PS 3515 .035 15 1913 Copy 1 f f m Glass VSZS /S' Book Gopyrigl Q& COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT: THE INNER GARDEN A BOOK OF VERSE BY HORACE HOLLEY DECORATIONS BY BERTHA HERBERT HOLLEY f-f^ BOSTON SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 1913 03*1* Sherman, French & Company Copyright, 1913 /A i ©CI.A35110 6 TO BERTHA HERBERT HOLLEY ACKNOWLEDGMENTS For permission to use copy- righted poems in this volume, ac- knowledgments are due Century Company, New York City; New Coffee Club, Williamstown, Mass- achusetts ; Lawrenceville School, Lawrenceville, New Jersey; Ju- lian Park, Esquire; Rhythm, London; the Freewoman, Lon- don; and the Manchester Play- goer, Manchester, England. PART I PAGE Prophecy 1 Invocation 2 To the God of Nature 3 Touchstone 4 Evocative . . 6 The Cry 7 "Still Must the Summer Hope" ... 8 The Leaves 10 December 12 A Landscape in New England .... 14 The Storm 16 The Three Birds 18 In Italy . 27 The Invitation 28 The Inner Garden 29 Sunset on Arno 32 Holiday 34 Primavera ... 35 CONTENTS PART II PAGE Pride o' Youth 39 Ad Mundum 40 Circe 41 Outcasts 42 "Oh! What Am I?" 43 To a Friend 44 Music 45 "The Proudest Soul" 46 Valedictory 47 Poet 48 To W. A. G 50 Song for Comrades 51 To a Friend in Absence 52 On a Day of Sad Omen 53 To the Unknown Friend 54 Innocence 55 Love 56 The Fallen 58 "Forget the Graves of Heroes" .... 59 The Loveless 60 Vale 61 On the Occasion of a Birthday .... 62 PART III The Immigrants 65 America 66 The Spanish War Soldier 67 CONTENTS PAGE A Harper on the Campus 68 On the Retirement of Doctor Hewitt and Professor Spring 69 Chatterton in Elysium 70 To a Young Girl 75 Beauty 76 Miniatures 77 Invocation 80 Cashmere Lady 81 To Hertha 82 The Mirror 83 The Sick Child 84 The Wife 85 The Lost Epic 86 The Litle World 87 PART IV To the Unknown God 91 Indictment of Time 92 Epigram: Insomnia 93 The Resigned 94 God-in-Man 95 Lucifer 96 The Stricken King 97 Christi Amor 99 "As When From Out a Home" .... 100 Memorabilia 101 CONTENTS PAGE War and Peace 102 Tiger 104 The Beginning of Laughter .... 105 The Poet 110 The Hypocrite Ill Idolator 112 Crisis 113 Master 114 Promethean 115 Pilgrims 116 Free Captains 117 The Empty Bowl 119 The Materialistic Scientist .... 122 Immortal 123 Epigram 124 Orthodoxy 125 Elegy 126 The Return of Religion 130 PROPHECY i/l verse, all music, artistry Of cunning hand and feeling heart ; All loveliness, whate'er it be, Shows but a hint and broken part Of that vast beauty and delight Which man will know when he is free, When in his soul the alien night Folds up like darkness from the sea. For ev'n in song man still reveals His ancient fear, a mournful knell, Like one who dreams of home, but feels The bonds of an old prison cell. [i] INVOCATION pake in me, O Spring, the passion gay That stirs delight in every sullen clod; That steeds the mind to ride the Milky Way And makes the heart a Bethlehem of God. [2] TO THE GOD OF NATURE healing God, upon my throat Let cool and joyous breezes blow That bear the lone, contented note Of meadow rivers wimpling low ; And prayers from the solemn trees That o'er the night their anthems roll To hearts like mine, to fears like these, From earth's unconquerable soul. Let pleating rains make me demure In silent growth and healthy powers Like forest children, boldly pure, — Like sober, self-sufficient flowers. For I would be as they, and dwell True son of nature, strong yet mild, Touched with her universal spell, Her chosen priest, obedient child. [3] TOUCHSTONE h ! give to him a forest place Made lustrous with triumphant spring And mellowed by the sober grace Of autumn's pageant perishing; Oh give to him an ancient tree By gossip wind and stream begirt, Whose druid speech, whose silence, free Too conscious spirits from their hurt; Give solitudes of noble days That still unspoiled by sullen woe, Before his mild, prophetic gaze Like epic chiefs in glory go, — These give. His nature does implore As other men their daily bread, For surely from our common store Such lives on beauty can be fed. Oh surely they can dwell apart From fiery pit, from blinding steam, To cherish with a faithful heart Our lost felicities of dream ; [4] Who, grateful for the gifts of men Shall render dearer gifts than those, Recovering from the earth again Shy gods of rapture and repose. L«] EVOCATIVE h see! o'er yonder hill afar, Steeped in serenest June, The plaintive wonder that's a star, The magic that's the moon ; Which throng the corners of the night With people of dead years, Now glistening with their shy delight, Now hidden by their tears. We shall not die. Our passion brings One wistful love the more, Heaps magic on these stedfast things, Adds wonder to their store. [6] THE CRY 'er hoary night, more dark than old — A cry that doth earth's passion hold: The anguish of a lonely bird; A sudden, thin, affirighting cry, The wail of some too-fearful soul Which writhing in her hopeless dole Sobs o'er the night against the sky; A cry that risen lingers still, Its single pulse including life. It cleaves the darkness like a knife, It cleaves the spirit like a chill. It wavers hollow, ringing far High o'er the blanket of the night, To mingle with celestial light And greet the ruin of a star. m STILL MUST THE SUMMER HOPE" he summer comes upon her time of cold, Yet in some sunny corner of the world, — A wall that drinks the south, or stilly wold, — Flaunts in her hair a crimson rose uncurled. She tricks her faded wardrobe with a flower Of later blooming, hidden from the sun ; With fallen leaves makes shift to mend her bower And sings when her dear labor all is done. Yet doth the wind discover her in sleep, — The wind that driveth doom to woodland ways : Her bosom shivers and her closed eyes weep, Her white hands grope i' the leaves and hide her face. All night her sleep is haunted by a dream Of thieves that steal the flower from her hair. The red dawn wakes her with its glaring gleam, — When feeling quick, her blossom is not there ! [8] Then hand on heart that bursting it not break, She sees one petal ashen in the mold, And crouches low and presses it to cheek: Still must the summer hope against the cold. m THE LEAVES ioppity skip! the leaves are free, Down the lane of the world they go Farther and farther in wreathy blow. Hoppity skip! but wait for me! Truant all, that left the tree, Heartless all, that left him so. Down the lane of the world you go Hoppity skip! but wait for me! Whirling and curling o'er lane and lea, Hoppity skip! in a huddled row Racing all day the winds that blow, Free at last! but wait for me! Over and over, mad with glee, Drunk in November's tawny glow, On to the edge where light is low — Hoppity skip ! but wait for me ! Elfin leaves, wait for me! Together before the wind we go. The winds of the year behind us blow Hoppity skip! untethered, free! [10] On up the titled world go we, Over the edge in the sun's last glow,- Over and down, — and Night below : "Take us at last, the leaves and me!" [ii] DECEMBER arth and man are now December's ; hill to valley yields the light Of the sun's pathetic embers dropped from his remoter flight. Who foresaw the magic changes winter flings on lake and wood? — Grander rise the mountain ranges, deeper throbs the forest mood, Trees stand still with inward passion, waters pause and hold their breath In a blind, prophetic fashion caught by dreamy sleep not death. Nature's central spirit trembles in an agony of rapture Which her spring-pomp mild resembles but may never wholly capture. Nay! nor birdsong nor bright blossom nor the mad delight of horses Half reveal what through her bosom in the mat- ing season courses When in secret caverns mingle heaven-sire and nature-mother And the far-most planets tingle with the love of each for other. [12] Hence from every dim horizon creeps a thick and early eve, — 'Tis the earth's attempt to prison heaven's god ere he can leave ; Hence the winter-dream of mortals, melancholy while elate, Baffled just outside the portals of the moated house of fate; Hence the gleam of wistful magic on the turn- ing of the days, Hence the courage more than tragic of our sympathetic gaze. [13] A LANDSCAPE IN NEW ENGLAND he sudden lights of sunset fall. I tire, and pausing turn to lean Upon a weather-dampened wall That bounds, like sleep, the dreamy scene. Before me, worn, a pasture lies And careless, truant breezes blow Puffing, from gusty April skies The feeble grasses as they go. A swollen brook, half-underground, Its hidden voice now clear, now still, O'erflows the world with droning sound Like elfin throats beneath the hill. To bearded hills the pasture runs And orchard-slopes of twisted trees, That warmed in vain by modern suns, Huddle in patient agonies. I see a pillar, ashen-gray, Fallen upon the hillside lone . . . And yearn, as though my father lay Beneath that unremembered stone. The mossy wall has chilled my hand, A fresh wind drives the clouds to foam ; The day's dim embers light the land And light a house no more a home. [14] The roof-tree sags, the gables flare, A locked door trembles to the wind; The broken windows darkly stare Like empty sockets of the blind. But more than blind, old house, alas, No inward being warms your breast And never foot those chambers pass Save Time's, the last, the saddest guest. Ah, more than weak and blind and dark Like hearts in failure and disgrace, You, full of death and ruin, mark A sadder grave, that hold a race. Beneath the gradual stars I wait, A watchman stationed in a dream. My thoughts, like