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SONGS OF LIBERTY AND OTHER POEMS 
 
3Q^ tbe same Butbor 
 
 AND 
 
 UNIFORM 
 
 WITH 
 
 THE PRESENT VOLUME! 
 
 "THE 
 
 WINTER 
 
 HOUR 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER 
 
 poems" 
 
SONGS OF LIBERTY 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY ^ 
 
 ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON 
 
 INCLUDING PARAPHRASES FROM THE SERVIAN 
 AFTER TRANSLATIONS BY NIKOLA TESLA, WITH A 
 PREFATORY NOTE BY HIM ON SERVIAN POETRY 
 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 1897 
 
 TWOC0F*lt5 RECEIVED 
 

 Copyright, 1897, by 
 Robert Underwood Johnson 
 
 /^-ay. 
 
 7"/ 
 
 THE DE VINNE PRESS. 
 

 ^" 
 
 / 
 
 TO MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Apostrophe to Greece. (Inscribed to the Greek people 
 
 on the Seventy-fifth Anniversary of their Independence.) i 
 
 Song OF THE Modern Greeks . . . . . ii 
 
 To the Housatonic at Stockbridge ... 13 
 
 Farewell to Italy 16 
 
 A Chopin Fantasy 20 
 
 In Tesla's Laboratory 24 
 
 The Wlstful Days 25 
 
 " Love Once was like an April Dawn " ... 26 
 
 An Irish Love-Song 27 
 
 " Oh, Waste no Tears " 29 
 
 Her Smile 31 
 
 Song for the Guitar 32 
 
 Ursula 33 
 
 A Dark Day 34 
 
 The Surprised Avowal 35 
 
 The Blossom of the Soul 37 
 
 "I Journeyed South to meet the Spring" . . 38 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Paraphrases from the Servian of Zmai Iovan Iovan- 
 
 OVICH, AFTER LITERAL TRANSLATIONS BY NIKOLATeSLA: 
 
 Introductory Note on Zmai by Mr. Tesla . 43 
 
 The Three Giaours 49 
 
 Luka Filipov 54 
 
 A Mother of Bosnia 58 
 
 The Monster 62 
 
 Two Dreams 65 
 
 Mysterious Love 67 
 
 The Coming of Song 69 
 
 Curses 71 
 
 A Fairy from the Sun-shower .... 72 
 " Why," you ask, " Has not the Servian Per- 
 ished?" 73 
 
 " I Begged a Kiss of a Little Maid " . . . 74 
 
 Why the Army became Quiet .... 75 
 
 The Gipsy Praises hjs Horse 76 
 
 The Voice of Webster 85 
 
 Hands across Sea 99 
 
SONGS OF LIBERTY AND OTHER POEMS 
 
JF " 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO GREECE* 
 
 From the Parthenon 
 
 (inscribed to the greek people on the seventy- 
 fifth ANNIVERSARY OF THEIR INDEPENDENCE) 
 
 O LAND of sage and stoic — 
 Of human deeds heroic, 
 
 Of heroes' deeds divine! 
 What braggart of the nations 
 Shall scorn thy proud narrations — 
 Thou who hast named the stars from thy Olympian line ! 
 
 * This ode, begun on the steps of the Parthenon in 1886, was 
 published in the New York " Independent " of April, 1896, and, in 
 part, in modern Greek in the " Hellas," a record of the Olympic 
 Games of that year. 
 
 I 
 
2 APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 
 
 In spite of Moslem crime 
 Thou livest! Hungry Time 
 
 Can only dead devour. 
 Though asphodel hath strewed 
 This marble solitude, 
 The silence thrills with life, the ruins rise in power. 
 
 Yon sea's imperial vastness 
 
 Was once thy friend and fastness ; 
 
 By many a curving strand, 
 'Twixt purple capes, on edges 
 Of seaward-looking ledges, 
 Rose the white cities sown by thy adventurous hand. 
 
 Nor couldst thou think of these 
 As lonely colonies 
 
 Wherewith rich Corinth lined 
 The West, while Dorian sails 
 Outrode ^gean gales ; 
 Nay, suburbs were they all, molds of Athenian mind. 
 
 Then could thy galleys pass 
 From Tyre to Acragas, 
 
 By Grecian islands gray 
 That dreamed of Athens' brow. 
 And gaily to the prow 
 Harnessed the pawing winds to seek some Attic bay. 
 
APOSTROPHE TO GREECE ■ 
 
 Here to Athene's feast, 
 
 From West, from North, from East — 
 
 Through Jason's fabled strait 
 Or round Malea's rock — 
 The homesick sails would flock, 
 Oft with an Odyssey of peril to relate. 
 
 And what exultant stir 
 When the swart islander, 
 
 Bound for the festal week. 
 First saw Colonna's crest 
 Give back the glowing West 
 Far past ^gina's shore and her prophetic peak! 
 
 I hear his cheery cries 
 Though Time between us Hes 
 
 More wide than sea and land. 
 The gladness that he brings 
 Thrills in the song he sings, 
 Beaching his welcome craft on Phaleron's level strand. 
 
 O harbor of dehght! 
 
 Strike the torn sail — to-night 
 
 On Attic soil again! 
 When joy is free to slaves 
 What though the swarming waves 
 Follow each other down Hke the generations of men! 
 
4 APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 
 
 Now, for a time, to war 
 And private hate a bar 
 Of sacred armistice ; 
 Even in the under-world 
 Shall the rough winds be furled 
 That tell of wrangling shades that crowd the courts of Dis. 
 
 'T is Peace shall bring the green 
 For Merit's brow. What scene, 
 
 O Athens, shall be thine! 
 Till from Parnassus' height 
 Phoebus' reluctant light 
 Lingers along Hymettus' fair and lofty line. 
 
 With dance and song and game 
 And oratory's flame 
 
 Shall Hellas beat and swell, 
 Till, ohve-crowned, in pride 
 The envied victors ride, 
 Fellows to those whose fame the prancing marbles tell. 
 
 O antique time and style, 
 Return to us awhile 
 
 Bright as thy happy skies ! 
 Silent the sounds that mar : 
 Like music heard afar 
 The harmony endures while all the discord dies. 
 
APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 5 
 
 Not yet the cloister's shade 
 Fell on a world afraid, 
 
 Morbid, morose — the alloy 
 Found greater than the gold 
 Of life. Like Nature old 
 Thou still didst sing and show the sanity of joy. 
 
 That secret to this day 
 Hath its enduring sway 
 
 O'er all thy childlike kind. 
 Oh, teach this anxious age 
 Through thy serener page 
 How by the happy heart to keep the unclouded mind. 
 
 II 
 • But thou wert Freedom's too 
 
 As well as Joy's, and drew 
 
 From every mountain breast 
 An air that could endure 
 No foreign foe — so pure 
 That Lycabettus neighbors the Corinthian crest. 
 
 Nor was thy love of life 
 For thee alone. Thy strife 
 Was for the race, no less. 
 Thee, to whom wrong is done 
 While wrong confronts the sun, 
 The oppressor cannot crush, nor teach thee to oppress. 
 
6 APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 
 
 By thee for lands benighted 
 Was Freedom's beacon lighted 
 That now enstars the earth. 
 Welcome the people's hour! 
 Passed is the monarch's power, 
 Dread waits not on his death that trembled at his birth. 
 
 As down a craggy steep 
 Albanian torrents leap 
 
 Impetuous to the sea — 
 Such was thy ancient spirit, 
 Still thine. Who that inherit 
 Hatred of tyranny inherit not from thee? 
 
 Look to the West and see 
 Thy daughter, Italy- 
 Fathered by Neptune bold 
 On Cumae's sheltered strand 
 (Forgot but for the hand 
 That saved to Art her sibyl many-named and old) ; 
 
 That temple-sated soil, 
 Whose altar-smoke would coil 
 To hide the Avernian steep, 
 Grows the same harvest now — 
 Best increase of the plow, 
 Fair Freedom, of thy seed, sown for the world to reap. 
 
APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 7 
 
 Though regal Rome display 
 The triumphs of her day ; 
 
 Though Florence, laurel-hung, 
 Tell how she held the van 
 In the slow march of man — 
 Greek was the path they trod, Greek was the song they sung. 
 
 Look farther west and there 
 Behold thy later heir. 
 
 Child of thy Jove-Uke mind — 
 Fair France. How has she kept 
 The watch while others slept? 
 Has Wisdom hastened on while Justice lagged behind? 
 
 Like thee, full well she knows 
 Through what maternal throes 
 
 New forms from olden come ; 
 Her arts, her temples, speak 
 A glory that is Greek, 
 And fihally her heart turns to the ancestral home. 
 
 For her no backward look 
 Into the bloody book 
 
 Of kings. Thrice-rescued land! 
 Her furrowed graves bespeak 
 A nobler fate : to seek 
 In service of the world again the world's command. 
 
8 APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 
 
 She in whose skies of peace 
 Arise new auguries 
 
 To strengthen, cheer, and guide — 
 When nations in a horde 
 Draw the unhallowed sword, 
 O Memory, walk, a warning specter, at her side! 
 
 Among thy debtor lands, 
 See, grateful England stands ; 
 
 Who at thy ranging feet 
 Learned how to carry Law 
 Into the jungle's maw, 
 And tempers unto Man or cold or desert heat. 
 
 All that thou daredst she dares 
 Till now thy name she bears — 
 
 Mother of Colonies. 
 What if thy glorious Past 
 She should restore at last. 
 And clothe in new renown the dream of Pericles! 
 
 If she but lean to thee 
 
 Once more thy North shall be 
 
 Uplifted from the dust. 
 Mother of noble men. 
 Thy friends of sword and pen, 
 England, though slow to justice, shall again be just. 
 
APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 9 
 
 And now from our new land 
 Beyond two seas, a hand! 
 
 Our world, for ages dumb, 
 Part of thy fable-lore, 
 Gathers upon its shore 
 Each dying race as soil for one chief race to come. 
 
 But of our beating heart 
 Thy pulse how large a part ! 
 Our wider sky but bounds 
 Another Grecian dawn. 
 Lament not what is gone ; 
 Pentelicus grieves not, for Fame hath healed his wounds. 
 
 HI 
 
 Then, Hellas! scorn the sneer 
 Of kings who will not hear 
 
 Their people's moaning voice, 
 More deaf than shore to sea! 
 The world hath need of thee — 
 The world thou still canst teach to reason and rejoice. 
 
 Yes, need of thee while Art 
 Of hfe is but a part — 
 Plaything or luxury. 
 Greek soil perchance may show 
 Where Art's hid stream doth flow — 
 To rise, a new Alpheus, near another sea. 
 
lO APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 
 
 Yes, need of thee Avhile Gold 
 Makes timid traitors bold 
 
 To lay republics low ; 
 Not ignorant nor poor 
 Spread for their feet the lure — 
 The kind, the loved, the honored, aim the brutal blow. 
 
 Yes, need of thee while Earth 
 Each day shows Heaven a girth 
 
 Of want and misery ; 
 Wherein there is not found 
 Beyond thy happy bound 
 A people brave, sane, temperate, thrifty, chaste, and free. 
 
