Book i/ii COPYRIGHT DEPOSrC VISION /' Library of Cona*"*** ''v.'j Copies R.ECtivEO SEP 24 1900 C«pyngM «ntTy SECOND COPY. Ot!iv«f«d \*\ OHOti^ DIVISION, OCT 12 1900 ,^0 Copyright, igoo By H. M. Caldwell Co. The Vision of Sir Launfal The Vision of Sir Launfal PRELUDE TO PART FIRST /^VER his keys the musing organ- ^^ ist, Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dream- land for his lay ; Then, as the touch of his loved instru- ment Gives hope and fervour, nearer draws his theme, P'irst guessed by faint auroral flushes sent Along the wavering vista of his dream. 3 ^ The Vision of Sir Launfal Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendours lie ; Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not ; Over our manhood bend the skies ; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies ; With our faint hearts the mountain strives ; Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite; And to our age's drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea. fEarth gets its price for what Earth gives us ; The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in. The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, We bargain for the graves we lie in ; At the Devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we earn with a whole soul's tasking : 'Tis heaven alone that is given away. 'Tis only God may be had for the asking ; There is no price set on the lavish summer; And June may be had by the poorest comer. And what is so rare as a day in June ? Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 5 ^ The Vision o£ Sir Launfal Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays : Whether we look, or whether we listen. We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers. And, grasping blindly above it for light. Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 6 The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace j i The little bird sits at his door in the; sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it re- ceives ; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings. And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ? Now is the high-tide of the year. And whatever of life hath ebbed away 7 ^ The Vision of Sir Launfal Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it. We are happy now because God so wills it ; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green ; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blos- soms swell ; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is grow- ing i 8 The Vision of Sir Launfal «-&' The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky. That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; And if the breeze kept the good news back. For other couriers we should not lack ; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer. Warmed with the new wine of the year. Tells all in his lusty crowing ! Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how ; Everything is happy now. Everything is upward striving ; 9 ■^ The Vision of Sir Launfal 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — 'Tis the natural way of living: Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake ; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth. And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remembered the keeping of his vow ? The Vision of Sir Launfal PART FIRST " My golden spurs now bring to me, And bring to me my richest mail, For to-morrow I go over land and sea In search of the Holy Grail ; Shall never a bed for me be spread. Nor shall a pillow be under my head. Till I begin my vow to keep ; Here on the rushes will I sleep. And perchance there may come a vis- ion true Ere day create the world anew." Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim, Slumber fell like a cloud on him. And into his soul the vision flew. II ^ The Vision of Sir Launfal II. The crows flapped over by twos and threes, In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, The birds sang as if it were The one day of summer in all the year. And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees : The castle alone in the landscape lay Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray; 'Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree, And never its gates might opened be, Save to lord or lady of high degree ; Summer besieged it on every side, 12 The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ But the chuilish stone her assauhs defied ; She could not scale the chilly wall, Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall Stretched left and right, Over the hills and out of sight ; Green and broad was every tent. And out of each a murmur went Till the breeze fell off at night. III. The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, And through the dark arch a charger sprang. Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright 13 ^ The Vision of Sir Launfal It seemed the dark castle had gathered all Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall In his siege of three hundred sum- mers long, And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf, Had cast them forth : so young and strong, And lightsome as a locust-leaf. Sir Launfal flashed forth in his un- scarred mail, To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail. IV. It was morning on hill and stream and tree. And morning in the young knight's heart ; 14 The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ Only the castle moodily Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free. And gloomed by itself apart ; The season brimmed all other things up Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup. V. As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate, He was ware of a leper, crouched by the same. Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate ; And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, The flesh 'neath his armour did shrink and crawl, 15 ■^ The Vision of Sir Launfal And midway its leap his heart stood still Like a frozen waterfall •, For this man, so foul and bent of stature, Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, And seemed the one blot on the sum- mer morn, — So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. VI. The leper raised not the gold from the dust : " Better to me the poor man's crust. Better the blessing of the poor. Though I turn me empty from his door ; That is no true alms which the hand can hold ; i6 The Vision of Sir Launfal j^x/ He gives nothing but worthless gold Who gives from a sense of duty ; But he who gives but a slender mite, And gives to that which is out of sight, That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty Which runs through all and doth all unite, — The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms. The heart outstretches its eager palms. For a god goes with it and makes it store To the soul that was starving in dark- ness before.** . 17 ^ The Vision of Sir Launfal PRELUDE TO PART SECOND Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, From the snow five thousand sum- mers old J On open wold and hill-top bleak It had gathered all the cold, And whirled it like sleet on the wan- derer's cheek ; It carried a shiver everywhere From the unleafed boughs and pas- tures bare ; The little brook heard and built a roof 'Neath which he could house him win- ter-proof; All night by the white stars' frosty gleams He groined his arches and matched his beams ; i8 The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ Slender and clear were his crystal spars As the lashes of light that trim the stars : He sculptured every summer delight In his halls and chambers out of sight ; Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt Down through a frost-leaved forest- crypt, Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees Bending to counterfeit a breeze ; Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew But silvery mosses that downward grew; Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here 19 ^ The Vision of Sir Launfal He had caught the nodding hulrush-tops And hung them thickly with diamond drops, Which crystalled the beams of moon and sun, And made a star of e\'erv one : No mortal builder's most rare device Could match this winter-palace of ice ; 'Twas as if every image that mirrored lay In his depths serene through the sum- mer dav. Each flitting shadow of earth and skv. Lest the happy model should be lost, Had been mimicked in fairy masonry Bv the elfin builders of the frost. Within the hall are song and laughter, The cheeks oi' Christmas glow red and jolly, 20 The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ And sprouting is every corbel and rafter With Hghtsome green of ivy and holly ; Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide ; The broad flame-pennons droop and flap And belly and tug as a flag in the wind : Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, Hunted to death in its galleries blind ; And swift little troops of silent sparks, Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear. Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks Like herds of startled deer. -^ The Vision ot Sir L;iuntal But the wind without umj; eager .iiui sh:irp, Ot" Sir Launfal's gr.iv hair it niakes a harp. And rattles and wrings The icv strings. Singing in drean- monotone, A Christmas carol or" its own. Whose burden still, as he might guess. Was — ^' Shelterless, shelterless, shel- terless ! *' The \ oice of the seneschal Hared like a torch As he shouted the wanderer awav tVom the porch. And he sat in the gatewav and saw all night The great hall-hre so cheerv and bold, The Vision of Sir Launfal {^ Through the window-slits of the castle old, Built out its piers of ruddy light Against the drift of the cold. 23 ^ The Vision of Sir Laiintal PART SECOND There was never a leaf on bush or tree, The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; The river was dumb and could not speak, For the frost's swift shuttles its shroud had spun ; A single crow on the tree-top bleak From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun ; Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, As if her veins were sapless and old. And she rose up decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea. 24 The Vision of Sir Launfal {^ II. Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, For another heir in his earldom sate ; An old, bent man, worn out and frail. He came back from seeking the Holy Grail ; Little he recked of his earldom's loss. No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross. But deep in his soul the sign he wore, The badge of the suffering and the poor. III. Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air, P^or it was just at the Christmas time ; So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, 25 -^ The Vision of Sir Launfal And sought for a shelter from cold and snow In the light and warmth of long ago ; He sees the snake-like caravan crawl O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, Then nearer and nearer, till one by one He can count the camels in the sun, As over the red-hot sands they pass To where, in its slender necklace of grass, The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, And with its own self like an infant plaved, And waved its signal of palms. 26 The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ IV. " For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms ; " — The happy camels may reach the spring, But Sir Launfal sees naught save the grewsome thing, The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone. That cowers beside him, a thing as lone And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas In the desolate horror of his disease. And Sir Launfal said, — "I behold in thee An image of Him who died on the tree ; 27 ■^ The Vision of Sir Launfal Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, — Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, — And to thy life were not denied The wounds in the hands and feet and side : Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me ; Behold, through him, I give to thee ! " VI. Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he Remembered in what a haughtier guise He had flung an alms to leprosie. When he caged his young life up in gilded mail 28 The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. The heart within him was ashes and dust ; He parted in twain his single crust, He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, And gave the leper to eat and drink, 'Twas a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 'Twas water out of a wooden bowl. Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed. And 'twas red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. VII. As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, A light shone round about the place ; 29 ■^ The Vision of Sir Launfal The leper no longer crouched at his side, But stood before him glorified, Shining and tall and fair and straight As the pillar that stood by the Beauti- ful Gate, — Himself the Gate whereby men can Enter the temple of God in Man. VIII. His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine, And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine. Which mingle their softness and quiet in one With the shaggy unrest they float down upon ; And the voice that was calmer than silence said, The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ " Lo it is I, be not afraid ! In many climes, without avail. Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail ; Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now; This crust is my body broken for thee, This water His blood that died on the tree ; The Holy Supper is kept, indeed. In whatso we share with another's need ; Not what we give, but what we share, — For the gift without the giver is bare ; Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, — Himself, his hungering neighbour, and me. 31 ^ The Vision of Sir Launfal IX. Sir Launfal awoke as from a svvound : — " The Grail in my castle here is found ! Hang my idle armour up on the wall, Let it be the spider's banquet-hall ; He must be fenced with stronger mail Who would seek and find the Holy Grail." X. The castle gate stands open now, And the wanderer is welcome to the hall As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough ; No longer scowl the turrets tall, The summer's long siege at last is o'er ; When the first poor outcast went in at the door, 32 The Vision of Sir Launfal ^ She entered with him in disguise, And mastered the fortress by surprise ; There is no spot she loves so well on ground, She lingers and smiles there the whole year round ; The meanest serf on Sir LaunfaPs land Has hall and bower at his command ; And there's no poor man in the North Countree But is lord of the earldom as much as he. 33 The Bobolink \ NACREON of the meadow, Drunk with the joy of spring ! Beneath the tall pine's voiceful shadow I lie and drink thy jargoning ; My soul is full with melodies, One drop would overflow it. And send the tears into mine eyes — But what carest thou to know it ? Thy heart is free as mountain air, And of thy lays thou hast no care, Scattering them gayly everywhere, Happy, unconscious poet ! Upon a tuft of meadow grass. While thy loved-one tends the nest. Thou swayest as the breezes pass. Unburdening thine o'erfull breast 35 #4 The Bobolink Of the crowded songs that fill it, Just as joy may choose to will it. Lord of thy love and liberty, The blithest bird of merry May, Thou turnest thy bright eye on me, That says as plain as eye can say — " Here sit we in the sunny weather, I and my modest mate together ; Whatever your wise thoughts may be, Under that gloomy old pine-tree. We do not value them a feather." Now, leaving earth and me behind. Thou beatest up against the wind, Or, floating slowly down before it. Above thy grass-hid nest thou flutterest And thy bridal love-song utterest. Raining showers of music o'er it. Weary never, still thou trillest. Spring-gladsome lays, 36 The Bobolink ^ As of moss-rimmed water brooks Murmuring through pebbly nooks In quiet summer days. My heart with happiness thou fillest, I seem again to be a boy Watching thee, gay, blithesome lover, O'er the bending grass-tops hover, Quivering thy wings for joy. There's something in the apple-blossom, The greening grass and bobolink's song. That wakes again within my bosom Feelings which have slumbered long. As long, long years ago I wandered, I seem to wander even yet. The hours the idle schoolboy squan- dered. The man would die ere he'd forget. hours that frosty eld deemed wasted, Nodding his gray head toward my books, 1 dearer prize the lore I tasted 37 ^ The Bobolink With you, among the trees and brooks, Than all that I have gained since then From learned books or study-withered men. Nature, thy soul was one with mine, And, as a sister by a younger brother Is loved, each flowing to the other. Such love for me was thine. Or wert thou not more like a gentle mother With sympathy and loving power to heal. Against whose heart my throbbing head I'd lay And moan my childish sorrows all away. Till calm and holiness would o'er me steal ? Was not the golden sunset a dear friend ? 