prophets moved by fate, Lament destruction, then redeem. "O God !" within my heart I cry ; "Man fails, the lands their harvest cease, — No lonelier hill implores the sky, — Yet here is beauty, here is peace." Here, from our broken human mold An austere spirit floats abroad And decks with reverent faith this old Forgotten breathing-place of God. [15] THE STORM ow wild the night! How wild the will! The sullen skies contract to black And all the cope of heav'n is shrill With hurricane and thunder-wrack, And o'er the scared and cowering lands The reckless armies of the blast Fulfill ten thousand mad commands Before they sheathe the blade at last. They shatter old, patrician trees, They stem the torrent in its bed, They plow the barren, tumbled seas And plant them with the pallid dead ; They gather o'er our city streets Where men are huddled close in pain And loose, from hidden, far retreats, The lightning and the driven rain. They shake the ancient towers of kings, They pause to snatch a diadem, They rouse the anarchy of things — Only the prisoner smiles at them! [16] With wilder threats, with madder boast They seize the underworld's allies And marshalling its fiery host Attack the fortress of the skies. In vain ! In vain ! The gods awake, Girding themselves in mild alarm, And soon the sun's bright chariots break The jealous league of night and storm. How fair the dawn, how calm the will! The soul looks out upon the day; His pure and earnest passions thrill In sudden gladness to obey. [17] THE THREE BIRDS o gloomy-dull the ancient wood, The trees so close, so darkly stood That sight nor hearing could de- clare If sunlight ever entered there. It seemed as nature, long ago, Had drunk some goblet mixed in woe And while elsewhere the world spun round Here time and effort lay aswound. In hidden caves and hollow trees The gaping brutes forebore to seize The rabbit, deer, or other prey Which, weary, had not run away. The very brooks did dream along J^ike verses in a shepherd's song And had no will or heed to go Save always round, and round, and slow; But in their thick, distorted glass No bright and lovely shapes could pass, For in that ancient twilight-place The fairest vision lost its grace In vain repose and empty sleep. 'Twas merely slumber laid too deep And merely darkness fall'n too long That made of trees a wizard-throng, And in the branches overhead Put bats and owls, a winged dread, [18] And twisted every barren root To catch, like dead hands, at the foot, And pulled the leaves to cling and drag And hold the night in, like a bag, And made the forest sanctity A portent and fatality. A little bird there was, all white, Oppressed to silence by the night, That restless flew from limb to limb. An ancient wonder leapt in him, Some longing native to his heart That stretched his milky wings apart And seldom let him droop his bill In heedless slumber, dull and still. While shadow held that wood in pawn And blotted even, noon and dawn, Within his breast, close-folded, lay The joy of sweet, recurrent day; For gladder customs moved in him And nature's spell could only dim The world's delight and lustihood In one not born within the wood. Yet thickly hung the dismal spell ! How many times (I could not tell) The bird in blind bewilderment About his leafy prison went; But flew he low or flew he high The cavy forest shed the sky [19] And all the beating of his wings Could not surmount those fragile things. (Water's more strong, by wizardy, Than man's determined masonry.) A pine, nathless, whose aged growth A little topped the common sloth, Upraised a stern, compelling crown Above the twilight, sifting down (Like laughter early scared away), A timid, truant rill of day. But what's too small for chance to use? Enchantment falls by its abuse, And darkness rolled from blackest night Spreads finest background for a light; So hither, hither, hither flew The bird at last and instant knew The sun himself, the kindly sun Was laboring in that flicker dun, Then to the highest twig-point sped And poised to sing with tilted head. Through lucent windows of the dawn The sun was painting brook and lawn, And like a sea-wet pearl, there stirred Soft glimmering colors on the bird. He sang a little, joyous hymn Of trilling echo, bland and dim, That might, by its pure spirit, seem The measure of a fairy's dream, Or serve to waken, without dread, A baby smiling in his bed. [20] For days as many as you'd find Of terrors in a coward's mind, Of sorrows in a prisoner's heart, No joyous song had any part Within that crushed and cabined place. The hymn he sang, by beauty's grace, (That hymn of glad, recovered things), Daring the wood's dumb wanderings, Bore plaintive summons to arise And join in worship of the skies. But all the furry ears were closed, Nature still in the forest dozed And even echo sobbed and died ; But like a love-song to a bride She hears while others heed it not, The hymn, low-throbbing through each spot. Struck quick excitement in one bird And passed the snoring beasts unheard, Though here and there a paw upraised And eyes a moment stared, unglazed. Now higher wheeled the healthy sun, For earth elsewhere was day begun When like a lover to his mate This bird flew to the other straight And perched him on the pine-tree high. He shone as blue as burnished sky, And 'twas a rare, a pleasant sight, The azure bird, the bird so white. Kindled in that religious blue Ev'n daylight burned more rich, more new, [21] Some strange and august visiting. A prouder song had he to sing, — The second bird, — of deeper note And sped abroad from fuller throat, As when a conscious, vital power Leaps eager into use. An hour Though brimmed with swift cascades of song, For ecstasy gave none too long Nor drained his effortless, deep mirth. But lo, within the forest-girth, Through all that lonely isle of night Our joyous world of change and light Flowed murmuring in; the ancient spell Like smoke rose heavily from the dell, Rose heavily close-packed gloom and dread. The huddling isolation fled, And as a sleeper opes his eye That wold unlidded to the sky. The trees exalted then their brows And all unlocked their tangled boughs, The runnel-brooks precipitously Churned forward to the stalwart sea, The caverned bears for hunger roared, Squirrels their autumn-wealth unstored And rabbits, quickened from old trance, Over the greensward leapt in dance, The active spirit of the wood Stirring in April lustihood. Yet as a dreamer waked doth see The forms of lingering fantasy [22] And on the world awhile will brood To tally it with inner mood, So the sweet dawn of that delight Took fever from the lapsed night And day and time seemed all too slow Till each must in his prison go And reassume the dreary spell. Now the brisk bird to silence fell; His song had driven gloom away But could not tie the ebbing day; The natural twilight of the eve Made all the woodland droop and grieve, And solemn silence fell on all As if the place again were thrall To endless night ; yet sudden, — lo On mighty wing aloft did go As lordly bird as e'er was seen! His beak shone white, but mellow green His body and his rapid wings (The color of enduring things). No silence now, nor sluggard sleep This kingly bird could prisoned keep When once, from his low nesting-place He saw day fade from heaven's face. 'Twas light, more light he sought, and light He dragged from the set teeth of night Where high the furrowed clouds among The sunset's golden flowers upsprung. [23] So brimmed with light as bowls with wine He faced the setting sun, divine, Then like a free, unlaboring breeze Dropped flight among the dusky trees. Still, still the pine upraised his head But now, but now in rueful dread And expectation spended quite, The azure bird, the bird of white Huddled in silence. What's so still As throats that once a song did fill? But hark ! O forest, sleep not yet ! Too soon you grieve, too soon forget, And liken evening's natural dark To hateful magic. — Forest, hark! To the hushed wood the green bird sang, And like a victor's bugle rang Redoubled echo near and far. It might have risen to a star And pierced the young moon's empty mask Flouting the world's unfinished task, Or dipping in the roaring sea Have learned its audibility; But whatsoe'er its journey's end, (Or where the seas or skies extend), The song, vibrating through the dell, O'erawed and banned the ancient spell! As custom to his wont must keep, Came night and drowned the wood in sleep, [24] But slumber, settling o'er the trees, Showed no more dreary fantasies And in the brooklet's dimpled glass Henceforth but lovely shapes could pass— Ev'n winter, yellowing the leaf, Told no irremediable grief — For now, i' the forest's sunlit bound The world of time and change spun round And 'tis enchantment's utter bane When the world's seasons roll again. All this the singing birds had done Who found, and heralded, the sun. If in your spirit's hid expanse, O if (as I) you knew the trance Which like enchantment o'er a wood Prisons the soul in twilight mood; And bows, like darkly-huddled trees, The proud, exultant ecstasies ; And roils the passions' silver glass, Dwarfing the pleasures as they pass ; And drugs the thoughts in stupor deep Like the wood-folk in dreary sleep, (As if the spirit long ago Had drunk some goblet mixed in woe),- Then happy, happy, if (as I), You put such mournful magic by [25] And raise at last the painful spell By Hope's, Love's, Faith's sweet miracle! These are the soul's three singing birds: This, all the