 Then, though by faction's blunder, 
 And boasts, of mimic thunder, 
 
 Again thou be betrayed, 
 Vain this, vain every treason ; 
 With thee are Hope and Reason, 
 Nor Past can be forgot, nor Future long delayed. 
 
 Troy was, but Athens is — 
 The World's and Liberty's, 
 
 Nor ever less shall be! 
 Though fallen are old fanes 
 The vestal fire remains 
 Bright with the light serene of immortality. 
 
SONG OF THE MODERN GREEKS 
 
 SONG OF THE MODERN GREEKS 
 
 Liberty, beloved of Hellas, 
 Lend us once again thy sword ; 
 
 Turn thy glorious eyes that tell us 
 Thou art still to be adored. 
 
 Hail thee, spirit! hover over 
 
 Salamis and Marathon, 
 Till each corse that called thee lover 
 
 Rise with thee to lead us on. 
 
 Slumbered Hellas long in sadness, 
 Waiting thee to call her forth ; 
 
 Hushed the very cradle's gladness 
 By the tyrant of the North. 
 
 Long she dwelt with buried heroes 
 In the fame of other years ; 
 
 But against a horde of Neros 
 What availed or pride or tears ? 
 
12 SOXG OF THE MODERX GREEKS 
 
 Then at last thy summons called us, 
 And as one we followed thee, 
 
 Till the rusted chains that thralled us 
 Fell, and Greece once more was free. 
 
 Ah, but while our kin are weeping 
 
 Over sea and over land, 
 Let us not again be sleeping, 
 
 Wake us with thy warning hand. 
 
 Though the Moslem swarm to slay us, 
 Though false friends, within, without - 
 
 Kings or cowards — shall betray us. 
 If thou lead us, who shall doubt? 
 
 Greece's blood made many an altar 
 For the nations then unborn ; 
 
 Will they with her peril palter — 
 Give her gratitude, or scorn? 
 
 Oh, could Earth and Time assemble 
 
 All thy legions. Liberty, 
 At their tread the world would tremble 
 
 With the passion to be free. 
 
TO THE HOUSATONIC AT STOCKBRIDGE 13 
 
 TO THE HOUSATONIC AT STOCKBRIDGE 
 
 Contented river! in thy peaceful realm — 
 
 The cloudy willow and the plumy elm : 
 
 They call thee English, thinking thus to mate 
 
 Their musing streams that, oft with pause sedate, 
 
 Linger through misty meadows for a glance 
 
 At haunted tower or turret of romance. 
 
 Beware their praise who rashly would deny 
 
 To our New World its true tranquillity. 
 
 Our " New World "? Nay, say rather to our Old 
 
 (Let truth and freedom make us doubly bold) ; 
 
 Tell them : A thousand silent years before 
 
 Their beauteous sea-born isle — at every shore 
 
 Dripping like Aphrodite's tresses — rose, 
 
 Here, 'neath her purple veil, deep slept Repose, 
 
 To be awakened but by wail of war. 
 
 From yon soft heights thou com'st ; thy heavenly lore, 
 
 Like our own childhood's, all the workday toil 
 
 Cannot efface, nor long its sweetness soil. 
 
 Thou hast grown human laboring with men 
 
 At wheel and spindle ; sorrow thou dost ken ; 
 
14 TO THE HOUSATONIC AT STOCKBRIDGE 
 
 Yet dost thou still the unshaken stars behold, 
 And, calm for calm, return'st them, as of old. 
 Thus, like a gentle nature that grows strong 
 In meditation for the strife with wrong. 
 Thou show'st the peace that only tumult can ; 
 Surely, serener river never ran. 
 
 Thou beautiful! From every dreamy hill 
 What eye but wanders with thee at thy will, 
 Imagining thy silver course unseen 
 Convoyed by two attendant streams of green 
 In bending hnes,— hke half-expected swerves 
 Of swaying music, or those perfect curves 
 We call the robin ; making harmony 
 With many a new-found treasure of the eye : 
 With meadows, marging softly rounded hills 
 Where Nature teemingly the myth fulfils 
 Of many-breasted Plenty ; with the blue. 
 That to the zenith fades through triple hue. 
 Pledge of the constant day ; with clouds of white, 
 That haunt horizons with their blooms of hght, 
 And when the east with rosy eve is glowing 
 Seem like full cheeks of zephyrs gently blowing. 
 
 Contented river! and yet over-shy 
 
 To mask thy beauty from the eager eye ; 
 
TO THE HO USA TONIC AT STOCKBRIDGE 15 
 
 Hast thou a thought to hide from field and town? 
 In some deep current of the sunlit brown 
 Art thou disquieted — still uncontent 
 With praise of thy Homeric bard who lent 
 The world the placidness thou gavest him? 
 Thee Bryant loved when life was at its brim ; 
 And when the wine was falling, in thy wood 
 Of sturdy willows like a Druid stood. 
 Oh, for his touch on this o'er-throbbing time. 
 His hand upon the hectic brow of Rhyme, 
 Cooling its fevered passion to a pace 
 To lead, to stir, to reinspire the race! 
 
 Ah ! there 's a restive ripple, and the swift 
 Red leaves — September's firstlings — faster drift; 
 Betwixt twin aisles of prayer they seem to pass 
 (One green, one greenly mirrored in thy glass). 
 Wouldst thou away, dear stream? Come, whisper nearf 
 I also of much resting have a fear : 
 Let me to-morrow thy companion be 
 By fall and shallow to the adventurous sea! 
 
l6 FAREWELL TO ITALY 
 
 FAREWELL TO ITALY 
 
 We lingered at Domo d'Ossola— 
 Like a last, reluctant guest — 
 
 Where the gray-green tide of Italy 
 Flows up to a snowy crest. 
 
 The world from that Alpine shoulder 
 
 Yearns toward the Lombard plain — 
 
 The hearts that come, with rapture, 
 The hearts that go, with pain. 
 
 Afar were the frets of Milan ; 
 
 Below, the enchanted lakes ; 
 hxA—was it the mist of the evening. 
 
 Or the mist that the memory makes ? 
 
 We gave to the pale horizon 
 
 The Naples that evening gives ; 
 
 We reckoned where Rome hes buried. 
 And we felt where Florence lives. 
 
FAREWELL TO ITALY IJ 
 
 And as Hope bends low at parting 
 
 For a death-remembered tone, 
 We searched the land that Beauty 
 
 And Love have made their own. 
 
 We would take of her hair some ringlet, 
 Some keepsake from her breast. 
 
 And catch of her plaintive music 
 The strain that is tenderest. 
 
 So we strolled in the yellow gloaming 
 
 (Our speech with musing still) 
 Till the noise of the militant village 
 
 Fell faint on Calvary Hill. 
 
 And scarcely our mood was broken 
 
 Of near-impending loss 
 To find at the bend of the pathway 
 
 A station of the Cross. 
 
 And up through the green aisle climbing 
 (Each shrine like a counted bead), 
 
 We heard from above the swaying 
 And mystical chant of the creed. 
 
 Then the dead seemed the only living, 
 And the real seemed the wraith, 
 
1 8 FAREWELL TO ITALY 
 
 And we yielded ourselves to the vision 
 We saw with the eye of Faith. 
 
 Then she said, " Let us go no farther : 
 'T is fit that we make farewell 
 
 While forest and lake and mountain 
 Are under the vesper spell." 
 
 As we rested, the leafy silence 
 Broke like a cloud at play, 
 
 And a browned and burdened woman 
 Passed, singing, down the way. 
 
 'T was a song of health and labor, — 
 Of childlike gladness, blent 
 
 With the patience of the toiler 
 That tyrants call content. 
 
 " Nay, this is the word we have waited," 
 I said, " that a year and a sea 
 
 From now, in our doom of exile, 
 Shall echo of Italy." 
 
 Just then what a burst from the bosquet — 
 As a bird might have found its soul ! 
 
 And each by the halt of the heart-throb 
 Knew 't was the rossignol. 
 
FAREWELL TO ITALY 19 
 
 Then we drew to each other nearer 
 
 And drank at the gray wall's verge 
 
 The sad, sweet song of lovers, — 
 Their passion and their dirge. 
 
 And the carol of Toil below us 
 
 And the paean of Prayer above 
 Were naught to the song of Sorrow. 
 
 For under the sorrow was Love. 
 
 Alas ! for the dear remembrance 
 
 We chose for our amulet : 
 The one that is left to keep it — 
 
 Ah! how can he forget ? 
 
20 A CHOPIN FANTASY 
 
 A CHOPIN FANTASY 
 
 ON REMEMBRANCE OF A PRELUDE 
 
 Come, love, sit here and let us leave awhile 
 This custom-laden world for warmer lands 
 Where, 'neath the silken net of afternoon, 
 Leisure is duty and dread care a dream, 
 
 ( Tkr musk begins) 
 
 That cliff 's Minorca, that horizon Spain. 
 There in the west, Hke fragrance visible, 
 Rises the soft light as the sun goes down 
 Till half the sky is palpitant with gold. 
 Follow it eastward to the gentle blue. 
 With faith and childhood in it, and the peace 
 Men agonize and roam for. See that fleet 
 That flutters in the breeze from the Camargue 
 Like white doves, huddled now, now scattering. 
 (They say all native boats are homeward bound 
 Against to-morrow's annual festival.) 
 What peace there is in looking from this height 
 
A CHOPIN FANTASY 21 
 
 On palms and olives, and the easy steps 
 By which the terrace clambers yonder hill! 
 How dark those hollows whence the roads of white 
 Ascend in angles to the high-perched town! 
 Needless the music of the convent bell : 
 'Tis vespers in the heart as in the air. 
 This is the hour for love, that, like the breath 
 Of yonder orange, sweetest is at eve. 
 Here, safe entwined, what could be wished for two 
 Hid in an island hidden in the sea ? 
 Now let me lay my head upon your lap, 
 And place your rose-leaf fingers on my lids, 
 .Lest, catching glimpse of your resplendent eyes, 
 My ardor should blaspheme the coming stars! 
 
 How fast it darkens ! One must needs be blind 
 
 To know the twilight softness of your voice. 
 
 And Love, — not blind, but with a curtained sight, — 
 
 Like one who dwells with Sorrow, can discern 
 
 The shading of a shadow in a tone. 
 
 There 's something troubles you, my sweet-of-hearts, 
 
 A hesitance in that caressing word ; 
 
 Nothing unhappy — a presentiment 
 
 Such as from far might thrill the under-depths 
 
 Of some still tranquil lake before a storm. 
 
 Be happy, love, not ponder happiness. 
 
22 A CHOPIN FANTASY 
 
 Unerringly I know your woman's soul, 
 
 Content to have your happiness put off 
 
 Like well-planned feast against to-morrow's need, 
 
 And more enjoyed in planning than in use. 
 
 But oh, we men, God made us — what was that? 
 
 A drop upon your hand? Perhaps a tear 
 
 Lost by an angel who remembers yet 
 
 Some perfect moment of th' imperfect world, 
 
 And goes reluctantly her way to heaven, 
 
 Still envious of our lot? Another drop! 
 
