t Class . 'Si, 52' Book ^A CoipShtN" COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. The Isle of Dreams PEARL L. NORTON 1 15 North 28 th Avenue Omaha, Nebraska \ 1 NOV -9 1914 CI.A387715 To My Mother PRESS OF DOUGLAS PRINTING CO. OMAHA CONTENTS Page. The Isle of Dreams 9 A Love Lyric 12 Spring- 16 The Hours (From a Painting) 17 In an Artist's Studio 18 Drifting 19 Violets 20 Summer 21 A Lullaby 22 A Mansion of Old 23 A Fog Fantasy 25 Doris 27 Ambition 33 Sunrise on the Prairie 34 Sunset on the Prairie 35 Ode to Diana 36 Night 37 Autumn 38 Exile 39 Semper Fidelis 41 Monastery Bells 42 Summer Twilight 43 The Little Acts of Life 44 Chanson de la Lune 45 A Memory 46 Unknown 47 Hope 48 The Rosary of San Juan 49 La Favorita 54 In Old Madrid 55 The Storm 56 The Old, Old Theme 59 A Christmas Sketch 61 The TVeaving of the Rainbow 65 If Dreams Come True 69 Inf elice 70 The Ghost of La Belle Dame Sans Merci 73 Echoes 76 Al Fresco 77 The Southern Wind 78 To My Muse. 79 The Poet 80 My Garden 81 Evening Star 83 The Emigrant 84 My Rosary 85 Regret? !'..".!!! 86 L'Envoi 87 THE ISLE OF DREAMS Violet and crimson and gold, Melted into a rosy maze, As the sunset, dying, lingered. And was met by the twilight haze. And never a sound broke that sea-shore calm, Save the wavelets that splashed on the sand; And never a being of human shape, Lived on that lovely island. Why is that beauty sequestered In that silent land, so lone? Why — 'Tis the Island of Dreams, dear, And only to dreamers is shown. The poet has seen, and the artist. The beauteous visions there ; But no pessimist or cynic Ever entered that island fair. A path thru the forest leads inland. And the glow of the sunset bright, Filtering thru the leaf-hung trees, Makes a net-work of golden light. 10 THE ISLE OF DREAMS The glistening towers of a palace — The palace of Dreams — uprise 'Gainst the soft blue sky in the distance, Steeped in the sunset dyes. This palace is built of sea-shells, As delicate, lovely, and pink. As the dainty petal of a wild rose grown On some fern-strewn streamlet's brink. And, so, 'tis said, here the poets Gather their fancies of thought; And no poet ever succeeded Till he first this palace sought. A fountain, banked round with fern leaves, Is leaping and splashing their stems. And the sunset is kissing the white spray And turning its waters to gems. There they seem rubies all glowing, Here opals, gleaming with light. Their iridescent beauty Mingled with emeralds bright. THE ISLE OF DREAMS 11 The sky casts a turquoise glory The sparkling waters o'er, Till the fount seems to teem with color, As never waters before. There are gardens of wonderful flowers, And rare, sweet-smelling plants, And a fairy moss-grown arbor. Where the white owl sits and chants. And when in the pure white moonlight, This fairy isle is bathed, The poet and the artist find anew That beauty which they craved. The nightingale will sing its heavenly song. Where the dew-hung lilies nod. And the white acacia blossoms Smile down at the velvet sod. Then come with me, dear, to that fair isle Where beauty runs rife all the year; We can board the good ship '* Dreamland, ' * And sail without ever a fear. 12 THE ISLE OF DREAMS A LOVE LYRIC. A poet fell adreaming once in June, And dreamed he was in quest of Cupid's home. His thoughts went hand-in-hand with Fancy gay, Who guided him lest he should roam, From out the love-wrought way. His footsteps fell all noiseless on a path Flanked close on one side by a land Of velvet greenness, daisy-flecked, and on The other ran a stream by white rocks spanned. These limpid languid waters in their lace-fern bed Showed the dimpled blue of heaven As they smiled; and overhead The blue sky smiled in turn. Sometimes a tiny tinkling sound he heard As the dripping rocks were splashed, And once an infant rainbow poised And iridescent flashed. He passed thru fairy woodlands rich in all The youthful lovliness of Spring, As fair as the Elysian Fields of old. And fragrant with the honeyed sweets that fling Themselves upon the soft winds roaming dreamily. THE ISLE OF DRBAMS 13 And so he passed, the poet, wondering, And drowsy-eyed, till gradually A soft, sweet languor came. He dropped upon a mossy mound and soon Was slumbering there 'midst leaf and bloom Of that fair woodland and a hush swift flew Upon the place and like a tomb, Its silent beauty grew. And soon sweet sounds of lyre-lipped melody Awoke the poet from his sleep; And so he lay and listened to such strains Of music that set all his pulse aleap. And then he rose and listening stood, and dripping pure Like smooth drops of molten pearl, Softly the music sobbed, and then the lure Of melody grew still. A mist of silver meshes then arose, And the sunlight gleamed and glanced ; The poet turned his eyes upon a knoll Where the dew on the greensward danced Like gems on an emerald bowl. And there a silver-latticed arbor stood, And half-embraced by blushing roses gleamed, 14 THE ISLE OF DREAMS A fragrant, dainty blend of silv'ry pink. He nearer drew and stood it seemed Before the door of Beauty's own domain. For there, within, upon a bed Of flushed rose petals, lay the god Of Love and Lovers, fast asleep ; and shed By passing sunbeams, yellow glints of light Were in scintillating glances, Making all the arbor bright. A cherub nestled close beside the couch, And now and then he touched his lyre sweet; While snowy doves flew in and out and dropped Fair offerings of flowers at Cupid's feet. The while the poet stood entranced, he saw The sleeper's eyelids ope, and square He looked into Love's eyes, and saw An answering smile of gladness, Well up in their clear depths fair. So the poet found his Cupid, And sweet his dream to him. For he found there an inspiration, Not new, but never dim. And this it is — that always, For every soul there dreams THE ISLE OF DREAMS 15 A Cupid in a rosy bower, To be wakened when the gleams Of answering love are roused. And if no love comes surging From that other heart to yours, Then the Cupid still is dreaming On that other heart's calm shores. IG THE ISLB OF DREAMS SPRING. A softer note of crooning In the wafted scent-hung breeze, As if translating lyrics, Sung on languorous southern seas. Above, the azure sky, white-flecked, Below, the dainty flush Of fragrant petaled orchards *Neath the sun's warm kiss a-blush. The Pipes o' Pan resounding sweet, The song of a bird on the wing ; God's breath of peace descending, And saying, "This is Spring." THE ISLE OF DREAMS 17 THE HOURS. (From a Painting) Around a limpid pool they met, Closed in by a leafy screen; Four maidens, their pale figures set Like cameos 'gainst the green. The Dawn lay lengthwise on the sward, Her yellow hair astream, Her blue eyes, like fringed gentians, toward The azure heav'ns adream. And that exotic beauty, Noon, Red-lipped, full-bosomed, leaned And gazed at her own lovliness, That in the pool's depths gleamed. And Twilight, dusky-eyed and fair. Sweet courier of the moon, Sat twining roses in her hair. And smiled the while at Noon. And one there stood, a figure pale, Against a bank of bloom, With lovely brooding eyes that veil Midnight's mysterious gloom. 