meaning of my words. [26] IN ITALY beggar slept among the weeds And Hertha said to me: "God loves the tare, if anywhere, In Italy." [*n THE INVITATION weet, 'tis morning! come, arise. Dawn unpetals in the skies ; To the garden quickly go. See, the cosmos to and fro Nodding to the friendly East. I have honey for a feast, Milk and bread, with yellow wine From the bland Italian vine. Here, where nature riots, we Rightly dare such revelry As shall stir a garden-mood In our sympathetic blood. Hasten, sweet! the heavens turn To their dark, funereal urn, Let us greet the rapid hour 'Neath the shedding of a flower, And, like bees, take riches hence For our winter's indigence, [28] THE INNER GARDEN TO L. H. B. t is enough to feel The farthest, faintest beat Of life's invigorating heart; Oh sweet, sweet To seize on things, as all may, by the five senses, Create an inward world lovelier, more real Than this cold counterpart Of plumbless, void immenses. It is enough, and leaves no more to ask Creator or Destroyer, Maker, Changer For in itself it gives a godlike task. The wind blows, the sea rises in storm; People pass and repass, the loved, the stranger Each with his landscape about him, his mood, His virtue to help or harm. The cloud From its own moment's personality, Its share in our whole fellowhood — Listen ! it cries a secret aloud ! Thus attentive, not otherwise, we learn The use of things we touch and hear and see, Their places in our inward garden-dream Enduring each, evocative, complete. Thus, though the cloud-form turn [29] Into the blue again And every brotherhood and scheme Of sympathetic men Scatter, destroyed, undone ; Something, if only a faith, remains Added to the world's store That never was before, Worthy, significant and sweet. Oh, 'tis enough for one To hail within himself the faintest beat Of that warm, central heart ! Who reckons life by passing joys and pains? These are but scales that jealousy and spite Hold to each other's emptiness of life; They own no part In man's innate capacity and might, Living for life itself, whether 'tis peace or strife, Glad only, glad always for living! While we are still whole-souled and glad For that small nature we had And fling no curse on others' ampler giving, The powers, the gods can never quite forget We wait obedient yet, — Never they dare withhold Their fees of purple and gold. Nay, while we wait Our lives are senses needful to the world: [30] Eyes which if darkened could not be God's witness to some modern mystery ; Ears which too-closely furled, Voices too-early still, Could never listen His prophetic will Or cry abroad His fate. [31] SUNSET ON ARNO he sun has gathered o'er his face A veil of amber mist And to his evening resting-place Leans slowly, having kissed Each snowy summit set with grace In bays of amethyst. Slow twilight and calm river met Like music in the eyes, For each exultant glance beget A moment's paradise Where beauty's Eden lingers, yet Unbanished to the skies. A changed world pleads for worship while These mystic colors pass That from ecstatic heavens file Like officers of mass, The Arno a cathedral aisle Lit by memorial glass. All common things of sky and earth Seem moving to a rhyme As if the sense took finer worth From vision more sublime ; The soul recalls a holy birth In other place or time. [32] From what far, secret mountain-stream These solemn waters flow ; What springs of disavowed esteem Their deep enchantment throw, — Oh from what source of ancient dream And vales of long ago? Proud stream, with tribute beauty lined, Palace and cypress trees, Triumphant down thy current wind The past's rich argosies ; Such craft as bear a willing mind Out to infinite seas. [33] HOLIDAY ake dulling sleep away Too-anxious gods of labor ! We laugh to scorn your gifts of calm repose. Bring rarer gifts than those, — The garland and the tabor; Meadow and grove are bright with holiday! Oh raise the wreathed pole In ancient, pagan fashion ; Summon the piper and the fiddler round To voice with ardent sound Our deepest, dumbest passion, Silent too long in our devoted soul. What though our bodies bow Or earthward droop our glances? These are but servants to our hearts' desire, Which catching secret fire From songs and May-day dances, The laggard limbs with eager grace endow. Yea, every joy you give, Each soul-intoxication, Turns back the gathering tide of doubts and fears, Restores our jubilant years As by divine creation, And frees the rhythmic powers by which we live. [34] PRIMAVERA he bud whose joyous odor first Fills April winds with wine, As long in nature's heart 'twas nursed 'Twas longer nursed in mine. To every passion of the earth And glamour of the spring I give a spiritual birth Transmuting everything. The blush upon that rose demure, Yon ripple o'er the sea, This proudly warbling robin, sure Are all but parts of me ! The rapture like a warming fire That makes the year divine, Could only burn from love's desire — » Could only burn from mine. Though nature show her ancient bill, Boast loves of other years, She brought no spring to me, until I watered it with tears. My heart has paid its winter, now My heart acclaims its spring, And life is like a barren bough Where sudden blossoms cling. [35] Through winter-ways of grievous thought, Up darkened paths of doubt, My own, my rightful love I sought — At last I found her out! In drear indifference she passed Like spring to prisoned men. I never cared; I care at last: She will not pass again. The tender beauty of her face I molded from despair ; My sorrow crowned her inward grace, My faith made her so fair. As from a shining, golden bowl Men turn the eager wine, I poured the nectar of her soul From this pure hope of mine. From thence the spring and she arise, Glad pilgrims of the earth, Who vainly ask among the skies The secret of their birth. Roll on, inexorable year! Take spring, take love from me; The heart that finds fulfillment here Requires eternity. [36] PRIDE O' YOUTH pray thee, Lord, when thou hast mind to take me, Bear me on swiftly through the toothless days. Let howsoe'er destruction seize and break me If but no blindness trip me and amaze. Let me not grope for Death, nor asking, mumble In my wet beard the words that fiercer came; Crush as thou wilt, and as thou must, me humble — But Lord, I pray, let no one see my shame! [39] AD MUNDUM I'erawe me not with marshalling of numbers, Thy thousands perished woeful as I deem, Who lived their lives like dreams of one who slumbers, — Then shall I add more failure to their dream? But I would live ! would live ! and so not be A godlike force in witless motion spent, An idle ripple on a barren sea Or shadow flung across the firmament. [40] CIRCE Circe-world," I cried, "who dost If beguile Youth to its ruin, age to dumb despair, Dressing with fresh deceit each mortal mile To coil our souls in thy delusive snare ; Discovered wanton, lovely though thou be Thy lust shall never spoil my healthy years While I, forewarned life, can labor free, Untainted of the world's degrading tears." But now, alas, the world on every side And time's scarred reign confirmed upon my heart, The closer, sadder truth disarms my pride — This same world's I and I of it am part. "Poor Circe-world," I moan, "whose siren bane Ourselves do mix, do proffer and ... do drain !" [41] OUTCASTS of the world who shuffle to our doom, Who dull with basest lead the gold of time, Despoiling where we may the tender bloom Of all unworldly souls that rise sublime ; Still scorning wisdom nobler than our use And scourging pity bent on our despair, Fouling earth's seldom beauty by abuse, In rage at strength more strong, at fair more fair; We suffer pain with them we hate and slay And more than they, as we their death survive. Weep not for them so glorious in decay, — Weep thou for us, inglorious and alive: Stricken ourselves in their destruction, till To us that Life appear we may not kill." [«] "OH! WHAT AM I?" h, what am I that the cold wind af- frays, Oh, what am I the ocean could con- found, A fort so open to the rebel days, To nature's mutiny and human wound? Oh, what am I so weak against the world, Yea, weaker in my heart that should be strong ; On whom this double warfare is unfurled, Of outer violence first, then inward wrong? I am a fair, a fleeting glimpse of God One moment visible in mortal state, A bit of heaven caught i' the prison-clod, That I nor nature's self may violate; Ev'n like a jewel fallen from a crown That's royal still, though fingered by a clown. [43] TO A FRIEND o me, dear friend, be better than the best, Be not so wise to taste before you eat: True love is in its own sweet palate blest, — To love alone, could such as I be sweet. No, do not as the world which hating hate And branding scorn on every sensual brow, Keeps them, like slaves, in fixt, unbettered state Who born to chains will die as they are now ; But rather love when I have least desert, When I am stupid bid me sweetly stay, Smile on me tenderest when I cause you hurt And praise me most in my most barren day. So shall you be as God, whose grace divine Flings keys of heav'n to this poor world of mine. [44] MUSIC |here are some who learn apart Music's high, mysterious art ; There are some, of whom am I, Minded in simplicity, That do feel a rapt heart-beat For the singer in the street; Whom a beggar's violin ^ Seizeth by the soul within. [45] "THE PROUDEST SOUL" he proudest soul that ever dared aspire, Though stuffed with all the chosen fruits of power, Must learn the barren, melancholy hour