 Why, 't is the rain. Stand here and see that sky — 
 
 Blackness intense as sunhght. What a chasm 
 
 Of .silver where that lightning tore its way! 
 
 That crash was nearer I Here 's our shelter — quick ! 
 
 Now it 's upon us! Half a breath, and — there! 
 
 No wonder you should tremble when the earth 
 
 Sways thus and all the firmament 's a-reel. 
 
 Tremble, but fear not— Love created Fear 
 
 To drive men back to Love, where you are now. 
 
 What rhythmic terror in the tideless sea 
 
 That wildly seeks the refuge of the rocks 
 
 From unknown dangers (dangers known are none) ! 
 
 God! did you see within the headland's jaws 
 
 That drifting sail? Wait the next flash and— look! 
 
 Oh, heaven! to cruise about a hundred coasts. 
 
 Safe past the fabled monsters of the deep. 
 
A C HO FIX FANTASY 23 
 
 To break supinely on familiar shoals 
 
 Where one in childhood digged a mimic grave! 
 
 Thank God for those few, momentary stars, 
 And that slow-lifting zone of topaz light, 
 Like parting guest returning with a smile. 
 We care not now that the insatiate storm 
 Plunges with leaps of thunder on the east. 
 
 ( The music ceases) 
 
 Give me thy hand, dear one, though unto pain 
 I crush it to be sure that this be dream. 
 Knowing 't was Death that passed, and oh, how 
 
24 IN TESLA'S LABORATORY 
 
 IN TESLA' S LABORATORY 
 
 Here in the dark what ghostly figures press ! — 
 No phantom of the Past, or grim or sad ; 
 No waih'ng spirit of woe ; no specter, clad 
 
 In white and wandering cloud, whose dumb distress 
 
 Is that its crime it never may confess ; 
 
 No shape from the strewn sea ; nor they that add 
 The link of Life and Death, — the tearless mad. 
 
 That live nor die in dreary nothingness : 
 
 But blessed spirits waiting to be born — 
 
 Thoughts to unlock the fettering chains of Things : 
 The Better Time ; the Universal Good, 
 Their smile is like the joyous break of morn ; 
 
 How fair, how near, how wistfully they brood ! 
 Listen ! that murmur is of angels' wings. 
 
THE WISTFUL DAYS 
 
 THE WISTFUL DAYS 
 
 What is there wanting in the Spring ? 
 
 The air is soft as yesteryear ; 
 
 The happy-nested green is here, 
 And half the world is on the wing. 
 
 The morning beckons, and like balm 
 
 Are westward waters blue and calm. 
 Yet something 's wanting in the Spring. 
 
 What is it wanting in the Spring ? 
 O April, lover to us all, 
 What is so poignant in thy thrall 
 
 When children's merry voices ring ? 
 What haunts us in the cooing dove 
 More subtle than the speech of Love, 
 
 What nameless lack or loss of Spring? 
 
 Let Youth go dally with the Spring, 
 Call her the dear, the fair, the young ; 
 And all her graces ever sung 
 
 Let him, once more rehearsing, sing. 
 They know, who keep a broken tryst, 
 Till something from the Spring be missed 
 
 We have not truly known the Spring. 
 
26 "LOVE ONCE WAS LIKE AN APRIL DAWN" 
 
 LOVE ONCE WAS LIKE AN APRIL DAWN " 
 
 Love once was like an April dawn : 
 
 Song throbbed within the heart by rote, 
 And every tint of rose or fawn 
 Was greeted by a joyous note. 
 
 How eager was my thought to see 
 Into that morning mystery ! 
 
 Love now is like an August noon, 
 
 No spot is empty of its shine ; 
 The sun makes silence seem a boon, 
 And not a voice so dumb as mine. 
 
 Yet with what words I'd welcome thee — 
 Couldst thou return, dear mystery ! 
 
A A' IRISH LOVE-SONG 
 
 AN IRISH LOVE-SONG 
 
 In the years about twenty 
 
 (When kisses are plenty) 
 The love of an Irish lass fell to my fate — 
 
 So winsome and sightly, 
 
 So saucy and sprightly, 
 The priest was a prophet that christened her Kate. 
 
 Soft gray of the dawning, 
 
 Bright blue of the morning, 
 The sweet of her eye there was nothing to mate ; 
 
 A nose like a fairy's, 
 
 A cheek like a cherry's. 
 And a smile— well, her smile was hke— nothing but Kate. 
 
 To see her was passion, 
 
 To love her, the fashion ; 
 What wonder my heart was unwilling to wait! 
 
 And, daring to love her, 
 
 I soon did discover 
 A Katharine masking in mischievous Kate. 
 
28 AN IRISH LOVE-SONG 
 
 No Katy unruly, 
 
 But Katharine, truly — 
 Fond, serious, patient, and even sedate ; 
 
 With a glow in her gladness 
 
 That banishes sadness — 
 Yet stay ! Should I credit the sunshine to Kate ? 
 
 Love cannot oudive it, 
 
 Wealth cannot o'ergive it — 
 That saucy surrender she made at the gate. 
 
 O Time, be but human. 
 
 Spare the girl in the woman ! 
 You gave me my Katharine — leave me my Kate ! 
 
''OH, WASTE NO TEARS'' 29 
 
 "OH, WASTE NO TEARS" 
 
 Oh, waste no tears on Pain or Fate, 
 Nor yet at Sorrow's dire demand ; 
 
 Think not to drown Regret with weight 
 Of weeping, as the sea the strand ; 
 
 When was Death's victory less elate 
 
 That Grief o'er-sobbed his grasping hand? 
 
 Not for the flaws of life shall fall 
 The tear most exquisite — ah, no ; 
 
 But for its fine perfections all : 
 For morning's joyous overflow, 
 
 For sunset's fleeting festival, 
 
 And what midwinter moons may show ; 
 
 For wild-rose breath of Keats's line ; 
 
 For Titian's rivalry of June ; 
 For Chopin's tender notes that twine 
 
 The sense in one autumnal tune ; 
 For Brunelleschi's dome divine. 
 
 In wonder planned, with worship hewn. 
 
30 "OH, WASTE NO TEARS'' 
 
 Save them for heroes — not their blood, 
 But for the generous vow it sealed ; 
 
 For babes, when mothers say, " This bud 
 Will be the blossom of the field " ; 
 
 For women, when to Vengeance' flood 
 They hold for Guilt a stainless shield. 
 
 And when two hearts have closer come, 
 Through doubts and mysteries and fears, 
 
 Till in one look's delirium 
 
 At last the happy truth appears. 
 
 When words are weak and music dumb 
 Then perfect love shall speak in tears. 
 
HER SMILE 31 
 
 HER SMILE 
 
 The odor is the rose ; 
 
 The smile, the woman. 
 Deh'ghts the bud doth sheathe, 
 Unfolded, all may breathe. 
 So joys that none could know 
 Her smiles on all bestow, 
 
 As though a rose were happy to be human! 
 
32 SONG FOR THE GUITAR 
 
 SONG FOR THE GUITAR 
 
 I GRIEVE to see these tears — 
 
 Long strangers to thine eye — 
 These jewels that fond years 
 For me could never buy. 
 Weep, weep, and give thy heart relief. 
 I grieve, but 't is not for thy grief: 
 
 Not for these tears — they were 
 
 Another's ere they fell — 
 But those that never stir 
 
 The fountain where they dwell. 
 I 'd smile, though thou shouldst weep a sea, 
 Were but a single tear for me ! 
 
URSULA T,l 
 
 URSULA 
 
 I SEE her in the festal warmth to-night, 
 Her rest all grace, her motion all delight. 
 Endowed with all the woman's arts that please, 
 In her soft gown she seems a thing of ease, 
 Whom sorrow may not reach or evil blight. 
 
 To-morrow she will toil from floor to floor 
 To smile upon the unreplying poor, 
 To stay the tears of widows, and to be 
 Confessor to men's erring hearts . . . ah me ! 
 She knows not I am beggar at her door. 
 
34 A DARK DAY 
 
 A DARK DAY 
 
 Gloom of a leaden sky 
 
 Too heavy for hope to move 
 
 Grief in my heart to vie 
 
 With the dark distress above : 
 
 Yet happy, happy am I — 
 For I sorrow with her I love. 
 
THE SURPRISED AVOWAL 35 
 
 THE SURPRISED AVOWAL 
 
 When one word is spoken, 
 When one look you see, 
 
 When you take the token, 
 Howe'er so sHght it be, 
 
 The cage's bolt is broken, 
 The happy bird is free. 
 
 There is no unsaying 
 That love-startled word ; 
 
 It were idle praying 
 It no more be heard ; 
 
 Yet, its law obeying. 
 
 Who shall blame the bird? 
 
 What avails the mending 
 Where the cage was weak? 
 
 What avails the sending 
 Far, the bird to seek, 
 
 When every cloud is lending 
 Wings toward yonder peak? 
 
36 THE SURPRISED AVOWAL 
 
 Thrush, could they recapture 
 You to newer wrong, 
 
 How could you adapt your 
 Strain to suit the throng? 
 
 Gone would be the rapture 
 Of unimprisoned song. 
 
THE BLOSSOM OF THE SOUL 37 
 
 THE BLOSSOM OF THE SOUL 
 
 Thou half-unfolded flower 
 With fragrance-laden heart, 
 
 What is the secret power 
 That doth thy petals part? 
 
 What gave thee most thy hue — 
 
 The sunshine, or the dew? 
 
 Thou wonder-wakened soul! 
 
 As Dawn doth steal on Night 
 On thee soft Love hath stole. 
 
 Thine eye, that blooms with light, 
 What makes its charm so new— 
 Its sunshine, or its dew? 
 
38 ''I JOURNEYED SOUTH TO MEET THE SPRING 
 
 "I JOURNEYED SOUTH TO MEET THE 
 SPRING" 
 
 I JOURNEYED South to meet the Spring, 
 
 To feel the soft tide's gentle rise 
 That to my heart again should bring, 
 Foretold by many a whispering wing, 
 
 The old, the new, the sweet surprise. 
 
 For once, the wonder was not new — 
 
 And yet it wore a newer grace : 
 For all its innocence of hue, 
 Its warmth and bloom and dream and dew, 
 
 I had but left — in Helen's face. 
 
PARAPHRASES FROM THE SERVIAN 
 
 OF 
 
 ZMAI lOVAN lOVANOVICH 
 AFTER LITERAL TRANSLATIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 NIKOLA TESLA 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 BY 
 
 Mr. TESLA 
 
ZMAI lOVAN lOVANOVICH 
 
 THE CHIEF SERVIAN POET OF TO-DAY 
 
 Hardly is there a nation which has met with a sad- 
 der fate than the Servian. From the height of its 
 splendor, when the empire embraced almost the entire 
 northern part of the Balkan peninsula and a large por- 
 tion of the territory now belonging to Austria, the Ser- 
 vian nation was plunged into abject slavery, after the 
 fatal battle of 1389 at the Kosovo Polje, against the 
 overwhelming Asiatic hordes. Europe can never repay 
 the great debt it owes to the Servians for checking, by 
 the sacrifice of their own liberty, that barbarian influx. 
 The Poles at Vienna, under Sobieski, finished what the 
 Servians attempted, and were similarly rewarded for 
 their service to civilization. 
 
