice, decree 
 
 Most sad but true. 
 
 [59] 
 
ON THE LAKE 
 
 (a summer day idyll) 
 
 I 
 
 YOUTH 
 
 (^She sings) 
 
 A 
 
 WAKEN with the day 
 As glad as leaves in May ! 
 Throw open wide thy arms to greet the sun ! 
 O lift the drooping flowers 
 That waste the early hours, 
 " Awake, ye laggards, for the day's begun ! " 
 
 And like the morning's bride. 
 All fresh and dewy-eyed, 
 
 O carol that the world is full of bliss, 
 O sing it sweet and near, 
 O sing it loud and clear, 
 
 " Was ever such a morn as brave as this ! " 
 
 [60] 
 
ON THE LAKE 
 
 So many things to love ! 
 
 Give thanks to One above, — 
 O let a joyous heart thy anthem be ! 
 
 So lavishly is given 
 
 The fairest gift of heaven — 
 Another perfect day He gives to thee ! 
 
 [6.] 
 
ON THE LAKE 
 
 II 
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 (^He muses) 
 
 At the edge of the lake slow we drift, side by side, 
 
 Cleaving straight through the heart of a pine tree we 
 
 glide ; 
 Even crags cannot hinder us, over we slip, 
 Lichened rocks float around us, and there on the tip 
 Of the cedar, a phantom bird prunes golden wings. 
 
 In the ripples he swings ! 
 Now, above and below us, the tender young sheen 
 Of the willows, encircling brown arches and green. 
 Making dim this our covert. All hushed is our bower ! 
 And your head on my heart like a wild apple flower. 
 While beneath us there quiver the blossoms of bay, — 
 — Oh, I wonder, if we are the shadows or they ! 
 
 [62] 
 
ON THE LAKE 
 III 
 
 REMONSTRANCE 
 
 " The gray is on my brow : 
 
 Too old for such as thou ! " 
 " O let my arms, like summer chaplets, bind ! " 
 
 " But sad for me is life, 
 
 Not feast, but earnest strife." 
 " 'Mongst rugged mountains, flowering valleys wind." 
 
 " I cannot lift my voice 
 
 At daybreak to rejoice." 
 « When birds are mated 'tis not both that sing." 
 
 " Nay, I should blight thy flower, 
 
 Should squander thy youth's dower." 
 " All thine to waste what heritage I bring ! " 
 
 " As transient as the May 
 
 Young love will pass away." 
 " When May is over, August still is fair." 
 
 "Soon will November come — 
 
 Ah, autumn chills benumb ! " 
 " But glows the hearth more warm in winter bare." 
 
 [63] 
 
ON THE LAKE 
 
 " Youth should find mate with youth : 
 
 Illusion and stern truth i 
 
 Have never yet kept friendship well, I fear." 
 
 " Ah, see that oak tree strong, 
 
 It proves thee in the wrong, 
 The happy blue-eyed grass has clustered near. 
 
 " Yield, Dear my Love, to me 
 
 Thy summer let me be — 
 Long years of summer that will never fade ; 
 
 Though this first joy may go, 
 
 Sing will my heart, I know. 
 If it find nest within the oak tree's shade." 
 
 [64] 
 
ON THE LAKE 
 IV 
 
 NOON 
 
 (^She sings) 
 
 Come from the sun, O you silly little water-flies ! 
 
 Here's a great o'erhanging ledge, just for you 'tis hewn ! 
 
 Darting so ceaselessly, flashing so restlessly. 
 
 Can you never pause to nap, a summer afternoon ? 
 
 Come from the sun, O you wilted yellow lily-head ! 
 Here's a cool broad lily-pad, under which to swoon, 
 Vie not with the golden sun, futile competition shun, 
 All but he should take a nap, a summer afternoon. 
 
 Come from the sun, O you giddy-pated humming bird ! 
 Here's a mass of honeysuckle, fragrant as the June. 
 Nay, flutter hitherward, not away thitherward, 
 Foolish little humming bird, humming in the noon. 
 
 Let down the curtains of your eyes, O my tired one, 
 Drowsily I'll sing to you, any lazy thing to you, 
 Happy could I bring to you, dream of silver moon. 
 Coolest dream I'd wing to you, this summer afternoon. 
 
 [65] 
 
ON THE LAKE 
 
 AFTERNOON 
 
 {She sings) 
 
 Hush, hush, O crickets shrill ! 
 
 Waving grasses, hush them still, 
 
 Murmur sleepily, like trees. 
 
 Grasses ! in this elfin breeze. 
 For my Love lies deep in slumber. 
 Sweetest moments would I number. 
 And would only have him wake again to greet the setting 
 sun. 
 
 Quiet, quiet, noisy rill ! 
 Muffling mosses, soothe it still ! 
 Placid water-cresses lull it 
 Quiet as the gold fish swimmeth, 
 Quiet as the lake-edge brimmeth, 
 
 For my Love lies deep in slumber. 
 
 Sweetest moments would I number, 
 
 And would only have him wake again to greet the setting 
 sun. 
 
 [66] 
 
ON THE LAKE 
 
 Peace, peace, O bumble-bee ! 
 
 Drop not here your velvet ball, 
 
 Back to shore, O rover free. 
 
 Where the honey flowers c:ill, 
 
 Waiting for your coronal ! 
 Here my Love lies deep in slumber, 
 Sweetest moments would I number. 
 And would only have him wake again to greet the setting 
 sun. 
 
 Gently, gently, fretting bird I 
 Breaking through the boughs. 
 Find your swinging nest unheard ! 
 Fold your wings ! Soft sleep endows 
 Even black unwinking eyes. 
 Shut them close and dream of skies 
 Deep and blue and zephyr-stirred ; 
 
 For my Love lies here in slumber, 
 
 Sweetest moments would I number. 
 
 And would only have him wake again to greet the setting 
 sun. 
 
 — The sultry summer sun, 
 Whose course is almost run, 
 
 — Awake ! — Awake ! My dearest one ! 
 
 [67] 
 
ON THE LAKE 
 
 Purl your loudest, little brook! 
 
 Shrill your songs, O crickets now ! 
 
 Leap, O fishes ! Ripple, lake ! 
 
 Little black-eyed bird, awake ! 
 
 Bumble-bee, your sweets forsake ! 
 