18 THE ISLB OF DREAMS IN AN ARTIST'S STUDIO. Polished gleam of oak twixt velvet- Textured rugs from Eastern lands, Scent of sandal-wood and roses, Tapestries from skillful hands. Gleam of marble — Aphrodite, Juno, and pale Niobe — And upon the walls the faces Of a painted company. Knights and ladies, monks and fools there, Beggars, kings, and water-sprite. And o'er all shines down serenely Softly shaded, changing light. THE ISLE OF DREAMS 19 DRIFTING. Oh, let the oars be still, dear, And let us drift atune. Over the silvered shimmering lake, That quivers 'neath the moon. And let our hearts be one, dear. As faint the melody Of distant singers, floating comes Wafted to you and me. For, ah, the summer night, dear. Is witchery, and strong The scented night-wind's now on us. With youth and sings youth's song. 20 THE ISLE OF DREAMS VIOLETS. A purple mass with dainty breath, Like a royal offering given To some fair queen of olden time, Whose soul is now in Heaven. Soft, with the dew-drops upon them, Glittering like gems on their breast; Breathing a message to dear ones, That is even now half-guessed. THB ISLE OF DREAMS 21 SUMMER. Summer is not a timid maid, To blush before our eyes, But a woman, mature, with the power to lure In the season of sunny skies. Voice of a siren, honey-sweet. That sings upon a breeze, That is heavily hung with the songs that are sung By the nymphs of the southern seas. Lips like a red, red rose and they Are clinging close to earth ; And the beautiful eyes of Summer are wise, Tho' they seem but to mirror mirth. For ne'er will she stay till her lovers grow weary, And seek a fair mistress anew; But with song on her lips and her arms full of flowers. She wafts us a kiss and ''Adieu." 22 THE ISLE OF DREAMS A LULLABY. Soft sighs the night-wind, Crooning a song; Angels watch o'er thee, And a mother's love strong. High in the Heavens, Night's lanterns gleam, Slumber, my darling, And sweet be thy dream. THE ISLE OF DREAMS 23 A MANSION OF OLD. It stands upon a wind-swept hill, With an avenue of pines, Leading up to the balconied porch, Shadowed by moulding vines. Its roof is frail and blown with age, And its staring windows seem Peep-holes into a darkened Past, Fit for a Bogie's dream. But once these rooms, re-echoed now. By the breezes' plaintive sigh, Rang with the laughter and voices of youth, Silent now for years gone by. The maidens of a hundred years. With faces bright with youth, Tripped merrily down to the wide old hall, Quaint as an old-time booth. Around the red-bricked fireplace wide, When the night was dark and cold, Stories of love and stories of war, Each with their charm were told. 34 THE ISLE OF DREAMS The hound, a favored inmate there On the hearth-rug stretched and dreamed, Too, there were baskets of woodland nuts, Nearby the cognac steamed. And then, perchance, the squire took down From its resting place nearby. His worn old fiddle that could give Sweet strains that the night- wind s sigh. Each merry maiden tripped the dance. And each laughing glance was held Fast in the mirror of Time's clutching hand, As louder the music swelled. And then when darkness folded all, And the lights no longer shone, Dancing figures of nimble shade Fell on the lone hearth-stone. I think, sometimes, the Fates will keep Watch o'er this trophy of Time, And each by-gone thought and act will swathe From this hurrying age's grime. THE ISLE OF DREAMS 25 A FOG FANTASY. The fog creeps 'round me like the hand Of a phantom, strangling strong, Its clammy breath is in my face, And silent it creeps along. Strange thoughts come surging thru my brain, I can fancy that that the way That lay beyond the River Styx, Was swathed in such mists of grey. I peer into the shrouding gloom, But the fog shuts out the light : And mist to mist and fog to fog, It circles its embrace tight. But when the sun all royally. Comes again into his own, he scared mists rise and vanish as The thieves 'neath the master's frown. 26 THE ISLE OF DREAMS And then how fair the world appears, With its mantle of sunny light, — 'Tis the contrast of a murky pool, With a spring-time brooklet bright. And so in life our good deeds shine, 'Gainst the blackness of our sins. And the blessed light of Heaven shows Where the division-line begins. THB IS LB OF DREAMS 27 DORIS. That first day she came to the studio asking for work, The Artist was gloomily contemplating the canvas before him. In no way did it embody his idea. He looked up suddenly and saw her standing there in the doorway, a little thing, shabbily dressed, and with the breath of the April mist shining on her hair. In that one glance The Artist noted the wide brown eyes, soft as a fawn's, the child-like contour of the cheek and throat, and straightway he asked her name. ' ' Doris, ' ' she had answered in a voice like a sweet-toned bell. The Artist had smiled at the child-like answer. ''Just Doris, please," she had repeated. And "Doris" she remained, while The Artist congratulated himself on his good fortune in discovering so exquisite a model. Doris never spoke of her life outside the studio and The Artist's friends, as well as himself, respected her reticence. ''She has her reasons probably," The Artist often said. The rain-drenched days of April passed and May came. Doris used to open the southern windows of the studio and let in the mild breeze while she posed. 