 It was at the Kosovo Polje that Milosh Obilich, the 
 noblest of Servian heroes, fell, after killing the Sultan 
 Murat II. in the very midst of his great army. Were 
 it not that it is an historical fact, one would be apt to 
 consider this episode a myth, evolved by contact with 
 the Greek and Latin races. For in Milosh we see both 
 
 43 
 
44 IXTRODUCTOKY NOTE ON ZMAI 
 
 Leonidas and Mucius, and, more than this, a martyr, 
 for he does not die an easy death on the battle-field like 
 the Greek, but pays for his daring deed with a death of 
 fearful torture. It is not astonishing that the poetry of 
 a nation capable of producing such heroes should be 
 pervaded with a spirit of nobility and chivalry. Evey 
 the indomitable Marko Kraljevich, the later incarnation 
 of Servian heroism, when vanquishing Musa, the Mos- 
 lem chief, exclaims, " Woe unto me, for I have killed 
 a better man than myself!" 
 
 From that fatal battle until a recent period, it has 
 been black night for the Servians, with but a single star 
 in the firmament-- Montenegro. In this gloom there 
 was no hope for science, commerce, art, or industry. 
 What could they do, this brave people, save to keep up 
 the weary fight against the oppressor? And this they 
 did unceasingly, though the odds were twenty to one. 
 Yet fighting merely satisfied their wilder instincts. 
 There was one more thing they could do, and did : the 
 noble feats of their ancestors, the brave deeds of those 
 who fell in the struggle for liberty, they embodied in 
 immortal song. Thus circumstances and innate quah- 
 ties made the Servians a nation of thinkers and poets, 
 and thus, gradually, were evolved their magnificent 
 national poems, which were first collected by their most 
 prolific writer, Vuk Stefanovich Karajich, who also 
 compiled the first dictionary of the Servian tongue, 
 containing more than sixty thousand words. These 
 national poems Goethe considered fit to match the finest 
 productions of the Greeks and Romans. What would 
 he have thought of them had he been a Servian? 
 
 While the Servians have been distinguished in national 
 
INTR on UC TORY NO TE ON ZMA I 45 
 
 poetry, they have also had many individual poets who 
 attained greatness. Of contemporaries there is none 
 who has grown so dear to the younger generation as 
 Zmai lovan lovanovich. He was born in Novi Sad 
 (Neusatz), a city at the southern border of Hungary, on 
 November 24, 1833. He comes from an old and noble 
 family, which is related to the Servian royal house. In 
 his earliest childhood he showed a great desire to learn 
 by heart the Servian national songs which were recited 
 to him, and even as a child he began to compose poems. 
 His father, who was a highly cultivated and wealthy 
 gentleman, gave him his first education in his native 
 city. After this he went to Budapest, Prague, and 
 Vienna, and in these cities he finished his studies in law. 
 This was the wish of his father, but his own inclinations 
 prompted him to take up the study of medicine. He 
 then returned to his native city, where a prominent 
 official position was offered him, which he accepted ; 
 but so strong were his poetical instincts that a year later 
 he abandoned the post to devote himself entirely to 
 literary work. 
 
 His literary career began in 1849, his first poem being 
 printed in 1852, in a journal called " Srbski Letopis " 
 (" Servian Annual Review ") ; to this and to other jour- 
 nals, notably " Neven " and " Sedmica," he contributed 
 his early productions. From that period until 1870, 
 besides his original poems, he made many beautiful 
 translations from Petefy and Arany, the two greatest of 
 the Hungarian poets, and from the Russian of Lermon- 
 tof, as well as from German and other poets. In 1861 
 he edited the comic journal, " Komarac " ("The Mos- 
 quito "), and in the same year he started the literary 
 
46 IXTRODUCTORY NOTE ON ZMAI 
 
 journal, "Javor," and to these papers he contributed 
 many beautiful poems. In 1861 he married, and 
 during the few happy years that followed he produced 
 his admirable series of lyrical poems called " Giulichi," 
 which probably remain his masterpiece. In 1862, 
 greatly to his regret, he discontinued his beloved jour- 
 nal, "Javor" — a sacrifice which was asked of him by 
 the great Servian patriot, Miletich, who was then active 
 on a political journal, in order to insure the success of 
 the latter. 
 
 In 1863 he was elected director of an educational 
 institution, called the Tekelianum, at Budapest. He 
 now ardently renewed the study of medicine at the uni- 
 versity, and took the degree of doctor of medicine. 
 Meanwhile he did not relax his literary labors. Yet, 
 for his countrymen, more valuable even than his splen- 
 did productions were his noble and unselfish efforts to 
 nourish the enthusiasm of Servian youth. During his 
 stay in Budapest he founded the literary society Preod- 
 nica, of which he was president, and to which he de- 
 voted a large portion of his energies. 
 
 In 1864 he started his famous satirical journal, "Zmai" 
 ("The Dragon"), which was so popular that the name 
 became a part of his own. In 1866 his comic play 
 " Sharan " was given with great success. In 1872 he 
 had the great pain of losing his wife, and, shortly after, 
 his only child. How much these misfortunes affected 
 him is plainly perceptible from the deeply sad tone of 
 the poems which immediately followed. In 1873 he 
 started another comic journal, the " Ziza." During the 
 year 1877 he began an illustrated chronicle of the Russo- 
 Turkish war, and in 1878 appeared his popular comic 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE ON ZMAl 47 
 
 journal, " Starmali." During all this period he wrote 
 not only poems, but much prose, including short novels, 
 often under an assumed name. The best of these is 
 probably " Vidosava Brankovicheva." In recent years 
 he has published a great many charming little poems for 
 children. 
 
 Since 1870 Zmai has pursued his profession as a phy- 
 sician. He is an earnest advocate of cremation, and 
 has devoted much time to the furtherance of that cause. 
 Until recently he was a resident of Vienna, but now he 
 is domiciled in Belgrade. There he lives the life of a 
 true poet, loving all and beloved by everybody. In 
 recognition of his merit, the nation has voted him a 
 subvention. 
 
 The poems of Zmai are so essentially Servian that to 
 translate them into another tongue appears next to 
 impossible. In keen satire free from Voltairian venom, 
 in good-hearted and spontaneous humor, in dehcacy 
 and depth of expression, they are remarkable. Mr. 
 Johnson has undertaken the task of versifying a few of 
 the shorter ones after my literal and inadequate readings. 
 Close translation being often out of the question, he has 
 had to paraphrase, following as nearly as possible the 
 original motives and ideas. In some instances he has ex- 
 panded in order to complete a picture or to add a touch 
 of his own. The poems which follow will give some 
 idea of the versatility of the Servian poet, but come far 
 short of indicating his range. 
 
 Nikola Tesla. 
 
 New York City. 
 
THE THREE GIAOURS 49 
 
 THE THREE GIAOURS 
 
 In the midst of the dark and stormy night 
 
 Feruz Pacha awakes in fright, 
 
 And springs from out his curtained bed. 
 
 The candle trembles as though it read 
 
 Upon his palhd face the theme 
 
 And terror of his nightly dream. 
 
 He calls to his startled favorite : 
 " The keys ! the keys of the dungeon-pit ! 
 Cannot those cursed Giaours stay 
 There in their own dark, rotting away, 
 Where I gave them leave three years ago ? 
 Had I but buried their bones ! —but, no ! 
 They come at midnight to clatter and creep, 
 And haunt and threaten me in my sleep." 
 
 " Pacha, wait till the morning light ! 
 Do not go down that fearful flight 
 
50 THE THREE GIAOURS 
 
 Where every step is a dead man's moan ! 
 Mujo to-morrow will gather each bone 
 And bury it deep. Let the Giaours freeze 
 If thy bed be warm." 
 
 " Nay, give me the keys. 
 Girl, you talk like a wrinkled dame 
 That shudders at whisper of a name. 
 When they were hving, their curses made 
 A thousand cowards : was I afraid ? 
 Now they are dead, shall my fear begin 
 With the Giaour's curse, or the skeleton's grin ? 
 No, I must see them face to face 
 In the very midst of their dwelling-place. 
 And find what need they have of me 
 That they call my name eternally." 
 
 As groping along to the stair he goes, 
 
 The hght of the shaking candle shows 
 
 A face like a white and faded rose ; 
 
 But if this be fear, it is fear to stay. 
 
 For something urges him on his way — 
 
 Though the steps are cold and the echoes mock — 
 
 Till the right key screams in the rusted lock. 
 
 Ugh ! what a blast from the dungeon dank ! — 
 From the place where Hunger and Death were wed ; 
 Whence even the snakes bv instinct fled. 
 
THE THREE GIAOURS 51 
 
 While the very lizards crouched and shrank 
 In a chill of terror. 'T is inky black 
 And icy cold, but he cannot go back, 
 For there, as though the darkness flowers — 
 There sit the skeletons of three Giaours 
 Ghost-white in the flickering candle-gleam ! — 
 (Or is it the remnant of his dream ?) 
 About a stone that is green with mold 
 They sit in a group, and their fingers hold 
 Full glasses, and as the glasses clink 
 The first Giaour beckons him to drink. 
 
 " Pacha, here is a glass for thee ! 
 
 When last on me the sunlight shone 
 I had a wife who was dear to me. 
 
 She was alone — no, not alone; 
 The blade in her hand was her comrade true. 
 As she came to your castle, seeking you. 
 
 "And when she came to your castle gate 
 She dared you forth, but you would not go. 
 
 Fiend and coward, you could not wait 
 For a woman's wrath, but shot her, so. 
 
 Her heart fell down in a piteous flood. 
 
 This glass is filled with her precious blood. 
 
 " See how fine as I hold it up ! 
 
 Drink, Feruz Pacha, the brimming cup ! " 
 
52 THE THREE GIAOURS 
 
 Spellbound the Pacha now draws nigh ; 
 He empties the glass with a sudden cry : 
 The skeletons drink with a laugh and toss, 
 And they make the sign of the holy cross. 
 
 Then speaks the second of the dead : 
 
 " When to this darkness I was led, 
 
 My mother asked, ' What sum will give 
 
 Your prisoner back to the sun ? ' You said, 
 ' Three measures of gold, and the dog shall 
 live.' 
 
 Through pinching toil by noon and night 
 
 She saved and saved till her hope grew bright. 
 
 " But when she brought you the yellow hoard, 
 You mocked at the drops on her tired brow. 
 
 And said, 'Toward the pay for his wholesome 
 board 
 Of good round stones I will this allow.' 
 
 She died while her face with toil was wet. 
 
 This glass is filled with her faithful sweat. 
 
 " See how fine as I hold it up ! 
 
 Drink, Feruz Pacha, the brimming cup ! " 
 
 Haggard the Pacha now stands by ; 
 He drains the glass with a stifled cry : 
 
THE THREE GIAOURS 53 
 
 Again they drink with a laugh and toss, 
 
 And the third one says, as his comrades cross : 
 
 " When this black shadow on me fell, 
 There sang within my mountain home 
 
 My one pale lad. Bethought him well 
 That he would to my rescue come ; 
 
 But when he tried to lift the gun 
 
 He tottered till the tears would run. 
 