When spirits fail and aspirations tire. No man unto himself is wholly sire ; His mind is subject to the world's debate. So many voices urging, soon and late, Perplex the vision like a smoky fire. But ever faster, old age comes apace, At last by memory we stand accused. Our little share of godliness misused We seek the dread oblivion of the race. O Father, come with passion and with grace, That so in me Thyself be not abused! [46] VALEDICTORY ^hile other youth went joyous to the chase And gathered trophies, laurel for the brow And praise from men and maidens fair enow Who smile upon the victors of the race; I bided prizeless in this silent place Companioned by the presence of the dead, Dreamed of invisible garlands for my head And approbation on a ghostly face. Call it not pride or self-consuming scorn, — I never curled the lip at other men: I reverence all as brothers, — yet for me There is a brotherhood, a sanctity In Truth and Beauty that turns my feet again To solitude, though lonely and forlorn. [47] POET |ou are but one man only ; I, many as I would be. I am heir to all existence, — to every lover's joy, The wisdom of old men, the lonely singer's min- strelsy, The bannered ranks of heroes that give battle and destroy. Oh, you are but one man only; how many, many I Who seize the lives I would live as fish are taken from streams And live them through till I weary, kings or saints in the sky, Then throw them away like masks and turn me to fresher dreams. Whoever has lived I can be ; I show to time again The spirit, if not the form, of them he has slain of yore. Nature, if ever were lost the mold and pattern of men, Could break my life into fragments and all her line restore. [48] You are but one man only; how many, many am I! The world is hung like a stage I gaze on within my breast. So many lives I may live? — so many deaths I must die, So often yearn for heaven, so long be denied my rest. [49] TO W. A. G. ow many days of love have slipped away, Pearls from a necklace falling in the sea, That trail their lucent course to caverns gray And lie through time unstrung for you and me ! Let not one spring, O friend, break overhead Her cloudy gourd of rain and sun and bloom, And we not trip like April from our dead, Who spurns, with dancing feet, her broken tomb. [50] SONG FOR COMRADES h ! let us feed our hungry hearts And let the world's need go, No man whose own desire departs Can mend another's woe. For what's the world but one great heart Divided in all men? If each with love contents his part, How gay the whole world then! [51] TO A FRIEND IN ABSENCE TO J. P. ur lives will meet, if they meet at all, Where low winds blow and the dead leaves fall, The old year, bent o'er the foun- tain-brim, Asleep in an autumn interim. [M] ON A DAY OF SAD OMEN y thoughts are barks the wind has blown On desolate, unhappy seas Which men in dread have left alone For slow, unholmed craft like these. Uncargoed of earth's labored plan, Its endless and consuming strife, They rest, unknown to mortal man, On old, forgotten wastes of life. In tideless waste between the lands Incessant breezes lay the foam And overcast, with pallid hands, The ancient tracks that pointed home. [53] TO THE UNKNOWN FRIEND ost in sorrow, never dare Pray for more and sterner power That unbroken you can bear Secret pang from hour to hour; But with holy passion, pray Heav'n your courage will deny, Send you weakness to betray One unbosoming, full cry! Mountain rock be fixed and cold And unf athomed lie the wave ; Heart of mortal should not hold Corpse within it, like the grave. [54] INNOCENCE sinking, midnight moon doth burn Above the cloudy, somber pines, When from my window-ledge I turn To write these casual lines. I weary, looking on the sky; I sadden, dreaming of the world, — No star but points in enmity The pit where I am hurled. In time and space, where'er it seeks, My thought unbars no tranquil room, For beauty, once so gentle, speaks A judgment and a doom. Yet on my hot, averted face Like friendly, pleading hands I find A calm, a reassuring grace From passive depths of mind. The hopeless thief on Calvary, Meeting the Saviour's conscious eyes Might know an inward sanctity The common world denies. [55] LOVE e do wrong to seek content And a changeless, snug re- pose ; 'Twas for mortal never meant : While the spirit lives, it grows. When you seem no longer strange If I say my love, my own, In that moment you do change And I stand afar, alone. Let us weave no golden tie ! We must come and we must go Like the winged winds on high And the sea's unlabored flow. There is peril in our love! You and I, no witless flower, To our consummation move In an idle summer hour, — Love's a bridge across the deep Where the tempests maddened roll And the tameless demons leap Lusting for the risen soul. 'Tis the truce of hate and wrong Which the moments must renew, Which by courage we prolong And destroying, render true. [56] There is peril in our love! Like the island wizard's elf, Power of spirit it must prove O'er the Calibans of self. Fling thy banners high, Romance, Sound thy trumpets loud and gay For the triumph we advance, For the peril kept at bay. [57] THE FALLEN hough he is fallen, give him praise More than to hosts of them who win, Who lived no fear-tormented days Nor nights that were a war with sin. Ah, think! he was not good or brave Yet tired at last, without a cry He sang his song and dug his grave And laid him down, alone, to die I [58] "FORGET THE GRAVES OF HEROES" orget the graves of heroes and no more laurel give, Or raise ten thousand more which every day renew ; So many lives are lived by those too sick to live, So many deeds are done by those too weak to do. [59] THE LOVELESS e not despise, who when the jocund Spring With lusty passion brims the eager clod; Me not despise, who lone-forgotten thing, Hold up an empty goblet to the God. [60] VALE y joy returns. Farewell! I go Thrilling to my own sphere of light. Weep not, nor stay in starry flight The arrow from Apollo's bow. [61] ON THE OCCASION OF A BIRTHDAY pray Thee, Lord, for some great task to do Full worth the years I wait be- neath the sky ; Like Solomon, who reared Thy temple high, Or Milton, who did the Muse of Sinai sue. Ev'n this the prayer that I most oft renew Urged on by eager thoughts that in me cry, Blind voices, craving freedom lest they die, At best their years of animation few. O 'tis enough these bones shall turn to dust, The clay pain hallowed in my mother's womb ; It is enough that earth keep them in tomb And not that spirit which they hold in trust. The living soul to highest labor must Or lie with bones in unaspiring doom. [63] PART III THE IMMIGRANTS pon my ear a deep, unbroken roar Thunders and rolls, as when the brooding sea Too long asleep, pours out upon the shore Full half her cohorts, tramping audibly. Yet here's no rushing of exasperate wind Booming revolt amid a factious tide, Nor lordly shock on reef in ambush blind Of foaming waves that with a sob subside. No ! but more fateful than the restless deep Whose crested hosts leap high to sink again, I hear, in solemn and portentous sweep, The slow, deliberate marshalling of men. No monarch moves them, pawns, to win a goal; They felt life's fever rising in the soul. [65] AMERICA job, this I know thy soul not yet has broke The teeming silence of her modern sleep : Whenas the storm has slipped his windy yoke, Revolving on, encompassing the deep ; Small gulfs at first and shallow inland seas He hissing ruffles ; but Atlantic last, Long-played upon, responds with harmonies Prophetic-vague, sublime, and tragic-vast. So thou, the lordliest instrument of time, The last, supreme, gigantic master-pipe, Wilt loose titanically thy solemn rhyme, Atlantic thunder, when the hour is ripe. Thus from the noble teaching of the sea I arm my faith with valiant prophecy. [66] THE SPANISH WAR SOLDIER Statue by Bela L. Pratt y such a youth, the bright, the epic morn, A flaming brand, is caught from jealous skies ; Earth leaps revived. See, potent in his eyes, Grave modern Iliads eager to be born. [67] A HARPER ON THE CAMPUS he forms of loveliness the Argives wot Still with all men abide enduringly As though our modern stupor could not blot From stifled hearts their passion utterly, But sometimes to this day relents a jot To stir old pride with desperate memory. But soon, too soon, the hour of vision goes. The booming measure sinks upon the din Of lesser things as waters claim and close Around all sunsets. — Gloomy shades begin To stride upon a prostrate world, and woes Of Night surround us, with the dread therein. [68] ON THE RETIREMENT OF DOCTOR HEWITT AND PROFESSOR SPRING Williams College wo scholars go, and our community Is reft of beauty time may not re- pair. The portico her pillars ill doth spare, That fall by night beside the wine-dark sea. [69] CHATTERTON IN ELYSIUM (HE stricken past full many a haven built Beyond the sullen borders of de- spair Where eager fancy, free from human guilt, Might roam in bliss. And 'twas a poet's care To sing of happy field and island fair, That when a weary world did covet rest Such lovely vision, like an answered pray'r, His wistful sorrow soothed. Oh, hearts were blest, That found so bright abode, low-lying in the west. Though Time, the master-mariner, whose sail Hath whitened every port of sea and sky, Now sad returned upon the droning gale That old familiar vision would deny; Yet dreams reveal the soul, they never die, And mourned Elysium, fled beyond the pole, Is raised anew in every