28 THE ISLE OF DREAMS The shrill discords of wrangling little sparrows, whirring about the window, seemed to give her infinite pleasure. When the long sunny days of June came The Artist closed the studio and bade good- bye to Doris. He did not ask her plans and she told him nothing. It was late October when The Artist came back from his long playtime and opened the studio again. The morning of the second day of his return, Doris opened the door and came softly in as if she had been gone hours instead of months. Her face was a little paler than before, but The Artist noted that she was lovlier ; scarcely less child-like, but still more womanly. The Artist was bubbling with enthusiasm. He confided his plans to Doris as they sat in the topsy-turvy studio, with the morning sun throwing a multitude of tints upon them from the great rose- window in the east. The Artist was to begin work upon what he was confident was to be his master- piece. He would use no models, for it was to be a purely impressionistic work. And, too, he was to be married at Christmas, and his fiancee was to come twice a week now to sit for her portrait. He would not need Doris unless some special work should demand a model. His whole time would be taken up THE ISLE OF DREAMS 29 with the portrait and the picture. However, Doris might call when she liked. When The Artist had finished, Doris smiled her slow smile, and, giving him her hand, went away. The studio was a very gay place, indeed, that winter. Parties of The Artist's friends took pos- session of it at times and transformed it with their gay chatter and music. Doris came to the studio twice, but each time she found The Artist shut in his little room off the studio, where he was working madly away at his two treasures. When she knocked softly at the door and called, "It is I — only Doris," he told her abruptly that there was nothing for her and to please go away like a good child. After that Doris never came again and The Artist seemed almost to have forgotten her. On Christmas Eve the studio was dark and silent, for The Artist was to be married at St. Stephen's at eight o'clock. Wrapped in her modest little gray cloak with her brown curls swathed in a filmy scarf of blue, Doris sat at the back of the church and saw the ceremony. When the last of the wedding-party had trailed out of the church, and the guests were surging down the aisles, Doris slipped out and hur- ried towards the studio building. Laboriously she 30 THE ISLE OF DREAMS toiled up three flights of stairs, for the lift had long since stopped. Her hand was trembling as she inserted the slender key and fumbled with the door in the darkness. It opened at last, and she groped with outstretched hands for the electric switch and found it. Then with a little catch in her breath she looked about her, her quick gaze noting each familiar object. Swiftly she crossed to the door of The Artist's little work-room and opened it. The light from the studio streamed upon the two canvases that repre- sented the toil of so many weeks. The smaller of the two was uncovered and Doris stood before it with clenched hands, her eyes devouring it moodily. This was what she had come, like a thief in the night, to see. It was the portrait of The Artist's lady. Each stroke of The Artist's brush had spoken truly, and it was the picture of a girl, fair and womanly, on which Doris looked. In her concen- tration, Doris had clutched at something on the high stool beside the picture, and was turning it over and over in her hand. She looked down at it at last, and into her eyes crept a gleam of infinite malice, not unmixed with grief. She held in her hand The Artist's heavy palette knife. With a half- THE ISLE OP DREAMS 31 fearful glance behind her Doris raised the knife that could ruin at one stroke the love-wrought portrait of The Artist's lady. For an instant the knife re- mained poised, and then the hand that held it dropped. Doris's eyes were strangely drawn towards the huge white canvas that held The Artist's masterpiece. She became suddenly possessed to remove the covering and look upon The Artist's last great work. Still clinging to the knife, she swiftly pushed aside the covering and the pale yellow light fell upon the picture. With a little cry of wonder, Doris fell upon her knees before the picture, and the knife clattered to the floor. Truly it was The Artist's masterpiece. It told the story of the Blessed Happiness of the Holy Family, and as Doris looked, her eyes were dimmed with sudden tears. For the face of the Mother of Jesus, was HER face — the face of Doris. The soft outlines, the faultless coloring, the very expression, all were there, — glorified by The Artist's conception of the Divine Motherhood. For a long time Doris knelt before the picture, one thought repeating itself over and over in her mind, — ^^It was MY face he saw, as he worked, — not hers, — mine.'' And then she would smile slowly, wonder- 32 THE ISLE OF DREAMS ingly, and think it all over again. The great cloek in the studio chimed the hour of ten, and roused her from her reveries. AVith caressing hands, Doris covered the great picture and turned to go. At the door she looked back and saw the portrait of The Artist's lady smiling at her. And then the studio was dark again and Doris was gone, — gone out into the night as quickly, as silently, as she had come into the studio that first day. And no one knows of Doris, neither whom she was, nor where she went. But The Artist's masterpiece hangs in the Grand Salon, with the face of Doris smiling down from it. THE ISLE OF DREAMS 33 AMBITION. It is not given to all to do A deed of deathless fame, But naught can stay the least of us From pure and lofty aim. The man who lets a day go by, Without a vision seen Of something nobler. Lo, — that man Has soiled that day's page, clean. If every goal, high-placed, could lure But one step up each day, How short would seem the journey's length, Although a life-long way. 34 THE ISLE OF DREAMS SUNEISE ON THE PRAIRIE. The rosy morn comes dancing o'er the waste Of tangled grasses tall; Her gilded shafts of sunlight flash, As on the dew they fall. The sky is like a sea-shell, All pearly-tinted fair, And an infant breeze awakened, Murmurs plaintive on the air. The regal disk that rises Above the faint sky-line, Looks down on this fair dominion, As if to say, ^' 'Tis mine." And this is the prairie sunrise, "When the day awakes from sleep ; When the sun grows bright, then brighter, And the gray mists sky- ward creep. THE ISLE OF DREAMS 35 SUNSET ON THE PRAIRIE. Amber and crimson and blue, With violet lights between ; And a hint of the coming nightfall, Softly dimming the sunset sheen. Above, the Orient splendor, Below, the western plain, Stretching away to the skyline, As over a boundless main. The faint herb-scented breezes Pass lightly o 'er the ground, And kiss the heads of the grasses, That in tangled heaps abound. And this is the western prairie, When the day is tired unto death, And pillowing her head in the sunset. Slumbers with quiet breath. 36 THE ISLE OF DREAMS ODE TO DIANA. Noctural maiden, goddess fair, To whom the ancients offered prayer, In thy silvery robes of light, And thy chariot of the Night, — Whither bound and what thy guidance 'Long the pathways of the sky? If perchance, your eyes grew wearied Of the strange celestial sight. Would you pause and rest a moment On some fleecy cloudlet's height? Or, without a single pausing, Or a halting in thy flight, Would you keep within the misty Pearly roadway of the Night? THE ISLE OF DREAMS 37 NIGHT. Soft falls the veil of night, O'er the varied scenes of earth; Over the souls that are grieving, Over the children of mirth. Casting its shadows o'er sages, And those who have life's path to tread; Glancing at poverty's victims, And those on whom riches are shed. Deeper and darker the shadows, Stiller the evening breeze. Gently the tree-tops are swaying, All is wrapt in night's diocese. 