 " Though vengeance sped his weary feet. 
 Too late he came. Then back he crept, — 
 
 Forgot to drink, forgot to eat, — 
 And no slow moment went unwept. 
 
 He died of grief at his meager years. 
 
 This glass is laden with his tears. 
 
 " See how fine as I hold it up ! 
 
 Drink, Feruz Pacha, the brimming cup ! " 
 
 The Pacha staggers ; he holds it high ; 
 He drinks ; he falls with a moan and cry : 
 They latigh, they cross, but they drink no more — 
 For the dead in the dungeon-cave are four. 
 
54 LUKA FILIPOV 
 
 LUKA FILIPOV 
 
 (an incident of the MONTENEGRIN WAR OF 1 876-78) 
 
 One more hero to be part 
 
 Of the Servians' glory ! 
 Lute to lute and heart to heart 
 
 Tell the homely story ; 
 Let the Moslem hide for shame, 
 Trembling like the falcon's game, 
 Thinking on the falcon's name — 
 Luka Filipov. 
 
 When he fought with sword and gun 
 
 Doughty was he reckoned ; 
 When he was the foremost, none 
 
 Blushed to be the second. 
 But he tired of the taint 
 Of the Turk's blood, learned restraint 
 From his sated sword — the quaint 
 Luka Filipov. 
 
LUKA FILIPOV 55 
 
 Thus he reasoned : Though they fall 
 
 Like the grass in mowing, 
 Yet the dead Turks, after all, 
 
 Make a sorry showing. 
 Foes that die remember not 
 How our Montenegrins bought 
 Our unbroken freedom — thought 
 Luka Filipov. 
 
 So, in last year's battle-storm 
 
 Swooped our Servian falcon, 
 Chose the sleekest of the swarm 
 
 From beyond the Balkan : 
 Plucked a pacha from his horse, 
 Carried him away by force. 
 While we cheered along his course : 
 " Luka ! " " Filipov ! " 
 
 To the Prince his prize he bore 
 
 Just as he had won him — 
 Laid him at the Prince's door. 
 
 Not a scratch upon him. 
 " Prince, a present ! And for fear 
 He should find it lonely here, 
 I will fetch his mate," said queer 
 Luka Filipov. 
 
56 LUKA FILIPOV 
 
 Back into the fight he rushed 
 
 Where the Turks were flying, 
 Past his kinsmen boldly brushed, 
 
 Leaping dead and dying : 
 Seized a stalwart infidel, 
 Wrenched his gun and, like a spell, 
 Marched him back — him heeding well 
 Luka Filipov. 
 
 But the Moslems, catching breath 
 
 Mid their helter-skelter, 
 Poured upon him hail of death 
 
 From a rocky shelter, 
 Till a devil-guided ball 
 Striking one yet wounded all : 
 For there staggered, nigh to fall, 
 Luka Filipov ! 
 
 Paused the conflict — all intent 
 
 On the two before us ; 
 And the Turkish regiment 
 
 Cheered in hideous chorus 
 As the prisoner, half afraid, 
 Turned and started up the glade. 
 Thinking — dullard ! — to evade 
 Luka Fihpov. 
 
LUKA FILIPOV 57 
 
 We 'd have fired— but Luka's hand 
 
 Rose in protestation, 
 While his pistol's mute command 
 
 Needed no translation ; 
 For the Turk retraced his track, 
 Knelt and took upon his back 
 (As a peddler shifts his pack) 
 Luka Filipov ! 
 
 How we cheered him as he passed 
 Through the line, a-swinging 
 
 Gun and pistol— bleeding fast- 
 Grim— but loudly singing : 
 
 " Lucky me to find a steed 
 
 Fit to give the Prince for speed ! 
 
 Rein or saddle ne'er shall need 
 Luka Filipov ! " 
 
 So he urged him to the tent 
 
 Where the Prince was resting — 
 Brought his captive, shamed and spent, 
 
 To make true his jesting. 
 And as couriers came to say 
 That our friends had won the day, 
 Who should up and faint away ? 
 Luka Filipov. 
 
5 8 A MOTHER OF BOSNIA 
 
 A MOTHER OF BOSNIA 
 
 Three sons she has of Servian mold 
 As balsam for her widow's grief, 
 
 While in her Danka all behold 
 A treasure precious past belief. 
 
 Oh, lovely Danka ! happy she, 
 More fortunate than all beside, 
 
 To be the pride of brothers three, 
 Themselves of Bosnia the pride ! 
 
 In her they glory ; she inspires 
 To freedom's never-ending fight, 
 
 And in their hearts burn patriot fires, 
 As stars upon the Turkish night. 
 
 And often at the mother's door 
 
 Tears mingle with the words that bless : 
 
A MO THEE OF BOSNIA 59 
 
 O gods of battle ! guard my four — 
 My falcons and my falconess." 
 
 Her radiant beauty nothing hides — 
 What wonder that the Turk has seen, 
 
 And as before her door he rides 
 The Raven-Aga calls her queen ! 
 
 For three nights has he lain a\\«ke— 
 To call on Allah ? Nay, till dawn 
 
 Calling on Danka, for whose sake 
 His heart is sore, his brow is wan. 
 
 He gathers warriors ere the sun ; 
 
 They gallop quickly through the murk ; 
 And Danka, at the signal-gun. 
 
 Cries, " Save me, brothers ! —'tis the Turk ! 
 
 Now flash the rifles, speeds the fight, 
 Till, shamed, the Raven-Aga flies. 
 
 Alas for Danka ! in her sight 
 One lion-hearted brother dies. 
 
6o A MOTHER OF BOSXIA 
 
 Again the infidel appears, 
 
 And at his heels ride forty guns ; 
 
 But at the voice of Danka's fears 
 Red many a Turkish stirrup runs. 
 
 But, oh, at vespers, when once more 
 The baffled Raven back has fled, 
 
 Across the sill of Danka's door 
 There lies another brother, dead. 
 
 The Turkish devil once again 
 
 Summojis each savage wedding-guest, 
 
 And half a hundred to be slain 
 
 Go forth at midnight toward the west. 
 
 Once more the stealthy Moslems ride. 
 Once more the Servians gather fast, 
 
 As Danka summons to her side 
 Her brother — and her last. 
 
 The fight grows fiercer, till the dead 
 Fill the dim street from wall to wall. 
 
 Call on thy mother. Battle-wed — 
 Thou hast no brother left to call ! 
 
 The Raven seizes her and croaks : 
 
 " At last thou art my biide, proud maid ! " 
 
A MOTHER OF BOSNIA 6i 
 
 " Not thine — my yataghan's ! " Two strokes — 
 Her warm heart weds the loval blade. 
 
 Ill 
 
 DriRK is the night as on the slopes 
 Of that deserted battle-gromid 
 
 The mother, crazed with sorrow, gropes 
 Until her sons' three swords are found. 
 
 And as she roam.s through Servian lands 
 (Her mirth more piteous than tears) 
 
 She bears a blade in her thin hands 
 To right the wrongs of many years. 
 
 And offering Danka's phghted knife 
 Or one of those three patriot swords, 
 
 She calls the coldest rock to strife, — 
 " Take, and repel the Turkish hordes ! " 
 
 And as the rock no word replies, 
 
 She asks, " Are you not Servian too ? 
 
 Why are you silent then ?" she cries ; 
 " Is there no living heart in you ? " 
 
 She treads the dreary night alone ; 
 There is no echo to her moan. . . . 
 Is everv heart a '^eart of stone ? 
 
62 THE MONSTER 
 
 THE MONSTER 
 
 " In place of the heart, a serpent ; 
 
 Rage — for the mind's command 
 An eye aflame with wildness ; 
 
 A weapon in the hand ; 
 
 " A brow with midnight clouded ; 
 
 On the lips a cynic smile 
 That tells of a curse unmatchable- 
 
 Born of a sin most vile. 
 
 " Of longing, or hope, or virtue, 
 No vestige may there be ; 
 
 You, even in vice inhuman — 
 What can you want of me ? 
 
 " You in its maddest moment 
 The Deepest Pit designed, — 
 
 Let loose to sow confusion 
 In the order of mankind ; 
 
THE MONSTER d-^ 
 
 " Here Hatred found you crawling 
 
 Like vermin, groveling, prone. 
 Filled you with blood of others 
 
 And poisoned all your own. 
 
 "Your very thoughts are fiendish — 
 
 Smoke of the fires of Hell. 
 Weird as you are, how is it 
 
 I seem to know you well ? 
 
 " Why with your wild delirium 
 
 Do you infect my sleep ? 
 Why with my daily footstep 
 
 An equal measure keep ? " 
 
 The monster mutely beckons me 
 Back with his ghostly hand. 
 
 And dreading his fearful answer 
 I heed the grim command. 
 
 " Nay, softly," he says ; " I pray thee, 
 Silence thy frightened moan. 
 
 And wipe the sweat from thy forehead 
 My kinsman thou, my own ! 
 
64 THE MOKSTER 
 
 " Look at me well, good cousin ; 
 
 Such wert thou fashioned of ! 
 Thou, too, wouldst me resemble 
 
 Without that made — Love!" 
 
TIVO DREAMS 65 
 
 TWO DREAMS 
 
 Deep on the bosom of Jeel-Begzad 
 (Darling daughter of stern Bidar) 
 
 Sleeps the rose of her lover lad. 
 
 It brings this word : When the zenith-star 
 
 Melts in the full moon's rising hght, 
 
 Then shall her Giaour come — to-night. 
 
 What is the odor that fills her room ? 
 
 Ah ! 't is the dream of the sleeping rose : 
 To feel his lips near its velvet bloom 
 
 In the secret shadow no moonbeam knows, 
 Till the maiden passion within her breast 
 Kindles to flame where the kisses rest. 
 
 By the stealthy fingers of old Bidar 
 (Savage father of Jeel-Begzad) — 
 
 Never bloodless in peace or war — 
 
 Was a handjar sheathed ; and each one had 
 
 Graved on its handle a Koran prayer — 
 
 He can feel it now, in his ambush there ! 
 
66 TWO DREAMS 
 
 The moon rides pale in the quiet night ; 
 
 It puts out the stars, but never the gleam 
 Of the waiting blade's foreboding light, 
 
 Astir in its sheath in a horrid dream 
 Of pain, of blood, and of gasping breath, 
 Of the thirst of vengeance drenched in death. 
 
 The dawn did the dream of the rose undo. 
 But the dream of the sleeping blade came true. 
 
MYSTERIOUS LOVE 67 
 
 MYSTERIOUS LOVE 
 
 Into the air I breathed a sigh ; 
 
 She, afar, another breathed — 
 Sighs that, hke a butterfly, 
 Each went wandering low and high, 
 
 Till the air with sighs was wreathed. 
 
 When each other long they sought, 
 
 On a star-o'er-twinkled hill 
 Jasmine, trembling with the thought, 
 Both within her chahce caught, 
 A lover's potion to distil. 
 
 Drank of this a nightingale. 
 