 Scatter blossoms, laurel bough ! 
 For my Love has waked from slumber, 
 (Sweet those moments will I number !) 
 For my dearest Love has raised his head to greet the 
 setting sun. 
 
 [68] 
 
ON THE LAKE 
 
 VI 
 
 AT TWILIGHT 
 
 (//<? sings) 
 
 I, to whom Love has tarried long in coming, 
 Faint-hearted grown, I meet him now with fear; 
 Loud is his knock, I dare not open to him ; 
 True is his voice, but questioning, I hear. 
 
 Once, long ago, I thought that I could claim Love, 
 Opened wide my portals, too soon called him mine ; 
 Fled he my threshold, fled, ah, who shall blame Love ! 
 Prisoned in a hemlock, hamadryads pine. 
 
 " Knock gently. Love, and silent take possession, 
 Lift up the latch, with courage enter here ! 
 I, to whom thou hast tarried long in coming. 
 Faint-hearted grown, I welcome thee with fear." 
 
 [69] 
 
ON THE LAKE 
 
 VII 
 
 LOVE-LATE-IN-LIFE 
 
 (^She sings in the moonlight) 
 
 Sometimes a day 
 Comes, dull and bleak, 
 Sunless and gray 
 As moorland creek : 
 
 O gray and bleak ! 
 
 But late toward eve 
 A glow will spread : — 
 Pomegranates cleave. 
 Gold heart and red : 
 
 O gold and red ! 
 
 A glorious surge 
 Will flood the sky. 
 From dimmest verge 
 To zenith high 
 
 Will flood the sky ; 
 
 [70] 
 
ON THE LAKE 
 
 Nor any cloud 
 Will mar the gold, 
 Intense and proud 
 The crimsons hold : 
 
 O red and gold ! 
 
 Bright days of sun 
 Have pageants too, 
 Whose colors run 
 The gamut through : 
 
 Each gleaming hue ! 
 
 None can outvie 
 In depth and glow 
 A late-lit sky ! 
 Ah, few can know 
 
 Such depth and glow ! 
 
 So long doth last 
 The wondrous light. 
 When eve is past 
 Still burns the night : 
 
 O rarest light ! 
 
 [7.] 
 
STONEHENGE 
 
 " /^ HAUNTING symbol deeper than the East, 
 V^^ Than Grecian temple, or dim Gothic nave, 
 What couldst thou tell of life in wood and cave. 
 The w^orship of the sun, the Druid feast ! 
 Who was thy mighty builder ? Who thy priest ? " 
 Rugged, austere, they never answer gave 
 Through centuries of calm, these boulders grave, 
 This silent tomb of some great Soul released ! 
 
 Amid wide reaches or fair field and fell. 
 Hearing the tinkle of the lazy sheep, 
 Breathing the fragrance of the yellow bloom. 
 The far Past lays his stern undying spell 
 Upon my spirit, and petty cravings sleep : 
 Infinitude holds here grim strife with doom. 
 
 [7z] 
 
THE POET'S VISITANT 
 
 THOU, half asleep, swayed by the deep 
 Flowing waters of thought on an unexplored sea, 
 Drifts a white sail, greets thee — " All hail 1 
 Poet-for-me ! " 
 
 Welcome thy guest, give of thy best ! 
 This ambassador sent from a king of high spheres 
 Thrills with his touch, rapture is such 
 Moves he to tears. 
 
 As when in dreams, falling one seems. 
 With a start one awakes from a world far away, 
 Back from delight, back to the night 
 Wide-eyed, astray j 
 
 So when he flies, ecstasy dies. 
 
 Thou canst lisp but a hint of the bliss thou wouldst tell ! 
 Jungfrau aglow. . . Gray fades the snow . . . 
 Eve rings the knell. 
 [73] 
 
THE POET'S VISITANT 
 
 Leaves he in wake, what we mistake 
 For a poem, oh, soulless and blind that we arc ! 
 Shorn of its bloom, cold as the tomb, 
 Light-lacking star. 
 
 Bud without scent, passion that's spent. 
 All — that is flitting and fleeting and fair. 
 Dew that the sun captured and spun 
 Crystal as air. 
 
 Comes he again ? None can say when ; 
 Unexpected, infrequent, this haphazard guest : 
 Fitful his choice, follow his voice, 
 
 Stern though the quest ! 
 
 Rain's tinted bow hides deep below 
 
 The dim base of its radiant joy-colored arch, 
 
 Treasures that lure men to endure 
 
 Hot sands that parch ; 
 
 Vanquished ? Ah, no ! onward they go 
 All their lives in a search for this deep-hidden mine; 
 Counterfeits scorn ; wait for a morn 
 Splendent, divine. 
 [74] 
 
A BUTTRESS NICHE 
 
 ALL may not reach the topmost niche in Art, 
 Nor all the keystone of the portal crown, 
 Still, in the lofty minster of renown 
 Are shrines well worthy of the striving heart. 
 Fair shrines there are on pinnacles apart. 
 Holding their king or saint in palmer's gown, 
 Unnoticed, till some passer of the town 
 On looking upward, cries, " O happy Art ! " 
 
 Whereon he dreams of long past joyous days. 
 When work was noble for itself alone. 
 Each leaf in shadow chiselled keen and fine 
 As leaf in sunlight ; sadly then he prays 
 With the deep yearning to the artist known — 
 " Ah, might a nameless buttress niche be mine ! " 
 
 [75] 
 
A DEATH-BED THOUGHT 
 
 FOR though it be not given me to know 
 Whither I go, 
 Though here on earth be not for me to find 
 
 Peace both for heart and mind, — 
 Fond heart that claims a sentient God its own, 
 
 Cold mind, aloof, alone. 
 Seeking with hollow eyes a phantom, truth ; 
 
 (Age all as blind as youth ! ) 
 Fond heart that cries, " Peace, peace, O restless brain. 
 
 Why mysteries profane ? 
 Yield to His love, submission brings repose ; 
 
 A flowering rose 
 Is faith, a wounding nettle, doubt ! " 
 
 Yet, O my soul, 
 
 'Tis under your control 
 To sink in rest or soar. Arise ! To strife ! 
 
 Through death to Life ? 
 
 Through death to Life ! 
 
 [76] 
 
SHAN VAN VOCHT 
 
 THERE'S a land over seas that I love, 'tis to me 
 Scarcely known, but as dear as to field-lark the lea, 
 And its song-notes can thrill me as no songs can do, 
 For its harp-strings have musical magic, and woo 
 To this land over seas — 
 Shan van vocht. 
 