38 THE ISLE OF DREAMS AUTUMN. Soft haze and scented wind, And banks of golden rod ; And purple thistles, nodding high, Above the lush green sod. Half-clothed in colors gay, The trees like shrinking maids, Turn slim arms out against the wind's Caress adown the glades. A hint of sadness, too. Is borne upon the air. The crooning wind is like a dirge, — A requiem for the fair. THE ISLB OF DREAMS 39 THE EXILE. Oh, let me return to the Homeland, List ! — I hear those voices clear. Singing the songs of my country, Those songs I hold so dear. Sometimes I dream of the Homeland, And see the long green lane, With the whispering trees along it, And my heart grows sick with pain. In dreams I tread in the Homeland, And my weary heart gains peace. Dear faces all around me — Cod — when will my exile cease? And then I wake and slowly. The hideous present leers Its mocking face before me, And I struggle with the tears. 40 THE ISLE OF DREAMS The pain is bitter, bitter, And I've waited, oh, so long. I wonder why the years lag, And so my life prolong? Oh, take me back to the Homeland, And safe there, 111 be blest. By the sight of my own country. Before my day of rest. THE ISLE OF DREAMS 41 SEMPER FIDELIS. We climbed a mountain path together 'neath a sky Of softest azure with the scent of pines Around us like sweet Nature 's incense fiung From that calm altar high. We stood and listened and together heard the fall Of purling hidden waters, hastening fast Adown some mossy crevice and a peace Descended over all. Up to the high and rocky ledge we climbed, and gazed Upon a dozen peaks with snowy heads : And far below the lake's bright blue was spread Beneath the sun's gilt rays. In that cold clime, the icy hand of winter blast, Nor yet the melting kisses of the sun, E'er change the awesome faces of these guards, All faithful to the last. 42 THB ISLB OF DREAMS MONASTERY BELLS Sweet voiced, silvery voiced bells, Ah, their music as it swells. Speaks of quiet cloistered life, Where no struggle and no strife Can abide. Clear voiced pealings of the bells, Coming from the chapel quells All the harsh unlovely sound Of the cities all around, And peace abides. THE ISLE OF DREAMS 43 SUMMER TWILIGHT. The golden time, the dearest hour Of all the day is here. The vague sweet scents of grass and flower Come in my window near. The sun in gorgeous beauty slept An hour ago, and now Fair Venus, shining-eyed, has crept To her high throne, aglow. The beauty of the hour brings thought That's close akin to pain, A melody within me wrought Cries to be heard again. I touch the keys and as I play That sweet, sweet melody Comes blending softly with the day That's going, and to me A peaceful thought, almost a prayer, A wonder at the ways Of Mother Nature, just as fair In night-times as in days. 44 THE ISLE OP DREAMS THE LITTLE ACTS OF LIFE. It is not much to give — a smile To drive a tear away; A hand outstretched with friendly clasp Upon a gloomy day. The greeting given in morning hours, The good-night kiss, — the look That makes some eye reflect its light Like sun upon a brook. 'Tis all these things, so quietly done, — The little acts of life, That help us somehow to forget The sorrows and the strife. THB ISLE OF DREAMS 45 CHANSON DE LA LUNE. She hung full-orbed and golden o 'er the night, Like some quaint lamp of Heavenly workmanship. A little cloud of fleecy floating white Was creeping like a timid swain to slip His arms about his love. And all below was bathed in mystic light, A silver rain down-falling on the green ; The cups of nodding lilies show the sheen Of moonlight brushed o'er satin petals white, As snowy as a dove. The myriad grass-folk tune their violins. The humming-bird darts crooning o'er the rose, The dreamer sings a song of love. Soft blows The amorous southern wind. And so begins The song to Dian above. 46 THH ISLE OP DREAMS A MEMORY. Only a faded rose, Held once in Somebody's hand, Rousing a thousand longings By Memory's breezes fanned. Back in the webhung cloisters Of the ever-echoed past, Surging thoughts are imprisoned. By the chains of Time held fast. Oh, little rose, you're all that's left Of that golden time, for he Who held you once has crossed the bar Of Life's tempestuous sea. THB ISLB OF DRBAMS 47 UNKNOWN. There hangs in the dim old castle Of a long forgotten Sire, The portrait of a Lady, Her name in Forgetfulness' mire. Strangers, gazing upon it, Are awed by the lovely face. Soft as a child's in expression. Regally fair in its grace. There, with the pale light about her, Framed in the hangings rare. She seems like a vision of ages. Apart from this worldly glare. Nobody knows of the tumultous thoughts That surged in that unknown heart; Nobody knows of the soul she possessed. Or the sphere of which she was a part. Softly the amber sunlight Filters thru the gloom. Resting with seeming caresses, On the portrait of that room. 48 THE ISLE OF DREAMS HOPE. Wand 'ring one day o'er the fields of Time, The Fates found a sunbeam fair, Lying alone, 'midst the shattered aims Of ages of human despair. The lonely sunbeam cast its light Over the gloomy scene. Striving to brighten the darkened way And find some good to glean. So they lifted it gently and sent it out To the struggling world of care. That its light might shine on a toiler's soul, And help it its trials to bear. The little sunbeam was christened "Hope," It lives in the world today; And 'long the path to Happiness, Its clear light shows the way. THB ISLB OF DREAMS 49 THE ROSARY OF SAN JUAN It was noon in the Padre 's garden. The sun shone upon the white walls, and the crimson flowers near the little fountain looked like a splash of blood. It was very still in the garden, too. The Padre never came there at that time of the day. Miguel lay on his back upon the shady strip near the outer wall. His hat was over his eyes, but he was not asleep. All night before he had played and played and now not a peso remained. Hence he had come into the Padre's little garden to think. The insects in the crimson flowers droned lazily and the hour went by. Miguel threw his hat from his face and with a soft curse, arose. His black eyes looked sullenly at the little church across the way. He looked long at that little church and slowly there crept over his dark face, a look, half of determina- tion and half of fright. Miguel crossed the deserted street and entered the Church of San Juan. As the door closed behind him, he stood for a