 Guided by the starlight wan — 
 Drank and sang from dale to dale, 
 Till every streamlet did exhale 
 Incense to the waking dawn. 
 
 Like the dawn, the maiden heard ; 
 While, afar, I felt the fire 
 
58 MYSTERIOUS LOVE 
 
 In the bosom of the bird ; 
 Forth our sighs again were stirred 
 With a se\-enfold desire. 
 
 These we followed till we learned 
 Where they trysted ; there erelong 
 
 Their fond nightingale returned. 
 
 Deeper then our longings burned, 
 Deeper the delights of song. 
 
 Now, when at the wakening hour, 
 
 Sigh to sigh, we greet his lay. 
 Well we know its mystic power- 
 Feeling dawn and bird and flower 
 Pouring meaning into May. 
 
 Jasmine, perfume every grove ! 
 
 Nightingale, forever sing 
 To the brightening dawn above 
 Of the mystery of love 
 
 In the mystery of spring ! 
 
THE COMING OF SONG 69 
 
 THE COMING OF SONG 
 
 When the sky darkened on the first great sin, 
 
 And gates that shut man out shut Hope within, 
 
 Like to the falcon when his wing is broke, 
 
 The bitter cry of mortals then awoke : 
 
 " Too heavy is our burden," groaned the two. 
 
 " Shall woes forever on our track pursue. 
 
 And nest within these empty hearts ? Or, worse, 
 
 Shall we be withered by the cruel curse ? 
 
 Already less than human, shall we fall 
 
 By slow succession to some animal ? " 
 
 Then, filled with pity at the desperate cry, 
 
 Came from His throne of thunder the Most High : 
 
 " That you should sufiFer " (spake the Voice) " is just ; 
 
 'T is you have chosen for a feast a crust. 
 
 But not so unrelenting I — the least 
 
 Of all your kind shall be above the beast. 
 
 That erring mortals be not lost in fear, 
 
 Come from My shining courts, O daughter dear ! 
 
7° THE COMIXG OF SOXG 
 
 Thou dost to heaven, shalt to earth belong." 
 She came ; she stayed : it was the Muse of Song. 
 
 Again the day was radiant with Hght, 
 
 And something more than stars iUumed the night. 
 
 Hope, beckoning, to the desert took its flight. 
 
 Where is Pain and dire Distress, 
 Song shall soothe hke soft caress ; 
 Though the stoutest courage fails, 
 Song 's an anchor in all gales ; 
 When all others fail to reach, 
 Song shall be the thrilling speech ; 
 Love and friends and comfort fled. 
 Song shall linger by your bed ; 
 And when Doubt shall question, Why ? 
 Song shall lift you to the sky. 
 
CUHSES 71 
 
 CURSES 
 
 Fain would I curse thee, sweet unkind! 
 
 That thou art fair ; 
 Fain curse my mother, that not blind 
 
 She did me bear ; 
 But, no ! — each curse would break, not bind, 
 
 The heart ye share. 
 
72 A FAIRY FROM THE SUX-SHOIVER 
 
 A FAIRY FROM THE SUN-SHOWER 
 
 [When the Servians see the sun-rays of a summer shower they 
 say it is the fairies combing their hair.] 
 
 Over the meadow a shower is roaming ; 
 
 Just beyond is the summer sun ; 
 Fair is the hair that the fays are combing — 
 
 Myth come true ! here 's my dainty one 
 Tripping the path in the wind's soft blowing ; 
 Her slender form through her gown is showing. 
 Her foot scarce whispers the way she 's going. 
 
 " Come, my bright one, come, my soul, 
 
 Let my kisses be your goal." 
 
 But the path has heard my sighing. 
 
 Turns aside, and leads my fay 
 Into the forest, love defying. 
 
 Path, accursed be ! — but stay ! 
 Lost to love each moment gliding. 
 What if in the woodland hiding 
 Still for me my fay be biding ! . . . 
 
 " Wait, my bright one, wait, my soul, 
 
 Your sweet kisses are my goal." 
 
FRAGMENT FROM THE " GIULICHE'' 73 
 
 "WHY," YOU ASK, "HAS NOT THE 
 SERVIAN PERISHED?" 
 
 FRAGMENT FROM THE " GIULICHE " (" JEWELS") 
 
 " Why," you ask, " has not the Servian perished, 
 Such calamities about him throng ? " 
 
 With the sword alike the lyre he cherished : 
 He is saved by Song! 
 
74 "/ BEGGED A KISS OF A LITTLE MAID'' 
 
 I BEGGED A KISS OF A LITTLE MAID" 
 
 I BEGGED a kiss of a little maid ; 
 
 Shyly, sweetly, she consented ; 
 Then of a sudden, all afraid, 
 
 After she gave it, she repented ; 
 And now as penance for that one kiss 
 She asks a poem — I '11 give her this. 
 
 But how can my song be my very best 
 When she, with a voice as soft as Circe's, 
 
 Has charmed the heart from my lonely breast — 
 The heart, the fountain of all true verses ? 
 
 Why, oh, why should a maid do this ? 
 
 No — I must give her back her kiss. 
 
lf^//V THE ARMY BECAME QUIET 75 
 
 WHY THE ARMY BECAME QUIET 
 
 Some said they did but play at war, — 
 How that may be, ah ! who can tell ? 
 
 I know the gallant army corps 
 Upon their fleeing foemen fell, 
 
 And sacked their camp, and took their town, 
 
 And won both victory and renown. 
 
 Now home returning, wild with song, 
 They come, the colors flying free. 
 
 But as within the door they throng. 
 Why does the army suddenly 
 
 Hush the fierce din, and silence keep ? — 
 
 Why, little brother is asleep. 
 
76 THE GIPSY PRAISES HIS HORSE 
 
 THE GIPSY PRAISES HIS HORSE 
 
 You 're admiring my horse, sir, I see. 
 
 He 's so light that you 'd think it 's a bird — 
 Say a swallow. Ah me ! 
 
 He 's a prize ! 
 
 It 's absurd 
 To suppose you can take him all in as he passes 
 
 With the best pair of eyes. 
 
 Or the powerful aid 
 Of your best pair of glasses : 
 
 Take 'em off, and let 's trade. 
 
 What ! " Is Selim as good as he seems .'' " 
 
 Never fear. 
 
 Uncle dear, 
 He 's as good as the best of your dreams, 
 
 And as sound as your sleep. 
 
 It 's only that kind that a gipsy would keep. 
 The emperor's stables can't furnish his mate. 
 But his iirit and his crait, 
 
THE GIPSY PRAISES HIS HORSE 77 
 
 And his wind and his ways, 
 
 A gipsy like me does n't know how to praise. 
 But (if truth must be told) 
 Although you should cover him over with gold 
 He 'd be worth one more sovereign still. 
 
 " Is he old .? " 
 Oh, don't look at his teeth, my dear sir ! 
 I never have seen 'em myself. 
 Age has nothing to do with an elf ; 
 So it 's fair to infer 
 My fairy can never grow old. 
 Oh, don't look — (Here, my friend, 
 Will you do me the kindness to hold 
 For a moment these reins while I 'tend 
 To that fly on his shanks ?) . . . 
 As I said — (Ah — now — thanks !) 
 The longer you drive 
 The better he '11 thrive. 
 He '11 never be laid on the shelf ! 
 
 The older that colt is, the younger he '11 grow. 
 I 've tried him for years, and I know. 
 
 " Eat ? Eat ? " do you say ? 
 
 Oh, that nag is n't nice 
 
 About eating ! Whatever you have will suffice. 
 
78 THE GIPSY PRAISES HIS HORSE 
 
 He takes everything raw — 
 Some oats or some hay, 
 
 Or a small wisp of straw, 
 
 If you have it. If not, never mind — 
 SeHm won't even neigh. 
 What kind of a feeder is he ? That 's the kind ! 
 
 " Is he clever at jmnping a fence ? " 
 What a question to ask ! He 's immense 
 
 At a leap ! 
 
 How absurd ! 
 
 Why, the trouble 's to keep 
 Such a Pegasus down to the ground. 
 He takes every fence at a bound 
 With the grace of a bird ; 
 
 And so great is his strength, 
 
 And so keen is his sense. 
 
 He goes over a fence 
 Not across, but the way of its length ! 
 
 " Under saddle ? " No saddle for Selim ! 
 Why, you 've only to mount him, and feel him 
 
 Fly level and steady, to see 
 
 What disgrace that would be. 
 No, you could n't more deeply insult him, unless 
 You attempted to guess 
 
 And pry into his pedigree. 
 
THE GIPSY PRAISES HIS HORSE 79 
 
 Now why should you speak of his eyes ? 
 
 Does he seem hke a horse that would need 
 
 An eye-glass to add to his speed 
 Or, perchance, to look wise ? 
 
 No indeed. 
 
 Why, not only 's the night to that steed 
 Just the same as the day, 
 
 But he knows all that passes — 
 Both before and behind, either way. 
 
 Oh, he does n't need glasses ! 
 
 " Has he any defect ? " What a question, my friend ! 
 
 That is why, my dear sir, I am willing to sell. 
 
 You know very well 
 It is only the horse that you give or you lend 
 That has glanders, or springhalt, or something to mend : 
 
 'T is because not a breath 
 
 Of defect or of death 
 Can be found on my Selim. that he *s at your pleasure. 
 Alas ! not for gipsies the care of such treasure. 
 
 And now about speed. " Is he fast ? " I should say ! 
 Just listen — I '11 tell you. 
 
 One equinox day. 
 Coming home from Erdout in the usual way, 
 A terrible storm overtook us. 'T was plain 
 There was nothing to do but to run for it. Rain, 
 
So THE GIPSY PRAISES HIS HORSE 
 
 Like the blackness of night, gave us chase. But that nag, 
 Though he 'd had a hard day, did n't tremble or sag. 
 
 Then the lightning would flash, 
 
 And the thunder would crash 
 
 With a terrible din. 
 They were eager to catch him ; but he would just neigh, 
 Squint back to make sure, and then gallop away. 
 \A^ell, this made the storm the more furious yet, 
 And we raced and we raced, but he was n't upset, 
 
 And he would n't give in ! 
 At last when we got to the foot of the hill 
 
 At the end of the trail, 
 By the stream where our white gipsy castle was set, 
 And the boys from the camp came a-waving their caps, 
 
 At a word he stood still. 
 To be hugged by the girls and be praised by the chaps. 
 
 We had beaten the gale, 
 And Selim was dry as a bone — well, perhaps, 
 
 Just a httle bit damp on the tip of his tail.* 
 
 * Readers will be reminded by this conclusion of Mark Twain's 
 story of the fast horse as told to him by Oudinot, of the Sandwich 
 Islands, and recorded in " The Galaxy" for April, 1871. In that 
 veracious narrative it is related that not a single drop fell on the 
 driver, but the dog was swimming behind the wagon all the way. 
 
THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 
 
THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 85 
 
 THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 
 
 Silence was envious of the only voice 
 
 That mightier seemed than she. So, cloaked as Death, 
 
 With potion borrowed from Oblivion, 
 
 Yet with slow step and tear-averted look, 
 
 She sealed his lips, closed his extinguished eyes, 
 
 And veiling him with darkness, deemed him dead. 
 