human sigh, For 'tis a region of the inward soul Which Time shall not destroy, nor the sick world control. [70] Oh boldly fashion, with religious power, The bounty of Elysium; let there be (Covert against th' inhospitable hour), A brighter heav'n, a purer ecstasy ! Thus men achieve celestial liberty Seeking the true Elysium where 'tis spread Within the soul's remoter sanctity, The glamour of a garden ; habited By nobly- joyous lives the world laments as dead. Thither as poets feign, a spirit fled, An eager being broken by despair, To seek that approbation of the dead The living had denied his haughty prayer. In grace he came and solemn beauty fair That beame'd through desolation as the Sun, Deep-peering God, doth pierce the murky air With unrepressive glance. It proved him one The Muses richly dowered as they but few have done. Arrived before that portal of repose The panting soul in sudden terror stood; Not as a spy that slinketh from his foes, But childlike; for a full ecstatic mood O'erbrimmed his faculties in copious flood. The hope and recognition, long-denied, [71] Now pained by sheer abundance. Low he sighed, Then dared that haughty place, a boy, yet old in pride. As when the poignant breath of spring doth meet All sleeping nature, and the startled trees Bend with their grateful boughs as if to greet The kindly Goddess ; movings faint like these, Auspicious mood of welcome, then did seize The quiet of Elysium. Slowly came Like white clouds gathered on the flowery leas A shining host with lofty gift of fame, Lured by the faint aroma of his delicate name. To tell their blessed names were nothing slight Though joyous matter for a winter's day, So many generations gave them light Since Time was born in gardens of Cathay. Our kings and warriors grave, our poets they, Whom we vouchsafe this jealous Paradise. No lump and portion of the common clay Doth there attain, but, temperate and wise, Who show the God-in-man by patient sacrifice. Foremost who from the tedious darkness drew Most life into the light and use of men, Shakespeare and Homer. Gravely sweet they view [72] The pallor of the poet. "Welcome," then They utter kindly word, and smile again The echo, "Welcome."— "Woe to earth," they say, "That blotted from its use a poet's brain ! How many idle years will waste away Ere spirit so inform the cold, uneager clay !" Somewhat aloof, in dark austerity, Dante and Milton gaze upon the boy. Mayhap, a truant gust of memory Hath blown upon their minds, — his naked joy How strange and lovely !— Though the long employ Of God-enquiring thought had tempered cold Their hearts' humanity, the fond alloy Of sensuous love refined to fairest gold, Yet now in gracious warmth his passion they behold. Others approach with murmurs of applause, Fair gentle spirits all, but none so sweet As lucid Virgil. Tenderly he draws That lordly brow to lip. Thus fathers greet A favorite son ; but kin are these who meet Across what gulf of dark, barbaric time ! "Lost many a ruder age, thou dost repeat The magic of my verse in modern rhyme. Once more I hear on earth that low, regretful chime." [73] Their tenderness and kind fraternity Knit close the desperate wounds of ancient woe. As one new-born he smiles. How good to see That soothed pain must like a nightmare go Or braggart rebel Love may overthrow! Now bland among his peers he doth assume Their blessed station, nevermore to know A lonely poet's tragedy of doom, Secure in earth's regard, so raised from the tomb. So rose the misty glamour of the dead, A shining garment wrapt on every limb As 'twere a cloak of cloud upon him spread That doth his presence from the world bedim. And he is one with god and seraphim, With all the ghostly part of humankind Whose dreams inspire, or beautiful or grim, Our present labor, — lovingly resigned, A radiant thought within the universal mind. [74] TO A YOUNG GIRL h hen that I met thee on the country- side, A maiden Juno in thy grace of form, — The bosom broad and deep, the rounded arm, The stature stately with a native pride, — I deemed thy nature with its form allied; That some aspiring love in thee did burn, Ambrosial nectar meet for holy urn ; But found thy spirit sleeping or denied. And now (thy presence lingers in my thought), I breathe a prayer, that heaven send to thee Some passion more than daily bread and water ; So that, though mortal-lived, thou grow to be Olympian-souled, earth's consecrated daughter, And wed or bear a hero, as thou ought. [75] BEAUTY er beauty lies upon her face As sunlight masks the barren sea, A fitful, accidental grace That time will ravage utterly. Not like the beauty all divine (The "House of God," a poet saith), Which is the inward soul's design, Its majesty supreme in death. 176] MINIATURES I MARGARET f I dream upon thy face And its beauty comes to me 'Tis the world's enchanted place Wheresoever I may be. 'Tis the world's enchanted place, And the magic never dies From the glory of thy face, From the candor of thine eyes. II MIGNONNE Few have I seen to bless as rich, But thou hast wealth of hair and eyes,- Such a beauty as in niche Of ruined fane when moonlight dies; And in them such a warmth as lies All night above the misty plain, When unto dawn the brooding skies Hesitate 'twixt wind and rain. [77] Ill HELEN Thou art more perfect than night, Sweet, in thy lover's sight. Thy hair hath the tender shade In which the world's peace is laid; Thine eyes have the intimate glow Of mellow moons gone low. More perfect than dawn of the skies The love that shines in thine eyes, A sun that moves to his goal, — The unfrequent dawn of a soul. IV MILDRED Time, which gave thee beauty, made me wise, In that I know thy beauty and thy worth; And thought and suffering take from mine eyes Their wonted film of midnight and dull earth, So now I see thee first without disguise: A soul that hides its tenderness in mirth. V MARGUERITE The deeper mood of France thou art ; That faith of hers that flames in mirth, [78] Her sense of beauty more than earth ; God's vicar in the human heart. In Ronsard young and Hugo old — Their love and wisdom meeting now — That deeper mood of France art thou ; The beauty which is truth, best-told. [79] INVOCATION y love, too like a rose thou art Whose beauty, odorous with delight, Hangs feebly now upon my heart To scatter soon, like fragile night. My love, a queenly tigress be ! That when I quit thee in disdain Thy wrath shall make thy spirit free And fetter mine with stronger chain. [80] CASHMERE LADY aven-dark the lady's eyes, The lady of the Persian stream. Love, in oriental wise, Shone and shimmered through her dream. A shawl about her brow did gleam, Softly floating from her brow; Unflushed her cheek and pallid now But rich the shawl like mellow cream. O'er her throat the linen lay, Her arms were shaded by the shawl ; Thence it shivering fell away, Misty-silent waterfall. White lilies lapped the mossy wall Offering fragrance at her feet ; A mating bulbul trebled sweet, The lady wondering heard its call. By her hand a crystal cup Rested upon the river brink. Ruddy liquor filled it up Sweeter than a man may think. The sleepy moonlight deep did sink, Dulled the flame upon its tip. Whose boat adown that stream will slip, What prince that crimson goblet drink? [81] TO HERTHA [ssences of old love I bring To make the new love sweet; Oh many a wondrous, broken thing Makes love complete. What memories that buried lay In graveyard of the past, Take resurrection from this day, Divine at last. What whispers on what summer eves, What worship overthrown, What faith a loveless man believes No more his own ; What scattered, hopeless dreams arise And reign within my heart. The union of all prophesies, My love, thou art ! [82] THE MIRROR ithin a wondrous glass, A wondrous, magic mirror, I gaze and see my features nobler shown Than I can dare to own, — Oh nobler, fairer, dearer, Which inward graces brighten as they pass. How beautiful, how strange To note so wondrous graces ! A queen might feel her sceptre cheaply sold If she could thus behold A glass wherein her face is Beyond desire made fair by magic change. Such mirrors no one buys, But they may freely own them Who rightly love, who gladly greet the time. All these will have, sublime, Their souls and features shown them, Nobly renewed, within their children's eyes. [83] THE SICK CHILD n hour ago, — one hour ! — she seemed as new and bright As some first-opened bud upon the lap of spring. The wisdom of the world, reborn in her delight, Arose in music, changed by this so joyous thing. But now! I stand abashed in my inadequate years, Awed by the look of one wiser, older than I : A god's long tribulation broods behind her tears And nature's patient hurt is woven through her cry. [84] THE WIFE JUN-SEEKER and heaven-changer, Rise, rich in the power I give ; Go, glad in the joy I bring. What dream you, my love, of danger? You must live as heroes live And turn to new wandering, Already, alas, a stranger ! "The wings of my amplest pleasure Unfold for your boldest flight. Your soul perceives in my eyes Sky-spaces of spanless measure And suns of a fadeless light. Arise! I need not arise, Lying so close to my treasure. "I stay, but follows my blessing Unnamed but known to your soul So strong to take and employ. Another needs my caressing, I seek for no distant goal ; Like God, my task is my joy, — Possessed, far more than possessing." [85] THE LOST EPIC I is lost, like stars that roll too high; For he who tells his grief and mirth Had better write upon the