moment in an attitude of listen- ing. The place was very still, as quiet as a tomb. 50 THE ISLE OF DREAMS Directly before him was the font of holy water and above it hung the famous Eosary of San Juan. It was wrought of gleaming pearl and silver, — a relic of the first Catholic fathers, the founders of San Juan Mission. Miguel knew the reverence and love the villagers and the Padre had for the rosary, and he also knew it to be worth many pesos. On the other side of the Sierras it could be turned into a small fortune. A sound of steps within the church caused Miguel to start and glance about the vestibule. Then quickly he reached out his hand toward the Rosary of San Juan, and in another moment he fled wildly from the church. At seven o'clock in the evening the breeze sprang up from over the mountains, the soft twilight began to descend, and the fragrance of the crimson flowers in the Padre 's garden stole langorously upon the air. The good Padre himself roused from his quiet revery in his dusky garden, and slowly crossed the street to his little church, as the vesper bell sounded with calm and deliberate sweetness. His people — his chil- dren, he loved to call them — were gathering for the vesper service and the Padre had scarcely time to don his cassock in his little study in the rear of the THE ISLE OF DREAMS 51 church when his people burst in upon him, wide-eyed and breathless. The blessed Rosary of San Juan was gone ! Some one with the devil 's own spirit had stolen it away! Might the Virgin's curse descend upon him ! With a gesture of quiet authority the Padre lifted his hand and enjoined silence. And they followed him quietly enough back into the church and knelt for service, awed by the Padre's calmness. When the simple service was over, the Padre stood before his people and spoke. The waxen tapers flared on either side of him and the simple altar with its images of the Savior and the Mother Mary, gave a fitting background for the stately figure of the old Padre with his snowy hair and calm blue eyes. ''The blessed Rosary of San Juan, the relic used by the founders of San Juan, has been stolen, you say. Do not fear, for the curse of remorse will surely be upon him who has thus defiled the holy relic. Return to your homes and pray that the morning may bring to us the Rosary of San Juan. ' ' And they went out quietly while the Padre knelt before the altar, and then extinguishing the tapers, returned to his garden. The garden was a place of exquisite beauty now. The mellow crescent of the young moon rode in the 52 THE ISLB OF DREAMS velvety darkness of the sky and peeped with a pale light over the trees into the garden, half-lighting the place into a fairy-like lovliness. The odor of the flowers hung on the soft night-wind, and a restless bird chirped sleepily in its nest. For a long time the Padre sat and mused on the disappearance of the Rosary of San Juan. Out in the desert land that lay to the west of San Juan, the stars, in their velvety canopy, seemed very far away. It was quiet, too, with the uncanny quiet- ness of the waste places of the earth. Sometimes a reptile went scurrying by with a dry rustling sound, and once a bird, with a harsh, unlovely cry, flew swiftly toward the east. A man stood as still as a man of stone and his eyes stared into the half-light about him. It was early — not yet nine o'clock. Miguel was not happy. He held in his hand the precious Rosary of San Juan and the pale moonlight struck it now so that it glistened like a silver rope. The pearl and silver crucifix hung pendant in the moonlight and with a cry Miguel shut his hand over it. It seemed to him that the Figure of silver cast its anguished eyes re- proachfully up at him. He unclosed his hand and again the swinging cross harassed him with vague THE ISLE OF DREAMS 53 fear. He shut his eyes suddenly and thrust the rosary into his shirt and ran blindly towards San Juan. When he reached the little town it was almost midnight, but he did not realize his weariness. The little moon had long since disappeared and in the darkness and stillness of the southern night he reached the church of San Juan. The door of that little church was always open and Miguel stealthily entered. It was darker here than outside, but Miguel had known the place since boyhood. He stood a moment before the font uncovered and felt gropingly for the silver hook that always held the rosary. With a muttered prayer, Miguel went out into the blackness of the night. And when tlie morning sun came slanting thru the high window of the vestibule, it rested on the gleam- ing silver of the Rosary of San Juan. 54 THB ISLE OF DREAMS LA FAVORITA. I saw the calm awakening of the morn, When rosy mists crept up to kiss the sun, That seemed a thing of beauty, born At dawn, and quiet as a nun. I saw the opal sunset flood the sky, And glow along the low horizon line. Where color seemed to spring to life and die A death of beauty, exquisitely sublime. Again I stood beside the rippled evening sea, And saw the young moon rise above the waste • I heard the tiny wavelets laugh with glee, And coquette with each wandering breeze they faced. But all these scenes before me fade away. My ideal reigns my heart alone, supreme. Its loveliness returns again to play Upon my heart-strings when I dream. Winter-all the midnight heavens bright With winking stars, and where the hill-top merges Into sky, a fir tree keeps its watch with light Of stars and night-wind crooned dirges. THE ISLE OF DREAMS 55 IN OLD MADRID. In old Madrid, in a balcony hid By clustering vines of roses, A dark-eyed girl with a coquettish curl, Sits and strums on an old guitar. 'Tis sweet Marie, who waits for me, In the gray old chateau there. In the light of the moon, she will softly croon, And the moonbeams will play in her hair. When the poplars throw their shadows low, I will softly creep to the stair. And serenade the pretty maid. Who is slumbering without care. Oh, sweet Marie, your smile to me. Is worth a Kingdom 's gold. Your laughing glance holds me m a trance, And makes my love fourfold. 