 But no! — There 's something vital in the great 
 
 That blunts the edge of Death, and sages say 
 
 You should stab deep if you would kill a king. 
 
 In vain! The conqueror's conqueror he remains. 
 
 Surviving his survivors. And as when, 
 
 The prophet gone, his least disciple stands 
 
 Newly invested with a twilight awe. 
 
 So linger men beside his listeners 
 
 While they recount that miracle of speech 
 
 And the hushed wonder over which it fell. 
 
 What do they tell us of that mighty voice? 
 Breathing an upper air, wherein he dwelt 
 'Mid shifting clouds a mountain of resolve, 
 And falling like Sierra's April flood 
 
86 THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 
 
 That pours in ponderous cadence from the chflF, 
 Waking Yosemite from its sleep of snow, 
 And less by warmth than by its massive power 
 Thawing a thousand torrents into one. 
 Such was his speech, and were his fame to die 
 Such for its requiem alone were fit : 
 Some kindred voice of Nature, as the Sea 
 When autumn tides redouble their lament 
 On Marshfield shore ; some elemental force 
 Kindred to Nature in the mind of man — 
 A far-felt, rhythmic, and resounding wave 
 Of Homer, or a freedom-breathing wind 
 Sweeping the height of Milton's loftiest mood. 
 Most fit of all, could his own words pronounce 
 His eulogy, eclipsing old with new, 
 As though a dying star should burst in light. 
 
 And yet he spoke not only with his voice. 
 
 His full brow, buttressing a dome of thought, 
 
 Moved the imagination hke the rise 
 
 Of some vast temple covering nothing mean. 
 
 His eyes were sibyls' caves, wherein the wise 
 
 Read sibyls' secrets ; and the iron clasp 
 
 Of those broad lips, serene or saturnine. 
 
 Made proclamation of majestic will. 
 
 His glance could silence like a frowning Fate. 
 
THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 87 
 
 His mighty frame was refuge, while his mien 
 Did make dispute of stature with the gods. 
 
 See, in the Senate, how his presence towers 
 
 Above the tallest, who but seem as marks 
 
 To guide the unwonted gaze to where he stands, 
 
 First of his peers — a lordly company. 
 
 Each State still gave the others of its best — 
 
 Our second race of giants, now, alas! 
 
 Buried beneath the lava-beds of war. 
 
 Not yet had weaklings trod the purchased path 
 
 To a feigned honor in the curule chair. 
 
 Holding a world's contempt of them for fame — 
 
 As one should take the leaves stripped from his scourge 
 
 To wreathe himself a counterfeit of bay. 
 
 An age is merely Man, and, thus compact. 
 
 Must grimly expiate paternal sins ; 
 
 That age's shame stands naked to the world, 
 
 And no man dares to hide it ; yet one boast 
 
 Palsies the pointing finger of to-day : 
 
 ' T was slave, not master, that 7ve bought ami sold. 
 
 Oh for fit word of scorn to execrate 
 Oiu" brood new-born of Greed and Liberty! 
 Not the blind mass of stumbling ignorance 
 (For the dread portent of a blackening cloud 
 
88 THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 
 
 May by bold shafts of sunlight be dispersed), 
 But those who lead them to the nation's hurt — 
 These our kind neighbors, semblances of men. 
 The Church's bulwark, the beloved of homes, 
 Locked fast in friendship's ever-loyal pledge, 
 Yet to whom treason is their daily breath. 
 Not Lucifer, on each conspiring wind 
 Rallying his abject crew to new assaults ; 
 Not all the recreant names that spawning War 
 Has cursed with immortality, can match 
 The craft of their betrayals. All is sold : 
 Law, justice, mercy, and the future's hope — 
 This land that buoys the fainting fears of Man. 
 Yet to praise Webster one of these has dared ! — 
 Webster, undaunted by the hour's reproof, 
 Webster, untempted by the hour's applause, 
 Who scorned to win by any art but truth! 
 Who, had he heard the impious flattery. 
 Across the Senate would have launched his wrath, 
 Like Cicero on cowering Catiline, 
 In one white passion that forevermore 
 Had saved to Infamy an empty name 
 That now he spurns in silence from his grave. 
 
 Yet had he frailties, which let those recount 
 Who have not seen the nigh-o'erwhelmed state 
 
THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 
 
 Rescued from peril by some roisterer's skill 
 
 While all the petted virtues of the home 
 
 Stood pale and helpless. Time 's a mountain-wall 
 
 That gives a fainter echo to one's best, 
 
 But to what 's weak or wanting, mere disdain. 
 
 He had his passions — all but one are dead : 
 
 That was his country. Never lover loved. 
 
 Soldier defended, poet praised, as he, 
 
 Who marveled all should worship not his queen. 
 
 And much forgave to any loving her. 
 
 And when, one desperate day, the threatening hand 
 
 His hand so long arrested, he being gone. 
 
 Felt 'neath its pillow for the unsheath'd sword, 
 
 Who spoke for Union but with Webster's voice? 
 
 Who struck for Union but with Webster's arm? 
 
 Forgetful of the father in the son. 
 
 Men praised in Lincoln what they blamed in him. 
 
 And though, his natural tenderness grown grave, 
 
 He lives not in Love's immortality 
 
 Like Lincoln, shrined within his foeman's heart ; 
 
 Though he trod not the path of him whose soul 
 
 Triumphed in song that beckoned armies on 
 
 More than persuading drum, dare-devil fife, 
 
 Or clarion bugle ; though no battle-flame 
 
 Rose to a peak in him : yet was his blood 
 
 In heroes and his wrath in righteous war. 
 
90 THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 
 
 Then did the vision of his patriot hope, 
 Pictured in pleading but in warning words, 
 Inspire the inspirers, nerve the halting brave, 
 Make triflers solemn with the choice of death. 
 And when at last came Peace, the friend of all. 
 Grateful and wondrous as first drops of rain 
 After the long starvation of the drought, 
 Men harkened back to that prophetic hour 
 When two protagonists, like chosen knights, 
 Made long and suave epitome of war : 
 When Hayne arose 't was Sumter's gun was heard, 
 When Webster closed 't was Appomattox field. 
 
 But oh, his larger triumph was to come! 
 
 His voice, in victory potent, was in peace 
 
 Predominant. His all-benignant thought 
 
 That, never wavering through the strife of words. 
 
 No AUeghanies, no Potomac knew, 
 
 Searching the future to bring oHve back. 
 
 Lived like a fragrance in the heart of Grant, 
 
 And at the perilous moment of success 
 
 Pointed the path to concord from the grave. 
 
 And what famed concord! — not a grudging truce. 
 
 Nor interlude of hate, but peace divine : 
 
 When hands still wet with blood again were clasped, 
 
 Each foe forgiving what is ne'er forgot ; 
 
THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 91 
 
 The hacked sword eager for the scabbard's rest, 
 Not from the fear, but for the love of man. 
 O loftier conquest of the Blue that warred 
 For freedom, not for conquest! Victory, 
 Unsought, of all the hardly vanquished Gray! 
 Marvel of Europe staggering in arms ; 
 Message of Hope unto the souls that herd 
 Dumb at the slaughter for the whim of kings ; 
 Lusus of History until wars shall cease. 
 My country! since nor memory of strife, 
 Nor natural vengeance, nor the orphan's tears 
 Can from Love's nobler triumph hale thee back : 
 Who worthier than thou to lead the way 
 Unto the everlasting Truce of God, 
 When brothers shall toward brothers over sea 
 Stretch not the sword-blade, but the open palm, 
 Till on Time's long but ever-upward slope 
 They mount together to unreckoned heights. 
 And grateful nations gladly follow them ! 
 
 Thus sang I, proud to be but one of all 
 The sands upon a shore whereon there breaks. 
 Freighted with purpose'vast, the will of Heaven — 
 When a rude clash I heard, that yet I hear, 
 When Discord grasped again her rusted harp 
 And struck new terror from the raveled strings, 
 
92 THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 
 
 Calling Ambition blindfold to the lead 
 Of Want, Dishonor, Perfidy, and Crime, 
 Who in their turn misguide the innocent. 
 Groping their way by the last firebrands 
 Plucked from their holocaust of hoarded truth. 
 The air we thought as peaceful as the noon 
 Was dark with sudden hatred, as with cloud 
 Blown, in long-gathered tempest, from the West, 
 Like a wild storm of summer heat and wind 
 Circling in passion, bruited by dismay, 
 And dragging death and chaos in its train. 
 As some old myth of savagery come true, 
 And Nature had turned demon, rending Man. 
 
 This madness Webster still can medicine. 
 
 Who was physician to its earlier taint. 
 
 He did not fury then with fury meet. 
 
 But to the sanity of eternal law 
 
 Wooed back the wandering mind. Who could forget 
 
 His calming presence when, ere he began, 
 
 Confusion fled before his morning look 
 
 Of power miraculously new and mild ; 
 
 The speech as temperate as a wind of May ; 
 
 The mind as candid as the noonday light ; 
 
 The tones deliberate, confident, sedate, 
 
 Waking no passion, and yet moving all 
 
THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 93 
 
 With such a high compulsion that at last 
 Reason, the king that well-nigh had been lost 
 Upon the confines of his sovereign realm, 
 Remounted to the throne with steady step. 
 And men again were proud of his control. 
 
 So, in these days of hopeful hearts' despair, 
 
 When perils threat, ay, throng the ship of state, 
 
 And less from gale without than torch within. 
 
 Who — who but Webster with his faith serene 
 
 Shall rouse the sleeping to command their fate. 
 
 Shall bid them steer by the unswerving stars. 
 
 And in them troth with Liberty renew? 
 
 Imagination gave his spirit wings. 
 
 That, seeing past the tempest and the flame. 
 
 He might remind us of our destiny : 
 
 To save from faction what was meant for Man ; 
 
 To cherish brotherhood simplicity, 
 
 The chance for each that is the hope for all ; 
 
 To guard the realm from Sloth, and Greed, and Waste — 
 
 Those sateless Gorgon s of democracy ; 
 
 And above all, whatever storm may rage. 
 
 To cling to Law, the path of Liberty, 
 
 The prop of heaven, the very pulse of God. 
 
 Thus our new soil, the home of every seed. 
 
 Where first the whole world meets on equal terms, 
 
94 THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 
 
 Shall such new marvels show of man's estate 
 In knowledge, wisdom, beauty, virtue, power. 
 The Past shall fade in pity or in scorn, 
 While fresher joys shall thrill the pulse of earth. 
 
 No, Webster's fame not Webster's self can blot. 
 
 Fair is perfection's image in the soul, 
 
 And yearning for it holds the world to good. 
 
 Yet is it such a jewel as may not 
 
 Unto a single guardian be entrust. 
 
 But to the courage of a multitude 
 
 Who all together have what each may lack. 
 
 Though men may falter, it is Virtue's strength 
 
 To be indelible : our smallest good 
 
 By our worst evil cannot be undone. 
 
 The discords of that life — how short they fall. 
 