 Fontenoy Is for me as a trumpet's arouse, 
 'Ninety-eight holds me true as v^^ith firmest of vows. 
 Oh, with links strong as iron, with chains light as gold, 
 I am bound to the land of my forefathers bold, 
 To the land over seas — 
 Shan van vocht ! 
 
 [77] 
 
SHAN VAN VOCHT 
 
 When an echo rings clear then I dream of Dunloe, 
 And where rivulets run of Avoca's sweet flow, 
 But the Boyne is the dearest ! O stream of my heart. 
 Is it strange that you haunted an exile apart 
 From his land over seas — 
 Shan van vocht ? 
 
 [78] 
 
THE CLERK OF LIMBURG 
 
 BACK in days of old, the Middle Ages, 
 Once there rose a certain sprightly music, 
 Far and wide rang out a merry singing, 
 Praised by all, but nameless was the maker 
 Of the ballads. 
 
 Youth and age together trilled and warbled, 
 Such a piping of gay songs and measures ! 
 Airy chants of glee and gladness sounded 
 Over Germany, with ceaseless carols 
 
 Night and morning. 
 
 Surely, thought the maids with bashful eyelids. 
 Humming ditties of sweet love and rapture. 
 Surely, debonair must be the songster. 
 With a lute hung o'er his velvet mantle ! 
 Might we see him ! 
 
 [79] 
 
THE CLERK OF LIMBURG 
 
 Unknown in the street they passed the minstrel, 
 He who made for them the blithesome verses; 
 Shuddering they passed him, gaunt and woful. 
 For the nameless minstrel was a leper. 
 
 Shunned, forsaken. 
 
 Shrouded in his cloak of gray all sombre. 
 Sounding his dread lazar bell for warning, 
 While the land rang with his joyous music. 
 Wandered that young clerk, alone and mirthless. 
 Broken-hearted. 
 
 Death-in-life he went ! The rosy maidens 
 Checked their songs and shivered as he passed them ; 
 Comely mothers crooning to their infants 
 Caught them to their breasts in sudden terror. 
 Lest he harm them. 
 
 Saddest of all tales, I think that leper's : 
 With a heart for love and feast and gladness, 
 Still to go through life, a banished outcast. 
 Peering in each passing face for welcome 
 Never given. 
 
 [80] 
 
DETACHMENT 
 
 ONE hour I soar, with buoyant life content, 
 The next, an Icarus with broken wing. 
 Through ways of mist and dreary fog I creep. 
 One hour of Spring's glad joyousness, I sing, 
 Of fleeting blossoms. Winter still must weep. 
 Of rainbow radiance, so swiftly spent ! 
 Why ever soar in vain ? 'Tis well to sleep. 
 With dim unseeing eyes through life to stray ; 
 Jaded and thwarted, what avails this fray ? 
 Ascent but makes the fall more swift and deep. 
 
 For I had found in wandering to and fro, 
 A friend to whom I told my inmost thought ; 
 I fancied, here at length is tranquil rest: 
 Till in his garden where calm peace was sought 
 I came unto a wall, obscure, unguessed, 
 For me impassable, a wall to show 
 [8.] 
 
DETACHMENT 
 
 The past between us, vain pretence at best. 
 Then friendship seemed to me a hollow reed 
 On which we blindly lean in hour of need, 
 And love — a Grail of fruitless bitter quest. 
 
 And since a restless, baffled day had killed 
 All sleep, I rose to watch the placid moon 
 Serenely smile on millions such as I. 
 Unmoved she hears complaint or cheerful tune ! 
 This same unfeeling moon now looks on high, 
 Naveless Beauvais, sad type of unfulfilled 
 Great destinies ; this self-same heartless sky 
 Bent over Herculaneum, when roared 
 The rocking mountain, belching death abroad, 
 And startled revellers fled with frighted cry. 
 
 Heartless she seemed, and therein lay the balm ! 
 
 For as I gazed I felt the iron power 
 
 Of Nature's pitiless, relentless sway 
 
 Bring back lost strength and quietude : to cower 
 
 [82] 
 
DETACHMENT 
 
 Because the skies were overcast and gray 
 
 Was a poor craven's part. Down dropped clear calm 
 
 From the impassive moon to light my way, 
 
 And with a happy confidence, I knew 
 
 Aiyself a thing as frail as morning dew, 
 
 A passing moment in Time's endless Day. 
 
 [83] 
 
TRUMPETS AND BELLS 
 
 Charles VIII. I will sound my trumpets ! 
 Cappon't. We will ring our bells ! 
 
 Florence, 1491 
 
 " T WILL sound my trumpets," 
 
 X Cries the World with pride — 
 " Deaden pity in the heart, 
 
 Take the stronger side ; 
 All shall smile and feel no joy. 
 
 Weep, and share no pain \ 
 One stern law shall rule the throng. 
 
 One grim judge arraign." 
 
 Answer brave, ye voices, 
 
 Firm, intrepid, true, 
 (Not the Many spur mankind. 
 
 But the gallant Few) 
 " Raise we then our heads on high, 
 
 Serve as sentinels ! 
 Blow your trumpets to the sky. 
 
 We will ring our bells ! " 
 
 [84] 
 
TRUMPETS AND BELLS 
 
 II 
 
 " I will sound my trumpets," 
 
 Cries out " Captain 111," 
 Laying siege unto the fort 
 
 Perched upon the hill — 
 " Summon all my vassals mean, 
 
 Range my serfs in line, 
 Vanquish in the end this queen. 
 
 Desecrate this shrine." 
 
 Ring out clear the answer. 
 
 Give it gladsome voice, 
 As in that sweet Tuscan town 
 
 Liberty made choice : 
 " ' Captive Good ' is free at last. 
 
 Strong her citadels. 
 Stout her gates. Blow wide your blast ! 
 
 We will ring our bells ! " 
 
 [85] 
 
TRUMPETS AND BELLS 
 
 III 
 
 " I will sound my trumpets," 
 
 Cries the Winter loud — 
 " Wrap the rivers, lakes, and seas 
 
 In perpetual shroud ; 
 Stiffen cataracts down the cliff. 
 
 Chill the bird on wing. 
 Freeze the mariner in his skiff. 
 
 Bury deep the Spring." 
 