56 THB ISLB OF DREAMS THE STORM. The sea roared round like a maddened thing, The scurrying clouds hung dark, The lurid light of a storm at sea Hovered over the little bark. The streaks of fiery lightning sent The light upon each face. Two sailor lads, young sturdy lads, With the wild waves rowed a race. The white-capped waves into billows grew, And dashed o'er the small frail craft. The moon peeped once from a blackened cloud, And it seemed to them she laughed. Their hope and strength began to wane They gave themselves to Fate, Then, suddenly the tossing mass Seemed strangely to abate. Again they seized the slippery oars. And threw away their fear, They pulled again for that beacon bright. That told that help was near. THB ISLB OF DREAMS 57 When almost there, the wind arose Like a wakened beast from sleep, It tore the surging clouds again And furrowed thru the deep. The waters seized the lagging oars, And dashed them from their grasp. They heard the frenzied wind shriek past, Their boat went sailing fast. A sea-bird, searching shelter, gave Its rasping cry and they Felt tliat they were not alone 'Midst that wind and spray. The morning sun rose, calm and clear. As if no storm had raged The night before, and made the sea Like a rebel spirit uncaged. The keeper of the lighthouse scanned The dancing waters o'er; His glass defined an object small, On the rocks where the sunbeams pour. 58 THE ISLE OF DREAMS A rescuing boat, well-manned and strong, Came to the broken bark, Cast on those barren ragged rocks, Like a wounded fallen lark. And there on those cruel rocks they saw As if shrinking from their watery graves, Two staring lifeless forms that told Of battle with the waves. That evening as the rosy sun Rippled on the evening sea, Two sailor lads were laid to rest, Safe in their own country. THE ISLE OF DREAMS 59 THE OLD, OLD THEME. 'Twas eve in the old cathedral, The music master dreamed At his dear beloved organ. How the waxen tapers gleamed ! The dim aisles seemed like pathways Leading to a better life, As they lead up to the altar, With its image of the Strife. And each gleaming marble statue, In its niche with curtains drawn, Silent stood, as pale as cloud-mist That one sees at dawn. But the music master sitting In that sepulchral haze, Took no sight of his surroundings, For his thoughts were in a maze. Softly his trembling hands, touching The sweet-voiced organ keys. Wove a symphony of music. But he was 'cross the seas. 60 THB ISLE OP DREAMS He was dreaming of the spring-time Of his life, when first he met The woman of his first love, With her soft hair, black as jet. Dark eyes shone like dusky star-lights, Bloom of roses, pink and fair, Blended with the lily's whiteness, 'Neath the wealth of shining hair. And the music, swelling louder, Filled his soul with peace divine, Seemed to make the flickering tapers With a new bright glory shine. Thought spoke to thought, as upward The floating music soared. The sound as of many waters 'Round the music-master roared. His head sank low and lower. Till it sank upon his breast ; In the dim cathedral's vastness. He had passed on to his rest. THE ISLB OP DREAMS 61 A CHRISTMAS SKETCH. It was the Christmas-tide in Dresden. Outside the night-wind moaned and wailed through the naked trees like a soul in agony. In an upper room, lux- urious in its comfort, Franz von Alstedt, the com- poser, sat before an open fire, his head bent upon his hand, his now sightless eyes turned towards the dying coals. The room was dark save when some ember leaped to sudden life and gave out its ruddy short-lived light. At the further end of the room a boy was playing on a violin. The melody was a strange one for a child to choose, and it was played with an understanding that was marvelous. It began softly, tremulous with insistent pleadings^ then grew stronger, but still holding those tones which had all the breathlessness of quickened heart- throbs, then faster and faster, till it seemed wild with passion and delirious joy. But when the finale came, it was sweet and low, and every lingering tone was a caress. The smouldering fire awakened suddenly and its radiance made the room bright for an instant. The boy laid aside the violin and knelt at the composer's 62 THE ISLE OF DREAMS knee. He was a fair lad of perhaps twelve years, with a pale pretty face and large questioning eyes of blue that seemed too grave for his young face. Von Alstedt's hand lay on the curly head, caress- ingly and he asked softly, "Would you have a story, liebchen? A story that would surely interest you?" The boy assented eagerly, and, restins: his head on Von Alstedt's knee, he gave a a little sigh of con- tent. ''^'Twas in the winter of 18 — , nine years ago to- night, when I was playing in a Concerto in a Ber- lin theatre," began the old man, musingly. ''The night was very dark and the sharp air cut me in the face on my way to the theatre. I found my fel- low musicians already assembled when I arrived. In a short time the curtain rose. My number was the last on the first half of the programme. I went onto the stage, gazed into the sea of upturned faces and began to play. The piece was an Hungarian dance tune, full of strange cadences, and yet fraught with a soft, sweet melody suggesting Southern nights and heavy flower-laden air. When I had finished there was silence for a moment, and then a great storm of applause broke out. As an encore I played the 'Unfinished Symphony' and then, the THB ISLE OF DREAMS 63 applause continuing, I gave them Beethoven's * Moonlight Sonata' and bowed myself from the stage. "When I left the theatre I found that the wind had risen and the moon was shedding a pale cold light over the sleeping city. Suddenly, as I hurried along, I heard, above the whistling wind, a cry — the cry of a child in distress. Again it reached me, nearer now it seemed. I stopped and peered about me. It was where two buildings tall and dark left a space between them, and there in the darkness crouched such a forlorn little creature that my heart went out to it and I took it in my arms. It was sobbing softly now and its little arms clung to me, the head of tangled curls nestling on my shoul- der. I took the child home with me with the thought that on the morrow I should hear of some frantic mother searching for her little one. But the mor- row came and went, week followed week, and no one claimed the child. So I kept him and called him ' Ernest '.'' Without a word the boy went to the window and stood there, his forehead pressed against the cold glass. And then the Christmas chimes began. The voices of the bells soared upward in their joy, 64 THB ISLB OF DREAMS reached a glorious climax, and then grew softer. Fainter and fainter the music floated till the air was calm and still again. After a time the boy gravely kissed the old man and went away. But Von Al- stedt sat in his chair till the first streak of the Christ- mas dawn appeared. They found him there with a smile on his lips and peace written on his pallid brow. He had gone in the night and the morning found him in his Paradise. THB ISLB OF DREAMS 65 THE WEAVING OF THE EAIN-BOW. When black-eyed Cleopatra's barge, With scented, silken sail, Went drifting down the mirrored Nile, Before a summer gale. The arrant wind, with fingers bold. Snatched up a flower rare That twined its scarlet petals in The slumbering Queen 's dark