 Like ill-strung arrows! But its harmonies — 
 
 Harmonious speech large with harmonious thought - 
 
 Dwell in a nation's peace, a nation's hope. 
 
 Imperishable music ; not the rhythm 
 
 Of some remembering moment, but the peal 
 
 And crash of conflict unforgettable 
 
 Piercing the mid and thick of night. No, no, 
 
 That voice of thunder died not with the storm. 
 
 But in the dull and coward times of peace 
 
 Long shall its echoes rouse the patriot's heart. 
 
HANDS ACROSS SEA 
 
The War of Independence was virtually a second Eng- 
 lish civil war. The ruin of the American cause would 
 have been also the ruin of the constitutional cause in 
 England; and a patriotic Englishman may revere the 
 memory of Patrick Henry and George Washington not 
 less justly than the patriotic American. 
 
 —John Morley, on Burke. 
 
HANDS ACROSS SEA 99 
 
 HANDS ACROSS SEA 
 
 England, thou breeder of heroes and of bards, 
 
 Had ever nation manher shield or song! 
 
 For thee such rivalry have sword and pen. 
 
 Fame, from her heaped green, crowns with equal hand 
 
 The deathless deed and the immortal word. 
 
 For which dost thou thy Sidney hold more dear. 
 
 Defense of England or of Poesie? 
 
 Cromwell or Milton — if man's guiding stars 
 
 Could vanish as they came — which wouldst thou spare? 
 
 Lost Kempenfelt indeed, were Cowper mute! 
 
 To victory, not alone on shuddering seas 
 
 Rode Nelson, but on Campbell's tossing rhyme. 
 
 Hark to thy great Duke's greater dirge, and doubt 
 
 For which was Waterloo the worthier won. 
 
 To change the tyrant on a foreign throne. 
 
 Or add a faultless ode to English song. 
 
 Great deeds make poets : by whose nobler word, 
 
 In turn, the blood of heroes is transfused 
 
lOO HANDS ACROSS SEA 
 
 Into the veins of sluggards, till they rise, 
 Surprised, exalted to the height of men. 
 
 Nor can Columbia choose between the two 
 
 Which give more glory to thy Minster gloom. 
 
 They are our brave, our deathless, our divine — 
 
 Our Saxon grasp on their embattled swords. 
 
 Our Saxon numbers in their lyric speech. 
 
 We grudge no storied wreath, nay, would withhold 
 
 Of bay or laurel not one envied leaf. 
 
 Then, on thy proud cliff fronting Europe-ward, 
 
 Strong in thyself, not by some weaker prop. 
 
 Give to the greeting of a kindred voice 
 
 A moment in the ebb of thy disdain. 
 
 II 
 
 Is it but chance that in thy treasured verse 
 There is no paean, no exulting line. 
 No phrase of martial fervor, to record 
 The Briton's prowess on our Western shore? 
 There was no lapse of valiance in thy race — 
 Or else had Time forgot to mark the years. 
 Nor hast thou since had lack of many a voice 
 Whose words, like wings to seed, on every air 
 From land to hospitable land import 
 
HANDS ACROSS SEA 
 
 Thy progeny of courage, justice, truth. 
 Why, then, when all our songs were resonant, 
 Were all thy singers silent? Candor, speak! 
 There is a daemon makes the Muses dumb 
 When they would praise the wrong : but Liberty 
 From Nature has inheritance of speech — 
 The forest harp, the flood's processional, 
 The glorious antiphone of every shore. 
 When these are dumb, then poets may be mute^. 
 
 in 
 
 Taught by thy heroes, summoned by thy bards, 
 
 Against the imperious folly of thy kings 
 
 Twice our reluctant banners were arrayed. 
 
 What matter if the victors were not thine, 
 
 If thine the victories? Thou art more secure 
 
 Saved from the canker of successful wrong. 
 
 Thou dost not blush for Naseby, where, of old, 
 
 England most conquered, conquering EngHshmen. 
 
 So when thou hear'st the trumpets in our verse 
 
 In praise of our new land's deliverance, 
 
 Hard won from Winter, Hunger, and from thee, 
 
 And from those allies thou didst hire and scorn, 
 
 Deem it not hatred, nor the vulgar pride 
 
 Of the arena, nor the greed of fame. 
 
I02 HANDS ACROSS SEA 
 
 ('Twixt men or nations, there 's no victory 
 
 Save when an angel overcomes in both.) 
 
 Would all our strife were blameless! Some, alas! 
 
 Hath trophies hoarded only to be hid, 
 
 For courage cannot hallow wanton war. 
 
 Be proud our hand against thee ne'er was raised 
 
 But to wrench English justice from thy grasp. 
 
 And, as to landsmen, far from windy shores, 
 
 The breathing shell may bear the murmuring sea. 
 
 Still in our patriot song reverberates 
 
 The mighty voice that sang at Hampden's side. 
 
 IV 
 
 True, there are those of our impassioned blood 
 
 Who can forget but slowly that thy great 
 
 Misread the omens of our later strife. 
 
 And knew not Freedom when she called to thee. 
 
 These think they hate thee! — these, who have embraced 
 
 Before the altar their fraternal foes! 
 
 Not white of York and red of Lancaster 
 
 More kindly mingle in thy rose of peace 
 
 Than blend in cloudless dawn our blue and gray. 
 
 Already Time and History contend 
 
 For sinking rampart and the grassy ridge 
 
 That with its challenge startles pilgrim feet 
 
HANDS ACROSS SEA 103 
 
 Along the fringes of the wounded wood. 
 
 The bedtime wonder of our children holds 
 
 Vicksburg coeval with the siege of Troy, 
 
 And the scorned slave so hastened to forgive 
 
 The scar has lost remembrance of the lash. 
 
 Since Love has drawn the sting of that distress, 
 
 For one with wrath to compass sea and years 
 
 Were but to make of injury a jest, 
 
 Holding the occasion guiltier than the cause. 
 
 But Hate 's a weed that withers in the sun ; 
 
 A cell of which the prisoner holds the key, 
 
 His will his jailer ; nay, a frowning tower 
 
 Invincible by legions, but with still 
 
 One secret weakness : xvJw can hate may love. 
 
 Oh, pausing in thy cordon of the globe, 
 
 Let one full drop of English blood be spilled 
 
 For Liberty, not England : men would lose 
 
 Their fancied hatred in an ardor new. 
 
 As Minas Channel turns to Fundy's tide. 
 
 Hate thee? Hast thou forgot red Pei-ho's stream, 
 
 The triple horror of the ambuscade, 
 
 The hell of battle, the foredoomed assault, 
 
 When thou didst stand the champion of the world, 
 
 Though the awed sea for once deserted thee? 
 
 Who then sprang to thee, breaking from the bonds 
 
 Of old observance, with a human cry, 
 
104 HANDS ACROSS SEA 
 
 Thirsting to share thy glorious defeat 
 
 As men are wont to covet victory? 
 
 Hate thee? Hast thou forgot Samoa's reef, 
 
 The day more dark than any starless night, 
 
 The black storm buffeting the hopeless ships, 
 
 The struggle of thy sons, and, as they won. 
 
 Gaining the refuge of the furious deep, 
 
 The immortal cheers that shook the Trenton's deck, 
 
 As Death might plead with Nature for the brave? 
 
 Stands there no monument upon that strand? 
 
 Then let remembrance build a beacon high, 
 
 That long its warning message may remind 
 
 How common danger stirs the brother heart. 
 
 Why turn the leaf back to an earlier pager 
 
 To-day, not moved by memory or fear. 
 
 But by the vision of a nobler time, 
 
 Millions cry toward thee in a passion of peace. 
 
 We need thee, England, not in armed array 
 
 To stand beside us in the empty quarrels 
 
 That kings pursue, ere War itself expire 
 
 Like an o'er-armored knight in desperate lunge 
 
 Beneath the weight of helmet and of lance ; 
 
 But now, in conflict with an inner foe 
 
 Who shall in conquering either conquer both. 
 
HANDS ACROSS SEA 105 
 
 For it is written in the book of fate : 
 
 By no sword save her own falls Liberty. 
 
 A wondrous century trembles at its dawn, 
 
 Conflicting currents telling its approach ; 
 
 And while men take new reckonings from the peaks, 
 
 Reweigh the jewel and retaste the wine. 
 
 Be ours to guard against the impious hands 
 
 That, like rash children, tamper with that blade. 
 
 Thou, too, hast seen the vision : shall it be 
 
 Only a dream, caught in the web of night. 
 
 Lost through the coarser meshes of the day? 
 
 Or like the beauty of the prismic bow. 
 
 Which the sun's ardor, that creates, consumes? 
 
 Oh, may it be the thing we image it! — 
 
 The beckoning spirit of our common race 
 
 Floating before us in a fringe of light 
 
 With Duty's brow. Love's eyes, the smile of Peace ; 
 
 Benignant figure of compelling mien. 
 
 Star-crowned, star-girdled, and o'erstrewn with stars, 
 
 As though a constellation should descend 
 
 To be fit courier to a glorious age. 
 
 O THOU that keepest record of the brave, 
 Something of us to thee is lost, more worth 
 Than all the fabled wealth of sibyls' leaves. 
 
io6 HANDS ACROSS SEA 
 
 Not with dull figures, but with heroes' deeds, 
 Fill up those empty annals. Teach thy youth 
 To know not North's but Byron's Washington ; 
 To follow Hale's proud step as tearfully 
 As we pale Andre's. And when next thy sons 
 Stand in Manhattan gazing at the swirl 
 Of eddying trade from Trinity's brown porch, 
 Astonished, with the praise that half defames. 
 At the material greatness of the scene, — 
 The roar, the fret, the Babel-towers of trade, — 
 Let one stretch forth a hand and touch the stone 
 That covers Lawrence, saying, "To this height 
 Our English blood has risen." And to know 
 The sea still speaks of courage, let them learn 
 ^^'hat murmurs it of Craven in one bay. 
 And what of Gushing shouts another shore. 
 (Find but one star, how soon the sky is full! 
 One hero summons hundreds to the field : 
 So to the memory.) Let them muse on Shaw, 
 Whose bones the deep did so begrudge the land 
 It sent its boldest waves to bring them back 
 Unto the blue domed Pantheon where they lie. 
 The while his soul still leads in martial bronze ; 
 Tell them of sweet-dirged Winthrop, whom to name 
 Is to be braver, as one grows more pure 
 Breathing the thought of lover or of saint ; 
 
HAXDS AC A' OSS SEA 107 
 
 Grim Jackson, Covenanter of the South, 
 
 And her well-christened Sidney, fallen soon ; 
 
 Kearny and Lyon. Of such hearts as these 
 
 Who would not boast were braggart of all else. 
 
 Each fought for Right — and conquered with the Best. 
 
 Such graves are all the ruins that we have — 
 
 Our broken arch and battlement — to tell 
 
 That ours, like thine, have come of Arthur's race. 
 
 O England, wakened from thy lull of song, 
 Thy scepter, sword, and spindle, fasces-like. 
 Bound with fresh laurel as thy sign of strength. 
 When shalt thou win us with a theme of ours, 
 Reclaiming thus thine own, till men shall say : 
 " That was the noblest conquest of her rule " ? 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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