 Listen for the answer 
 
 Underneath the snow ; 
 Tinkling comes a murmur, 
 
 Muffled, faint, and low : 
 " You may blow your trumpets," 
 
 Soft the snow-drop swells, 
 " You may blow your trumpets — 
 
 We will ring our bells ! " 
 
 [86] 
 
TRUMPETS AND BELLS 
 
 IV 
 
 ••' I will sound my trumpets," 
 
 Cries the tyrant Death — 
 "Serried ranks of all degrees 
 
 Mow down with my breath. 
 Wreck and war my henchmen are, 
 
 Planets can I blight 
 Even as I blast a star 
 
 In empyreal flight." 
 
 Hearken to the voices 
 
 Born this day on earth : — 
 " Far in chaos strife has raged. 
 
 Victory for Birth ! 
 Other stars will course the skies, 
 
 Life, Death's fate foretells." 
 " I will sound my trumpets ! " 
 
 " We will ring our bells ! " 
 
 [87] 
 
A POET ON HIS MISTRESS' BLUSH 
 
 DEEP in a wood, low in a glen, 
 Rises from quartz-rock a spring. 
 Twin-flowers flush, mirrored there. Hush ! 
 Quivers a cardinal wing — 
 Herald of joy ! 
 
 First blush of love, shy as a dove, 
 Dawns not more rosy and fleet 
 
 Close trembling near, dew-like, a tear, 
 Preluding sunrise. O sweet 
 Herald of joy ! 
 
 Harbinger rare ! thou dost prepare 
 Way from my sovereign to me, 
 
 Yet shall I sigh, greater bliss nigh. 
 
 First blush of rapture ! for thee — 
 Herald of joy ! 
 
 [88] 
 
INSOMNIA; COMPENSATIONS 
 
 IF I had slept, I should not know so well 
 The poets, nor that poignant sweetness heard, 
 " The earliest pipe of half-awakened bird." 
 Of waxing, waning moon, of sunrise spell. 
 The poet voice is always here to tell. 
 But I myself must learn his inner word. 
 Sleep from my brain one mighty form had blurred — 
 Majestic Blanc, arising gaunt and fell, 
 
 " O struggling zuith the darkness all the nighty 
 Jnd visited all night by troops of stars.'' 
 
 Nay, had calm rest been mine, I had not known 
 That moment, when, from picturing sheep that crept 
 " One after one," I suddenly awoke 
 To day's glad sounds, the rumbling wheel, the stroke 
 Of noon ; from haggard darkness, worn, alone, 
 To cry with keen delight — Ah, I have slept ! 
 
 " Sleep that knits up the raveWd sleave of care. . . . 
 Balm of hurt minds. . . . Chief nourisher in life's 
 feast ! " 
 
 [89] 
 
TENNYSON'S CHILD 
 
 WHILE a comet flamed the midnight heavens, 
 One of England's truest poets rose, 
 Roused his sleeping son from childhood's perfect 
 
 Deep repose, 
 
 Wrapt him in his arms against the darkness. 
 Loath to startle, fain would have him see ; 
 Straight the little child from drowsy dreamland 
 
 Wide and free. 
 
 Waked beneath the boundless vault of heaven, 
 Saw the trailing comet-light on high — 
 Nature's miracle of law's perfection 
 
 In the sky : — 
 
 Lifting eyes of wonder to his father. 
 Eyes that knew and loved the noble head 
 Bent above him, marvelling he whispered — 
 
 " Am I dead ? " 
 [90] 
 
TENNYSON'S CHILD 
 
 Child of genius, you have praised your Maker 
 Better than the mightiest hymns of man, 
 Pierced the husk that hides the fruiting promise 
 
 Of His plan: 
 
 When the dull earth upward casts her shadow, 
 Through the twilight of the world man goes. 
 Still o'erhead a cloudlet holds the rose tint ; 
 
 Childhood knows. 
 
 [91] 
 
THE RETURN TO HEALTH 
 
 AFIELD of poppies swaying in the breeze, 
 A flood of rapture bursting from the heart, 
 Springtime atop the newly budded trees, 
 O life, life, life, what is it that thou art ! 
 A choir of snow-peaks antheming on high, 
 The rush of waves and ripples up the shore. 
 Great billowy clouds that sweep across the sky. 
 The onward roll of rivers evermore, 
 A whirl of birds whose throats rain ecstasy. 
 More wild, more sweet, O life, art thou to me ! 
 
 Ah once, this joyous life deserted me. 
 And down the narrow path I watched him stray. 
 My outstretched arms implored, he would not stay. 
 But heedless left me, wan and ashen gray. 
 Alone to face the darkness and the strife. 
 'Twas then I knew how sweet was life, was life ! 
 'Twas then I cried, "A treacherous friend thou art 
 To woo my love, and having won, depart." 
 
THE RETURN TO HEALTH 
 
 And from the boundless waters we call death, 
 There crept around me close an icy breath, 
 And slowly, slowly ebbed my tide away. 
 
 But life came back ! This glorious, gladsome life ! 
 
 Bubbling with laughter, rippling o'er with glee. 
 
 Tossing his flower-like head in jubilee. 
 
 Springing across the tender turf as free 
 
 As fawn or hamadryad stepped of old. 
 
 Laden with joys, with promises untold. 
 
 Glad life came back, glad life came back to me I 
 
 A field of poppies swaying in the breeze, 
 
 A flood of rapture bursting from the heart. 
 
 Springtime atop the newly budded trees, 
 
 O life, life, life, what is it that thou art ! 
 
 A choir of snow-peaks antheming on high. 
 
 The rush of waves and ripples up the shore. 
 
 Great billowy clouds that sweep across the sky. 
 
 The onward roll of rivers evermore, 
 
 A whirl of birds whose throats rain ecstasy. 
 
 More wild, more sweet, O life, art thou to me ! 
 
 [93] 
 
LOST IDEALS 
 
 AS in far days the priests of Isis brought 
 A carved and gilded ship unto the shore, 
 And loaded it with spice, and pearls, and ore, 
 Then with fair hymns, this service having wrought, 
 Across the harbor bar the wide sea sought, 
 Where they, their votive ship, left in the roar 
 Of breakers, lonely ghost ne'er heard of more, 
 Wan spectre drifting in a search for naught : 
 
 So, eager youth sets sail a valiant heart 
 Freighted with gifts of dauntless faith, with gold 
 Of love, to find he hopes a happy mart. 
 Will he, white-vested priest, like those of old, 
 Desert his treasure ship, let it depart 
 Unpiloted, by stormy seas controlled ? 
 