hair. A gondolier, his olive face. Turned westward, plied his oar, And straight into the sunset slipped. And then was seen no more. He went to find the yellow gold That in the sunset lay, — A wondrous, glittering treasure pile, Heaped up at close of day. There grew a tree on Java's isle. With globules, orange-hued. So-colored by the kissing lips, Of Phoebus, in a mood 66 THB ISLB OF DREAMS Of wilful tenderness. And one Of these fair fruits was plucked By wandering wood-folk, whom, they say. The satyrs do instruct. A sparkling emerald once was filched From Persia's pea-cock throne, And Shahs for decades have searched far To find the won'drous stone. Its light was as the light that shines, In cool sea-caverns green. But nevermore was found the gem, That cast such glamorous sheen. A sea-nymph twined a deep blue string Of lapis lazuli, Among her shimmering tresses wet With salt spray of the sea. And one blue stone slipped from her hand, Into the waters bright; That stone was never seen again, By man nor water-sprite. When blue-eyed Paris lay in death, Upon his rich-hung bier, His curves of icy beauty veiled By clinging gauzes sheer, — THE ISLB OF DREAMS 67 One scarf of violet tinted silk, Was taken by that Queen Of Love, fair Aphrodite, who Then crept away, unseen. The red from Cleopatra's flower; The yellow of the gold, Which that young gendolier had brought, From sunset wealth, untold. The orange from exotic fruit, That grew in tropic lands; The green from that bright pilfered gem, Stolen by unknown hands ; The blue from lapis lazuli — Mother of ultramarine ; The violet of silken scarf; All woven in a sheen. And all these colors, blended, make The arch of beauty, thrown Upon the curtain of the sky ; It is a promise shown To us, who, gazing, see it blend Into a perfect whole, — A promise of a time to come When man has reached his goal. 68 THE ISLE OF DREAMS For that will be a perfect time, When no man, race, nor creed. Will set itself apart as if It only were to lead. But every man and every race, And all religious strife. Shall be together melted all Into one faultless life. THB ISLE OF DREAMS 69 II- DKEAMS COME TRUE. Give me the hum of silver-stringed harp, Blent with a sliver song ; The dreamy perfume of a rose, That blooms all summer long. And bring to me the sheen of pearls, Twined in with an opal's gleam ; And bring me silks of Orient weave, Gold-threaded, rose and cream. Too, bring the tranquil holy light Of a summer evening star, Together with a poet's scroll, To waft me dreams from far. And in a smiling morn in May, Within a mountain glade Set down these things, my genie slave, And my Olympia's made. 70 THB ISLB OF DRBAMS INFELICE. With a flirt of his wings of silken gauze, A bee flew over the moor ; His body was golden and velvet-brown, And his song was sung to lure. And a little white daisy with heart of gold, Grew out in a wildwood place. She saw the bee, heard his careless song, And lifted her snowy face. With a gay word of greeting the cavalier paused, To speak with the daisy fair. So, all the bright springtime, he met her each day, And whispered sweet words, light as air. One morn in the Junetime, the idler. Flew over a garden wall; Into a garden of riotous beauty, With stately lilies tall. And there by the lilies grew one queenly rose. As red as the lips of love. *'Ah, here is my fit mate," the gay bee cried, *'As fair as the star-flowers above." THE ISLE OF DREAMS 71 The red rose listened and met his words, With words well-nigh as sweet; The bee forgot the daisy's voice, Forgot her glance discreet. He only lived to see the rose. And speak with her each day; The summer hours with langorous feet. Slipped o'er old Time's pathway. And then, one day to the garden fair, Came the lover-bee in haste, — He found the rose "en tete-a tete" With a new love, White-Rose, chaste. Then back to the woodland he quickly £ew. To seek out the daisy fair ; He looked for her far and he looked for her near, But missed her everywhere. *'The little white daisy?" the West wind spoke, **She mated yesterday. With a soft-winged yellow butterfly, From many miles away." 72 THE ISLB OF DREAMS The summer and autumn passed too soon, For the bee with the gauzy wings, The cold rain of winter, relentless, came, Heaping on him its icy stings. And down midst the frozen grasses black, 'Neath a leaden sky, he lay, With his velvet-brown coat all spotted and soiled, And silent his song, once gay. THE ISLB OF DREAMS 73 THE GHOST OF LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. Young Adrien La Garraye was born In the south of sunny France, Where the purpling vineyards ripen fast, Beneath the sun's hot glance. But La Garraye a dreamer was. And one who loved to be Adrift upon the waters of His wandering Fancy's sea. He entered a cavern at sunset once. On the border land of sleep; With thoughts all clothed in whimsical garb, And pulses all aleap. He pushed a fringed curtain back. And gazed at a magic room. All silent save for tinkling sounds Of hidden fountains' tune. The walls were hung with tapestries Of rare and lustrous sheen, The marble floor was laid with rugs — 'Twas a throne room for a queen. 74 THE ISLE OP DREAMS In one far end, a window set With jewels, flashing bright, Cast o'er the lovely room below A strange and wierd light. And there between two mirrors pale, Shadowed by palm leaves green, Hung the portrait of a woman, All alt)ne amidst that scene. He drew with soft steps the portrait near And gazed on the beautiful face. And a ray from the window flitting by, Lit up each smiling grace. He turned from His thoughts to the doorway, And a woman wondrous fair. The image of the portrait. Smiling, serene, stood there. She beckoned, he heard sweetest music. And maidens beginning to sing, He found himself on an ivory throne, And he wore the crown of a king. THE IS LB OF D REAMS 75 The room was golden with shining lights — A banquet was served to him there, Soft gleaming mirrors reflected Silver and flowers rare. He leaned from his throne to the woman, As she half-reclined by him there. He fastened a rose in her bodice, And one in her shining hair. Her red lips were heavy with kisses, Her cheek was near to his breast, And then, mon Dieu, on her forehead In letters of fire was pressed — ''I am La Belle Dame Sans Merci" — Young Adrien blindly fled, — Fled from the cavern that held the ghost Of that traitress, ages dead. 76 THE ISLB OF DRBAMS ECHOES. That poppy that grew in your garden, That poppy, silk-petaled and fair, Lived only a day — then it faded, But, ah, it was lovely while there. That friend whom you loved in the years past, Is gone now perhaps for aye. But the mem'ry of that lost friendship, Is with you sweet today. That smile that you gave