38 The Bobolink ^ Found I no kindness in the silent moon, And the green trees, whose tops did sway and bend. Low singing evermore their pleasant tune ? Felt I no heart in dim and solemn woods — No loved-one's voice in lonely soli- tudes ! Yes, yes ! unhoodwinked then my spirit's eyes, Blind leaders had not taught me to be wise. Dear hours ! which now again I over-live. Hearing and seeing with the ears and eyes Of childhood, ye were bees, that to the hive 39 ^ The Bobolink Of my young heart came laden with rich prize, Gathered in fields and woods and sunny dells, to be My spirit's food in days more wintery. Yea, yet again ye come ! ye come ! And, like a child once more at home After long sojourning in alien climes, I lie upon my mother's breast. Feeling the blessedness of rest, And dwelling in the light of other times, O ye whose living is not Z,//>, Whose dying is but death, Long, empty toil and petty strife. Rounded with loss of breath ! Go, look on Nature's countenance. Drink in the blessing of her glance ; Look on the sunset, hear the wind. The cataract, the awful thunder; 40 The Bobolink ^ Go, worship by the sea ; Then, and then only, shall ye find, With ever growing wonder, Man is not all in all to ye ; Go with a meek and humble soul, Then shall the scales of self unroll From ofF your eyes — the weary packs Drop from your heavy-laden backs ; And ye shall see. With reverent and hopeful eyes, Glowing with new-born energies, How great a thing it is to be ! 41 My Love ^^JOT as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear ; Her glorious fancies come from far Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near. Great feelings hath she of her own Which lesser souls may never know ; God giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fairj No simplest duty is forgot, 43 ^. My Love Life hath no dim and lonelv spot That doth not in her sunshine share. She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise, For naught that sets one heart at ease. And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed in her eves. She hath no scorn of common things And, though she seem ot other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings. And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths o\' earth. Blessing she is : God made her so. And deeds of week-dav holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow. Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless. 44 My Love ^ She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonise ; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes. On Nature she doth muse and brood With such a still and love-clear eye — She is so gentle and so good — The very flowers in the wood Do bless her with their sympathy. She is a woman : one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears. And youth in her a home will find, Where he may dwell eternally ; 45 ^ My Love Her soul is not of that weak kind Which better love the life behind Than that which is, or is to be. I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own will. And yet doth ever flow aright. And, on its full, deep breast serene. Like quiet isles my duties lie ; It flows around them and between. And makes them fresh and fair and green. Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 46 The Beggar i yi BEGGAR through the world am I, From place to place I wander by;- Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me, For Christ's sweet sake and charity ! A little of thy steadfastness, Rounded with leafy gracefulness, Old oak, give me — That the world's blasts may round me blow. And I yield gently to and fro. While my stout-hearted trunk below And firm-set roots unmoved be. Some of thy stern, unyielding might, Enduring still through day and night 47 #4 The Beggar Rude tempest-shock and withering blight — That I may keep at bay The changeful April sky of chance And the strong tide of circumstance — Give me old granite gray. Some of thy mournfulness serene, Some of thy never-dying green, Put in this scrip of mine — That griefs may fall like snowflakes light. And deck me in a robe of white Ready to be an angel bright — O sweetly-mournful pine. A little of thy merriment. Of thy sparkling, light content. Give me my cheerful brook — That I may still be full of glee 48 The Beggar ^ And gladsomeness, where'er I be, Though fickle fate hath prisoned me In some neglected nook. Ye have been very kind and good To me, since I've been in the wood ; Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart, But good-bye, kind friends, every one, I've far to go ere set of sun ; Of all good things I would have part, The day was high ere I could start, And so my journey's scarce begun. Heaven help me ! how could I for- get To beg of thee, dear violet ! Some of thy modesty. That flowers here as well, unseen. As if before the world thou'dst been, O give, to strengthen me. 49 The Sirens nr^HE sea is lonely, the seais dreary, The sea is restless and uneasy ; Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary. Wandering thou k no west not whither; — Our little isle is green and breezy, Come and rest thee ! O come hither, Come to this peaceful home of ours, Where evermore The low west-wind creeps panting up the shore To be at rest among the flowers ; Full of rest, the green moss lifts, As the dark waves of the sea Draw in and out of rocky rifts Calling solemnly to thee, SI #4 The Sirens With voices deep and hollow — To the shore Follow ! O follow ! To be at rest for evermore ! For evermore ! Look how the gray, old Ocean From the depths of his heart rejoices, Heaving with a gentle motion. When he hears our restful voices ; List how he sings in an undertone, Chiming with our melody ; And all sweet sounds of earth and air Melt into one low voice alone. That murmurs over the weary sea — And seems to sing from everywhere — " Here mayest thou harbour peace- fully. Here mayest thou rest from the aching oar; Turn thy curved prow ashore 52 And in our green isle rest for ever- more ! For evermore ! " And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, And, to her heart so calm and deep, Murmurs over in her sleep. Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, " Evermore ! " Thus, on Life's weary sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sweet, from far and near, Ever singing low and clear, Ever singing longingly. Is it not better here to be. Than to be toiling late and soon ? In the dreary night to see Nothing but the blood-red moon 53 ^ The Sirens Go up and down into the sea ; Or, in the loneliness of day, To see the still seals only, Solemnly lift their faces gray. Making it yet more lonely ? Is it not better, than to hear Only the sliding of the wave Beneath the plank, and feel so near A cold and lonely grave, A restless grave, where thou shalt lie Even in death unquietly ? Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark. Lean over the side and see The leaden eye of the side-long shark Upturned patiently Ever waiting there for thee : Look down and see those shapeless forms, 54 The Sirens ## Which ever keep their dreamless sleep Far down within the gloomy deep And only stir themselves in storms, Rising like islands from beneath, And snorting through the angry spray, As the frail vessel perisheth In the whirls of their unwieldly play ; Look down ! Look down ! Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark. That waves its arms so lank and brown. Beckoning for thee ! Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark Into the cold depth of the sea ! Look down ! Look down ! Thus, on Life's lonely sea, Hcareth the marinere Voices sad from far and near. Ever singing full of fear, Ever singing drearfully. 55 ^ The Si' ens Here all is pleasant as a dream ; The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, The green grass floweth like a stream Into the ocean's blue: Listen ! O listen ! Here is a gush of many streams, A song of many birds, And every wish and longing seems Lulled to a numbered flow of words — Listen ! O listen ! Here ever hum the golden bees Underneath full-blossomed trees, At once with glowing fruit and flower crowned ; The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand. That thy keel will not grate, as it touches the land ; All around, with a slumberous sound, 56 The Sirens ^ The singing waves sUde up the strand, And there, where the smooth wet pebbles be, The waters gurgle longingly. As if they fain would seek the shore. To be at rest from the ceaseless roar, To be at rest for evermore — For evermore. Thus on Life's gloomy sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sweet, far and near. Ever singing in his ear, " Here is rest and peace for thee ! " 57 Rhoecus /'^OD sends his teachers unto every age, To every clime, and every race of men, With revelations fitted to their growth And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of Truth Into the selfish rule of one sole race : Therefore each form of worship that hath swayed The life of man, and given it to grasp The master-key of knowledge, rever- ence. Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right; Else never had the eager soul, which loathes 59 -^ Rhoecus The slothful down of pampered igno- rance, Found in it even a moment's titful rest. There is an instinct in the human heart Which makes that all the fables it hath coined, To justify the reign of its belief And strengthen it bv beauty's right diyine, V^eil in their inner cells a mystic gift, Which, like the hazel twig, in faithful hands, Points surely to the hidden springs of truth. For, as in nature naught is made in yain, But all things have within their hull of use 60 Rhci^cus ^ A wisdom and a meaning which may speak Of spiritual secrets to the ear Of spirit ; so, in whatsoe'er the heart Hath fashioned for a solace to itself, To make its inspirations suit its creed. And from the niggard hands of false- hood wring Its needful food of truth, there ever is A sympathy with Nature, which re- veals. Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light And earnest parables of inward lore. Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, As full of freedom, youth and beauty still As the immortal freshness of that grace Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze. 6i ^ Rh oecus A youth named Rhoecus, wandering in the wood, Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall, And feeling pity of so fair a tree. He propped its gray trunk with admir- ing care, And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on. But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind That murmured, " Rhoecus ! " 'Twas as if the leaves. Stirred by a passing breath, had m.ur- mured it, And, while he paused bewildered, yet again It murmured, " Rhoecus ! " softer than a breeze. He started and beheld with dizzy eyes 62 Rhoecus ^ What seemed the substance of a happy dream Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow Within the green glooms of the shad- owy oak. It seemed a woman's shape, yet all too fair To be a woman, and with eyes too meek For any that were wont to mate with gods. All naked like a goddess stood she there, And like a goddess all too beautiful To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame. " Rhoecus, I am the Dryad of this tree," Thus she began, dropping her low- toned words 63 #4 Rhoecus Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew, " And with it I am doomed to live and die ; The rain and sunshine are my caterers. Nor have I other bliss than simple life; Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give, And with a thankful joy it shall be thine." Then Rhoecus, with a flutter at the heart. Yet, by the promptings of such beauty, bold. Answered : " What is there that can satisfy The endless craving of the soul but love ? 64 Rhoecus ^ Give me thy love, or but the hope of that Which must be evermore my spirit's goal." After a little pause she said again, But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, '^ I give it, Rhoecus, though a perilous gift; An hour before the sunset meet me here." And straightway there was nothing he could see But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak. And not a sound came to his straining ears But the low trickling rustle of the leaves. And far away upon an emerald slope The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe. 65 -^ Rhoecus Now in those days of simpleness and faith, Men did not think that happy things were dreams Because they overstepped the narrow bourne Of likelihood, but reverently deemed Nothing too wondrous or too beauti- ful To be the guerdon of a daring heart. So Rhoecus made no doubt that he was blest, And all along unto the city's gate Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked, The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont. And he could scarce believe he had not wings, 66 Rhoecus ^ Such sunshine seemed to glitter through his veins Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange. Young Rhoecus had a faithful heart enough, But one that in the present dwelt too much. And, taking with blithe welcome what- soe'er Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in that, Like the contented peasant of a vale. Deemed it the world, and never looked beyond. So haply meeting in the afternoon Some comrades who were playing at the dice. He joined them, and forgot all else beside. 67 #4 Rhoecus The dice were rattling at the merri- est, And Rhoecus, who had met but sorry luck, Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw. When through the room there hummed a yellow bee That buzzed about his ear with down- drooped legs As if to light. And Rhoecus laughed and said. Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss, " By Venus ! does he take me for a rose ? " And brushed him off with rough, im- patient hand. But still the bee came back, and thrice again, 68 Rhcecus ^ Rhoecus did beat him off with growing wrath. Then through the window flew the wounded bee, And Rhoecus, tracking him with angry eyes. Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly Against the red disk of the setting sun, — And instantly the blood sank from his heart, As if its very walls had caved away. Without a word, he turned, and, rush- ing forth. Ran madly through the city and the gate. And o'er the plain, which now the wood's long shade. By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim. Darkened well-nigh unto the city's wall. 69 ^ Rhoecus Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree, And, listening fearfully, he heard once more The low voice murmur " Rhoecus ! " close at hand ; Whereat he looked around him, but could see Naught but the deepening glooms be- neath the oak. Then sighed the voice, " O Rhoecus ! nevermore Shalt thou behold me or by day or night, Me, who would fain have blessed thee with a love More ripe and bounteous than ever yet Filled up with nectar any mortal heart : But thou didst scorn my humble mes- senger, 70 Rhoecus ^ And sent'st him back to me with bruised wings, We spirits only show to gentle eyes, We ever ask an undivided love, And he who scorns the least of Nature's works Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all. Farewell ! for thou canst never see me more ! " Then Rhoecus beat his breast, and groaned aloud. And cried, " Be pitiful ! forgive me yet This once, and I shall never need it more ? " " Alas ! " the voice returned, " 'tis thou art blind. Not I unmerciful ; I can forgive, 71 •^ Rhoecus But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes ; Only the soul hath power o'er itself." With that again there murmured " Nevermore ! " And Rhoecus after heard no other sound, Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves, Like the long surf upon a distant shore. Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down. The night had gathered round him ; o'er the plain The city sparkled with its thousand lights. And sounds of revel fell upon his ear Harshly and like a curse; above, the sky, 72 Rhoecus ^ With all its bright sublimity of stars, Deepened and on his forehead smote the breeze : Beauty was all around him and de- light, But from that eve he was alone on earth. So in our youth we shape out noble ends. And worship beauty with such earnest faith As but the young, unwasted heart can know. And, haply wandering into some good deed. Win for our souls a moment's sight of Truth. Then the sly world runs up to us and smiles, 73 ^ Rhoecus And takes us by the hand and cries, " Well met ! Come play with me at dice ; one lucky throw, And all my power and glory shall be thine ; Stake but thy heart upon the other side ! " So we turn gaily in, and by degrees Lose all our nature's broad inheri- tance, — The happiness content with homely things, — The wise simplicity of honest faith, — The unsuspecting gentleness of heart, — The open-handed grace of Charity, — The love of Beauty, and the deathless hope To be her chosen almoner on earth. 74 Rh oecus And we rise up at last with wrinkled brows, Most deeply-learned in the hollow game At which we now have nothing left to stake, Albeit too wise to stake it, if we had. But Truth will never let the heart alone That once hath sought her, sending o'er and o'er Her sweet and unreproachful messen- gers To lure us back again and give us all. Which we, all fresh and burning in the game. Wherein we lose and lose with seem- ing gain, 75 ^ Rhoecus Brush off Impatiently with sharp re- buff, Feeling our better instincts now no more But as reproaches lacking other aim Than to abridge our little snatch of bliss, And, when we rouse at length, and feel within The stirring of our ancient love again. Our eyes are blinded that we cannot see The fair benignity of unveiled Truth That plighted us its holy troth ere- while Our sun is setting. We are just too late; And so, instead of lightening by our lives 76 RhcBCus ^ The general burden of our drooping kind — Instead of being named in aftertime With grateful reverence as men who talked With spirits, and the dreaded secret wrung From out the loath lips of the sphinx of life, — Instead of being, as all true men may, Part of the memory of all great deeds. The inspiration of all time to come. We linger to our graves with empty hearts, And add our little handful to the soil As valueless and frail as fallen leaves. 77 An Indian-summer Reverie TTT^HAT visionary tints the year puts on, When falling leaves falter through motionless air Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone ! Hou^ shimmer the lov;' flats and pastures bare, As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills The bov^^l between me and those distant hills, And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair ! 79 "^ An Indian-summer Reverie No more the landscape holds its wealth apart, Making me poorer in my poverty, But mingles with my senses and my heart ; My own projected spirit seems to me In her own reverie the world to steep ; 'Tis she that waves to sympathetic sleep, Moving, as she is moved, each field and hill and tree. How fuse and mix, with what unfelt degrees. Clasped by the faint horizon's lan- guid arms. Each into each, the hazy dis- tances ! 80 An Indian-summer Reverie ^ The softened season all the land- scape charms ; Those hills, my native village that embay, In waves of dreamier purple roll away, And floating in mirage seem all the glimmering farms. Far distant sounds the hidden chickadee Close at my side ; far distant sound the leaves ; The fields seem fields of dream, where Memory Wanders like gleaning Ruth ; and as the sheaves Of wheat and barley wavered in the eye Si "^ An Indian-summer Reverie Of Boaz as the maiden's glow- went by, So tremble and seem remote all things th e sense receives. The cock's shrill trump that tells of scattered corn, Passed breezily on by all his flapping mates. Faint and more faint, from barn to barn is borne. Southward, perhaps to far Magellan's Straits ; Dimly I catch the throb of distant flails -y Silently overhead the hen-hawk sails, With watchful, measuring eye, and for his quarry waits. 82 An Indian-summer Reverie ^ The sobered robin, hunger-silent now, Seeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn cheer ; The squirrel, on the shingly shag- bark's bough. Now saws, now lists with downward eye and ear. Then drops his nut, and with a chipping bound Whisks to his winding fastness underground; The clouds like swans drift down the streaming atmosphere. O'er yon bare knoll the pointed cedar shadows Drowse on the crisp, gray moss 3 the ploughman's call 83 #^ An Indian-summer Reverie Creeps faint as smoke from black, fresh-furrowed meadows ; The single crow a single caw lets fall ; And all around me every bush and tree Says Autumn's here, and Winter soon will be, Who snows his soft, white sleep and silence over all. The birch, most shy and ladylike of trees. Her poverty, as best she may, re- trieves. And hints at her foregone gentili- ties With some saved relics of her wealth of leaves ; The swamp-oak, with his royal purple on, 84 An Indian-summer Reverie ^ Glares red as blood across the sinking sun, As one who proudlier to a falling for- tune cleaves. He looks a sachem, in red blanket wrapt. Who, mid some council of the sad- garbed whites. Erect and stern, in his own memo- ries lapt, With distant eye broods over other sights. Sees the hushed wood the city's flare replace. The wounded turf heal o'er the railway's trace. And roams the savage Past of his un- dwindled rights. 85 ^ An Indian-summer Reverie The red-oak, softer-grained, yields all for lost, And, with his crumpled foliage stiff and dry. After the first betrayal of the frost. Rebuffs the kiss of the relenting sky ; The chestnuts, lavish of their long- hid gold. To the faint summer, beggared now and old. Pour back the sunshine hoarded 'neath her favouring eye. The ash her purple drops forgiv- ingly And sadly, breaking not the general hush ; The maple-swamps glow like a sunset sea, 86 An Indian-summer Reverie t=vr Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush ; And round the wood's edge creeps the skirting blaze Of bushes low, as when on cloudy days. Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer burns his brush. O'er yon low wall, which guards one unkempt zone. Where vines and weeds and scrub- oaks intertwine Safe from the plough, whose rough, discordant stone Is massed to one soft gray by lichens fine. The tangled blackberry, crossed and recrossed, weaves 87 -^ An Indian-summer Reverie A prickly network of ensanguined leaves ; Hard by, with coral beads, the prim black-alders shine. Pillaring with flame this crum- bling boundary. Whose loose blocks topple 'neath the ploughboy's foot, Who, with each sense shut fast except the eye. Creeps close and scares the jay he hoped to shoot. The woodbine up the elm's straight stem aspires. Coiling it, harmless, with au- tumnal fires ; In the ivy's paler blaze the martyr oak stands mute. 88 An Indian-summer Reverie ^ Below, the Charles — a strip of nether sky, Now hid by rounded apple-trees between. Whose gaps the misplaced sail sweeps bellying by. Now flickering golden through a woodland screen. Then spreading out, at his next turn beyond, A silver circle like an inland pond — Slips seaward silently through marshes purple and green. Dear marshes ! vain to him the gift of sight Who cannot in their various incomes share, 89 ^ An Indian-summer Reverie From every season drawn, of shade and light, Who sees in them but levels brown and bare ; Each change of storm or sunshine scatters free On them its largess of variety. For Nature with cheap means still works her wonders rare. In Spring they lie one broad ex- panse of green, O'er which the light winds run with glimmering feet : Here, yellower stripes track out the creek unseen, There, darker growths o'er hidden ditches meet ; And purpler stains show where the blossoms crowd, 90 An Indian-summer Reverie ^ As if the silent shadow of a cloud Hung there becalmed, with the next breath to fleet. All round, upon the river's slippery edge, Witching to deeper calm the drowsy tide, Whispers and leans the breeze- entangling sedge; Through emerald glooms the linger- ing waters slide. Or, sometimes wavering, throw back the sun. And the stiff banks in eddies melt and run Of dimpling light, and with the current seem to glide. 