common earth What, traced in constellations in the sky Others too little heed, Or if attracted by the sudden flame And rumor of his name They raise their glance to read, It seems remote and dim, no human gain. So having stared, they turn again Gladly to nearer, slighter things And praise, perhaps, a lesser bard who sings Never so nobly, but more plain, A man to men. [86] THE LITTLE WORLD muse upon the ever-lessening world, This scheme of love and thought wherein I dwell, And wonder, — once so mystical and vast, Now shrunk, as by my garden wall contained. Where then, O where the cosmic dream of youth ; O where the boast I flung about the stars, About the lives of men ; O where the love, A key to free so many prisoned lives? Gone, gone they say, the bubble with the breath That blew its moment's luster in the sun ; Gone, gone they cry; of youth's colossal world Remain a garden, half a dozen friends ! So let it be! What though its bounds with- draw Dream after dream, and hope retires to hope, The multitudes for whom I once aspired United in the child I now adore? What though the fruits within this garden close Consume the days and give my thoughts con- cern With gossip of the season, wind and rain, A little gossip by the mossy wall? [87] Friends, family, labor, with a loyal hope The world goes well, but not too anxious care; This is the natural compass of a man, A full heart loving best a little world. The full heart loving best a little world, O secret hidden from the heartless boy ! — And, as the soul develops, it lays down Its dizzy frets of parliament and king. [88] TO THE UNKNOWN GOD |H, doff the wrinkled mask you wear, This nature motley, worn and old- Stand forth, in gaiety or despair, Outside the dumb worlds we behold ! No more i' the silly seasons dwell Grinning at time with satyr face, Nor frown from the cold citadel You raised amid the voids of space; Else, tired of this unfriendly mask Our lives avert its stranger-gaze And turn them to a worthier task, An inward world of works and days. [91] INDICTMENT OF TIME o time I'll never turn a thankful face Though, as thou sayest, he will fetch a day When every radiant joy and black disgrace Indifferent seem, like gardens in decay. I look to him for nought but further woe: His days ne'er muster for a past defeat, But still intent on plunder as they go, Ignoble captains ! ever sound retreat. In him no virtue vests save other days Which still are thieves, though sorrow be their theft ; No more to him let earth present her praise, Poor Niobe, even of tears bereft. Physician yes, but not a judge is time, Who cures the stab but disregards the crime. [92] EPIGRAM: INSOMNIA he silly years, like driven sheep File blindly through the gates of life. We, tossed in dull or febrile strife, Count one, two, three . . . and yawn asleep. [93] THE RESIGNED oo blind you will not see the general grief Which voiceless you would hide from other minds, And never learn how nature craves relief From one disease in men of many kinds. Oh, fool, how many fools must time consume, Grim wasted heroes, blindly dumb like thee, Whose curtained spirits pent tremendous doom On private stage the world shall never see ! You're like an actor, fool, who argues blame Upon the author's warm and feeling pen For every passion, garbling it with shame: "Tears are for women, gravity for men." Dear fool, your heart shall tell if I am wrong, Which is your Poet, silenced far too long. [94] GOD-IN-MAN hen I do see our human nature stained Like beauteous garments trailed upon the ground, In tenement and palace alike constrained To ominous forms that do my soul confound ; At lust, at hate, at all the bestial shapes Brutality or weakness may assume, — Thrice-savage tigers, thrice-despoiling apes Nuzzling the world to one degraded doom, — Yet, at such monstrous fabric and design I cannot lash my heart to righteous hate, But murmur still, "Oh, piteous world of mine, Such stuff as maketh Christs, whenever fate In some unconscious and reluctant hour Will let mankind disclose his native power!" [95] LUCIFER hen you perceive the world's pro- phetic soul A prisoner grieving in the common mind, His cloudy wings bereft of their control, His arms downslack, his fiery vision blind; Oh when you see him weep at women's eyes Or hear his tender moan in children's breath, His innocence revealed in sinners' cries As by the good man's decent gradual death ; Do you not wonder oft and seek with me What power hath brought this Lucifer so low That every ditch bedaubs his brilliancy, And foulest huts on him their shadow throw? For this the bard invokes, in mournful rhyme, The awful charity of death and time. [96] THE STRICKEN KING were a foolish king, indeed, to show A regal brow and sceptre to the gaze But let his robe be muddy-dragged below, And think to rule respected all his days ; For soon his court will scorn such monarchy Nor call him king who is not wholly royal ; His slaves will grin, ev'n ministers cease to be Respectful subjects, in their heart disloyal. Yet man is so, who doth the world o'ersway And hold eternal kingdom of the deep, — His own conceit doth steal respect away, By birth a king, by act a chimney-sweep. His sceptre would become him like a star, If inward greed did not its glory mar. Yet, longer dwelling in that ruined court Where man, the stricken king, so ill doth reign, I find his folly wiser than report And his defilement daughter of his pain. He's like a king who never knew repose But lives in constant dread to be o'erthrown, Buying a half-obedience from his foes, Still half-a-king to them who would have none. And so his robe is stained, his front dismayed, His court a mock, himself but half a king ; [97] And so his magnanimity's arrayed So foully-gowned, a self-impeaching thing. And so his royalty might be a scorn, If it were not too piteous and forlorn. Himself his foe and bitter regicide ; Himself the rebel risen in his state ; Himself his spy and minister, to chide Himself to wrong and nourish his own hate ; Himself his fool that doth himself beguile ; Himself his scullion, foul to that degree ; Himself his beggar, skilled in tearful wile Himself to sue in his necessity ; Yet king withal, and proved by future act When all that baser self he may resign, Leagued with himself and firm in his own pact To live a monarch, royal in his line ! A king withal, and nowise made more clear : His clownish self his kingly self doth fear. [98] CHRISTI AMOR ow strange my love, O Lord, for see, I fight thee ; Thy word on every lip I do deny. No form thou comest in but I shall right thee, — I shall not take Thee wholly lest I die. Come thou in word or deed of men soever, Be thou incarnate in my heart's best cry, The strangeness of my love will leave off never, — I shall not take thee wholly lest I die. Yet Lord I love thee; yea, Lord Christ, I love thee! I love thee ere the wounds I make are dry, Nathless I hold the dripping scourge above thee, And shall not take thee wholly lest I die. Nay, see how great my love ! it will not alter Not if the sun be withered in the sky. All loves on earth but mine will fail and falter But, Lord, I shall not take thee lest I die. And still I must pursue where'er thou goest, Yea, loving thee so much must crucify. How strange the deepest love of men, thou knowest. I shall not take thee wholly lest I die ! [99] "AS WHEN FROM OUT A HOME" s when from out a home the mother goes, Forth-carried dead and given to the earth ; When sons and daughters, stricken in mid- mirth, Full sadly gaze upon each other's woes ; And one tries sobbing comfort, but he knows The house is dead forever, — room by room Sealed on the joyous past, ev'n with the tomb That silently upon her life doth close: So with the man from whom stark thoughts have ta'en The presence and the parenthood of God. However mild, however pure he be, His mind is locked in loneliness and pain, A ruined house. — An anxious orphan he, And dreads the drear asylum of the sod. [100] S3 MEMORABILIA How hard it is to explain, in any way to bring back the charm of a person who leaves no adequate record. Richard Watson Gilder. ever dig i' the changing mold For their secret when they die, Nor inquire them, silent-souled In a mild, impersonal sky; But, when they have parted, gaze On these touched, familiar things — There the passion of their days, All their wistful secret, clings. Voices, sterner than their own, From their books and papers fall, From the pipe, the tattered gown, From the knapsack on the wall. [101] WAR AND PEACE he world has sown too long its fertile mind in war And raised its passions for an am- buscade ; Our souls and bodies sicken of the common scar, The mutual hurt, the mutual treason, made. Now closelier looking, see within each other's eyes One sorrow shining back, one need the same, — Yea, all the necessary hate we recognize From some eternal foe, not man, it came. Oh, thrust the sword away, that hateful key of hell! We take a manlier weapon for our foe And courage of a nobler kind to use it well, Such monstrous dangers lurk where we must go. The banner had its beauty? let it not be furled But all one color, all one proud design, Flaunt to our purer faith the union of this world When sun and sea have joined our battle line. Our dream is brotherhood ; we never prayed for peace, The idleness that slackens arm and brain ; [102] For war, our war, begins when fratricide shall cease, And lust despair a victory so vain. Then lest we drowse may drums in stormy pas- sion roll The joyous thrill of battle evermore: The