 [94] 
 
ONCE ON A TIME 
 
 (a rondeau) 
 
 NCE on a time " are magic words for me ! 
 They sing of small glass slippers, Bluebeard's key, 
 Babes in a wood, a prince and princess fair, 
 Ogres and goblins, Two-shoes, Silver-hair, 
 And one lone duckling of swan pedigree. 
 
 And deep within this realm of Fancy Free, 
 Where men are ruled by famous laws of three. 
 That unknown thing — a chimney-sweep, could scare. 
 
 Once on a time. 
 
 There, in calm peace, good folk kept jubilee, 
 And when they died then far across the sea 
 To some half vague and sweet land, debonair. 
 Called Greece they went, and laid in ashes were, 
 A land that beckoned fair to you and me 
 
 Once on a time. 
 
 [95] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 (ONE ACT) 
 
 [97] 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Henri de la Rochejaquelein, commander-in-chief of the army 
 
 of the Vendee. 
 Stofflet, a gamekeeper, a general in his army. 
 Lagrange and Texier, peasant-soldiers in his army. 
 M. JouRDAiN, a celebrated scholar, also a physician. 
 Lorraine, his daughter. 
 
 [98] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 [Scene: the town of Bressuire — January^ ^794- ^^ 
 night in the house of Jourdain; in a room lined with 
 hooks the white-haired scholar is seated near a lamp^ read- 
 ing. At a little distance his daughter sits in a high arm- 
 chair^ her lute in her lap.~\ 
 
 Lorraine \_sings to herself ~\. 
 
 Eyes blue as paradise, 
 
 Wheat-yellow hair, 
 Shy as a girl who sighs. 
 
 Comely and fair. 
 
 Taught at his mother's knee, 
 
 God and the king. 
 Lives he for honor free, 
 
 He whom we sing ! 
 
 LofC. ^''^ 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 Cries he, " O follow me, 
 
 Who loves me true ! " 
 Cry we, " M'sieur Henri, 
 
 Die we for you ! " 
 
 JouRDAiN. Cease, cease, Lorraine ! Must I repeat 
 
 my words 
 Again and yet again ? Forget these songs. 
 Thou art no longer in thy convent, child, 
 But in thy father's house, and here the name 
 Of royalist is never heard. Forget 
 The nonsense taught thee by the nuns. 
 
 'Tis strange 
 You women ever take the noble's side. 
 Tinsel and glitter lure your weaker minds. 
 
 [i/<? again reads, 
 
 Lorraine \_a moment later sings thoughtlessly^ . 
 
 Eyes blue as paradise. 
 
 Wheat-yellow hair. 
 Shy as a girl who sighs, 
 
 Comely and fair. 
 
 Stately young paladin. 
 Gallant and just — 
 [loo] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 [^Loud knocking without. Jourdain rises.^ takes a 
 I'lght^ and goes towards a door which is seen in the 
 distance at the end of the hall. Lorraine fol- 
 lows^ and stands concealed by the portiere. ~^ 
 
 Jourdain. Who knocks at such an hour ? 
 
 Stofflet \ivithout'\ . Is this the house 
 Of Jourdain the physician ? 
 
 Jourdain. Yes, his house, 
 
 What would you here ? Why rouse you peaceful folk 
 In this late night, like wandering vagabonds ? 
 
 [i/<? throws open a window beside the door and holds 
 up his light to examine the strangers^ 
 
 Stofflet. Here's one, sore hurt, who needs your aid, 
 good sir. 
 Fear not, we bear no arms. I pray you, open. 
 Though peasants, we can pay you well. 
 
 Jourdain. What cares 
 
 Jourdain for paltry coin ! The day is past 
 Since gold has bought my skill ! Peasants, you say ? 
 With money in your purses ? Ho, a rough 
 Suspicious crew you look. Raise up your heads. 
 Show me the wounded man. — Come. Enter in ! 
 
 \He gruffly unbars the door. Enter Henri de 
 la Rochejaquelein, disguised as a peasant; 
 
 [lOl] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 Stofflet ; and Lagrange, who supports 
 Texier. Lorraine returns to the library^ 
 
 Henri \impulsively~\ . Your deed Is kinder than your 
 
 words, in truth ! 
 JouRDAiN. O ho, my stripHng, you would make me 
 kind ? 
 Then save your breath ! Kindness and all such play 
 I leave to weak aristocrats. I let 
 You enter here, because I have the power 
 To set your broken bones. But kindness — Ho ! 
 
 [JouRDAiN, in closing the window^ pauses to listen 
 as a troop of horsemen pass in the street beneath^ 
 with a rattle of musketry^ 
 
 Still after the young Brigand ! Soon, I trust. 
 The scoundrel hangs on high, and such as he 
 Who harry loyal citizens. Come, come. 
 
 \H.e leads the way to an inner room. Henri is 
 going with the others^ when Stofflet grasps his 
 arm.^ 
 
 Stofflet. M'sieur Henri, I pray you follow not ! 
 You heard his words. Go not within. This risk 
 [loz] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 You run Is rash, against all will of mine. 
 Stay here with me and guard the door. 
 
 Henri. Stofflet, 
 
 You mind me of our host, who growls, but does 
 His duty valiantly. No, let me go. 
 I would bring Texier courage in his pain. 
 
 Stofflet. M'sieur Henri, your life is our last hope. 
 
 Henri. Ah, bitter flattery ! 
 
 Lorraine [within the library^ sings to herself^ . 
 
 Taught at his mother's knee, 
 
 God and the King, 
 Lives he for honor free. 
 
 He whom we sing ! 
 
 Cries he, " O follow me. 
 
 Who loves me true ! " 
 Cry we, " M'sieur Henri, 
 
 Die we for you ! " 
 
 Peasant or noble leads, 
 
 He who is best. 
 Each feels his country's need, 
 
 Merit, our test. 
 [■°3] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 Rugged our land may seem, 
 
 Rocky Bocage, 
 Love we each ford and stream — 
 
 [She sees Henri at the open portiere^ and drops 
 her lute.l^ 
 
 Henri [advances']. Forgive my boldness in thus 
 entering here 
 Unbidden, gentle maid. But I was led 
 By what you sang. For I did think my host 
 Jourdain, the famous scholar, known throughout 
 The Vendee land as firm Republican, 
 The stanch friend of the Blues. 
 