91 •^ An Indian-summer Reverie In Summer 'tis a blithesome sight to see, As, step by step, with measured swing, they pass, The wide-ranked mowers wading to the knee. Their sharp scythes panting through the thick set grass ; Then, stretched beneath a rick's shade in a ring, The'r nooning take, while one beo-ins to sing A stave that droops and dies 'neath the close sky of brass. Meanwhile that devil-may-care, the bobolink. Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops 92 An Indian-summer Reverie ^ Just ere he sweeps o'er rapture's tremulous brink, And 'twixt the winrows most de- murely drops, A decorous bird of business, who provides For his brown mate and fledglings six besides, And looks from right to left, a farmer mid his crops. Another change subdues them in the Fall, But saddens not ; they still show merrier tints. Though sober russet seems to cover all ; When the first sunshine through their dew-drops glints, 93 #^ An Indian-summer Reverie Look how the yellow clearness, streamed across, Redeems with rarer hues the season's loss, As Dawn's feet there had touched and left their rosy prints. Or come when sunset gives its freshened zest. Lean o'er the bridge and let the ruddy thrill. While the shorn sun swells down the hazy west, Glow opposite ; — the marshes drink their fill And swoon with purple veins, then slowly fade Through pink to brown, as east- ward moves the shade, 94 An Indian-summer Reverie ^ Lengthening with stealthy creep, of Simond's darkening hill. Later, and yet ere Winter wholly shuts. Ere through the first dry snow the runner grates. And the loath cart-wheel screams in slippery ruts, While firmer ice the eager boy awaits. Trying each buckle and strap be- side the fire. And until bedtime plays with his desire. Twenty times putting on and off his new-bought skates ; — 95 -^ An Indian-summer Reverie Then, every morn, the river's banks shine bright With smooth plate-armour, treacher- ous and frail. By the frost's clinking hammers forged at night, 'Gainst which the lances of the sun prevail. Giving a pretty emblem of the day When guiltier arms in light shall melt away. And states shall move free-limbed, loosed from war's cramping mail. And now those waterfalls the ebbing river Twice every day creates on either side 96 An Indian-summer Reverie ^ Tinkle, as through their fresh- sparred grots they shiver In grass-arched channels to the sun denied ; High flaps in sparkling blue the far-heard crow, The silvered flats gleam frostily below. Suddenly drops the gull and breaks the glassy tide. But crowned in turn by vying seasons three, Their winter halo hath a fuller ring ; This glory seems to rest immov- ably, — The others were too fleet and vanish- ing ; When the hid tide is at its high- est flow, 97 -^ An Indian-summer Reverie O'er marsh and stream one breath- less trance of snow With brooding fulness awes and hushes everything. The sunshine seems blown off by the bleak wind, As pale as formal candles lit by day; Gropes to the sea the river dumb and blind ; The brown ricks, snow-thatched by the storm in play. Show pearly breakers combing o'er their lee. White crests as of some just enchanted sea, Checked in their maddest leap and hanging poised midway. 98 An Indian-summer Reverie ^ But when the eastern blow, with rain aslant, From mid-sea's prairies green and rolling plains Drives in his wallowing herds of billows gaunt, And the roused Charles remembers in his veins Old Ocean's blood and snaps his gyves of frost. That tyrannous silence on the shores is tost In dreary wreck, and crumbling desola- tion reigns. Edgewise or flat, in Druid-like device, With leaden pools between or gullies bare, 99 ^ An Indian-summer Reverie The blocks lie strewn, a bleak Stoiiehenge of ice ; No life, no sound, to break the grim despair. Save sullen plunge, as through the sedges stiff Down crackles riverward some thaw-sapped cliff. Or when the close-wedged fields of ice crunch here and there. But let me turn from fancy-pic- tured scenes To that whose pastoral calm before me lies : Here nothing harsh or rugged in- tervenes ; The early evening with her misty dyes Smooths off the ravelled edges of the nigh, An Indian-summer Reverie ^ Relieves the distant with her cooler sky, And tones the landscape down, and soothes the wearied eyes. There gleams my native village, dear to me. Though higher change's waves each day are seen. Whelming fields famed in boy- hood's history. Sanding with houses the diminished green ; There, in red brick, which soften- ing time defies. Stand square and stifF the Muses' factories ; — How with my life knit up is every well-known scene ! lOI ^ An Indian-summer Reverie Flow on, dear river ! not alone you flow To outward sight, and through your marshes wind; Fed from the mystic springs of long-ago, Your twin flows silent through my world of mind : Grow dim, dear marshes, in the evening's gray ! Before my inner sight ye stretch away, And will for ever, though these fleshly eyes grow blind. Beyond the hillock's house-be- spotted swell. Where Gothic chapels house the horse and chaise, I02 An Indian-summer Reverie ^ Where quiet cits in Grecian tem- ples dwell, Where Coptic tombs resound with prayer and praise, Where dust and mud the equal year divide, There gentle Allston lived, and wrought, and died. Transfiguring street and shop with his illumined gaze. Virgilium vidi tantum^ — I have seen But as a boy, who looks alike on all. That misty hair, that fine Undine- like mien. Tremulous as down to feeling*s faintest call ; — Ah, dear old homestead ! count it to thy fame 103 ■^ An Indian-summer Reverie That thither many times the Painter came ; — One elm yet bears his name, a feathery tree and tall. Swiftly the present fades in mem- ory's glow, — Our only sure possession is the past; The village blacksmith died a month ago. And dim to me the forge's roaring blast ; Soon fire-new mediaevals we shall see Oust the black smithy from its chestnut-tree. And that hewn down, perhaps, the beehive green and vast. 104 An Indian-summer Reverie ^ How many times, prouder than king on throne, Loosed from the village school-dame's A's and B's, Panting have I the creaky bellows blown. And watched the pent volcano's red increase. Then paused to see the ponderous sledge, brought down By that hard arm voluminous and brown. From the white iron swarm its golden vanishing bees. Dear native town ! whose choking elms each year With eddying dust before their time turn gray, 105 #? An Indian-summer Reverie Pining for rain, — to me thy dust is dear ; It glorifies the eve of summer day, And when the westering sun half sunken burns, The mote-thick air to deepest orange turns, The westward horseman rides through clouds of gold away. So palpable, I've seen those un- shorn few. The six old willows at the causey's end (Such trees Paul Potter never dreamed nor drew), Through this dry mist their checker- ing shadows send. Striped, here and there, with many a long-drawn thread, 1 06 An Indian-summer Reverie ^ Where streamed through leafy chinks the trembling red, Past which, in one bright trail, the hangbird's flashes blend. Yes, dearer far thy dust than all that e'er. Beneath the awarded crown of vic- tory. Gilded the blown Olympic chari- oteer ; Though lightly prized the ribboned parchments three, Yet collegisse juvat^ I am glad That here what colleging was mine I had, — It linked another tie, dear native town, with thee ! 