tiger-man we hate has taught our chas- tened soul Devotion to the death, — which is war! [103] esa SSS! TIGER tiger, jungle-laired, thee God cre- ated! His hands thy regal limbs have fashioned, Yet who so perfect hate impassioned With all thy might and fearful beauty mated? Was't God or jubilant, destroying devil Has made my heart a jungle, frantic With more than tiger's frenzied antic — The sensual feast of skulls, the bloody revel? Lord, Lord, the heart when tiger rageth through it ! A garden gashed of all its lilies, A gutted tomb where lethal chill is — Canst Thou it sweeten, Lord, canst Thou re- new it? [104] THE BEGINNING OF LAUGHTER (Here was no laughter then, But something unnamed, unspoken Of tears that dripped an unfelt course. For it was evening, and the wolves From far off, back, from mountains and the trackless woods, With thin and wavering-echoed cry and doleful shriek and wail, Lined round the thoughts of men, bounding emotion with incessant fear. There was no laughter then, For suns marked out a waiting fang and bloody mouth, Morning brought the skulking wretch to light. Stones crashed From crag with bound on bound; Men sideways looked, and saw, and snarled, And hungered on. Openly a ripple pushed the stream And big and black in deep, in shallow, lurked The monster, waiting. Aye, there was no laughter then. Ever in, and round, from above the faces peered, Each one fearful. [105] Nor was there height, — height of thought or gaze. Man crept on earth, a bent thing, never sky- ward looking, — Less, skyward thinking. At last, one fortunate born, Whiter skinned than his hairy fellows, — Whiter skinned and deeper browed, — Crept up to watch some star that mocked his conception, (Making a feeble wonder in his soul), And creeping, found a crag that closed the val- ley, — A great rock. There, all night long, he gazed upon that star, This new-born child of thought, Looked upward, looked out. Dawn found him still awake, His eyes open, but wider open the heavy-filmed eyes of his soul, His head reflectively rested upon his hands. Light rolled down through the clefts, flooding the valleys. The watcher gazed where other valleys cleft more hills beyond, And how the river reappeared larger, farther down. So grew the world unto his sight. [106] He marked, as in another world, The drear, hard habitation of the tribe. Outstretched, his eager head Peered down as to a game whose interest fills the heart. Pie marked the ant-like goings-out from caves, Their swift, instinctive swerve. He saw the tumult of foolish battles, Seizures, thefts, hands uplift in hate. He marked each rush, each leap from high, And felt as in himself the crunch of bones. He shuddered at the striped beast ; He saw the woman crouching still, immovable, Her head low. There were deaths and cries. But he, with eagerness all new At this strange scope and spectacle of life, Followed the weak thread of being Through all its windings ; heard with new ears the flaring cries. Now in his heart he felt a stir As when a seed bursts, or a tree Leaps into springtime and the tension of leaves, — A stir within him, a growing, an increasing, A waxing mightier and mightier. So brooding he, the pioneer of the human soul, The first pilot on the ocean of destiny, [107] Knew that the stir within him could not stay But must break from its prison, as life breaks from the egg; And rose, open-mouthed, facing the west, the huge sources of night, — When, stretching his arms as he would fold Then to his human heart all sorrows of men Past, present, and to come soever, — (A prehistoric pitier of men, the child-soul that with the generations Grew into the stature of Christ), — Poised his head higher, and facing the heavens full-eyed, square, — The first man to question God, — Laughed to himself ! Like to water running under the ground, Past a bleak pit where a doomed man Licks his hand for thirst; who hears the water flowing But does not cry, and endures to the end of the bitter life: So the laughter was in sound, And like the water it flowed forth, and past, and departed, And there was an end of it. Then he, grown to the height of his being, Shrunk down the backward slope of growth, [108] And bowed his head, and crept from the crag, sorrowing. But there was that in his eyes the old fear Could never quench, nor the old animalism Utterly win back ; which when his fellows saw They stood in awe of him, — Him, who had first laughed at the world's fear, Him, the first poet. [109] THE POET is soul a hid desire obeys Which, like dasdalian wings, Impels him from the prison-maze Of customary things. "I know not how or where," he said, "But from myself I fly As leaves must when the tree is dead, Wind-blown across the sky. "When sorrow clogs my active mind With dullness worse than death, I leave this winter-self behind, — Spent thoughts and laboring breath,- "And rising from that barren home In far, unconscious flight, To planets of new joy I roam And skies of more delight. "But when I tire and sink again Within myself," he said, "It seems as if this world of men Had risen from the dead." [110] THE HYPOCRITE heavier world than God's you bear Upon that misdevoted head ; Yet when unburdened, being dead, No god,— a pigmy,— totters there. [Ill] IDOLATOR want Thy presence ever nigh, Thy love, Thy beauty and Thy grace ; Yet when I sought Thou wert not by, I prayed, but never saw Thy face. Within my soul Thy glory burns Serene, unchanging yet afar, So bright its own thick shadow turns Like chaos round a lonely star. I asked of nature ; everywhere A footstep and a sign of Thee, Alas, too grand, — not mine to dare Omniscience and infinity ! A little image I have made, Behold, dear God, a tiny thing, And I have hoped (but half afraid) Thou couldst approve its fashioning. I hoped Thou would its form approve And enter, as a temple fit, Since Thou, so human in Thy love, Might love the shape containing it. They may have right, — I do not know, — Who throne Thee in the solemn sky, But oh, dear God, I love Thee so I'd have Thee ever small, and nigh! [112] CRISIS ver, ever the wind blows, storm or peace; Rolls, rolls the ocean its eternal tides ; The constant sun returns ; each star abides In heavens that change but never, never cease. Only our mortal, loving race Feels any reck for time and place. Ever, ever the wind fares back and forth ; Eternal rocks the sea-tide outward, in; The sun renews all kalends that have been ; Restore the stars their cycles to the north. Only our eager, hopeful eyes Mark progress on the wheeling skies. Ever, ever the wind its tireless flight Urges along the ocean's wave-beat shore ; The day receives and spends, like all before, Its portion of the universal light. Only our true, devoted breast Divides the seasons, worst and best. O wind, be favorable to my small bark ; For my sake, ocean, lay your tempest-foam. For me the last sun flickers ; nearing home, Kind stars, direct my harbor through the dark. Only within our lonely soul God thrust a secret and a goal. [113] MASTER will make me a master, I said, And seize life where it is eager and new, Flaming from the Maker, blood red. Across the jungle I crept Even to the tiger's cave, and slew That beautiful body striped and sleek and strong While the spirit slept. Folly! sobbed nature through her language- winds, Folly and wrong! Go forth, return to man's own jungle of minds ; There, slaying the fierce desire And striking dead the brutal thoughts, she said, Take to yourself the tiger's primal fire, — Live the Master's life, eager and new, blood red! [114] PROMETHEAN o fling off name, character and fate ; To stand still like a tree The body all one conscious bloom, Head high and stalwart arms out straight Capable to bear the fruits of life ; To run like a river Undammed, rapid, sped by desire For newer landscapes in the soul, Feeling some premonition of the sea, — A mad, exultant shiver, — This is to catch again A spark from the lost fire, And know once more the mystery of men. [115] PILGRIMS ih, what's the toil of foot and hand To walk, to touch, to hear, to see, — That merely bears from land to land This lethal flesh and bones of me? Vain pilgrim, without shrine or goal, Be still, like nature's patient clod. Do thou advance, aspiring soul, Through every clime and thought of God ! [116] FREE CAPTAINS e loose our sail to every gale And never reef for night or squall ; In spite of all The storms that fly about the sky And all the plunging breakers hurled We ride the foam That bears us home Beyond the farthest corner of the world. We give the slip to every ship Whose skipper's paid to stay on board. He can't afford To point her nose where danger blows But waits in harbor, safely furled, And fears the foam That bears us home Beyond the farthest corner of the world. We take the sea because 'tis free Of settled towns and roads that bind. Out sail, to find Some jolly place, some lusty race Who cut their sail but never furled; Who rode the foam That bears us home Beyond the farthest corner of the world. [117] We fling our boast from coast to coast For naught of war or trade we make, But for the sake Of the free soul and the glad goal That shines where seas are maddest curled,- To ride the foam That bears us home Beyond the farthest corner of the world ! [118] THE EMPTY BOWL Youth What's the soul? Age Empty bowl ! Poet Fill it full of stars and flowers, Fill it full of sun and showers, Beauty earth's and beauty sky's, — Fill it, ere the moment flies Which to none comes after! Mother Nay, not full ! Leave many spaces For kind hearts and friendly faces, Children's warmth and women's graces Human pain and human laughter. Poet Men are noblest when alone With the stars, — Mother When men have grown Beauty never can atone For the love of woman. Priest Not so weak, so human, Not so wanton-vain ! Fill it not with earthly care Since delight will turn to pain. Leave the world's unseemly revel To the devil — Naught has worth but vow and solemn prayer ! Cynic What's the cup devotion fills Or that silly passions brim Blindly-bubbling to the rim? [119] Fill your soul so fast, my master, Death will empty it the faster, Breaks each cup he does, and spills Red wine, white wine in the dust, — Spill it must! Youth Vain the effort that would fill it? Let the Maker take What so soon will break ! Wither, wither flowers, Men ungreeted pass, Idly fall the hours! 