was fleeting, 'Twas gone in a moment and yet. To the one who saw it, it lingers As bright as the moment you met. THE ISLB OP DREAMS 77 AL FRESCO. To brush across my lips a satin spray Of perfumed roses with the dew Of summer rain upon them, — 'tis one way To get a little nearer to The best of life. To be alone upon a mountain-side, And hear no sounds by mortal made ; But tinkling hidden waters as they glide O'er smooth white stones. I'll be repaid For aught of strife. To be beside the rippled sea at eve, And watch the full orbed moon arise, A silver globe of light, — ah, I believe All beauty seen thru Nature's eyeg Enobles life. 78 THE ISLE OF DREAMS THE SOUTHERN WIND. The southern wind in accents low, One eve, sang a song to me ; A lyric of golden sweetness, Tinged with fantasy. It sang of matchless sea-caves, On the shores of a tropic isle. Where dwell the sweet-eyed sea-nymphs, Who sing all day a smile. It told of a garden exotic, Where the moonlight was silver white, And the soft warm air was heavy With the scent of flowers bright. It sang of languorous countries, Across wide seas from here — Lands of haunting beauty, Where 'tis summer all the year. It called me with alluring voice. To drift with it afar. Till I should find myself at last Before Fancy's gate ajar. THE ISLE OF DREAMS 79 TO MY MUSE. Come, gentle maiden, Muse divine, Thou with the mystic smile and eyes ashine; And lay thy finger tips On my dumb lips. Kiss thou my eyes that I may see The dawning beauties of sweet fantasy; Give me that inner sight, That reaches light. Ope thou my ears to Nature's tunes. And in the dusky eves or sultry noons. Let me interpret all The melodies that fall. Ah, let me write but one fair line. That after I am gone will calmly shine. Beside my name, ah. Muse, Cans't thou refuse ! 80 THE ISLE OF DREAMS THE POET. One who hears in the sea's low moan, A voice of mystery; Who sees a bee to a lily cling, And weaves a fantasy. Who watches with a keen delight, The changing lights of sky, And like a miser of fair things, Gloats with gleaming eye. One who loves in the deep'ning dusk. To tell a rosary of stars, And hear the night-wind 's crooning voice, Singing from Venus to Mars. Who feels the kissing lips of Spring, In fragrance on him pressed, And in an ecstasy knows well. To live is to be blessed. THE ISLE Of DREAMS 81 MY GARDEN. There is a fairy city, Hung tremulous in the air; I visit it at sunset And it is very fair. It rests so lightly, softly. Upon the sunset's breast, Just like a tinted ship that sways. Upon a sea, gem-drest. Sometimes its towers, mosque-like, Of shimmering pearl arise, In Orient splendor and fair scenes, Are spread before my eyes. I walk, then, in my garden. Of Persian loveliness, Walled in by tiers of roses. Whose perfumes on me press. I hear the tinkling music Of crystal fountains bright, Aleap within their marble urns, And while I watch, the light 82 THB ISLB OF DREAMS Is changed from sunset's colors, To twilight's purple dusk, And thru the garden's dimness There creeps the scent of musk. It darker grows, I linger Within that quiet bliss; And then there creeps as softly, As softly as a kiss. The fretted moonlight thru the trees Upon the fountains, till The nightingale, awakened, 'gins With melody to thrill. And ere my senses have awaked, From that garden's spell, full dear. The darkness sweeps with blotting hand, And wipes the bright sky clear. And yet before my inner sight. That Persian garden leaps, Whene'er I see the sunset clouds Merge into dusky deeps. THE ISLE OF DREAMS 83 EVENING STAR. Every eve I greet with homage, That far star's tranquil light; Like a pendant drop of water, Trembling, crystal-like and white. Mayhap 'tis the resting place of Little souls in winged flight, To the Paradise of children, Land unknown, but no less bright. Or, perhaps, those thoughts of poets, Thoughts ne 'er written, save in heart. Heavenward fly and hang in cluster. Radiant far than Dian's dart. 84 THB ISLB OF DREAMS THE EMIGRANT. From the North, from the East, West and languorous South, Come the children of nations, far separate till now There's the fair Scandinavian, the blue-eyed Pole, The hot blood of France, and, with swarthy brow, The son of Italy. Comes the Russian, dark-bearded, and doubtful- glanced, And the grave, dark-eyed child of that Eastern race That has stood before others with forced-bent knee ; By his side, mayhap, German with ruddy face, Or Britain, coldly calm. And with faith and with hope and with longings, too. Come these children of fortune from alien lands, And they bring all their customs, religions and thoughts To this land of the free with its promises rich. Ah — the hands Of Humanity here may clasp ! THE ISLB OF DREAMS 85 MY ROSARY. A nun in a cloistered convent, Knelt with her rosary, And prayed the dear God that her soul Might daily purer be. And, so, thru the years, her fingers, The shining beads caressed, Till one little bead grew brighter From much handling, than the rest. And as thru my fingers is slipping, My rosary of life. Each day is a bead of memory, That stands for joy or strife. And when at the end of all this. When the years have all been told. The ones that will shine the brightest Will be those that youth doth enfold. 86 THE ISLE OF DREAMS REGRET? Why must the Springtime vanish? Why must the flower fade? The bloom brush from the tinted peach, And the grass sear in the shade? Why must the brightest eye turn dull, And the reddest lips grow pale? The sweetest melody grow still, And the fondest heart-hopes fail? Still — the summer in gorgeous beauty Will follow when spring days wane. The tinted grape gives the perfumed wine, And the grass will be green again. The eyes that we love will never dull For us, nor dear lips pale. All melody has echoes sweet. And hopes not always fail. THE ISLE OF DREAMS 87 L' ENVOI. And in the purple twilight, dear, Our Bream Ship will return, Its scented sail flung 'gainst the west Where one great star doth burn. And it shall bring a silver cask, Called ''Memory's Sacred Store," Bediamonded and with pearls set, And full of Dreamland lore. In it we'll find the dearest word Of a converse long ago ; The sweetest lilt of music, Half-forgotten, soft and low. And, too, we'll find a dream-face, With smiling eyes of blue. That speaks the language of Dreamland, A language old, yet new. 88 THE ISLE OF DREAMS The fairest flower from Summer's hand, The sweetest song of bird — All, all ghosts of a perfect hour — The cask holds all. And heard Adown the corridors of Time, In a chain of melody, The echoes of these dreamlets float, And weave a fantasy. Go thou, my little dreamlets, poise Thy untried wings for flight. Go to the many-humored world, Out of thy Island of Delight.