107 ^ An Indian-summer Reverie Nearer art thou than simply native earth, My dust with thine concedes a deeper tie ; A closer claim thy soil may well put forth, Something of kindred more than sympathy ; For in thy bounds I reverently laid away That blinding anguish of forsaken clay, That title I seemed to have in earth and sea and sky. That portion of my life more choice to me (Though brief, yet in itself so round and whole) 1 08 An Indian-summer Reverie ^ Than all the imperfect residue can be; — The Artist saw his statue of the soul Was perfect ; so, with one regret- ful stroke, The earthen model into frag- ments broke, And without her the impoverished seasons roll. 109 R The Birch-tree IPPLING through thy branches goes the sunshine, Among thy leaves that palpitate for ever, Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had prisoned. The soul once of some tremulous in- land river. Quivering to tell her woe, but ah ! dumb, dumb lor ever ! While all the forest, witched with slumberous moonshine, Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence, Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse suspended. ^ The Birch-tree I hear afar thy whispering, gleamy islands, And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung silence. Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet. Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dryad, Dripping round thy slim, white stem, whose shadow Slopes quivering down the water's dusky quiet, Thou shrink'st as on her bath's edge would some startled Dryad. Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers ; Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping ; 112 The Birch-tree ^ Reuben writes here the happy name of Patience, And thy lithe boughs hang murmuring and weeping Above her, as she steals the mystery from thy keeping. Thou art to me like my beloved maiden. So frankly coy, so full of trembly con- fidences ; Thy shadow scarce seems shade, thy pattering leaflets Sprinkle their gathered sunshine o'er my senses, And Nature gives me all her summer confidences. Whether my heart with hope or sorrow tremble, Thou sympathisest still ; wild and un- quiet, 113 ^ The Birch-tree I fling me down ; thy ripple, Hke a river, Flows valleyward, where calmness is, and by it My heart is floated down into the land of quiet. The Changeling T HAD a little daughter, And she was given to me To lead me gently backward To the Heavenly Father's knee, That I, by the force of nature, Might in some dim wise divine The depth of his infinite patience To this wayward soul of mine. I know not how others saw her. But to me she was wholly fair. And the light of the heaven she came from Still lingered and gleamed in her hair ; For it was as wavy and golden, And as many changes took, "5 ^ The Changeling As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples On the yellow bed of a brook. To what can I liken her smiling Upon me, her kneeling lover, How it leaped from her lips to her eyelids. And dimpled her wholly over, Till her outstretched hands smiled also. And I almost seemed to see The very heart of her mother Sending sun through her veins to me ! She had been with us scarce a twelve- month. And it hardly seemed a day. When a troop of wandering angels Stole my little daughter away ; ii6 The Changeling ^ Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari But loosed the hampering strings, And when they had opened her cage- door, My little bird used her wings. But they left in her stead a changeling, A little angel child. That seems like her bud in full blos- som, And smiles as she never smiled : When I wake in the morning, I see it Where she always used to lie, And I feel as weak as a violet Alone 'neath the awful sky. As weak, yet as trustful also ; For the whole year long I see All the wonders of faithful Nature Still worked for the love of me ; 117 -^ The Changeling Winds wander, and dews drip earth- ward, Rain falls, suns rise and set. Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet. This child is not mine as the first was, I cannot sing it to rest, I cannot lift it up fatherly And bliss it upon my breast ; Yet it lies in my little one's cradle And sits in my little one's chair. And the light of the heaven she's gone to Transfigures its golden hair. To the Dandelion T^EAR common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found. Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth — thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder Summer-blooms may be. 119 ^ To the Dandelion Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never under- stand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; The eyes thou givest me 1 20 To the Dandelion ^ Are in the heart and heed not space or time : Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more Summer-like, warm rav- ishment In the white lily's breezy tent, His conquered Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. Then think I of deep shadows in the grass, — Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze. Where as the breezes pass. The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, — Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 121 ^ To the Dandelion Or whiten in the wind, — of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap, — and of a sky above Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee ; The sight of thee calls back the robin's song. Who from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long. And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from Heaven, which he did bring 122 To the Dandelion ^ Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. How like a prodigal doth nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so com- mon art ! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of Heaven, and could some wondrous secret show. Did we but pay the love we owe. And with a child's undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God's book. 123 The Shepherd of King Admetus 'T^HERE came a youth upon the earth, Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, Whether to plough, or reap, or sow. He made a lyre, and drew therefrom Music so strange and rich. That all men loved to hear, — and some Muttered of fagots for a witch. But King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine. Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between the cups of wine : 125 ^ The Shepherd of And so, well-pleased with being soothed Into a sweet half-sleep, Three times his kingly beard he smoothed And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. His words were simple words enough And yet he used them so. That what in other mouths were rough In his seemed musical and low. Men called him but a shiftless youth, In whom no good they saw ; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law. They knew not how he learned at all. For, long hour after hour. He sat and watched the dead leaves fall. Or mused upon a common flower. 126 King Admetus ^ It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach him all their use, For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs. He found a healing power profuse. Men granted that his speech was wise, But, when a glance they caught Of his slim grace and woman's eyes. They laughed, and called him good- for-naught. Yet after he was dead and gone. And e'en his memory dim. Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him. And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod. Till after-poets only knew Their firstborn brother as a god. 127 An Incident in a Railroad Car ILJE spoke of Burns: men rude and rough Pressed found to hear the praise of one Whose breast was made of manly, simple stuff, As homespun as their own. And, when he read, they forward leaned Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears, His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned From humble smiles and tears. Slowly there grew a tender awe. Sunlike o'er faces brown and hard, 129 ^ An Incident in a As if ill him who read they felt and saw Some presence of the bard. It was a sight for sin and wrong, And slavish tyranny to see, A sight to make oar faith more piae and strong In high Humanity. I thought, these men will carry hence. Promptings their former life above, And something of a finer reverence For beauty, truth, and love. (jod scatters love on every side. Freely among his children all. And always hearts are lying open wide Wherein some grains may fall. 130 Railroad Car ^ There is no wind but soweth seeds Of a more true and open life, Which burst unlocked for into high- souled deeds With wayside beauty rife. We find within these souls of ours Some wild germs of a higher birth, Which in the poet's tropic heart bear? flowers Whose fragrance fills the earth. Within the hearts of all men lie These promises of wider bliss. Which blossom into hopes that cannot die. In sunny hours like this. All that hath been majestical In life or death since time began, 131 ^ An Incident in a Is native in the simple heart of all, The angel heart of man. And thus among the untaught poor Great deeds and feelings find a home That cast in shadow all the golden lore Of classic Greece or Rome. Oh ! mighty brother-soul of man, Where'er thou art, in low or high, Thy skyey arches with exulting span O'er-roof infinity. All thoughts that mould the age begin Deep down within the primitive soul. And, from the many, slowly upward win To One who grasps the whole. In his broad breast, the feeling deep That struggled on the many's tongue, 132 Railroad Car ^ Swells to a tide of Thought whose surges leap O'er the weak thrones of wrong. All thought begins in feeling — wide In the great mass its base is hid, And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, A moveless pyramid. Nor is he far astray who deems That every hope which rises and grows broad In the World's heart, by ordered im- pulse streams From the great heart of God. God wills, man hopes ; in common souls Hope is but vague and undefined, ^33 ^ An Incident in a Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls, A blessing to his kind. Never did poesy appear So full of Heav'n to me as when I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear, To the lives of coarsest men. It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century. But better far it is to speak One simple word which now and then 134 Railroad Car ►# Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men ; To write some earnest verse or line Which, seeking not the praise of Art, Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine In the uncultured heart. He who doth this, in verse or prose. May be forgotten in his day. But surely shall be crowned at last with those Who live and speak for aye. 135 A Reverie TN the twilight deep and silent Comes thy spirit unto mine, When the starlight and the moonlight Over clifF and woodland shine. And the quiver of the river Seems a thrill of joy benign. Then I rise and go in fancy To the headland by the sea, When the evening star throbs setting Through the dusky cedar-tree. And from under, low-voiced thunder From the surf swells fitfully. Then within my soul I feel thee Like a gleam of bygone years, Visions of my childhood murmur 137 ^ A Reverie Their old madness in my ears, Till the pleasance of thy presence Crowds my heart with blissful tears. All the wondrous dreams of boyhood — All youth's fiery thirst of praise — All the surer hopes of manhood Blossoming in sadder days — Joys that bound me, griefs that crowned me With a better wreath than bays — All the longings after freedom — The vague love of human kind. Wandering far and near at random Like a dead leaf on the wind — Rousing only in the lonely Twilight of an aimless mind, — All of these, oh best beloved. Happiest present dreams and past, 138 A Reverie ^ In thy love find safe fulfilment, Ripened into truths at last ; P'aith and beauty, hope and duty To one centre gather fast. How my spirit, like an ocean, At the breath of thine awakes, Leaps its shores in mad exulting And in foamy music breaks. Then downsinking, lieth shrinking At the tumult that it makes ! Blazing Hesperus hath sunken Low within the pale-blue west. And with blazing splendour crowneth The horizon's piny crest ; Thoughtful quiet stills the riot Of wild longing in my breast. Home I loiter through the moonlight. Underneath the quivering trees, 139 ^ A Reverie Which, as if a spirit stirred them, Sway and bend, till by degrees The far surge's murmur merges In the rustle of the breeze. 140 Summer Storm TTNTREMULOUS in the river clear, Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridge ; So still the air that I can hear The slender clarion of the * unseen midge ; Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep, Lilce rising wind in leaves, which now decreases, Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases. The huddling trample of a drove of sheep 141 ^ Summer Storm Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceases In dust on the other side j life's em- blem deep, A confused noise between two silences, Finding at last in dust precarious peace. On the wide marsh the purple-blos- somed grasses Soak up the sunshine ; sleeps the brimming tide, Save when the wedge-shaped wake in silence passes Of some slow water-rat, whose sinuous glide Wavers the long green sedge's shade from side to side; But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge. Climbs a great cloud edged with sun- whitened spray ; 142 Summer Storm ^ Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge, And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs alway. Suddenly all the sky is hid As with the shutting of a lid, One by one great drops are falling Doubtful and slow, Down the pane they are crookedly crawling And the wind breathes low ; Slowly the circles widen on the river. Widen and mingle, one and all ; Here and there the slenderer flowers shiver. Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall. Nowonthe hills I hearthethunder mutter The wind is gathering In the west ; 143 #^ Summer Storm The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter, Then droop to a fitful rest ; Up from the stream with sluggish flap Struggles the gull and floats away ; Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder- clap,— We shall not see the sun go down to-day : Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, And tramples the grass with terrified feet. The startled river turns leaden and harsh. You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat. Look ! look ! that livid flash ! And instantly follows the rattling thun- der, 144 I Summer Storm As if some cloud-crag split asunder. Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash, On the Earth, which crouches in silence under ; And now a solid gray wall of rain Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile; For a breath's space I see the blue wood again, And ere the next heart-beat, the wind- hurled pile. That seemed but now a league aloof. Bursts rattling o'er the sun-parched roof; Against the windows the storm comes dashing, Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing, M5 ^ Summer Storm The blue lightning flashes, The rapid hail clashes, The white waves are tumbling. And in one baffled roar, Like the toothless sea mumbling A rock-bristled shore. The thunder is rumbling And crashing and crumbling, — Will silence return nevermore ? Hush ! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will ; The rain stops short, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, All is so bodingly still •, Again, now, now, agaiji Plashes the rain in heavy gouts, The crinkled lightning 146 Summer Storm ^ Seems ever brightening. And loud and long Again the thunder shouts His battle-song, — One quivering flash. One wildering crash. Followed by silence dead and dull, As if the cloud, let go. Leapt bodily below To whelm the earth in one mad over- throw, And then a total lull. Gone, gone, so soon ! No more my half-crazed fancy there. Can shape a giant in the air. No more I see his streaming hair, The writhing portent of his form ; — The pale and quiet moon 147 ■^ Summer Storm Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea. Silent and few, are drifting over me. THE END.