 Lorraine. A moment past 
 
 My father chided me for my poor song ! 
 
 Henri. 'Twas only for its music that you sang ? 
 The words, the meaning, these were naught to you ? 
 
 Lorraine. It seems disloyal here, beneath his roof, 
 To differ from my father. Yet I must. 
 The only leniency that I can crave 
 Is that I lived among the nuns at Mans, 
 And find myself almost a stranger here : 
 I fear I shall offend you when I say, 
 Alas, I love the words beyond the tune. 
 
 [.04] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 Henri. Then he they call " Monsieur Henri " for 
 you 
 
 Is not a brigand ? 
 
 Lorraine. A name the Blues may give ! 
 But all my ballads call him paladin, 
 As valorous and just as those of old. 
 
 Henri. It is the vi^ay of ballads to extol 
 Their hero. Why should he be praised above 
 The thousands who have left, as well as he, 
 Castle or farm, to follow the true cause ? 
 
 Lorraine. O, you have used a word that makes me 
 think 
 That you may serve the lilies of our France, 
 You may be Royalist. I beg you tell 
 If you are friend or foe to our young chief, 
 Monsieur Henri ? 
 
 Henri. Both friend and foe ! Believe 
 
 Me, when I say, you overrate him far. 
 
 Lorraine. Though I have never seen him, still I 
 hold 
 He is the very soul of our Vendee, 
 Its earnest inspiration, its one hope. 
 And when he falls the stricken land falls too. 
 O, in my convent, there we loved him well. 
 One of my comrades had a brother, who 
 Had served the cause throughout the sad campaign 
 [>05] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 In Brittany ; and she could charm with tales 
 For hours together, tales her brother told. 
 Why, I can sing you full a dozen songs, 
 A dozen ballads of Monsieur Henri. 
 
 ^She snatches her lute^ and sings !^ 
 
 He is fearless. 
 He is peerless, 
 
 Henri that is ours ! 
 He our might is, 
 He our knight is, 
 
 Glad as summer flowers. 
 
 One-and-twenty smiles on him : 
 • Days will flit and days will skim. 
 Days will flee, for you and me, 
 Flashing eyes grow slowly dim. 
 Still we raise our fervent hymn, 
 Never rest a shadow grim 
 On M'sieur Henri. 
 
 Henri. It is his careless youth that steals their love ! 
 And of what value, praise that's won by youth ? 
 Could they withhold their loyal peasant hearts 
 
 [.06] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 Till Henri earned such frank unflattering trust, 
 Ah, were there time, he yet might prove a man. 
 For he has been till now a headstrong boy, 
 Lacking in foresight, judgment, in control. 
 
 Lorraine. Beyond the reach of carping idle words 
 My hero stands. You cannot sully him. 
 
 Henri. I would tear down your hero, but to shrine 
 One who can claim this title you ill-use. 
 Brave Cathelineau, the gentle wagoner 
 Who led us first, he of the shining brow, 
 Around whom crept the wounded, since to die 
 Near the sweet saint of Anjou was a joy. 
 They tell how Cincinnatus in his fields 
 Beyond the Tiber, leaning on his spade. 
 Received with dignity proud messengers, 
 How simply he did wipe his brow, and go 
 To govern Rome. As great, our general ! 
 He heard the first stray shots of war, one day 
 While kneading bread ; he left his homely task 
 And served as chief. 
 
 Lorraine. Erect and slim, Henri 
 
 First took command. Dauntless the eagle look 
 Within his eyes when to his men he cried : 
 " Friends, were he here, my father, you would have 
 Glad confidence. O may I worthy prove ! 
 When I advance, then on. But, if I flinch, 
 [•°7] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 Straight cut the craven down. And when I fall 
 Avenge me." And from the great deserted court 
 Beneath the moated castle of his race, 
 Like his forefathers of the Crusade days, 
 He led his peasants forth. 
 
 Henri. But none he left 
 
 Behind, to mourn his loss like brave Lescure, 
 Who had a wife he loved. From her, from books, 
 His cherished study, yet he tore himself; 
 And when they burned his castle to the ground. 
 He would not sack their captured towns, lest they, 
 The ruthless foe, should think it was revenge. 
 O, call Lescure your hero, not Henri. 
 Henri knew naught of war's stern discipline. 
 He led to battle as he would have led. 
 In peaceful days, the chase. Not like Lescure, 
 Well versed in tactics and in stratagems. 
 
 Lorraine. I pray you, tell me more about the men 
 Who love Monsieur Henri. 
 
 Henri. Say rather, men 
 
 Whom Henri loves, his rugged Vendee folk. 
 Whose lives are passed in patriarchal ways. 
 Who call their nobles Father, since no hand 
 Of grasping steward holds the guardianship. 
 No pay in war they claim, bloodshed they hate. 
 But striking for the cause of God and king, 
 [.08] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 They fight as tigers. Strict they are, and pious, 
 Each dofFs his cap before the wayside cross. 
 Although he pause amid an onward rush. 
 And when the shots are heard, the women, maids. 
 And children kneel in every field, to pray 
 For their brave men in danger. Oft 'tis said, 
 In pleasantry, that when you hear an oath, 
 Strike without doubt, it surely is a Blue. 
 
 Lorraine. Astray they seem in these grim times of 
 ours. 
 They and their gallant Lord ! They should have lived 
 When good King Louis held his saintly reign. 
 
 Henri. The very children bear the hearts of men. 
 And in the ranks are lads of fourteen years. 
 Young Mondyon had scarcely reached that age, 
 When, in a vanguard fight, near him he saw 
 Some cowardly lieutenant quit his post: 
 " You are not wounded, sir," he cried ; " now if 
 You go, I'll shoot you through the head. When we. 
 The leaders, quail, we shame our fearless men." 
 
 Lorraine. Monsieur Henri's true mettle ! When a 
 shot 
 Once struck his arm, unmoved he kept command. 
 " Merely a broken thumb," he said, although. 
 Since then, his arm hangs useless in a sling. 
 