'Tis a weak, a useless glass If I needs must spill it. Poet Beauty brings an hour's delight, Let no rapture pass untasted. Mother I shall love with all my might Home and husband. 4 Priest Pray aright, All but faith is wasted. Youth Oh, the yearning soul! Too, too fragile bowl Made for some immortal wine And a god's intoxication. I will ask the whole creation For a permanence divine. What I hope so purely Must be granted, surely ! Why not fill our souls with God? Cynic Fool ! Who— GOD Wheeling star and sleeping clod, [120] Sunset I, and summer rains, Children's voices, homes and household care, Friendship, virtue, silence, prayer. Let your human souls with these be filled. When at last the wine is spilled From the life-bowl broken, — All What remains? GOD I am there. [1*1] THE MATERIALISTIC SCIENTIST ith wondrous powers you make intense The ear to list, the eye to see, Yet feel not in the elements An unsubstantial Mystery, — O modern wastrel, joylessly Living and dying by the sense ! [122] IMMORTAL o much, no more, have I descried The movings of the Master mind : The blowing of a bournless wind, The turning of a timeless tide ; And that the wind blows o'er the lea To ripen stores of asphodel, And that the tide turns to impel Our blissful dead across the sea. [123] EPIGRAM ear not, for God has many a world. These lives now prisoned in dis- tress Await, like ships in harbor furled, Winds of diviner happiness. [124] ORTHODOXY h, let us, like the bitter dreg of wine That's stood too long undrunken in the bowl, Spill out this barren love that once divine So vigorous brimmed the world's aspiring soul! Man's not that beggar, sure, that he must drain The acid vintage of a broken press, Nor dull his heart with unconsoling pain, That craves by nature joy and tenderness? Ah no, but rather say you never loved Nor knew, O world, the passion of delight, Else you by such a cheat were never moved But discontented, soon would set it right. For he who truly loves will love again, Though on the cross and scourged by jealous men. [125] ELEGY is agony upon him, he has passed The lonely door of death, Leaving the world his body and his breath, His reputation and his character. With these he has no more concern at last. The world must take what was the world's to give; Must take and use again To house the lingering of another soul, For he, the wanderer, No longer fellow to the lives we live, Has stumbled on and lost the world of men. Oh he has fled Beyond the limit of the sun, Beyond the seasons wliere they roll, Beyond the years: the last, remotest one Shall reach him not, the unattainable dead ! And he is fugitive Forever from that nature he had worn, The world-wide searching eyes, The world-deep loving heart, The mind wherein were born Thoughts of an infinite scope and enterprise- These now are part [126] Of us, not him, and stay Within our world, still subject to a power Which, in the agony of one mad hour, He learned to put away. Against the darkened curtain of that doom I see his life replayed Vivid and stark, like sudden lightning made Through tangled storm and gloom. I see O God ! who could not see before, The desperate load he bore Merely to live, to linger here awhile A servant in the house of thought and sense. A single glance, a movement slow, intense, One tender smile, Affirm the inward failure no one knew Louder than Waterloo. Failure? He felt it so Whose spirit could not stay content with less Than states of being joyous and sublime We dare not term success; Who longed to throw A spiritual passion in each word And wing our languid time W T ith instincts of forgotten loveliness. Yet was he like a prisoner, deterred By some too-ponderous chain Within the dungeon of his physical pain. His soul, for self too vast, [127] Fettered by secret tyrants in the blood, Hated the personal mood His languor fixed about it, and was strong To name such living failure till the last. On him, who felt each day Some noble purpose gather all in vain, Some aspiration hurried to its grave He loved but could not save, — Who called this failure, — nay, On him the wrong ! He does not fail who brings One desperate, purging grief to men ; Who, faithful to his agony, shows again Our need of perfect things. Nay, but in the moment's awful peace That bore him forth And gave his body to the jealous earth, At last I know Too, too irrevocably the dead And too far is fled That one may so Pity his pain or reverence his success. But let this be The play of little children, or the scheme Of earth-bound, cunning minds, that raise Vain trophies to a blatant victory; Whose days Are shut within this sensuous house; whose dream [128] Deflowers with the winter of the world. For he, still penitent To that perfection earth can not contain Nor thought and sense invent, Descrying dimly through each failing nerve Beauty he could not serve, In brooding desperation, hurled The pile of nature's prison all apart And trod the fiery tyranny of pain Into the dust death mingled with his own. Roll on, O star implacable, and roll To whatsoever good, fatal time, Your seasons may pretend ! For me these things have end. The love that made us single, will and heart, With him has passed sublime The lonely door of death Into its native world, my conscious soul ; And though your troubled tides upheave Interminably, and make my breath The common, desolate moan Of stricken beast, I stand released. The very stab of pain whereby I grieve, Wherethrough I die, Gives 'surer, sterner strength that I may cry Over this lethal world, Elegy ! [129] THE RETURN OF RELIGION TO ABDUL BAHA jDOrs from gardens deeply hid Remote from spoiling change, and tended long, Odors and perfumes delicately strong Upon the winds have slid Into our modern sense. Oh subtle, oh intense With more than balm, with healing for the mind! How shall we speak our gratitude to those Whose hid, devoted garden grows The flowers of faith, of innocence And strews their virtue freely on the wind? Deeper than sense and farther than our blood These odors penetrate, Which pierce within our soul's most secret mood And change our fate ; Incorporate Henceforth with all we feel and think and do, Thereby with what we are. Once more we feel an aspiration rise From depths of our own nature to renew Its marriage-vows with God, [130] To enter, bidden, His adorable skies No longer hateful, alien or too far. Once more we think, in rapture of new dream, Of those forsaken visions prophesied; That glorious City long ago descried, How long, alas, untrod ! And once again, with bolder hand and will, With hearts fire-purified, We turn us to the interrupted scheme, Never, never contented now until All men foregather to one holy hill. But many peoples claim our gratitude Whose lives release that essence we adore, Contributive to our religious mood. Not one tradition only, not one race — No, all past time and every humble place Which blindly groped apart Unite at last, at last restore Their scattered features to one perfect face, Their sundered loves to one fraternal heart. We could not spare A single prophet, any votive fane, One amulet or token, making plain Our necessary, life-instinctive care For worship and for prayer. He is not jealous nor implacable Who freely offered His divinity In measure portioned to the savage soul ; [131] Who was the druid's tree, Who was the voodoo's spell, Who was the sun that made the Indian whole ! The prophets in one fellowship return, Their holy sanctions bright upon them, each Bearing a gift of wondrous act or speech, Some fragment of God's personality Whereby we learn The nature He must be. Adam returns who at the gates of time Thrust back the sensuous beast Trailing the dormant soul through jungle slime ; Moses, that ancient awe, Father of social consciousness and law; Christ, whose tremendous heart Broke to restore the world's exhausted blood; Buddha, God's answer to the groping East, Whom seekers imitate; With him Mahomet, battling once apart, — Authentic both Yet revelations of the infinite mood Our fathers, snug in one tradition, loathe, — And nameless more, forgotten now, who give Some else unknown authority to live, Some path to man's else night-encompassed fate. Fearful of them no more [132] As knowing Whom they represent, Nor jealous of their delegated power, We take their gifts, their certitude and peace Renewed like nature's primal element. Aye, we increase ! All unexpended we, not old or worn But vigorous with the glad intent of spring, The world redated from new vision born Which they, united, loved, could only bring. j^gsggy THE END 1 l/r) LvMg& ag l^g?g&$SiUI [133] JUL 21 W13 Ill LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 015 937 233 9 £