 Henri. And every man within the ranks would do 
 [109] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 The same. Alas, I speak as if it still 
 Were possible ! O men that Henri loved, 
 Who were as his great children — all, all gone, 
 And his fair army broken, scattered, lost ! 
 Bonchamp is gone, and noble Cathelineau, 
 Dearest of all, Lescure ! And Hermine, 
 Who Bonchamp, dying, left to Henri's care. 
 The little lad who rode upon his horse. 
 Whose prattle cheered the men in darkest days. 
 Gone, gone ! Even Fallowdeer, his delicate 
 White horse, is dead. 
 
 Lorraine. Soon will my ballads grow 
 Too sad to sing. 
 
 ''^She sings. ~^ 
 
 On Fallowdeer he swept the land. 
 And gathered far and wide each band. 
 Fleet Fallowdeer knew his command, 
 M'sieur Henri ! 
 
 And when he captured foemen bold, 
 A single combat each could hold, 
 For well he loved the days of old 
 And chivalry. 
 
 [no] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 In battle's din when flagged our side, 
 He seized his cap and flung it wide : 
 " Who'll fetch it for me first ? " then cried 
 M'sieur Henri ; 
 
 And swift as arrow from the bow, 
 He rushed upon the conquering foe, 
 And as one man we followed through 
 To victory. 
 
 " No powder have we, woe betide ! " 
 Right blithely he our fears defied : 
 " The Blues have plenty of it ! " cried 
 M'sieur Henri. 
 
 But I can sing no more. 
 Songs ring not true unless the heart is gay. 
 A wanderer ! Defeat ! Ah, yet I know. 
 Even in defeat, when all is lost, Henri 
 Will bear a spirit that will not be broken. 
 
 Henri. But there has come to him in these last days, 
 A resignation, an unfailing portent 
 To tell the end is close. He would have chafed 
 Against defeat like a wild steer, a short 
 
 [MI] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 Time since ; but, now I know not how it is, 
 Of late he has had thoughts that strengthen him, 
 And he has faced his failure. Though not wise, 
 Like his dear friend Lescure, who well could put 
 In words his lightest thought, Henri has felt 
 Perhaps 'tis for the best his cause is doomed. 
 For when he thinks of the long days to come. 
 The stretching years, the untold centuries. 
 When he will count but as a moment's space, 
 He tells himself. Flash in that moment's space 
 As bravely as you can, but fret not, leave 
 The rest to God. 
 
 Lorraine. And no regret he feels ? 
 
 Henri. Regret he has passed through. His sole 
 regret 
 Is, now that wider judgment is his own. 
 He cannot serve his needy land therewith. 
 Unthinking he has led his eager men, 
 Belied himself by weak-held discipline. 
 Could he be tried again, he would be found 
 A better general. Yet, had success 
 Been his, this patient creed would be unlearned. 
 
 Lorraine. You draw for me a new Monsieur Henri, 
 A Henri that the ballads sing not of. 
 O is there none to solace him, not one ? 
 He who could win as bride the noblest maid 
 
 [I.Z] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 In our fair France, is there no steadfast maid 
 To cheer him, when his soul is overcast ? 
 
 Henri. Too late has Henri thought of gentle maids. 
 And all the unexplored pure happiness 
 Their comradeship could give. So late almost 
 Upon his fingers he can count, the few 
 Sweet moments since his heart has turned to one. 
 No. Never has a woman smiled on him. 
 
 Lorraine. Faithless I call the friend who says so false 
 A thing ! And you who look as true — 
 
 [^She suddenly startsJ\ 
 
 This fire 
 Glows warm. I beg you lay aside your cloak. 
 
 [Henri carelessly drops his cloak to the ground^ ex- 
 posing his right ar?n hanging in a sling ; on his 
 breast is sewed the badge of the Vendee army^ a 
 red heart.^ 
 
 Lorraine. Monsieur Henri ! 
 
 Henri. Fain would I spare you this. 
 
 I too have learned how sad a thing it is 
 To lose ideals ; and you, who cherished yours 
 With such intrepid noble confidence, 
 [■'3] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 To find, alas, this dire reality, 
 
 A poor shred, a mockery of what you dreamt. 
 
 Monsieur Henri most humbly craves forgiveness. 
 
 Lorraine. 'Twas even now I wondered, could there 
 be 
 Two Henris here in France, two such as thou. 
 
 Henri. O kindly maiden, thou wilt make me grieve 
 To leave this earth that hath no need of me. 
 Had I not entered here this night, to-morrow 
 I would have welcomed death, my heart untrammelled ; 
 Now, life grows dear again. 
 
 Lorraine. Why art thou sure 
 
 Thy fate must be so harsh ? Hast thou no hope ? 
 
 Henri. None, none. For I am hounded through 
 the land. 
 This bleak Vendee, all burnt and desolate, 
 Whose only music is the moaning wind. 
 And cries of cattle, homeless in the waste. 
 A wretched handful of our faithful men 
 Lurk in the forest of Vezin, our bed 
 A hut of withered boughs. Each morn I rise, 
 I say. We shall not look again on this 
 Once fair Bocage. No, no. It is too late. 
 
 Lorraine. Monsieur Henri knows not his worth, to 
 think 
 Our genial land hath now no need of him. 
 [■■4] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 Henri. He knows he must not harbor treacherous 
 hope. 
 Nay, I have had a vision of this end : 
 Last night I tossed in pain and impotence, 
 When suddenly above the black-massed hill 
 I saw a gleam of light : The dawn at last, 
 I sighed. But not the dawn. There rose instead 
 A saffron-colored segment, cloud-begirt. 
 That caught its radiance in the pool-flecked marsh, 
 And in one special mere rained down its light. 
 So I, who thought to welcome death, the dawn 
 I longed for, sadly greet this moon of love. 
 
 Lorraine. 'Tis strange, last night, I saw that very 
 moon. 
 It rose so silently, so still and swift 
 That I did marvel at it. And as it rose 
 Its light grew more intense, till all the clouds 
 Lay far beneath, and without flaw it shone. 
 Because, I see it now, though then I knew 
 It not, because it drew frank fearlessness 
 From one clear pool that spread its heart below. 
 
 Henri. But soon the tardy dawn, once longed for, 
 came. 
 And then I lost my moon. 
 
 Lorraine. 'Twas thou wert blind, 
 
 For it was there, although thou could'st not see it. 
 [i'5] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 I was taught by the good nuns at Mans 
 That after death there is a life beyond, 
 
 A Hfe so rare and beautiful, it seemed 
 A puzzling thing that even they who told 
 Of this far land, should still have feared to go. 
 And thou too, hast this happy faith of mine, 
 For I have heard that when Monsieur Henri 
 Entered the fray, he made, unseen, the sign 
 Of our dear Lord's true cross upon his breast. 
 If there is life beyond, why should we grieve ? 
 The moon is there, although we see it not. 
 
 Henri. And thou wilt not forget that here on earth. 
 To this poor Henri, wandering in defeat, 
 A driven outcast whom your father scorns. 
 To him thou gav'st in pledge thy gentle troth ? 
 
 Lorraine. To my one hero, to my lord Henri — 
 He who has taught me what true manhood is. 
 
 Henri [^timidfy~\ . Ah, dost thou find me somewhat like 
 thy dream ? 
 
 Lorraine. Beyond desire my fancies have come 
 true. 
 For, once I dreamt — but what are maidens* dreams ? 
 A few vague shadows that will never be ! 
 
 1 think we are as birds that come and peep 
 Within the casement, and then fly away, 
 And hardly know what they have seen within. 
 
 [.i6] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAgUELEIN 
 
 Henri. For if they pried too close they would be 
 caught, 
 And ever after live vi^ithin a cage, 
 Even if a golden one. Thus vi^ould I snare 
 A timid bird and hold her in my heart. 
 
 Lorraine. Thy golden cage than gladdest liberty ! 
 O, I w^ould rather rest a fluttering bird 
 Within thy cage, than float a speck of joy 
 Over v^ild seas ! 
 
 Henri. Was that thy dream ? 
 
 Lorraine. The past 
 
 Is now as if it never were. Some one 
 There was who bore the name Lorraine, who sat 
 Within her father's library, or strolled 
 Behind the convent walls, and plucked a rose, 
 And wondered what could lie without the walls : 
 There once was such a one, but in far days. 
 Since when her dreams have grown realities. 
 
 Henri. Bold, all-possessing are the dreams of men, 
 But never thought of man could match, could know 
 The perfectness of this. 
 
 Lorraine. Thou too hast dreamt ? 
 
 Henri. Forgotten is my past, erased like thine. 
 This present only lives. 
 
 [Lorraine draws aside^ and tremhlhigly touches 
 her lute^ 
 
 ['■7] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 Ah, do not move, 
 But let my memory, now molten, fix 
 Thy image thus ! So shall I see thee stand 
 In days to come, thy hand upon thy lute. 
 
 Lorraine. Then will I sing thee one more memory ^ 
 The saddest and the sweetest song I know. 
 Not quite a song, but words I sing in tune ; 
 And when discouragement doth come to grieve 
 Thy faith, thou wilt remember it and me. 
 
 \_She sings. '\ 
 
 Better to be a crystal and be broken 
 Than dull clay like a tile upon the roof. 
 Better to put thy courage, doubtful-hearted, 
 Unto the proof. 
 
 O in success there often lurks a failure 
 That feeds upon the soul in hidden shame, 
 And in defeat there sometimes rests a triumph 
 Greater than fame. 
 
 \_Outside^ loud excited voices are heard; hurryijig 
 steps in the hall. Lagrange, with Texier, 
 rushes past the door. Enter Stofflet, hastihP^ 
 [..8] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 Stofflet. Monsieur Henri, haste, haste, for we are 
 known ! 
 A careless word of Texier's gave the clew, 
 And with the cry of " Brigands " he has gone 
 To rouse the garrison. There yet is time 
 To fly, but haste ! The others are gone on ! 
 
 [Henri waves him back^ and turns to Lorraine.] 
 
 Henri. And have I only found thee but to say 
 Farewell ? Then fare thee well, true heart. I shall 
 Remember thee and thy brave words forever. 
 I pray thee lay thy hand upon my head 
 In peaceful benediction. I am thy knight 
 Henceforth, if thou'lt accept for servitor 
 One who can bring no trophies with his love. 
 
 [//.? kneels and raises her hand to his brow.'] 
 
 Lorraine. No jewelled sleeve, no banner can I give, 
 Henri, my dauntless knight. Ah, when thou art 
 In heaven, I fear thou wilt forget me soon. 
 Swear thou wilt not. Nay, promise naught. I would 
 Not bind thy soul, just freed its weary earth. 
 Thou art so true, Henri, that thou wouldst keep 
 Thy word, even if in heaven were maids so fair, 
 [■■9] 
 
HENRI DE LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN 
 
 The loveliest here were but a sorry choice. 
 No promise. But when with the seraphs thou 
 Art radiant as they, if thou shouldst then 
 Remember me, I shall be waiting here. 
 
 ^Reenter Stofflet : he places Henri's cloak on 
 his shoulders.'] 
 
 Stofflet. M'sieur Henri ! 
 
 [Henri goes with him : at the door he turns to look 
 back : Lorraine smiles bravely^ touches her lute 
 and sings as they gaze at each other. '\ 
 
 Lorraine. And in defeat there sometimes rests a 
 triumph 
 
 Greater than fame. 
 
 [Curtain falls.'] 
 
 Henri de la Rochejaquelein, shot by a Blue in the forest of Vezin, 
 January 28, 1794. 
 
 [120] 
 
NOTES 
 
 Page 27 
 ^-^Js if its waters were the rippling Lee." 
 See Wordsworth's sonnet on Isaac Walton : — 
 
 " He found the longest summer day too short 
 To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee." 
 
 Page 79 
 
 Chronicle of Limhurg^ I/f8o» 
 See Heine's Gestdndnisse. 
 
 Page 85 
 
 Cries out " Captain III " 
 
 "And captive good attending captain ill," 
 
 Shakespeare — Sonnet Ixiii, 
 
 Page 89 
 
 " The earliest pipe of half-awakened bird." 
 
 **The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds." 
 
 Tennyson: Tears, idle tears. 
 
 [121] 
 
NOTES 
 
 Page 97 
 
 Henri de la Rochejaquelein. 
 
 See the Memoires of Mme. Louis de la Rochejaque- 
 lein, formerly Mme. de Lescure. Also Louise Imogen 
 Guiney's delightful account, Monsieur Henri, 
 
 Page 118 
 
 Better to he a crystal and he hroken^ 
 Than idle like a tile upon the roof. 
 
 From an old Chinese proverb. 
 
 [>"] 
 
SEP